He caught a ride to somewhere going nowhere;
first hopped inside a slowed-down limousine.
The driver felt a chill and turned to stare
at someone seated in the back unseen.
A new car’s scent; the passenger smelled nothing.
The seat of luxury he could not feel.
The driver then off-key began to sing
to no one as he slowly tapped the wheel.
His passenger joined in and crooned unheard
that ancient tune “It was a very good year,”
his old blue eyes once clear becoming blurred,
and down his cheek there rolled a single tear.
Again compelled, the chauffeur turned his head -
then saw a small spot where the tear was shed.
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
I love the smell and softness
of a flower as it lay
spread in splendid color
and sweet aroma stayed
like a virgins' kiss
with inviting touch
that gently opens
to give itself away.
Released and slowly drifting to the earth,
the leaf departs her tree in mournful grace;
though both will live to see another birth,
none same will be returning in her place.
We meet as always in the space between
the branch's bud and parting leaf stem's end;
a tearful eye, a tugging force unseen
does will the laws reverse, gravity bend.
Enhanced though was the nearly naked tree
by springtime's bloom, her fallen trembling love -
released to serve another destiny -
in turn, will be the better than above.
Leaf falls to rest, and in her fading sigh,
she breathes to tree her final sad goodbye.
My sweetest cravings, fledglings in a nest,
were held up high; into the air released
by my eager child’s hands. A world to test
was mine before youth’s wishing time had ceased.
The birds who have come back to visit me
are well-remembered dreams that have come true.
The pleasant yellow finch; the chickadee
and skylark gave me nothing I should rue.
The cardinal would warble in my ear.
I yearned for him, but he did not stay long.
The bluebird too I hoped to always hear.
She comes and goes. At times I hear her song.
And long forgotten wishes to grow older
are sparrows at my door as life grows colder.
The afternoon outlined. The sunny strokes
of a samurai blade on her body
revealing things the eyes feign see.
Tempted, wounded, the virgin parchment floats
between her skin and satin cloak.
Artist; afternoon, craving company
draws her inside-out so innocently,
on purpose leaves the yolk indwelling.
The painter in the corner moans,
he jealous of the afternoons artly
Improving skin, bare olive tones
of subtle pastel, the moment partly lost
to the constellations.
A dreadful memory upon life’s sea
Returns to the days when life was carefree.
A spiritual youth faced the world alone.
Distracted by life and its sinful groan.
I thought that my Savior was by my side.
Whispers from Satan deceived my abide.
There is no God; it is a ruler’s toy.
To make men subservient was the ploy.
Scientists discovered we came from apes.
Questioning God, I ate bananas, grapes.
The devil deceived me with many lies.
Despite my souls whisper and needed cries.
I turned away from God for a short time.
When wisdom returned, life became sublime.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
October 26, 2010
I want to be alone where skylarks sing
Where primroses grow wild and bluebells ring
Where sweet the fragrant scent of Mountain thyme
Back in the glen that once was yours and mine
I’m wistful for the sights, the sounds, the smells
The purple evening sheen of heather bells
I miss the gloaming’s hazy mellow light
As summer’s day fades slowly into night
My heart tells me, I’m lost, I must return
To see my highland home, my woodland burn
Refresh, and set my captive spirit free
Among the hills forever calling me
This lonely pain is razor sharp and strong
Tomorrow I go back where I belong.
SUNDAY DINNER (Hillbilly sonnet)
Ma's cookin now, so come and set a spell
and you can bet we'll have her Sunday best
before the settin sun, and who can tell
what's on her stove--but it will meet the test.
Can't you just smell that fryin chicken now?
And you must know the gravie's fresh and hot
for pourin on them taters--I allow
a little more than I should have--so what?!?
The butter it just melts on bread so light
to compliment the vegetables we grow,
now if you know a life that's half as right
as this, you'd better make it yours to know.
And I will say the grace, to thank God for
what He has give--so He will give us more.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
She so lovingly remembers her grandfather here.
