"monstrously" poems
**In the shadow of Everest people are dying
Crushed in a chaos embirthed from beneath,
Emerged as destructor of temple and Taos,
Emerged as an innocent killer... bequeathed.
History crumbles as heavens roar mightily
Ghorka is dead in an avalanche of rock,
Beggars and potentates crushed in the brickfall
Dharahara’s fall leaves men gaping in shock.
Shuddering mountains in avalanche of free fall
Wails of the stricken as quaking defiles,
Gold topped pagodas and statue of ancients,
Sculpture of lions now a rubble in piles.
Khathmandu in the clasp of calamity
Nightmarish forces arisen from deep,
Grasping the earth in their grip of profanity
Monstrously tearing the bedrock from sleep.
A techtonic ****** of Asia by India
Nepal’s Himalayas ****** to the sky,
Inconsequential, this plight of humanity
Nature proceeds as poor Nepalese die.**
M.
ANZAC Day 25 April 2015
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
Every morning when I am making tea,
I wish most fervently,
To become an electric KETTLE.
It most certainly won't matter to me,
I'll accept it most gracefully,
Be I of ceramic or METAL.
For one moment I'm dancing with glee,
The next sobbing most piteously,
These wretched hormones don't SETTLE.
Once I whistled so daintily,
Now I breathe so monstrously,
No longer a rose PETAL.
I may boil, then boil most furiously,
Then click off automatically,
Before I sting like NETTLE.
Splutter, bubble, gurgling I be,
Then cool and calm..so peacefully ,
There I ..in fine FETTLE!
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Our wilier webs
woven with the distractions of self-absorption
can come to feel
cheated if we use them
only for halfhearted games of catch
and eventual release.
He’d overlooked that part.
Then there was an obligation to prey
who so willingly strayed upon the taffy
pull of his sweet and sticky strands.
The scrunch up of their wee faces
squeaked, “We deserve
to have our glued-down expectations
met with a most gruesome expertise.”
He’d just wanted to watch them
struggle a smidge,
at first.
It was a test if this muscle the scribes
ascribe as rightly plagued by pangs
was in him
perhaps despicably defective.
With each tripper-by trapped
the examinations grew
more tortuously complex,
and when none raised even
the slightest murmur of a palpitation,
he gave the web its dripped-dry due,
at last.
“The murderous truth will out,”
they say. It did, monstrously.
Now his bound but gagless masques
are always well-attended.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 7:40 AM UTC
The mist clouded my sight
The dress I wore was white
I was lost I could tell
So, I followed the **** of the tower bell
The wind swooshed past my face
It was a mystifying maze
I was cold
All I had was the warmth of
your love
My hair was damp
You switched on the table
lamp
The branches creaked
Under my feet.
At some distance the water cascaded
The trees in front of me faded
The insects were buzzing
The paper on your nightstand were rustling
The woods whispered
The birds no longer chirped
I am still looking for peace.
Our photo frame on the mantelpiece.
You burned it down
I tripped on the frozen ground.
I knew I was losing you
I could no longer feel you.
The scratches on my elbow and knees
The frost on the leaves.
I feel like I’ve heard and seen this before
I cannot take it anymore.
These sounds are noise to my ears.
All I see are my fears.
They screamed at me monstrously
I can’t handle this cacophony.
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 2:36 PM UTC
A monstrously graceful and gracious disgrace
A malicious tyrant with a burning vengeance,
The Satanic betrayal of a people so down and out,
The atrocious ****** of a defenceless citizenry,
The barbarous Lucifer of our era.
When we thought our nation had gone to the dogs,
You religiously rescued it and plunged it further beyond,
When we thought our motherland was dead and buried,
You exhumed her, mutilated the remains and fed them to crocodiles,
********** child of the product of our soil.
Our guides are painfully turning in their graves,
Monomotapa, Nehanda and Kaguvi,
Lobengula, Mzilikazi and Joshua Nkomo,
A collection that epitomizes peace and order for their descendants,
Patriots that sacrificed their lives for their offsprings’ wellbeing.
But Grace, time is always of essence,
What goes around, certainly comes around,
Has it ever occurred to you that God is for us all,
And he is not asleep,
When he hands over the button to us, what are you gonna do?
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
Startling, simply.
***** form of white;
Pillar of morals
Tied to fables
That are taller still
Than even he.
And yet the sight
Takes wind from
The watcher.
Rapt eyes stroll
Languorously across him.
Form unconcealed
And no appendage
Draws undue focus.
Stale cupola air
Becomes spring in his repose.
His smirking dead eyes
Mock spectators.
