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Best Poems Written by Marc-Enzo Alexander

Below are the all-time best Marc-Enzo Alexander poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Some metallic beating of a Drum like heavy rainfall resonated through the night
as the wind swept through the trees and across the somber ponds of The West.
Some nights: these nights—fireflies are the sparkling blue-green dots scattered across an aloof sky.
And how the onlookers stare dumbly at the Horizon and the clouds!
Evanescent, blue…dark shades cover a bush and how the stars are
Climbing (!)
the black cloth of night like spiders,
Oh! the inherent beauty of the world?
And the iridescent flowers are laid dead over the infinite fields.

Some metallic beating of a Drum like ponderous footsteps circling a room fills the gracious day.
The sun with her full smile sends streams of gold and orange to sneak through the
crevices of
the cracked ceiling of the abandoned theater to illuminate the dust.
Random in their intent and brutal in their delivery, the messages of light assuage the gentle Earth
She hands over her key…
Such madness! Madness!
Pools of water scattered across the open fields; coquettish waves undulate under the gale.
Such madness! Madness!
The ethereal beats of the Drum like stolen heartbeats boom! Boom! Boom!
Such madness! Madness!
And maybe the Lady can answer such idling question as to why the cacophony:
“And could you tell us of the day you found this disorder dancing like daft Pagans?”
And she says: “No, for the beauty of absurdity is that the very idea of order contradicts
its existence”
Hypnotic chanting: Chaos makes order chaos makes order chaos makes order…

Some metallic beating of a Drum like a steel box in the bosom of Space
It spins like the burning Earth on a bender
Oh, the cacophony! Oh, the madness!
Such Madness…

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Love Song - I

Explain to me the language of your body,
Assure to me its ulterior meaning,
Pure like an angel's wing, or else,
Perhaps,
Let me discover
The ghosts of its meaning, something more akin to the
Fleeting flecks of the flowers in our irises, or
The fatal hints of the Siren's whispers,
Where words meet their end and slowly becomes a barrage of
Touches—meaning finds itself more comfortable in
The oils of our skin than the notes of our tongue.

The burnt pink tips of my fingers brushes across fields of purple wheat, who's
Edges are scorched a soft brown, like a frothy nebulae...

It asks:

How is your hair like the wheats of the English?

How are your lips like the kiss of the Italians?

Your eyes like the glances of the Arabic?

A pink summer,
Duly fitted around the pale azure of your oceanic figure,
and softly beckons to the oval
Leaves that were left,
Bled from decaying trees...

You love me,
I want to assume.
For what other reason
Would anemic sunlight be weaved into you
Hair that's speckled with mourning dew? And lately the walls have been
green with some Festering memories from
Yesterday but
The faint and sweet smell of sugar is enough to
Convince me otherwise of oblivion.

How are your eyes like the cosmic s c a r s,
Laced with an ardent yellow between an all-consuming purple and
Flecked here and there with
Pollocks of white and blue, streaked with
Light orange along the dark celestial rip a charcoal black…?

I love you,
Perhaps…

But can a door compose its candor without rusty hinges?
Perhaps…

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Sonnet I

Therein amongst the subtle fall of rain
That drips rhythmically upon leafy green
I hath now a dead love, woefully lain
Like deadened steps on the grave stones serene.

Though mold casts shadows, haunting and subdued— 
As rain's sleek menace cracked youth's lofty tomb—
Black boughs laden with black apathy, nude,
Line this grave yard as would a mother's womb.

These roses are not perfumed in anguish,
Yet, in hesitation, with them I lie
A solitude prepared for relinquish
That with salted derision, hopes to die.

And the meek mourn with ugly, failing grace
As the rain gradually quickens its pace.

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The Timbre of Orange

Orange is reminiscent of the sound of thunder, of muted drums,
Dissonant in nature, like the call of distant, broken trumpets.
Severely caustic, rather scathing in its delivery of 
A burning sound, crackling and popping, as if the 
Brass breathed black embers...
Orange is a color that embodies a brutality,
A roughness and an edge that is 
Unmatched by the RAINBOW. 
And the other colors seem to halt and stare at its
Bluntness, its assertiveness and its ferocious voice,
Gravely and deep. 
Orange is reminiscent of the sound of roaring trains
Emits a sort of glowing dominance, of arrogance--
Its sharpness of tone allows for precision and mastery.
It is more a color than the rest of the colors, for in its vibrancy
There is a youthful proclamation of hope that is gilded by
A solid realism. It hopes loudly but stoutly refuses prayer.
In orange's stoic presence, its voice like 
Battering rams and clashing pans, it demand, no it
STEALS a presence. Yet in its arrogance, there is a 
Resilience, a persistence, for 
Orange is a color reminiscent of the Gods
And in its faults lies its power.

