Featuring:) Giorgio Veneto
She writes about Fall's beauty in the rain
The falling raindrops' dance ascribing thence
Bespoken verse that lightens her refrain
before the time they met - her steps commence.
She listens to the soft and rhythmic thrum,
her love turned to escape and cloudy string
Where nimbus mistletoe fell, tears to become
Their kiss of Autumn was symbolic ring.
The first light cotton mists with summer rays
While skyward cheerful laughs adorn the land,
their ceremonial dance diffuses grays,
affectionate embrace, where dreams expand.
Upon September's sky the raindrops gleam
With half of hidden Sun to laugh and beam.
Enjoy the FRAGRANCE OF RAIN
FRAGRANCE OF RAIN
~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~
The void calls through gossamer veils and widow's peak.
Shifty-eyed now of necessity I lie, bone-wrapped
in rosaries black as my rheumy eyes, death speaks.
Uncomforted by down or velvet, role trapped
corseted, board stiff with age like calf skin vellum
peeled and bloodied by the dual edged knife of man.
The scene is set and I shall not whimper, as do some,
or call to God, or blame the fates of those whose clans
remain earth-bound, when I have left this mortal glade.
Pigment on canvass, linseed loosed, stretchers taut, displayed,
all of this, I've had a plenty, and been royally paid.
My life was art, and it was art that fanned my life's flame.
So, stretch me on the pine boards and lay my edges down;
monochrome me in umber, drench me in shades of brown.
Self Portrait See About the Poem
Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved,
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages, unknown
Where propriety mattered, and was favored as gold,
high society, has gathered to flavor their tea
There's a trellis, embraced by a rose climbing vine
Places are set, for dining in jade
beneath shadows that stretch under arthritic old trees
While slivers of sunshine, squeeze through the branches
of silver leafed limbs, in magnolia bloomed shade
Tea will be served, by large knuckled hands
at several round tables dressed with Swiss lace designs
Wearing lavender silk is our proper Grand Dame'
who fits her surroundings, as vintage as wine
Voices are lilting like the birds in the trees
Laughter and chatter, mingle with soft, summer breezes
A bouquet of old friends, around a few scattered tables.
Silver coifed hairdos, to make celebration
Crepe myrtle and wrinkles, beneath ashes and maples
Water cress munchies, and triangle creations
Sweet honey-suckle, tucked over the porches.…
Rose petal blossoms, are painted on china
Bridge cards, tumble by Blue Willow dishes
Biscuits from England, crumble sublimely
Large bosoms bouncing, and big floppy hats
Gossip dished up with lemon-sliced frowns
Up in the tree is the neighbor's calico cat
who catches a glance, and a chance to crawl down
Are they ladies of leisure, from a time that is lost?
Or a painting I've seen on the wall from the past?
Inspired By the Garden Party Contest
Sponsored By Cyndi McMillan 6/6/14
Those Glory Days, Long Gone
Those glory days resting so far bygone
I trek ahead, sad and so all alone
Treasures left upon lofty mountain tops
Rushing ever foward, no time for stops
Days, we resting under a shading oak
loving in vows that we forever spoke
Coolest mornings, breezing days easing minds
days of joy in all the many new finds
Those views of life sing forever above
crystal dreams set in our undying love
Nights of magic in epic love unbound
blisses in every kiss our wet lips found
Memories of days and nights now alone
holding memories of life so long gone!
Robert J. Lindley, 09-07-2014
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Total # Words: 100
Did it , hit exactly one hundred words + ten syllables
per line and great rhyme.. A solid sonnet according to
my own personal standards. Wrote it and had to minor
correct only three lines..
Of clay and water, I am made;
day in, day out, here I stay.
My soul, it yearns, to live and learn;
as humans have, for all times turn.
As passersby, all stare at me;
I ever long to be set free.
Trapped here in a stony chest;
I suppose, it’s for the best.
No elation, I will feel;
no joy of dance, jig or reel.
I stand alone, for all to see;
a human, I will never be.
