Tag: read poetry

Read Poem: Do Not Always, by Matildas Waltz

We could spill it all out
In a good read about
How there ever came to be
Up in the sky . . .
…a poetry tree,
That never burns down
And in its branches abounds
The phoenix whose sounds

Are the silence . . .
of ETERNITY;
But what could we achieve
When the tale of all ages to believe
Was being plucked as the tail
Of the phoenix,
whose message be:
Only when from above
Is life’s lesson simple and straight
Precise in corresponding
With detail complicating,
Below in the gradings
Of matters of density
Established of space
In time continuum fabric;
Will
the word be real
And only then might nobody steal
Such that nothing might be
Of all the words blue,
One would think the sky true
And just as numbers
are to be believed
What goes up when in need
Just as feathers regrew upon me;
Just as poetry be a lonely old tree
Just as it is as it is in ETERNITY

For all of every word spilt,
God’s love is the only interpretive milk
And the Devil repay what ilk
My life in failed believe
That if birdsong it be,
Listened to have thee
Thy knowledge of need be need be
For the Devil fell not me
But all of God’s lore will be
Jesus who owns the throne of this tree
Grown that Solomon would make Sheba see
While I hear with the ear of unease
Between all those
who know me;
Better just let it be
As it is and believe

An URL of a video of me r

Read Poem: Paranoia, I seek help, by Vyom Desai

I suffer from chronic personality disorder
Also called emotional dysregulation disorder,
where I suffer from mood swings and behavioral changes,
just like abruptly changing seasons,
winter to monsoon,
monsoon to summer,
not following the regular order.
order to keep track of my body
I keep forgetting what happened 2 mins back,
but remember every time my heart was pierced
Cut down,
sold in the market,
at a price as low as the value of plastic.

The symptoms of it says,
Expectations
rising expectations from people,
people you have invested in.
Disappointment
It becomes part of your daily life,
as expectations are not for people who suffer.
as expectations are privileges I cannot afford.
Moodswings
Abrupt mood swings opens space of discomfort
like those between states and countries
unsaid and cold,
like my red eyes after every suicidal thoughts I have.
Behavioural changes
I fear to talk to the person I love,
like a kid afraid of falling from bicycle
or a man afraid to fall in love.
I stay blank unable to talk,
As I my mouth has been stitched
because words will take them far from me.
and I won’t be able to see them again
or maybe I will see them
through my soul and not eyes,
with love and no love in return,
Paranoia,

these Symptoms leads me to paranoia,
like smoking leads to cancer
addictive and unrequited
My disorder is no different,
It takes me far from people,
people I love,
people for whom I have killed myself again and again,
people who don’t know anything about my sufferings,
Today I tell you with all my strength and love
All my life and vulnerability
I am not okay,
I am suffer from chronic personality disorder
leading to paranoia
that my love for you
works as needles and threads
stitching my mouth to not say anything,
and listen to you
with my eyes red in colour
Telling
I love you.
I wish to be okay.
I seek help.

Read Poem: All Hallows Eve Fun, by Jackie Mead

On the darkest night of the year.
I was alone at home, quivering with fear.
I started remembering the year before; I had a fright.
Just as the day was fading to night.

I recounted the encounter which gave me such a fright.
On the scariest, darkest of nights.

Walking home, alone, I pulled my coat tight; I was chilled to the bone.
First a shiver ran down my spine.
Then “many” long arms wrapped around me, tightly squeezing, like a creeping vine.
I couldn’t move, I was paralysed with fear.
Then I heard the voices of “many” whispers in my ear.

Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
We like All Hallows Eve fun

I opened my eyes to look the “many” up and down
It was as if I had stumbled into a Ghost Town.
The “many” wore clothes tattered and torn.
Their har thin, and like a sheep, shorn.
Their skin hanging from their skeletal frames.
The “many” started to play their games.

First, they took some rope from their pocket.
Then they took a picture out of a gold locket.
They used the roped to bind my hands.
Then they huddled in a circle to finalise their plans.

They stood me up and spun me around.
I was giddy and almost fell to the ground.
They showed the picture to me, it was one I held dear.
Me as a child, before I knew fear.

They said they would set the picture alight.
Showing fear would not help my plight.
As the picture burned it would take my soul; deliver it to the devil.
I began to twist my hands; I began to scream and wrestle.

I did not want to live below, where the fire is intensely hot.
Where the devil chooses someone each day to scare and tie that person in knots.
The “many” closed in and took me by my bound hands, led me away.
To a pit they had dug that very same day.

