Tremulous Poems | Examples

Monsoon In The West

A classic wind upstaged the evening,
Vocalizing Leaves and Tremulous Aria 
Branches. On accompanying fused-sand, framed
and clear, began a run of finely tuned
rivulets -- busy writing, I had not
looked, and saw, dark clouds conjugating -- 
nor sniffed thickening troops of air~ my 
sinuses alerting, their usual swelling.  Came a lantern's
flash, came a vivid slash, rumbling
likened to a heavily weighted freight-train, with frantic
mind to lighten its burdensome, brooding load.

The Festival of African Rain

The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.

They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.

Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.

Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.

Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .

The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.

Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.




*Metal gong

The Festival of African Rain

The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.

They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.

Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.

Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.

Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .

The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.

Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.




*Metal gong

Volcanic Eruption of a Soul

At times the soul gets clenched,
in an unspeakable grief.
In a demoniac grip,
it chokes and w r i g g l e s~
The pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe.

Tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent,
Seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone,
Strains to lift up the veil that d a r k e n s the soul, 
Wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude.

The more it struggles to wade through the mess,
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair.

Clung on talons of excruciating pain, 
wailing a long wail of never being understood,
the mind goes berserk~
w
   h 
    i
  r
l 
  i  
n
   g
 
             and  
c 
  h
    u
   r 
n 
 i 
   n
     g. 

Anytime the volcano might erupt,
emitting fumes of sulphurous smoke,   
with asphalt lava, spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.

Bird's Nest

In the unpretentious backyard 
Of my house— not a home,
Bloomed a bird's nest
Concealed concernedly
In the benevolent branches
Of the dear aged tremulous tree. 

When I noticed the nest nearly,
House felt like a home dearly,
I noticed the humble hatching 
Of the birds—
Life lustrously levitating 
Out of a shattering shell
Of an emaciated egg. 

How gentle squeaks 
Filled the surroundings 
Slowly and sincerely,
My heart hissing 
Gratitude for great glory. 

Now, they are a week old,
Surely, soon, they will fill
Their wings with their
First flight 
From my backyard 
Amply, they'll be gone long
And I'll still be a basic bard
While they'll be reaching
The racing clouds. 

I know not the name,
I know not their kind,
I tried searching,
But I couldn't find
The name of the birds
That are taking shelter
And bedazzling 
My rudimentary backyard. 

How artistically 
Nature wonderfully works—
Blooming and dying,
Escalations and sorrows,
Falling and flying,
Yesterdays and morrows.

Sui Generis

The sun opens her eyes behind a roseate veil,
her aubade harmonizing with Argus-eyed blackbirds
as it rises to a crescendo, staring in her husband’s
cratered eyes, ready to relieve him of his watch over the
world’s children so he can attend to their parents —
that is, the cosmic bodies that collided to create them; the
sacred alchemy.

He lifts her honey veil; a goodnight kiss he hopes to reenact
eternally, the aeons circling anniversaries as if liesegang
rings. She looks back, her flint knife eyes flashing violently.
“This fierce face is a facade,” he thinks, seeing her tremulous
expression, lips quivering in anticipation; a holy seduction
— that is, the ancient and sui generis matrimonio of
gods.

Thought of the day

this matrix is nothing but a template 
wherein tremulous souls express intent 
in timeless time, ego’s desires abate
whereupon fickle heart grants love consent
simply by following its sublime scent
all opposites then dissolve in vast space 
whence piercing the veil, we behold God’s face

I forgot what this poem was originally about 28-03-25

Life hums with haste - the clock hands fly
thoughts slip past, clouds in the sky
like chalk on a rain-slick slate,
like the stars through a tremulous haze.

Our life, our choice

A thousand lives, a million fears,
tremulous smiles and painful tears,
we sip the brew, which is now stale,
bound to ego, who at us leers.

We fight for freedom tooth and nail,
yet demons we conjured assail.
Assuming the rope is a snake,
no wonder then, we’re doomed to fail.

Silence gives consciousness a shake,
so that we may here now awake
but this entails we must let go
of attachments held, though they’re fake.

Thoughts orbiting both friend and foe,
are put at rest, for we now know,
all that’s manifest is a dream,
recognised in staid stillness slow.

Ephemeral is a moonbeam
or gusts of lust we choose to steam,
being but shimmers in the void,
which ego holds in high esteem.

For far too long we have been toyed
by dark desires and so decoyed 
but since we’ve chosen to be still,
illusions conjured are destroyed.

Simply by surrendering will,
we do nothing, yet dark voids fill,
with divine light, that lights all lights,
making easy ascent uphill.

Moonlight Over the Hill

Written: January 23, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Regina Mcintosh

"There are twilight times when only the moon will muse on my misery." By POET.
                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shadowy stillness does embrace
Showing the town such a showplace
People are fully dressed for sleep
Love aching is a wound so deep

The trees that line the waterway
In morning softness, gentle sway
She has no will but pain and weep
Love aching is a wound so deep

A painter shares his scene with care
Each moment bears a love affair
Regain some bliss others keep
Love aching is a wound so deep 

The river's voice is full of pain
Gorged in tremulous skeins of rain
With love, its beauty holds a heap
As it flows onward to the sweep

Love casts a moon hush in the gloom
Seraph love time starts to assume
The moon shone down a hillock steep
Love aching is a wound so deep

Celestial romance

Earth woos Venus but she is resistant,
reflecting light of sol in the night sky,
mirrored by her lover who’s persistent,
that tango dancing, tremulous hearts sigh.

The girl next door is the beauteous moon,
who planet earth does date from time to time
for when in full bloom, she makes his heart swoon
but Venus alone awakens love’s chime.

Playing spoilsport, Mars spits venom and fire,
whilst jilted Saturn casts a dark shadow,
since for hand of Venus, they both aspire,
though it’s fated neither can be her beau.

Love letters carried on a comet’s tail,
declare those who’re pure of heart will not fail.

For our eyes only

As in the void we wingless fly,
stardust sparkles in our third eye,
orifice in fontanel whirs,
causing tremulous heart to sigh.

Divine magnetism within purrs
as flow of soma nectar stirs
polarities within our form,
infusing bliss when heart concurs.

Ascent begins when we conform
to God’s grace, fearless in the storm,
witnessing death of our ego,
paving way for soul to transform.

Feel it

each time we meet a soul
we are offered a chance
to rekindle innocence 
and joyously dance

do we plunge in
or wait at sidelines
feel the tremulous heart
how for touch of love it pines

Zen mode

beyond labels, appearances and forms
as the epicentre of each vibration
motionless yet animated
omnipresent across all of creation
caress tender, tremulous heart warms

we are both the stillness and movement 
we are the one and we are the two
as the light that lights all lights
bliss vibrancy continues to renew 
unending process of soul’s improvement

All is within

All is within, the scriptures say
We know when thoughts are still
Our tremulous heart tends to sway
As dark desires we till

Slow down the thoughts we think
Head-heart mindfully link
Let love be our soul’s ink

Go in, go in
All is within

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