Best Yellow Poems
Walking through the land of shadows
wearing my yellow shoes
With each and every step
I created color and hues
The shadows started retreating
As color permeated the ground
Out of the shadowy darkness
I heard a horrible sound
"You do not belong here
I command you to go away
You are in the land of darkness
You must listen to what I say"
I kept on moving forward
Not sure what I would see
Where was the voice coming from
I looked behind a tree
Light and color expanded
Traveling up straight to the skies
The entity that so scared me
Was right before my eyes
As my shoes banished the darkness
The entity was reduced to tears
Without the aid of shadows
He couldn't tap into my fears
I then reached down to touch him
I told him that he was safe
He looked up with confusion
As I gazed upon his face
"Are you here to destroy me?
Have you come to take me away?
There is a purpose for shadows
They create hope for brighter days."
I heard what he was saying
The shadows have their reason
In order for spring to come
We need a darker season
So I removed my yellow shoes
Watched as the shadows returned
It was time for me to go home
With this strange lesson I had learned
a balloon
canary yellow
the sun on her leash
AP: 1st place, Honorable Mention 2020, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 26, 2020 for contest STRAND COMPLETELY NEW POETRY (1) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - HONORABLE MENTION
POTD - June 26, 2020
Mission of the Yellow Songbird
A long highway road stretched its legs before me,
In a place where tumble weeds were conceived,
December evening chasing daylight back to morning
Dusk robed in faded colors starving out the sunshine
Miles put themselves between me and home
With thickets of brier brambles cradled between north and south
Alive with vesper choruses of tiny songbirds.
A gentle tap on my front fender
Roused me from hypnotic highway stupor like popping thunder
I shuddered deeply as possibilities shook my soul;
Maybe one of those gigantic bugs – maybe? Maybe?
But when I stopped my heart seized to solve the mystery
A tiny yellow songbird plastered to my grill wings still open to flight.
Gentle spirit of eternal compassion touched, caressed, my wailing sorrow
Then guided me to a desert tree with perfect boughs,
That welcomed songs of matin mornings from a tiny bird,
To lay to rest God's tiny messenger beneath his favorite tree
Songbird with perfect pitch would no longer sing praise into Heaven's face.
Called to the road again, tears raced down my cheeks
As numb miles raced by with a litany of why in each drop
Time came to take a mountain road from fertile valley to foggy ocean crest -
Screaming round a sharp curve to a screeching stop
Accident, I thought, of two cars only six cars ahead of me –
No ordinary scene -two burned out fiery shells one atop the other!
Realization, like a candle in the darkness, sent out sharp beams
I would have been in that accident had not a precious songbird
Given me a second chance to sing in ministry and embrace this grief;
In the deepest part of my grieving heart, I know our precious God
Gathered to his heart the mission of this tiniest crushed warrior
Who now sings beneath God’s window in the eternal day.
5-17-22
Contest: Divine Intervention
Sponsor: Chantal Anne Cooke
12/14/22
Contest: Poetry Marathon Mile 23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
30 Lines of a 30 Line Limit
She sings in soft tones,
her magic exists beyond the obvious.
Listen closely to her wanting,
She is wrapped in a trancendent light.
A dreamer,
chasing white rabbits.
Grasping for the infinite,
with delicate hands.
A moth,
Dances within her luminosity.
Flying on yesterday's wings,
carrying smiles that are meant for tommorow.
Witness her as she waits to exhale.
A daisy chain,
tied around her wrist.
A future promise to be kept.
For within her spirit,
exists a burning passion!
She waits for one who is worthy,
of her consuming flame
Although she is unaware,
hers is a temporary sadness.
Happiness flirts at the edge of her dreaming,
waiting for an open window.
His shadow hidden behind frosted glass.
Shades of green,
turn brilliant yellow!
Buttercups dance around her feet.
Her laughter floats across the meadow,
as happiness runs to her open arms.
Together they skip, towards her apple tree.
For hers is a faith that trancends the temple.
Her spirit sought and found salvation.
He had been with her all along,
I can see it in her smile.
The rain has passed and sunshine now resides in her eyes!
This morning I wrote a poem
about a yellow heart
pining for red fusion,
in a desperate attempt
to shake the fruit
that never
falls
And tonight I am alone
without tangerine lips
or the temptation of apple,
carefully watching familiar verses
unravel themselves
and fanatically dance around
like a final punctuation mark
or an overused cliche,
while my hands whittle metaphors
into a quick-witted instrument
sharp enough to scrape
the smeared imagery
off the sidewalk of poem,
Still I am not sorry
the fruit has not
fallen
to kiss my weary head,
it takes an overly cautious yellow
to see the perfect shade of red
The lake was still sleeping
a light mist rose above,
a weathered dock could be seen,
its aged wood; full of memories.
