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laura Aug 2018
ensorcelled - the day burns and burns
the dusk is filled with ashen husks
and white flies swirling in the wind
different kind of bittersweet day

like a girl who ditched you at a good movie
a sunset lighting the boughs up at 2PM
like a good day despite the world on fire
pretty and futile; like throwing selfies on an insta
Nat Lipstadt May 18
~for better days for the poet betterdays~

mournful tunes play silently, but still too often,
eyes wet but in corners kept, recurring then the
memories, keepsakes, letters, books, small trinkets,
not dusty, but dusky, resting on in-between ledge of a
mountain-sized twilight of well lit shadowy haziness,
edgy dark brilliance, a comprehensible contrast non-comprehendible

tunes that bless with equal measures of grief,
comforting, by memorable card flashes of good relief,
a dividing line, hazy and frequented crossed, a sort of path,
with no destination signaled, as if the path itself was an end,
to a meaning, a solution, with no clarity divined, a division
of sight and insight, providing an ill fitting reconciliation

mourning is electric, morning is electric,
letters, words bottled up in evaporating perfume bottles,
seeking the comfort of dissipation unto a larger atmosphere,
the scent in everything tangible, stronger still yet, in intangibles
that can erode but never ever fail to return instantly when voked,
by vision, odor, a particular child’s smile, line in a poem volunteered

recovered, uncovered, a post first writ to be written, discovered,
when time and place coincidentally breathe together, at last,
beckoning you to places where memory serves only as a pleasuring,
upright mind marker, decorated in chains perpetual reforging,
absent pain, gleaming dreamings full-replacing longings for pasts,
new verses composed, passing, a grand addition to a child’s legacy
loss can only be tempered, reforged, and ultimately used for our  own betterment when the heart commands, now write!
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
wind forgets her moan
morn's dirge hushed still and silent
star heralds brilliance
"So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

"And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, 'Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; He is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.'

"Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

'Glory to God in the highest heaven,
    and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.'"

~ Luke 2:4-14

"After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, 'Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship Him.'

"When King Herod heard this he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him. When he had called together all the people’s chief priests and teachers of the law, he asked them where the Messiah was to be born. 'In Bethlehem in Judea,' they replied, 'for this is what the prophet has written:

“But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
    are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for out of you will come a ruler
    who will shepherd My people Israel.”'"

~ Matthew 2:1-6
Ashley Kaye Aug 2
flitting in haze
tarries above minds eye
the unsavory bits
of memories
not by today
but curtailing sense of tomorrow
of another day spent listless
Maybe your eye crawls
beneath its lid

The stomach whines
“Don’t forget to eat”
yet there are many
who do.
Rot to overripeness
apple of the human experience
long years of the same gruel of life
from a food line

aren’t you starving
by now?
hear your innards howl
tangle themselves into that faux funnel cake
you ate when you were five
it’s rather difficult to stave
off the past alone
Do you not live?
The doctor tells you so
Your heart beats your mind runs
away sometimes
Sleep on.

little one
Next time you go
Out to wander
The streets of the breathing city
Consider some curtains.
July 19 2019
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Memories crying, screaming to be heard.
Try as I might to bury these amidst busy days,
still they rise from the backyard of my mind haunting my dreams,
making youth a nightmarish memory.

Empty rooms cry out in agonizing silence.
White ghosts float on lifeless bodies with the same question; why?
Anxious moments still taunt just beyond of safety.
The sickness that gave birth to this still clouds the mind.  

So long ago, a lifetime to make peace, still lucid moments of torment
making March an anniversary dirge.
It makes no sense to cry for those gone, for mortals spent in tragedy,
yet every year I try to understand once again, why?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Timothy Aug 2017
Time ebbs away so craftily, so fast
     An hour, a day, a month, or yet a year—
     A decade too—they all shall disappear
And soon the present will become the past.
Death waits with ready sickle for the blast,
     When that appointed Time draws ever near,
     And greets us all with trembling hand, or tear,
With knells and saddest dirge, buried at last.

