Best Alluded Poems
Somewhere in the pretty petty imaginary illusion of delusion
There lies a truth an edifice of search between obtuse confusion
Windows like brick walls and concrete blocks birthing the light
Nails to be nailed screws to be screwed with monumental sight
A life a building fortress sand castle beach hut nutter’s dream
Maybe a prison with towers barbed wire fences mindful scream
Some multi storied paradise no choke on apple’s stem or core
No passion fruit in torture chambers shackles behind and to the fore
No hidden attic and no cellar no stellar fantasy no quick descent
For now simply one dimension deserted plain hopes to ferment
Scraping no skies a cave hovel card board box a bombed out grave
Nothing to hold onto no graces left spent and ravished naught to save
Is it magic thought provoked delusion of illusion alluded distortion
Who knows does it matter I suppose it does in incomplete reapportion
Some are born in a manger on the fields of labour some with a silver spoon
Surely some would rather have foundations a ceiling not some lonely moon
Get me not wrong as singing the praises of romantic poverty and dearth
Icy cold and freezing bones do not bear up to sound safe privilege in birth
Yet from the scraping nib and luxury of pen in hand and philosophic mind
Not wishing to lack compassion nor cementing over cracks so misaligned
We are the builders of our lives to some extent despite the vagaries so vast
Can we find a staircase upwards some sliding pole to reach out for the past
In such compassion regardless of painful structures and abandoned need
Is some notion some motion of change and nourishment star dust to feed
In God we trust nihilism architecture Karma fate Nirvana hard core grind?
No valid answers but questions loving search for quiet mindfulness in kind
Divine book expresses moon’s great wonders
soothing to soul that serenely ponders
while viewing beauty walking in brightness*
exuding sweet Eve’s female gentleness.
With attributes to ladies alluded
changing moon’s gracefulness is applauded
of varied shapes, colors, sizes’ presence
showing Supreme Artist’s magnificence.
Midst “… she that looketh forth as the morning,
fair as the moon,”** in Scriptures truth’s reigning
my heart thanks the Lord for His grant of light
saluting women fulfilling roles right.
Beholding the moon wrought by hands divine
luminous due to Creator’s design
radiating to smite night’s obscurity
I see Mom’s face, smiling with love-purity.
Joyously basking at the moon’s glory
I’m delighted in Mother’s victory
praising God for life-building pursuits’ flow
with Dad --- home’s sun, making us stars, to glow.
*Job 31:26 If I beheld the sun when it shined, or the moon walking in brightness.
**Song of Solomon 6:10 Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon…?
August 10, 2021
10th place, "Is The Moon Male or Female or Both" Poetry Premier Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke; judged on 8/10/2021.
It’s so hot in climate outside
And inside the heat is exuded
Passion falls upon our feet
We are still alive not alluded
Our lives have been made from joy
This love we have for each other
Produces more heat than normal
Our hearts are pure for one another
I hold her close to me all the time
With a phase of willful passion
I romance her deep inside me
There’s dancing in some creation
There’s no losing within our lives
We don’t exist within the briar
Nothing could separate us now
A real love is what we truly are
Russell Sivey
dreary eyed, musky languor- tassels tight
a loose walk paraded by looser convictions
an acquaintance of that sad, lowly height
that alluded odysseys and several hymns
open window, surely dries out the stink
encroached in the room shadows and fleas
the zeitgeist of this area; to even think
flowers and dewdrops burly trees; to seize
the thought, it lingers, but only so little
too soon, to even land a misty eyed dream.
The general election fast approach, reelin lies,
The political jellyfish elite, pretend to have spines,
For a short period, no vague indifference, the illusion of ties,
Not that bind, we’re all blind, alluded by schoolboy arguments and whines,
Their spin dominates the headlines, whilst
Natural disaster victims rot amongst the flies,
Why is false economic promise more important than human lives?
These luciferian suits are nothing they try to contrive,
but a vacant lot, a vehicle for evil, running with knives,
so when they declare we all slaves or another war, who’ll be surprised?
The election, intelligence suspended in animation,
succumbed to their eventual procrastination,
their balls out nature beggars belief and captures our imagination,
thinking these toads can change our lives for the better?
They're just a criminal organisation!
Vote UKIP.
