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Best Poems Written by Jeff Kyser

Below are the all-time best Jeff Kyser poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Intertwined


No larger than a grain of rice,
her face is forming; mouth, a slice.
Her heart, a tube, begins to beat;
at one month, things are imprecise. 

An inch now from her head to feet.
Eyes, fingers, toes: not yet complete.
Her neural tube, well on its way.
At two months, things look pretty sweet.

Four inches long, an ounce to weigh;
miscarriage risk drops every day.
All parts are present, there to see;
at three months, fingers grasp and splay.

Her nails and hair seen easily;
eyelid, eyebrow, eyelash agree.
Four months now and six inches long,
the ultrasound clear: she’s a she.

Her muscles build; she’s getting strong.
You thought you felt her; you’re not wrong.
She’s covered with lanugo hair.
At late month five, she hears your song.

Her fingerprints? Whorls present there.
The eyelids part; eyes open, stare.
When she hiccups, you may observe.
Month six births: viable with care.

Refinements to sensory nerves,
reacts to light, from pain will swerve.
She rarely is reserved or still;
month seven, and this gal’s got verve!

At five pounds now, she kicks at will.
Lungs immature, but they can fill.
Eight months, all sharpens, gets refined; 
You’re on alert, you know the drill.

It’s nine months now; she’s quite confined.
Delivered, breathes in, and unwinds.
Flesh of your flesh, though quite her own;
Distinctly her, you’re intertwined.




Thrilled that this was selected POTD on 05/15/22

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Some Distant Shore


Silent, she slips from her stronghold’s security,
safely tucked high on the cliff in her nest.
Cautious, she stays in the shadows afforded her,
sorrowful, hesitant, missing the rest.

Her parents and siblings had sought out the sunshine,
flying the open air, learning their craft.
Soaring and diving, they basked in the currents;
she, feeling poorly, by chance, had stayed back.

Sounds like a cannon had rung out above her;
shrieking and screaming, she watched the first fall.
Caught in the open with no chance for cover,
savagely, swiftly, death came for them all.

Hugging the hillside, she used the thick foliage,
bobbing and weaving, avoiding the limbs,
calling on instincts she knew not inside her,
fine-tuned adjustments through flexes and trims.

Cover was ending; the ocean awaited her.
Her heart was racing, her mind strangely clear.
Mother had taught her to seek out the currents;
a warm water pocket meant updrafts were near.

Tucking, she dove as she flew in the open,
a bullet herself, towards shiny blue glass.
Braking so subtly, just at the last moment,
she shot across wave tops, dizzily fast.

There! A small change in the water beneath her.
Pulling up hard, she flapped skyward and soared.
Where she was headed lay unknown before her,
on past the sunset to some distant shore.

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

The Unattended Field

“Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.” 
                                 — Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro


Close, but close to what, he asks himself
to God, or to the end of things?
the question looms, an icy wind that stings
western sun belies the deathly chill within his bones
summit slain, an unread book upon the shelf

there is this urge that drives a man,
is hard to grasp and harder to expound -
the constant forward press that leaves each
dried, unquenched, though verdant green surrounds,
and yet, to feel within one’s core, the source just out of reach

frozen by fear of somehow missing out, his
carcass now grows cold, a mind adrift, in search
of times of youth and days of old -
a man possessed will rid these thoughts no sooner than a
leopard sheds his spots

No real concern is given to the
one who comes behind, who likewise seeks -
has he a thought of how his end will be
explained? to whom? they either understand or know not
what lies just ahead beyond this snowy peak

the sadness of the unattended field such sown - the
leopard lives and dies alone, but for the joys of spring
was this Creator’s plan for us? i don’t think so -
seeking, He’s found in places pressed and low,
at heights, without, does but exhaustion bring

that one might scale the highs, seek out, explore - 
altitude, we find, a perfect metaphor

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Stringing Pearls

A thousand little moments,
one connected to the next…
Exquisite, time-sequenced pearls
from then to now and beyond
Ignore the strand, where it may lead,
and focus on the bead at hand:
one breath, one step, one vista.
Take it in and savor it;
burn its imprint in your mind.
Then, taking care to thread the needle,
slide it firm and snug,
and only then consider what is next,
and in this manner,
you will arrive at your destination,
having fully experienced
every pearl along the way.

