Phial Poems | Examples

The Vial

Inside the chest within my chest I find it;
A vial of virulent vile,
viral in that last vestige of guile and vitality
Where the headsmen and dreadsmen line up rank and file.

That horrible phial of terrible bile of all the beasts in the wild combined into ire so hot it's like fire and skies of respire.

But what respire? For whom?
The demons of love or the angels of doom?

Methinks it's a fun time, here burning in hell.

...I deserve it, after all.

EVIDENCE

EVIDENCE

See here, this object that I found
Surely belongs to you
You may shake your head and look away
Yet I can tell that you recognise it
Now your face reddens 
And I am ever more certain it is yours
Something of great significance
To you especially, I think
Take it, hold out your hand
Let me please return it to you
Merely a small blue glass phial
Containing the residue of some liquid
With which you are familiar, no doubt
A lethal weapon in your armoury
Poison makes no sound, except an escaping sigh
That you must have heard so many times
Go now, I shall hold this a secret between us
For one day I may have use of your skill

Unwanted Breath

A dying man was gasping for air
He asked a nurse if she had some to spare
She breathed into a little phial
And with a smile upon her dial

She said how much will you pay
My phial of breath may save your day
A quiet voice from way up high
Spoke to the nurse and asked her why

She had wanted payment for her breath
When her patient was so near death
Suddenly, she heard a sound
Of soothing music all around

She looked at the dying man's face
And noticed that there was no trace
Of worry lines or wrinkles there,

He seemed to rise from his bed
A cosy pillow lay under his head
The nurse was awe-struck and gave a scream
Praying to awaken from this dream
Still holding her phial of breath.

A STUDY IN VIOLET

A STUDY IN VIOLET

This treasure house of objets d’art
Littered with plots and storylines
A room encrusted with jewels of history
Inviolate – and undisturbed.

Over there, a military tunic
Blue – and in such fine condition.
Pale lapels perhaps too remote or innocent
Of its vile ‘let them have it’ past.

Here, an abandoned symphony
Black notes pebbledash the page.
Written for that ancient violin, no…
Viol. Late Belle Epoch I think.

That leather book I recognise
An ancient asset register.
And with such work of reference
Identify - a little more.

A philtre or monk’s cure perhaps.
Or poison, used to sway an empire.
Something forensic science may analyse
This phial – let it keep its secret.

Here, a scroll. Homeric tragedy?
Greek, according to the words.
Those old strange symbols, faded now
A ‘Phi’ or letter ‘P’ – I’m sure.

I cannot touch nor be considered
A robber, loose in a dusty tomb.
Caught in the torchlight, gold in hand
Say ‘Fie!’ – or let him go.

This treasure is too much for anyone
To really own. To hide away.
Bequeathed to me but never really mine.
Something Auntie Violet always knew.

The Phial

Once more my hand clasps the vial,
trembles with its crystal cold.
my heart craves the ruby liquid within
and so once more I bring it to my lips
and drink the fiery torrent to the last

Once more my dark room dissolves
fading into nothingness
as I fly to that familiar door
and so once more I enter realms of light
and revel in the freedom that world brings

Once more my mind's unburdened
from the demons therein dwell
for here they are entombed in cruel cages
and so once more I hear their anguished cries
and laugh at my tormentors agony

Once more my soul knows solace
albeit temporary
the fiery torrent returns to its source
and so once more I'm cast back to my woe
and resume my pitiful existence

until once more I can clasp
the phial that holds peace within

The Phone Number of Death

The phone number of death we dial,
When we near a poisoned phial
To rashly swallow its content,
And actualize a suicidal intent:
Our breathing soon in wheezes,
What the cemetery richly pleases,
A gripping of our tummies in feeble resistance
Every offered revival, vain assistance
Others to start rehearsing their goodbye
To us on a wished hearse lie

And the same phone number we try,
As we enrage folks that skin fry
Before advancing cops of pity dry
And into claims of being surrounded not pry
To pick their life sentence with smiles wry…

Now that I’ve said so I shan’t cry.

Imp-Each-Ment-Air-Ditty Iii

IMP-EACH-MENT-AIR-DITTY III !

Holy Smoke ! Odour of incense on Beach !
Trainers marched with saddles to straddle Leech !
« SILENCE ! » Dull as Thunder !
« Under pain of locker ! »
Grave mist hung low on Life-Savers each !

CJOTUS kept clock arms for each to preach
Who summoned Founding Fathers onto Beach !
« This race is no Trial !
Draw horse blood in phial !
Drink ! » said Chief Life-Saver Nation to teach !

Coast-Guard in Cloak-Rooms begged bets to reach
The magic number to put to sleep Teach
« Hold back horses until
All bets are in the till ! 
I’ll let none throw law-books on my Leech ! »

Indicted Jockey rode-off bareback on Leech !
To save face while saddled Life-Savers preach:
« No Nuts ’n Bolts-on, please !
This fake Trial must cease ! »
Come November who’ll lose this race on Beach ?