Simply put, I stand alone;
just another treasure, some museum owns.
A mind puzzled by distortions around,
To extreme patters like vast stars when burst.
It spins abstracted in squares, all around;
Like a wild beast dying of utmost thirst.
Thoughts spin like a large spiral galaxy.
Words mixed up, locked in the back of the mind.
Life swings like stones defying gravity,
Carried around the world by the north wind.
Will you revive the memories so fond?
Laid on a bed of undying roses?
Will you thrive to bring back the divine bond?
Before this disturbed mind ride six horses?
Upon dreams beyond imagination,
The restless mind awaits your affection.
She does not see him gazing at her there
Immersed in lines of splendor, quite divine
To him it seems she is an angel fair
Her flowing robes caress a figure fine
Pressed to her bosom is a blossom sweet
The fragrance is to him what she exudes
Upon her face the flush of midday heat
No longer can he wait, so he intrudes
“Pray tell me what it be that you peruse
That hides from me the light of angel eyes?
What makes your cheeks so rosy, my dear muse?”
He asks and hopes his love she’ll not chastise
And paradise is his with her reply
“I read of you and now you have come by.”
For Isaiah Zerbst's Contest
A Poem in Paradise
July 14, 2014
What loathesome burden wears your weary heart
a trinket on a cold and hoary hand?
And in its dark tide drowns the cheery part
to keep you bound, a pet, upon its strand?
Without a keel, alone and sad, unmanned
to sail the main and brave the tempest storm;
it claims the fairer part with stark demand,
and wails its horrid knell upon reform.
Stand now and rend the pall that kept you warm
and stagnant to the early morning light.
Cast out the deaf'ning rage of crushing swarm
and air the sweetness of your bitter plight.
Release your deathly grip on this disease,
And from your fingers let it fly the breeze.
I dreamed a black; an onyx lake
before the sun’s first dawning rays
its surface marble smooth and makes
no sound without the warmth of day
I saw myself; a ghost it seemed
stripped naked on the grassy floor
beneath the waning moon’s cold beams
just staring at the other shore
From far away a whip-poor-will
called lonely, just a sleepy song
it tickled in the morning chill
and broke the water’s pull – so strong
to slip into that silent space
where never lived a false love’s face
Listen. The colors of the notes are wrong.
Where is the perfection of sapphire-chords
that I am due? Cornflower doesn’t belong
here, plotting the composition’s borders.
Master music has all fingers contorting
to fit themselves into the metronome’s tock.
These tight strings have badly distorted
my repertoire; I’ve lost both key and lock
in a palette of sorrow that canvasses pain.
Now the cavernous range of a rhapsody
releases those scales of anguish again
until I am concert and concert is me.
Dissonance and harmony do not combine,
Still, under sockets, lack and blue shines.
*inspired by Picasso's The Old Guitarist and pianist David Helgott's struggle with mental illness.
Film strip slick as it slides through my fingers
chemical smell on my skin it lingers.
Eyes adjusted to the limited sight,
Perfection a process to get things right.
From reel to wash, demands of attention,
all I want is nothing but perfection.
I am the master, for I captured time.
Poetry without the words or the rhyme.
Reverse fading, the images appear,
Black and white, the sight becomes crystal clear.
Oh my angel I have captured you with grace,
as the sun exposed the curves of your face.
You exposed your soul, I exposed my heart,
such is the process to bring the world art.
For Contest- Black and White Film Photography
Form- Sonnet- 14 lines, 10 syllables per line, end rhyme.
Date- March 11, 2015
Name- Adam Hunter
OUR MIDNIGHT PLACE
As certain as the rains do fall in spring,
will be my love, for you to have and hold,
and know you now--my rain of love will bring
to you, all joy of which all love is told.
No one could ever count the drops that fall,
and so is put together, love for you,
numbers cannot be given them at all,
though put together, one is what will do.
And every single drop adds beauty there
to something we can call a rainy day,
to fill with love, made up, from everywhere,
the drops of life that make love what we say.
