Best Accented Poems
For Linda, Freddie, Chan, & others that meant something true to us…
Another departure…
Another wistful teardrop
Embracing yesterday’s candid goodbye
No longer can we touch their physical soul.
But, we
Can keep amnesia’s accented clef at bay
Holding their voice beyond new tomorrows
…
It is the triangle of life’s conundrum
When we slow dance with the arms of Why
The breaths of How
The misunderstood elegance of inevitabilities
We are taught the 2 guarantees of life: Death & Taxes
Yet, only one really means more to us
Within sunrise’s incipience
We hold convex reflections with incandescent sadness.
Yet, time allows opportunity to fly higher than God’s perspective
EVEN through our limited wisdoms
While we cherish
Remember
The Candles in our wind
…
I whisper silent prayers for our friends, family, & colleagues that now SOAR WITHIN!
For they may no longer be in front of you & I...
They are
And always shall be
By
Our
Side
©Drake J. Eszes
I was honored to have Chan on our Stand As 1 show back in March 2014. It was a deeply memorable show. You can listen to how it all went down here: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/standas1/2014/03/16/stand-as-1-returns-wspecial-guest-that-archaic-poet
She like a fresh dew bestows nourishment
to the graceful morning dove
in a luscious meadow filled with
tall fluorescent green grasses and
yellow, blue, and white wildflowers,
quenches all my worldly thirsts.
She like the pure white swan which
swims majestically on
a sea of gold reflecting
the powerful rays of the sun
consumes me with all her beauty
She like a great bountiful mountain
rising sharply into the
endless cobalt sky accented with
opulent cumulous clouds
lifts me to greater heights
She like the burnished northern star,
the glistening Polaris, guiding
the wayward ship to it's port,
leads me to my one true home
She is my heart, my mind and my soul
She is my meaning, my substance, my know
She is my sun, my star, my moon
She is my spirit, my vision, my muse
A pre-lit Christmas tree sparkles the entrance
Monet, Van Gough, and Wassily Kandinsky prints
adorn the walls of her sitting room
a dozen painted roses sit in a faux crystal vase
and the smell of apple pie lingers in the air
coming from her Scentsy candle warmer
resting upon her replica baby grand piano
The seconds tick loudly from the tree house looking cuckoo clock
as I wait
patiently I wait
down the stairs she comes
waltzing ever so gracefully
ever so elegant
in her bright flowing yellow dress
accented by beautiful costume jewelry
my heart skips a beat
as we kiss hello
and I know
yes I know
This love is real
Picked out the perfect arrangement
two dozen long stemmed roses
with deep ruby red petals
accented with forget-me-nots
each petal representing a kiss
I'll tread over those
luscious and inviting lips
and the forget-me-nots showing
my never ending love for you.
Reservations made.
We'll rendezvous at Les Ombres
In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower
I'll gaze lovingly at your
dazzling smile
fall deep under the spell of your
sparkling eyes
Top the night off with a toast
of champagne
Then whisk you off to a Cinderella's carriage ride
arm in arm, cheek to cheek
kissing you under the luminesce rays of the moon
we`ll take a journey into the sky
upon cupid`s wings
From his arrow we'll spread love
and share the joy it brings
We'll steal the midnight stars
making their fire ours
and when the magic fades
each other we embrace
We'll run to a chateau
by Paris East lake
You undress my innocence
as your breath I take
Breathless you leave me
at the sight of your skin
So supple your chest
inviting me in
Soft slow sweet kisses
tread upon your neck
hands on your hips
there's no turning back
Monet's Impression, Sunrise
First impressions leave memories
that can linger for a very long time
and give a sense of peace and understanding
that rewards the solitude of the mind
with satisfaction in contemplative reflection.
This may be deceiving and can mislead one to believe
that which is right may, in fact, be wrong.
Graciously accept the artist’s shared perception
that there is no ambiguity, only a warning
of the impending storm threatening prevalent reasoning.
The ascending sun, with its reflection on the water,
highlights a sense of direction as the rowers row
across the harbour at the break of morn.
Past cranes and derricks and ships at anchor
beneath a smoke-blurred fiery sky, accented
by pastel shades of blue to create the sombre mood
that expresses Monet’s "Impression, Sunrise" painting
and shares with the onlookers his representation
of nature from an Impressionist’s point of view
in the Industrial Age, heralding in the revolution.
That begs the question, “Where are they going,
and why blood orange?” (Oh, but I’ve seen that colour before.)
Day-to-day inquiries are asked of one another and strangers.
Monet incorporates an art form using oils on canvas,
forcing the audience to observe with curiosity,
thus presenting a sliver of time of life’s tranquillity at sea.
This provocation of thought chinks the consciousness
of seasoned connoisseurs who see change as frightening
and challenges their manipulation of artistic output
(to act like mechanical agents thwarting creativity).
“Will they reach their destination? Will it be as they hoped for?”
