Ebullience, Ebullience
Ebullience, ebullience your influence
Obviates obstreperous foes.
You are a perspicacious cudgel
Harboring the erudite from fatuous woes.
If ebullience characterizes a place,
Then truculence is left with no space.
As alacrity influences each choice,
It stifles all attempts by acrimony’s voice.
Though these words may seem strange,
Truculence and acrimony always arrange
To instigate a tremulous, maudlin milieu,
Vitiating a once ebullient point of view.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Cats Loved
My heart loves cats, their demure sense entices
The day with a dominion called country;
Desultory affairs sweetly decide me in the cat,
Comely thoughts from the cat entice me.
This cat, that cat and those worst objects
Become elixirs, of cleverness and clarity.
The signs of ebullience from the feline animals
Are so daily and suddenly rich, that they must be clever.
Life from these feline creatures is ephemeral.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Norman
Semantics nominated by the Teuton.
A prayer to saints and hypocrites
Idiosyncrasy denounced by the faithless
I shall meditate upon my name.
A sound resonating the mediocrities
A noise possessing the peculiarities
An arbitrator of bipolarities
I shall meditate upon my name.
In desolation, in defeat, in confusion
In delight, in bliss, in ebullience.
Signature affixed of pride and ego
I shall meditate upon my name.
"Norman, adj., Teut., Hopeful"
poem by Norman Santos
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Demure
I brood on comely thoughts,
With feelings of bungalow;
I sought the demure boy
Living with his house and stone -
A bucolic home, full of mystery.
This hounded this demesne,
Demure friendship with godly work.
I conflate the desultory times
With special times of the year.
I see a boy who had dalliances,
In the very use of the sun and stars.
My ebullience for his shame to prevail
Was astounding and supreme.
I brood on these attractive and comely
Thoughts,
Ones of the reality in this demure boy.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Atoms
Atoms are back, balls of flame, swung into desuetude,
For they are light particles of enlightenment, to worship.
Comely atoms are effervescent, for they are with ebullience,
Areas are still, areas are bands of strength, banks of disuse.
May we swing into disuse one day with atoms and molecules,
Converted into dust, covered by clay as we originated from it;
Animals corrupt the ancient philosophers, apples of knowledge,
Fully like babies in perfection and perception, like arts of wholeness.
The capital of thinking regards the atoms with disgust,
My captain is a car of thoughts, drive it to reach more disuse;
The body of a book is a cynosure of this civilisation,
Swinging us into efflorescence, for we are ephemeral.
poem by Naveed Akram
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One for the Road
Untainted bliss
Infinite ebullience
There are no words
To convey happiness
The mirth brimming
In our half-full goblet
And half-empty eyes
I have never been clearer
To anybody's eyes
I never had words
I never possessed one
But with sealed lips
And bolted spirit
You offered your arms
Persistently you
Dwelled in my feigned hue
Of darkness and nonchalance
I would never know why
You painted an allegiance
In colors, in shades
Of doubles-sided blades
Sharing pains
And likewise hate
In sympathy and empathy
I have never been
In naked honesty
Our vessels
And our goblets
I'll have one for the road
Or two if I could
Keep one night in my head
In my sleep and in my wake
I shall remember you
Golden chains
I will carry you.
The mirth brimming
In our half-full goblet
And half-empty eyes
I have nev
poem by Norman Santos
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Letting Go of Wendy
Like a gypsy of the sky
Circumnavigating the hemisphere;
The hemisphere of your mind
An adroit aircraft in flight
With wings of ebullience
Stark with a spell of resilience.
Prancing past the air and moon,
Traversing the window to your room
Where a rose coil in the night
In solemn withering plight,
"Wake up lil' Wendy! "
And then you got up idly
Rising from a bed of tranquility
As Luna stroke your once golden locks
Now, marred from its luster
By the spite of Luna's finger.
"Let's fly lil' Wendy! "
And then you tried to hush me
Revealing a somnolent skin
As Luna scintillate it in stale
Incarcerated in a forgotten tale
A defunct lavish flair.
Like a withering rose
Of carnation and not red,
The scent of flower balm
Fading with the senescent.