Tho many years gone; his memories kept near.
This book he read to her while she sat in his lap.
Taking her on great adventures; imaginations tapped.
Inhaling the aroma of orange blossoms, sweet.
Hungry after each journey, this fruit they would eat.
Filled with such nostalgia it's his scent she misses;
cherry pipe tobacco, also tasted on his kisses.
This has become a tradition for her each year;
happy memories filling her with joy, never tears.
For he is on an adventure in paradise now;
another for her to join him, when she is laid in the ground.
She will read to her grandchildren from this old book one day.
Where precious memories of her in this garden will be made.
Contest: A poem in Paradise
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Ah quanta nostalgia
Ah what memories
Mentre tutto va
When everything’s going
Oltre I limiti della mia fantasia
Beyond your wildest dreams
Dove tutto e paradise se
Where all is paradise
Giorni di liberta di festa
A day of freedom and celebration
La musica dolce suorna
The sweet music plays
Io pensavo e stato giusto
I thought it was right
Voli e brividi
Thrills and dreams
With stretched brows, while sitting in a corner
I look up from my specs just out of love.
As she lays food on table and stoops lower
Snipes me from grace of her body thereof.
With eyes on her I come there as if drugged
Feeling tickling smell of the hot soup.
Now she puts a sheaf of flowers in a jug
And pours in water pressing it in group.
I see how the necks and cups get entwined
With the curls of her hair and points of crest.
See how at each stalk her waist curves defined
Budding, abloom in the shape of her breasts.
Soup and food lay cold and my body warm
As she swirls and whirls her skirt like a storm.
December 15, 2014
Form: Sonnet (Pentameter)
First Place win
Best of 2014 by Carol Eastman
"...when power corrupts, poetry cleanses."
--John F. Kennedy
A frat asked, will you ever forgive her?
Come! The house has a toast for you tonight!
Now forget—this is not the way you were!
Let’s walk frat, tomorrow will be alright!
Let her go and have her own way each day;
Cleanse the taint with an aromatic bath
Let done be done forever—God molds the clay;
Come! Stand with us—let Him show you the path.
When entreated with her loveliest lies
Spread your wings to the sky with open ears;
Brittle vows and fragile oaths always die
Shallow days, months, years they too disappear.
Upon the rising sun—look to the East,
A royal feast, my frat—that’s the least!
© Joseph, October 22, 2008
© All Rights Reserved
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.
Where were you when my world fell apart?
The Sun darkened and the Moon just fled.
All had been done and all had been said.
And ripped to shreds was my beating heart.
Even the Seas began to part.
And the Mountain tops spread.
I lay there completely dead.
Even the Stars I could not chart.
If only you knew,
If only you were there,
If only you had a clue!
If only life had been fair!
I’d turn the clocks back,
Still standing dead in my track!
A sold-out house the excitement grows
Electric stage pumping music builds
He always brings spectacular shows
Awesome concerts since sixty-seven
The master artist his power wields
Sir Elton John, this crowd's in heaven
Power ballads of sweet rock and roll
Piano genius is in his hands
Rhythm and blues performance has soul
Mesmerizing fans for four decades
Three hour marathons for loyal fans
Flamboyant Brit in his famous shades
A sold-out house the excitement grows
Power ballads of sweet rock and roll!
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Contest Name: Your Favorite Artist
Dangling from the tree I can see,
Broken wind chimes that still sing.
They just hang on by a split string.
Sending a harmony of tunes to thee.
Their tones and vibrations are a bit broken for me.
I listen and I ponder for what tunes they can bring.
From the tree they will sway when they can swing.
Bits and pieces are released through the air and flee.
Caught in the wind is it’s vibrations.
Carrying signals of great magnitude.
Funneling clouds into new creations.
Bringing air into a brand new mood.
