Best 6 Poems
From childhood it was a world of two...you and I...
I leaned lightly, leisurely against your heart and you let me in.
We were five I use to draw you rose scented flowers
using an ordinary led pencil. Youth! The world was ours.
Seven! I know that was the first time I saw you blush.
I whispered a song for you so no one else would hear.
Oh when we were nine! The potato sack race. I entered with Lisa.
You gave me that look. Oh that look! And you left without a word.
At eleven years old I had my "magic wink". "A Magic Wink" you'd
say sarcastically. How it made you giggle to make fun of it.
It was at thirteen we decided to burn the gym floor with our moves.
Our first dance. You stole my breath. Emptied the room of oxygen.
Fifteen...we started running and my God we ran and ran...
our shoe prints dug into the concrete. It was then I knew. Forever.
Then suddenly at seventeen in the slip of time you left, dissapeared.
Stunned! I slept through the next two years even in the full light of day.
At nineteen I swam an endless pool but even the chlorine couldn't
clear your scent from my memory as my spirit filled out hard as steel.
Was it on my twenty first birthday you showed up? You showed up
tried to hug me hello. Silent! Cold! I turned and walked away.
Was I still twenty one when I apologized for that day. When you asked
for an explanation. I recited false words but we both knew. Hurt for hurt.
Then at twenty five we still had issues to work out. I asked you bluntly
why you cut me loose in the prime of our youth. You my first and only.
I asked the question that burned in my gut. Without words your eyes spoke.
You were still in love with me. There was only me. I your first and only.
Finally our lips met to never part again. Left to wonder why, I accept our
lives without an answer. My love was that. Why would I have let you go?
Older than old now. One last time you leave. Death makes this choice.
Alone again I remember how I never knew why once you left.
Not everything is explained or understood,
like music by a one arm man playing a violin.
I sport my blank stare. Naked is the body of life.
Mystery sings blind the song of the lark!
and I...
i think of you.
March 29 2015
Armand
Spring heralds the dawning of brilliant bluebells carpeting the woods
Silently they slept until the warm sun rouses them from slumber
Gently they open their eyes, stretch and bask in nature’s glory
01~29~15
Contest Glorious Sijo Fields – Andrea Dietrich
How Many Syllables - Count 16, 16, 15 – total 47
~awarded 5th place~
pale moonlight
tints the silent garden--
raindrops glisten
The distance between us is like a pencil line drawn on a page
like steam in air
like the drop of water that captures in its soul
the light
It is like water in the wash cloth
but also like that one ice cream drip that gets away and falls
Sometimes it is like the cool breeze that flutters the shears in the middle of the night
elusive ...beloved...treasured
like a kiss from the universe itself
it is like the suspended moment...the feeling of our foreheads touching
just before we give in ...to the kiss
You held my hand...listened to my every word
waited years to dance with me...to read to me...to tell me of your injuries
in the rear view mirror we are always surrounded by tiny glittering lights
fairy dust or is it mysticism twilight
our voices are strung up
like streamers across any room we have ever been in together
our foot steps glow and pulse wherever we have passed
the air respectfully swirls around our ghosts
but the distance you ask?
It is 70.1 miles from me to you...a graphite pencil line on a mapquest
but if you reach out you can grasp my hair in your hand and hold my head to yours
through the worm hole in the head of a pen
II. Nature's Cyclical Dance
End is not death. Changing into something new is good.
A leaf falls, then goes back into the dark soil.
Next year's flowers sleep under winter's quiet.
We fear the end, but nature shows us it's not bad.
Death is a new start.
My Anishinaabe mentor Little Deer laughed at my wide eyes.
That first forest walk, as he plucked a bright trillium —
"Cherish her fleeting beauty, but mourn her not, my friend.
This flower's death will birth a thousand more to come."
His people know life dances on; death is rebirth.
I hear them now. Those ancient voices riding wind's breath.
They speak through birch and pine... calling me back to the way —
Honoring and not fearing, the seasons' turning tides.
Each dawn's first birdsong and each brook's gentle murmuring
Echoing the rhythm pulsing through this wild...
and wondrous earth.
Let me join this cycle, rooted but free.
I'll welcome death and the return of life.
Like the forest floor, decay and new growth mix.
With every breath, I'll connect with the source.
This cycle of life, death, and being born again is a gift.
