"narrated" poems
You should have been the soul that Edgar Allen Poe loved,
So that he wouldn't have died miserable and alone,
You are the Morticia to my Gomez; deadly in love,
We would make a quirky Addams family, bar none,
I love the nerds in us and the banter of annoyance,
I love the moments of radiant love and our nature of being different,
'Cause we did meet exceptionally over persistence,
And we accept each other regardless of difference,
I wish that our love will remain eternal,
Narrated by Obi-Wan,
With a theme song by John Williams,
Directed by Lucas, nah, we don't need direction,
I do know, we need a Queen, and that's you my puddin'!
Leia to my Solo,
A Queen-B-lovin'-Quinn to my Joker,
A die-hard Drake lover with a heart for the Dark Side,
This Vader loves his Amidala, xoxoxo,
We would revel on any side but the holy!
May this love never fade, and be full of surprises,
But not the kind where there is nasi lemak with no ikan bilis!
But you make the best **** nasi lemak, sigh,
I'm forever grateful for my Babloo
I'm forever grateful that you're by my side,
My Annabel Lee, I'm grateful Poe never met you,
'Cause you're all mine!
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
Explosions in the sky
That certain rush of words covered with ideas I am not so afraid of
That simple touch of a pen poets picture as their current heaven
And heaven lies within the lies where real people exist and in-concrete dust flies
And flies surround the inner spaces between my heart and yours
Those inter dimensional cracks that keep us alive together
Yet those same cracks cause the
Explosions in the sky
When a million thoughts tremble under shattered glass
And glass becomes rain over a nation
That had no occupation
A station
Where all the emotions find a leak
Where all the leaks lead to leisure
The flood of blood narrated to form a spring out of Arab's fall
And freedom is attained with the sound of
Explosions in the sky
When betrayal becomes the living scenario of a very normal human being
Who believed that his sanctuary is in unison with his sanctions
Strategies structured his not so subtle approach
And after that he fell into her
Explosions in the sky
When a man loses his vision upon a mild smile
When a cry for help becomes an invite for suicide
Come…help me be the
Portrait of clay you'll form with your delicate hands
Shape my image
And imagine a shape for my form
Form a set for me to follow
Follow my moves for if I fall of your track
Track me back to the first point
The playstation of life saves checkpoints
Yet my life is full of glitches…
For when I look at you
I am supposed to be looking at you
But all I'm seeing is
Explosions in the sky
When a trouble-free man becomes the complex notion of a firework
Those little pieces of fiery smoke
Grabs it
And smokes the last buds of life out of his people
The governor governing the covers he created
To alienate the truth
I found in your eyes
And I shall never be mislead
Instead
I shall be steadfast and ready
For you
I shall be ready for you
And your
Explosions in the sky
When a poet has no words left to write
In the right time
Literally the speaker is speechless
He's too busy wondering in total observation
The explosions…
The explosions we create
The skies that unveil
And that little feeling of satisfaction
With the last bits of an ink written
Poem.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
I recently had the great privilege of editing Mike Essig's latest poetry collection, THE BIOLOGY OF STRANGENESS, and I'm honoured to have been entrusted with such fantastic material. Putting together a book like this is every poetry geek's dream.
It's a beautifully textured assortment of poems, earthy yet lyrical, narrated by a voice that's uniquely grained with experience. There are pieces that will make you smile, think, wince; there are pieces that hit you in the gut out of nowhere; there are pieces that welcome you into them like old, worn-in shoes; there are pieces you will remember late some night when you're by yourself, and remembering them will make you feel less alone.
This collection of poetry makes you look at the banal and the everyday afresh; it finds magic and mystery in the mundane, and even Hawaiian shirts are poem-worthy when Mike Essig's writing about them.
The Kindle version is already available through Amazon.
A paperback edition is due out next month, and I can't wait to have a copy of this book on my shelf as well as on my e-reader.
Mike's previous poetry books, Never Forgotten and Huck Finn Is Dead are also available through Amazon and are excellent.
From his author profile on B Star Kitty Press:
"Mike Essig is a veteran of Vietnam and a retired English teacher. He’s also been recruited by the muse as a poet, like he hadn’t already been through enough."
Sample poems, links to sales pages and more info can be found at the B Star Kitty Press website. www(dot)bstarkittypress(dot)com.
Please do support this very talented indie author.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Let Me Be A Child
by Mirriam Mk Salati
The age of innocent looted violently
The narrated tale of the order met harshly
Let me feel secure in my home
Let me realise that love is always the norm
I cant remember the sunshine on my face
I work all day in a cramped space
I cant remember how it feels to play free
I cant recall how it feels to climb a tree
Sharttered-self-worth from blows and knocks
A"good" child keeps quite never talks
Let me know when I make you proud.