     But God shall one day waken all these bones,
Which now lay mould’ring with damp worms and clay,
Shall gather all our dust and bid it rise.
     For now, each dreamless head sleeps ‘neath these stones,
Soon God shall raise them to unending Day
Our blissful, heav’nly home, beyond the skies.
19 March 2017 9:28am EDT
Dr Peter Lim Oct 2018
But youth argues
too loudly it has all the answers
and is adamant it shall save the world
from its ugliness, corruption and decay
nothing shall stay in its way--
further still it proclaims:
we will be around forever
as we will die never
our spirit breathes out fire
and shall send a message
through the universe:
we are the world's saviour
none should question this or doubt--

youth--but the interregnum
the innocence that borders the naive
still in the breeding ground
of life's kindergarten
pain and sorrow to suffer
in all shapes and sizes
to be marooned and left bereft
in the aftermath of bitter experiences
that know no respite,  reason nor rhyme
then follow the withering of passions
the death of dreams and hopes
the helplessness and despair
like once-lovely petals dropping away
to be forgotten by time--

rude awakening
the voice breaks
into sobs
the heart aches.
* Retitled from SUCH IS YOUTH
Hirondelle Sep 2018
Oh, how I love that wall!
My wall, your wall, his wall, our wall...
Solid before many a starry-eyed soul.

Tossing square into a granite fortress,
The ashen stoniness denying access,
Ouch! Got your head in a mangled mess?

It was all there yet you didn’t see.
That grim jester of far-gone fantasy.
Next comes the swat without courtesy.

That proud wall, high and tall,
Didn’t even think you were a sore,
When you burst and lost in a ghastly gore.

No dirge to the swatted little fly,
No litany for a crushed buzzing lie,
No reason even for a sad little cry.

That wise wall, high and nigh,
Didn’t bat an eye or even sigh,
While pranking your sad foolish try.

Small like a fly before big delusions,
**** like a fly in alluring confusions,
Such a wasted lie on a wall’s exclusions.

Realism will always soar,
And never notice that vapid gore,
On that proud wise wall.

©️Hirondelle (24/09/2018)
Sometimes you hear a knock on your door when that little voice of reality eventually winds its way back to you through the hubbub and turmoil of your delusion-spurred emotions. Yet, you realize, over time it has grown so big and your eidolons are suddenly micrified to the reality of a mere fly. And the swat... how sovereign... how overbearing reality is! The swat may even come by the hands of the kindest person you have known. Reality busts the dark fly, the Kafkaesque metamorphosis of an otherwise rational man, in order to let him reincarnate into a being with a realistic orientation so that he can soar over the trammelling confines of his delusions... So not all blows are meant to obliterate, some really do liberate. And what better hand to deliver the blow than that of a kind, merciful person? The fly, with his gibberish, make-believe buzz should not encroach upon the righteous order of reality. And there rises the wall and checks the fly until the swat comes with efficient finality.


Now, this mashed up fly-man has to break loose from that crushed, sticky paste of his delusions and leave it on the wall. Not easy enough a labour for all! But realism is only for the strong with which to soar.

So how can a man end up being a fly?

Delusion besodden though a man might be, he is nevertheless faintly aware of that feeble call of reality. No one can shut their ears fast to that child. And this call of reality betrays all false hues of our delusional sandcastles. The bigger our delusions, the smaller our self esteem when we realise that we have veered far into that world of delusions. The more beautiful the delusion, the uglier the fly. And the wall... Every starry-eyed fool needs that wall. Somebody has to stop that fly.
Dr Peter Lim Oct 2018
But youth argues
too loudly it has all the answers
and is adamant it shall save the world
from its ugliness, corruption and decay
nothing shall stand in its way--
further still it proclaims:
we will be around forever
as we will die never
our spirit breathes out fire
and shall send a message
through the universe:
we are the world's saviour
none should question this or doubt--

youth--but the interregnum
the innocence that borders the naive
still in the breeding ground
of life's kindergarten
wisdom it has hardly found-

how harsh are the winds
of experience---how
they sweep away
the dreams and hopes
that were one's youth's treasure-house--

despair cripples
love withers
the heart suffers
strange and hostile
is the universe--

what has gone wrong?
is it the aftermath
of life's betrayal
or the callousness of people?

