Once upon a dreary time
A boy set out to note a rhyme
Pen in hand with paper lined
Prepared he was to share his mind
But thoughts lay barren and confined
Without sense, reason, or rhyme
Suffered he did this weary time
Both his soul and cheerless mind
His eyes grew dark, his face grew lined
And tho he sought to redesign
Something, anything it need not be fine
But the words would not align
And in his room he did confine
To seek and pray for some sweet sign
For the intercession of the divine
To show, to prove verse sublime
But chaos reigned and nothing aligned
And so he collapsed under weight of his crime
Chained by shackles of his own design
Weeping tears by misery primed
The poet thus became the sad mime.
as the rosemary rain
soaks
pensive petals,
leaving an aroma
of lovers’ betrayal
the succulent scent
of
his
petrichor skin
caresses the midnight
crevices of this
meticulous mind,
urging my soul to purge
tears and ink
long mimicked
by April’s sunlit rays
synchronizing
a symphony of robins
a rhapsody
of wild blooms
a chorus of dragonflies
a sprinkle
of swirling sakura
painting a panorama
of spring meadows
dancing to
the diamond glows
of stellar streaks...
and without the moon
I am an echo
of rhymeless clichés,
an abandoned prose
breathing amidst
porcelain pages
of mourning metaphors
aching to savor
confessions
of clemency....
for heart feels numb
to the
b u r n
of being forgotten
as storms taste
softer than sunrise~
and in
s i l e n c e,
I rise....
Birds
care not
for whom they
sing, as beneath
skies of flickering
flowers and diamond dews~
we follow merlot wine rays..
For between steel dusk and bronze dawn,
where shadows of silent sonnets flow
we are all petals of imperfection
sharing the same sun glazed in honeyed hope~
that floats from purple hued pansies to~
ebony buds, wrapped in lilac
love and wisteria warmth,
like a blue bouquet of,
blissful butterflies
fluttering inked~
poetry
to the
stars
and
soul of
the rose moon,
mirroring his
selfless silhouette
forever calming the
freckled ripples of grieving
seas, tonight my heart knits rhymeless
pleas in saffron syllables, wishing
his gemini garden will glow and thrive…
When will you realize, deceiving eyes
that you've built a dangerous circle
in which I rejected and excluded?
You are happy to be called pretty,
you charm with a smile of dishonesty:
puppets play your games and would
offer you love for a rhymeless song
and don't care if all is in shambles!
Dance in this dangerous circle,
humiliate me and see me tremble;
keep on laughing and take all you can with one hand:
each thought and each dream will turn into thin sand!
I wanted to kiss an angel,
someone who honored trust,
not that evil heart full of lust;
no love was so sad and painful!
Dance in this dangerous circle,
where the heat doesn't burn...
until they leave and don't return;
they no longer need to ramble!
Strangely, you've stopped laughing,
even your wiggle is slowly fading;
do I feel sorry and not say, " Hello? "
It's about time I got mad and said, " Go! "
"Monet's paintings are best seen from afar than close up," ... by Poet.
Faraway the figment, like Monet the pigment,
the brother so gallant, how he flaunts his talent,
he paints at a farness, like a horse to harness.
On art, less than tasteful, funds spent a bit wasteful,
hence, see he a crackpot, three prunes be his jackpot.
The other, quill--fountain--built a tidy mountain,
first bees in a bonnet when he wrote a sonnet,
then that which was timeless 'twas wrote poems rhymeless.
Mom gave, 'twas none cheaply, had pockets dug deeply,
both brothers did cherish, their sinful ways perish.
Mom was not devious, planned she thought previous.
saw her boys sinister, she aimed to minister,
The Word generated, the cloth, venerated.
Conformed beautifully, her sons dutifully,
tale of our brotherhood, as she vowed motherhood.