The pit was 6 feet deep and lined in red.
The first thing to do was to bury me standing, up to my head.
The “many” stood me in the pit and picked up their shovels.
They quickened their pace and filled the pit on the double.

I stood once again paralysed with fear.
I felt my cheeks wet, with the tracks of my tears.
The “many” took the picture and held it high over my head.
Laughing, shouting in my face “had I wet my bed”

I knew there would be no turning around from this, tonight would be my last.
I grew calm and waited for the final blow, shot or blast.

I had my eyes shut tight.
But…nothing happened, nothing came, the picture did not ignite.
I was still trembling though feeling terrified.
I couldn’t move, my hands were still tied.
I prayed to heaven; I did not want to die.

Then a bit of luck perchance; I did a little happy dance.
I wriggled my hands and pulled them in tight, the rope began to loosen.
Just maybe I would remain on this earth, remain human.

My hands broke free and pushed away the earth; set myself free.
I looked at the time on my watch, saved by the bell, 01:01, last admittances to hell.

When the clock had struck 0100hrs, All Hallows Eve Fun was over.
Saved for another year, but to be on the safe side I will remain indoors this year.

Read Poem: BREATHING EXERCISES, by G.R. Melvin

She won’t roll away & not watch me.
Y’see, I won’t seem to take another…

When I dream (or wake),

To take another breath before

The scene fades, before

Lights go up,

Then down to more of a zoom.

She waits in our bedroom for me to resume.

.

II.

We went to go to a yoga class.

Where a barefooted, hair-pleated group leader;

Beautiful, and calmer than a

Merciful last coma,

She insisted that our deep breath is

The gist of all of it (within, & out).

We rearrange the short & tall of it.

The Gist to change the depth, see,

Of our sea of possibility.

When we inhale

We re-memorize our own gods.

We exhale our hell. barefoot. on a mat.

Whew. To that.

.

III.

When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico

I’ll try out the drink, 1st thing.

I’ll try not to think, when I try to let go

& sink, when I deadman’s float all day,

Into what I think of as a spiritual drift, in a way.

I’ll hold onto my own breath,

Face down,

Head down.
.
.
G.R. MELVIN

Read Poem: Letter to an Indifferent, by Noman Teserak

Genre: Life
Website: https://ajosephpoetry.wordpress.com/

Muse, dear muse
Faintly, I still hear you
crying, now laughing
with Charon

You are gone, yes
You’ve let me go
Now you can breathe freely

Dear muse
Do our dreams go on endlessly ?
Could you not have shown me one kindness
and taken from me these memories ?
Which, unbidden,
remind me of what was, once ?

The cruelty isn’t that you’re gone
It is that I remember.

Read Poem: ART OF WORSHIP, by Adekunle Adewunmi

I will stand upon my watch
And set myself upon the tower
To listen to;
The pangs of richness I long to eat and
Smell of His fragrance I long to savour.

I’ll pour forward waters of obeisance
Sending fresh smoking sacrifices from the
Corners of my room –the heart
From whence cometh unreserved worship.

Bowing in awe, unto Him will I rest my oasis
Lifting unto Him in surrender, the hands he gifted me
I’d beckon on the sweet Holy Spirit and,
Make a feast cooked with tongues of fire

While dishing Him assorted,
I’ll stand upon my watch and
Set myself upon the tower
As I long to koinonia in realness
Because I know, upon my waiting
I won’t return empty.

Read Poem: Gone, by Michele Fermanis-Winward

She sings her ancient song
strives to keep its words alive
despite the grief it brings
to know she sings alone
no other shares her tongue.

She travels far from home
no land where she belongs
she is the last of her kind
we will speak for her
but cannot hear her song.

Read Poem: Clarissa and Charley, by Ingerid White

There was a tall lady who liked to wear hats
Sometimes, it is said, they contained even bats
When asked why she did this, she only would stare
And say, “But my dear, one has to have flair.

“And besides, there’s a hole at the top of my head
That must even be covered when I’m in my bed
For what would I do if my brains leaded on out
Without so much as a warming or shout?”

