Best Annuals Poems
POETS
Seems we be a restless,
often rootless, band
we poets.
Annuals
bursting forth
in fullness
only to fade,
blown away
on fickle winds.
Stringless kites
anchored
in the ethereal.
Voices adrift
on the mind’s
muse.
Tumbleweeds
in torment
pursued
by the winds
of our future.
©2/18/2018
submitted to – CONTEST NO 400
sponsor – Brian Strand
Try leave behind "Book Of The Week"
And head upstairs where floorboards creak.
Where people tilt their heads to look
At every spine on every book.
Where murderers and secret lovers
Plot and scheme between the covers.
Where transport from another age
Transports you to another page.
Where old detective books reside
Each with their price pencilled inside.
Where books based on geometry
Share space with trigonometry.
Where childhood annuals stand in line
With memories of a simpler time.
Where silent thoughts pervade the air
And words speak volumes everywhere.
peering out the kitchen window
you are on your knees working
afore the roses are a border
of smaller annuals
you know their names
intimate knowledge of their needs
hands that care for thee and me
so often i find myself
in this domain where your touch
permeates every aspect of existence
while i see only the beauty in color and form
i am not so devoid of this picture
as not to recognize
the touch of Monet therein
i have been given a moment with a masterpiece
that only i will ever have
one that will forever grace
the gallery in my heart, where are your portraits
where i go when life takes you momentarily away
and i am missing you
1/4/19 Kismet
My little bit of natural life.
Its biodiversity rife.
Frogs, bugs, butterflies, hedgehogs, mice.
Annuals, perennials, lice.
Fruit, cherries, blackberries, no strife!
All in peak condition, no blite.
Every day new finds excite!
New for the county too, quite nice.
My little bit!
Records have to be recorded… type.
New finds my contribution… life
Each new record another slice,
For what it takes I’ll pay the price.
Enjoyed by me and my dear wife.
My little bit!
There was a Red Indian Chief
his name was Raging Waters
he lived a pleasant life
surrounded by his four wives
They took care of all his needs
gave him strong sons and daughters
he ruled mainly in peace not war
apart from raids on the Black Hawks
It was one of his joys to sneak up
and steal their very fine horses
and to capture some of their squaws
these he could trade for guns and whiskey
As time went on he grew very troubled
he consulted with the medicine man
who sent him to the hot bath teepee
there smoking his pipe he relaxed
Soon the visions started to appear
war was on the horizon he could see
also a squaw so comely he lost his heart
he left the teepee and sent out scouts
They scoured the lands searching for her
at last one came back with the news
she belonged to the Crows and was promised
gathering up a raiding party, he set off
At dead of night they sneaked into position
then rushed the camp catching the Crows off guard
they killed the warriors and took the squaws,
children and horses too and well tanned hides
Now there had to be a comeback from this deed
Mighty Hawk gathered his tribes of Crows
and set off for Raging Waters camp for revenge
barely escaping he fled for the mountains
There with just a handful of warriors and squaws
he set out to build up the tribe once more
when at last they had enough warriors
he set out to recapture that beautiful squaw
Never had he forgotten her soft lips on his
driven wild by his desire, he lost all caution
warned by his medicine man it would end badly
he paid no heed and set out to make war
The Crows soon heard he was on his way
and set a terrible trap in between the hills
Raging Waters and his warriors were cut down
the unlucky ones were scalped then given to the squaws
Who beat them and treated them harshly as slaves
thus a lesson was learned do not take promised squaws
Raging Waters name was in time lost in the annuals
his tribe no more, just forgotten ghosts in time
inspired by soup mail chat with Sandra
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
My little bit of natural life.
Its biodiversity rife.
Frogs, bugs, butterflies, hedgehogs, mice.
Annuals, perennials, lice.
Fruit, cherries, blackberries, no strife!
All in peak condition, no blite.
Every day new finds excite!
New for the county too, quite nice.
My little bit!
Records have to be recorded… type.
New finds my contribution… life
Each new record another slice,
For what it takes I’ll pay the price.
Enjoyed by me and my dear wife.
My little bit!
