"inconsolably" poems
When letters wait
to pounce on a blank page
when thoughts crowd the mind
like frothing **** in a pond
I keep wondering
what poetry is to me
what poetry is to many
Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy
and flying on magic carpets
to lands forlorn
Sometimes it is
a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from
the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation
from assaults of pain
a sedative
to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary
for a burdened heart
a window
to look at the world through
a companion
when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame
in a darkening world
a cloth line
to hang the ***** laundry
a water lily blooming
in the pool of tears
a shelter
in homelessness
sometimes it is a ladder
to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings
with tidings of hope
peace in a world
braced for war
Poetry, if you are all these
let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art
may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!
our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies
on a starless night!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
"I'm sorry." That singular phrase. I hate it, it makes me feel weak.
No one ever means it. They should give up and just not speak.
It's a habit of mine to say sorry for something I'm not sorry for.
I'm not sorry, not one bit. I hate that it is part of me, it's an eyesore.
Please stop my pity parties. I can't contain them, please help me.
I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry I'm the one making an apology.
I can't stop saying sorry. It's an essential part of my internal code.
It seems that I'm sorry is the only phrase my brain wants to upload.
I'm incredibly sorry and I don't really know why?
Maybe I'm apologizing for something useless that I identify?
I have many questions for my sorry brain, why am I sorry? What for?
I see this as a negative quality that no one will ever adore.
I keep saying sorry, I don't know how to stop it, please help me
I can't stop, help me get rid of this depressing and pitiful apology
I hate myself for feeling this weak, I'm definitely not strong
I hate that my feeling of strength always feels wrong.
I can't stand this feeling of being unwanted wherever I go
My tears say I'm sorry and they fall like glistening snow
I'm sorry that each time I say it, I start crying uncontrollably
I'm sorry that you can't really help me, it will go on inconsolably.
I will always be sorry, there's no changing that fact
I always apologize to people only when I'm feeling attacked
You can't help me in any way possible, I'm forever broken
No one can hear me scream because I will always be outspoken.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 9:11 AM UTC
There is no greater disappointment
Than looking up high
And finding no Moon
Lighting up the night sky.
I looked into your eyes many times before
Finding love, comfort, hate, passion,
But not this desolate goodbye,
Until there was no moon in the sky.
This emptiness spread into my heart,
Now hollow and inconsolably dark.
The only white pearl that can make it restart
Didn’t think twice to turn off or depart.
Yet hope is still here,
Shining as lonely stars;
For the moon to reappear
And heal all deep blue scars.
By Elle Bogue
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Will it ever stop to hurt?
Will I ever forget you dressing up in that cream shirt?
There are moments when am happy, and then I cry inconsolably,
I've gone crazy, totally.
I will always pray for your happiness and success,
and my feelings I shall try to suppress and no longer express.
Your smile fills my heart with emotions, as if it were causing a flood,
My heart keeps aching for you, as if a part of you has been dissolved in my blood.
Day by Day, my spirit moves away from this body of clay.
I'm afraid as a character, I don't have long to stay in my own play.
This love is unrequited, I'm delighted I have memories to fill up my heart's treasury.
Still for some reason there's this curiosity, will ever he?
