"marshy" poems
Be perfect they say
Be clean
But who says clean is perfect?
Does the lotus not rise
From the depths of the marshy lands?
Perfection in the harsh, ***** world.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
We had well-heeled days
With sprawling village,
Glowing crop field, homestead,
and flock of cattle !
We worked day and night
Made our life accomplish with fruits of toil!
Those were the days of amiable knot with everyone,
Spring was echoed with the sound of ‘Dhol’ and ‘Bihu’!
Summer was fragrance with wet soil and mud of crop field!
Autumn was resonance with ‘Aoi-ni-tom’!
Winter was mirrored with golden Paddy!
Now, we are like a vagrant!
We work in other’s field
We are living on our landowner’s marshy!
“Have you seen that boat on the river?
Our village was there!
Mighty Brahmaputra had carried away
Our home and glee!”
Now, we depend on our land owner’s marshy!
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
My mind is foggy
Though I'm not groggy
A mist emerges
My peace it purges
I see contradictions
And feel convictions
That inflict conflict
And indict convicts
So I accumulate cumulus clouds accordingly
To fog my marshy mind more horribly
My brain becomes a banshee
And screams from my mist
She shrieks an awful list
Of everything wrong
And everyone gone
Her voice blasts through my cerebral stratus clouds
And her voice echoes within the silent static crowd
The clouds I gathered to block her wailing
Are completely empty and always failing
They look so absolutely grand and solid in the sky
They're just water vapor that form droplets in my eyes
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
going to the horror films
at ten years old
i wanted to be bitten by the vampire ladies
you know the ones
red brides from the netherworlds
with heaving *******
divinities of evil
with that dah look
in silky white gowns
a little messy from sleeping in the dirt
culture vulture goth girls
with upside down crosses
slags all gauzy bats in the belfry
deranged
but after all they where
dead
and dreadfully appealing
and I'm pretty fussy
so what the hell
they walked like floats
in marshy air
never touching the ground
above frozen dark crypt terrains
with twinkly bare feet
and black high glossed toenails
staring out of blood spilled eyes
drooling cloudy mouth hollows
and a yearning hungry countenance
encouraging me
to get closer
to bite me all over
pierce me
with needly fangs
puncturing little holes in tender me
making me leak like bad plumbing
until i sloped into the bog below
of course, i was panicked
all trembly
but i had a big one
for these evil shadowy ******* too
so i thought
yes
no
yes
no
yes
no
are you gonna **** me?
i asked
they drooled
ooow okay, i thought is it gonna hurt?
they shook there heads yes!
and drooled
real bad?
i inquired further
ah ha
they lingered glaring
drooling
i guess, waiting for me to make up my mind
oh okay anything for you
you dark dreamy girls
dilapidated queens of hell
with ballet derrières
"down and down I go
round and round I go
in a spin, lovin' the spin I'm in
under the old black magic called love"
after all at ten years old,
i already knew i was
a horror *****
and just a little turned on
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
I remember July
Hot morning watering foxgloves
Waking up to dreams,
Falling asleep to dreams.
I remember July.
Envied or loved, by all who laid eyes.
I'll always remember July.
But now misty marshy October
Has taken over,
Watering the foxgloves for me.
But their colors no longer gleam,
In the rain.
In the rain,
I'll always remember July.
Where everyday was a dream,
For a short sweet while
July, July, July.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
Golden sand tickling your toes
Pebbles gleaming, glistening, slushing
When the tide comes back to shore.
Sand dunes hiding wildlife,
Multitudes of migratory birds,
Safely returning every year to
This beautiful, marshy paradise.
Skies so orange, pink and red,
An artists palette of natural art
Greet you at sunrise and sunset.
***** kippers, cod and plaice
Shrimps, cockles and whelks,
Mushy, minty peas and chips,
The show at the end of the pier.
The lifeboats and their hardy crew
Risking their lives to save others,
When visitors run into trouble
At the mercy of the cold North Sea.