Lil' Wendy grew coldly old
Cold as the streams in her eyes
That's when she told me how
Lil' Wendy forgot how to fly.
poem by Norman Santos
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Birthday Presents
Mine Beloved's birthday
shrinking feeling tad bit guilty
ours a tentative pencil arrangement
circumstantial conditions affording
and you radiant as ever
sun dress gleam-beam brilliant beauty
clearest light flood Julian day
sublimest nightshade
draw blind sway way
double-wrapped present presents
privy dreamy dusk musky perfume play
and how you never cease
confound astound me
beauteous beneficent baffling being
every woman and then some
we the wise of tact and discretion
convention's demand so laden
contain conduct ourselves accordingly
upon such journey's returning
the young couple
beside us on the shuttle
stupid cupid coddle cuddle
shameless belligerent ebullience bursting
parting snicker I crack upon leaving
brittle mask dam-burst thirst envy
all the while privately knowing
harbour savouring
your scent stamp floral trail intoxicant
incense rapture retrieving
vaulted treasure marking me
i will wait another day
perhaps two
before showering
for KM
randy resh 2012
poem by Randy Resh
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Enfolds me aptly
A wind runs on my face - a billow of rain.
and I to blunt the cold - a glassy cockle
it is a comely face in my mist, and pain,
and to conflate 'em with glance, in focal..
So it was you, absently, to speak, in mind
was it my drift, a dalliance, but dead,
to go under a snowy quilt, dull and blind,
maybe to stop my messaging, that bled.
I felt, my ebullience was a Naiad's bliss,
expanded in ethereal, nightly backdrops,
her tales brought to me a kind Abyss,
full of caresses, dulcet treats an' nyctalops.
To disinherit this entropy of bluish grip
around my wrist; also diffused in waves,
she ruled my foolish notions ever since,
with an urge to embrace again - in grave.
A spilled flow of Crimson log, my loss,
oblating to empty dreams, I exit lines,
of horizontal destinies in darkened chaos,
her windy tears of solitude, in brines.
So, I open my glassy sails in bridal space
so happy is my heart and beating madly,
a cold wind is blowing, icy on my face,
an open Chaos under me enfolds me aptly.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Memento
Vertiginously suspended
in my own voracious web,
forage for the silver thread
and find my soul ensnared
and feeding on regrets
Watch my endeavors
metamorphose into a ghost
inside my labyrinthine maps
as I chase the frontier
of the impassable night
and beg to remain undiscovered
under the generous screen
of her jet black locks
defensive and afraid
Sing with my tuned laments
the maddening madhouse of
holiness and obsession
and infuse your own delusion,
Concoct the perfect limbo
that will bear oblivion
and dance along into
my farce tempo
Listen to the sound of
my broken simpers,
my defunct synapses and
my furrowed whispers -
the paradoxical morphing of
my make-believe indifference,
my sedative ebullience
Unwove me with utmost care
Bask under my parasol
the dislimning weather
and abating wanderlust
like a flustered vicissitude
molting skins forever but
never ending for what
had already begun
Like a formless soul
and a dazed sunset
I have nothing grand
like a footprint ashore
constantly washed away
by the leonine water
Muse upon my reflection
ensconced in myriad failures
my memento is a lonely man
painted in vexation from
what went wrong and
who he had become.
poem by Norman Santos
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Postcards
The pageantry of bliss -
I watched them in full light
that burns out the soft graze
Why, on a sunny August,
with passersby gilded by ebullience
do I have to be a wretched man?
The mirrors bend backwards
to my toppling complacence
and slivers uncouthly when
I unfurl my crooked teeth
in what should look like a smile
I counted the black birds
that perched on electric lines,
I counted the phone's dial tones,
but I cannot count the thorns
tossed upon my open sleep
that sent my dreams in an asylum
The night will always arrive
exacerbating a painful affliction
where I am enthused to write
and these words I tinker
will try to tickle the tassels
on the fringes of your blanket
And I didn't need to count
the diminutive tragedies
and benumbing dejections
for they are always abundant
guised as cold orbs assailed
into the inverted stygian ocean
When the clock falls into sequence
and quintessential pain engulfs
the root of my prime disease: love,
my words beget the stark naked frailty
and hoists an oppressive defense
in a hapless, puny onslaught
Where are those postcards
that lured me with sunshine?
