Best Air(A) Poems
*BUTTERFLY KISS*
I'm still alive and I don't know why?
My heart survived falling from the butterfly sky
Caught by the hands of destiny
With visions only I can see!
My love I heard your call
Wings of a butterfly broke my fall
Love motion is in the air, a love no one can compare
Indulging a look-a-stare- that we both share
Reminiscing our love made out of stolen hope
Awe~:*! To them butterfly kisses that felt so real
Flowing like Amazing Grace,
A shining light upon my face.
I traveled fast and far, longing to be in your arms
I desire, the warm sensation of your charms
Your safe love will help me carry on,
With the strength and bond~the love you set upon
Nothing is better than a sensual butterfly kiss
Beyond the sensation of heaven's pure bliss
Fluttering in the clouds aiming for the moon
A dream of reality, out of my cocoon I bloom!
Valued by the art of true beauty and its rarity
True love flapping in the midst of clarity
I entwine that I am yours and you are mine
Bonded together till the end of time
With the vision, my heart is no longer blind
Two broken hearts at last combined
I glide below to touch your lip.
Our lashes touch from tip to tip.
Caressing each other as our wings expand
Two hearts- kisses collide and land
Holding your hand reaching to the rainbow sky.
Kisses:*kisses:* like the butterfly!
Dedicated to *My Babe*
When miserable clouds assemble,
bursting with drops of sorrow,
gusts of torment bring dark tides to your door.
You feel hope is like forgotten pennies,
lost at the bottom of a wishing well.
Arrows of anxiety keep firing
at your muddled mind.
When you feel trapped inside your head,
monsters lurk inside -
take a pace back.
Release each arrow from the bow.
Let all the pain be washed
by rivers from the rain -
as all bruises heal.
The smell of petrichor will inspire you,
your mind an estuary, hydrating on positive drops,
will replace soaring floods of negative emotions -
as glowing sun rays of love warm your face.
Through anything, through anywhere,
through anyone, reach thunder through your storm.
Let bolts of lightning shake the earth -
ground your soul firmly.
Even when there is no light,
an internal flame yearns to rekindle,
like spring petals kissing dawn's air.
Silent One collaboration with Charmaine Chircop
6 November 2020
Many thanks to Charmaine for collaborating with me. Charmaine is a talented poet who regularly posted on Poetry soup, I hope to see her post more often.
There is a place called beautiful nestled deep in my mind's eye
Gingham curtains crisply pressed frame periwinkle summer sky
Brass kettle on the old gas stove reflects cast iron pans
And always at the kitchen sink, I see busy, wrinkled hands.
There is a place called beautiful, I'm transported with a whiff
Of coffee brewing, dark and strong, I long to take a sip.
And in the air a trace of Tollhouse cookies baked this morn
And some perfume that only in this special spot is worn.
There is a place called beautiful I hear in perfect dreams
As Frankie croons and Louis wails all whilst the kettle steams
And as she works, she never tires as she hums and sings along
But the harmony of her lilting laugh is by far my favorite song.
There is a place called beautiful, it tastes like sweetest creams
Made in a bucket with a crank til her arms wore out, it seems
And topped with juicy berries that would burst upon each bite
And juices stained my mouth and clothes most every summer night.
There is a place called beautiful, I long to feel again
The naive sense that everywhere was as safe and free of sin
Where love and peace were daily served with a kiss upon the cheek
And grandma's kitchen always felt like you just found what you seek.
4/9/2019 / Poetry Marathon Final Placement / Sponsor: Mark Toney
When Autumn veils my season's smile
and lingers in the air a while . . .
though Indian days be gold spun,
my summering will come undone.
Night's shadows fall more quickly now;
birds sooner too forsake their bough.
No tarrying for old friend Sun
when summering becomes undone.
Oh, warmth of Summer, leave me not.
Through Winter's frost I grow distraught.
The melancholy has begun;
my summering will come undone.
As Autumn veils my season's smile,
my summering will come undone.
There is one kind of beauty in a morning walk illuminated by the moon..and yet…there is a different kind of beauty walking after a rain…when all the streets are wet.
The streets take on a glow…one you never see at noon…the shadows seem to shimmer in light reflected from the moon.
There is a freshness in the air…a coolness in the breeze…as it carries with it raindrops it has shaken from the trees.
Still enough raindrops remain upon the trees…those unable to take flight…giving the trees a feeling of Christmas…as they sparkle in the night.
Age seems to fade away…as you breathe the misty air into your lungs…as you splash around in puddles…like you did when you were young.
If you listen to the crickets…the owls…the nightingales…you find it difficult to decide…if you are hearing more sounds than usual…or if they’re just amplified.
You stop a moment…look up…and give thanks…grateful you’ve been allowed…to watch the moon, the stars….the planets…playing hide and seek among the clouds.