Help me to have pride in my own accomplishments
And let me earn your trust
Trust me and i wont let you down
Let me try my wings,sour through the sky,
touching evry cloud
If i fail let me know its ok then encourage me to try again.... and whats More' Let me be a Child'
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
"Yoo Hoo! Excuse me!" she said,
Warbling with trepidation,
"I wonder could you help me,
Only I'm blind, you see?"
Her timid voice trailed off,
Lost beneath the majestic roar
Of the waterfall;
"Of course ma'am!" he said,
"Take my arm and pray
Tell me your troubles!"
"Well it's all rather silly," she said,
"But I'm not long now for this
Life, and I so wanted to see,
Or rather, to feel this place again.
I was here as a young girl
You see, and I have such fond memories!
My guide had to take
An urgent call, and now I'm
Afraid I won't have time for the tour!"
"Tell me," he said, "If I may be
Permitted to ask, were you able
To see when you were here before?"
"Oh yes!" she exclaimed,
"It was the most incredible thing
I've ever seen! The destructive
Force of nature, an endless torrent
Of foaming waters cascading down
Sheer cliffs, the living color of
Smooth rocks gleaming in the sunlight,
And oh so many rainbows
Blazing in the spray, Sir I could
Imagine no place more wondrous,
More beautiful!"
"Well then," he said excitedly,
"You'll be pleased to know it
Hasn't changed a bit!"
"Oh thank you, thank you!"
She said, hugging him tightly,
"You've made an old woman very happy!"
The guide returned and he bade them
A fond farewell, and then another
Woman approached him.
"Well there you are darling," she said,
I've been looking for you everywhere!
I've found a guide who specialises
In narrated tours for the blind,
Are you ready?"
He looked at her with unseeing eyes
And smiled, "There's no need my love,"
He said, "I've already seen it and
It's the most beautiful place in the world,
And I want to remember it
Exactly the way I do right now!"
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
I woke up from a dream of love
Found my tiny fingers held by her
She wrapped me in umbrella of love
My little eyes awestruck by her
She narrated her stories in nights
I heard her hum the songs divine
Beside her chest that swelled with care
I slept in darkness to have no fear
Her arms so warm kept me tied
Away from the ***** world around
Bountiful beauty defines her
Her face shines with love for all
A heart of gold she possesses
An enigma, an angel, she is mine!
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
tire ishq kī intihā chāhtā huuñ
mirī sādgī dekh kyā chāhtā huuñ
Your infinite love, I desire
Look at my humility what I desire
sitam ** ki ** vada-e-be-hijābī
koī baat sabr-āzmā chāhtā huuñ
Fury or your audacious-unveiling
Something fortitude-testing I desire
ye jannat mubārak rahe zāhidoñ ko
ki maiñ aap kā sāmnā chāhtā huuñ
Heavens be favourable for the religious
But us ever-so close, facing each other is what I desire
zarā sā to dil huuñ magar shoḳh itnā
vahī lan-tarānī sunā chāhtā huuñ
A tiny heart but so spirited I am
To hear those words ‘’By no means canst thou see Me’’ I desire
koī dam kā mehmāñ huuñ ai ahl-e-mahfil
charāġh-e-sahar huuñ bujhā chāhtā huuñ
Determined guest I am O’ people of assembly
Morning lamp I am, quenching I desire
bharī bazm meñ raaz kī baat kah dī
baḌā be-adab huuñ sazā chāhtā huuñ
Within a full gathering I have disclosed the secret
So impolite I am, your punishment I desire
Note:
Moses prays to God for guidance and begs God to reveal himself to him. It is narrated in the Quran that God tells him that it would not be possible for Moses to perceive God, but that He would reveal himself to the mountain, stating: "By no means canst thou see Me (direct); But look upon the mount; if it abide in its place, then shalt thou see Me." When God reveals himself to the mountain, it instantaneously turns into ashes, and Moses loses consciousness. When he recovers, he goes down in total submission and asks forgiveness of God.
✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 11:14 PM UTC
I know a great storyteller
Since when I was 7
He who once narrated stories with all the emotions and expressions
Has now left for the heavens
Tales of witty animals
And the animal kingdom itself
He cited various examples
But now he's no more himself
Every story was a kind of message
That the old man feed into two young children's mind
He will never be forgotten
The storyteller, who have now died
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
I love her and she loves me,
We've boon of immortality...
Not going to live forever we,
But to persist in few stories..
Tales be narrated to the kids,
And will be told to everyone.
I am barmy & hyper-excited,
She likes it all & doesn't mind.
Some sure traits of me to hide,
She even likes my worst side..