Those kind words that were
as generic as a wanton smile?
Those postcards enveloped
in the treacherous skin of hope?
poem by Norman Santos
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Fall
Fall has arrived
And with it
The enigmatic ebullience of being alive.
As colors caress catharsis and sweet smells soothe serene
The wayward wind whistles a melancholy tune,
Prophesying: 'It will all end, and quite soon.'
Even thus the forshadowed finish
Seems ultimately right,
As leaves from their worldly place
Take quiet flight.
And by instinct the free flying birds
Decide to follow the great calling
Of which, it seems, only they have heard.
The entire world joins to sing:
An epiphany has surely fell,
Throughout all creation
With an efficacious word to tell...
For the old passes on
and all becomes new,
as nature here gives a glimpse
of the most astounding view.
- Oh, but how, how to describe the undefinable depth of life,
Life I find in the aura of fall?
How to express what I hear
In its mournful longing call? ... (sigh) ...
I feel as one pleasingly possessed
By an intimate devine beau geste.
I know not where it leads
Only that I earnestly desire to go,
To that holy realm that the fall
Does deeply intend to show.
- Autumn's allegorical allure
Pierces my somber soul,
Like a heated knife
With pain and warmth,
Producing an urgent desire
For a truer life.
More than any other, this time of year,
Brings the sensation that creation seems to sigh, and to say:
'God's long awaited completion draws ever near.'
-
This is only part of what I feel
In the cool autumn breeze,
A mere portion of what I see
In the blazing fallen leaves.
A sense, and a vision of renewal
For all that has fatally fell,
Enduring unto an exultant ending
That each story shall finally, beyond the fall, fully tell.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Scent of a Woman
Oh, and what body does a woman hold
That men grow fond of it so much,
Never giving attention to her tender heart,
Supple skin, simple joys, clear ebullience,
Diamond eyes, strands of hair like the skyline
Scented breath like extravagant wine,
What of it? I do not know,
And the mystery of a woman
Lies not facile
A woman is subtle
She speaks plainly,
But the message is eloquent and dashing
A woman will forever be enamoring.
The laugh,
As she breaks in a peal of patrician laughter
The sound it makes,
Must and should be the greatest symphony
That a man’s decrepit ear would ever get a hold of
Her volatile state, of swinging like a pendulum
From sadness to merriment
Is not a question – it is a quest
On how a man should station a woman
In an unmoveable state of perfect bliss,
And not the city of poignant frowns and tears.
The way a woman finds you,
With her gritty hands like the sea and the sand,
Is in synch not with fate, for fate is a lie,
But with perfection that cannot be grasped
The blarney of a woman,
If you feel it within you,
It renders you whole and free
Oh, the ways of a woman
I could never ever forget.
The way a woman leaves you,
With her spiteful intent and ardent disdain
Will cause you to afflict more pain in your sleep
And think about the greatest loss
She will leave you cold
Barren, deserted, an arid region in your heart
Will remain there forever
Intact, like the memories of how
It took a matter of seconds to converse,
And a whole lifetime to forget and depart.
The ways of a woman,
I might not have seen all their kind
But I know, each one is a rare find
And so I have found one,
And lost it along the way,
In the revelry of dismay,
And the mourning of disarray
But I will never forget
Her ways, her scent
Her eyes of iridescence
And my years of decadence
I am left with countless women,
One has etched
A dream far-fetched
Now gone,
Slithering like black water.
Gone
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Love And Marilyn Monroe
(after Spillane)
Let us be aware of the true dark gods
Acknowledgeing the cache of the crotch
The primitive pure and pwerful pink and grey
private sensitivites
Wincing, marvelous in their sweetness, whence rises
the future.
Therefore let us praise Miss Marilyn Monroe.
She has a noble attitude marked by pride and candor
She takes a noble pride in the female nature and torso
She articualtes her pride with directness and exuberance
She is honest in her delight in womanhood and manhood.
She is not a great lady, she is more than a lady,
She continues the tradition of Dolly Madison and Clara
Bow
When she says, "any woman who claims she does not like
to be grabbed is a liar!"
Whether true or false, this colossal remark
states a dazzling intention...