Broken wind chimes can still sing a song,
But their messages are scattered all along.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
Twelve and twenty black birds baked in a pie
Sounds to me disgusting, would probably make me die
I hate those big blackbirds that pilfer on the street
I can't imagine that they would ever taste sweet
What kind of baker would bake them in a pie
Sounds like he was drinking or probably getting high
I like my pies with fresh fruit or creamy custard
I can't even imagine a pie that's filled with black birds
Sometimes those authors of Mother Goose rhymes
Must have been with Edgar cutting up some lines
Or maybe with that Lewis Carroll smoking opium
For the things they wrote back then were more scary than fun
Living in a shoe, or being Jack so quick
It seems ridiculous to jump over a candlestick.
While dreaming of my childhood ocean ties,
mem'ry's chandelier sheds light, somewhat eclipsed.
The essence of the salt still stings my eyes;
the rusty taste of iron hangs on my lips.
The ocean’s fragrant spray not quite so fair
as I recall; it makes me think of death.
Many a moon has set since I was there;
destiny speaks to me - my own last breath.
The ocean’s soft waves bring dulcet mem’ries,
my mama’s silk scarf brushing ‘gainst my face.
Turbulent storms always left me on my knees
under safe precipice back of our place.
It is there my dreams rest as I stand by;
it’s there I shall be buried when I die.
inspired by nette onclaud's poem from 6/12/11, Even After Twilight Loves
We miss you, nette, and long for inspirations from your pen as you have time and
energy. Meanwhile we read your poetry and pray for whatever keeps you away from us to end.
Who shall dare to die or to love among the Furies?
Not carry us by lustiness rather by the purpose, wisdom
Whose radiant rage welcomes you and the ambiguities?
And if that unfair, dropsy with pain, then none creates martyrdom;
To recall part of our age, oh bone! The hide prize
From our own mistake in front of the angers and crimes
Aside what left, for in the bloody world that appear to allegorize
And the hate melt cannot freeze from the above cleomes;
Remember we pass through, seal by a target unseen
From a God to subserve in massive, superlove, with such thing
Longingly upon the unforgiving hills from that delirious tween
Of the idea, screaming from every angles the abjuring
Horizon in red; and throw into inflammation,
A day end, nothing to reconcile, a caste of passion.
On the walls of an old rickety shed
Are names of sojourners who've passed this way:
Now my wandering boot does older tread
Where I passed on a long forgotten day!
Journey back to the mud lakes of mangrove
Drinking tall beer, plunging its tidal churn
Where beneath the waves the taniwha rove,
And the flight squadron aerodrome lights burn.
On turning flood are cold billowy depths
With swirling dark eddies bottled and stoned:
In idle times I climbed those ocean steps
Contrived and lonely - but rarely alone!
In my salty muse turns the clock and key
Back to these silent echoes by the sea.
That road was called Attwood Road, which
Led to Pare' Wharf in Auckland, New Zealand.
Alas, I knew it well!
Taniwha: pronounced...tan-e-fa: is a mythical
Creature that lives in the sea.
As sure as I stand in the mixed of this garden,
Glimmering gold falls to the earth by my call.
Many are great and then some are a bit small.
I release magnets clutching an obscene pardon.
It is like balancing a beam that only I will harden.
I wrap myself into a silver plated resilient shawl.
Person place and time steadily climb up to maul.
It’s a give or take rejection expected to turn on.
One day ye shall see,
My Moon half drawn,
Ye see it was all of me.
Your Sun will be gone.
Only one Star shall rise up above my name.
It’s a special place inside my heart I frame!