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
He came as an orphan
June 26th, 1865
Having seen
the death of his mother
Chased and speared by a hunter
First African elephant
in Europe
At the London Zoo
All alone
in all of Europe
How he broke and wore his tusks
In the iron of his enclosure
In night pain from toothaches
From many rotten teeth
Caused by his only grass hay diet
Given whiskey and beer to calm
Shared with his keeper
Matthew Scott, a difficult man
With no close friends
But with a deep empathy for animals
Who drank whiskey
with Jumbo
Into the late, lonely night
Jumbo liked whiskey, beer
and lots of sticky buns
A problematic elephant
With a Jekyll and Hyde character
Sold for 2,000 pounds
To PT Barnum
as a star attraction
Jumbo tearing his chains away
Then sitting like a mule
Until he knew his keeper
Would also ride the boat
Across the big pond
Barnum’s Scott
Made a deal
Queen Victoria wasn’t happy
Her children had sat
And rode upon his back
Jumbomania in America
Accompanied his arrival
20 million saw him alive
Brooklyn bridge opened in 1882
A year before Jumbo arrived
Then 17 May, 1884
Twenty elephants
marched across
All the way to Brooklyn
led by Jumbo
The bridge vibrated and rebounded
In St Thomas, Ontario, Canada
was his suffering demise
The day the circus train came to town
Tom Thumb and Jumbo
Were waiting to get loaded
Perhaps bumped in the ****
By the speeding freight locomotive
Internal bleeding
and a slow death
Tom Thumb only a broken leg
Jumbo in a slow death
Scott in a slow death afterwards
Having witnessed
the last breath
Of his best friend
Photographed (a recent novelty)
just after his death in B&W
Poor dead Jumbo
Scott at his head
Weeping inconsolably
Although PT Barnum
In pure PT Barnum invention
Says Jumbo ran headfirst
Into the freight locomotive
To save his keeper and Tom Thumb
Jumbo died
at twenty-four
still young
and growing
in size and girth
His stuffed mounted skin
burned at Tufts University
except the unbroken bones
plus the end of his tail
“And this is what remains of Jumbo”
Yesterday, I saw wild elephants on the banks of the Zambezi river
near Victoria Falls
Tomorrow I’m hoping to touch Jumbo’s bones in New York City
And walk the Brooklyn Bridge
© 2017 Jim Davis
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
In the bitter spring we do not sleep.
The Ides of March unforgiving, reap
silences, times that keep
souls that inconsolably weep,
baby birds refuse the seed,
winter comes, four months deep.
Roots have shriveled buried deep,
corpses rot although they sleep,
they are the dirt for new seed,
this is the fruit the farmer daren't reap.
Childhoods where we could not weep,
fade to promises we could not keep.
Why do ravens turn from the towers, that keep
the king buried six feet deep.
The villagers do not weep,
they too have fallen to sleep
The Devil’s hand was there to reap
death’s long forgotten seed.
God has planted one mustard seed
the only thing there was to keep,
because there is no reward to reap.
The mortician dug in his pockets deep,
all his clients are fast a sleep,
he sits in his chair and refuses to weep.
His wife sits in a rocking chair to weep.
She is lacking of seed,
knowing that she will be next to sleep.
A single child she could not keep,
The needles puncture, puncture deep,
for it was his child that she could not reap.
Winter winds have come to reap
the tears that some have refused to weep
in a crystalline jar buried deep
like some vengeful seed,
the secret that the grounds keep,
in the place where creatures refuse to sleep.
In the lack of sleep, it is then we reap
a safer place we then keep, we weep
the seed lies within our hearts, no longer buried deep.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
Lady’s Favor
by Michael R. Burch
May
spring
fling
her riotous petals
devil-
may-care
into the air,
ignoring the lethal
nettles
and may
May
cry gleeful-
ly Hooray!
as the abundance
settles,
till a sudden June
swoon
leave us out of tune,
torn,
when the last rose is left
inconsolably bereft,
rudely shorn
of every device but its thorn.
Keywords/Tags: lady, lady's favor, spring, petals, nettles, may, june, swoon, rose, shorn, thorn, bare, barren, leafless, bereft, naked, ****
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:01 AM UTC
I don't know what it's like to want to die
but I know what it's like to watch
I know what it's like glance at the hours
waiting,
it's like looking at a clock
that goes backwards and the cuckoo
that would normally come out to play
pokes it head out and announces
"There is no time today"
I don't know what it's like to wither
I know what it's like to cease in time
staring at the wall is fascinating for you
but all the same, I'm watching that wall
and waiting for you to be sane
I don't know how it feels for you
but how about how it feels for me?
I don't live inside your brain
but you don't exist in there,
independently
I don't know how it feels for you
I know how it feels to me
we both don't want to open the garage door
you see rafters that could make you fit
I see gone my forever more
I won't pretend I know how you feel
when you cry so inconsolably
If you don't ever try to forget
I was there, to dry your tears
the tissue shredded
by more than your fears
I don't know how it feels
but I do know what I see
I ask you to see me
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
Listen to my silent cries.....
Look at my poor swollen eyes...
shedding floods of tears...
My soul is torn in shreds...
Ruin and wretched....
Being so depressed...
how can I tell you
that your one harsh word
often send me in
the depths of despair.....
your crudeness....
your harshness...
shatters me
Your lie tatters me
Ah! In your love,
what i lose and what i gain.....
Sobbing inconsolably,
I'm moaning in unbearable pain......
I've to endure this strain
So don't numb my pain...
Oh you! please don't numb it...