Crumbling coastlines, cliff walks
And nature reserves full of the
Scent of wild garlic and herbs,
Norfolk lavender. Steam engines,
Fishing boats, river boats,
Paddling boats and cycles
Take you on journeys
Around the Broads or
Past the famous Castles.
Tigers and leopards peer
Through the bars of their
Zoo homes by the sea.
Easterly winds that bite your
Fingers as they whistle and
Howl through the City.
Guest houses closed for
The winter as you stroll
The lonely promenades
Breathing in the air.
Queen Bodicea, Normans,
Vikings and Romans all
Marched through this
Historical landscape
And yet we remain
Stalwart and strong
Proud of our heritage,
Our roots, our birthplace
There's only one place
Better than Norfolk,
And that's the
Beautiful Ozarks.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
voices, mirror glance inward-outward
-inward-outward-inanoutandinward
in simultaneous disease-like passion--
divine like bacteria kneading and bleep
-ing up to one to one against to one toward
a unity, a collective evolutionary force begin
-ning in a marshy wallow-- forward to a creature
slithers rocks unsure if fish or finger-- beyond unto
a sharp-claw carnivorous terror (the Divine Right of
Kings) and slowly, in the wake of the destruction the
shattered continental plate lifted like a carpet during
renovation violence, the bacteria stayed away and
under soiled-earth to slowly form toward the muddy
saliva of a strangely-fit mouse-rat....
through the dissipating wake of molten mist, a
sabertooth tiger yawns with a growled-tremor
and an after-bath shake-- ends a trampled scrap
under mammoth foot having indicted this panic
in its desperate mammalian hunger-- this bacteria,
kneading and bleeping, continues its one to one
against to one as a meaty slab metabolized by
opportunistic caveman feeding his cubs and his
loves before courage became the theoretical pond
-ering of Voltaire's and Descartes's and Camus's...
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Today you wear a black sweater.
Standing in the marshy December atmosphere
With a cigarette between your two most learned fingers
You do not take shame in such a habit
But you make it so appealing.
That day you wore a beige knitted number
I saw you at dinner, and recognized you right away
Your distinctive ****** features peeking out
Over the loosely woven yarn that hugs your torso
That face I still cannot quite figure out.
I watched that beige collared cloth
Hang down your back and angle at your neck
As you danced behind that girl I didn’t know
And then I watched that same sweater
Stumble on over to me, ecstatic to be there
I had no reason not to indulge you.
And when you wear your school’s sweater
I know you need to belong, and play a part
You’re a rugby star, a lettered fraternal success
But I also know that grey cotton crew neck
Clings closer to you, than I ever will.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
In the marshy North Country there lived a lovely maiden fair,
Red was the colour of her hair,
Her eyes, they did like merry diamonds sparkle and shine,
She was innocent, pleasant and kind.
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
One day the Black Knight came riding up to her father’s gate,
He rode upon a white mare looking great,
He saw Catherine blush and her heart did fearfully flutter,
To him she was cream, honey and butter.
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
Said the Knight, “I have come to court your daughter of the auburn hair,
I have silver, I have gold, I have fabrics rare,
I have lands and servants and riches beyond compare,
I will buy lots of delightful dresses for her to wear.”
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
Said the girl, “Sir, thou art most kind but I care not for your divine riches,
Nor do I hunger for your clothes golden stitched,
For I have pledged my hand and heart to a Poet whose ink is red,
To him only will I happily wed.”
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
Catherine’s scheming father did sharply speak,
His nose curled like an eagle’s beak,
“On Sunday you will to church go and wear the Knight’s ring of gold,
Young lady, you’ll do as you’re told!”
*Catherine was her name,
Her father wanted for her riches and fame.*
In a misty village of the North Country there is a weeping river vast and deep,
They found Catherine and her Poet drowned in love’s sleep,
The church bells peal and weep out across the valley in the evening twilight,
Merry music floats and stains the tragic sight.