(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, January 29, 2020

Reflection In a Phial

Reflection in a Phial 

I look at my hands they are brown as a farmer`s, this pleases me,
although, I have no land to plough, a tractor or a mule,
a workman`s sturdy hand; all socialists should have hands that
have harvested potatoes or carrots.
I flex my muscles of my upper arms, see a faint movement
like a mouse moving under thawing spring snow.
Glorious vanity I used to do hundred press- ups, a day in the hope
to look strong and furious. I think of sex sadly I wasn`t any good
at it, after the act, I looked for a book to read.
The squalid side of life has always mystified me, why does 
a person chooses a path that leads moral disgrace and ruin?
I have always been lazy, strenuous effort will not touch me,
 but I would like to pull up a few more carrots

The Weight of Tears

the weight of tears

for ten thousand years
more
the earth has wept
through women’s eyes

salted seas run with the moon
in tidal floods and pools 
left high upon the shore
deserted
the tears of oceans captured 
in scarred rock bowels

a woman washed in blue
sits beside a stranded pool
weeps liquid stars
into a crystal phial
she saves the weight of sorrow
in a silver capped vial

deep the rivers run
in shadowed places
they carve arteries and veins 
carry secrets drop by drop
forming stalactites and stalagmites
of misery or joy

tears drown
weigh heavy on the chest
shatter mountains
carve and coruscate the soul.

Buried Treasure

prize prised from glass phial
wondrous wanderings await
map scratched on parchment

purpose nigh fulfilled
past tall trees, ten paces North
what lies 'neath soft soil?

efforts reap rewards
cherished childhood toy unearthed
party game enjoyed

----------------------------------------

26th March 2017

For the "Vernal 2017" contest sponsored by Brian Strand.

A Monsoon Wedding

A rural priest
rolls and throws out
the wedding mantras.
The ritualistic ululation
and the music of 
a toot and drum
warm the monsoon up.
The bridal garland
like a noose
awaits a bride’s neck.
She bows her head
in rural Indian coyness.
Our groom learns to forget all
beside the glitz of dowry gold.

A burning wick 
yields to the darkness 
beyond the nuptial rhythms.
The froth of cheated love 
runs down Miss Hema’s chin.
She is stranded on 
the bluish eternity, 
along with the pressed 
love in her womb.
An opened phial lies
on the floor of a hut,
showing its void up. 

First appeared in print in Rathalla Review, 2014 Annual Issue

Ask the Locked Doors

O you, the definition of beauty
my eyes only know
and I, the book of gaiety
your feelings only fathom.

I don’t feign to say
what we know about lovers
ask these deaf resonant walls
their echoes have much to say.

Against which many crashed their heads
attire fully drenched in tears
but dumb were all the speakers
and blind were all the seers.

Ask all the locked doors
ask those closed sanctums
in which many slept forever
with a poison phial laid aside.

The water slid from their eyes
on the pages of myth and history
accounted the abstruse story
of a short human life.

Ask those daggers and rapiers
that tore many dry throats
and lacerated the noble feelings
of many wet and innocent hearts.

Nevertheless they cannot elucidate
the reason behind this torrent
because they don’t fathom the tongue
the tongue that love speaks!

Death Is Beautiful

A goodbye long
overdue I bid,
Whispered from a
carcass long picked
bare,
Like screams, across
the desert of the
grotesque heart,
You're sentenced to
an eternity of
despair,

I implore, do not
allow your loathing,
To fill your phial
once marked
"disinterest",
For what manner of
man,
Or beast,
Or spirit,
Could endure such
tantalizing,
transient tortures?

How can I hold brief
what my soul yearns
to keep,
A smile on my face,
that aches to weep?
Stand tall and
proud, spit
banalities;
As I drop to my
knees,
To scream the
ignominy of reality,

Death-so black, so
beautiful;
Though not so much
as you,
Pity me once,
With the dagger of
your dark radiance,
Make me beautiful
too,
The end makes us all
beautiful,
But never so
beautiful as you,

Brownie's Broken Beak

Brownie broke her beak today
Purloining potted prawns
Despite Will’s whistled warning words
To only eat from lawns

But  Brownie boldly battered
that toughened  tin top jar
and broke her lovely beak in bits
she’d pushed her peck too far

but wily Will he had a way
to triumph testing trial
so searching for some Superglue
he produced a plastic phial

But Brownie fussed and fluttered
And Thang a tuneleth thong
Worried when Will wrapped it up
thseed thing her thong all wong

One dinky drop of adhesive
Fast fastening he found
Forever fixed his flailing foot
But stopped that thsquawking thound

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