"yesteryears" poems
I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.
I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.
I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
Immortalised...
Anchored...
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...
I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
the comforting warmth of the morning sun,
like I had known it from the days of yesteryears.
the familiar scent of dew-kissed grass,
a fresh aroma that brought forth the tide of gratitude laden tears.
I had foreseen the day to be just as before...
I had planned to play out my morning as I had rehearsed.
but your message had foiled all that I thought I knew...
it brought about the smile that eternity had kept pursed.
your words were laced with the flowers of spring...
they set at ease the unapparent apprehension I've always kept.
they spoke of compliments meant only for the worthiest quills,
I've read them in disbelief as I think not of myself, an adept...
truly you are one that's generous and so very kind.
for your words flew off the page and had struck home;
bearing the stoutest of hope and most selfless of wishes.
they had provided direction in these vague circles that I roam.
so now allow me to thank you dear poetess...
for drawing the sunrise clear into my view.
I shall revel and bask in its delightful rays...
because your words had painted today in the brightest hue...
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
This yellow saree she wore
Just once in her life had wrapped
A coy twenty-year-old bride
Tentatively setting her dainty foot
Into the hesitant bridal home .
Somewhere in the backwoods
Several industrious silkworms
Had spun miles of salivary yarn
In the foliage of the mulberry tree
To make this golden yellow saree .
The rustle of her silk drowned
The wails of the boiling cocoons
The worms died that beauty would live
In their plaintive cries lay bridal hopes .
My mother, the bride of yesteryears,
Is now as non-existent as the worms
That had ceased to exist spinning
The smooth silk for her bridal finery .
Her bridal fragrance lives on among
The delicate folds of these gossamer silks
That the worms had died weaving.
Death is so fragrant , so memorable.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 6:03 AM UTC
Don't ask me why today I bought
That little balsa wood airplane
One like many I had when I was a kid
I want to think that I've grown up
But somewhere inside I never did
I saw it yesterday and I just had to have it
Though I don't know why
So I pulled out a few hard earned dollars
And bought this memory that flys
It has a red propeller
That's powered by a rubber band
And two red wheels attached with wire
To help it safely land
I can't recall how many of these
I've pioleted through the years
I'm sure at least a few or more
Way back in my yesteryears
It amazes me sometimes now that I am older
That the sight of such a little thing
Can bring a forgotten memory back to life
Like a balsa wood airplane
RLB
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.
He dips his feet.
There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.
He swims along.
And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.
He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.
Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.
He has crossed the river.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Go away girl, go away
and let me pack my dreams
Now where did I put those yesteryears
made up with broken seams
Where shall I sweep the pieces
my God they still look new
There's a taxi waiting at the door
but there's only room for you
4k
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.
She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch
Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,
Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.
Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him
She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,
I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
We find bottomless holes
In our mentalized theories
Local logical postulations
Cause-and-effect sequences
Perceived chain reactions
And medical research findings.
All those are quintessentially
Protein specs floating freely
Our words float like protein
Fondly called lewy bodies
Colorless and unsubstantial
Dreams in shreds floating
As in amniotic fluid like then.
A certain woman of less virtue
Was not fit for our society
She embraced men in dark
In dreams and art and thought.
Fuzzy scenes of yesteryears
Floated into the present
Including ego and power games.
Let me know who is this professor-
The man who brought it all up.
Our language loses meaning.
We do not agree you are you.
Actually you cease to be a son
A brother ,a person ,a human
You are a hand or a stone
Just a broken splinter for a whole .
My part becomes a whole
A thing is a word, an idea,an event
A daughter-in-law is a hand
A son a stone in the wilderness.
There is sorrow swirling in the belly
The anguish of a human existence
The pain in the bloated stomach
These forced feet take you nowhere
Men came with tails in their necks
Forcing down tiny white universes
When they go into the nether world
There is only a swirl in the belly.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.
Happily, he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.
All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.
Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.
Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.
From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.
we sing of dreams
of better things
we blaspheme
and spin the scenes
of our murdered dreams
and just clean the guilt away
I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.