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Ramblings -- Ii

Through a blurred mirror a person can vaguely see distorted reality, subjectivity with vague silhouettes of truth dancing with fantasy. The world is such a vast place, black and dreary; infinite number of interpretations of the same bleak and eternal space. I've always attempted in notebooks to draw the stars, this space, even in the day time, for I knew that even in the masking of the sun that the stars in their grandeur were always there. I did not entirely understand their chaos; I understood that chaos and order were similar, but the actual concept of disorder, of mayhem, always seemed to be on the peripherals of thought. Perhaps this stemmed from a youthful mind, one that is still naïve and ignorant of such universal truths, or perhaps I was not smart enough; but I always seemed the one ahead of my classmates, even teachers. No matter, no matter. It was not important to understand why there was no comprehension, only to understand the defining concept itself. These idling eyes, these apparitions of blank faces, ignorant to the truths of the real world, hidden in black silhouettes that shield thought. How I abhor such people! How thankful am I that I was born with a great mind! What a shame it would be if I were born normal. I was always called abnormal, special—at age three I solved a large puzzle; age eight: read the dictionary; sixteen: calculus. What a beautiful mind what a beautiful mind! How great it would be to pick his mind, to find the underlying entropy that causes brilliance… entropy… Why does the moon sit so low in the night to choreograph the waves and paint the shore in speckled gold? But that can be answered. But why does physics exist? What makes physics work? Why do we do sit here, static and cold; not walk backwards and hover in the clouds with the birds? Simple physics. But why the physics? Is there physics behind physics? Metaphysics? Meta-metaphysics? Is eternity the answer? It could be… What gives rise to the geometric planes and the points of the stars? Eternity? Why does the moon hang like it does, almost kiss the earth? Eternity, Eternity. And the stars, they could be eternal also; even when they are dead, eternity may still envelop them. I went back to mapping the stars in his notebook. Blank stares of the students in their black silhouettes: eternity. Some intrusive light from the sun broke the silence of the somber darkness; the inattentiveness of the students, their rusty eyelids now forced to creak open.

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Ramblings -- I

(But as Mike was rambling with considerable fortitude about the inner workings of a car and the various ways that Florida threw their last football game or whatever trite nonsense men discuss over their mountains of beer bottles and clouds of ugly breath, Mary was pondering the physical and emotion ramifications of leaving him—for as a man he lacked in areas that were severely important in the maintaining of mutual happiness within a relationship, and further more she noticed him becoming increasingly distant and aloof; between her faked moans and twitches during her nightly duties that she so foolishly agreed to take part of on that fateful wedding day with the idyllic candle wax dripping on the carpet and the purple carnations like candy lining the hall seated by apparitions of smiling faces with faux ephemeral blessings bestowed upon the sanctity of marriage and he said I take thee Mary as my lovely wedded wife [Ha! Such words that were once coated in some saccharine candy-like veil and promises suited in armor are now rotted away], that his touches were no longer supple, soft, and passionate. His hands that used to be so longing and sensual as they rubbed up her back and over her luscious pink hills and through her sullen green valleys so raucously that reality was blurred and she had to reassess the differences between her faking her moans and her moans being true were now careless and limp, much like that useless tool that trudged along the inside of her like a challenged snake or perhaps a worm, and his breath that was tinged pink by lust was now stale and bored. Mary nowadays could not tell who was faking the best: he or she. Or maybe that derivative form of hope that lined the ulterior edges of their long lost love for each other, that last saving grace sent from heaven, has now faded away, like the smoldering flames of the fallen Tartarus. And smoke lined the corridors of Mt. Olympus.)

