"Off this bank, captain
Or any other
To face, for no troublous sea
What's skimmed cosmically
Push, gently now, push.
'The Beguiled Dreamer' ".
World's fatigued, fed up
One voiced, and hoarse, plead.
Late eves, who sink otherwise
Down and deep, reclined likewise
Plushy lounged and chaired.
As sound tides recede.
(A lone voice whispers at 3 am)
There was always something so controversial and medieval
About exploring semi-clothed in the dark shadows
All the deeply hidden essences of you
But I guess it's just one of the many unspoken reasons
Why I stepped into your view
Just unconsciously attracted when you appeared
Right out of the blue
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Her pale face, rosy lips, raven wing hair,
that many compare to a princess of old, so fair.
Yet, she is unique, the girl with the amber eyes,
sweet demeanor, a façade, to hide the lies.
Perfected ruse to the ruthless mind in disguise,
Mistress of Castle Rose is not known for a heart of ice.
But deep within the walls, beneath the cellar,
sits the evidence of the hell she earnestly endeavors.
La Dame Blanche would shiver in fear,
to witness the heinous monsters summoned there.
So, vigilance is all that can be given, warned,
If Mistress Rose beguiles you, your soul, eternity, be mourned.
A willow trembles in the breeze
And stoops in awe as angels sneeze;
Quaking feebly to its knees,
Bending, doleful, if you please.
A day, as this, when squalls blow wild
The willow cries ~ as like a child;
Deserted, sad, forlorn, beguiled,
And all aloof, left out, exiled.
Now her branches droop away
Blenching down throughout the day;
Keeping blusts of gusts at bay
Harboured from the rainy spray.
Underfoot a lonely duck
Shelters in a babbling brook,
Dabbling in a shady nook
Safe and sound, her haven took.
Then above the daylight seeps,
In the sky the sunlight peeps;
She, thankful for the faith she keeps
The trembling willow gently weeps.
This clump of cells is lacking will,
And yet in some, does fear instill.
Cares not the way, the shortest route;
Its only plan: get big, get out.
Yes, some will curl in fetal tuck,
While others shrug at their bad luck.
It interrupts, disturbs our life,
Affects the teen, the mother, wife.
The inclination is to kill,
To scrape, to cut, or take a pill.
Malignant, other, not like us;
Get rid of it, eschew the fuss.
This is my life! Dare not intrude;
It permeates, we are imbued.
Forevermore, though it is gone.
Not present, yet it lingers on.
Which clump of cells has us beguiled:
A tumor or unwanted child?
Sun
So hot
Stifling me
Gaze falling on
Blue wisteria
I muse on its beauty
Bewitched by trumpet creeper
As mirage distorts green cedar
Blue Damselflies hover over pool
Mesmerizing afternoon, sleep claims me.
A magnetic stare
Eyes that look deep
Deeper into my soul
Caught under your spell
Always and forever.
Bite Size Poem no.16 Poetry Contest
Surging storm of turmoil splitting apart the falling sky
blows with blasting fury through the splintered mind
the flaring wrath burns like the blazing badland bush
searing the disgruntled soul to a stack of anguished ash.
The sky would be seamless again and construct the clouds
adrift with the revived ruins rising from the halcyon horizon
dissolving in the melancholic psyche making pearls of dew
adorning the meadow of mind free from the mist of sorrow.
In the gust of freedom the clumps of cloud float away far
as the shining stars glow bright in the moonlit silken sky
the satin surf of stardust wafts in the rapturous radiant air
making in my mind aurora of astral ambiance of tranquility.
Across the topography of soul the stream of jubilation flows
saturating my parched essence and whispering, I live my life
as my own, drinking always the ambrosia of joy without hiatus
and sail on the wind of rhapsody to the beguiled bay of bliss.
February 11, 2021
Contest (N-A) : Joy Continuum
May 4, 2021
Contest : Final 2021 N-A Choice 3
Sponsor : William Kekaula
Nature dons Autumn's multicolored shawl
as the days shorten, and the nights grow long.
And squirrels stash stores of nuts in the Fall,
for they know Winter will soon be along.
Geese skedaddle south in the Fall, like thieves,
fleeing from the inevitable cold.
And green, peridot, and emerald leaves
morph into orange, amber, red, and gold.
Jack Frost carves abstract curls on windowpanes,
sculpting surreal shards of frozen breath.
And Autumn gathers October's remains,
weaving a splendid shroud for Summer's Death.
November scribbles colors like a child
with waxen crayons: leaving you beguiled.
The voice of a Poet,
the breath of a Child
The curse of the Devil
—forever beguiled
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
livid pink
dying yellow
meadow saffron
in imaginary pools:
wild wimsey
pervade a
glassy abyss...
with ridicule
Beguiled About Child Defiled
We definitely did know that he beguiled,
And had taken advantage of and defiled;
How absurd,
This occurred;
She was minor considered to be a child.
Jim Horn
Roy Moore running for Senator in Alabama
should drop out of race.
It's a long, long way down the park,
but she’s deeply inclined, inclined
to roam hover or linger
among webs of an inky fog
just like her mashed hair: and sepia eyes
ignore jagged blinks of lamp lights
climbing inside a mind.
As she sits alone on a bench to crumple
near nuptial's farewell letter, her delicate face
bows like a waylaid nightingale--
juxtaposed by the many drones
of sullen notes almost lost in a haze
along paths searching for mirth, searching mock.
Beguiled, bothered, bruised through darkness;
her hidden sobs yell wildly at Eve's moonglow.
Written for Eve Roper's She Sits Alone Contest
Syllable Count: 138
8/11/2017
You home for a holiday,
belly gorged on favorites,
soft couch cradling like a mother's arms. . .
since you grew up,
shed child skin,
thin facial hair shading jaw,
even when days were tough,
rough making it alone,
you came home on holidays.
Your laughter blending with the chatter,
clatter of dishes, pots, pans,
sisters catching up,
nieces, nephews climbing up
to sit on lap, lie on shoulder.
All got older;
drill sergeant time barking commands,
remands to custody
faces more precious than treasure.
Measure joy?
not mother love for little boy;
let us go on forever
counting jokes and smiles,
beguiled.
Copyright, Faye Lanham Gibson
June 28, 2017
The voice of a Poet,
the breath of a child
The curse of the Devil
—forever beguiled
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
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