I am a god that cracks the asphalt.
I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.
I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.
The first
The last
Laugh of inevitability
Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.
Free will
A fragile blessing
I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.
I'm the ******* son
Strumming for the only one.
Once.
Before the lore of the storm.
Born of the swoon of a gun.
More than one.
Once.
As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Do not let the silence fool you,
The screams are stifled, through and through.
The gentle glint is in their eyes,
Soft smiles grin in wild surprise,
Though the man pretends to sleep,
He hears the words and faintly weeps.
When you walk in the empty hall,
There's no jubilant footfall,
Of yesteryears' purple vigour,
Just vibrant souls that you ignore.
Do not let the silence fool you,
The screams are stifled through.
Do not let the silence pacify,
There is no rest, waiting to die.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 10:30 AM UTC
Children are the gifts from God that keep us grandparents going
Having energy, watching them run, play, and listening to their stories
I know I have enjoyed many times with my own
Love comes flowing in gushes through those tykes
Dear, sweet ones that involve us, also resolve around us
Reality strikes of our yesteryears bringing us smiles
Ever really think about how much they affect us?
Nice to be loved by those so precious... the little angels in our lives
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Making love to my poems
making memories that last forever,
come sit beside me and let
your words be mine forever,
Let's wipe away the tears
of yesteryears ,
modern words activates the sound of your voice
words of where are.. thou,
and thou shall ....is dead and buried.
Who are you ?
Where did you come from
My shining star
Forgive my grammar,
forgive my nouns
however, you can read between the lines
as you your hands slipped off the key board and onto my legs
and it became long verbs.
my uncontrollabe fingers nervously trace each pronouns
as I cried out "my God, "oh my Lord,
Come into me, come into me,
shield me from all the adjectives
I felt the couplets of a word forming
suddenly, my train of thoughts turn to L'Allegro
A Haiku comes together,
It is very cold
on the dark side of the moon
moon peeks through black clouds:
Or
like burning desires to perform an illusion
of tigers mating under in the hot sun
as the female purrs unleashing the animal within man
Music, ecstasy, is what I am feeling
I am blind my love,
you are so ******* kind to me,
Yesterday is dead
Tomorrow is promise to no one
so there's nothing to fear
hurt me with your words,
like alliterations as I make love to my poems
only my eyes can see your beauty
with each line, meter, tones and sounds
hiding your feelings from others is my destiny
to preserve you,
let your warmth be a challenge
of spoken words as I orchestrated
an euphony...
Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh dun duh
"How do I love thee let me count the ways....Quote
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
#*On my way back home from an evening walk
I noticed ,as I always do
People
And what they do
A little boy with a bag of chips
Brought a smile on my lips
I did smile at him
He smiled back munching on his chips
Barely a few minutes apart
My son's friend riding pillion with his dad
Waved at him and he gestured back
A woman and her son holding hands
Taking an evening walk
The son my age or older than me , ageing mother some illness she had couldn't understand that
Felt blessed that we have people who do care.
Thanked the son in my heart .
Then,
A little girl and her mother , hands held
Walked past me
A feeling , I do relate
From ,
What I had noticed
A few moments before, which made me a bit sad .
An old friend , a neighbour from yesteryears , she has twin sons .
I remember they were toddlers then .
One of them accompanied her
A handsome young man , Sure, he did not recognise me.
A little chat with my friend
And there , I reached home .*#
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
Once just a doormat under foot
of those she found about in life.
Helpless to loose the one inside,
she hid among her wounds.
She knew her life was made for more,
and spent her days to find a peace.
And rise above the noise and pain
of just an average life.
Her world was such a futile war,
a battle fought against her foes.
This feud fought daily with a prayer
to search for purpose in debris.
These struggles brought her to this day
to close the door and leave the night.
To free what screamed within her soul
for all those troubled yesterdays.
The girl that lived inside of me
has now become a woman freed.
To live her own true spirit born
within a prison cell now flown.
Now both the blessings and the tears
of all the long fought yesteryears,
Have melted into lessons learned
for the all past is left behind.