It might be the birth of a new Venus among us
It atones at the very least for such as Carrie Nation
For Miss Monroe will never be a blue nose,
and perhaps we may hope
That there will be fewer blue noses because
she has flourished --
Long may she flourish in self-delight and the joy
of womanhood.
A nation haunted by Puritanism owes her homage and
gratitude.
Let us praise, to say it again, her spiritual pride
And admire one who delights in what she has and is
(Who says also: "A woman is like a motor car:
She needs a good body."
And: "I sun bathe in the nude, because I want
to be blonde all over.")
This is spiritual piety and physical ebullience
This is vivd glory, spiritual and physical,
Of Miss Marilyn Monroe.
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Good Friday
O my chief good,
How shall I measure out thy blood?
How shall I count what thee befell,
And each grief tell?
Shall I thy woes
Number according to thy foes?
Or, since one star show'd thy first breath,
Shall all thy death?
Or shall each leaf,
Which falls in Autumn, score a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit be sign
Of the true vine?
Then let each hour
Of my whole life one grief devour:
That thy distress through all may run,
And be my sun.
Or rather let
My several sins their sorrows get;
That as each beast his cure doth know,
Each sin may so.
Since blood is fittest, Lord to write
Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight;
My heart hath store, write there, where in
One box doth lie both ink and sin:
That when sin spies so many foes,
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes
All come to lodge there, sin may say,
'No room for me', and fly away.
Sin being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep possession with thy grace;
Lest sin take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.
poem by George Herbert
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Sonnet: As Human Beings, We All Have Problems
Which man on earth is free of all problems?
We earthlings face both happiness and woes;
All can’t be Gold, Diamonds or uncut Gems!
Sad days come to both friends and even foes.
The richest man on earth has problems too,
And spends much time in trying to them solve;
The poorest men on earth have suffered; so
Men can’t their problems on their own resolve.
The secret tool that helps all is prayer!
We ought to pray for ourselves, friends and foes;
The Godless men like rain-less trees wither!
Prayers help men to solve problems and woes.
Pray from your heart to God whenev’r you can;
Alone, you cannot gain Heaven, O Man!
6-9-2001
poem by John Celes
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He who laughs at others' woes finds few friends and many foes.
Sylvan Guest in the Forlorn Forest
As I lay in the resentment of serrated ryes
And beneath the tempest of impaling lances
That I stashed inside the scathing frame
Of my blatant harlequin repose;
Such a sapid filth, such a torment,
A stranger intruded my forlorn forest
Marauding with a flock of gypsies and pixies
Cloven beneath the echoes of her gyratory
Ebullience, submerged in her spruce plumes,
She laid another set of superfluous cards
In a house of marble and sycophantic pillars—
In the form of her vessel; gilded jewelries
Sealed in sprightly paintings and poetries
All for a shambling gambler's ineptitude
And unsheathe a sword of nimble odds
Succoring, caressing, a despondent hand
In an earnest finagling, you've sublimated
An ornate forest into a lustrous Silver Lake
Adorned by a buoyant polished Swan
Pardon my florid tongue, please do not dispense
This guise I feigned inside a poetry into
A brazen, unabashed, and deprived blarney
And I plea, do not err, do not be beguiled
For truth be unfurled, I like you
In the most unromantic fashion
So as to keep it unstained from treachery
And so, one night I opted to fold a letter
And slip it inside the notches of your door
And as I waft in writing you an epistle
About the gaiety, your gaiety, that tinkers
Beneath your wings, do you know that you have wings?
I saw you used it to inscribe and paint
And probe and divulge the unwritten splendor
Basking in every insignificant possessions
I dallied and mused upon your enigmatic grace
Are you the Zephyr: an ubiquitous crooning?
Or a damsel lost between your own lines?
Or a dreamer at the veers of every stroke?
A sanguine nomad in supernovas, or her fancy, thereof?
Perhaps, you are the psychedelic sunrise
Grazing the films of my weary eaves
And I would not permit Atropos or The Sisters
To rust our modest yet pliant chains
And the combing of your seething rays
Beaux of the unnamed king,
That thrones in a museum,
This is what I meant
When I called you a rubber duck,
You are, pleasantly, a guest
Purging an ornate forlorn forest.
poem by Norman Santos
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Inside the Red Hole
Inside the Red Hole,
With snow balls falling from left and right!
