Best Adumbrated Poems
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A Gealic Song
Gneiss.
Ancient.
Vying with Earth herself for the Crown of Age.
In the Hebrides
Lie the Stones of Calanais
Stubborn chthonic deities of a common past
Rising up and standing against all.
You
More than a beautiful metaphor
Of what I have seen forged in that deep, deep heart;
A heart deep as the songs of Burns on thistle
Or lilting starlings in murmuration ---
Fluid patterns emerging and re-forming.
Such speed at odds with those silent Stones
The Stones of Calanais
The monuments to time
Birthed in an altogether different aeon
Which presaged your very strength
In adumbrated timelessness...
Burnished equipoise in the craftsman's hand.
I cannot move thee
But I can embrace thee
My Gaelic love---
The strength of woman is you
The gift of love you gave
Sits in me like those magic Stones
Rising from our mutual earth
Stretching towards infinite stars.
Marble hatched haven communes; helixicly hewn canvas' brushed within
Acidulous acrylics of adumbrated conjectual forms....
Spawn tipped dippings upon the collateral cliffs edging these, layaway hues?!
Deciphered shades in monochrome pitch pigments beneath the jaded jejunes
Manic manifestations, over-looking the colourant gangrene valley below
While as maritime merchants lifted from the pedagogue palettes of
Row your boats....
Climb their municipal born mast in marauds malice from afar
Signaling unto the watchtower through their Socratic spyglass optics
Inceptions intruder, standing tall and coming ashore; red rum....
...."Hurry, someone save the Queen!?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rembrants lost rocking chair moment in, artistic meritime manifestations ~
Note: Smile ~ I thought that I would offer up a bit of hopeful ice-breaking
and light-hearted humour upon this glorious and lovely "New Years Day" ~
Smile ~ "My 'Love & Warmth,' Always," John!:) ~ Ps. "En' Si Viod" ~
Poem clarification: I am a farmer and this poem is about a racoon that was flipping the lids of my feed barrels. This is no easy feat to the point that i didn't even think it was possible that a racoon had the strength. This was a BIG racoon. It took almost two months to catch him. Never encountered such an adversary. I've caught red foxes easier, and they are they slyest of the woodland critters. Finally got him with a chicken head and a sticky bun!!!!!
The trip plate was baited with sweet deceit
Covering conformity to the bitter truth
Bit by a mouth with an adumbrated tooth
White lies are being strangled
And are turning an asphyxiating blue
My dying eyes are fixated on you
Salivating over prospects of tantalizing morsels
Both of us are blessed with a fine-tuned sensitivity
Feathered footsteps fall on the steepness of your declivity
No longer will I get to meddle in your affairs
The silent night does not listen as I cop a plea
To the trap door that has fallen shut behind me!
Submitted 8/28/2015
I
A glimpse, a flicker: a shadow-movement
Almost seen, unseen barely.
Adumbrated in the dark,
Nimble came, quickly went.
What is this? and what desires?
Where from? Where gone?
A fright, a chill, a fear perhaps,
A fear of hope that long aspires.
A darkling thing – or was it light?
(So it seems to seem to be!) –
Or was it play of black on black,
Mere flash of black upon the night?
II
See! Look there! A candle … careful –
Closer – closer – oh … 'tis gone.
But search, search on, it leads us on;
A moth it is – it seeks for fire.
III
No flash is this, no dusky flash –
'Tis light, a presage of the dawn:
Not dawn itsgelf, for dawn yet waits.
It trembles like a fleck of ash
Settled aground, anxious, airy,
In the corner, standing close
Against the wall ... it moves again!
It flutters soft, so soft, so wary.
Shadow of substance, delicate, fine.
What could it be? Why this fear?
Why this dread for a thing so fragile?
Why this wish to make it mine?
IV
'Tis not a moth, no moth at all –
Clearer now – less shadowed, hidden.
Quick! The lamp! A light unbidden!
Ah, a bird – no moth, no moth –
V
It slips away on silent wings
A wing-tip farther than our reach
toward the East, toward the morn
this blackbird flies and flees and sings
Emerging from the dead of night
Impatient for the sun to rise.
It flies, we follow, called, drawn
unasked, to chase this phantom sight.
Up it soars – far and higher –
We soar, too ... fly free, so free.
As helpless leaves before a wind
We chase this burning Shadow-Fire.
(what...me write vernacular English???)