*Catherine was her name,
Her father now cries and hangs his head in shame.*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
The rain it pooled deep within the leaf, the hollow
and drank there - insect, vole and swallow
along a mud and marshy path, my feet for to follow
and tread upon the lichen moss, I sank softly greening
watching all the day, the trickling of the woodland trees
the light that breathed there glistening.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
The river, her vigor sublimated, is a thoughtful flow
after the daring dive head on from the pinnacle of the cliff,
madly arrogant roaring rush through the dense woods
in spate during torrential monsoons muddy red,
satiated now, at ease, meditative, inner currents subdued.
These planes are different, the river an uncanny imitation of a pond,
the white swan, she keeps still, unfazed by the pulls to four sides
falling in love with the enigmatic pink lotus, my witness
that blooms alone, in the marshy shallows, only for her to fall in love.
Amazing is the swan's prowess,she makes the mighty river
accept her ease, wise tranquil pace and brings to a slow down
little by little, listening to the inner music,which is oh! haunting
the river now comes to trance yogi like, in sync with the
foaming green waves of trees along both the banks,
the whisper of wind to coconut leaves,if you listen
is the mystic mantra, "Ï am that..I am that..I am that"
wisdom isn't alien, don't look for it atop only the mountains
it's in the wind's hands,on the lap of land and in water's prompt,
what space evokes when one merges seamlessly in nature's divine ,
the song one hears silent within, echoes aloud in nature's chant.
My heart is ruled only by her, the white swan.I realize.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
You're dangerously honest
Silently filled with screams
Your body lies in the waking world,
Yet your mind still wanders in dream
Walking alongside mannequin masses
How much of this is real?
Staring back at what I assume to be myself
Emptiness pervading all that I feel
I drown in the sin of impassioned sweat
These stained sheets that mark my grave
These years are poison; these tears are deadly
The lies of living have made me a slave
Lost, wandering in a vicious world
Of constant contradictions and deadly afflictions
Dying by the hand of my own vices
And misguided, misinterpreted convictions
My favorite song is being sung by a dead man
Stolen are his hopes and dreams
A resurgence of his soul enlivens me
Though his revelations remain unseen
For I know why the caged animal cries
Through iron bars, he is fed lies
The truth is but a lie undiscovered
Who controls the thoughts in your head?
Discreet indiscretion and silent objection
Our minds spoon fed the brilliant flesh of the dead
I long only to feel the warmth of your love
Before I grow tired and cold
I long to be blessed with your passion
Realize such worldly wonders without being told
A shallow grave sunken in marshy swamp
No one to watch over or preside
This empty box houses my world for eternity
In the darkness of the infinite is where I will hide
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
\|\||//|\\\\||////
I see young reeds on the marshy water
......with flexible stalks...softer...smaller
forcefully swayed by the ones taller...older
...squeezed in between
...no choice given
.....but to exist within
there are those that bravely stray
...even before the stiff ones get blown away,
.....out of the reedy confines, they peek
......curiosity and freedom...they seek
i watch these young reeds rise and totter
when the wind moves the shallow water
bravely peeping...finding their light,
...claiming their space....with traces of fright
.................learning to fight
...with every fiber of their might.
...they can't go farther
................than yonder
in restrictions, they'll find some wisdom
eventually, they'll discover true freedom
one day...their blades would be more defined,
toughened, honed by rain, sun, wind and time,
in their minds, my words would have to rhyme...
but, until then...i got to be taller
......sharper.....tougher
...flexible, but dauntless
i have to sway 360 degrees,
.......when the need arises....
