Best 12 Poems
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
divining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
H o n e s t y,
because without it,
a child turns a blind eye to the truth.
H o n o r,
because without it,
a child compromises his principles.
F a i r n e s s,
because without it,
a child has no concept of justice.
T o l e r a n c e,
because without it,
a child grows narrow of mind.
P a t i e n c e,
because without it,
a child loses grip on self-control.
R e s p e c t,
because without it,
a child rebels against authority.
D i s c i p l i n e,
because without it,
a child struggles to persevere.
S e l f - r e l i a n c e,
because without it,
a child becomes slave to dependency.
H u m i l i t y,
because without it,
a child cultivates arrogance.
C h a r i t y
because without it,
a child falls prey to selfishness.
C o n f i d e n c e,
because without it,
a child turns inward.
L o v e,
because without it,
a child cannot practice acceptance.
'Twas the twilight of the year
a twinkling tiara.
December 31st, digits dancing dunes
in the Sahara.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
it's a prance.
A numerical Irish step dance
given a whimsical chance.
In the calendar's corners,
a magical mystery unfurls.
As the date spins and swirls
like a jester's jingling twirls.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
in a line.
A date so divine,
it deserves its own shrine
so fine!
But wait, what's this? A satirical twist!
The date's just a number
it doesn't exist!
One, two, three, one, two, three,
what's the fuss?
Wait… all dates are human-
created
YES, by us!
The numbers are shocked
feeling quite superfluous.
In the grand scheme of things
oh so ridiculous!
So here's to the New Year
let's raise a toast.
To the date that we've come
to boast the most.
With champagne that sparkles
and tastes like the sun.
2023 is yet undone
run from the old
to the new one,
run, run, run!
In the canon of the digits
a lesson we see.
Time is a construct
as fluid as the sea.
So let's celebrate the moments
both big and small.
For, in the end
they're the most
precious of all.
"12 Days of Christmas Craves"
On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
12 twinkling tiaras
Eleven emerald elephants
Ten Tiffany trinkets
Nine naughty negligees
Eight echoing elves
Seven sequined stars
Six sexy singers
Five fake fingernails s s s
Four furry foxes
Three tingling tamborines
Two turtledoves
And peach tree in pail via e-mails s s s.
*For P.D.'S 12 Days of Christmas.
*Written by: Linda-Marie "Sweetheart".
Why would a 12-year girl want to die?
What would make a 12-year-old girl end her life?
Why would a 12-year-old girl want to say goodbye?
Now I lay here with an empty bottle of pills by my side.
It was just too much to hide.
My little brother found me on my bathroom floor.
He went screaming out the door.
The ambulance came and I heard voices fading away.
I can still make out what they say.
Why would a 12-year girl want to die?
What would make a 12-year-old girl end her life?
Why would a 12-year-old girl want to say goodbye?
Now I lay in a hospital bed.
He can’t hurt you anymore the nurse said.
Thank god the gun box was locked.
Now theirs a knock.
The cops came in and said my sister talked.
They said after what my father did he will never walk.
Why would a 12-year girl want to die?
What would make a 12-year-old girl end her life?
Why would a 12-year-old girl want to say goodbye?
He came in my room at night.
Something’s a child just cant fight.
Tired of living with this dirty feeling.
Tired of all together feeling.
Why Daddy Why?
Why would you make me cry, lie, and all-together die?
Why would a 12-year girl want to die?
What would make a 12-year-old girl end her life?
Why would a 12-year-old girl want to say goodbye?
Mom didn’t know.
She said it wasn’t my fault and beyond my control.
They said there were more.
They just were scared to come forward before.
Now I’m on the stand facing a child molester.
The lawyer asks my father.
Why would a 12-year girl want to die?
What would make a 12-year-old girl end her life?
Why would a 12-year-old girl want to say goodbye?
What did you do that was so bad that your daughter wanted to die?
Form:
New Year’s Eve
I need to feel the trade winds blow
To know they have my heart in tow,
Here in the twilight of this hour
I feel the grandeur of God’s power.
The Sun, a ball of golden fire
Rises with my heart’s desire
That this New Year will offer love
As Sol begins to rise above.