----
"The Sacred Forest, a Nurturing Mother, never lets life die, / But reclaims, recycles, and rebirths in her eternal lullaby." - Daniel Henry Rodgers
Four-score years ago, the youth of Allied Armies stormed Normandy's shore;
Men in the December of their years returned today recalling the gore of war.
They wept at comrades graves who freely gave their all on that crimson strand;
Heros reaped by the Scythe of Death to ensure that freedom would yet stand.
Old men wept as the dulcet notes of Taps was played,
And rendered smart salutes as Old Glory was displayed!
Many of the veterans leaned on canes to guide their stride;
Others in wheel-chairs were helped by guides to ease their ride.
Gnarled hands that once held the fearsome weapons of war,
Beckon for peace that we shall know war nevermore!
Upon the plain above Omaha Beach lie 9000 buddies they mourn,
Who await Gabriel's clarion bugle call on that Triumphant Morn!
The glistening sand that once was stained by a hero's blood,
Is now cleansed by the ebb and flow of decades of tidal flood.
The beach that once resounded with the cannon's roar,
Now trembles with the booming surf rushing to the shore!
The hardships these gallant men suffered, we shall never know;
So much, so very much, to this Great Generation we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
As the moon steals the skies from the sun
And the stars twinkle way up above
I wonder will I ever find that one
who can share an undying love
contest:'Brevity Poetry Contest No More Than Six Lines'
Sponsor:Caren Krutsinger
Assures their breed a place among unknowns,
lest Europe and Asia part of their realms.
Peacock Butterfly, hues-full Inachis,
their uppermost topsides reveal truth bids,
yet undersides are black-like camouflage,
predators amiss, perplexed by mirage,
afears further by fake four eyes on wings,
and hissing sounds. The flower's nectar brings
life spans. They're killed whilst hibernating by
wood mice, and birds like Tit birds when they fly.
Folklore's namesake, Hera's Priestess Io,
eyed by Zeus, held by Hera as a cow.
A year's crawl and sleep, another takes flight,
climbing ivy draws and flowers, delight.
Gradually she changes her dress
at the end of this winter day
like a beautiful stage actress
preparing herself for a play.
At the end of this winter day
City of Joy as she is called
preparing herself for a play
diamond petals slowly unfurled.
City of Joy as she is called
wearing her glittering ornaments
diamond petals slowly unfurled
blooming like a rose God sent.
Wearing her glittering ornaments
anklet to bracelet of lights
blooming like a rose God sent
waiting for visitors of night.
Anklet to bracelet of lights
Howrah Bridge is her necklace
waiting for visitors of night
checks her face on the Ganges.
Howrah Bridge is her necklace
like a beautiful stage actress
checks her face on the Ganges
gradually she changes her dress.
© kash poet 2012
**Click on "About this poem" to see her necklace,The Howrah Bridge
========================000========================
Placement:5th ;(January 2012)
Contest:City Lights
Sponsor:Debi Guzzie
Above
The purple lake
Pale sunrays spread like songs
To burn away the shadows in
My soul.
Sunset
casts lavender
hues across lustrous sea,
then brushes clouds as bustling day
falls still.
I write of sad things in my life for you,
And win sometimes first place and this is true;
Some hate my weeping words,
That I write like a song bird;
So I give me, a compliment or two.
_________________________
June 20, 2015
Limerick
Inspiration Quote:
"When you cannot get a compliment in any other way, pay yourself one."
Mark Twain
For the contest, Write with the Wit of Twain
Sponsor, Andrea Dietrich
Seventh Place
how many walking time bombs
wearing fake smiles
dwell in america?
explosive charge + timer + detonator = resident of the US of A
Haiku 6/15/2016
warmth rises slowly
beckoning the cold blooded
silent slitherer
John G. Lawless
6/15/2016
(my part six entry into the crown sonnet started by Debs)
Ahead the bear in sudden motion stands.
I want to turn and run, but this is not
my way; I grasp my knife in trembling hands.
This fight will be like none I’ve ever fought!
The beast is greatly wounded; I can tell
by how he weaves, and I must take his life!
His neck I’ll strike. I breathe in; then exhale. . .
With all my might, I lunge out with my knife.
My free wrist he has clawed, but I am good!
Again and then again, I thrust and thrust.
Blood gushes from him as I knew it would.
I willed his death, for in myself I trust.
His warmth I’ll take by scraping fur from skin.
I bow before the bear to honor him.