Hurry! Though calm, the waters will soon froth in labour.
***
Note:
“Monet’s Impression, Sunrise” is an ekphrastic poem referencing the painting “Impression, Sunrise” (1872) by Claude Monet (1840–1926).
He walked amid the woodlands muted morn.
The scents of earth were wafting on the breeze.
For dawn had moistened yet another day.
And silence dripped beneath the autumn trees.
A rustle in dry leaves, he caught a glimpse.
His gun caressed the warmth of flannel sleeves.
The silent hunter, stalking, tiptoed near.
A golden-red meandered through the leaves.
The sun began to rise above the knoll.
It shone upon dark eyes; the gun rose high.
The pheasant flickered leaves; then, heard a crunch.
He recognized the scent; the man walked nigh.
Red feathers, brightly accented with gold,
Were ruffled as he took his fighting pose.
The cockerel next to man had no defense.
So, high above the trees the pheasant rose!
His hungry children waited back at home.
He rushed along the trail up to the crest.
The pheasant lost from view; his stomach growled.
The hunter and his gun had done their best.
At noon, the hunter rested on a log.
The water in his canteen, nearly dry,
No morsel did he eat as day grew long.
The stealthy man could hear his children’s cry.
December 1, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry) - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Today I’d like to talk to you about how meter plays a part in
how we write a poem and sometimes in how we speak
The above lines, which are not at all poetic, are written in a specific
rhythm, or meter. Go back and read them again. You’ll pick up on
the rhythm: da DUM, da DUM, da DUM, etc. (unaccented syllable,
accented syllable, etc.)
The meter most commonly employed in poetry is iambic pentameter:
An iamb consists of an unaccented syllable and an accented syllable.
“Penta” means five. Therefore, five iambs create the meter called
iambic pentameter. Now, we’ll look at the top two lines again, this
time dividing the words into three lines: 1. Today I’d like to talk to you
about 2. how meter plays a part in how we write 3. a poem and some-
times in how we speak. This plain, literal language is written in the
rhythm used in many poems—iambic pentameter.
Literary examples, followed by everyday language, all in iambic pentameter:
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall.” (Robert Browning)
My rubber ball went bouncing down the hall! (Yours truly)
*****************************
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” (THE Bard)
Let’s stop and buy some gum along the way. (Yours truly)
****************************
Ask me for trochees, dactyls, anapests,
and spondees. All will take me quite a while.
Request tetrameter and trimeter.
Will do! But none of these will make me smile
like writing five neat iambs in each line.
I most enjoy this well-established style.
August 1, 2018
Contest Title: Reads Like Music--Haibun-Look poetry contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Seductive tones filter the slumbered night
swashes of seda fill up an accented view
swirls of honeysuckle flicker in the breeze
and again the beauty of you is inhaled
Strip down low to the bare essentials
drench your soul in the waters of me
embrace fully in the arms of self content
and unleash chaos holding a being at bay
Enter into my entranced persona offering
let sacred dreams spill over silent borders
unburden that heavy heart hidden away
guarded, we are not who we say we are
worn glossy finish
corners and edges scathed and torn
layers of dust collected from the years
keys played down and worn
faint scent of old cigars
accented with a hint of alcohol
a beautiful melody slightly off tune
vocal chords of an angel
melodies unmatched even through the ages
Smile on her face makes me free
Like I can fly beyond my own destiny
Her eyes shine with surreal majesty
To essence of her soul they are the key
When her crimson lips give a kiss
My heart burns with sublime bliss
Her voice like bird song that old ballad will reminisce
The depth of her love is like an abyss
Abyss that cannot be replaced by any other word
While her eyes pierce like a sword
Her hair wave on the same wind in which eagles soared
Whispering softly as to extol her every word
Hair is color of amber or honey made by bees
Their softness and intricacy is accented by the breeze
Their beauty will make one weak in the knees
Along with a smile that is like a dawn that soul can unfreeze
The sun receded quietly on a relaxing siesta, as
Calm clouds of the mid-afternoon smiled henced,
The beat of the drums provideth dancing rhythm
As she moved in pure elegance with harmony, to
A style of danced buoyantly bouncing in melody.
Crafted beadworks accented her warmth charm,
Under her delicately brown-jeweled moccasins
The grass provideth such a natural cushion,
As Angular unique flexings of her gentle knees
Resonated like an eagle’s stealthy landing
Quietly in its nests with an eye on a nice prize.
She tingled as the sound of bells jingled
Sending pure melodic rhythm to ears—many!
Whilst she turned in an elegantly slow motion
Fringes from her shawl swayed air of warmth.
The balls of her feet moved in slight degrees as
Her heels touched Mother Earth softly in harmony,
She smiled as the judges watched intently. Like
A graceful dove she floated with precision—uniquely!
Her buckskin regalia trimmings—so singed softly!
