Best Angled Poems
There is a scar
On my face
Small, steadfastly placed
One only notices if they are this close
To kissing my soul
On my cheek
Below the eyes and sideways
Beside the bubble-gum sweet
Mouth, vivacious story teller
like an upside down
sharp angled half moon
The endless emotions of my sky
So attractively rough
It attacks the delicate features of my face
Allowing my streetwise beautiful
Personality
To shine through, I don’t hide thetruth
It’s as plain as the scar on my face
Life isn’t ugly, you make it that way
Some days I wish it wasn’t there
But I always
Appreciate it’s presence
I won’t ever forget
When I received
The blow to my vanity
From a fight over youthful yearnings
Inside this
Is my learning processes
Scars hold history
I shall carry with me
Through tough times
Soft and easy, peaceful
To remind me
Of me
Insistent starkness claims a leafless day
Where morning breaks with silent calm and dread
The slope of field is framed, behind the glass
reveals a fallen tree, with jagged edge
and grassy hills now laced with autumn rust
Inside we find a plain and cheerless room
The table sparce, an empty chair
A plate, a knife, a saucer, without spoon
One empty cup, will wait for no one there...
Ambiance of what has been,
...still lingers in the air,
as amber glows, with threats of snow,
are just a hint, instead
Lonely hours, and lonely days, and lonely shadows blend
The endless songs of yesterday, slip in from window's ledge
A meager meal will spread upon a table set for one
Where breaking bread alone without a friend
is companioned by a solitary end
The angled sun, casts shadows deep and long
A somber mood, reflects this quiet calm
Upon the walls, where gardens grew, are faded memories
where yellow blooms of yesterday, are just a step away
Where, once were two, who loved and knew their sun would rise again
There now is one who sits alone ...at the table set for one
Where hope has gone, when morning comes...
to sing a lonely song
Based on the Painting by Andrew Wyeth ... "Groundhog Day"
http://www.andrew-wyeth-prints.com/gallery_andrew-wyeth-groundhog-day.html
Ash - grey chemised
she shifts her shape
as silver flakes float coat
stripped naked places,
sheath curves and angled spaces
Angry glitter tingle stings
thick earth skin with prickly flames
and rumble rise regurgitates
shimmy - shake shudders
in magma's deep thrombosis.
Her feather boa plume
tightens hot cloud chokehold,
acrid smoke flung up in air
without a care, heat exhumes
her arrival, announced fiery flounce -
Hot air blast flicks ash everywhere
Grande dame, her vital force runs hot,
and bold, red and gold- full blooded flow,
feisty fight to escape fate,
inner pulses push a violent urge
to bleed and drape red lava's cape
across green fields, human habitations
Unplacated, rising up, proud impairment
anger virulent, out of hellbent
immolation via pyramidal vent.
She lifts her tiara, red ruby globs,
hurls evidence in defense - great blobs
of royal reign - no abdication!
Throaty roars rend intonation
into screeching supplications -
She knows full well, soon enough,
her phoenix fate infarction
Too late for earth's burst heart
High drama is a living, dying art
Impassioned pleas too late for some,
Earth's burnout buries victims in her wake
High on an island hill,
the boy lay crushed, and still
on temple altar, throat cut, bled out
Hurried offering, did not appease,
nor bring softening release
for angry, ancient mountain
Head caved in by falling blocks
of measured, square cut stone,
the priest grovelled on his knees
Gravel filled their mouths, no space for pleas
No one heard half- whispered final groans
And Earth, once she settled down,
murmured not another sound
Posted 17/08/2018.
Dark chocolate eyes bore into me,
Beseeching, brimming, tunneling for truth.
A single tear trails silently
Cascading o’er lifted cheekbones so
Perfectly angled they’re matchless
Throughout nature’s beauty scheme.
Exquisite, ethereal amber skin is
Glistened by a single path tracking south
Till brushed tentatively aside and away
With a deliciously delicate crook’d index finger.
Adjusting focus with a bow, her upturned glance
Begs understanding, explanation.
Crimson lips, lavish in their trembling,
Part in silent query, “Why”?
Two years ten days no joy could compete.
Renowned in circles select, discreet,
Our couple bid the daily world depart.
Sealing curtains leaked primal sun bright-strewn
‘cross comely sheets, fantasy games oft fulfilled.
No doubt the future shined, out there.
Sparkling horizons, her urgent beckoning.
Glacial azure eyes avert at this sight
Of flawless beauty marred by an unrequited
Inky threshold placed anew across
The spectrum of her charted dream.
Cooling cooing stills her tears momentarily,
Hypocrite rising fresh, predicted.
Hope extended but a moment more,
Remembered embraces reenacted
Pacifying heart-ripping avalanches
Sure to embalm, feigning calm,
Endless love promised, bestowed,
Bloomed, embezzled,
Freshly bamboozled...still,
By her guileful paramour.
~~~~~~~~~ (the goodbye lie)
In shadow, shade and angled light,
memories echo, when given time.
