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Best Nette Onclaud Poems

Below are the all-time best Nette Onclaud poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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NEVER TO BE MINE


Not with my arms but with a heart that blesses your reveries, may peace reside within your chest... is it possible to love you less? Perhaps allow the sun to brush your hair in the luminescence of dawn? Even autumn envies you as white light moves with your scent and possesses your laughter never to be mine again in times of harvest or falling rain… and from stars above, may your eyes remember our blades of grass while I half-close the damp field of memorials creaking on the burial of a resting place that finds me kneeling, wailing, asking how time can drown our adventures much too soon... as I stumble upon this cruel, bruised night.


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VOICE IN HIDING



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.
P D's Contest ' Best Poem of 2014' 1/27/2014


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PLUCKED VIOLIN



This is too complex; i mean the throbbing wound grating my belly on a dappled day, a day breathing of tender winds and violins. Perhaps, the strains of notes shuttle me back to my grandfather’s library sitting on books and archaic telescopes. Here, we would empty the shoulders from a rough sail; he scattering fiddle songs on painted walls… the mellow notes tasted like hints of vanilla scent warmed by cadences of burning musical passion as his eyes , half-closed ,melted the noise of an anxious world, of teary wrongs. ‘Bathe in the splendor of the night,’ he mused, submitting to a trance smitten by some refrains of Moonlight Serenade… and my rubber spine would bend with the flesh of his vibrating hands; violin strings weeping till we drowned in holy streams. Now, I feel this undefined nostalgia… the phantom of light exhumed his lust for old charm; and my eyes fall on the alley of roaming vagueness. I could have loved him more than heaven plucking his strings so soon, uninvited. Regina Riddle's A Special Memory 9/17/2014


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COME WHAT MAY




The steep waning of duskfall held by one Cuddled by a wheeze , the dim air’s pale light, Nestling upon boughs of memoirs undone As scenes rise mildly with an ached delight. Although fall plunges into my own depth, Giving way to chills of winter ,prolonged So must spring blossom with a fragrant breath For roam I must through peaks of Augusts’ song. And musings dip upon the faltering wings A blazed remembrance of seasons’ refrains; Snuffed by love’s risk, hardened from cold warning Oh time withers, breaks ...still I call your name. Hearts evade pleas, sweet moments gone astray That now I rest on a crib of old stars But such is life allowing what is the way; To gather new treasures...near or afar. Judy Konos' C'est La Vie 11/5/2014


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I AM AN 8



A gypsy dance enthralls the stars into a twirl of rustling hems as women tap bare feet, guitars lift twiddling notes of lore’s anthems along a woodland’s lively fest, where beaded hair glides in thrilled zest to charm night’s hours...to romp away till wagon drifts when morning strays. My destiny number is 7, though I chose my path number 8--- jan 8 rispetto form in 8 lines ------------ Andrea Dietrich's Tell Me Your Number Contest


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SPILLS OF IMAGINATION



early dawn cracks the  wispy air
open , wandering around viscous spaces
like fairy shadows caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
 
taller than maple trees delicately rustling
the garnet of late Indian summer when
birds, orbits and urchins listen to 
a single searching sun… when all else
 
is sprawled quiet, there comes this
certain fired imagination straying  on
mouths of  gentleness  far beyond
nuptials of effervescent realms…
 
someone said morning becomes Electra,
that learning how to hear a pear or
grain unravel the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
 
unfurl its leaves far beyond unknowing a
heart’s need to be:  the juice spills streams
waking new faces of time, bending the width
of life's rhyme through endless mystery...
 
a thousand times before and after, daybreak
and night twine... that in tints of all hues,
passing through fables of any season
 
is poetry's way of coming back to itself.


Justin Bordner's How Poetry Began Contest
by nette onclaud


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AS TWELVE MONTHS CLOSE


I count my walks through herbs and shells never knowing how old bones can be fleshed from a heart bound on scrolls of endings, and here I am among rows of an orchard… feet like dust sanded by twelve months of famine and feast ; somehow the maple boughs wither from the laundry of evenings’ regret. Often times, like the gypsy rose, I climb into the lattice of my family tree smelling its tar and citrus that knit arms glossed by twilight’s love, then raked by froths of autumn’s debris. Closing a fence as another year shuts off, I am between silence and scream… eyes groaning with the music of an anonymous breeze sheltering a collected beauty of tragedy and the comedy of drama: trials pinned by veiled nights when kinship endures the flood of weather's hands. It is so, I mean, the certainty of taming the last ride before new seeds from a new year twirl upon unborn fruits… I disrobe the old bones to greet the unknown. .......................... "“In times of test, family is best.” – Burmese Proverb Carol Eastman's Enter The Best of 2014 Contest by nette onclaud 7/14/2014


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KARMA



Fluted hands angle on knees as glimpses 
sort the knitted threads of a late afternoon
where gathering of blooms abide.
Almost friendless, a man inhabits his space
ready to inhale the waft of new dusk, 
of how a world in his inner terrain mirrors
the ceremonials of a mindful passage
upon grasses and half-lit windows
outside the self. 

And through a prayerful instance,
he connects with a god hushing the tempo
of sighs mixed with incense blowing, as if 
to twirl in an air of breaths cleansing
the scabs of trespasses. Miles of babel words
turn into a different language: quite unknown
and understood only by him who finds
contentment in being unbound ,of gliding 
above a haloed sky that reflects the movement
inside his awakened essence.

For the atonement of all misgivings,
he releases his pride in layers 
of deep confession to pay for his karmic debt;
that in a warm communion with humility
he makes amends for life's consequences

as stillness becomes his friend.


Anthony Slausen's Karma


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AS FATHER IS TO HIS DAUGHTER


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


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HER SOFT CANAL



The powder of white sand holds her flesh close to his musk pelvis as she gasps with the murmured waves trembling on the coast of a fragrant mouth against a manly tongue, and they lay on hidden grass in an old Ipanema cove where rippling strokes fondle the east and north of her sylph-like curves: amidst the liquid Brazilian dusk, her flowing hair sinks from the lapping of crest in rhythmic grinds; tanned fingers exploring a soft canal of a nymph's heightened pleasure… by the sea- bend, he pulls her creamy thighs like a driftwood sailing afloat upon each quivered abandon while they melt under balmy trees… without the need to speak. Justin Border's Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place 11/23/2014


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