Cacophony of the front
Hopes and dreams define
Humanity, scenes of yesterday
Never to be forgotten, from haunting
Effects of childhood laughter
Uncertainties that become
Certainties, seldom been
Well explored to be
Moving remarkable
Response
Grace
Eloquence
Sparseness of writing
Beautifully complements
Power of emotions to be described
With sights and sounds
To unfold with slow
Deliberate eloquence
Artistic
Triumph
Like a heartbeat
Was the deafening sound
Of the Classics of yesterday...
This is dedicated to our wonderful classics..
Charlotte Brontë -
A writer all her life, Brontë published her first novel, Jane Eyre, in 1847 under the manly pseudonym Currer Bell. Though controversial in its criticism of society's ...
"His wit is bright, his humorous attractive, but both hear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheer-lightning playing under the edge of the summer cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him--if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger--I have dedicated this second edition of
"JANE EYRE"
DECEMBER 21ST 1847
Brooke
CHARLOTTE BRONTE
All answers want to be given unto you
As swiftly as you can illustrate them
Point to their essence, serenade them
Aboard this passing ship, my view casts not a glare, nor reflection, nor stare,
Roaming freely as the Earth through the timeless air
My outer shell is my greatest inception
Yet as time comes to a crashing halt,
The faintest glimpse of the Strange and the Familiar approach together
As the rime of my belt
A horticulturist’s dream says I
The blackened period that wallows alive
Deprived, sanctioned and walking the line
As our guest is herded out
And suddenly the animal turns its other side
Now in your stomach I wait
Leaving a silent trail of breadcrumbs
Leading to the foothills of the gates
Who, discovery alluded, hadn’t a face
I am after all a sarcastic utterance
Which after years fade into the gloaming of dawn,
Reveals itself a mutterance undone
A muse, a choice, a song
A faro stow-away,
A shy allurement enclosed in a darker response
Building expeditiously my patient getaway car
Holding stead readily around the block
and clocks fall off their "ATTENTION!"
to the approaching sound of
someone else's Hum-drumm
Wayland here again with another clerihew to end the year
These will probably never be famous, but that isn’t the fear
Sometimes the honesty is these may be just a little too strong
They're all done in fun, but some lines seem to go wrong
The philosopher lays the blame in the characters included
Only to what’s written here on the soup has he alluded
No outer sources does he ever interview
I say sorry to those victimized by my clerihew
Mr. Bunch, I don't remember calling myself that
Hasn’t been the one known to avoid a spat
Of what he feels and sees he likes to write
These truly are in fun, with little or no spite
Jack E I haven’t looked yet to see his new work
He has so much wit he could be a funny jerk
But he writes and really abstains from anger
If he got mad though, I’d bet there’d be intellectual danger
Good thing he’s Santa with no time to read these
If you see him, probably don’t mention them please
I don’t want to encourage him with another form
The quatrain that is what has become his norm
Advancing in age but he’s still feisty old Saint Nick
If you don’t believe me you’ll have to read his limerick
I said limerick but he’s naughty in more than one
If you want a particular Santa’s Beard is filled with pun
FJ Thomas seems to enjoy being clerihewed
Her comments leave me believing she’s no prude
An example would leave some saying I’ve a dirty mind
I’d have to say did you really read or are you blind
I’m glad Mrs. Thomas decided not to leave
She felt the affection from the comments she did receive
I try to leave affectionate comments for my part
But I know often times my a** is a little to smart
How many of these about PD could I write
If I started now I’d be here till tomorrow night
She definitely is engrained everywhere just read
I still hold that of a new nemesis she has some need
Then she could destroy her imagery is uncanny
I bet under the bullying category she has many
So sweet and innocent my first impression of her
Then I went back and found why she’s called destroyer
Yes Linda couldn’t have picked a better name
The poor souls that were the victims of her fame
I remember a specific one haven’t seen him around
If she’s looking for a new victim, tell her I can’t be found
Once again note that these are all in fun, and only 99% of this should you believe, lol. I had about 5 more but ran out of space and courage haha.
An eerie silence wrapped the bog,
I dared not move nor speak.
The chilling blanket of the fog
where evil beings creep,
conceals within tormented souls
now stirring from their sleep,
and there with gruesome fate foretold
lie secrets they will keep.