----------

for the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Mark Toney
written on 12/24/2022

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Tanka Very Much


Five fingers of joy
slyly, coyly burgles; he's
absconding with koi.
As you like it, as you wish;
carpe carpum: seize the fish!


—————-

POTD 0/28/2022

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

No Pup

Excited puppy; she’s no pup,
And yet she runs in circles ‘round. 
I know she’s younger in dog years, 
But her time comes, not long from now,
When she will feel age more than I.

It’s strange how time moves fast and slow 
Although we’re both in the same place,
I’ll miss you, girl, but I’ll not dwell;
I’m thankful for our time right now,
And we’ll enjoy things day by day. 

I’m 60 now; you’re 49,
(That’s if you multiply by seven),
But only God knows which of us
Will exit first en route to heaven.

For all dogs go, the movie says;
I have no trouble with the thought 
That joy awaits us both up there
With fields of green where we can roam.
For if the lion and the lamb
No longer play the deadly game,
Instead are resting side by side,
Then surely there must be a place
for both of us to rest, abide.
But I will leave that in His hands,
For He alone knows that for sure.

I’m 60 now; you’re 49 
When time is measured in your years,
But which of us lives longest here?
That’s both uncertain and unclear.
For God alone knows both our days;
He knows the numbers of our hairs.
But I know this: He watches you;
The sparrow’s also in his care.

----------

Thanks to all who answered my question regarding what form it is called when you mix rhymed and unrhymed - I switched it to free verse at the suggestion of a number of folks. Y'all are awesome!

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Incendiary

The moth, inexorably drawn
To an incendiary fate,
Is tunneled to the wormhole's end
And placed in stasis, there to wait.

A single strand of silk is all
That ties it to a universe,
A speck caught in a cosmic thrall
Suspended in a quirky verse.

A strange fire arcs the silken cord;
The spark moves at the speed of light.
A dragon bursts forth from its lair,
Takes flight as the moth's wings ignite.

Back at the source, a blackish smudge,
The only hint of what took place.
A worm imagining set free,
Unleashed to roam in time and space.

————————

2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Rise Up and Sing the Sun

Break forth, o dawn! Rise up and sing the sun
from underneath the hills into the light.
Put out the crimson fires and take a run
through azure laced with lazy wisps of white.

To sleep, o moon! It’s time for you to wane
and nestle in below the canopy.
Dear child, there is no need for you to strain
or stretch. Just rest; put off that jealousy!

Stand down, o stars, and watch above them all!
Go, fade away into the bright of day,
and light again to hold them in your thrall
when dark no longer can be held at bay.

The unseen hand thus orchestrates their course,
as they, in turn, reflect their gloried source.

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Cloaked In the Gray


Mist rolls through silently, ghost in the trees.
The near field glistens; the far fades away.
Spring creates longing on days such as these;
Winter’s advancing, has nothing to say.

The near field glistens; the far fades away,
formless and shifting, as far as one sees.
All is enshrouded and cloaked in the gray.

Spring creates longing on days such as these;
waiting for sunshine to come out and play,
water drops shelter, avoiding the freeze.

Winter’s advancing, has nothing to say,
intruding so rudely, quite ill at ease,
seeks no permission, intending to stay.

————-

A Trimeric, with A:B:C:D B:x:x C:x:x D:x:x. There are no rhyming or syllable requirements

Details | Jeff Kyser Poem

Soupercilious



My Favorite Things comes to mind...


a random assortment, a jumble of words
a quotient of portions, quotidian served
quixotic strivings of the great deca-dense
obscured in meaning, eschewing all sense

visions and nightmares and hallucinations
erudite arguments, odd fascinations
old geezers fondling memories of things
most folk would not to mixed company bring

inchoate ramblings of damaged young minds
bubbled through water and cardboard box wine
audible groans from the web server host
these are the ones make me giggle the most

shouting in vacuums, a riotous void
pontificating, or mildly annoyed
grieving, believing, or weaving a string
virtuous outburst that don’t do a thing

rants about orange man and all his mean tweets
and, yes, “Let’s go, Brandon” to make things complete
guns, poo, abortion, yes, all are discussed
sometimes the thin-skinned bail out in disgust

side by side, posting, the sage and the fool
the wise in their youth and those starting to drool
bleeping our excrement down on the page
somehow it all seems to soften the rage

when the bard shouts
when the muse screams
‘bout covid or Vlad
we’re at a computer
with just poo to fling
and that makes me laugh a tad