My pain is the only thing
that tells me ....
I'm ALIVE .....
Yep, it tells me...
I'm not dead yet.
I must let it go
I must move on and
strive....
because I'm ALIVE
Yeah, I'M STILL ALIVE...!
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
*** If I had the power to magically hug people through the internet...
Patience.
It's coming.
And when it does,
No one will never sleep alone,
Weep inconsolably for lack of shoulder and hand
For I travel with a lean-on-tent
Travel with shelter for you,
Will you have it, have me, by command?
I used to write flowery poems, with fancy words
About flowers and such stuff,
But I gave it up,
No more, I will be now no longer
Poet electron florid,
But the real, not ethereal, delivery man.
Giving you loving kisses, tenderness, and
Mayflowers in December,
And kindness every day of my life and
Even after,
Cause heavens come on line
And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.
Ok, maybe not Ogden quality,
This oeuvre, but I can do it over,
Can he?
Does, will he, read customized poems
With shiny bumpers, trim and spoked wheels,
Purposed only to please
You specifically,
In your soon-to-be-smiling flesh!
Like I will,
Soon enough.
You'll see.
Oh yeah. To summon me,
Just clap your hands three times,
Say out loud poet-in-the-hat,
And press Send.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
The rumblings of traffic resonate muffled behind me I sit in my century old chair accompanied by my century old mind. A ding of the magic bell follows the crack and jolt of the muffled horn – muffled by the palpable self-ignited tension that a choice is near or already washed-out. The toot of the train tempered by the windows and drapes yanks me out of the cloud I sit upon watching myself perplex about a choice an unfamiliar choice. Which is it, the flower for me, or the flower that waits? Which cactus do I drink the water from – both will ***** me, but ripped from their home the cacti will cry inconsolably. Vague metaphors faced by a conundrum that isn’t humdrum my veins filled with uncertainty until I look to the cacti again
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
inscriptions of loss
dwell in a mother's heart
inconsolably her tears fall
within her womb a child
grew
twas born
and twas loved and nurtured
unto adulthood
an untimely
occurrence
dimmed the child's existence
ever the mother
shall silently weep
she'll express her lasting pain
of losing a loved child
her days filled
with an unceasing rain
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
The moon haunted the room through its raw voyeuristic glow.
As she wrapped her bare legs around his frail torso she spoke at a tone that tickled his neck. The only thing he could keep in his failing body that day was a humble cup of yogurt. Minutes bled into hours that she rubbed his cold shoulders. They laid naked together with tubes in his veins.
The air in the room held the familiar scent of a summer night. This night was a good one. No blankets damp with tears, or shallow breaths that punctuate eloquent apologies. Only the two meandering through distant memories. He closed his aching eyes and rested his head in her lap.
Vertigo took hold of her as she looked down upon him. He was an asphalt flower trying to break free. He spent his days using a meager palette of activity. Staring at the hospital ceiling he inconsolably searched for a crack. For hours he laid still, violently thinking.
Then, beyond the shadow of doubt came the orchestration of happiness. Dopamine hit a crescendo at the cue of eureka.
He outwitted death.
He realised he could succeed eternal rest by living forever in her.
The simple loophole of death:
love.
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
You were trembling, Job of the prairies---
a supernova born with angel hair optics
gnarled in the sweat of an oil soaked sun;
****** to the soil by nectarless thirst.
Even your stains were bright with haloes;
Dappled like the moon with jewelish fire---
Even your scabs were disjointed lights---
in center of your temple, white like tile.
A quaff of dissention and love laden
As you stood fragile as fruitless skin---
Bent to my presence, a crooked crystal;
All swallowed and refracted, like liquor.
Your cat-eyes were so bitterbright, shadowy
Inconsolably shining enormous fires, dark.
Your blackened opal void melting to nectar
for incestuous parasite lapping it in twain.
I loved you, and your autophagical bones;
A dimming resplendence on a crooked bridge
where they sipped the springtime's deathour---
where I kissed your soul in spring's deathour.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
My broken lightbulb,
I have conserved your light
Unto my pages
Stop raining shards
You are weeping now
Inconsolably
Your crumbling body
Wasting further away
Unnecessarily
Beyond return
But you will find no solace
In my eyes
In my skin
Where you cut and you burn
For you’ve been but a shining
On my ceiling
That I’ve let too long replace the sun
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 4:15 AM UTC
While meditating earlier today,
a flashback leapt
clear for me to assay,
those ever receding
early boyhood daze,
now subsumed within fifty,
plus nine shades of gray
blissfully innocent naivety,
(though blessed) no way
would, aye desire to turn back
the hands of father time (hypothetically),
where unstructured play
regularly with older sister
(thirteen plus months
my senior) predominantly
slicing, sliding, and slipping
stockinged feet skittering
across slippery basement floor,
this then soul full
skinny thing bellowed hooray.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt;
Can you go out?"