To church she would go with her latest ensemble
And all would admire her amazing aplomb
For her hats made her taller by half than before
And match, they must, every outfit she wore

Her husband, by contrast, was only 5’3”
He suffered the glances of all who were free
To gaze at the couple who sauntered on in
Suppressing the urge to let go of their grins

The lady herself was all goodness and grace
Her husband, undaunted, just quickened his pace
Though love her did, and all the way through
He hastened to light on his favorite pew

For though she was truly the one of his dreams
He never adjusted to be with her seen
So after a time, he stayed safe at home
And let his wife go to church on her own

But always and ever they remained a pair
Loving and laughing and having friends near
Though rarely together they welcomed a guest
One of the other was always at rest

Or working or playing or doing a chore
Regardless of this, their friends wanted more
Of Clarissa and Charley, who dressed to the nines
And share with their friends their dearest of wines

– Ingerid White, 2009

Read Poem: Native places, by Abhya Kajal

A motionless, eloquent wave would hit me, every now and then.
That could do things to me, not even a curse can.
Soothe me, for what I dreamt; leave some hope
Then break me into infinite pieces; hang me over the love rope.

Those blue orbs would hold me in their dark prison
In all those bilious moments of disagreement
Still, I would not sue you for invasion
’cause you came, played with my sentiments.
Oh I cried, yeah, those screams echoed in my mind
I focused on letting it go, but they held me and rewind.
All pearls of lonesomeness flew away,
I was left with deaf and senseless minutes of the day.

No one, but you can help me.
No voice, but your sweet sayings will set me.
No hands will toy with mine,
Only your eyes will make thy twinkle and shine.
I sighed alone with distress.
Could he not hear me; had he gone passionless,
Such a tender heart and still won’t express.

Why am I not as are the dead?
Then, I’d better die in his arms
One short hour of native air, and indeed,
I haven’t found that yet!

Read Poem: You My Dusky Hue, by Renee Bousquet

The range in its majesty gives way to open thoughts of the wild things in taming, I have eaten hard pan and dust as my regular meal to be had.

I to the constant trail beaten into the saddle just see what could not be tamed. There is beauty found within the beasts of the fields, within the tree’s to the treeline. They all feeble things next to you my dusky hue.

I but a small man in wealth not much to the offering bowl, to live from the saddle bags by choice not many would do.

I live half-feral, fighting the hard winds when necessary, blanketed in snow a brutal life. I follow in blindness of white, head down in the snowstorm– yes driven to see you.

I would but to give my all in any form to last breath in glimpsing you my dusky hue. I would then give open hand an outstretching for the touching of you; I worn hard and worked but still yours.

Goat trails and sage with the buck and antelopes, I follow from shade and shadow. I’ve seen all the crooked paths and mountain spires, ancient writing from lost tribes guiding me the man the myth to you.

I’ve sung from the saddle to the moon with the wolf and his brother the coyote. They answered in crescent smile, howling as my accompaniment…she just before the next rise was the answer.

The ever wanderer to you in my own solitude I driven as the whirlwind, eyes squint, cheeks leathered, living on the surface of the sun I travel.

Always to the horizon line is my sight, waiting, watching, praying today’s the day of salvation. I ride and say this day….this days the one.

I ask nothing for myself, I the sole provider of me the simple one, but to seek out you my dusky hue is my life I born to.

I wish a want of you from afar waiting, watching. Yes, it is more than I could bear to think always you’ve been real to me.

A man can only be a man when he’s succumbed to the knowledge that he is nothing without his dusky hue. She in my sight in the good drunk, in lonesomeness at times the only way to sleep.

She is the maker of the man– the maker of me in hard times, yes to be molded by the hand of the master by her will makes what could not be molded to the driven man…the hard man.

Perfection comes in many shades in the ways of the weary soul, I see and yet give way to the mirage in deep thirst and delirium. I know your face as the one and only, even if you know not I exist.

It’s to the will of it to dream the dream of the most beautiful, even if she’s not yours and can never be. A man can not be one, without a sacred thing to love even in a quest.

I feel the pains in the contortions of love. I see the exorcism of the heart to the soul open handed. Love…love…love…Oh! how I hate to love so much, an image I’ve never seen in real form which is you my dusky hue.

I say one day before the howling moon rises, I shall pull the hard drink before I die thinking you will be before me by mornings light and kissing sun.

You my dusky hue, my dream that’s kept me driven to the hard life. I worn by the saddle eating sand by the pound, sand by the day. It’s worth it to me to be what I must, in this world revolving around me.

I shall live till I die for just one silhouette of you, in the open plains watching waiting for me at least in my dreams of perfection… I live to die, always to you my dusky hue.

By Renee Bousquet