®Registered: Ann Rich 2007
Oh, you're brilliant, you deciduous darling
I'm falling for your colorful ways
leaving me tumbling and a'swirling
Autumn, I'm in love with you today
Take me down your sentimental paths
rustling my memories hued into now
and leave them there smelling past
the years I still remember somehow
Rising scents burning smoky flaring
youth revisits my ancient memories
t'was good to recall that time sharing
days running toward life's vagaries
Not knowing our coming appreciation
making it blazing to Autumn's elation
© Goode Guy 2012-11-14
double Chaney Lugosi and Karloff
those four are the most known monsters all time
and each monster they portrayed had spinoff
I grew up with those monsters on prime time
my mother saw them in the theatres
I saw them years later on the tv
the Cheneys’ monsters hasn’t been better
today the classic monsters hard to see
those monsters like poetry my fine wine
my mother enjoyed Dracula the most
Abbott and Costello met Frankenstein
all the monsters today are way to gross
Lon didn’t want his son to follow him
the wolfman out lived his father’s phantom
CIL MAOLCHEADAIR (Kilmalkedar)
On such an Irish spring and drizzle morn,
she wandered through the graveyard, looking for
the Celtic dream from which her past was born,
and every sight brought her to wanting more;
she dreamt her roots from carvings on a stone
as if she understood each chip as real,
passed down to only her, and her alone,
from pagan worship she could almost feel;
and she could bundle them within her mind
to share with Pennsylvania kith and kin,
perhaps the magic, if still there to find,
would be an understanding where they've been;
and she will burn her candles every night,
hoping Kilmalkedar will make it right.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
You are but a noun do you know?
Inside of you lie me, myself, and I.
Residing in light of your naked eye,
This is how divine seeds sow a row.
Sown high or low,
So do not be shy.
And do not sigh.
And never, let go.
Orient yourself times three,
To person place and time!
You are rooted like a tree,
And it is secured to climb!
Who is that light form living inside of you?
And who is that silent one that you talk to?
®Registered: Ann Rich 2006
No not the portrait when you were younger, my dear
Just a Polaroid snapshot at the beach that year
No earrings, no make-up, your hair was a mess
("So what? Got a problem? I couldn't care less!")
Brother-in-law behind you, muggin' like a fool
Our nephew beside him, tryin' to look cool
You had a little patch of sand on your chin
But oh, what a smile; what a wide, joyful grin!
Living that moment, on a rollicking high
Complete in the present, no when and no why
(Now you're tucked away safe in our own special place
So you'll always stay with me when I tremble and ache
Sometimes I unfold you when I miss you too much
Press you tight to my forehead and weep at your touch)
April 28, 2010
My Super Sonnet
Multiple overwhelming thoughts trample upon me in a wild way.
Stunned as well as in awe I am compelled to rise upon my own.
So then I thought no possible way, I will have to be overthrown.
Yes, I definitely have to be thrillistically creative every single day.
Now I am living it and now I know excellence so longer I stay.
Yeah, I do have it going on and got it all nailed to a white stone.
You see, now it is on! I’m sizzling hot up on my game full-blown.
Yes, yes, yes, we are on some kind of fire would you like to play?
I am going to think about you on this full moon.
Maybe you have dug yourself into a cozy grave.
Maybe you like the way I situate myself so soon.
Maybe its resistible greed or I’m just that brave!
Look! I’m feeling you out bringing you my super sonnet, a tat for tit.
Indeed! I’m your full spread of Par-Kay or Blue Bonnet, I’m up on it!
® Registered: Ann Rich 2010
I raised my pen in hope of a new thought,
When an idea struck me much joy it brought,
As a sonnet i wish to carry forth,
In dark some night, it shines bright as a torch;
If only love could be a fairytale,
On a beautiful yacht we both would sail,
Under the starry heavens filled with stars,
Deep in thoughts thinking about how you are;
I turn to you and gaze into your eyes,
To know that love is not another lie,
A sonnet i completed with much ease,
I felt relieve as love would never cease...
When you left, the lights faded
The blue skies turned grey
When you left, my emotions died
I thought I’d never survive that day
When you felt the curtains closed
And the stage faded to black
When you left, life strangled itself
And hope hid between heartbreak and despair
When you left, every image blurred.
But that spark remained alight
A tiny reminder of life’s resurrection
The sky turning back to blue
The reopening of the curtains to a lighted stage
A possibility, a tiny jest of instinct
In my mind I met you halfway
But my heart held back astride
For when you left, it died.