tears never shed before
how they now fall
is this but a litany of mistakes?
eerie silence broods in every corner
the youthful heart laments
and in agony aches.
* I couldn't find the first draft after completing it, became desperate, so wrote this version which is slightly different. Rather keeping it, I thought it would be better if I also post this, leaving the reader to compare both
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
I’ve been moving to the same song for so long,
I’ve forgotten how to make my own melody.
Singing only cover songs that I’ve heard along the way,
trying to find my own voice again.

I found myself moving to a different sound;
one of joy, of newness and sweetness of life.
Music that has been fighting to be released, exploding now into song.
For a time I was singing in perfect harmony with the voice of angels.

Your music was your own, doomed to repetition,
stuck behind an immobile wall of fear.
Caught up in youth and crisis.
You left heaven behind, free falling into another.

Looking for harmony in others, our duet became my solo,
making our song incomplete,
sounding more like a dirge than dance.
Once, one of beauty, I now weep at the sound.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
ryn Sep 2014
I feel so lost and I have misplaced a part of me
Looking for answers in the rubble of emotional debris

How do you rebuild hard earned confidence
Smashed and swept, leaving no remnants

How do you stand on battered knees
And put on an expression that shows no crease

How do you recover something you barely just found
Something that exists neither above or below ground

Try not to limp because the world doesn't really want to know
If you braved through where thistles and thorns grow

They don't really care; In fact they might grow tired
Of the same dirge I insist on having repeated

I'm feeling the repercussions and myself I do blame
For expecting of you nothing less of the same

Only thing I can do is what I do best
Is to revel in overwhelming grief and fallen crest

Be annoyingly frail and exceedingly feeble
Soon may regret because some may deem it intolerable

Get up and chin up or I'll have more to lose
Still retaining the gift of breath I so choose

Pleading into thin air to quell the pain
As I try to piece myself all over again
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The song that plays inside my mind can only run its course in time;
a tune that’s old and chords are worn and cold
But the melody and all its notes have all reflected you the most
and made this song of blues and words retold.

The harmony this song has played has made a hell of better days
reflecting all the lies that were untold.
Now living with this melody has changed the world and all I see
and made a dirge of all for me to hold.

The stranger you became to me has changed the friend I thought you’d be
and blackened melodies are all I find
You make me wish for days gone past to heal this pain inside at last
and free me from this darkness in my mind.

So tired of those melodies and what they hold in store for me.
I tear them from my heart and try to find
A promise for new memories to fill my life with songs that free
My heart to want to dance and sing again.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
You deluge my eyes
                                           In aqueous bombs
                                   Because you love me
                                       In ways that defy existentiality,
                               That hallow my spirit,
                                 That quake terraqueous Gaia,
                                   Exhale me as a Cosmos
         ―Of the Cosmo-Plexus of the Wildest Love.

Consecrate me O Niveous Dove,
           With thine pearlescent eyes
      For love
   (Ineffably tender)
                                Is your Gender.

                             Pain is my golden raiment,
                                          Dirge and piety
                                   For you
                                             Stir in my soul
                                                    By the thew of your
                                     Beauteous, Tempestuous Affections.

Create in me
An intemerate heart;
For then I will know
That the Silver Wings of Dreams
Are impregnable.