And you pause as you’re walk is ending…trying to remember everything because you don’t want to forget…
the sights
the sounds
from your morning walk…
when all the streets are wet.
In the debate between accessible and difficult poems
Poets' poems and poems for people
Only the single poem and private reader matter
Both kinds and anything between can matter or not
Solid or made of air, a vase or heavy clay ashtray
One word repeated or many like a lei
An acquired taste, like wine, and like wine
Not sustenance, yet men die with their miseries
Uncut without it, news and mere matter
I advise everyone to keep a personal anthology of poems that matter
Or not. Perhaps it should be novels. Stones, insect wings,
Feathers, Birds you've seen, People loved.
Finding Forgiveness
Can you forgive my humble home?
A cardboard box my diamond dome
Can you forgive my scanty clothes?
The least that I worry of my woes
Can you forgive my crooked smile?
The frigid air a thermostatic trial
Can you forgive my lack of food?
Your leftover meals I have chewed
Can you forgive my hungry heart?
A life brand new I’m hoping to start
Can you forgive my tapering tears?
There’s little left after all these years
Can you forgive a saddened soul?
A love lost in an empty echoless hole
Can you forgive my losing of will?
A shattered stain of a splitting spill
Can you forgive my only existence?
For the Lord has in his holy presence.
Nov.06.2017
Healing power of forgiveness
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
To find a poem, stay close to home, no need for magic, nor cause to roam
If closing eyes and knowing this...the wonders of poetic bliss
Are close at hand, within the air...a poem resides most anywhere
Within a friend, a morning sun, when life is fair, or just hum-drum
It's everywhere, in someone's eye, a tear, or in a lullaby
It's you and me, it's everyone, the ordinary day gone by
A poem is like a tiny rose that starts new life, so tightly closed
But given life, it opens wide, and takes you on a carpet ride
Where magic words come from your soul, a part of you, you've always known
Above the moon, beyond the stars, is not required from the start
A poem is always there inside, the part you share, a piece of heart
_____________________________________
For Contest: Ars Poetica
Twas’ by a waterfall quite late,
Beneath the stars, full moon awake,
I saw my tiny love, my Fay,
Upon a mossy bank, she lay;
At first glance, I thought a dragonfly,
Poor thing had died whilst on the fly,
Fell there dead on that cold wet ground,
Until a closer look, bent down;
What I thought a mosquito hawk,
Sent me shivers whilst I gawked,
Arms, two legs, such delicate wings,
With Violet gown laid my undine;
I dare not touch her least she break,
Then realized it was my fate,
To take her home, to mend her there,
My little Fay with golden hair;
I placed her in a matchbox bed,
A cotton ball beneath her head,
Cut blankets from a silken scarf,
And tucked her in with weeping heart;
The days that passed where dreary ones,
For I was worse than faerie dumb,
And cursed myself each pacing night,
Inept to help my fading sprite;
With drooping eyes, and quite depressed,
I felt my heart sink in my chest,
My dear sweet Fay was turning blue,
And there was nothing I could do;
My shoulders shook, my tears were rain,
My love for Fay an aching pain,
I prayed take me, take me instead,
Then little Fay moved in her bed;
Into the air, a dart she flew,
Her wings a blur, no longer blue,
Around my head, she circled twice,
Then out the window, lost to night;
My heart became an empty thing,
Until I heard the buzz of wings,
And saw sweet Fay had spun around
With wand in hand, she shrunk me down;
My clothes are piled on the floor,
Gargantuan garb, which I once wore,
Dear Fay prefers my naked skin,
And woods have spider webs to spin.
I know the land where the lemon trees flower.
Where bees are buzzing hour after hour.
And on the air a sweet scent floats
With promise of fruits by nature rote
Through peaceful fields winds a path to this place
Where branches of trees overhead interlace
Blue sky and clouds weave magical eaves.
Full of birdsong and fluttering leaves
We can meet in the land where the lemon trees flower
And we’ll be together hour after hour.
Under the scented blossom tree bowers
In a place that is truly, blissfully ours.
8/21/18
Pretty Poem Please Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward
5th.Place
Who can say where it comes from?
Only that it’s there, when least expected,
thought to be rare if not obsolete
One night, the air a swirl of restless
dream and moonbeam, we are kept awake
by a tingling...an unsettling of the
heart
the longing for another, also, searching
for a missing part
We scold ourselves, a thousand times
been there, done that, sought
fulfillment in silly love rhymes
yet, compelled as addicts
in an opium den, together
we will try to write heaven again
In a glimmered lace of sunrise’s veil,
dawn hovers like a freshly-cleansed nymph,
wafting and bubbling with a spice of mint
in dew’s chastity pool delicately undressed.