Our midnight place, your front porch, dreaming of
each drop of rain that's filled with so much love.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa
They live in mortal sin and shame
Between the lines of old and new
As us the righteous good and few
See infidels who aren't the same
How dare they question our belief
Eternal fire is prepared for
The devil and his angel scores
Who claim their brand of truth as chief
Our war is waged victorious
In time our vision shall prevail
Our purest essence, glorious
Barbarians are weak and frail
And we the meritorious
Will fight the battle tooth and nail
(Dedication: For Richard Lamoureux.)
Truth has a way to speak profound;
Indulge pure grace to heal and mend;
Meet each new day on sacred grounds;
Engage each face with love most grand;
Live well and be the steady man;
Explore your world with focus here;
Sense pure beauty and harvests then;
Soul and heart swirl as joy marks clear.
Time and space meet in visual street;
Rise to the dare that shapes your fear;
Unleash and trace true wealth you fit;
Trust in sure fare to breeze each tear;
Heal and be whole with mind and heart
See precious soul as grace imparts.
26 June 2014
Remembering that night of our last touch,
when nothing was between us we should know,
in love with loving you, and just how much
I wonder where in time do such nights go?
Forbidden like a box that's sealed up tight,
or like the flame that Zeus refused to share
with mortals such as we, and on this night,
Pandora's box was opened everywhere,
you were, that night, my first and only love
and always shall remain that part of me,
created from the earth and waters of
a night that Aphrodite made to be.
And I am more than blessed for loving you
forever and all time, as I shall do.
© RON WILSON aka vee bdosa
FIRST KISS OF OUR LOVE
I've just some things I thought your heart should hear,
since they've been weighing heav'ly on my mind,
so list' and I shall whisper to thine ear
with all compassion my poor heart can find.
You've touched me deeply with the way you smile;
such lips could sooth the beast of anyone;
and spreading love with looks must be your style
for every time our eyes meet, love comes on.
Now I'm about to kiss the lips of you
for this first time, I pray the memory
shall linger on through years life takes us through,
together, as I'm certain this will be.
This first kiss of our love will never end
and changes whom you guessed was just your friend.
© RON WILSON AKA VEE BDOSA
Auburn lady envious of the blue night with its gleaming, capturing stars;
those rare diamonds, belonging to the silent and vast Universe,
you've stolen to adorn your undulating hair,
brushed by the July's harebrained breeze,
so temptingly soft and adorably fair;
if no admirer or lover seeks you, can I offer you my first dance?
Your melancholic look is fixed downward,
and you refuse to look above, nothing excites you tonight;
your external beauty cannot be resisted or ignored,
and will an harlequin, in his vividly colored costume, make you smile?
I'll play the flute brightly and make him dance to cheer you with his wit...
until your sadness leaves no sign on that sad face!
The shrill sound of the crickets can darken your spirit; listen closely, auburn lady...
sing along with the blue night, while your musical tones become the chords of my harmony!
Inspired by Edward Robert Hughes's painting: Night
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
It burns within the heart beyond control
And sears the mind with overwhelming heat,
Yet finds no salve in seeking there the goal.
To soothe the pain it must obey the feet
Of memory and walk the inward road
Where Paradise still sings the purest note,
And pausing there, transform the fiery load
To spirit-sound which fills the throbbing throat.
The road is there, though hidden by the pall
Of ashen leaves—once Springtime green—now long
Since withered by the crippling chill of Fall.
There deep beneath still swells the primal song
With which the fire must mingle to be heard,
And with its Source unite in spoken word.
© Sandra M. Haight 2014
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Ars Poetica
Sponsor: Thomas Martin
Note: I feel that poetic creativity is an art that comes from within our soul, ingrained there by God in the days of Paradise, or the Garden of Eden. But even with the Fall of Man, this primal song is buried deep within us to be found again through the kindling of creative inspiration, “and with its Source unite in spoken word.”
Teacher, shall I write a sonnet? Must I?