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The Window

Melted candles atop a resigned dresser
Wilted roses lying atop a white cloud
The flickering of fires and shadows mesh well with your
Batting eyelashes your heavy words and your breathing in rhythm with
the cadences of muted car alarms and the silence in between
the silence of random gunshots
[And yes the window is closed shut as to keep away the pain of reality]
The scent of passion is Indistinguishable from
the color of roses and I rest my hand upon your
Luscious pink hills and your saccharine green valleys
And your lips are reminiscent of Cupid's salted arrow
Bated breathed and hushed voices
Fleeting touches and orange eyes
Broken white pillars and icy blue roads sirens say
Your voice is of the fertile rivers of Euphrates

[These dusty sidewalks are faring well adorned with dried and caked blood
and are quite flighty for the ransom of stolen dreams have been held high
And lives torn asunder through the mark of a bullet send
chilling echoes across the once gentle city I have heard
The moans of ghosts rife with fear and despair mourning some
Apparent loss of victory or at least something akin to a victory
a loss less painful in its injection of ennui
O'rehead the musty roses litter round the dead bodies
the snow on their noses the remnants of green leaves stain their pockets
The blistering violence like broken glass scar that dream once
Thought to be deferred but revealed to be absent and clash dissonantly with
A derivative form of hope austere in nature blind and deftly jailed.] 
 
Our bones are becoming too fragile to handle this weight of
Delicious malcontent spirit I am being bombarded by the anxiety
Of words too illicit to be spoken by these mortal tongues so rightfully
Bestowed by our gracious God Words knock on our velvet doors incessantly
With fervent wind blowing through the golden poplars ravaging their leaves
I attempt to evade the graceful fall into sin like a Golden Apple
Your touches are like the decaying fingers of dawn that
Warmeth the widest plains of amber waves and
I fall in your oceans and embers once more.  
 
 [Upon these dissonant tones flying o’re the ramparts of bleak darkness with
The persistence of rising fear serving as the sole light of the flighty streets the memories of
Corrupt hath lain their brittle hand over the graves of the weeping Those same
Bloody streets are shining black with eminent death
Broken street lamps
Gangster shadowed in billowing fire
Outside the cracked glass of the Lovers' window]

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Beginners On Roads

I remember gazing at, through some moving vehicle:
the foggy mountains mystical; the setting sun; the distant blue sky.
It (landscape) winked,
and I (confused) waved back;
It (landscape) shuddered
and I (resolute) held its hand.
Then the area went black and white.
Meandering words, empty and transparent, filled what was once a visual scene.
I attempted to organize my thoughts,
readjust my lessening vision, reassign colors to words, place invisible meaning
into a little box called order and logic.
But the earth cared not for my pedestrian opinions or my confused and idealistic musing,
romantic staring as some derivative form of deep, abstract thinking.
I asked her what do the wandering clouds mean, the chanting brooks and the whispering wind?
And she said everything and nothing.

Everything and Nothing…
Well then the Earth is truly a genius, isn't she?

There is no meaning to be found, except for some formless, shapeless mass,
odorless and austere like blank crumpled paper.
I attempted to mold it, to shape it, to essentially create a somethingness out of nothingness
… like some God.
The clump, then, went flat, and then disappeared.
And the scene returned,
and the mountains were back just in time to be passed by my window.
And that left me staring dumbfounded,
for now there was no tool to interpret the return of coquettish waves and the expansive skies.
But,
I kept riding in the vehicle, still hopelessly staring into the vast sunset.

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I Am Vain Like Veins

The stark gray of the rainfall in a tortured Heaven—this is how the you view the world
Not through eyes of reason or objective pondering
	As the minds of philosophers, of thinkers, of geniuses
But through the mind of subjective and bitter reactions
	Like the minds of viscous beasts hunting the Sheep and Lambs

           I am vain like veins..

Tepid clouds are actively shrouding the night
Thou shall kiss the moon with cold lips—
And again think with a fragile heart: do not worry it will not burn thee; 
the heat that was once searing  the day is hiding under the Luna
	Thou have an icy frame—like the gentle winters…
Do you know of the gods of love?—maybe in the signing of the leases you learned something 
from the Owner
	Thou were a sheep; thou were a lamb; thou were a subtle flower in the sweet smell of April…
but thou now has an icy frame—like the gentle winter
                     And the rotten tendrils of your decaying vines has a putrid stench

          I am vain like veins...

The monotonous drops of rain fall like tears…

Best Poems Written by Marc-Enzo Alexander

Dawn Ii

Consonance and Dissonance

Love Song - I

Sonnet I

The Timbre of Orange

Ramblings -- Ii

Ramblings -- I

The Window

Beginners On Roads

I Am Vain Like Veins