To find this heart come spilling forth
and dancing gleefully about.
For I am free to live my life
not shackled from the past or doubt.
My blessings now beyond belief
and joy on joy is now released
Tis true perfection our God makes
when once he choses to create!
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
Welcome Sorrow
no need to seek forgiveness
for not knowing me by name
i've waited long and lonely
to feel the touch
of such desolate company
tell me then
are you here to show me
all of my tomorrows
reflected in a deep pool
of tears from yesteryears
show me that i can be a lover
but can never be loved
show me that i'll still be here
but never will i belong
that these are not my people
these are talents
to which i'll never possess
so stop whispering
stop whispering
come closer my friend
show me that nothing exists
over those grey foreboding hills
show me that nothing survives
at the end of a fractured rainbow
show me that the rivers and oceans
are but a flow of tiny tears
show me that all the dawns and the dusk
of this world to you belong
show me that the only peace to be found
is in a black dogs stare
come now my confidante
wrap me in your arms
so tightly once more
let me see through your eyes
feel through your veins
speak through your wisdom
emasculate in your reign
but go now my lover
my temptress go
place these words so delicately
on your parched and wretched tongue
from a kiss
to a whisper
to a shattering scream
that this is my goodbye
this is my goodbye
that this is to be
Your final Goodbye
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
We all perhaps know how Wendy waved at the night sky,
bid a goodbye as good as a farewell,
at the illusion of a pixie dust-flickered cloudscape
of a voyage setting sail
to dreams and fantasies stretching beyond time and infinitum.
And she was showered with so much
faith, trust and pixie dust,
quaint tiny love-stained lips
promises a kiss and sealed acorn, tight around her neck.
And the sparkle in the glances of her
lovely pair of blue crystal teals
manifest in the whereabouts of a star second to the right.
But the Big Ben struck half past childhood
and play pretend and silky nightgowns are long time over.
Innocence is robbed by a shadow
lurking in the premises of what could have been
for once the clicking of the keys
to the lock and latch of the gates of the yesteryears,
it could not be undone.
The hook of a deceiving treachery
robbed all the glow of a child’s pearl laced smile
and the mere belief of the existence of fairies and the magical mystical boy
who never grew up.
She once laced her hands with his,
past ephemeral and London night,
and straight on till morning.
The desires of her heart got lost in the sea of nowhere,
as it raced against the foolish time;
we all perhaps know how Wendy is never never return
to never Neverland.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
She waits-
At the gait
To see a glimpse
Of the man she love
The man who loved her
So dearly
So tenderly
So honestly
So passionately….
She waits-
At the gait
To see a glimpse
Of that turbulent past
In his deep brown eyes
A trace of remembrance
A trace of nostalgia
A trace of yearning
A trace of regret
She waits-
At the gait
To see a glimpse
Of the man she love
The man she can’t hate
Remembering the life they had
Love they shared
Embrace they cherished
Secrets they whispered
She waits-
At the gait
To see a glimpse
Of that past,
The past she wants to let go of
As he paces
Lost in serenity
Towards his goal
Passing her
With a serene smile
In a saffron robe
She waits-
At the gait
Drenched in nostalgia
As wistful tears sparkled
Living in that moment
Where he is
So close
Yet so far…..
Trying to overcome
The distance
The yesteryears
The reminiscence
As his words of wisdom
Echoes…..
And she tries
But she fails
To hate him
“ Love is…. After all,
Merely a fleeting thought
That we choose desperately
To cling on to…
Without letting go.
Another thought,
Evanescent..”
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
People grow old
Like the withered roads they drive on
Like the houses who hold them while they dream
Forgetting their future one second at a time
The day after tomorrow
And the day before yesterday
Slipping away into distant worlds
People pretend to be people
Forgetting yesteryears memories
Who will be the last one standing
People wait nervously
For something that is nothing
For nothing that is something
Perpetuating endlessly
(Dreaming of black sheep)
A paradigm of calm insanity
People cry out into the dark
But only the soft ticking of clocks answers
Killing time with each inhale
Killing themselves with each exhale
In the end
The question is the same
On the hospital bed
Or on the battlefield
"What did I do to deserve this?"
