Best Appellation Poems
POTD 19 September 2017
Apprehensively I tramp with my lamp - through a path shrouded in gloom
Silvery shafts of light entwine and fight through foliage as they creep
Gnarled branches twist as I resist their sinister outstretched grabbing reach
With a hushed bated breath I move in stealth - to allow the restless spirits sleep
I have heard and have feared the ancient Mystical stories that are told
Of a fabled cave of age where these immortal spirits abide
A sacred and elated reverie this questing soul with them seeks
To allow ‘The Oracles’ now - to show where my elusive love hides
I have heard it expressed in a blessed rapturous appellation
This glowing love from above that eludes this restless yearning child
A bliss infused kiss that Celestial Beings have been heard to applaud
A connection of perfection that would make Heaven look down and smile
In my quest to find the nest of undying unconditional love
I search alone to find my throne in the mighty caverns of the sphere
May the spirits guide until I find my bride in barren breaths of cold
And now I see in this mystic cavity an apparition does appear
In a gentle voice I do rejoice and hold captive in their chambers
My son are you the one seeking lasting love in our golden grotto
I say yes and will you bless my jaded journey thus far I have made
We’re beings of infinity descending divinity as above so below
I fall to my knees as they say with ease - Feel the vibes of the stone
Before you embark look within your heart - Love explodes there and beyond
I shed a tear with a cavernous cheer and find where I have failed
My soul anew now I'm due for my love to be Spiritually spawned
Acknowledgement from Maria (Down Under) -
To my very dear friend and Poet Extraordinaire`-The illustrious (((Winged Warrior)), for producing this collaboration together with me. It is no surprise at the effortless speed of this production - virtually overnight (because of the time difference), and then another night with the sprucing up. It was good fun and we must do it again WW.
POTD 19 September 2017
Music by Yakuro – ‘Through The Galaxy’ - Published on Mar 22, 2016
Copyright – Maria Williams and Winged Warrior – September 2017
Apprehensively I tramp with my lamp - through a path shrouded in gloom
Silvery shafts of light entwine and fight through foliage as they creep
Gnarled branches twist as I resist their sinister outstretched grabbing reach
With a hushed bated breath I move in stealth - to allow the restless spirits sleep
I have heard and have feared the ancient Mystical stories that are told
Of a fabled cave of age where these immortal spirits abide
A sacred and elated reverie this questing soul with them seeks
To allow ‘The Oracles’ now - to show where my elusive love hides
I have heard it expressed in a blessed rapturous appellation
This glowing love from above that eludes this restless yearning child
A bliss infused kiss that Celestial Beings have been heard to applaud
A connection of perfection that would make Heaven look down and smile
In my quest to find the nest of undying unconditional love
I search alone to find my throne in the mighty caverns of the sphere
May the spirits guide until I find my bride in barren breaths of cold
And now I see in this mystic cavity an apparition does appear
In a gentle voice I do rejoice and hold captive in their chambers
My son are you the one seeking lasting love in our golden grotto
I said yes and will you bless my jaded journey thus far I have made
We’re beings of infinity descending divinity as above so below
I fall to my knees as they say with ease - Feel the vibes of the stone
Before you embark look within your heart - Love explodes there and beyond
I shed a tear with a cavernous cheer and find where I have failed
My soul anew now I'm due for my love to be Spiritually spawned
Collaboration...Maria Williams and Winged Warrior-Sept.18.2017
Music by Yakuro – ‘Through The Galaxy’ - Published on Mar 22, 2016
Copyright – Maria Williams and Winged Warrior – September 2017
Thank you, my friend, from down under...you are a beautiful soul and a wonderful talent...an enchantress of write and a princess of poetry...it was magical to work with you again...looking forward toward our next 'deja vu'
A better name for an octopus?
It's tough to make stuff up.
We could start with a brand-new appellation.
How about a name like "Suction Pup"?!
Or perhaps we could start the debate
with a numerical tag like "Ocean's Eight".
Another name open for discussion
would be a handle like "Squid's Cousin".
Still another, somewhat grandiloquent,
could be the rather pompous "Inknificent".
