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Best Poems Written by Joshua Ryngksai

Below are the all-time best Joshua Ryngksai poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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T L C

Nine moons buoyant in your matrix,
Silently alive in dark mystery,
Unfathomable, unsurpassed -
And so close to that heart -
Skilfully, wonderfully, fearfully –
Wrought in dark sustenance,
Warmed by love par Agape,
Then at water burst for will to breathe,
You, on death’s borderline, that will to be,
Blood, flesh, cords and life draining screams,
To hear a cry and feel those limbs,
When so and pain forgotten - 
Your eyes so eagerly search,
That infancy, that joy unbound –
So alive and more beautiful than:
A thousand seasons of Spring,
A stretching verdure of matchless flowers,
A resounding harmony of singing birds,
An unmatched beauty of anything beautiful, 
Tissue cut and then to suckle born free,
Safe in your arms of strength as eternity,
And only those arms can be -
Tender, Loving, Caring -
That even for the Tomb Born Logos –
The Ancient of Days by Wisdom chose -

To miss not this miracle –
For deaths’ Conqueror to -
In that secret place as yours to be –
And she, Mary was deemed blessed –
And yes!
As much as she, so you too –
Of all races, tongues and tribes –
To you Tender, Loving, Caring ones
My soul sings my spirit’s words –
From a throbbing heart,
Flushed by this miracle –
“Woman you are beautiful!”

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She Is Woman

She is ‘life’ in the strength, as of Earth,
She is ‘pulsation of ardency’, a woman of worth,
She is ‘harmony’, as of the timeless spheres,
She is ‘stories of deliverance’ from pain and fears,
Through waves and seas of uncertainties,
She is ‘nurture’ amidst adversaries,
She is ‘battle’ in her wars with chaos,
She is ‘warrior queen’, majestic in her ethos,
She is ‘swag’, she is ‘attitude’, she is ‘fire’,
Yet she is ‘calmness’ and ‘throb of desire’,
She is ‘madness’ in the caprice of wisdom,
A motive, an impulse, a beauty in motion,
She is ‘heart’, she is ‘warmth’, she is ‘hearth’,
She is ‘vow of oath’ that only death can part,
Yet, she is ‘symphony’ of eternal love songs,
She is ‘force’ and ‘vigour’ in souls she belongs,
A thousand lifetimes would echo still,
She is ‘woman-beautiful’ driven by will.

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I Could

I could love you across countless sunsets, hold you in the softness of your sleep, night after night and wait for the wakening of your morning eyes, just to lose myself in their beauty and unravel more of your mystique.
I could hold your hand and feel your warmth flow and yearn for a brush of your lips in the tenderness of kisses when the quietness of silence is heavy laden with the comfort of your presence.
I could have your moment and make it an eternity and share my moments into rolling eternities, touch your nape, trace your strands, breathe in your perfume, feel your completeness, die in your arms.
I could feel your passion, a gift of surprise I long to surrender to, which could be from the stolen looks that you take at me, quick yet not fast enough for me to miss the fire in your eyes that could be a longing as much as mine are.
Yet, ...
It could just be the passing of time's accidental frolic or what we feel and unintentionally become what we feel.
For I couldn't love you nor could you me, though we both do, for the paths we cross could just teach us that we could have but we didn't, yet, could we?
All because mirth could have played a folly, and yet - we are strong and just know that we lost each other so that we could win others.

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I Am Words

I’m the maverick with words,
Those logical sounds … 
that come out …
 from a mouth that speaks,
Or from the rendered writing hand, 
tight as a harp strung soul,
The earth and all thereof … 
move this wind harp,
And I connect –
I will love you for a moment,
I will kill you for a while,
I will resurrect you, then kill you again.
Ah the tricks of a writer’s muse.
Right now, I feel I’m talking nonsense,
The next moment, I’m words divine.
Yet, words they are, and not only.

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Seduced

Rage! Rage! This angst, oozing from yawning deep, 
Render to numbness, silent cornered weep, 
Iniquitous decrees, when lulled to sleep, 
Seduced by dybbuks, only vice to reap, 
At impasse is reason in chaotic sneap, 
Battle! Battle! Wrought courage to muster, 
Nerves, sinews and pulse to not surrender, 
Unto Death's embrace, believe, relive valour, 
Cease the recreants who plunder honour, 
Justitia unfold, raise sword, discard scales, 
They excorcise a conjuring of wrongs -
Your wimp giants with their death-laden stales, 
Who snatch, stuff, snuff, the hapless teeming throngs.