All I now look forward is her,
Me & her, together forever...
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Today is about missing you,
About missing your spicy fresh perfume, that I'd begun to love,
About missing your plump fat nose, that I never managed to pinch,
About missing your intense and sometimes senseless banter, that I'd never get enough of,
About missing your attempts to reduce the amount of coffee I drink, that I unwillingly adhered to,
About missing the quarter piece of a jam toast, that you always saved for me,
About missing the way you calmed me down, when we faced storms together,
About missing how you took note of everything, a new hair clip, that I knew you'd like on me,
About missing your watch, which you never took off, because of what it meant to you,
About missing your stories, and the zest with which you narrated them,
About missing your photography, how you captured my best and worst moments, when I wasn't looking,
About missing our shared love for yogurt drinks, and how we analysed each one we drank,
About missing how you screamt 'Mogu Mogu' when you found your favourite drink, in my favourite café,
About missing your big hands, that were strong and gentle at the same time,
About missing those few drives with you, talking about everything and nothing,
About missing how you surprised me on my birthday, with chocolates and a scarf, that feels warmer than any other,
About missing your silly quirks, like carrying your backpack around everywhere, which only I understood,
Today is about missing you
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 3:53 AM UTC
I wish it was easy to say who I am.
I wish God was less of a creator and more of an author
Ink stained fingernails glasses brimming the edge of his nose type
Whiskey on the side of his computer; optional.
I wish that in place of these veins and hair and bendable thumbs
I had poetry, soliloquies, syllables, punctuations.
That marked my existence
I wish my mind was a novel and each word inside it
Moved through my organs and around my chest
And when you cracked it open knowing who I am
Would be as easy as reading a book
I wish that when I get so angry I forget to speak
That you could just rip off the end of my skirt and read the
Internal and omniscient monologue in place of my skin
That would explain everything
When I smile during turmoil I wish it wasn’t a mystery
And the chapters printed on my visible teeth
Could tell you exactly why.
If God was an author I would be a character
And each of my traits would have meaning, and significance
Why do I bite my nails?
Because when I was five years old I saw my mother do It and when I’m nervous
I do it to be close to her
That would be the reason and I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder about it
Because that fits my story
Every page of my life would be narrated by someone who knew
Me better than I knew myself and that, that
Would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders.
The horrible weight of self-defining
Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to discover yourself?
To have someone do it for you
Instead of taking years to find out that you work better under pressure
And that being a doctor really wasn’t your true calling after all
What if you could just look down at your body
And see words that told the story of you.
What if you were armed with the knowledge of knowing
Who you are and what your purpose is.
I wish I was literature
So finally I could through my hands up
Shout back at you saying “Here, look this is who I am.”
I like the sound of the ocean
Black and white movies
I get sad when it rains
Just read me.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Behind a person's success is a sacrifice;
Would you love to know the tale behind?
Actors and actresses preparing their act,
But behind the curtains there's a hidden fact.
Heels and shoes are filled with shards of glass;
Behind dress and tuxedo's there's a hidden blast
— Withal on the lights, they genuinely smile.
Let's move on and see the richest person alive:
They lurk abaft the gallanting suits and tie;
No day their feet cannot step on bars of silvers and gold,
Constantly crediting the humanity's sliver of hope
— Supported by government for the economy's growth.
Do you know someone born to be Einstein's child?
—A person whose thought process is unbelievably wide,
“What are emotions?” They frequently asked;
“Are those things related to a logical fact?”
Feelings are hindrance towards a brighter side.
We all know the people whom we proclaimed as leaders—
Behind the tall, wide walls they silently titters:
“Citizens are corrupted with money and blind rights;
This nation will never survive in a war nor in childish fights.”
Some politicians bought their roles, drinking leisure on their seats.
And there's someone like me— a bit higher, on the top—
Words are magical, making an astonishing plot;
Thy pen bleeds thread, weaving a wondrous craft—
Who knows they withhold theirs and other people's life art,
They'll keep going as long as the threadmill continues to spin.
Their tales are narrated a bit later, a bit little;
But that was a telltale with lots of missing details,
Are you willing to share the secrets found in the middle?
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
A Borivali slow,
Was on platform four,
Being young and swift,
With least bit of strain,
I boarded the train.
There wasn't place to sit,
So amidst the uproar,
I stood at the door.
An aged lady of seventy-four,
Indulged us in a tale of yore.
Of a frightful night,
When her entire world,
Was ruthlessly hurled,
Into fear and plight,
Into treacherous gore,
A tale so abhor.
with fine detail,
She narrated her tale,
And had us engrossed,
Our minds embossed,
She was a slave,
Who tried to save,
Her body frail,
Which was put for sale.