My Scottish friends, with joy, will weep
if the new label is "Bagpipes of the Deep"!
Or one can almost hear sailors shout "Ahoy!
Is that a rock? No, it's an Ol' Tangly Boy!"
Fueled by atmospheric ecstasy
Into ethereal regions' mystery,
Tilting wings cavalierly,
Bridging Heaven and Earth,
Gliding gracefully.
Falcon, sky-hawk, hoopoe, finch
Starling, sparrow, blue-jay, Grinch;
What matter the appellation?
The feeling's the same---
Incessant ceaseless sensation
Jealous we gaze, stricken with admiration
At creatures without borders, without nations:
Would that we could bask in their bounty
Would that we could sip from their stations.
When people speak of Frankenstein, they often seem quite shaken
But if that name evokes the beast, they're monstrously mistaken.
For Frankenstein does not portray the nameless weird creation
But rather Shelley's choice for his creator's appellation.
So if this Victor Frankenstein should choose to throw a party
Inviting all his scientific friends and those more arty,
He'd first provide refreshments then recite them all a story
Involving an experiment with life and all things gory.
Concluding with the statement 'To play God just isn't wise
For it is highly likely to occasion one's demise.'
31.08.21
What cherubim or spirits shall entreat
To preach the litany of thy beauty?
If rhyme and meter be the judge,
Then let my odes of bygone years
Fill dunes of sweet romanticism
With the stink of pusillanimity and nonsense.
Shall the minstrel regale thee in coquettish glee,
When springtime comes? What are his lyrics and songs
To describe the rapture of the gentle looks
That I long to hear alone.
Will spiteful maidens sob in the arms of their lovers
As you busily pass on the corner road?
What to speak of such frivolous indiscretion?
Only beauty without appellation will know.
I love my country Nigeria,
Though marred by malaria.
I've a bouquet of sweet aria,
Blooming in my heart's rear,
Which my country must hear,
Else it flees to Rhea.
I love my country Nigeria.
It tilts like the Tower of Pisa,
But stable as the Pyramid of Giza.
Easily rocked by a soft breeze,
But stands a storm with ease.
The reason for my aria!
I love my country Nigeria,
But wish it were a nation,
Not a cluster--an appellation--
Of dunes and a stretch of savanna,
Of rocky hills and valleys of banana,
Of mashes, inter alia.
I love my country Nigeria
Not the vultures in peacock's feathers,
Or the hawks that strut in blathers,
Who shrill and shrink our coffers,
Swaggering while the nation suffers.
Soon en route to Siberia.
I will sing my aria for Nigeria,
When the dirge sounds with pomp;
And we bounce, hop and romp
At the death of our foe--corruption.
We joy in the birth of our Nation,
Brace to grow Nigeria.
I’ll live my aria for Nigeria.
No more stroll along unsure course.
Quality’s noble, mediocrity, a curse.
Beauty wafts from garlands of praise
For the legion of merits we raise.
A nation truly Nigeria!
My dream glows for Nigeria
Where heads bow to mourn a sparrow;
An infant's death, a loss to tomorrow.
People recoil from trampling an ant;
Leaders serve with honor, not flagrant,
'Cause we love Nigeria.
You see why I love Nigeria?
We cherish what God has given.
Nation's goals are purpose-driven,
So we ponder else we squander,
Aware we soon have to render,
In line with God's criteria.
© 2015
Oscans, Ligures and the Apuli as known
Ancient Greek, Samnitics, Sicanis and Celt
Indigenous tribes, one people with love grown
Capodanno Fiorentino o'er lands dwelt
Wine appellation of Sangiovese as shown
Wreaths and lanterns over folklores shine not welt
Carrara marbles as buttress of stronghold
With arts and culture, graced with norms of the bold
Apostrophe
A derogate demons asperity
Calumniate my integrity
Malicious deceit
Holding no truth
Held on to nothing!
My inglorious ignominy
Your repulsion Satiate!
Nauseated glut unsensual sodomy
Surfeit and salt in nasty infected cut
Given dichotomy
Or burdened with great weight
Tarnished, libel. Stuck in a rut.
