Poem | |
On her terrace where she once had viewed a crimson field,
she stands recalling heroes who were battling their foe.
She still can feel the terror! How her poor heart reeled
thinking of her lover fighting on the field below,
with others on that plain bathed red as the sun dipped low.
The brave men lie in caskets which now are concealed
beneath a plain that ran with blood, where bright irises now grow.
She thinks of her own strong brave man, draped in white and sealed
forever in a casket too. He was her Romeo.
The sorrow flooding her she had never thought to know.
She looks down from her terrace with a heart that won’t be healed.
The mighty dead now lie in grassy fields. . . and lo!
Around the graves are swords, which are green blades revealed
with *purple flags that softly wave as a May wind starts to blow
and she is bathed in red again, there in the sun’s last glow.
* Purple flags refer to the name of the purple iris that resembles a flag
Poem | |
Look up! Snowflakes appear in streetlights
Hear children cheer as snow days are announced
Watch the powder fly during snowball fights
Listen as faith through joyful hymns is pronounced
Join snow angel brigades while on wintery landscapes we pounce
Walk briskly with me through the winter woods
Where boughs of evergreens droop with white frost
Don your boots and pull up your jacket hood
Let’s slide on the lake until our energies exhaust
Then trudge back home as snow drifts are crossed
Place damp clothes on a chair by the fireside
Pour a glass of wine and snuggle with me
Whispers of passion, ‘neath a blanket confide
Lights from the fir tree fill our hearts with glee
As you offer me your ring on bended knee
* For Carol's "Welcoming Winter" challenge
Poem | |
The first time I saw you, there was a glow about you
that baffle me. I-I just could not find the right word,
"you had that certain glow about you". Not the way you walk
nor the way you move, "but I believe in miracle's", yes
I do - yes I do. So finally I step to you and ask, would you,
could you smile ? just for the camara in my mind so that the
image of an Angel would be on my mind just in case the world
ended (today) much to soon, much before time. The first time
I saw you naked Angela, my mouth got lost for words-but the one
that slip through my lip's were (mmmunn) "what a gorcious women,
breast like lucious melons", and a voice (sweet) like that of the ocean
and wave's of heat and my idea of nerviousness brings trembeling to
"I do believe in miracle's", "I do not believe in love". Miracle's that it
take to sustain a relationship that the odd's of longivity are against us.
And we do become desponded, most of our day is spent fussing and cussing.
Never to see true love at its best. The first time our lip's did touch, I remem-
ber this Angel who I call Angela, she had my name tattoe across her chest.
Love, became the missing attraction, and you comfort me in my desire to ex
press myself, for I thought I was so macho, never in a thousand years, "will I
meet such a someone (?) that's such a women". A women (aaaah) such a
women, "from her head to her shoe".
Now Angela just in case the world ends tomorrow. Don't denie that there's an
"attraction". O'Angela.....kiss me quickly, "In the heat of Passion".
Poem | |
"Anyone there?" says Magenta Madness
A tremulous knock and wicked pink grin
Insidious.....with sly silver badness
Lethal leather and his ebony sin
Dark expectations of a soul stealing win
Uninvited, his stark entrance grand
Painted pretty, his lavender Lies...
Slides her thoughts with a daring hand
Muffles her lips and mutes all her cries
He giggles, thinking her sanity dies...
"Victory!" He shouts, as white lilies fall
Precious petals careen to glass floor
He drapes his win in a purple shawl
Turning his back, not accounting for
Her dash to sane, through a splintered door
Poem | |
A young man leads his girlfriend to a tree
one sultry summer eve as night is looming.
the branches of the old oak form a canopy
under which he leans in for a kiss, assuming
his new love also feels their romance blooming.
The pretty girl is innocent and shy,
but from the boy’s sweet kiss she feels that he
might be her one true love; more kisses make a sigh
escape her lips. Her inhibitions flee,
and touching him arouses her curiosity.
Aglow, they feel a passion all-consuming,
undressing one another as fingers fly.