They persist, though out of sight,
when even bells will loose their chime.
To torture, teach or reprimand?
Why then comes, the weathered old?
The heart and soul hold scars and brands,
when even stars burn out, turn cold.
Twinklers glint, shining above clouds
with a relay of dots in softest gold,
the sky transforming in a blink
to illuminate a shimmer in the air.
I wonder at your angled radiance
while frozen on the spot... my eyes awaken
and up there, a parade of twirling sparklers
like miniature bulb lights, combust.
The hues change from silver to red
a flicker splattering heaven's canopy,
that lovers gaze to breathe in the dew
of satin webs so delicate and frail.
Make a wish, your vibrant glare says
my face blushes praying for one dream
that makes me saunter, as in a trance,
drowning in the grandeur of your bliss.
May 2018 Premiere Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
*
It happened in a moment, during my 7th grade English class *
As we studied classic literature; “Evangeline”, the poem
A substitute teacher, wearing shoes of polished coal *
His soft style, hair neatly combed, engrossed in reading poetry…
Pubescence slumped around me, nodding off, slowly being lulled...
Young minds. filled with clutter, gathering dust, from ancient stories
With glittering eyes, he read each verse * *
The soft, eager voice, that stroked each word…
He would wait, on occasion, to look around the room *
With wistful hope, I would suppose, to reach one heart, one soul
At the start of the class, I had been watching the clock
But, as I sat more enraptured, time just seemed to stop…
I turned the pages, one by one …and slowly fell in love
The beauty of old words, drifted through the stuffy air
Like the gathering of dust motes, glittered, hanging in suspension
Filtered in the angled light, of the afternoon’s warm detention
Sun filtered through window glass,…while voice of bliss droned on….
My heartbeat sped, with growing passion
I restrained my hands from reaching,… grabbing *
To catch each word, and keep them captive…
Dust motes, and words, were spinning around *
I was head over heels…for my substitute teacher…
I was head over heels for an old man named Longfellow….
Thirteen years old, I loved two older men….
Fell in love with the classics,....on a mid-day afternoon
While gathering dust, and the magic of words
……………………………………….
For the Contest: "Gathering Dust"
Sponsored by John Lawless
On The Edge
He lay flat on the floor
On the edge of his mind's cliff
Taking notes
Wondering
is this life worth living
He tried to remember
Grasp onto
Happier times
Shadows of light
Fluttered beyond his grasp
Teasing
Evaporating
Hiding
Figments wrapped in glittering paper
Promising
Tempting
Geometrically angled
Away from him
He felt the coolness of the tile
Terracotta pressing against his forehead
Soothing
Absorbing his fever
Steadying him
Whispering
Promising relief
"Let your blood accentuate my redness"
" I will protect your bones"
Light flows through stained glass
Christ's brilliant blue eyes
Piercing his sadness
Reassuring him
There will be more days
Brighter lights
Warmth not clay
Sadness shall be left to yesterday
The floor will not be fed today
It is washed with his salty tears
The edge vanishes
Was it ever there?
One moment
Graciously
Turned to years
He sits in a pew
Looks up away from himself
It now seems so clear
He gets up
Walks across the floor
Walks out the silent door
Deciding once and for all
He doesn't need
Or want
This horrid place
Any more
His heart is healed
God goes where he goes
The suffering he lived no longer grows
What he remembers sets him free
He will not be lost to history
He chooses a life of Joy not misery.
Dedicated to native children abused in church and residential schools.
Their culture was systematically stripped away. in some cases much worse
things happened behind what should have been hallowed walls.
In writing this I question if this piece was honoring to Native people. As I thought about this I realized that this piece speaks to their resilience as a people. Despite what was done to them they have found a way to hold onto their culture traditions art and language. We have much that we can learn from them.
Written by: Richard J. Lamoureux
www.wisedummypoet.com
I view my hand. I see an ancient land.
A melanomic crater, deep in the desert,
speaks of greedy sun-soaked days.
Wanton then. Gone now.
Sparse wispy palm trees cluster,
storm ravaged, angled randomly,
now almost invisible,
now silver in the light.
Ravines compressed in lines
symmetrical, as from space,
appearing geometric,
requiring translation,
needing understanding,
awaiting exploration.
Ahead, beyond the fault line,
mountains expand and converge,
blue-edged and rising high
above the sandy plain, sinuous,
majestic, uncharted.
Stretching and contracting
as wrinkled parchment
in a shoreline breeze,
pointing the way to the long journey’s end.
Translucent and yes still beautiful.
A multitude of moments
has slowly wrought such change.
Soul-stirring eloquence silently tells
of times and deeds long past,
though yet concealing secrets deep,
of silken dreams within a lover’s sleep,
and memories of a sweet caress,
I met that star, with my name on; I met
That twinkling star, a beacon, lovely one;
I met her in a hamlet—less spoiled—yet
We met when homeward sun his cart did run.