He leaps and vaults
Through the deadened vaults,
Then furrows his brow, opens his mouth.
Mute shouts ring terribly here like slung stones.
Were he out in the elements, the earth itself might
Gape monstrously to sputter out, "Startling, certainly."
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:58 PM UTC
I would give you the oceans
if they were mine to give
but they belong to the shore
and the shore
would be certain to miss them
very much.
I would give you all of the stars
if they were mine to give
but they belong in the night's sky
and darkness would fall
without it's glittering beans
and that would never do.
I would give you the moon
if it were mine to give
but it belongs to the tide
and, to be honest
i'm not quite sure
where you would put something
so monstrously big
in your little house.
You know..
i think it might be better
if i just give you
all of my love
from now until forever
and that would fit in your heart
just perfectly.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
So,
I took these ideas
Planted them into your mind
And watched as they grew into
A monstrously beautiful thing
A discovery
That would keep you with me
For as long as I wanted you to
For as long as you were able
Until you slipped back to sleep; to reality
And while your evaporating imagination
Produced, and created, things that
Would otherwise be impossible
I looked upon you
And gave way to shame
We grew old,
You under the idea of eternal love
I under the guilt of eternal culpability
And the world we created; the world that we would come to fear
Would become the only reality we knew -
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
Crackling windows and
shattered power lines
low and grumbling.
A tree spreads its wings
and uproots itself from the soil.
Downtrodden shacks stand tired
at half staff, barely paying attention.
***** roads
dirt roads
trodden
untrodden
my humble abodes
They've hammered
a rusty nail into
the northern star
and hung an advertisement there -
It's the brightest shiner in the sky
Weeping willow weepin'
Done crying, now a sleeping fellow
frozen fingers ask for change
Never really Done crying
done trying
Never really Done
A house
split down the middle
rusty rouge and a battered blue
A solemn lady
saunters with a stop sign
Pine tree pines to the left
Pensive pencil pours
pickled thoughts to paper
Pied piper pries
sleepy eyelids
pulls sick stories
pulsating pupils
monstrously
melodious musings
making meal of my darkness
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Bare rose colored lips spitting Minnesota slush.
You thrash expertly with an accelerating fury,
Like a volcano spewing molten lava,
Cursing upwardly.
You stared up from the cold rock ground.
Monstrously,
Savagely.
Seventeen steps away from me.
You beat Satan’s rooftop with fists full of anger.
Aggressively,
Ferociously,
Now ten steps apart from me,
The beating orange ball made your fury grow.
With a rising intensity.
Now five steps from me.
Your lavish brown hair finally resting on your shoulder
Cautiously,
Patiently,
One hand away from me.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
As your chaste wings fluttered
Sheer and slick,
Astonishing was your glimmer of beauty against the inky ghosts of older humans.
My inward-obsessed mind needed no first thought,
I pursued your trail hurriedly,
Climbing over tree logs.
Animalistic to seize you,
As I had yet to touch such a uncontaminated creature of beauty.
So when I finally reached your flight,
My greedy hands fastened over your so delicate...petite body,
Twisting your divine white wings,
Disfiguring you monstrously.
I chased home quickly fearing you may fly away if let loose.
When safe inside I unlatched you in my kitchen,
To find only a
paste of ravaged white limbs.
Nostalgia punching,
I used your paste as face paint
To hide my crime from your siblings.
Then shrugged my shoulders
Started my day over
And went to find another
And another...and another.....
Young butterfly
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
In a pale light the sense is made alike,
W/in a lucid trance between time and being
The world is halted,
and the psyche is free to roam its unprecedented, formless
Labyrinth of secrets and of
questions,
Answers are sparse,
But the ambition of men
Tearing monstrously at the
delicacy of these phantom
quantities
is what keeps the answers hidden,
And lingering in a patient limbo
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
I opened the cabinet where all the plates were.
They were all the same color and shape
with the same cracks and chipped paint.
One by one I threw them all onto the ground
until they shattered into oblivion.
I gathered some of the scraps and cradled them like a baby,
glued some back together,
and I told them it was going to be okay,
that I had been crushed by the foot of a giant too.
But when I woke up,
there were no plates.
Or bowls, or cups, or forks, or spoons.
So, I dug a hole in my bed and sank into it, deeply,
landing in the grass, sprinkled with dew.
No twinkle of stars, no sunshine or snow,
no bird wings flapping or croaking frogs,
or busy highways or empty neighborhood streets.
A bitter-sweet orange lay next to my arm.
It was bruised too, and a little soft.
I dug my nails into its stomach and clawed its insides out
and devoured it monstrously and unforgivingly.
But then I remembered the plates.