Okay, the gist of anemic
checking account averred
asked from one
FaceBook English Literary bird,
I could plainly enumerate
Sachin be cured
of spellbinding nightmares,
and not accused
of acting demurred
the esse cent chill
dime a dozen premise ensured
prime merrily to discover
visa wells Fargo
sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward
solution, whereby means
to save money
against being gored
no...no...no...not to be stingy,
nor selfishly hoard
meager unearned social security
monthly allotment, aye ignored
to mention as key piece
of information a dub bill
lit tete ting bout with anxiety,
obsessive compulsive, not cavil
air lee shaken off and schizoid
personality disorder like evil
mailer daemons, which
undermined ability to full fill
quality existence, and even
prescribed about,
a half dozen
medications help ill
psyche, though nonetheless mill
yens of precious moments pill
furred with pro
fuse sweating still
interferes supplementing,
stoking, and socking
away reserve till,
last creased furrow sought out
here in Schwenksville
Pennsylvania most likely, where
one last gulp of oxygen will
finally deliver cremated ashes
into eternal void
where psychological state
free from being destroyed
and forever exempt trying
to be write lee employed!
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
Alexander Cozens famed for his blots
then to landscapes was his spot
Known for the adumbrated idea
he made paintings just appear
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé
It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.
In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.
Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of Broadway’s Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”
That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.
Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
.
.
Webster: Adumbrate: “to partially outline and obscure”
Slang: “dupes” are off-brand knockoffs of famous luxury brands
Adumbrated aeration regarding...
crafting reasonable poetic rhyme
nothing to sneeze... at chew
asthma lingua franca –
acts as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious glue
inspiring me to skip to my loo,
and ye to play altruist gist
imagining how and why I still rue
cashing mucho moolah legal tender
courtesy bitcoin cryptocurrency,
which absolute zero funds recouped,
nevertheless dumbfoundedness ironically
found steely mettle to get smart
courtesy posting gofundme page
(titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth)
on my part already got told to you
dear readers visiting my literary endeavor
written within vernacular English
spoken amidst human zoo.
Okay, the gist of anemic
checking and savings accounts averred
asked from one
FaceBook English literary
Jim Hensen creation and
Sesame Street resident Big Bird,
I could plainly enumerate
Sachin (means 'pure' in Sanskrit
and another name for Hindu God, Shiva.
The most famous Sachin
ranks as recently retired
Indian cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar).
Impossible mission to expunge poison
regarding stupidity and never be cured
of spellbinding nightmares,
and not accused
of acting demurred
the esse cent chill
dime a dozen premise ensured
prime merrily to discover
visa wells Fargo
sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward
solution, whereby means
to save money
against being gored
no...no...no...not to be stingy,
nor selfishly hoard
meager unearned social security
monthly allotment, aye ignored
to mention as key piece
of information a dub bill
lit tete ting bout with anxiety,
obsessive compulsive, not cavil
air lee shaken off and schizoid
personality disorder like evil
mailer daemons, which
undermined ability to full fill
quality existence, and even
prescribed about,
a half dozen plus three
medications help ill
psyche, though nonetheless mill
yens of precious moments pill
furred with profuse sweating still
interferes supplementing,
stoking, and socking
away reserve till,
last creased furrow sought out
here in Schwenksville
Pennsylvania most likely, where
one last gulp of oxygen will
finally deliver cremated ashes
into eternal void
where psychological state
free from being destroyed
and forever exempt trying
to be write lee employed.
Written: July 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: "Be still, for the silence of God is the language of the soul." by Rumi
***************
I find my refuge not in clamor,
but in the pabulum pause between storms,
a meritorious maelstrom subdued by resolve,
where each heartbeat tackles dyspnea —
the lungs, twin sanctuaries of ductile grace.
Not all peace is pristine.
It is the palimpsest of scars deep in the psyche,
an arthroscopy of loss and lull,
each echo adumbrated in incarnadine hues
and scantlings of self painstakingly reformed.
From the outside, I might seem a yokel
stumbling into wisdom by accident,
but I have seen through the gadzookery—
the flapdoodle on polished tongues,
the hackneyed hymns of haste.
My ischemic edema has vanished,
peace thrills me
keeping my zeal is my prayer with each breath,
awe-inspiring, breathing mutters,
"Inhale—exhale.
I avoid the ornate vessels stillness.
I acquire it from shattered glass gleam.
And what of the noise? The crowd
that claim triviality as a virtue—
those who build their temples
on paucity and preach ergophobia
as a warning, wisdom.
I glide past them with quiet steps.
Extemporize no sermon,
But still I speak in zeugma’s elegance:
I bear burdens and breath,
loss and light,
quiet and question.
In the apiary of mind,
I do not cage the bees—
I waltz alongside them.
Let misanthropy molt,
let tarantism yield,
let even xenoglossia be translated
into the soft syllables of inner peace.
I am not an iconoclast seeking acclaim—
I shatter only what steals my serenity.
Peace is not antediluvian,
nor an oxer too high to overcome.
It is ductile—malleable—
crafted from the scantling echoes of life.
This is not pabulum wisdom.
This is the sovereign self,
the mind unbound from its anxious crucible,
coruscating in its quiet rebellion—
agog not with frenzy,
but liberated in its freedom.