The air crisp, breeze light,
trees majestic; watching all.
Squirrels busy scampering,
as a flock of geese soared above.
Way over yonder
clear across the still lake,
shining brightly were yellow shutters,
on our cabin; our special place.
We had toiled the garden
planted yellow roses with great care,
we had painted the old wood shutters,
yellow paint; speckled our hair.
The roof we re-shingled,
one painstaking nail at a time,
we even counted the ouches;
when our hammers got out of line.
With nothing but smiles
on our weary, aching bodies,
we held hands, and went running,
into the still of the lake; giggling.
We swam out to the dock,
it was a race; he won,
my hand he took laughing;
as he quickly scooped me up.
Our toes dangled playfully
sending ripples in the lake,
as we gazed at our cabin;
yellow shutters; fresh with paint.
The trees swayed slightly
as if nodding with approval,
for our cabin by the lake,
was our private sacred jewel.
As we cuddled together
warmth filled our souls,
for our bright yellow shutters,
symbolized, our love's blossoming growth.
It was on this very dock,
air crisp, breeze light,
when he gave me a yellow rose;
and asked me to be his wife.
Yellow ribbons furl
on oaks that line our driveway
as we await your return.
Their luster's now pale,
reflecting the challenged hope
of a son you’ve never met.
In my back, yellow mountains, glittering with a thousand bursts,
Of course, the sun has its incandescent magic
God is phosphorescence; his knowledge blinds all dogs and cats,
May the night be divine, when I leave my kingdom,
Who are we? Camel companions, desert companions,
Companions of eagles with millenary greenhouses and pointed,
Lost companions, by the splendor of our cities,
Who are we? Companions of the blue Bedouins,
We know about what only silence teaches us
We know only what God wants to hide from us,
We are companions of camels in the desert,
Behind our backs, yellow mountains, sparkle with a thousand bursts.
(A conversation with my wife Vera Selena (Osburn) Hinshaw on our 70th wedding anniversary 12 October 2022)
Honey, I thank God every day for bringing you into my life;
For making me the father of our children and for agreeing to be my wife.
We were just two starry-eyed kids when we met on the Bermuda Isle.
Even then I knew you were the one I hoped to escort down the bridal aisle.
Diamonds gleamed in your eyes when we pledged our eternal love.
There is no doubt that our life together was ordained by God above.
Love glowed in our hearts when we were united as man and wife;
Romance has been very much alive during our wedded life!
We've shared so many wonderful memories throughout the years.
There were lean times, laughter, and yes, a sprinkling of sorrow and tears.
Even though your hair has turned from bonnie gold to gray,
To me you've become more beautiful with each passing day!
You've met the vicissitudes of Air Force life with dignity and grace.
You've taught Sunday School and Girl Scouts leaving each base a better place.
You've made a house a home whether in the states or foreign lands.
Our kids and grand kids are what they are today due to your guiding hands.
I brought you a bouquet of yellow roses since they're your favorites, dear.
My love for you grows stronger and stronger with each passing year!
(My eyes welled-up with tears as I knelt and placed the flowers on her grave.)
You made me love yellow flowers
in the middle of July,
when everything was dying
because the ground was so dry.
You offered them to me
with the faintest smile on your face,
caressed the lemon petals
as you put them on display.
I looked at them quizzically,
questioning there presence.
You embraced me with laughter,
said they’re my essence.
You told me a short story
of blossoms and blooms,
and strength and survival,
in the midst of gloom.
And I fell in love with yellow flowers
because of the story you shared,
and I cherished their sunshine,
and the meaning they bared.
And then they were gone.
Along with you
and your stories and smile.
No laughter or embrace.
No petals or blooms,
sunshine or lemons.
The ground was dry
and cracked
and barren.
And I was alone,
with just a fading scent
and drifting memories.
You made me love yellow flowers,
then you took them away.
copyright 2017 rapsedeblu/'raps?de blü
Just a writer who needs to write.
Come an' pick yerself an apple,
Come an' pick a heapin' load;
Come an' pick a bloomin' bushel
An' a couple fer the road.
There's a dozen different sizes,
Pink an' yella, red 'r lime,
Shades that match the pale sunrises
Of the apple pickin' time.
Go an' make an apple pie,
Make it thirty miles high,
Then you'll be in apple heaven
Till the day you up an' die.