How wonderful, the winter sky—
With mist filled clouds that float on by.
Sweet birds of beauty on the wing,
Portends the gifts New Year will bring.
© Connie Marcum Wong
My Muse is the New Year
Contest: Ekphrasis 12 Line Max
Sponsored by Rick Parise
12 BROTHERS BEARING GIFTS
A Mother weeps, her child is born,
A Father poor sits all forlorn,
The wind howls through their shelter rough,
The wood for their fire is not enough.
And though no gifts can they bestow,
Of riches and of jewels that glow,
12 brothers bearing gifts of joy,
Arrive for the poverty stricken little boy.
The first comes, gliding down the panes,
So fresh, so quiet to fill the lanes,
The tiny babe’s cheeks are pink, and bright,
The air is cold, and all is so white.
The next seeps through the crack in the door,
And fills the hut in a might roar,
The little boy giggles, he thinks it’s fun,
His folks light the fire their day’s work done.
The third brings winds that cloud the sky,
And all around migrant birds begin to fly,
And the fourth heralds the April showers
Preparing for May and Spring-time flowers.
And with June days, the Summer starts,
Cold, rain and snow now all departs,
The sun is smiling, its rays spread about
Children playing happy to be out!
October brings Autumn, which in it’s height,
Is out in the country a magnificent sight,
The wool is woven, the crops are in store,
When will Winter, come knocking at the door?
The 10th makes the heavens open wide,
So all the animals scurry to hide,
Leaving behind a child full of thought,
That the richest of parents couldn’t have bought.
And the next leaves the trees looking so bare,
But the child doesn’t worry or give it a care,
For the woods look so pretty in their Winter glory,
And the wind whistles gently whispering its story.
And now that Christmas is almost due,
All poverty is forgotten, it’s the parents cue,
So out, come small savings in bright colored coffers,
To celebrate the goodwill that this brother offers.
THIS IS A RE-POST FROM 2018
To grab all seems some are inclined
Their trespass could be unconfined
So passwords and keys
Though designed for my ease
Have got me all locked in a bind
Revolution Number ‘12
Old habits are hard to break
As are new ones to make
But through trial and error
And maybe facing a terror
One can learn to ease an ache
Changing can be like fighting a war
Civil civilians, casualties young, and poor
The good, green and gold
Versus ways ignorant and old
May the victors’ world be better than the one before
a goldfinch feasts
among the ripe concord grapes --
purple stains my lips
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
(A true story. In the year 1612, a young artist
named Artemisia Gentileschi, native of Rome,
was raped by one of her father's artist colleagues.
This is the tale of the subsequent criminal trial
and its impact on Artemisia's art.)
Prefatory Sonnet
My tale is of a rape. As plain as that.
In sixteen twelve or so, these things took place
in Rome. Her father’s friend (you smell a rat?)
surprised her in her home, that year of grace,
and robbed her of her innocence. His name
was Tassi. We’ll learn more of him anon.
Three painters are our principals, but claim
no immortality – well, maybe one.
The three were father, daughter, father’s friend,
and Artemisia (the best of all!)
She soon progressed from copy, grind and blend
and in Rospigliosi took a wall.
Today, collectors crave her canvas craft
so she laughs longest (having lastly laughed).
tucked against the wind
winter’s game of hide and seek
headless ducks on ice
©12/6/2019
A Nature Themed Haiku Poetry Contest
Watching myself from behind
Chasing words on the front
Dieing on the the rear
But my life is going along
Shots of death inside
Life escaped outside
I wonder where we would have
been
If we chose our paths w/out a
bend
Boring life the straightest road
Midnight holds the great
unknown
November 12, 2019
Written: by Miracle man
Temperature sits at sixteen
and wind chill makes it ten.
The coldest I can recall,
an early fall having been.
Leaves are now falling,
and to our yard seem confined.
Soon I’ll be kept busy,
with my annual blow, rake, and grind.
Making mulch for tomatoes,
I plan on planting next spring.
But first I must get past,
this early fall, chill thing.
Growing 250 tomato plants,
Is hard work I’ll say.
With Potassium high I can’t eat,
so I give them away.
But spring brings weather change,
and often severe storming.
I suppose, like so many,
I could just blame global warming.