But you are now hiding in the Oval Office,
Because the 'Chicago Tribune' met your nakedness! !
Love my muse and learn from my ways,
And like words from your lover in the land of roses;
But i am now inside the Red Hole to rest my mind,
For your foes are now like my woes!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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No Money. No Honey.
In today’s murderously barbarous world outside; life
without money was like that bumble bee; boisterously
buzzing and harboring unprecedented love all right;
but without even the tiniest iota of mesmerizing
honey,
In today’s satanically uncouth world outside; life
without money was like that ocean; blissfully
undulating and harboring unsurpassable love all right;
but without even the slightest pinch of tantalizing
salt,
In today’s delinquently treacherous world outside;
life without money was like that tree; celestially
breathing and harboring invincible love all right; but
without even the most diminutive trace of enchanting
fruit,
In today’s derogatorily disdainful world outside; life
without money was like that sky; endlessly extending
and harboring insurmountable love all right; but
without even the most infinitesimal trickle of
voluptuous cloud,
In today’s ignominiously salacious world outside; life
without money was like that rose; majestically crimson
and harboring unshakable love all right; but without
even the most mercurial shade of ingratiating scent,
In today’s lugubriously monotonous world outside; life
without money was like that bird; gleefully flying and
harboring unstoppable love all right; but without even
the most ethereal speck of quintessential nest,
In today’s plaintively parasitic world outside; life
without money was like that pinnacle; unflinchingly
towering and harboring perpetual love all right; but
without even the most transient ray of Omnipotent
Sunlight,
In today’s remorsefully licentious world outside; life
without money was like that eye; flirtatiously
fluttering and harboring insurmountable love all
right; but without even the most evanescent mirror of
resplendent sight,
In today’s preposterously invidious world outside;
life without money was like that well; mystically
hollow and harboring tremendous love all right; but
without even the most minuscule speck of indispensable
water,
In today’s vindictively vandalizing world outside;
life without money was like that dwelling;
incomprehensibly vast and harboring unconquerable love
all right; but without even the most reminiscent twig
of sequestering roof,
In today’s disastrously sinful world outside; life
without money was like that rainbow; artistically
appearing and harboring bountiful love all right; but
without even the most obsolete shade of vividly
enthralling color,
In today’s pathetically morose world outside; life
without money was like that waterfall; stupendously
uninhibited and harboring indomitable love all right;
but without even the most remotest fraction of spell
binding freshness,
In today’s notoriously commercial world outside; life
without money was like that candle; spell bindingly
sculptured and harboring limitless love all right; but
without even the most transient waft of eternally
optimistic flame,
In today’s venomously crippling world outside; life
without money was like that child; blissfully
burgeoning and harboring unprecedented love all right;
but without even the most infidel impression of
immaculately tantalizing mischief,
In today’s baselessly incarcerating world outside;
life without money was like that soldier;
patriotically blazing and harboring unequivocal love
all right; but without even the most inconspicuous
trace of glorious victory,
In today’s dreadfully asphyxiated world outside; life
without money was like that butterfly; harmlessly
nestled and harboring pristine love all right; but
without even the most dwindling mentions of untamed
frolic,
In today’s manipulatively sick world outside; life
without money was like that brain; astoundingly
synchronized and harboring undefeated love all right;
but without even the most ephemeral mist of exotically
fragrant fantasy,
In today’s thoughtlessly estranged world outside; life
without money was like body; tirelessly moving and
harboring insatiable love all right; but without even
the most invisible cistern of Omnisciently blessing
breath,
And in today’s miserably beleaguered world outside;
life without money was like that heart; thunderously
scarlet and harboring ecstatic love all right; but
without even the most capricious innuendos of immortal
beats….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Lonely & Alone
Lonely when someone feels
Alone is he the only one
He thinks
Never is it the true
For the one is
Always preoccupied
With thoughts and whelms
With friends and foes
With good and bad
Which is always inside the one?
So he should never think of himself
As the one lonely and alone
Who is left deserted in the world
The redeeming feature is that
The lonely and alone is always
The one surrounded with people
And friends and foes
Where he is always left deserted when
He needs them most.
poem by Surabhi Gupta
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