A sonnet by this arrant bard, an other,
whose sole half-brother, a real piece of work,
and single parent (mother like no other!),
together were no warm nor loving perk.
In her heart, mother disowned me in life.
My younger half-brother begrudged my genius,
whilst being a rival who sowed seeds of strife,
in mother, against me (how very jealous
was he?). But I, an outright bard, complete
and sheer, make their dysfunction a rhymed affair
to exorcise these memories: defeat
this duo by whom I'm “an other” in despair!?
But if I could return my estranged mother,
I still wouldn't—and call my half-sibling, “Brother!”
Fields of Grace
David J Walker
A gift of God
The shadows shroud
And cloud
The arrant thoughts
Aloud
And not allowed
Alone on shore
Abandoned in
A metaphor
Abandoned in
An awkward wind
Enticement to
Come home again
Come home
Triumphant prodigal son
And wash the feet
Of everyone
That everyone
May be allowed
Gracious royal robes
endowed
Fields of Grace
His Face
Endowed
Blow the trumpet, rhythm of fresh start -
Hummingbirds nectar-sing-along.
Ruby passion throat, pink beak sips.
Chest puffed up, an emerald heart.
The flapping of yellow wings, strong.
Flower-power relationships.
The sweetest thing, a pleasant art.
Romantic flight of nature’s song.
Bird flips over God’s arrant scripts.
Memory of each flower, smart -
Its timing, to each bud belong.
Petals alive with hummer’s lips.
Hovering hummingbird busy.
Delirious design - dizzy.
(Due to PS new contest rules did not include footer info)
The tortured mind 'tis that causes pain
Knowingly, to others with abandonment
Sticking out its venomous tongue again,
Dissing others, but to its own detriment.
It cannot seem to grasp the simple truth
The tortured mind 'tis that relishes pain,
Twists words into what’s foul and uncouth
Eschews responsibility, like clearly insane.
Becoming harder and harder to explain
Ranting and raving with vilest intent
The tortured mind 'tis that releases pain,
Until forcibly silenced it will not relent.
Seeks new faces, new victims to assault
But continues to sing an old, old refrain
Dares never to admit its own arrant fault
The tortured mind 'tis that pleasures pain.
Written August 30, 2022
[with slight change in the
repeated line throughout]
my bedroom mirror is broken -
an arrant illustration of torment
wrists landmark a spectacle carved in crimson blood
damaged mutterings seeking acceptance
darkness in the corners of self
rapacious hunger cut off by unfilled desire
ribs devoured and exposed, but covered
hiding pain in plain sight
famished; none the wiser
with a cracked precision, I smile
The Way You Sing My Song
David J Walker
I remember falling in love with a song
And then searched for someone to
Try it on
While you were singing the words
Of your hearts desire
The fire
The fire
The words of arrant desire
If I write another love poem
It will have to be
an apology
for not believing
someone could love me
the way you sing my song
i felt the tempest coming
onslaught umbrage
from darkest skies
its thunder rumbled
in endless echoes
across the grains
of mountain's rock
i saw it flash
its arrant light
piercing through
the tips of trees
emanating
crimson trails
upon the ground
i stood
in its pools
of blood
as if assailed
in its draft
its winded breath
piercing through my heart
like wounded love
i saw you there
momentarily
blinking in
and out
of the shadows
of memories
The darkest crevice bares the strongest light
Dispersing bright sun over shadows white pale
Barren trees stand against snow laden blight
Tips of fresh grass poke heads above the trail
The owl swoops down to the death of the mouse
While winds howl free across the moons dead face
Shadowed spaces hide beasts preying on Grouse
Polar ponds stilled where sly fish find their place
Frost bound trails that crunch and squeak with each step
My arctic heart fills with calls of sleepless sounds
While stars fall to escape like dreams unkept
For the spawning tides of spring to abound
Lifted by this arrant winter's cold night
The darkest crevice bares the strongest light
Rewritten October 10, 2020
Completely Your Choice Poetry Contest 24
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Famine
Written: by Tom Wright
3/29/03
The dove of peace flies clear this land laid waste,
where life is sacrificed daily for a misguided belief.
Those responsible voice mellifluous words in haste,
living sumptuously, while commonalty seeks relief.
For the uncaring, God, esteems with arrant disdain,
as children's bulbous bellies, in number, are as sand.
With vociferousness the caring unite in loud refrain,
oft shedding tears that only God would understand.
Fathers, Day 2003
"Boundaries"
Written: By Tom Wright
6/16/03
For the elixir of the vine,
Dad could scarcely refrain.
Now just thoughts of his labor,
Like green persimmons, remain.
Twas like some withered old flower,
That doggedly clung to its stem.
Fleecing each morning sun, until at last,
His petals blanched and eye's grew dim.
How oft have I wondered?
As this flower's memory I retrieve.
Questioning extenuating circumstances,
Which I have yet to conceive;
But in all my discernment,
Lay a garden in arrant waste.
Its corners marked by boundaries,
That was unjust and unchaste.
Time has moved hands clockwise,
And those boundaries that were set.
Occasionally grieve my spirit,
O’er that shadow that remains yet.
At my dad's final passing,
I was left wrought up, but sad.
For despite perceived deficiencies,
One fact remained; he was my Dad.
Why waste words when a haiku will do.
When rhyme and limerick make music redundant.
When meaning and message mean more to you
than twaddle and tripe, and rants arrant.
Words we love, for their sounds and spirit.
Cogent sticky words that you can't not notice
can't ignore for their goodly taste and merit.
Words we alliterate and masticate into necklace
strung like beads, worn to adorn and elicit
tantalizing chimes, clangs and gongs in interface
between writer and reader, bound close-knit
with pithy, pungent, poignant, didactic lace.
Common sense, succinctly stated, with just a dash of whit.
For Mac Henry Imafidon
Foxes have no cave to lay
but here I spread like a clay
I have very few to love
beside the springs of Dove
May we always remember
we may not be among the members
May we always remember
even before their mothers
Tell them that brve it most
They would live to see the cost
Upon a teethless arrant
Tomorrow shall tell of pur warrant
You glowlike my heart
The truth shall be seen in your art
Wait, look and see
I have made you a Rose
Our heartbeats, soulmates
Our soul giver, soul providers
May we always remember
that tomorrow has something to remember.
©John Chizoba Vincent
For_Boy_Of_Tomorroe
While Satan still manipulates
the call to arms is apparent,
when disarmament stipulates
a flaw a weakness to exploit;
by the next despotic arrant
moving amongst us all adroit.
Peaceful lands of noble intent
sing your gullible lullaby,
relinquish your strength you’ll repent
aiding the augment of evil;
his preying armies to satisfy
destroying peace with upheaval.
While Satan still manipulates
peaceful lands of noble intent.
© Harry J Horsman 2016
You make me laugh
when showing that I can not have.
You make me sigh
then show what's nearby
You make me wish for things
gone arrant
and yet I cry not,
when I care most high.
You make me laugh again,
and not sigh; for things I wish for not in the sky.
I laugh out loud,
to protect my fate,
In hopes it's enough
to be on my plate.
You make me laugh,
for I do not hate.
for I am grateful for this
to germinate
You make me laugh.
Little is known when ignorance apparent
yet those that use it as a weapon arrant,
when implanting seeds of hate
with paradoxical bait,
surly to most of us oh so transparent.
© Harry J Horsman 2015
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