As she danced in the sunset evening's twilight;
She created an energetic circle of life’s fire
Yet, never raised her ceremonial feathered fan,
Whilst in clear focus emerged from the dance
Regal styles of proud cultural Native heritage
A contrastingly exquisite fine female figure
Arousing sights in the soft evening’s twilight,
Dispelling the uncertainly to even look twice,
Elegantly noble and much marvelously nice:
She was naturally—First Woman!
~~~~~~~~~**********~~*~~~~~~~~~
Written During Oneida Nation Annual 2010
Independence Weekend Pow-wow Celebration
Host Drummers – Bear Creek
Oneida, Wisconsin, Bordering Green Bay
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
Won Honorable Mentioned Prize
Images Contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
7/15/10
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
My father gone these forty years,
my mother gone twenty, I remember...
the acrid smell of tobacco on my mother’s rough fingers,
as she sat, silently, in a predawn Texas coastal town,
my head in her lap, the short-wave radio crackling with static.
She strained to hear the chatter of shrimpers in the Gulf of Mexico,
yelling out to each other in Cajun French, Mexican Spanish, accented English.
She stroked my nine-year-old hair,
her middle-aged body aching, hungry, worried, sleepless.
Far from her roots -- stranded -- in this strange,
dry, totally foreign place.
Her imaginings of my father’s struggles
with the sea and its weathers filled her mind.
She knew, all the while, that even
if he were safe, we would still suffer
the poverty of the displaced and desperate,
whose minor, occasional comforts were only,
onshore, the cold beers and noisy camaraderie
of the others like him, like her...like us.
And she told him that she would love him
like no other woman ever will.
The accented sensuality to complete his sentences,
was her proclamation.
The Egyptian cotton blanketing her natural breasts,
sliding up his arms
as she wakes him for morning consummation;
epicenter consumption.
She told him that she craves him
beyond physical crux.
He was her equilibrium;
A key to Pandora’s shattered box.
Its fragmented sins,
now synchronous with redemption’s awakening.
Even after all these years…
Yet her heart
was wrapped
by hermetically sealed contention.
…
She told him
that she would love him
more than any other.
More than any other…
…like no other…
More than any other…
As she
strokes the pride
of another.
© Drake J. Eszes
I've cried the tears ...
I've suffered the years ...
I've tasted the fears ...
Of a spaceman hurtling through the void
Loneliness grows daily on the inside,
as I continue this autopilot ride
to the other side of the sun
This tritainium space ship moves swiftly
towards our sun's nearest relative
Alpha Centauri ... destination of my personal glory
I forsook family and friends,
to live a lonely existence in a metal cabin
in the vast wilderness of space
There are four other cosmonauts with me;
but they are asleep in cryostasis,
until we reach the end of this journey
Fusion moving to the other side of the sun
Being the lone human sentry,
I chose to sacrifice ... age my years naturally
on this long ten-year mission
No suspended animation, only a virtual companion
A computer generated voice of a Russian-accented woman,
paired with an attractive holographic image
to placate the intense loneliness of the vacuum
Her voice represents a New Age of Enlightenment,
vestiges of a new peace made between old enemies
In the year 2117, our mission represents this new peace offering
My war now is with the elements of the void:
a relentless solar wind that flings
microscopic particles that daily pierce our metal skin,
trying always to let deadly cosmic radiation in
But our white cell-like nanobytes work tirelessly to keep us safe
Nearing the unknown side of a new sun
In the ninth year, the last year of this exhausting space trip,
I start to dream of odd things ... old longings and new anxious moments
that soon await me
Noise of activity will shortly invade my quiet realm,
as I awake my fellow astronauts and robot work soldiers
Before we left to go on the other side of the sun,
to this new and strange alien one ...
I kissed my wife and three kids goodbye,
and told them to start a new life
For on the other side of the sun is where I will die
NEW YORK-STYLE HUNGARIAN STEW
In the darkest corner of her living room,
she waits to eat. A stone’s throw away,
her ex lives with their kids, his goulash
wafting reek into her open windows.
Through the one in her master bedroom,
the man could easily catch sight of his successor
swaddled in goose-down, identical in color
to the old comforter she could see, if she cared to,
just beyond her window, on the bed where
she’d been fed, “I’ll cherish you always.”
Abutting that room, the den with surround-
sound TV, where the vulgarian had charmed
the panties off her during commercials, turning
up his volume so she could grasp every syllable
of his accented endearments, his excuses.
Adjacent, their son and daughter’s rooms
(now, with suitcases the children bring back
and forth each weekend); and down the hall,
the state-of-the art kitchen where her louse ex
still plays chef. How she’d wished he’d played
spouse with as much know-how and gusto. Oh,
how he’d cooked and cooked their goose, served it
up every chance he got, till she got good and fed
up and fled to an old flame in a brownstone
across the way — where, at this very moment, she sits
with the stench of the dish her ex is, no doubt, cooking
to death, and the essence of her Crock-pot stew
cooking up a storm, inextricably mesh.