My shadow was leaning against the house with them inside.
Did they belong there? In that cabinet all these years?
But when I woke up,
I was in my bed
And the plates were downstairs,
in the cabinet,
where they belonged.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 10:41 PM UTC
Disillusionment is the price for having your head in the clouds,
For youthful idealism,
When dreams aren't concise.
I used to feel so enticed,
Seeing how a pigmented nail polish,
Could give a pallid hand a sophisticated finish.
But these days there is no novelty.
My cuticles are sliced,
In the places where the paint wasn't precise.
Teeth monstrously disregard the life of the flesh, making a mess,
Now that my nerves have every reason to take out their stress.
Aunts and grandfathers go out of their way for us when we are little enough,
Just to remind us our faces are beautiful enough to rule the world.
Of course we believe them, with faces like blank canvases,
When they say that blossoming will only make things better.
Before long, boys have painted us with scarlet letters.
Their only warrant is our existence.
By eleven, we disassociate and find our old face distant.
Old before our time. Tired and haggard.
You don’t need to point it out when our flaws come out to play.
We know already- but hey, you can still remind us of lumps on our noses, stomachs, and chests.
As if it's gruelling enough just to get through the day.
Didn’t we all see our futures in silver screen angels?
Or a centre-stage princess?
Blind to her hidden talents, so baneful.
Did it ever occur to you,
That our idol queens,
Were more enthralled by lines of coke in their dressing rooms,
Than the magic of living our dreams?
Follow their footsteps, I dare you.
Flip a coin between thriving and doom.
And let us wonder why our aspirations have lead us to death’s doorstep.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
I look at you often, always have, enticed
and seduced more, than you’ll ever know.
Your sight overwhelmingly sooths me, lifts
my spirits up high, closer to you as I wonder,
where you end and begin, where you meld
stealthily with my being.
Stretching my inadequate body to reach,
unable to touch you I feel, the gentle caress
of your ethereal otherworldly skin, all over,
around and within, me. Enveloping my shape
you suggest, metamorphoses to come
as we blend.
You, unable to utter a word, speak, so loudly
to my deafened ears prevailing vibrations echo,
in the warmth of my veins. Your muteness penetrates
unhindered my listening consciousness compelled
to give in to the richness of your horizon filled,
with promises and potentials.
Recognising my essence in one of a thousand
sceneries you majestically create, making me
feel special, proposing I am unique, till the moment
I believe, keeping the secret all to myself, unwilling
to share, to lose, to acknowledge the truth.
As I grow in your pervasive shadow however
you scold my limitedness, monstrously obliging me
to accept, you are not mine, we are not exclusive
and I alone, am not unique. No reserves to passions
shared, with many more. I look at you and feel so far.
I cannot even reprimand your betrayal, admiring
your mightiness and bounties as you love, protect
and embrace the entire human race, inviting me
to rid of greed, of wanting you all for me, until
I realise, you are me, and together we encompass
the whole of humanity.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 1:54 AM UTC
You are not together,
and we are not apart.
Call me home,
Think of me as a juxtaposition of jumbled giant words/Feeding monstrously in (where and how,in) I please,
And please me darling,
For this is the last night we get until
You
Give
Up
That
Mask. (A circled mess) quarrying deeply
From the plush seas of bed.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
IT rained ruinously down the streets went the
raging day's temperament
The dog's barking and snapping at the droplets
of regretful tears that grew into monstrously
huge violence
A hailed cab stood no chance and a failed
businessman took his clothes off and dove
headfirst into the gutter of despair
The young mother with her stroller hoisted
her sails and allowed squally wind to
pacify the cute cuddly cherub
\no other thing existed. The world
was all empty pending the eleven o'clock
news./
Unpredictable -- as is nature.
:: 09-29-2018 ::
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
It's not what I say or declare
but for others to judge--am I
good or bad, or neither
then what? the why of things in life
is too often shrouded
in deep mystery and is monstrously vexatious
the heart has reasons of its own and is unimpressed by logic-
the question of what is or should be is perennially contentious
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
the crackling string of voices
running, streaking through
the clamor of trees, creaking
through the night's chilly breeze,
I see, I see that I don't know
where I am going,
only that trailing the stars
with set of blazing graze
crashes into the divine sky,
perhaps that is where the
the voices are spilling from,
those monstrously loud chorus
of staggering heart beats,
clambering with lunar-soaked fire
as I search for a home where I can burrow,
to pick the earth form my fingernails
on conclusion of a long, long day
to know that the small paradise
is a home which I belong
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
Suicide...