The path of upturned boughs rips free
and slides along a froth of peppered mist;
misty in a way newborn day becomes
pastel fingers where wings of her breath
become illumined as it is daring;calling
forth, Borealis...Borealis.
And a deluge of herb wraps her air: a seasoning
moment for this flushed lady to unfold
the carpet of studded foliage cradling
around her heady arms... soon, a gush
of light bears newly-wed rays,
until the fragrance of earth drifts upon
her mantle feeling the delicacy of radiant morn,
weightlessly white; no one wants to speak.
Feb 2018 Premeire Contest: Brian Strand
Pepost 2/14/2018
In the night's chilling air a phantom figure, drags itself from
The watery edge of the river bank, emerging, rising upward
From beneath the moonlight's illumination, she is free, to walk
The earth's spiritual plain of existence once more.
In soaked layers shifts, of tatters whiten lace, the corporeal
Image moves across the old chapel's courtyard.
Slowly this deaden heart of the betrayed, shuffles through
The fallen autumn leaves, crunching them under the weight, of
Her drenched wedding gown.
The haunted bride, carries a wilted bouquet of for-get-me-nots,
As she weeps, walking down the aisle of past regrets.
This virgin maiden, sounds a low mournful sobbing, that echoes
Against the marble ruins, of a dilapidated church steeple.
Lifting skeletal limbs, step by step, this bride of
Desolation climbs unto the threshold of condemnation.
Her wailing screams grow louder, and louder with each
Movements, begging, pleading for salvation's penitence.
But in the Lord's realm, the haunted bride has violated the sacred
Laws of God, so is she doomed for all eternity, to repeat her final,
Moments of life.
Wearing the veiled shroud of death, beauty's once fare,
Is nothing more than illusion's shadow vision of the forsaken.
A victim of abandonment's fall from grace, for consumed by
Sorrows pain, did she take her own life, in limbo she is the accursed.
Slowly descending in sheer remorse, her tears cascade
Downwards, staining the holy soil therein, her unkempt train
Trails behind this ivory phantom, with muddy green
Seaweed woven amongst the antique lace.
Cold watery waves crash against the murky shore,
A foreboding eerie mist lingers up top the rippling lake,
One last air's stale breathe she does inhale, as again life's
Essence leaves, become just exploding bubbles,
Popping at the water’s surface.
Here the haunted bride so does rest, in a fathom's aquatic crypt,
Beneath the dark abyss of no return.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
There is a field that we all know
That passed a torch where Soldiers go
Those that fell fought to the end
From that field they did ascend
To look upon the light relay
That made us free free this day
Rest in peace we do remember
This is done eleven November
In a field that's now a lot
Rows of cars I did spot
In the air a poppy blowing
Where I wonder is it going
Among the maple leaves that fell
This poppies color blended well
Lost it there but for a moment
Young child's find leaves bestowment
Conferred unknown mom what's this?
This my child so we don't miss
Small reminder Veterans that passed
So all can live in peace ever last
Entering the dark side of a moonbeam is always very risky
since the cold and howling bitterness of the night escapes,
as a moaning, devilish agony of selfishness devours the good.
As the human heart fills with air, a legion of grieving spirits
in the human psyche is at once intoxicated with the sacred
kissed-gift of this hallowed eve as promised by the Devil.
Cain searches now within Life’s Garden that special hiding
place where unsuspecting Zombies of a grief-stricken nature
dwell whilst being seduced by a darkness as fires burn black.
What remains evident is an emotionless being who is tortured
with murderous feelings that are affected when the dark smoke
blows away all pride and one finds there is no remorse at all.
An agonizing pain is cleared now with the Moon’s eclipse as
the ghosts and goblins of the Devil seek “Hate’s Trigger” that
lies under a deep-dark crater where twilight ghosts cry out now.
These demonic ghosts are known as the “Crying Beggars of Despair,”
who haunt the soul of mankind and are born out of the dark ashes of
unhappy wild beasts who speak with tongues of envy and sadness.
These ghosts now set up their invisible barbed-wire boundaries
that they want to burst later as they begin fighting for their true
existence in the Devil’s own “Dark Netherworld of Lost Souls.”
These ghosts begin now to dance gracefully in the dark shadows as
their deceptive tongues make false complaints and poisonous lies
that throw the state of mind of the demonic ghosts into utter turmoil.
With this evil event, their blood rushes rapidly below the skin’s
surface, as a fear now clings to their throat as an eternal burning
battle gains no foothold to the next following step they must take.
Yes, even for the Devil’s own demonic ghosts from the depths of
Hell itself, their life, their very own existence is incredibly fragile
and vulnerable just like a match is to a flame. Mors omnia solvit.
Gary Bateman,
Anne-Lise Andresen
and Liam McDaid
(Tercet)
21.12.2021
Poem of the Day : 23.12.2021