Sally
Copyright July 12, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 12:55 AM UTC
In the marshy lands where Alligators sun themselves and catfish swim in dark murky water. The saw grass grows and the Cattails weave in the wind. When the marsh breezes blow through them, they whistle and sing a song. They speak of long boats and lazy days that have long since gone. When all that a child needed to be happy was a cane pole and a fishing line. In a land that once untouched by the hands of time. Though storms have blown away sand bars and tourist have tried to come in, at the heart of the marsh land change is seldom seen. The Alligators and the catfish, they are still the same and if you go deep enough in, you can still find good fishing cane. So despite what the world says, there is still a place where life moves slow. Just take a trip down to where the Cattails grow.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
for you to be
the blooming pink lotus,
i’ll be the marshy terrain unseen.
for you to be
the shimmering sagittarian star,
i’ll be the december night sky.
for you to be
the orange tip butterfly,
i’ll be the feather for your landing.
but when i burn
in that funeral pyre of time,
will you even bother to shed a tear?
© 2021
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 9:11 AM UTC
A man
Protruding in the field
Standing in damp grass
A marshy meerkat
Alert sentry towards the sun
Eyes wide catching rhythms
Of the changing times
Of the passing seasons
Similar to this
A cat
rigid black and short haired
Let out of the house for the first time
Finding a spot
Between roots and mulch
Curled eternally
Once playful
At permanent rest
Connected to the changing seasons
Signaling grave times
Both lost to progress
And disconnected from nature
Each making their return
to the flow of things
Despite unfortunate timings
And with all the wrong places to be born
The mother takes them both as they are
Grateful for her children returning
Pleased she kept the place inviting
And the hearth burning
“Come, take my hand
Put you feet in the soil,
say goodbye, and let it all go.
The earth will catch your tears
Bring them back to sky and
they will grow new innocents.
You will know peace
and be forgiven”
Aug 12, 2023
Aug 12, 2023 at 11:54 AM UTC
That which would not follow you into the night
Will not be there in the morning
That which will not be there in the morning
Will be hard to find in the afternoon
And when you’re searching before the sun goes down
You’ll stumble on a log
You’ll trip and fall into a marshy wetland
And you’ll be wet
You’ll be consumed by nature
Taken into her heart
Ripped into shreds
You’ll miss her, but she won’t even think of you
You’re a part of her in the same way that her breath is
Each time she expels you
You return to her
So why should she worry?
You’re in her hands now
And she can squeeze you if she wants to
When you hold your breath
Where does it lead?
Where are your feet taking you?
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
It is ok to be
not
what you are
still
becoming. She said
"you're not special." Grinding teeth and sodden rails. My car is exhausted--
downwind, held in the air like branches of birches and pines
humming with each blatant engine-stroke
which fall onto that bleakening
icedock and curl-- culled passengers tossed to sea;
unavoidably
sharp veer left, beyond surreptitious and frantic spectators
and through a once-pearl snowdrift straying into my mind.
M
C
M
L
V
Turtlenecks can't keep us warm and soup can't clear my throat.
I choke on
sliced rubber, seatbelts cut halfway-- from
Spring. pluck us like cattails
amongst my marshy solubles.
Exposes my larynx she-- ubiquitous sonnet spews forth.
What contrite aberration, wears Kalapodi temple dress
made of rose petals blown in beneath love's column
and presses with her thighs my vision?
There is nothing more to say-- meals served
raw on Winter holidays. Steaming
spoonfuls dried up on her palate--
Special in the way I left you there.
Special in being the same as I should have been.
And I, no-- I!
I can not talk any longer! The clouds I thought to taste
won't allow me to
rain
be-- once dangling from the ceiling, my dripping prevented
with a pale, cotton daub.
You see
the paramedics
even as they sheath my torso
and hold your head with thorped sieves:
The driver steered his vessel wrong
an action which robbed his passenger's breath.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
I loved
The country Barber.
He used to roll
Fingers
All over my boyhead
After every haircut.
Five Minutes
Felt,
I am not alone in this world
Atleast,
For those minutes
I desired
About
Sleeping -
Stuck on his
Brimstonesmelling armpits,
Salty chesthairs
And
Sticky neck.
