Below are the all-time best Nette Onclaud poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members
Hiding here inside my closet, I feel safe in the dark
knowing on a pile of sheets lies my very psyche;
it's only a thought, yet I am unhurt among drawers…
so I curl and stare blank, imbibing bits of gentle
murmurings that whisper on hangers as they
sway with the lint...I strain to listen
but prickly voices rush out of reach
from the sleeves of a night
like a conversation behind closed doors…
I hear yet can't quite grasp
what my heart wants to say in low dips ;
like a tremolo carrying mould of twilight...
it chants all sermons of a Sunday church bell
speaking in tongues I knew once...long ago.
The moon slices the folds around me in black suds
washing a laundry of venting desire, only to find myself
trapped in pins…I feel a stab, a grating chill: perhaps,
I have no language when no one wants to listen.
Don't write for the contest, Contest
Sponsor: Vicky Tsiluma
Passing through framed windows like ours,
I recall your tales of reckless war and lost friends
that burned your innocence at 21... and though
you claimed flashes of courage, moist eyes
poured vulnerability looking calm, undaunted.
We both searched deeply into our souls
as a father is to his young daughter, that I wanted
to let you know, it was alright;
but that mound of shoulders turned away.
Down the years as officer and gentleman,
Time stole long weeks, absent from your dining chair,
leaving me resentful and bitter on hardened sills
until you arrive under crawling dock of stars.
But in free moments, how you cherished
me so; waking my cheeks at 3 am to race the winds,
to fly with a shooting neon, laughing with a blue moon.
You spoke of faith and honor if life dared a shame, oh
mild scent of your arms cuddling my girlish dreams...
until off you rode suddenly on heaven’s wheel.
I see you through all framed windows like ours,
that even if my iced breaths needed you more
as small flowers thirsted for rain, my anger was a cry
for love’s company... “ I have adored you
in moments of distance and nearness, if not
always, then for all eternity.”
Have I forgotten to open this, my soft, broken sigh?
Dad, everything is all right.
The Confessional Contest
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Favorite Poem Of Yours Contest of Giorgio V
by nette onclaud
' ''''''''' ''''''''' ''
most times, i wander past troubled winds of shore
when dark sighs heave upon a hazed door,
the crux of crosses seems to welcome me
listening to whines of own stories seeking plea,
and the wings of gray clouds immerse in cries
pausing, i carry gratitude with grace still in my eyes,
when moments are lid covered, like mourning shawl
my senses stoop ever weary as they begin to fall,
then I hear a chuckling of street kids spilling the day
as if hours are given by a Maker to strum and gaily play,
by then; I hold His LIGHT, a sliver of it begins to bloom
erasing crumbs of doubt in shades of twisted gloom.
once, thrice by the armchair are letters spread around
mostly payables , some due end of month’s mound
neck shrinks till coffee brews, like soft smoke in heat
thanking the Father for a home that sings in mellow beat
with smiles easing burdens that seem heavy weight
for heart’s growling hides many things like love, hope, and fate,
my eyes, my skin become plump again, and dear life wanders by
prayers whisper 'all is right', a joyful world wraps a mellow sigh,
looking up at the night’s ray, simple pleasures cannot be bought
I bow for His mercy and let go, to rest on His Light ever sought.
all rights reserved
" """" ''''''
Robert Ball's Honoring the Father Contest
by: nette onclaud
This road is snake-like except
for the crusty scales of an intestinal
late dusk. A boy treaded on the
lane tracks lean and nomadic...
burnt shoulders grilled and toasted by
the sun, as if his coal skin sparked like
burning diamond weeds. In a flash, a tender
sorcery poured in my veins. There and then,
I longed to whisper a tune, play the tambourine or
partake of the loaf in my sack with him.
But he waited for paper clouds to ruffle his hair,
seemingly undisturbed by pilgrims like me
holding unto holy relics and bones of night. The gauze
shirt as his frock winged with the silver winds,
windblown stroking my ebony tresses with a whisper
hushed by his delicate omnipresence.
In a dimly lit bus, sand wheezed tribal notes
moist on my eyelids uprooted by uncontained
temples of longing, now becoming thick
as woolen destiny. If only for a flicker of time,
his eyelids met mine so briefly... parting saline dust
of sacred, smiling gazes. I was inside a cell
of a wombed bus. He was outside enlarged by a
hundred stars exploding dewdrops, inviting eternity.
For a fraction of silence, we met somewhere
between the fluorescent of our twin eyes. He, the angel
first fondly encountered ; I, the dreamer ever bewildered…
I remember...I was five.
(( P.D.'s " your Own Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud))
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve,
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
Color of Sound Contest/ Monterey Sirak
by nette onclaud
DEVOURING PRESENCE -- REPOST
' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '
gray as it may sound, i pluck
a morsel of star's daring light,
this is where i want to be... in a
stretch of spontaneous rhythm with
my wired body clamped from the noise
and haze of days' pages, pulling me into
puppet strings of gods who never
knew the magic of human sensibilities.
if trees can entwine with their
own lemon leaves so so sweetly,
and hummingbirds hug the breeze in
a stretch of flight luring a neutral
night, i must be at the center of
my constellation tiptoeing
upon grasses with a lick of wine
on the neck and a pirouette of some
whirl of a dance.. i go thirsty
for the fluid rawness of my need
to simply be.
all rights reserved
``` P.D's featured poem of the week contest
` ` `featured poem on soup : 20 march 2011 ` ` `
August wind, glass moon,serendipity...
two chairs gazing at each other in tender flow.
Hundred miles away, clouds gather
to fondle the opening and closing
of after- midnight refrains,
both trespassing a continental divide
to awaken upon scrolls of ramblings
united by the sorcery of mystic spaces
between humid lenses.
On such lit evenings, I will surrender
to the maleness of a trembling heart ;
your cheeks swollen like yeast…a shaven head,
the blue of your shirt buried in my cellar
unbuttoning the heaving pauses
between the nearness of our skin…
Chairs grind in wanton anticipation of palms
touching my hair… you whisper,
“ I adore you beyond words.”... and I; I falter
while a glint climbs into the almond of my Oreo eyes…
The scent of hours lingers as we wrap our fingers
into morn, owning a body language in play of charades…
Your mouth hushed, searching the curves of my spine
glazed by soft bites of an August wind
brushing our lips…until the slide screen fades off,
and we are dissolved into a paradise inhabiting
unborn stars. In raw enchantment, our warmed glances
wait for a next time, as if a tarot of angels
had known about serendipity.
moaning, seeking, caressing
ambrosia, prurience; mantra, lace
Diamante Form Contest
by nette onclaud
This misty river, scented sweet
From bare land you enthrall,
To quench the evening's sultry heat
Beside your cooling wall.
Low tide lends magic to this rite
To twirl upon the dew
Then lacquers every sand with white;
And powdered shades of blue.
Tanned cacti swoon to windy breeze
Quite mellow to the ear,
And harmony's drooled chant can seize
This desert atmosphere.
Under the moon's enticing beams
Bright clouds drift out in space,
Life's oasis and hopeful dreams
Are held in froth's embrace.
And never will these scenes be lost
While I here vigil keep;
Till heaven's gifts lie starlit glossed
Then eyelids fall asleep.
. ............ . .
Nature Poems Contest of Poet.Undertaker
8/6/8/6 syl count--rhyme
by nette onclaud