Gratified be, in folds of your drape
If you choose to snitch anyhow
Your ending will not impress.
Life has countless slaps
If you will go prating anyhow
Your tongue will scatter and mess
Appetite without restraint
If you will go feasting anyhow
Gut churning is plausibly, not a curse.
Focus on things that truly counts
If you will go befriending anyhow
Dreams will remain, horizon reach
The portals of time will never wait,
Leaving unfinished dreams behind
To excel, it’s the work of grace
Cling to the maker and by his grace,
Then like a bough you hardly can fall
Sustained by his trunk of grace.
As the maker will flings sorrow,
You will prosper, resolute and true
And your work will outlive ages.
Rights Reserved
Weary Is My Mind
I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once,
never again.
Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .
never again.
The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,
never again.
Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue
For Weary Is My Mind
Through white lattice, out on the porch in August
Fog surrounds, rain dripping from oak leaves, plop
Dew-soaked silvery grass longs to wanderlust
But alas, 'tis stuck in the same whistlestop
Watching the world speed by under those cloudy skies
Wondering what lies on the bright side and applies
That human life which lives in denial's strife
When wanderlust flows in the veins of an oldwife
Oldwife- a prating old woman, a gossip
Politicos prattle
their prating rattle,
will such rantings ever cease ?
Smugly they sanctimone
as listeners,inward groan;
With theories,so unreal
hypothesising on how we feel;
Will such arrogance condescend
listen,or unbend-
or is it all just talk
sans hard yards of walk.
Trust me,it won't happen again !
ALL TALK
Politicos prattle
their prating rattle,
will such rantings ever cease ?
Smugly they sanctimone
as listeners,inward groan;
With theories,so unreal
hypothesising on how we feel;
Will such arrogance condescend
listen,or unbend-
or is it all just talk
sans hard yards of walk.
Trust me,it won't happen again !
re-post inspired by Lewis's contest
Are you the Aphrodite of the Greek tales
Or the Artemis who admirers drooling sent?
No, for Aphrodite had her little flaws
And Artemis the fortunes of Orion bent.
Nor are you the stunning star that the Magi led.
For the over-told story of the Magi is as old as dirt
But your drowsy rounded eyes look so cunning fresh;
The kind of tools that the will men pervert.
The famous Ishtar cannot be your match
For she lured with looks in order to kill;
And Inanna may have tried to rival you a bit
Had she not given in to Dumuzi’s antique skill.
And tired of prating about deities, I now must say I love you.
I know that time is so much gone, and so is my chance;
The remote luck I thought I stood some years gone
Must now be as extinct as the Pyrenean Ibex of ancient France.
Nosy bird says you vowed holy nuptials yesteryear,
Iron twines that a luck-loving man must never sever.
Yet can I ever lose you without losing all breath,too?
Do I toy with the time-oiled vice that damns forever?
An open mouth issuing words
Is a better tool if
The thought processes are first engaged
With the intention of choosing words
That are calculated
For best effect
A funny thing is a word
It takes on a life of its own
Depending on
How
Who
Where
And when it’s said
A simple device to explain
And tell a story
But a wicked unforgiving tool
If used unwisely
Diplomacy and tact
Are often outwitted
By the nuances of words
With multiple meanings
The fool rushes in
Prating
Judging
Condemning
Showing his ignorance
A dictionary should be held dear
Before words are scattered far and wide
Alighting on eyes and eyes
That misinterpret
The simple becomes complex
No word is powerful enough
To self-destruct after been uttered
None can be erased from the minds of those that
Witness its effects
A word can please
Can praise
Can lift the spirit
It can right wrongs real and imagined
Words are dead till used
Life is breathed into them
Depending on the sentence in which they are strung
Say what you mean or wish
But words can have an unexpected kick
Young generation ardor from sculpted hero borrows
Older generation, torpor to graft peaceful tomorrows
Can young eyes through steely sheath glimpse marrow
O'er from dried paint, the blood stains that do burrow
From pursed lips, do the painful strains bellow
O'er from silent gun, percussive waves billow
Youthful glint on glimmering memorial glows
From aged lens, vicarious tears solemnly flow
Lad's fawning beams on chivalric statue strew
Elder's sorrowful squints the mediated surface furrow
Young mind each, savory fold does swallow
Aged intellect each corroded line does follow
On gilded bust, youth's prating eyes wallow
Gaunt septuagenarian mourns core now hollow
Around girth, innocent lids embrace time's fleeting shadow
Experienced hearts scorn clones strung from future gallows
New hopes, dreams cover the base now fallow
New doubts, fears sweep sodded ground, now sallow
FREE YOURSELF FROM THE MIRED SILT
FREE YOURSELF FROM THE BLAME AND GUILT
YOU ARE NOT THE PAIN, YOU ARE NOT TO BLAME
YOU ARE NOT THE GENETIC-ENTITY WHO WROUGHT THE SHAME
YOU ARE THE YOU, THE IMMORTAL SOUL
YOU ARE OF INFINITIES TO NUMEROUS, TO BE TOLD
SO DO NOT YOURSELF IN REMORSE AND REGRET ENFOLD
WALK AND TALK FREE AND KNOW OF YOUR IMMORTALITY
AND LET NOT THE PRATING OF THE IGNORANT YOU VEER FROM REALITY
FOR YOU ARE IMMORTAL AND FOREVER AND EVER TO REVERE.
A Living Death
By Elton Camp
All that was Richard Bonds slips away
Steadily, surely, inexorably day by day
The desperation seen in his eyes is real
Dementia grows and continues to steal
No matter how hard he does try
People he can no longer identify
Perhaps he realizes he’s seen them before
But cannot place who they are anymore
“This is your son as you surely must recall”
But he has forgotten he ever had a son at all
Slowly, his family all pull away
“It’s no use,” they sadly say
“It’s just too bad for me to see
A nursing home depresses me
He won’t even remember that I came
Why, he no longer knows my name”
“Mister Bonds, how are we today?”
A foolish, prating aide will say
It’s in baby talk that she speaks
Of cheap perfume she reeks
Of her condescension he’s vaguely aware
But he can now only silently sit and stare
The competent man he was is no more
Richard awaits death to knock at his door
Once within a break in brambly fields
something stirred its fearful head in sleep:
Though it be woman or child, work or vision
something that dares not hold me in derision
But till that lingering day bares your face
with prating breath I bide my bane
And even as I clear the brake, shift the trunks
hosannas crop up before you every dawn.
And someday as I have you in my arms
in osculation's brimming nirvanic bliss,
May I not then turn away empty handed
though warm in your inane atmanic face
Then as I wend my kindly way down the road
pitch my tent on this terraqueous matter-mind
Should I then go looking for my immortality
through doors that are forever locked to me
Or could I then lie upon nescience' impervious skies
upon some smoky grass unmapped or husbanded
And hear the awakening cries of spring born trees
then get up to wind my way to some factory blast
©: T. Wignesan, 1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
Love blossomed in the darkest night
Morn's gilding beams to spite
Night Primrose preened by tender blight
Sphinx moth soft tips caress; sugary nectar slight
Perfumed aroma doth prating, intoxicated courtier incite
Glazed petals with dewy fans stream delight
Golden cup a succoring bosom from which passions alight
Delicate, cream veil eclipses pallid, stolid moonlight
With availing breeze your dreamy parasol on Cupid's wings takes flight
Shuttered birds flutter from balmy bough
Shedding feathery cloak that winter's chill did endow
Fueling grounded wings with solar beams
Pairing together in reconnoitering teams
Scouting hill and dale, Spring's contraband to glean
Garnishing their bunkers with bristling thigs and thatched screen
Prating loudly in fecund court; feathers carefully preen
In rhapsodic chorus their prancing feet to and fro careen
Dancing in harmony; their mating anthem rings
Matriarch's incubating wings over fertile plaster clings
In due course, waddling, furry chicks from each blanched shell springs
Frugal pilots navigate their sparsely furnished compound
Probing each nook; scouring each mound
Pulse and liquids their drills and talons impound
With nutritious cargo in tow homeward bound
Returning to nursery, satiating each bleating sound
Beckoning forward, then muting purpose with placid expression;
Courting favor, but scorning gratuity with nobler accession.
Reconnoitering all, yet countenancing none in stolid derision;
Regaling commoners, but transcending all menial patronization.
Subtle smile endears, but spurns all gratification;
Distant stare, onerous repression or dark depression?
All encompassing view, mistrusting miser or prating courtesan;
Stoic posture, exalted position or callous condition?
Frugal appearance, an inner recession or outward confession;
Folded arms, trite convention or cultivated abstention?
Enshrouded by cumbersome shadows or serene accommodation;
Transfixed, eternal matron; or transparent, antiquated apparition?
DATE: November 1, 2010
Contest: Why oh Why
Sponsored by Constance~ A rambling poet
by: Stephen Parker
Politicos prattle
their prating rattle,
will such rantings ever cease ?
Smugly they sanctimone
as listeners,inward groan;
With theories,so unreal
hypothesising on how we feel;
Will such arrogance condescend
listen,or unbend-
or is it all just talk
sans hard yards of walk.
Trust me,it won't happen again !
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