The curious moon, with incandescence blooming,
peeks down from a star-bedazzled sky.
Young love with moon above shall never die.
Written 10/17/12 for Francine Robert's
Romance me with English Quintains Poetry Contest
Poem | |
The whisper of your skin
dissolving into mine -
the weight of it is kin
to that of wings of butterflies - divine
deliciousness I can’t define!
My precious love -
We meld into a sky of night that’s never been
so breathlessly partaken of
nor ever will again.
Exquisitely you paint my sweetest sin.
For PD's Any Poem # 28 Free Poetry Contest
Poem | |
As I was busy “being”
just who I am,
I didn’t care what others were seeing.
To be as they wish, would be a sham
and I will not be part of a scam.
People are really the sum
of everything that has touched their lives.
When others take issue with what you’ve become,
don’t expect to receive high fives.
If you stay true, your uniqueness survives.
No one can tell you what to feel,
when to laugh or how to pray.
The very act of being real
will find you rising above the fray,
dispelling regrets each day.
For if you submit to playing a role
that doesn’t fit your personality,
you’ll dig yourself deep into a hole.
Don’t succumb to others’ mentality;
maintain your individuality.
*English Quintain by Carolyn Devonshire for Nancy's "Unzipped Lips" contest
Poem | |
Dependent was and amorous obsession 5.5
in burning desert, fresh canteen 4
his sidewalk's fantasy and thoughts' digression, 5.5
the strongest coffee's roasted bean 4
(their phantasms met beyond projectors' light). 5
Exquisite stood upfront, unmoving posture,
distressing emptiness of soul,
unreachable resort her sightly stature,
(- expending skies and ozone hole),
prêt à porter vitrine, on Winter's night.
Behind the glass, a still and standing shadow
abates his hopes (gray sky suspends),
( he takes his foolish stance of wooden scarecrow,
- that through odd sprawls the fields attends ),
was she the blessing of the Gods or else?...
His allegorical, but lonely feeling,
instilled inside, without defect,
while speechless phantoms crossed sky's ceiling,
the downpour soaked, warmth to reject,
(ersatz their wedlock's knolling, fast dispels).
Her uppish, elegant of stance, adjacent,
within arm's reach, kind of abstruse,
albeit abstained, of secular indulgence,
(his head acquired a tilt obtuse),
invited him through faultless, charming lies.
A brass trumpet dispersed its jazzy spieling,
he, thoughtless, leaned on some red booth,
adored her raised one hand's refined appealing,
(- that altruistic, smiling tooth!),
and gazing to the stars but vacant eyes!...
© G.V. 11-16-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Quintain following 5.5, 4, 5.5, 4, 5 feet on each stanza.
The rhyme scheme follows this pattern:
ABABC DEDEC, FGFGH, IJIJH ... and so on.)
Poem | |
Sighing softly, a gentle breeze,
dances amid my clothes line.
Sweet the scent, refreshing tease,
as sheets, its hug entwines.
This night, on Spring, I shall recline.
For the contest: English Quintain, A Spring Day
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
Poem | |
March is the first to arrive on the scene.
She sees Winter leaving and blows him a kiss,
And then she starts in to paint the world green.
Even though March has brought us such bliss,
Spring will get even better than this!
April comes next, summoning showers.
That rain falls refreshingly from skies above.
Soon we hear birds and smell fragrant flowers.
Nature's rebirth we are witnesses of
When April surrounds us with signs of God’s love.
Butterflies flutter and baby chicks hatch.
Sun gives more strength day by day.
Our next lovely lass has nary a match,
For she is the merriest, with the name May.
Be happy when she’s on her way!
June is the fourth and the last girl of spring,
Distinctive because she’s the one
To finish the season that makes our hearts sing.
Even then, her work in not done.
She ushers in Summer and welcomes new fun!
*Written 4/11/14 For the Contest of Francine Roberts. I remembered this as a spring contest and forgot it was Spring DAY. I worked so hard on it, I just can't start again, so I hope you forgive it being about all of the spring days. In any event, thanks for the inspiration.