Come an' pick yerself an apple,
Come an' pick a heapin' load;
Come an' pick a bloomin' bushel
An' a couple fer the road;
Some for Gran and Uncle Pete,
An' a few fer fighting crime;
'Cause the fella down the street
Knows it's apple pickin' time.
He undresses rumor to reveal lies
this is how the desperate man cries,
Extra Extra he tries to sadden ya,
a bundle of rancor rambles from the shambles of his shame
finding form on a page of purely personal pathos
what he can't have he taunts,
flaunts falsehood as fact in commiserating style,
vulgar and vile such as pornographic propaganda
designed to compell despair with poisened air,
what does he care, loyalty he knows not how to share,
decorum just a ditch in the swamp of his heart,
hurt hurt hurt is the mantra of his yellow emotion
a mud temple is his refuge,
burn love, ravage respect, ruin reputation
is the curve in his grimace, the grime in his game,
even the news stands have rejected his rank rubbish,
a character assassinator eliminated by the Poet's assembly,
take your delusional drama to the closet playa
hang it on a hanger of humbled heresy,
your rusty razor shall not go "haymaker" anymore
remain in your "hayfever" brought on by Truth's retribution,
a wedge maker is your legacy, a virtuous man your fallacy -
J.A.B.
Zanthoxylum shrubs with clustered yellow flowers,
Yolks of eggs and yellow jackets make her want to scream.
Xanthophobia ensnares her. It is sickening
Wakening to an aureate dawn’s bright rays.
Vehemently she shakes!
Ubiquitous are sunny days; she much prefers the clouds.
They keep her safe from light and her anxiety at bay.
Secluded in her rose pink room, she stays inside,
Rarely venturing outside except at eventide.
Quick is she to greet fast-falling snow.
Pedestrians abandon streets. Then she likes to go
Out to see the colored world buried in tranquility,
Nauseated she becomes just seeing people eat
Macaroni’s yellowish cheese, all things buttery,
Lemon cakes, bananas, mustard. It is a feat
Keeping herself calm. Sometimes she panics.
Jaundiced skin can do her in.
In many cases, she turns to Xanex.
Hideous to her is this disease,
Growing, never slowing. Even therapy
Fails to help. Whatever can she do?
Emotionally frazzled, living with unease when
Dandelions, daisies or ducks come into view.
Corn, baby chicks, and girls that she has seen
Bleached a brilliant bombshell blonde so bold!
All of it - florescent dreams - are nightmares laced in gold.
For the First Ever ZYX Contest sponsored by John Lawless
* Written for my daughter, who really does have a precious pair of Little Yellow Socks.
Little Yellow Socks
by Amy Swanson 12/5/2008
Little yellow socks
running down the hall
"Slow down with those socks on,"
I'd yell... too late, the fall!
Little yellow socks
padding softly late at night
climbing up into my lap
one more hug, out goes the light.
Little yellow socks
follow me with squeals of laughter;
Oh how she loves to run in them,
Begging me to come chase after!
Little yellow socks...
now not being worn a lot.
My little girl is growing up,
No longer just a tot.
Little yellow socks
will be cast aside someday
I must guard these precious moments;
in my heart, they'll safely stay.
A rose named Brighton
For your funeral flowers
A stunning golden yellow hue
The place you were born Son
But now sadly gone Son
This yellow rose so perfect
I pray my Son you see it too
A year has gone by
Your family and I
here to celebrate your life
your son ~ your daughter ~ your mum ~ your wife
We take a short walk
to the Bandstand
looking to the sea beyond
For our gift to you
is the Brighton rose
A symbol of our love
But oh my Son
you had other ideas
Was it you ~ were you having some fun
For the rose kept returning
Despite the tide turning
And kept ending up on the beach in the sun
Several times
your dear son
threw it back in the sea
but each time it returned
did you send it back for me
With love in our hearts we shed a few tears
When all of a sudden a small child appears
Clutched in her hand a pink fishing net
Wondering what she would catch
And before we could stop her
your rose she doth net
As we sensed her excitement
skipping over the stones
our mouths were wide open ~ our eyes they met
She was showing her mother your rose in her net
Your wife at this point
She dashed to retrieve
saying …
‘The rose was for my husband
we had put it in the sea
So I would be very grateful
if you return the rose to me’
Her mother she was mortified
and handed back your rose
and once again your yellow rose
floated in a wintery sea
though still returned again and again
and that is when you spoke to me
‘Mum please don't you see
I am cold
I am wet
take me home I plea
Do not leave me in the sea’
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
The yellow rose I dried
and tears of joy I cried
now in a vase
here next to me
your Brighton Rose
now here forever
just for me
to see…
Written 17th November 2020
Contest ALL YOURS (JAN 24)
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A