"A young girl of thirteen I was", she said
"Physically alive but mentally dead.
I was sold like cattle,
My modesty stripped,
soul ripped,
My insides would rattle,
As I would be led,
To a different bed.
In words I cannot convey,
From where I drew strength one day,
During the dastardly act,
I took my chance and attacked.
I fled the scene,
And ran all day,
Tried to escape far away.
Partially clothed or under a veil,
Being a woman makes you frail,
We are a prey to beastly eyes,
Unheard are our cries.
My story will make your heart sink,
And force you to think,
While you soundly sleep,
There are women who weep.
Somewhere there is a woman
trying to escape,
From the clutches of victimization and **** "
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…
Alison Wonderland.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
for Richard, the boy who narrated life
Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”
Life is the story of life, says the narrator.
Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.
Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.
And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."
In time the threads converge again.
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.
The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
At first she loved me with wondrous pride,
Night after night, a happy constant by her side.
Hand-written stories narrated solely to me,
For only I appreciated her special 'vocabulary'.
In a couple of years, she gouged out my right eye.
As she pulled out my left arm, I masked a sigh.
A laborious poker face; by her, I was smitten.
And unlike the others, at least I wasn't forgotten.
At the age of three, she made loneliness my mistress.
Stowed me away; locked me alone with my distress.
The darkness of the room surpassed by my own.
Yet my unrequited adoration set firmly in stone.
Twenty five years later, she found her old teddy bear.
'He was always my favourite. Treat him with care.'
'But mommy, he has no eyes or hands...' she said, sans guile.
In the blink of an eye, she spied a sad, crippled smile.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple. I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
The sky is dip-dyed in gray
Worn at the edges by pulling little hands
Opaque; no light shines through
No pinpricks of the crossweaves of this satin
Only the shadows of stars seen by darting eyes
Below,
A contained rainforest nestled in a suburb
heard but not seen,
separate sounds aligning.
This mingles with the clink of car tools and occasional laughter
soft, a murmur, like rain in the dark
not meant to be witness, only listened
a moment of peace,
undisturbed,
alone but not lonely.
Assuming a Corona
resting on the still-warm curb,
dripping a cold summer sweat.
Assuming a pickup
A red Ford? Too cliche.
Hood open, leaned over or slid under
Grease stains and a wifebeater
Everything is swelled and lazy and happy
like sun-grown watermelons
everything falls away to this sweltering peace
narrated by AC and bicycle chains.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 11:10 PM UTC
I let my guard down
and showed him my skin
full of freckles
I let him connect the dots
creating constellations
each with a story
that he narrated
I let my guard down
and showed him my flaws
galactic bruises
thanks to my clumsiness
and let him float in each one
marveling at the purple and blue
I let my guard down
and showed him my bashfulness
as it colored my pale cheeks red
and imprinted goosebumps
everywhere...
I let my guard down
and showed him the ways
I like to sin..
having my fuzz stand in salutation
I let my guard down
and showed him the other side of me
the one basks in the nature of things
naked, bursting with energy of the sun
emitting sultry rays that
brighten his eyes in astonishment
I let my guard down
and showed him
myself
full fledged
imperfection
put together in a beautiful way
I let my guard down
and showed him how my piercing eyes
move waves of emotions
in his gut
I let my guard down
and waited to see
how he will
enjoy such
a mystery
feeding
my kind of
curiosity
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
*Poetry should have the simplicity
to be endeared by many heart’s
it will stand the test of time
and become part of folklore
words birthed in any century
will be relevant till eternity
poetry that touches the heart
and make its abode in the souls
and always narrated with love
poetry in the realm of simplicity
burn brighter over the horizon
revel in the simplistic narration
and you will be immortalized*
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
When you're old, weary,
forgetful and dreary,
your grandchild will sit on your lap,
And insists you narrate your story,
before he goes for a nap.
Perch that kid atop your knee,
and tell him your delightful story.
Tell him how you studied biology,
And the science of the body,
And the wonders of economics,
And how to make accounts tally,
Bore him silly with math rules,
And crap you picked up in schools,
how algebra helped you land a job,
And physics helped you convince a mob,
On your first date,
You dined with your certificate ,
And all those sums in calculus,
Helped you during your first kiss,
How law helped you win your wife,
And grammar stopped you from taking your life,
when your spouse and you fought,
accounting rules sorted it out,
Tell him when down on your knees,
You were uplifted by degrees,
When overcome with emotions,
You narrated equations,
Tell him when nights got colder,
Geography gave you its shoulder,
Tell him medicine cures all aches
Including the vacuum of heartbreaks,
And when you're dead in your grave,
And flesh is turning to bone,
While placing flowers at your tombstone,
The Income tax laws will mourn.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC