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Best Poems Written by Mathew Daniel

Below are the all-time best Mathew Daniel poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Story To Recite

We had no piece to write 
but a story to recite,
Of bricks and straws, 
moulded to walls,
With springs of sweat 
that soiled the earth,
And splashes of blood,
And tears we build.

We had no song to sing 
but a dirge to raise,
Of filth and dung
Without a praise,
Darted at us
With hateful force
And mockery words
That kills our minds.

We had no clothes to wear
But scars and despair
That made us scared
On our burdened bed.
No sorrow for our blistered palms,
Ti's for our warfare arms
To wave our lovely ones
And fight for our eerie bones.

©Mathew Daniel

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Insomnia

I cried "my father" less twice
Say thrice for I called the second 
Hiding my scared face from the lightening flash

True the light is light 
Or what else could be lighter?
After weaning through acclaimed deception
Embracing the light in truth that has its root in lies
Scientifically proven by Xs and Ys 
And Constants “K” and/or measured in Joule

I forbid the memory that flashes in this forest of night 
Hammering in my head
Even in the light the thunder-strike thunders 
Shaking the sole of my toe-less feet in repulsive horror of sleep

Sleeping wide awake, remembering the cooing bird of noontime

Lost in echoing thought…With watery eyes like rain waiting its turn
“Wait for the morning when light chases dreams and terror is silent”

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The Last Time We Smiled

The last time we smiled was our first 
Sharing the news with grins of fine texture 
Like infants joy at mother’s milk 
Dancing to a new freedom like children in a moonlight play 

The first time we smiled was our last 
Our face transformed to wrinkles 
As smiling evaporates
 Leaving us to feast on soury sweat of a new bond 

The frown on our face is the first
Unsure of the cause of natural orbit 
Why we fight with tiny laboring ants over tiny crumbs 
Then we ask the trees to bear us fruits 
When we water them with sweat 
After an exhausting fruitful naught, 
We sing with ‘cheer’ “O God of creation…”

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Misconceived

The surface is truly strange
a facet full of facade
my heart is singing; 
a strange chant...
"the words are unclear like mud water"
sinking the ship of a volatile voyage 
in the abyss of loneliness
"don't rule with me" the lily cursed 
cursed to live with grisly scales of thorny pinches 
preach to me the noble words of soothing pity
they call it prayer
a way of saying "go away but don't be mad"
I have carried a cross without Simon of Cyrene
the appearance is pitiful
because of a misconceived analogy
even the pedagogues have failed
don't cry...
t'is a vision for one

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The Broken Mirror

Sighs broke the mirror of my yesterday
The breath I drew from the chimney of my lit nonchalance fogged the vision of my broken mirror
Attempts to wipe a smudge created a tainted facet - a polluted surface
My mother told me it must be taken out 
She told me of a new mountain of creation
Where visions are clearly seen
Where the memories of my infancy can be remembered
O mirror that cut my infant palm
A drop of blood is all that's shed
A pool of tears is left to dry

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I Tongue

Call me from my cave out 
Draw me out, not with threading 
Lift me up with thunderous roaring pitch, 
See how much I'll cause a wonder 
I am the sword unsheathed among thorns. 
Beware ye unfearing beings 
My cut runs deep. 
Again I call, cast me not away
For without me all wonder is not
I am the owl calling through the forest of nights. 
Beware of my taming talons
Blunt in a thousand years rust
Yet I wound the bones of the most valiant 
My berth, my cave, the passage of meaty thorny flesh
Conjoined to the weakest guts. 
I have a fleshy beak
I peck not on wood, Wits are my gainful prey
In the beginning was not me, 
But in me was the beginning.

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Cowboys of Yesteryears

The cowboys' farm is never free from till
Their order is communicated through the whip
To the horses that pull the plough
Yes! Their whips are long and dreadful
It reached them from every side
They scamper at the sound of their voice 
It is heard like the sound of a wolf
In the ‘fool moon’
They hide their shriveled mind 
Under the pelt scarred by the whip 
As their voice ring back in trembling tone
They're overturned by a mightier force
A saviour they thought 
A despot he turned out 
He was born, nourished and suffered alike
He turned the table round, with fiercely strength 
And snatch them from their masters 
But on their backs he also rode
A bigger whip he raised 
The bruises remain and the pain never left.