When I’m not so sure of my poetry…
Shall I write a poem of fourteen lines?
In iambic pentameter –by me?
What shall I write about? What can I say?
In this sonnet which I must jot down now?
My sonnet should be about what today?
To write a great sonnet I’m not sure how…
Teacher, can I write this sonnet later
For I’m not sure of what to write about?
The teacher then takes my simple paper
And “you already did.” my teacher shouts.
‘Detention’ my teacher says, ‘for lying,’
‘But thank you,’ she adds, ‘for at least trying.’
© Mariam Mababaya.
It`s peace in the forest, this night…
All stars gathered in the same breath;
The frost`s wolf chatters his white teeth;
Mourning old trees are all covered by light;
The wind increased his obsessive white;
Neighbors: the snowmen and a glass stag
When night is finally waving its white flag,
Dreams are hanged by luminous white of the height.
Winter buried its face in frozen white lands,
Long Snow drifts grew like glass clouds above
And covered the village and half of the church;
Sun seems a squeezed lemon by white hands.
Milk dawns, glass blower speaks slowly of love;
White field sounds with crows near one silver birch.
"Poetry is a way of
taking life by the throat."
Heart broken torn apart like scrambl’d eggs;
As the weak link snapp’d momentum slow’d—stopp’d
Love wherest art thou? Torment’d now begs,
This cup of scourge, drink or not—spill’d—now mopp’d.
Et tu Brute? Whisper’d from Caesar’s lips;
Yet Romeo and Juliet once lov’d,
Like Macbeth’s witches brew—don’t drink nor sip:
Fate or faith shatter’d, vulture pick’d bones—cross’d.
Heart pleadeth upward—greater is thy love,
Open Heaven’s gate with thy purest light;
Hearest thou not the meek? Awaiting thy dove!
Remove these shadows of darkness and strife:
Greater art thou in Heaven than on Earth,
Creator of creation giveth now birth!
© Joseph, 9/4/08
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mentioned Finalist Certificate
Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest
Poetry Soup Weekly Featured Poem
Sunday, May 24, 2009, to May 31, 2009
Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine;
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.
While men worked hard until the barn was built,
the womenfolk were gathered for a bee.
They pieced together patches for a quilt
and chatted with the new bride happily.
Upon this handmade quilt were babies laid,
and eldest daughters passed the heirloom down.
That barn became the place where children played
as houses multiplied. There grew a town.
The quilt, once shown with pride, became forgot,
and decades in an attic it was stored.
One day a fire blazed; the things not sought
stayed in the loft, while saved were things adored.
And so a bride’s first gift in ashes lay;
its glory long ago had passed away.
by Andrea Dietrich
For Nette Onclaude's Contest:
Awaken from her maker's poison
Reality's her nightmare's reason
To run away from tombs that cover
The lifeless body of her lover
Barefooted... So free to love again
Waiting for him with red cheeks of rain
"The Globe" is empty, Romeo's gone
In Stratford -on - Avon she's alone
A tourist's place - the guide is pointing
A holographic disappointing
Fragmented Fate of a lonely swan
A deja vue ... I might be the one...
The stage lights died, applause in echoes
The curtain falls on ghosts of heroes...
for John's contest " Shakespearean Sonnet"
In stillness of her spirit she sits there
with all her prowess she manipulates.
Her fingers’ ripples in coldest water
replenish mind and soul that ruminates.
Playing in nocturne, she’s being witnessed
by her governess . The simplicity...
Her portraits that adduce virtues she possessed -
laconic and clear view of chastity.
Oh, renaissance woman, you shine on top,
as you incandesce in mind love of arts!
You’re a czar bringing our decorum up-
women’s pride… imbue modesty in heart.
In the silence of our heart, we listen
in these memorabilia… you remain.
Oct. 14, 2013 2.15pm
©2013by Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Sofonisba Anguissola-A contemporary Sonnet for a Renaissance
Sponsor: Poet Cyndi MacMillan
I’m Virgo, playing music tranquilly
in this self-portrait. The clavichord I chose.