It was only because of
Pure Jealousy
I pushed his son
Into the deep
Marshy Death
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
*The owl winged night is hanging low
in marshy fragrance moon's powdery glow
winds whisper day's sun tanned pain
what happened once can happen again!
The moon lights up the hidden hulls
some in view some within walls
there's no class in her beaming reach
by magic wand sleep the poor and rich!
On their thorny beds the aching souls
in feathery dew by glowing coals
their eyes moving in silvery gleam
fly on wings catch a passing dream!
It's time for the cloud to play mischief
darken the night usher in relief
to veil the moon when her job is done
so she no more hinders sleep's healing run!*
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
A white egret, slowly treads on marshy land...picking food
unafraid, beside a big carabao that munches grass...
...the tall reeds grow on their own, along riverbanks
........or on wide, unattended, sodden areas
no barbed wires control them from leaning, or sagging
they sway........where the wind goes.
Butterflies, dragonflies, birds
and bees in bright colors, hop on open blossoms
feasting on ripe seeds, nectar, and pollen grains.
and i, am wandering, flying, with these creatures,
perching on top of stalks.....even on carabaos' backs...
i am out there, in the open...swaying with the reeds
while dreams and inspirations spill over.
my mind roams free...no reins, no bounds,
above, and below....or, even sideways,
i inch, and feel my way
through the breathing,
...and the non-breathing...
i am a poet...i write what i feel...what comes to my mind
i follow rules set before me...though, i have
my own existing rules inside me...born with me
an innate knowledge of my limitations
as a person, as a parent, as a writer;
what should...and what shouldn't be,
what to reveal...and what to conceal,
how it is to be compassionate...and
how it is to be indifferent.
i am a poet, still hearing my late mother's voice,
emphasizing..."amor propio" and "delicadeza."
an invisible *** of fresh yellow daffodils,
lives on in my mind...a discretion ingrained in me
a kind of freedom, i opened my eyes to....
Sally
Copyright September 20, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
Marshy night, feux follets
glow, foo fighters on reeds.
Birds flocking from the fens,
nerve-wracked, prized
possessions left behind,
their collective nevermind,
divining rods to show them away.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Come and go
Seasons barely touching as autumn transitions to winter
The passers by see devastation unbeknown to theirselves
A storm of leaves in auburn hues constantly plummeting towards the ground in every which way possible
All a gorgeous streaky blur as they advance through the graveyard of the world
Leaving every grave untouched as they float past
It's all noticed by the passerby
Perceived through crystal clear glass
Every single stark detail untouched and untampered
Seen as it is
On they watch
They won't admit but relief, gratefulness flood their beings
As they glide by
Feet above the marshy ground, soggy and trodden
They are not yet ravaged by life's cruel twists
Free from the plooms of smoke and swirls of mist
Judgment unclouded by the murky emotions of the graveyard
On and on they advance
Torturous sights behold their eyes
Past souls tormented by the weight of fate
Lives consumed by its deviating path
A gloomy and crooked path indeed
For the passerby: some knowledge
Make the most of your lucid journey
And when it shall end do not lose yourself among graves
For those tortured souls: continue as passers by
Do not bury yourself with your grief for it shall drag you to the depths
And it does not let go
Such is the fate of this life
But ultimately it falls upon you
KG
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
When bog water steals her wings’ day-smell
Comes the night heron to roost on the marshy night.
I have often caught her lost in the dim orb of moon
Got a whiff in the wind of her fishy smell
That says the night is not yet old
Her feathery dreams still unripe,
But like a philosopher in thought shy
The winged wonder would at my slightest hint fly
Leaving on my homebound way a trail
Till the moon reclines the night turns pale.
I wonder what thinks the night heron
In the stillness of the boggy night,
Is it her day’s catch and contentment
Or some way to carve a place in the starry firmament!
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC