In the throes of Death — a Lull —
As if the Universe withdrew
Its Breath — to let the Mortal — feel
The Edges of the New —
It is not Punishment — to go —
Nor yet a minted Prize —
But something like a Corridor
Where Souls — may Realize —
That Growth — is not a Province held
By Childhood — nor by years —
But blossoms last — in furthest Frost
Unnoticed — by our Tears —
So when the Lantern — gutters low —
And Silence claims the Room —
Remember — Life is but a Seed
That opens — in the Tomb.
My heart is lost in depth of woes,
While sorrows echo loud.
As tears descend with silent throes~
Beneath a veil of cloud.
In the dark I grope for my lost heart,
But it's slipped beyond my firm grip.
Each tear I shed softens its grave,
And deeper it sinks, out of reach.
My anguish drums a hollow grief,
No hope of joy or smile.
My mind is caged in disbelief—
It may remain awhile.
I need no soothsayer to tell me—
I’m already buried in its depth.
My cries are aches without relief,
And I can’t restrain the tears.
It's far beyond all hope or aid,
I know—so others do.
Though cries may rise and voices fade,
None brings the lost I rue.
J-oy
E-nds
W-oes,
E-ndorsing
R-emarkable
M-irth,
A-s
E-mptiness
N-ever
A-ttacks
I-nside
R-ight
A-way
©bfa051725
Monocrostic (Birthday of Jewermae Naira)
Frosty cold with a bone chilling wind,
the kind of day to just stay in..
The ground is frozen, crunchy but not slick.
Snow flurries blowing but none seem to stick.
Winter's throes arrived too quick..
in cold winter throes
city has frosted over ~
light shimmers on pristine snow
parka covered kids
toss snowballs at each other ~
living within a snow globe
9th January 2023
For Charles Messina's "Winter Sedoka" contest
So glorious in their dying throes
The red and orange of autumn leaves
Will, too soon, return to Mother Earth
Scattered down by ever-chilling winds.
The red and orange of autumn leaves
Those that once were green with verdant life
Scattered down by ever-chilling winds
And vibrant carpet the woodland floor.
Those that once were green with verdant life
Will, too soon, return to Mother Earth
And vibrant carpet the woodland floor
so glorious in their dying throes.
Our love will not die, but live on ever,
So let us not cry, we will part never,
Let me embrace you, this night let us dance,
A waltz-jig let's do, passion of romance,
Hold me tight, my dear, never let me go,
Under moonlight clear, let affection glow,
There's one thing tonight, one thing I desire,
Let there be no light, only our love fire,
Together in peace, love under the skies,
Let not darkness cease, let sun never rise,
Let me hold you close, let this night not end,
Our hearts' deepest throes with love gets deepened.
09.21.2020
For Faraz Ajmal's "The night of passion and desire" contest
Amid taxing toils and ever ebbing throes,
We totter toward the end that must come;
Yielding all stale themes of yester-breath,
Our face as meek as that of a dying lamb.
Such ill-fated Odyssey kicks off with a cry
Of baffled aspects between fright and joy,
And thus unfurls green every puerile soul,
Mocking suns that idly as fierce wasps fly.
In clueless middle of life's vanishing rise,
Beauty's Foe hatches his secret disguise
That steals unseen health's naive gleams,
And in bits confounds her soaring dreams.
At last are her tics shut piece after piece
By plotting Hour who fairer lucks thieves;
And blends of sad sighs and deft disease
Slay any fags of throb swift sunset leaves.
Not so fickle this trembling hand's doleful ink:
It'll kick and roam past Time's snobbish brink!
Shackled by the fetters of deep desperation,
Can't break it free, can't break it free,
My mind voice rises to the top of consternation,
Can't let it be, can't let it be,
Tackled by my disturbed mind's waking,
I shout and scream, I shout and scream,
Rewind the poise, my mind's now shaking,
I doubt and dream, I doubt and dream,
Delirious, I utter words of confusion,
Listen to me, listen to me,
Who will put an end to this delusion?
Just hear my plea, just hear my plea,
Serious, I mutter in the mad throes of my mind,
What to do now? What to do now?
Clueless, I drill through my mind entwined,
Heal me somehow, heal me somehow.
11/25/18
The I of the storm contest
Sponsor: Maureen McGreavy
I am in the throves of myself,
not looking for a way out,
but wondering if I could find one
if I wanted to.
Not caring at this second,
so letting this thought
float aimlessly back to my
distracted self.
meditation has nothing on me
I am in the throes of not doing anything right now, and it is irritating to me.
How much longer can I do this? I sit and stare at all of the things I am not doing.
They overwhelm me. No sense in even getting started, as I would be here for a long time,
And probably not accomplish much anyway. My mind snaps shut hard, not wanting to
Disappoint itself.
Come on! Yells some inner demon inside my dendrite pile. This is not like you!
But it is like you today! My other dendrite pile screams out, determined to do nothing.
I jump up and run as far away from myself as I can get.
Which is not so very far.
G-ive no time to throes,
I-nstead be calm and easy;
N-ever be too anxious,
A-im not to fret and worry.
C-hoose to be composed,
A-llow not your heart to break;
L-et not the fear bother you,
D-on't make emotional mistake.
E-vade the stress and pressure,
R-efrain from thinking woes.
O-ctober fifth Thursday,
N-ever give time to throes.
I rise and fall like melancholy tides
in ebb and flow of wistful disrepair,
our separate in consciousness divides,
the whiff of grief fills broken-hearted air.
Neglected now, heartstrings' rawhide, I mourn
with briny beads that water my dismay,
eyes teary drizzled mist, inside forlorn,
my psyche pierced by thorns in love's bouquet.
Whatever will I do, this emptiness..?
A gnawing hollow where my heart should be.
My lonely preys me like a lioness,
a simba stalks this lost love refugee.
Soft morning sun does gaze into my eyes
enlightening the depths of agonize.
Poets stumble over half written sonnets
find themselves trapped in dark poetic throes
Not for the lack of interest, but they often wilt
as petals wither on the stem of a plucked rose
Their Haiku go on hiatus; lingering on vacation
Romantic writings drag on without decent rhyme
They are not procrastinators, but often tumble
down a mountain side they cannot seem to climb
Writing sharpens the points of dulled memories
black ink is splotched by an onslaught of tears
eyes blur as their hands tremble from sorrow
pens draw deep scars across hearts like shears
Long held melodies keep playing across their minds
unfinished lyrics that lay resting in regions of nether
tunes haunting them until tears rain and lips quiver
Impossible to complete when shackled by love's tether
Her panting
Wheezing
Eyes, a second lid of Vaseline
Mouth gaping open
As if to scream out but
Nothing
Take your turn to clasp
For the last time
A last exhale
White as clean linen
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