We are gathered
Each and everyone
Honouring the forefathers
Glorifying every man
The mothers and fathers
Who made a stand
Paving a path, telling a story
Of how it began
Of ancient Kemet
Our homeland, the motherland
Told in oral history
Then cast in stones
Diluted by the Vatican
At a conference in Nicosia
Under the guidance of Rome
In strife and victories
We must understand
The causes and reasons
The Explanations
That there is a lesson to be learnt
That what is happening now
Has happened before
When we open our eyes and mind
We should realize
We must record our history
In the hall of fame
Celebrating
Our heroes name
Markus Garvey had a plan
The unite Africans
Those from across the oceans
Those in distant lands
But his dream is now in smoke
When consciousness had gone
On a walkabout
When identity has taken a shock
From European imagery and press attack
We are branches
From the trees
Broken in storms
Shedding its leaves
In far flung places
Where ever we roam
We are blessed by the divinity
And cursed by no one
In suffering and tribulations
We must understand
That the heroes who had gone on before
Paved a path to our existence
Opening doors
Through sacrifices and commitment
That with unity and purpose
We replicate the ethos
By keeping focus
And reclaim our place
In the annuals
In our halls of fame
Celebrating our heroes name.
This poem was written for Black Heroes Foundation, an organization which is dedicated to telling African History through artistic performances.
shiny red wagon
annuals planted in soil
a curious garden
When ruling orders are given,
subordinates must make it so
If they are evil decisions,
then lesser ranks should not yield their integrity
They should have enough moral fortitude to say no
A Jezebel justification
is an ancient war crime against humanity
A Nuremberg notation,
is it's modern day footnote in European history
If you were a patriotic German soldier in WWII,
did you blindly do what Hitler ordered you to?
If you were a loyal Nazi partisan,
did you without question
kill Jews who were innocent?
Party politics sometimes play morality tricks
Before you follow the leader,
do you examine their moral views?
Weigh whether they’re healthy or sick
Don’t let political cowardice
get medals of dishonor pinned on your chest
Don’t let fleeting power greed
record you as a Jezebel flunkey
in the annuals of history
A Nuremberg notation
is a reminder to every civilized nation
Follow not a multitude to do evil,
let your conscience be your warning bell
Obey not the wicked voices uttered by sons of Belial,
for they will lead you down the path to hell
Exercise your freewill ...
don’t be a robot who only marches
to nationalistic pre-coded programming
Reject a devilish deal ...
Dorian portraits sold by a con artist
are a most unprofitable thing
Remember well, this historical footnote:
At Nuremberg,
on trial was a question of treason and loyalty
Nations come and go —
that is the way of creation
In the Book of Life,
if a blood-red tear stain be next to your name,
denying you eternal salvation
Then, God has cursed your soul ...
marking it with a Nuremberg notation
Yes autumn! With a carpet of old leaves,
dying annuals sun burnt look old.
Mist welcoming with morning gloom;
ripened fruit now hanging bold.
Oh autumn! Let me reap your bounty,
before your fruit begins to drop.
May I find pleasure in your glut
when collecting up your ripened crop.
Chutney! Relish! Sauce! And pickle!
Jelly! Marmalade! Conserve!
Prepared and stored to last forever -
this autumn harvest I preserve.
sorrowed and sullied, averting his eyes with a half-hearted smile
making his way down from her loft, on creaky steps, into the rain
over his shoulder, her fireplace casting a warm glow through her window
and the ember of hope residing inside him finally rekindled
stoking the flames, she did for nearly four annuals
until one evening, by the song of a siren, her spectre did disappear
without warning, without reasoning, without expecting return
openly she wept for his return, quietly he wept at his newfound pain
lost and tortured, he screamed - both from inside and outside himself
only his memories of the lady in white keeping him tethered to life
nearly a full decade, his persistent persecution echoing over ages
his memories of her all but gone, she now a spectre in his mind
released and relieved from the rack, his broken mind and body rest
the cool floor against his chest and cheek comforting to his soul
fragments flashing of the one, the only one, who he met so long ago
peeling his broken body from the floor, his wounds barely healed
his trek back a mirror image of the one taken from years past
taking him back to the land where his entire life went up in flames
hanging his head, he speaks to his maternal and inamoratal ghosts
finally relinquishing that pain, carrying forward, hopeful of his new life
lady in white, unsuspecting when the spectre returns
her loving embrace, warm smile and sincerity in her words melt over him
worry of her loss escaping through his first expelled breath
relief and retribution entering as his breathes her vanilla scent once more
----------
m, thank you for all you've done for me throughout the years. even when you weren't there physically, you were always that angel on my shoulder, making me question my negative actions. i am so glad to have you back in my life after so long. and i promise, i will never leave you hanging again. hugz & kisses - Raven
When conquerors came,
they took away only the best
The rest got left behind
This is the pattern of oppression,
the scourge of mankind
Repeated over and over again
throughout the annuals of time
People with skills always got carried away first,
replaced by those who were the lowest of the worst
Export the bad apples,
import the good figs
Prune the green branches,
cast away the dry twigs
The sons of the wise said only the best had the smarts to assimilate,
while counseling the conquerors to get rid of their deviants
by the same exchange rate
Promote progress and civility in their land,
place the rod of anarchy in their enemies' hand
Make them weak as water,
so they can never get strong again
Then comes the truly villainous part of the plan:
get those deemed only the best,
to hate those not taken, those who were left
A divided people can never stand,
a fractured people offers no resistance
But there is a spirit not governed by time,
a watcher who records all of humanity's crimes
Let truth fan the fire,
uncover the bones buried in the sand
Then ask yourself this question,
and answer it if you can:
How in the world did only the best
become labeled as those who are less ...
