her make up could have been much finer
the powder accented her purple eyeliner
she paraded past a farmer and a miner
is that make up or does she have a shiner?
Yes at thirteen, if you’re not a forty-niner
You don’t need your under eyes to have black eyeliner
But we do not say anything, because thirteen is a whiner
At supper we all keep our mouths shut at the clown-like diner
Careful—what you hear
is not truly what mind heard;
bias wears a voice
we sort the world by its sound—
kinship hums in tone and tongue.
Talk sounds funny—strange,
not what you're used to hearing
through your native ears
guardrails narrow to constrain
how you render each word's sound.
Hearing listens first
for cadence, tone, inflection—
truth dressed in accents;
one voice rises, one falls through,
judged before the words arrive.
A child chooses friends—
not for faces, but a voice
that feels like their own;
in accents they speak at home
echoing inheritance.
As youths grow older
their speech bends towards the room,
softly converging—
to belonging in the crowd
with a learned change in accent.
Careful—he might hear
you—not as you fully are
mutual bias
is voiced in accented sounds—
kinship strummed in scope and tone.
She smiles as bride of gloom
Gothic style floats her balloon
Young and eccentric
Taste was accented
Black roses tattoo on the groom
There is a field of flowers near the
Highway medium the grassy
Emerald space has become a
Living sanctuary for wild life
One day I noticed an unusual plant
Nestled between a pine and a dandelion
Even though it seemed boisterous
Lacking bloom yet uniquely beautiful
Yellow sun rays accented it’s presence
Wild and unknown
Entertaining as it was
Eye pleasing
Dancing against the wind
Thrown into this box of distinct pieces,
I could cover myself up with them once.
Their image simply relaxed into a fit.
That sharp edge accented a reliable fit
ensuring the uniqueness of the pieces.
Every distinction was frowned upon once.
Change has found me more than once,
regularly revamping me with a custom fit.
A new board can’t hold worn down pieces.
The pieces of who I once was don’t fit.
Buried with haste so skillfully,
they had to have done this before.
Once found there would be no more
gems forgotten in the red sea.
Left right where nobody would be
except all those prone to explore.
Buried with haste
accented by shoreline debris.
Riches stay alive with folklore,
fairy tales and sparkles galore.
Two steps apart from the palm tree,
buried with haste.
No facades needed
for my love to prosper.
True nature lights the spark
that ignites my heart’s wick.
To keep the candle burning bright
all that’s desired is love and faith
accented with shared laughter
as our days go by.
No strings attached,
no fine print to be found.
My love is yours for the taking,
unconditional and everlasting.
A forum, to present the spoken word
A path to the world, to be heard
Delivered with such compassion
This is poetrys' expression
An environment so calm
You can enter without a qualm
Accented with bright colors
Allowing expressions from others
All words spoken, seemingly in good taste
Every verse written, none were a waste
Such freedom is felt by poets
It's a beautiful thing, we know it
Language can be diverse
Not when we converse
Poetry is written for many reasons
Some is about the seasons
Poetry provides a release outlet
For greater works, but not yet
Delivered with such compassion
This is poetrys' expression
Author: Floyd Neal
Date: May 2005
Inspiration: Definition of poetry
Autumn leaves
splash across the earth
with colors from Monet’s palette
hastened by the chilling winds
Autumn leaves
litter paths through woods
redolent of musky-sweet smells
accented by sugar-cone crystals
Autumn leaves
shake and scatter day dreams
posing insatiable predilection
evoking cuddling and coddling
Autumn leaves
memories of those we’ve lost
those we’ve yet to meet
fall within our hearts
Today I saw some ancient books,
Five hundred plus years old,
With illustrations brightly hued
And accented in gold.
Calligraphied in perfect print,
They really blew my mind,
Surviving all these years
And waiting there for me to find.
On display within the Cloisters
And protected under glass,
Just a page or two is visible
To visitors who pass.
Yet I think of those who sat and toiled
By candlelight, now gone,
Who’d be shocked that centuries later
All their efforts still live on.
FORESHADOWS
of
a
close engagment
ever-present
&
predetermined
authentic
surprises
without
semantic
alterntives
unadulturated
living
so
invaluable
an
obsessive
refrain
inextricably
blended
without
intricate
pattern
ordered
&adhered
yet
respecting
judgement
in a
corresponding
exporation
accented
multiplicity
scanned
then
expunged
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Still clear and sunlit
are the tanned, weathered faces
of the fisherman,
their bloodshot eyes,
beanies and checkered shirts,
how they
stood hip deep
in their boats
looking up at a gathered crowd,
the fish arrayed in neat rows
with glistening scales,
caressed, turned
and splashed with seawater
by reverent hands,
translucent mops
of squid and trays
of crabs whose tormented
writhings rippled beneath
blankets of wet
hessian bags.
I can hear accented
voices yelling out prices
and frenzied seagulls overhead,
a haze of smells
and noise jostling
in a silvered morning,
when all was spliced
and wound into a bright
necklace of wire
from which a dozen
or more fish hung
to carry home,
a ring of “tommy ruffs”
fit for the pan or to smoke
in an old tea chest
until they became
a sweaty glaze
of amber flesh,
a filet of sunlight
and good to eat.
The meadow has come alive in vibrant hues
Lavender is blooming, accented with yarrow
And small ground flowers are showing blues
The meadow has come alive in vibrant hues
Columbine and alyssum are taking their cues
From insistent chirping of a chipping sparrow
The meadow has come alive in vibrant hues
Lavender is blooming, accented with yarrow.
written March 6, 2022
Jesus died for my sins
But if I live for naught
Am I living freely?
As with constitutions -
Mix of rights and duty!
Jesus died for my sins
What need we be thankful?
"He asked me not, nor I
Of God, a pure conscience!"
Or, "Why should I comply?"
Jesus died for my sins
My job: just Testimony -
Tell all, "No guilt assails!"
Saved a new, great vessel
Tossed on earth, safe in gales
Jesus died for my sins
Deaths victory (but) temporary!
I know how "Good" Friday
Preludes to deaths defeat
He rose, "PAS" Holiday
NOTE:
My syllable count for "temporary" and "Vic -try" are more India- English (& American accented?). Thanx dear reader. Indulge me, thanX. shalOm
Art deco dictates a strong womanly arrogance
Her orange hair accented her headdress true
I saw her in a vision dream, of course only once
She parades herself in a painting, looking haughty and new.
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