―To a besmirched wish.
Enjoy. Any constructive feedback is most appreciated. :)
RAJ NANDY Sep 2017
Streets of the city has recently bathed, with a sudden hour
long mid-Summer's rain.
Romeo trudged down the empty street, towards his lonely
pad located on a terrace.
He had nothing to call his very own, excepting his dear old
The crowd in the hotel applauded as he played, since he played
with empathy like every other day.
He had met his Juliet briefly once, those were the moments of
a happy trance!
The saxophone has countless musical notes embedded inside, -
For our Romeo to play them out night after night.
Yet so many Romeos like him shall slowly fade away;
And the saxophone shall play their dirge at the end of
the day!  
                                                         -By Raj Nandy, New Delhi
Valsa George Aug 2018
Dark clouds loomed over the horizon
They broke loose in unprecedented force
Nature’s wrath, sudden violence acquired
It rained down as if unleashing all her fury
It was a downpour without one equal

The heavens let down dark misery for days on end,
Water bodies swelled and hollows filled,
Land mass slipped and trees fell,
Rivers were in spate and dams were full
Waves surfed and waters roared,

Like mountains they rose over the land,
Men in throngs were evicted from their homes,
Hundreds died and livestock perished
Such violence, never ever imagined
Helter-skelter, people fled for life.

Lands inundated and folks marooned,
Homes washed away with all belongings
Power failed and life has come to a halt
Rescue operations go on in full swing
Still many, stranded and crying for help

“Water, water everywhere, nor even a drop to drink”
As Nature thus plays her perfidious trick,
We shall stay united and pool all our might,
To regain for our land what we have lost
When the Deluge chants the dirge of dying souls!
Kerala, the state where I live is hit by a severe flood of horrendous magnitude! We are all in great shock over what has happened in recent days. Though the rain has abated and water level is receding, thousands of people are still in relief camps. Many still stay stranded without being able to be air lifted or rescued by boats. It will take months for life to come back to normalcy. The trail of destruction caused is alarming. Rescue operations from all side, are so commendable. Forgetting all differences, men rally forth for helping the needy. Fortunately we are safe. But for four days, we didn’t have power supply. Hope we will be able to tide over this disaster soon!
Bryce Nov 2018
To count upon my woe
and prostrate myself at your command
Lips ruminate the words
The powdered skin of slushy snow

And is he only man
With passions gone of last I heard
To all the moments never known
The last of which would fell the ******

Though mortal sighs were solemn dirge
Anticipate the breaths you blow
Inside the shaking grip of hands
Clasps the sudden, hidden urge

To count upon my thoughtless woe,
The last of which would raze the land.
We met when you were small
a tiny white puffball
I placed a band blue
round your neck to
show you were my kitty

I knew so exactly
what you should be
good, kind, lovely, sweet
smart, fun, strong, complete
the package with loyal

and you were, so royal
without blemish or soil
upon your pure white fur
heart free of smudge or blur
your name was Snowbell

you grew to know it well
from birth to when you fell
crimson mottled splotch mess
stained your angelic dress
a broken vessel as am I

speaking of how you did die
your life story in my eye
tale of cuddles, head rubbed
rolling joyful in the mud
you spirit confined

by man’s wall defined
freedom’s what you pined
for ever gazing at door
shut stuck wanting outside

Petite Cherie, where now you reside
may sweet freedom fully abide
may you live without doors
fields of grass be your floors
enjoy them, please, it is your right

for this world which held tight
to be lost in pursuit
finally allowed to be you
I let go the band blue
but never my love for you

Petite Cherie, run, be free—
please wait patiently
for the time when we
both have naught but grass floor
no remnants of that shut door.
In memoriam of Snowbell (2005-2019)
She was the best feline companion this fellow has ever been blessed to have.
RequiesCAT In Pace, Petite Cherie
Truth is, I have only caught tiny glimpses of her.
Only pieces.

Perfume on the wind.

Silence always reaching.

"Set adrift by that woman's ..." is now a dead horse that in no way could still be called a horse much less beat;
the flies play their ancient dirge in reverence and I see Her by an old Ash.

I wave.

We're screaming.


Perfume on the wind.

Next time.
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