than ...
human
Come along everyone and let us celebrate
An anniversary of importance. The date?
Next July First! A day that will soon be here,
And one all will remember. It’s very clear
Dates like this determine a National celebration
As befits a proud and independent nation.
Scores of excited citizens, coast to coast to coast,
Seek to make their personal plans to host
Events and fete visitors from everywhere.
Searching for ways by which they can share
Quietly with family, or in grandiose public display!
Undoubtedly this for them, will be a very special day
In the recorded annuals of our country's history.
Canada is regarded by many as a friendly society,
Even though there are indigenous issues to fix,
No one lives in fear, despite our eclectic mix!
There’s tolerant understanding and diversity:
Equal rights and freedom of religious variety.
No one has cause to fear racist, sectarian woes!
Now in the land of fast disappearing snows
Is the time for citizens to plan a day of harmony
And prepare to celebrate the freedom and civility
Lauded by many others as a worthy epitome!
Clasping hands with neighbours in celebration;
Embracing new cultures strengthens a Nation.
Let the world know we`re proud of a Heritage
Envied by many, for we enjoy Freedoms in an age
Beset with conflict and violence! Living in unity,
Raising families in a safe and loving community
Allows citizens to follow their choosing - racism denied.
This further strengthens a Nation when tolerance is applied.
Integrating newcomers into a society of free religious preference,
Offers safe sanctuary to those persecuted by bigotted offence.
Now is the perfect time for All Canadians to stand and proudly say:
Sesquicentennial celebrations will show “ours” is the Better Way!
Rhymer. March 20th, 2017.
(Sesquicentennial is the term used to define or specify a 150th Anniversary.)
A paradise of natural nature bouquets displayed:
of yellow, orange, pink, red roses of redolent scented phase.
Lilies, tulips, daisies, daffodils and violets are of bountiful blooms
All these have enchanted scents of fresh fragrant perfumes cues;
bringing love interludes.
On the countryside, new scents of morning-glory flowers are new:
wildflowers are there with colorful shades and hues.
By a home flower orchids, geraniums and marigolds do soothe.
Pinned are carnations at shoulder height level views.
Rhododendron and impatiens of the color purple do muse.
Bowing down their heads are of yellow and white sunflowers to you.
Their seeds are a delightful protein fuel.
Azalea, buttercups, mums, lilacs; soften the mood.
Springtime, summertime and fall-time
has botanical flower gardens with gala venues.
Flowers and bees intertwine to produce pure delicious honey.
Flowers for us are an in-depth botany study.
A local natural land treasury of perennials and annuals do resume.
Dried flowers are preserved as a uniquely lovely tribute.
These are to have for five to seven lasting enjoyable years, to share.
A Green thumb is awarded to the most flowery flower gardens here.
Purposely pluck pretty prickly prime red roses and white lilies for a vase: and then give them to a pretentious precocious loved member.
This a loving memory that will last in everyone heart story.
These are of the "lively lovely flowers in prom,"
Those in one's hands and on upon all lands.
Yet, of all of these: they are but a small reflection of the true, prettiest flower of them all.
The "Rose of Sharon," this who is Jesus, the Christ, the Lovely Lord. The creator of all flowers of whom, I do most admire and adore.