In all its ugly truth hides
A beautiful mysterious
Comforting
End
An end to the pain
The darkness
The cold ground
And the tangling
Roots
Holding
The heart
Imprisoned
In anguish
Alone
Sobbing
And
Swimming
In snot
And
Salty tears
And that
Feeling
...
Nothing
Nothing good
Will come
The sun
Will never
Feel warm
The moon
Will never
Remind us
Of love
But
Only
Remind us
Of that
Moment
It all went
So
Wrong
That moment
Suicide
Looked at
Us with its
Comforting
Smile
Its arms that
Promised
To end the pain
To numb
That moment
Forever more
...
Forever more
To steal that
Moment
Away
That moment
And
Every moment
That would
Have fell
After
One moment
After the next
And
Next
...
The next
More
Heartbreaking
Moment
The next
More
Beautiful moment
The children
That may
Have smiled
And lifted
Our hearts
From one moment
To the next
All the good
Moments
All
The
Terrible
Strenuous
Monstrously
Horribly
Bad moments
Forever
Gone
In that
One moment
Of the ugly
Beautiful truth
That
Lies
In
Suicide
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
I thought the the burning
sensation beneath my lungs
were feelings of content
and a little bit of elation,
but what happened
to my gracious heart—
it leaps, for you,
but not in that way.
It springs down into a pit
of—no, not despair—of
despondence.
I no longer crave
for your touch
or your hug
or your lovely kisses;
I no longer crave
for your empty hands
that held my broken pieces.
I no longer crave
for your thoughts
nor your attention—
I no longer crave
for your everything
yet still, here I am:
thinking great heights
of y o u
and how I still
longed for you to
look at me in the eye
and say, "I miss you."
Do I miss you, truly?
Or is this just pain
seeping through my eyes
in forms of tears
that cascade monstrously
down my soft features?
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
And so I finally can say “goodbye”
to monstrously distressing twenty-sixteen
reflecting back with inward shrug and sigh
on happenings that never should have been.
But I have lived through all that could be thrown
by Nature with insouciant disdain.
retaining sensitivity alone
that I have sought to disregard in vain.
And now as these last few hours pass away
I sit with solitary glass of cheer,
ready to greet the dawn of a new day
that is the harbinger of a New Year.
And I reflect however bad may seem
the slings and arrows of life’s jesting style
it does no good to rant and rave and scream;
such immature response is juvenile.
Better by far embrace the positive
though hard to find in the twelve months now gone,
there’s always much denial to forgive,
and clemency comes easy when alone.
So let me cast aside self-pitying malaise
discarding too the self-indulgent sorrow,
and echoing the mundane Scarlett phrase,
I’ll put it from my mind until tomorrow
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 7:44 AM UTC
I used to have plenty wishes.
Tirelessly praying day and night, remembering a time when I was five, knelt down infront of a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for a miracle.
Unbeknownst to the fact that I am the only one listening, and even I find my words inaudible. Flooding my mouth with tears, catapulting down tired ducts, circumventing those delinquent eyes that have seen enough.
I now lay in a bed of flowers, they have found a home in my skin, roots sprouting, making ground, making love to the sound.
Gardening my soul with delectable cries only I could hear, but this time my words are unforgivingly clear.
Flames arousing, fire stirring in my ***** the pleasure of sculpting my own home, a concrete built on fantasy, a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for an escape.
That child remembers.
I carry that day’s scent on my fingers.
Spewing pangs of pain and joy with every recall. I remember relief.
Relief that finally, I am not the only one burning, ashes zigzag their way to the earth, spectators mildly immersed.
I no longer need to pretend that I am blind just to allow myself to see.
A star witness to my own memory.
God help a family on fire.
My father has burned our home way before mama did. A reflection, a projection of truth has ferociously emerged into a play for our very own eyes to feast- we would have never survived our own characters.
Now, I often find myself oddly silent, ransacking my cerebellum, almost an assault to this new found pendulum, prosecuting myself for not wanting more-
for I no longer fear.
That child remember’s it clear.
And for the first time in my life, in numerous occasions, I am no longer afraid to face my reflection, and the very thought that I am a nobody is monstrously enough in a world where everybody is religiously pleading to be handcuffed.
I spread my legs wide like a canvass, waiting for someone to play with, I am still a child whose hands need blessing.
This flower is finally blossoming, delineating pain and joy, emanating an unfamiliar yet familiar fragrance. It’s no longer a reflection nor a projection of mom’s addiction-
I now pray in providence,
making love out in the open.
Sealing all the vocabularies of life, the decibel of truth has finally found its tune in my very own coming.
I have enough.
God help a woman in love,
God help a woman brave enough to touch herself.
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 2:13 AM UTC