She often tip-toed with her mother star,
To the field to cut grains or feed her cow,
While blinking slyly, like an angled spar
At her love, as she’s doing here, just now.
She was the peahen, and I...the peacock.
Drowned in our astral love, we did dance;
Just forgetting how other stars did flock,
We danced, diving in our hypnotic trance.
I gaze in my dreams at blue star-lit sky
And then see two lovely stars gleaming high.
Revised
* A 3rd Place* in the following contest (judged on Dec. 31, 2020)
Dec. 29, 2020
Podium placing promise (2) Poetry Contest
Contest sponsor: Brian Strand
* A 2nd Place* in the following contest (judged on Nov. 12, 2020)
Nov. 10, 2020
There is a star with my name on it Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Silent One
How splendid to be fancy-free,
A perfect morn upon the sea,
Just the surf, my board and me,
And yet, a murky form ...
Obscures the water, warm.
Angled shapes there, dark and grave,
Hidden, deep inside the wave,
As I use my board to shave
Sea foam off the wake ...
A perfect turquoise break.
Sinister, and time to bide ...
Shaped for speed, with silky hide,
Churning shadows in the tide,
Patient for a chance ...
To end my wavy dance.
No way in hell that I'll bequeath
A piece of me to ragged teeth,
Of somber bulk that looms beneath,
This day is much too bright ...
To end ... in bloody fright.
Ignorance....
How is it...gifted with
abilities to reason
we can all remain so unaware...
How is it...gifted with
mental ability of logic
yet,what do we really know....
Even with our limited sense
of language and words to communicate
how do you describe in uncertain terms
the unknown...yet,not completely unknown
If your regular 5 senses move beyond the norm
you hear things different
you see things different
you feel things different
again...because of our lack of impression
where do you find the tools neccesary
to convey such an inner feeling...
as you also struggle with heighten perception.....
Entropy......
As we continue forward into the unknown
with our continued lack of knowledge
we inadvertently create wider gaps
furthering ourselves from the truth
energy being spent uselessly
creating further chaos and disorder....
The ancient stone builders left us a clue
in their placement of the cornerstone....
any deviation in angled positioning
would lead to a deformed structure
like the leaning tower of Pisa.....
Consciousness...
The evolution of the mental age
requires such attention,as to rid
ourselves of the ignorant state of mind
which only furthers entropy within the self
but,also within our global community
which,if not mindful...
we continue in a deformed state of being......
HAYA....." to be...or not to be "
is not the question
it's our true quest......
The traffic light
delayed us both
Me driving my car
She driving her cart.
The traffic direction changed, rotated,
making black eyes spark annoyed
as her walk signal failed to appear,
shrunken mouth twisting crooked
‘neath her frowned brow
as roughly she retreated,
Bang-bang banging her fist
against the shiny metal round,
push-to-cross-pedestrian-knob.
Then glancing up
relief cleared her angry face...
The green walk-stick-figure beckoning her
across from the street light across.
Adeptly her cart she wheeled ‘round
worked down the sidewalk dip
Then scurry did she quick-careful between
the safety of yellow crossing lines.
Unabashed, I watched
as her crooked shape veered
down the opposite sidewalk
hugging the closed wall of shops
hurrying hurrying to where oh where
cloaked all in black
nearly invisible
amongst the street dusk shadows.
Black colored her,
from escaping hair,
to scarf, long skirt, scuffed dark shoes, many layered black socks.
a so-slight woman, mostly skin and bones,
scarfed head bent, right-angled downward peering
tanned skin stretched thin ‘cross facial bones protruding,
sunken cheeks now filling the space of now-gone teeth,
the rooster wattle skin beneath her chin
to yell the tell of years passing past.
Pushing resolutely
her world
bungie-corded to storage on wheels
a layered life stacked high
ancient black suitcase on the bottom,
twine-tied brown box layered next,
bulging black-shiny plastic bag top-crowning,
all securely strapped…
Simple baggage that never
never
would be checked at the gate.
Spring
Took me
By surprise
Redbud blossoms
Doves coo early on
More species come to feed
Somehow spring has subtly sprung
Sunbeam shakes her yellow hair down
Angled 'pon violet covered lawn
Winter locked up the buds, spring held the key
Curvature the plane to the point of distribution
Focus either latitude, asymptomotes are drawn;
Equalling hypotenuese with spiralling revolution
Discretely perpendicular to the course it set upon.
All prinicipals of axis are running through the centre
To rotate intersections where the vertices define;
A conic section tilted either left or right would enter,
Angled high perimeters where either halves entwine.
Visual the perspective where the foci separates
Each segment that establishes the gradual aim of low;
To benefit the lateral then where it penetrates
Is seen as the illusion and positions from below.
Illusion us to pivot sense, redeem the scheme as wise,
By having this as constant, to do with each, obeys-
The simple rule, coordinates whose will of gradual rise
Is probably a measured wrong, a hyperbolic maze.