Into the darkest night they prowl
as silent echoes shriek,
and even wolves with frightened howls
hide in the forest deep.
The terror of the living dead
will follow where they tread.
A Quatorzain is a centuries old form that was used by those like Shakespeare for creativity not restricted by strict rhyme schemes and syllable counts per line like Sonnets were. Therefore, each Quatorzain could be an original creation, however, it wasn't a totally free form because it was still restricted to 14 lines and usually written in iambic meter, also, unlike a Petrarachan/Italian Sonnet it usually ended with a rhyming couplet. Some have argued that it evolved into the English Sonnet. Writers often played with the number 7 as I have done here with alternating iambic tetrameter and trimeter. I also used mono rhyme in the trimeter lines (something not commonly done with Quatorzains yet, as I alluded, it's the beauty of a more free form).
Written October 8th, 2019
for Best New Poem Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Wordsworth wrote, in 'Splendor in the Grass,'
about the glory that can be found in the flower.
He alluded to a love that had long since passed,
like clock hands tick off each second and hour.
He was saddened when taken from his sight,
was the radiance of a great love he once knew.
His world had been filled with splendid light,
but then darkened in shades of gray and blue.
He wrote to tell readers they should not grieve,
for a love that has been lost or left behind.
But that poet's words I am unable to believe,
for I consider them callous, no truth do I find.
I wonder if Wordsworth had ever shed a tear,
or had his heart broken or hardened to stone.
Did he ever lose a love that he once held dear?
And in his hour of pitiable grief, did he cry alone?
Wordsworth may have been a bard, a poet grand,
but in his 'Splendor...' quote, he has clearly shown
the falsehood written with ink quill in his hand,
for I have grieved for lost loves... I have cried alone.
Desiring to stay in bed right now
A morning nap would serve me fine
The whole night spent counting sheep
Just tossing to and fro
Dreams alluded ~gone
ZZ's unheard sound
Morning calls
Get up
Whoa!!!
X
X
Dreams
Dancing
Hovering
Surrounding sleep
Pleasant dreams of love
Wonderful sleep, peaceful
Refreshed good to be alive
Spring is heard in the chirping birds
Out on the porch once again to thrive
Check it the new paradigm is sound,
look left and right, a new brother and sister found,
matching the positivity pound for pound,
well aware this is just the first round,
a fight long since started,
fully mapped out and chartered,
fought by enemies’ and loved ones,
both alive and dearly departed.
So much bigger than the individual,
yet reside in the microsm, of subconscious push and conscious pull,
alluded by ego into a deep fall,
to willing to be stupid to appear cool,
brain functioning on the alpha wave,
programmed by your H.D. t.v.,
your a mind slave,
we’re all invited to the bondage rave,
it’s more addictive than these little Prozac pills,
encouraged to self terminate, but not to adopt new life skills,
give your brain some whole grain to mill over,
churn up some bright green pasture clover,
produce some quality spiritual milk,
exit the brain like verbal silk,
because food for thought is spiritual elixir,
2010 is going to be a very interesting year.
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman Flying
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, seeks young sprig poe
whet tick friend in toto,
though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
In 2010 just before the General Election, David Cameron promised,
To eradicate the deficit by 2015 and manoeuvre it out of the red,
But now in 2015 George Osbourne the Chancellor of the Exchequer said,
He’d take until 2020 to make it black and put the whole thing to bed.
The tories are rather behind at “finishing the job”, as a stalwart Brit would,
This was the character alluded to who would nicely fit the role,
Of managing the deficit well, efficiently and with maximum speed,
Such that austerity can be justified when we only spending what we need.
The newspapers are saying that it will take another 10 years,
To clear the deficit such that austerity is not on the table, a possibility;
Labour and the SNP advocate a longer time for financial health,
Which would be much better for economic growth and future wealth.
It’s so hot in climate outside
And inside the heat is exuded
Passion falls upon our feet
We are still alive not alluded
Our lives have been made from joy
This love we have for each other
Produces more heat than normal
Our hearts are pure for one another
I hold her close to me all the time
With a phase of willful passion
I romance her deep inside me
There’s dancing in some creation
There’s no losing within our lives
We don’t exist within the briar
Nothing could separate us now
A real love is what we truly are
Russell Sivey