Soil and flame pick apart the body
A ghost remains
The black sheep
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 12:51 AM UTC
Continue to complain about how insane I’ve become,
I commend you for not running away.
I defended you
When the offensive ones pointed crooked fingers.
Now I linger in a hollow heart that cannot love,
A heart destroyed by the bitter forces of regret.
I bring you the sweetest peace after the loudest storm.
And in return I receive,
Sorrows borrowed from yesteryears
Carried onto the morrow.
Don’t bury the hate that resurfaces, destroy it.
And don’t carry the weight that brings down, drop it.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
she was a pretty little one
with her braid hair of yesteryears
in her eyes the mist of green forests
the await for a shinning armor
i got to keep her tainted clothes
in this confinement on death row
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
You are beautiful.
The words whispered without doubt.
Each syllable slipping through smoothly,
as if somehow shaping this statement supports
and supplements its substantiality.
You...are beautiful.
A falling phrase fathering the feeling,
that every fleeting fear has found itself futile and foreign.
Until you find yourself yielding and yearning to yip,
as you did in the yesteryears of youth.
But these words are not spoken with enough clarity.
These words are taken as a compliment meant to leave you blushing.
They are understood as a revelation encountered after you are found to be the victor
of a superficial comparison with those around you.
As if each attractive feature earns you additional points,
with a judge that can be bought with each glance and smile and touch.
As if each insecurity that you feel,
or each person that you think is more alluring,
can somehow subtract from the meaning of the statement.
Your beauty cannot be compared.
The beauty that you contain cannot be explained
to joking friends when they ask where you fit in on a 10-scale.
You cannot put numbers next to the hope and insight that you so freely give.
There are not enough hedons to quantify it.
You are beautiful.
I will repeat it until you think it echoes off the walls surrounding you.
Until every time you look into a mirror you believe you have x-ray vision,
and you can see the warmth of your soul,
with the clarity of vision that you have granted me.
Until you realize that every smile that appeared,
every laugh that escaped,
and every brief happy dance that was ever done in your presence
was caused by the beauty that rests within you.
You...are beautiful.
Wielding the talent to brighten a day with a single smile,
the power to make all of the worries and doubts in a person's mind disappear
with a single thoughtful statement,
a capacity for selflessness that allows no cynic to doubt your motives,
and the ability to make others realize their own beauty
just by interacting with you.
The world is more beautiful because you are a part of it.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
The rain kept pouring in vain
and no one seems to know the lain
The sorrow of labor lines the root
But the root appears in subjection
For no one could carry the element
Far flung on yonder, long ago!
Come to me with sheer of love
in the passion of dream told long a while
To be true in the cradle of sorrow
keeps the wing of imagination, obvious
No regrets befall the stand of affection
For the sun mixes the rain with bright colors
The moon does not need to fight
same road well traveled for purpose
And when destined for the reality of time
Beseemed by faithlessness renewed
'Abraka da bra' the farmer wails in sorrow
Hope not disparaged as the time tells
Let the beauty of nature not betrayed
with passion the blender carries up the smoke
Beneath the flame of mercy of yesteryears
How true the giver grants to him of goodwill
With appreciation though sometimes convincing
For the sun shines in the midst of rain
How long shall they kick the prophets
cause he gat no voice to cry the woes
Sublime the hours to come forth
With a smile covered in gratitude
Wake up no need for trial of tears
For the sun shines as overshadow.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic,
Are beats of emotions unspent.
Overly protective, and somewhat selective,
My shoes on the gravel-laden roads
Of winter are old.
Your silvery hair, neat and bare
Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I.
My name becomes forgotten,
Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines
So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance.
The secret of warmth is lost
As the moth dies into the hold of my hands.
Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message
Surround my palm-tree hair.
My front door is open, hopin’ for a
Short visit, of friends I had not there.
Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in
On the cuckolded dreamers.
Repent.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC