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Sestina Imagination Poems | Sestina Poems About Imagination

These Sestina Imagination poems are examples of Sestina poems about Imagination. These are the best examples of Sestina Imagination poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Sestina |

The Old House

Dim light shines through the widows of the old house
long since empty, where only dust dances in the air
and a lone mouse scurries across its scared and dirty floor
But sometimes at night, when a lonely wind moans and cries
faint echoes of the past are heard through out the rooms
as though while sleeping, the old house dreams of a lost time

In the parlor, a faint ticking from a wall clock as it counts time
while a childs laughter is heard as he runs through the house
chasing after the ghostly bark of a dog as it runs from room to room
and in the dark unused kitchen, the scent of fried chicken fills the air
recalling Sunday dinners and happier times, before the dying cries
the screams that echoed, and bright blood stained its polished floors

Now, all that is left is a faint red stain on its once prestine floors
broken and rotting from the wear of mother nature and passage of time
where the only true sound heard is a crows harsh and croaking cries
as it flies over the delapatated but once proud and stately house
leaving behind one black as soot feather floating in the warm air
to land on a window sill, as though looking in at the cold lifeless rooms

But still the house stands against time, and listened to each of its rooms
hoping to hear laughter once more, hurried steps across its wood floors
trying to shut out the screams of terror that still hang in the stale air
the feelings of hate, and anger that never seemed to disapate with time
pushing at the heart and soul, the very timbers of the sad and lonely house
until each small breeze that swirled around it sounded like broken cries

It doesn't know why the last sounds within its walls where terror stricken cries
or why the sounds of childrens laughter are no longer heard within its rooms
it only knows that it took one single day to make of it a horror house
all dead and empty with blood stains upon its dirt encrasted floors
held within an eternity that seemed to stop within a tick of time
and lingers there upon a breath of stale and purtrid air

Not so long ago, it stood so tall with pride and stately air
but rumors stirred with tales of ghostly lights and muted cries
till none would stand upon its floors or stay a minutes time
for all would tell of ghosts and such that walked its haunted rooms
and blood that stained for all of time its wooden floors

Such a sad and forlorn air that haunts its each and ever room
that now wrings cries of sorrow from the rotted creaking floors
Where once apon a time there stood a loved and happy house

Copyright © Linda Rutherford | Year Posted 2014



Details | Sestina |

Sestina In The World Of Worm

Contemporary and vast in imagination is the girl lost in her own world.
Concealed between the paragraphs and ink typed pages of the book.
Remain cross-legged, as if in meditation, toes tickled by grass.
Here the battle of yin and yang, good and evil, is not waged but in balance.
Falling from the tree to rest in her lap is the red apple.
Just like the plot of a book; within and eating it's way to the outside is the worm.

Weaving in and out of the core, consuming the plot, is the worm.
Pulling the reader through the red shiny skin into its world.
Hours could fly by hidden and protected by the apple.
The letters purge into a blur and no longer seen is the book.
Hero, villain, and romance achieve their balance.
Feet sprout roots into the grass.

Becoming immobile with the soft cushion; short bladed grass.
Breaking through one skin and into another goes the worm.
Coursing through the bloodstream, distorting balance.
Eyelids fall as if to be curtains closing out the remaining world.
The key to the gates lay open; the book.
Perched on left knee baring one hole; the apple.

Slipping through the tendrils of a dream riding aboard an apple.
Wings flapping on either side, improvised as grass.
The landing pad looms in front; an open book.
Waving a light for a signal and a hand for hello the worm.
Created solely by the subconscious is this world.

Hitting the pages stumbling from the stem with lost balance.
Skin melting red spilling into the pages; colorless becomes the apple.
Brandishing a pencil, he begins to build a new world.
Kneeling in the grass,
Coloring in the apple purple is the worm.
Dancing in circles around and upon the open book.

When finished, he nods slowly and closes the book.
The scales return to their balance.
Burrowing deep into the apple goes the worm.
Once purple and now red again is the apple.
The roots from feet recede from the grass.
Opening eyes back into the already created world.

Reaching complacency within the world of a book.
The grass, a support for balance.
Leaving the door ajar of the purple apple, waving a sad goodbye to the worm.

Copyright © Sam Beloved | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |

Tall Towers and Deep Wells

TALL TOWERS AND DEEP WELLS

My love, come and feast on my two round mountains
whose perky tops are as dark as red roses,	
and that are as soft and round as marshmellows.
They stand tall and erect as a giant tower.
Thy pleasurable tongue may be plunged into this deep well
where sweet nector is a neverending supply.

Luscious and delicious there is always a supply.
So when you need satisfying, come to these mountains. 
On top of these mountains you will have great access to this well
and when you slide in, it's as velvety and as soft as roses.
You spread these rose pedals with your giant tower.
I melt under your touch as toasted marshmellows.

When you eat these delicious marshmellows,
you'll surely know that I have more than a vast supply.
Your length makes me think of a tall tower
and underneath your tall tower hangs two round mountains.
They bump against my well as gently as roses
and bring rivers gushing into my sweet well.

Your tower and mountains satisfy my deep well.
It's as though I'm filled with sweet marshmellows.
As you taste and feast you will realize I smell like sweet roses.
You must give and must supply and I must give and must supply.
Just remember to always come to these high mountains
Where my well is filled with marshmellows from your tall tower

Nothing is as firm or as tall as your tower
and when you're near me you seem to gravitate to my mountains and well.
With your tower in my well you gently kiss my mountains.
My dark red rose petals swell as you explode sweet marshmellows.
There is no shortage here but a great supply.
All of this love takes place in our bed of sweet roses.

What is more fragrant than a bed of roses
or more delightful than to be gently entered by a giant tower?
Knowing your length I'm sure you would be able to supply.
There's such an awesome craving in my deep well.
And only you can supply me with sweet marshmellows.
Please fill that longing and pleasure these mountains.

Come smell these sweet roses and drink from my well.
I'll play with and taste your tower and you can feed me your marshmellows.
For you have an unending supply which you can release on my mountains.

5/30/14

Copyright © Noelle Devereau | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |

Raven's Love and Hope Kept Alive

Part II



“I walk a decrepit graveyard alone, in mists stirred by contrast winds
As a storm brews, I am grateful that I know in my heart he's alive 
Skies bream with promise of torrent rain and shelter must be found
It appears; I’ve lost my shawl, and feel the cold chill even as I dream
I’m convinced it’s due to the storm; not because I walk amidst the dead
Further, I see through clammy mist a mausoleum, looms in the silence 

As I near those rusty iron gates, leaves rustle loud in the silence 
And I picture armed vagrants once here, perhaps chased by the winds
Now I rest assured, I am alone as I search this place of the dead
Painful moans erupt from within; my heart leaps; could it be, he's alive?
‘Who are you?’ My hear raced fiercely, convinced, this concludes my dream 
Intermittent moonlight cast upon the floor, My Ross, at last is found!”


In a tomb her Ross laid in the silence; by love and hope kept alive
Calling upon soft summer winds; manifested in persistent dreams 
Which resounded that among the dead, her beloved would be found

~*~
By Annalise Brigham
For: A Rambling Poet’s “Among the Dead” Contest

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Arm Chair Traveler

Is it any wonder
that words plucked out of the air
cannot describe these common things?
Too often, heedless, what eyes
acknowledge as ordinary, is ours
to behold with brighter vision, a privilege to savor

The scenery surrounds every curve. Let us savor
each contrast, views that stab our wonder
grabbing our fervor.  An open road, and the world is ours!
This is a time of admiration, a breath of new air
that is stirred by beauty seen with new eyes.
Mountains, valleys, rivers, streams, wondrous things!

We who split devotion into two things
He who loves the highlands, or he whose passion may be a seaside savored.
Let our wheels and hearts take us far, where eyes
would spy a snow capped peak, where climbing trails would make one wonder
how the view must be from elevation, or how thin the air
How looking down upon the vast, an earth that's ours

Perhaps we'll see a mighty purple rise, while having our
first glimpse of the western sky.  While packing our things
let us not haste to travel on..let us linger, hold the vision, that takes air
from lungs, delay departure.  Savor
a picnic from the road, to dawdle, chat and wonder
where the next stop should find us, and what will feast our eyes

Where days are bright and the sun and breeze sting our eyes
Choosing to take the back road highways, our
wheels flying like wings over hills and valleys, and wonder
of all wonders....discovery delight in the smallest things,...
a seagull soaring above, a blue blue sky at his back, a sun to savor
Finding thrill from the damp foggy morning, or the sunshine and salty air

Perhaps a seaside village, so quaint and sweet, having an air
of vintage life. Or skycrapers meeting the modern day sky, which rise in amazement 
before eyes
The choices are unlimited, so much to savor
The choice to dream can be ours
There are no proper words to describe these things...
Is it any wonder?

A chance to breathe the air from a high mountain peak is ours 
A chance for eyes to feast on a wave or breeze of seaside things...
Close eyes, imagine them all, and be impelled to savor a world of wonder


...............................
For Carol Brown's contest...."It's Time For A Vacation"

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Bluebell-Judicious being

A shade of Turquoise,
Vibrant and lengthy,
Smooth like blueberries,
Thick like quilt,
Wrapped in ribbon,
Neatly and tight.


Eyes like pandas,
Big and bold,
Lashes like spiders,
Most are new,
Some are old,
Like my big red luscious lips (or so I am told).


My big frame and stature,
Is not a match for you,
My retro fashion sense,
Vintage like me,
I'm happy with just flowers,
Gerberas red, pink, yellow and green.

Copyright © Amanda Sullivan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |

Raven's Love and Hope Kept Alive

As night falls swiftly; no respite for a heart can be found 
She dares not invoke sleep, so she paces the floor in silence 
For to fall asleep would mean, a revisit of that dreadful dream
Ominous clouds cover the moon, carried on by rushing winds 
As she searches for her husband, with hope that he is alive 
That the dream is no foreboding; that he lies injured and not dead

Raven, dressed in black satin; searches diligently among the dead
The pain and anxiety lingers, as she awaits news that he is found
Fear it seems, has sensed determination; leaving hope alive
Dark clouds roll as ravens circle high above, in the prevailing silence.
Though the massive search is over, yet his voice calls in the winds
If only he’d walk through the door; and put to bed this recurring dream

Where each night, she’s awakened, by parts of an unfinished dream
She refuses to dwell on morbid thoughts, for her beloved is not dead!
As she feels his spirit still lives and has not drifted upon summer winds!
There is just one option left, which is, Ross would have to be found 
In his library, his favorite cigars lie untouched in the stoic silence
Every flower in their garden droops, as if in prayer that he'd be alive

Intuition prods her to dream again; find clues that he may be alive
A Hypnotist in his expertise would escort her through the dream 
Come the appointed day, throughout their house hung total silence
Her eyes were heavy as lead, yet while she dreamt, clear sight was found
And deep, somewhere between the distinct worlds, living and dead
Through thick mists she trods unafraid, as though riding on soft winds

~*~

Cont'd on Pg. II
A. Brigham
FOR:  A Rambling Poet's "Among The Dead" Contest

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Dark Woods C F H

I have this story of the garden of evil I saw.
Darkness called to me, I was drawn inwardly.
Walking, a glimpse of beauty came into view.
She intrigued me as to why she was inside.
When I stepped in front of her she smiled.
Not an ordinary smile, one of pure wickedness.

She spoke to me calmly at first, as my eyes did view.
Transformation began as her beauty faded inwardly.
I swear to you that I felt like darkness had smiled.
Her shape changed and now a devil my eyes saw.
Beckoning me she said come with me inside.
My soul captured my mind knew now wickedness.

She told me that I was hers now as the demon smiled.
That I had to take my place beside her in wickedness,
Which the garden of evil was now placed inside.
That the evil call had embedded my heart inwardly.
As she took me aside to a mirror where I could view,
What happened to me, undeniable is what I saw.



I was changing outwardly, as well as inwardly.
My eyes were blood red and horns came into view.
I had become her male counterpart, we both smiled.
Within a couple of moments, I was lost in wickedness.
Then out of darkness other creatures came from inside.
More and more demonic creatures are what I saw.

She said, Meet our armies that mankind cast inside.
That she had waited for me, again her lips smiled.
Upon wave of her hand a mist came into view.
It was me in previous form, yes, you were evil inwardly.
Your whole mortal life you felt you had no wickedness.
Suddenly I knew she was right, this was a prediction I saw.

My destiny was sealed; garden of evil will keep me inside.
A consort I will be to her evil heart, fulfilling wickedness.
Thinking back in my dreams I could have changed what I saw.
Though forever and beyond, darkness grows inwardly.
As we held each other, a vision cast came into view.
We looked deep into each other’s eyes and we smiled.

What we both saw, within her womb something was inside.
We knew we shared wickedness, as the birth came into view.
Love, lust held inwardly, looking on, our baby demon just smiled.

Note. This was part of a dream I had and I feel it was a release to write this to help me fight my personal demons that have always plagued my mind and dreams, maybe I watched to many horror movies when I was younger, I have seen almost all of them more than once

Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Rotational Poles

In a ravaging mind
devoid of plain vision,
all purpose of motion
gets abandoned on hold
once losing that stable
clarity of judgment,

still paying off judgments
with tortures taxing mind;
gusts fill tissues stable
regardless of vision
to load each vessel hold
using sanguine motion.

I present my motion
to lungs before judgment,
proving walls never hold
since logic doesn’t mind
the destructive vision
in cosmic clues stable,

this teeming soul stable
directing with motion
doppelganger visions
sequestered for judgment
once prevalent in mind
with each mortal I hold.

Such trajectories hold
orbits rendered stable,
illusions of the mind
fooling sense of motion
despite viral judgment
from idols with vision

provoking this vision
enthralled in steady hold
until the Last Judgment
pulls apart my stable,
a tremolo motion
tearing the public mind.

Such judgments of vision
shall mind my living hold
stable in fierce motion.

Copyright © John Weber | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

I Dream Joy

Morning flood broke cataracts of light here
My heart have wings that beat in happy skies
O stand here with me in autumn's bright mist
And feel the sunshine breaks through languid day
There's a power of love that cuddles warm
The soul with better promises of joy

There are powers that earth's despair destroy
Invested not in human fragile arm
Something to trust outside the jar of clay
Someone in whom we breathe and exist
And faith in us his fevered hope make rise
A wind against the salt upswelling tear.

I take this dawn excited with its charm
As gift to give, and as a gift to cheer
I seed all joys by grace sweet enterprise
Another coming of you, O my Christ
A final hope to fold carnal cares, lay
The mortal flesh away, and lose alloy

The hills shall skip beyond dreams and decay
And this mist bright garment before my eyes
Will clothe my warm immortality there
No guns grief will shatter the heart, my boy
The blossoms never fall, nor time shall storm
Against the fortress wherein is our bliss

So day comes harvesting my page with cries
Of glee, turning eagle's loop, as dreams buoy
The heart in skies of promises most clear
God is the author of all joy, I say.
God shall seal our hopes in a whispered kiss
And joy break forth abroad to still alarm

Then this autumn when green turns gold shall list
No dry, nor brown, nor gray in festive air
Tomorrow and yesterday passed away
You against my breast shall so snuggle warm
Your tongue with my breath tells the news of joy,
Eternity is here, stitched upon the skies.

My heart a banging bell heaps love and lay
Across the chiming dell dawn-rinsed, the air
Where I dream, flickers with stars like fireflies.

Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010

Details | Tritina |

Sestina

The lost little Angel was fell into the urban slums
Walking aimlessly with nothing but her broken wings
Blossom into granules of dusts, intangible as a vagabond

Her heaven plucked as the moonlight stolen, the intangible vagabond
Her sanctity made her glowed illuminate those souls who ingested by the slums
However flagellation in disguise filled the story of her wonderful flawed wings

Trace stitches by stitches of her wings
Her world plays deception in those eyes who marked her as a vagabond
In fact she just an imperfect little Angel and they are the slums

Rose from the slums, the wings tore the shield of a vagabond

******************************************************************
Honorable mention
Introducing Tritina (a new poetry form for you!)
Sponsor	Andrea Dietrich

Copyright © Yanny Widjanarko | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |

The UPbeat...

Before there was a word, 
there was a loneliness
within the pin pricked night.
Waves of vibrations, sound,
coalescent’s gestate.
Planets were birthed with souls.

There was only the soul
and a longing for words,
synapses gestating
wavelengths of loneliness,
the aching lack of sound,
and the celestial night.

Man was born to midnight
with eyes and ears for soul
to din’s discordant sound,
no harmony, no words,
aging, aching, alone,
thoughts thus, wordless, gestate.

Circular gestation
for the day became night
and weakened loneliness,
woman kind brought her soul.
Ether resounded with words
for those souls, the God sound.

Strong, sweet, silibant sound
released from gestation
song formed from combined words,
crooning fills the nubile night
joining of mated souls.
The Word freed loneliness.

No longer alone, vibrating within the sound each atom relates to the soul 
Gestation continues in the never-ending cycle of night and the Word.

*dedicated to L'nass Shango & David Smalling for their inspiration.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Haunted (A collaboration w/Audrey Carey)

Every corner I turn, I see your sweet face
Its memory, like a ghost, haunts me still
I recall how you loved me, you gave me your all
I can not believe that I just let you go!
Now my heart, so heavy, my days dreary and dark
It is I whose pride I must cast aside

I must search in earnest, lay every doubt aside
And pray day comes, when again, I touch your sweet face
When days become brighter no longer to exist in the dark
I promise, on my honor to give you my all
'Til you return to me, there is no place I want to go
So right here in this time I wait for you still

Your joy, your pain,  every heart beat, I'll share it all
We’ll blend as one, lay insecurities aside
Wherever you may be, my heart and I also will go
Haunted no longer by the memory of your sweet face
For now I know above all else, I love you still
In the light of your eyes I bloom, but slowly, I die in the dark

When the storms of life bring in clouds so dark
When loneliness engulfs me, clearly I see it all
In the quiet of night when all is still
I lay alone in our bed, I cast my mask aside
On your pillow I swear there’s the imprint of your sweet face
Tears flow, my pain grows, get no respite, no where to go

Every thought of you lingers  and won’t let me go
Find no comfort in solitude as I sit in the dark
I pretend your laying here; I can almost touch your face
Ingratitude was what I offered, while you gave to me your all
Your love, your quiet devotion, taken for granted and cast aside
For wanton, shallow affection, now I’m nothing!  I need you still

If only you could see me and I could see you still
If you would come to me now, today, or I to you, go
I’d pledge my life; my true devotion put my wanderings aside
No longer would sadness embrace me as I pace in the dark
My heart I’d give only to you, I'd forsake the many others, all!
And bask in sunlight forever, if I could only see your sweet face

In my eyes your still the light that shines in the dark
I would go anywhere for you, for you I'd give my all
Brush my foolish pride aside that once more I may see your sweet face

* Entry for Jared Pickett's "Sestina" Contest

Copyright © Jimmy Anderson | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Moonlight Adventure

The beautiful day begins in the house.
At the end of it, all that’s left of it is the moon,
Shimmering in all the night’s light.
A door to another world opens.
The only movement is a page turning in a book. 
Suddenly, without notice, an inconceivable object drops.
	
The thing jumps and twirls and once again drops.
A person from another time, the future, enters the large house.
The man, pacing back and forward, finally sends away the hovering book.
He magically transports it to the glistening moon.
Something like a black hole, a portal inexplicably opens.
The book vanishes in a fading yellow light.

The visitor sees something bright, a room full of light.
And inside, a piece of paper from the hands of a child drops.
The door of the room slightly, quietly opens.
A child and her grandmother are drawing and inscrutable house.
In a circle and a beam of inconceivable beauty appears the moon.
On the page, like the hovering object, once again, is the sight of a book.

The child explains that she has, many times that year, read the book.
But her grandmother slowly shows the girl the true “light”.
Now, the girl understands that she was wrong, and now appears the moon!
It comes closer and closer, and then, like a shooting star, down it drops.
The planet has gone down from the sky to have a conversation in the house.
The moon elegantly flies in, as large as an elephant, and its mouth opens.

And now all of the people come close together and a road opens.
The grandmother and child are guided by a rather large book.
In time, the home disappears; they have left the house.
The book vanishes, and all that leads them is a guiding light.
The key to a room, calmly, as if carried by the wind, drops.
“Come in and let’s have a talk,” says not a person, but a face in white, the moon.

The grandmother is surprised, for she is seeing the real, live moon.
A beautiful and long conversation through all the night opens.
Then as dawn arrives, blood-red, the tone of their voices drops.
Grandmother and child come out of the wonderful book.
Outside it is day, a new beginning, another lively light.
They walk o’er their field and talk till’ they reach the house.

In the morning, the otherworldly man leaves the house.
Also, he disappears in a now magnificent golden light.
That is the end; there are no more pages in this book.

Copyright © Alan Grinberg | Year Posted 2005

Details | Sestina |

Haunted (A collaboration w/Jimmy M. Anderson)

Every corner I turn, I see your sweet face
The memory, like a ghost, haunts me still
I recall how you loved me you gave me your all
I can not believe that I pursue you, just let you go!
Now my heart, so heavy, my days dreary and dark
It is I whose pride I must cast aside

I must search in earnest, and lay every doubt aside
And pray that day; comes, when I touch your sweet face
When my days become brighter no longer to exist in the dark
I promise, on my honor to give you my all
Until you return to me, there is no place I want to go
So right here in this time I wait for you still

Your joy, your pain, every heart beat, share it all
We’ll blend as one, laying insecurities aside
Wherever you go, my heart and I also will go
No longer haunted by the memory of your sweet face
For now I know above all else, I love you still
In the light of your eyes I bloom but slowly, die in the dark

When the storms of life bring clouds so dark
When loneliness engulfs me, clearly I see it all
In the quiet of night when all is still
I lay alone in our bed, I cast my mask aside
On your pillow I swear there’s the imprint of your sweet face
Tears flow, my pain grows, no respite, and no where to go

Every thought of you lingers for hours and won’t let me go
I find no comfort in solitude as I sit in the dark
I pretend you lie here in this bed; I can almost feel your face
Ingratitude was what I offered when you gave to me your all
Your quiet devotion, taken for granted and cast aside
For wanton, shallow affection,  I am nothing! I need you still

If you could see me now and I could see you still
If you would come to me now, today, or I to you, go
I’d pledge my life; my true devotion put my wanderings aside
Emptiness would not embrace me as I sit here alone in the dark
My heart I’ll give only you forsaking others, all!
And bask in sunlight forever if I could see your sweet face

In my eyes you’re still the light that shines in my dark
I would go anywhere, for you, I’d give you my all
Let foolish pride fall aside that I may behold your sweet face

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

HOWLWEEN AND MEOWWEEN

Halloween is not just for kids...
what about those gorgeous pets
that we snuggle, love, kiss and willfully spoil?
Shouldn't they have their own
special Howlween and Meowween
with treats never tasted in a bright party hall?



I love pets as you all do, and with loving and tender care    
I spoil them with warm clothes and matching shoes;
a wool hat and tiny gloves to keep them from frost!
Look at them, aren't they adorable and look sharper 
than the less-loved pets that are bored with their blues?  
Can you compare a well-groomed one to a scruffy one? 



On this coming Halloween, dress up your pets for success,
disregard the dumb looks of certain unintelligent folks,
they never see humor in anyone or anything, and they can't laugh
at these cuties that have a ton of affection on their mellow faces;
what would they do to be patted or be cuddled in their embrace?
They would give them their howleen and neowween for a soft caress!



And on every street people walk their dogs and cats dressed like mine,
what a surprise to watch this parade of adorable pets that look up and smile!
They will never know who was the genius behind all this, but gently and happily they stroll!
So who's to say that Halloween isn't for them? They're like our children who delight our soul!
And on each Halloween night, let them out, and let them do their Howlween and Meowween,
to enjoy the Halloween celebration, but tomorrow they'll not remember where they had been!


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

THE DORMANT FOREST AWAITS SPRING

All the strawberry's and moss rose's bushes
are slowing budding along the dusty bridle paths,
and as the husky New York cowboys pull down their hats,
they don't seem to excite their trotting horses;
and I am slower than they are...dragging my aching feet
to barren fields, where yesterday's lovers loved to dream!


And as the dormant forest awaits spring,
below the rain-soaked hill, some trees dingle from it's corroded cliffs
that are thickly covered with maroon leaves;
but the innocuous squirrels, unaware, scare away the wandering robin
that is too lonely and looks for sign of existence,
and my observation is a note worthy one by the rhythm of his wings!


My memorable childhood was spent observing the diverse seasons,
and the spectacular colors that bewildered me...enhancing their significance,
and whoever saw that child with a rosy face and short, curly hair:
must have thought to have seen a cherub with the softest wings,
who never tired of discovering new flowers and trees;
jotting down every detail in his handy notebook, to create words with flair! 


Rest under the pale sky, tired man and write your drama;
your strength has diminished as sunsets ultimately do;
you have seen the dawn with its intense light and a bright star, too:
that star which always illuminated your path and spirit!
Now, don't cease to exist and vanish like a dark star...
peacefully sleep, as the dormant forest awaits spring!


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

THE DREARINESS OF AN EMPTY HOME

After a hard day's work,
these weary feet drag me home,
with the urge of pulling the cork
from the red wine chilling in the cooler;
and smell steaming pasta primavera into a large bowl...
before I am tempted by my gluttonery desire!
  

Simple pleasures like relaxing my elbows
on a comfortable leather sofa,
with legs stretched-out on soft cotton pillows
and watching a dramatic soap opera;
pop-corn, potato-chips and beer...
yes, for a toast to health, indeed!


I may start to yawn and fall asleep...
unless, through my open window, spiders will slowly creep;
and crawl onto my arms and face,
but one sneeze blows them away, and
trust me on this:  the others won't certainly play around,
when they hear the scheme of my surprise!   


And if ideas bubble up into my energetic brain,
more plentifull than memories they'll tap this imagination;
and with pen and pad I'll spend hours contemplating inspiration,
and shouldn't it come swiftly while I cool off by the oscillating fan,
the dreariness of an empty home can effect my solitary mood:
and more than a melancholic moon...I'll vainly brood!


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

INSPIRATION SPARKS WHEN

Inspiration sparks when
a shooting star crosses
the starry, twinkling Heavens,
revealing its gradeur, beauty and sadness;
and if we follow it to its destination...
where it will finally land.


Inspiration sparks when it is stirred up by a sudden impulse,
and to miss it...is to lose another literary gem to outlast the ages,
that's why I constantly glance and run after one faster than a horse...
when it is about to take off with impetuous speed;
just chasing that luminous trail vanishing in distance...
fills one's heart with an incomparable feeling indeed.


Inspiration sparks when
we allow thoughts of serenity
enter the occupied mind burdened by a plan,
not letting it aimlessly wander somewhere else;
and its search might be long or terse,
to rise above those ideas too ordinary.


Inspiration sparks when
the least we expect it, to bewilder us;
transforming our silence into a powerful voice,
louder than the roar of an airplane,
of the thundering sound of a volcano in eruption...
making many tremble without waging war. 
   

Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

THE CLOSEST COMPARISON

A cherub with a rosy face
and plenty of curly hair
that the breeze loved to lull,
more than the daises so fair;
and that was the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!


The youngest dreamer ever to be born
with eyes as bright and lively as stars,
such were his to take imagination
beyond every possible dimension;
and such was the closest comparison...
to see himself as the beautiful child he once was!


He grew up too fast with an instinct
that was immensely blessed;  so keen,
privileged and gallant seemed that fearless
kid not to be able to earn one's keep,
to make perfection the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!


The shady paths covered by the swanky pine trees,
were as dusty as any country road which needed rain,
and it came without ever wishing for it;  and he welcomed 
it by getting wet, to lose himself in its gentle peace;
and what other closest comparison would he have made?...
If not that of the beautiful child he once was without worry and pain!   


Entered in Deborah Guzzi's poetry contest


Copyright 2009  by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

Stubborn Words (Sestina)

My pregnant psyche labors over words
and somber fetuses embalmed in ink.
A restless scribble knots my burdened nerves
with these encrypted ciphers I can't grasp.
Interpretations drip from severed tongues,
absurd perceptions form a distant mood.

My prying, inquisition probes my mood
with midnight sockets strained on anxious words.
Judicial eyes echo in hollow tongues
as condemnation blots out ink with ink.
The choreography beyond my grasp,
and too much cursive panic braids my nerves.

A juxtapose of hope and doubt lace nerves
to uttered oaths that constipate my mood
and steal coherent visions from my grasp.
Yet still, I itemize all of my words
and weigh them each as if more valued ink
could form a lexis between paper tongues.

Cacophonies amassed on corded tongues
are stretched out over sapped and springless nerves
no longer seeking sense from contoured ink.
A conquered revelation stirs my mood
as scrawled ideas seem only wasted words
just loose impossibilities to grasp.

But, Ah! Defeat has never felt the grasp
of proud, defiant pens or styptic tongues
and I have never knelt before my words
or gave into a desperate play on nerves.
I forge from pathos-strands that strike a mood
translating patterns born of crisscrossed ink.

My muse cannot be humbled by the ink
nor pen that consecrates a poets grasp.
It cannot cringe beneath a vicious mood
or beg for mercy from those cryptic tongues.
My style depends upon elastic nerves
that stretch around the depth of single words.

Frustration spilled the ink and tied the tongues,
my mind froze in its grasp and strained my nerves
but no mood intercepts my stubborn words. 


Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2007