Sensing and yearning allure of daydreams
My musings amble in meadows of themes,
Sometimes wowing ebullience of dawning,
Sometimes luxuriating in moonlit evening
Gazing lambent skies of stellar twinkling,
Inviting me to echo my inner most feelings;
Of whispers romantic when love is courting,
Of giggling streams and blossoming springs,
Of resplendent autumn’s falling gilded leaves,
Of fate unkind, bawling, in throes of grief,
Of pristine joy beaming from mother’s eyes
Jubilant in delight of child’s innocent smile;
Of ebb and flow to life in seasons undulating
Spurring me to attribute form and meaning.
So, I write verses stemming from core of soul
Striving to capture essence of elusive words,
Exploring assonance, even in rhymeless prose,
Attempting to inspire spirit of wordless woes
As thoughts-poetic heart’s rhythms compose;
Of chromatic sunsets and scintillating dawns,
Of starless nights hosting tenebrous bygones,
Of tales strumming romance, of fables forlorn,
Of ideas enthroned, of paradigms bemoaned,
Of boundless expressions, of passions I own.
August 30, 2022
Placed 2nd: I Write Because Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
It's unimaginable
How long I've nurtured the wish
To have you sit with me
And share a close connection
To have the feeling that
I'm yours
And you're mine
Even when you've not said so yet
To watch you speak
Not just because I want to hear you talk
But just for the illusion
Of kissing you I'll get
To hold your hand
In the midst of my ecstasy
And get my fantasies fulfilled
It'll be, yes, it'll be a memory that'll last forever
I cannot call myself a poet, for my pen is not able to write about any other ocean than your eyes.
If I combine the scent Of orange leaves with the touch of your hands, I can create the most delightful song ever.
Come to me, dedicate the spirit of life to my rhymeless poems
Come to me, watch the sunset with me, and I Will stare at its reflection in the mirror of your eyes...
come to me ...
A play ends just, a wretched play, that I’m no more.
And you yourself, with vex, dismay, that I’m no more?
Bleeding grass, burning air, woods ashen, and you weeping,
It’s a bit too convenient, nay, that I’m no more?
The letter with the rhymeless elegy-- it’s soaked,
I hardly muse now, what you’ll say, that I’m no more!
Stranded and shifting, quite like light on water, Dew,
Reflection mine, why do you stay, when I’m no more?
-Pin Dew (02/05/2017)
Note: Experimental Ghazal- The lines are in Iambic Hexameter. Usually, English Ghazals follow Syllabic Prosody, but here I am using Accentual-Syllabic Prosody.
She's at peace
A puzzle with a missing piece
A rhymeless melody
Sung on Autumn's breeze
Waves crashing upon empty shores
White sand under sunless sky
She has forsaken chance
A Lonely Moonlight dance
She's a childlike dreamer
A Fairytale romance seeker
Inside she died yet
So much alive
Lives under light of moon
Safe in her shell
Heart crafted cocoon
She's both
Happy and sad
Cuddled in a vacant bed
Romantic themes haunt her dreams
Images of what she once had
Lives now without lie
But her soul remains unoccupied
She grew strong
Carries on like nothing's wrong
Still at times feels misplaced
Tears scream to be chased
Loneliness leaves a bitter taste
Life taught lessons learned
Keeps her from hurt
Her Prince does not exist
He faded with Moonlit mist.
( Crow Cries)
Long ago,
when we were all
primordial slime
creeping about
in the grime,
awaiting our
time,
we decided:
poetry must rhyme
wars passed,
throats slashed
swords clashed
faces gashed
and smashed
before children aghast
in retaliation
against rhymeless trash.
the rhyme preserves a tone
and stiffens a certain bone
in the body of each dusty crone
seated on a stump alone
gurgling a pome.
Now, they try to say
that there is a way
to wax wordplay
void of rhyme, but hey
there're still some rules by which you must play,
a meaning you must convey.
That withered pretense frays
more and more each day.
Son it's not hard to sonnet
it's just how you look upon it
pick something that's timeless
either rhyming or rhymeless
give it a rhythm
and begin
show what a mess it's in
we're in
is anybody in?
You can't help but win
try to be relevant, funny, poignant
try again to be new and different
maybe agin' the government
even warmed over platitudes
can help your self-gratitude
and so what if a lifetime of searching for the right rhyme
is no more than a crumpled piece of paper
in the ashcan of time
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