Those words uttered
by the very first
pull-string talking doll
Mattel did tout
circa nineteen sixty
revolutionizing the birth
of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys,
and made of common
materials found scout
ting around the house simply comprising
hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo
plaster of Paris) head he did flout
with remaining body
stuffed with padding,
a definite no
no (chew toy) when Fido about.
Actually that pooch,
would be Georgie to you,
(a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian)
with docked tail
my young parents acquired,
when as a newborn,
aye did inconsolably wail
though recollection of such memory
fifty nine years ago tis of no avail
yet, a resumption of meditation,
sans lightness of being
(analogous trancelike state),
that doth prevail
replaying silent film preceding,
when psyche seem so frail
plummeting into emotional abyss
the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa
pleading return to nostalgic boyhood
decrying change hide didst bewail!
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
I feel absolutely,
Inconsolably
Defeated.
I wish you liked me,
I wish you didn't hate me.
I wish you'd take pictures of us
doing fun things,
and not just of the friends you
claim to hate so much
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
A baby thought
screaming inconsolably
inside your brain
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
his heart for me has halted
loving me leaves him exhausted
my heart is ever racing
he leaves me craving his embracing
this trouble is not my doing
I know loving me is confusing
but people change uncontrollably
I don't want to live inconsolably
come back to me and love my heart
work with me, I fear we will fall apart
I love you, please, love me
a heartbreak would be deadly
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
Save a piece of me.
A laugh, a smile, a subtle flicker of my eyes when the lights turn on.
You have to remember something, so make it small. Don't keep the battles,
the strife, the words I said and never meant, the words you never thought you knew.
If you save anything, let it be a moment. A second.
So brief, so inconsolably unmemorable:
A candle's flame. A flower's lonely petal.
A breeze, pushing us both in opposite directions.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
because in my dreams
you were hit by a moving car
mauled by a large animal
died a million violent deaths
And yet
I still find myself woken up
heart pounding against my ribs
inconsolably sobbing to your demise
utterly and completely terrified
Because deep down
I know
That hate
is not the lost of love
indifference is
Hate is the malevolent version of love
like how a blackhole
is nothing more but a dead star
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
This is the story of a singular.
A story of a loner; stoner, a solitary lover
An isolated dreamer that sleeps with thoughts of a **** killer
This is the story of the smile stealer; grin eater; mood killer, sadness keeper
He is the self-professed love-hater.
This is the story of the secret admirer whose iron heart is filled with empty desires.
A womanizer who appears to the blind as a pure semblance of an ideal lover.
This is the story about a game-changer; king-maker
The story of a feminine murderer who shall smolder your rapture and abandon you bitter
This is a story about a man
A man who once fatally feebly fell in the fingertips of a felicitous femme fatale
Fragile
He fell unreciprocated love to a lass whose response was a heart-ravaging silence whenever the dishes brought to the table.
"It's unsaleable. I am unavailable", with fear she opined.
"But it's unstoppable ", inconsolably he uttered. "And I'm capable to unscramble your wounded soul a path for love invariable".
"We rather not go out on the limb", she sighed. "See, intermingled feelings are not tangible And when one because the other she whines and weeps; salt shall ascend upon the other
Will you not be unable?".
Little did she know of his hematite tenderness. Unbreakable!
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
inconsolably empty
a glass half full
my life left dull
the failure to grasp, the loss of your touch
as if to my demise
I sometimes long to choke a little longer than I breathe
forget I have a throat that allows me to speak
for every word wish spoken can only come from your lips
to speak no words and listen to those unspoken
maybe I should trust the hallucinations
call it a living nightmare
remembering only our fantasy
it's like the anguish of misplacement
recovery without finding the resolution to what you cant find
and what you never meant to lose
one out of two the number of wounded,
I shall speak to the sky
and hope you hear me
as holistic as the moon
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 10:09 PM UTC