Bitter! Bitter! This death that lives in me, 
Caged in dreaded mirrors, life dies in me, 
‘Creep' - deep in my grey with seductive glee, 
That heaven-flash, garden-lie, cursed harmony, 
Sexed this soul, fervent red and sensory, 
That ransom rush of crimson redemption, 
Flesh sunk spirits misrender the Passion, 
To quell the knell of that culmination, 
Scrolls, religiosity and rendition, 
For power, for heat, in false absolution, 
And this death-row of bliss to deathless role, 
Into eternal licking tongues since old, 
All and I heedless to that Sword and scold, 
Then brazen doors to pleas of curse served soul.

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Oh My Soul

Oh, my soul,
Why do you always go to pluck that fruit?
Why do you always judge on good and evil?
Why do you always appeal to the intellect?
Why do you always please the senses?
Why are you so arrogant and proud?
Why do you command and dominate?
Why are your traduces crude and rude?
Why are your actions ill mannered and inconsiderate?
Why be loud, boastful, talkative and opinionated?
Why be insecure and afraid?
Why be intimidated and inhibited?
Why be introverted and extroverted?
Critical, judgemental, condescending and condemning!
So self-sufficient, self-reliant, self-motivating, self-seeking –
So much into self-love, self-adoration, self-idolatry, self-worship –
Oh my soul, my selfish soul?

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Inexactitude

At water break, a wail for dust –
Fate sighs, for jest, has mused a blight,
And gamers throb, in bliss of lust,
Cast brawn and sweat to stoke a plight.
The devil’s kiss, the angel’s tear -
In raging muse, to conform dread,
In caring weep, to rescue drear,
In dance of life to dirge of death.
A throne, to seat the villain heart -
A pad, to ease the saintly knee -
In midst, feet stomp in chaotic march,
To play the mind, to cause folly.
Space, time and rotting starch –
Smarmy! The lucid platitude –
Heaven and hell, wait post the purge,
Sharing, man’s … inexactitude.

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Winston

It’s too late to shatter the cold distance of silence with a ‘sorry’,
For I stand full of regrets ever since you became the elements,
Just one moment in time, that is all I need; that we breathe together,
And in that blessed precious beat of time –
I would build bridges and ladders across the worlds that part us,
I would blast the cavernous gloom of estrangement that swallowed our love,
And once again bring the basin of hot water to wash your feet,
While I listen to your endless repetitive stories of how you fought in the war,
And massage your back, and tuck you in bed and serve you tea come morning,
And choose to obey and understand your weaknesses,
For they were not really yours but mine in the making,
How I wish you were in this e-world of an i-age,
To show you those western movies that you were crazy for –
And download collections of Chase and L’amour and Wallace and Sheldon
And travel, and laugh, and pray, and eat,
And be your friend and not a judge on failure,
For the ravages of lack was a choice you took,
To be with her –
Yet I was not with you!
If I had brightened as light we would have not become dancing shadows,
I never cried over the casket that shelled you,
Today these tears welled up from a heart that is decades deep,
Wanting, Longing, Aching, Hurting, and Reaching.
Then those eyes came in my heart like a soft comfort -
Promising that somewhere in this vast expansion and harmony of spheres,
Forgiveness has come to teach me to forgive myself –
For -
You are love, you are scent, you are song, you are stillness, and you are Dad,
Your star tells me it’s never too late  and to teach your grandchildren to love me.
Winston, you waged a good war in my heart and you have won!

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Till, Sow, Water, Reap

And we keep on falling into tomorrows, 
A spinning particle with a soul, 
In harmony with the spheres, 
Sure as clockwork, 
Till that final moment, 
We meet dust, 
We become wind, 
And then we are for a while - 
a phrase, a song, a scent. 
Falling then,  into yesterdays, 
Each descending further - 
Soundless, breathless, lifeless. 
Why then should we be, as if
 'forever' is the blood in our veins?
Have we not heard the phrase - 
'life and death'?
Till the soil farmer, till!
As you live -  
sow, water and reap.
For only then ... 
the swan song can be of 
a 'life full of years!' …
That dirge laments not...
For the epitaph sings of victories

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Isadora

She leaves footprints –
on the wet concrete of blinded doubts,
For she has carved lives - -
like graven images on the palms of her hands,
There is substance in her eyes,
fire in her soul,
zest in her spirit,
And her passion? –
She is anchor, rudder and dock, sail and compass,
Storms are her vanquished
for she kindles hope to enliven her faith,
Wars and Victories are her poems –
inked with blood, sweat and tears,
For she flames her faith –
with the winged cherubim and seraphim of prayers,
And in her steadfast stride,
barely noticeable are her hurts and pain,
She is wife and mother,
teacher and mentor,
support and pillar,
Give her a reason or none at all,
she is battle, she is warrior,
the Lord her Banner.
This fourth day of the second month –
she still writes her walk and talk,
With testimonies –
of unrelentless dauntlessness and dare,
She is that indomitable woman –
true to her name,
‘Nurturer and protector’ – Isadora