It denotes fine education; the black clothes
I'm wearing prove I value chastity.
Dark as a shadow, to the left of me
is the face of my governess, which shows
I am dutiful. My face fairly glows -
lit with love for the arts and poetry!
See me in this latter portrait, still in black,
a high collar at my neck. A strange disguise
my face is now; I'm nearly taken aback
to see my sagging jowls! How dim my eyes,
and how thin my lips! But never did I lack
for love! I have lived long and have grown wise.
*Sofonisba Anguissola, who called herself Virgo, lived
from 1532 to 1625. She was a female artist known
for her great grace and modesty. I chose to write of
her using the Petrarchan Sonnet to honor her Italian heritage.
The two self-portraits described are from when she
was both young and old. I thought it interesting to
see how she changed with the years. If you copy and
paste my link, you will see several self portraits from
her youth and the two on the bottom are probably
close to when she was in her 90’s!
Please see http://bjws.blogspot.com/2013/01/1500s-woman-artist-sofonisba-anguissola.html
The moonbeams of the
Flows and sweetly kisses the
In the blue sky all-stars look
I can't stop thinking you, oh
The winds bring the soft
aroma of the belly flower
I am standing as a lonely
field near to my window
And see a couple of glow-
worm flying together
Ah! This every sweet thing
carries me to you.
Suddenly in my thoughts at
a sane island
Oh beloved! I see we both
are so close
Sharing an eternal love by
holding each other hand
From eyes to eyes, lips to
lips, nose to nose.
There we are in spiritual
love and a sacred pair
As in painting light and
shade looks pretty together.
Unimaginable design begins, in such a quiet fashion.
Just a hint appears, shaded, quivering upon limbs.
Which spread quickly, Mother Nature’s chilling whims.
Delightful colors explode, over hillsides, with passion.
Delivering sweet, falling spectacles, spreading compassion,
Blanketing countryside with color before each one dims.
Spreading stories, beautifully creating, countryside hymns,
They fade, slightly ashen, to prepare a winter ration.
Autumn season has the ability, to slow time down.
Allowing hearts, that see, to enjoy everlasting hue,
Dropping their worries, taking away any frown.
What a glorious season, that bids warmth, adieu.
True cascades, bright and cheery as a carnival clown.
Just stop, look around your neighborhood, for this view.
The Sussex lad, to title and land born,
An alumni, now he stands proudly tall.
In Oxford students pass at future’s dawn,
For some the inspiration was his call.
Provocative, a mighty pen his sword,
Expelled for godless view from hallowed hall.
The Baronet poet, friend to a Lord,
The Gothic king’s voice did incite them all.
His Mary worshipped at her husband‘s feet,
She held his heart tight from death’s final flame.
Did they engage in black acts, pagan mete?
A dark and often troubled soul laid claim.
Into the storm set sail to the end foretold,
He died before his talent could unfold.
No simple four letter word can express
when I'm in your arms I get dejavu
Tidal waves of emotions, never stress
I adore the very essence of you
No simple four letter word can express
Beneath my breast bone is your pretty face
You fill this void princess with happiness
Never alone because we're in this race
No simple four letter word good enough
My desire is fire and I'm too far gone
To describe your body sculpted above
I worship the very ground you walk on
This yearning is continued without pause,
Because we know that loving is the cause
*For Sara Kendrick's "Sonnet Me" contest
Tattooed chicks kick ass, taking names with ink
Affixed to their bodies. Naughty or not,
They got to do exactly what they got
To do, not giving a damn what you think.
Only true TATTOOED CHICKS can stop a blink,
Open an eye, and make you see how hot
Every blot is in every spot;
Down to there, even, where the ink turns pink.
Chicks with tattoos amuse us with their art,
Hearts on their sleeves, flexing creative sides.
Inked up from head to toe, they play their parts,
Creating a classic canvas with pride.
Keepsakes, the eyes can not escape, look smart,
Sketched here and sketched there with nowhere to hide.