Nothing left
Appellation stained – Tainted mendaciously
Verbal hate – Eat the flesh
Minstrel blood mixed with sacred semen
There’s nothing left – except for fire and this acrid demon
Oluwakayode Adigun a rare name
I heard as I breezed down
the city of Lagos in search of
pecuniary gains. Does he teach?
So I was told but when he walked in
it was unannounced, subtle, oh yea!
His presence I reckoned not!
As often, these stories, of trade and
lending bored me with winter fevers.
Petulant and non stop barrage of didactics
permeated the horizon but this Adigun,
a different breed with brazen
intellectual antenna,
some what of a gem, in a split
seconds, the session rendered
aglow. we laughed and roared.
And sweet was the banishment of boredom!
Passionate and exited, teacher of trade!
An intellectual of rare nicety, a
sublime mental gladiator with untainted
credentials in a delicate trade!
In obedience to the east and
custom, Adigun deserves colanut
and water, the greatest
yoke of friendship! To this
man, Adigun, I invoke the sacred
ancestral homage meant
for kings foremost knights!
I have known him albeit
a few hours, my balls wish I
had known him all eternity. Adigun,
a connotative Yoruba appellation!
Oluwakayode, named after the deity of
fortune ,Paykay as often, revered
by friends and admires of equal
trade! This stranger, in his episode
of transition to adulthood reminisced
noble candies not common
with the poverty stricken mortals of
his time. My poetic hand relishes
this holy flirtation in volumes.
Eulogy For An Unsung Hero ©
The late John Sidney McCain III,
now flies with Arrow Smith,
Babbitt, and Jefferson Airplane
five days shy of his
eighty second birthday,
taken down (to his demise)
courtesy, sans metastatic cancer of brain
defeated by an aggressive
deadly linkedin chain,
yet still earns kudos
no matter 1967 USS Forrestal fire
(during the Vietnam War)
his life source did
nearly completely drain
though purposeless prevails,
asper absolute zero gainsay,
no rhyme nor reason
can even feebly explain,
when approximately
a quarter million young men
(oh...yes, perhaps
some women too) perished
at sea, on land, or floatplain
sacrificed their lives for nought,
zip, nada nothing to GAIN
(my bald, billed,
and bold assertion,
a mere minor tirade
subpar class 1 hurricane
non-veteran civilian personnel),
nonetheless afflictions by said
United States veteran and,
subsequent Senator from Arizona,
what posthumous praise me expresses
merely mildly silly putty,
piddly, paltry and inane
as anti septic (of danger)
such as books
for children star
ring Dick and Jane
does disservice, injustice offends,
(perhaps descriptive word choices
might smack of hyperbole,
my humble apology if in apropos),
thus a more app pealing appellation,
could be Citizen Kane,
whose corporeal being got lain
to rest on a grassy hill
adjacent to the main
starting point of his storied existence,
the burial plot (right next to
lifelong friend Chuck Larson)
amidst a plain
extolling grandeur and solemnity,
where grim reaper didst slain
of Arlington National
Cemetery in Virginia terrain
concluding mine poetic epistle,
that didst wax and wane.
Christmas time haiku -
“tableaux d’une exposition”
post-it notes on walls
Long Tooth
May 25, 2016
The painting here is a beautiful portrait of Mussorgsky the composer of the famous classical work 'Pictures At An Exhibition.'
This haiku is a very dense multi-layered haiku perhaps unlike any you have ever seen
before. Let me explain what it means to me and then please share if you think I
accomplished my goals in writing it.
The Christmas appellation refers not only to a season of the year but also stretches
this seasonal reference in nature to include the gift giving season which, for a poet
like myself, is any day that my muse offers me an idea for a haiku or a poem.
Since haikus are usually images, like a painted picture, the haiku suggests that
the post-it notes on my wall are frames of each picture (or different individual
haiku) in my exhibition. Using the seven syllable French phrase for 'Pictures at an
Exhibition, ' a very famous piece of classical music by Mussorgsky, gives the
exhibition an erudite air as if my haiku were hung in the Louvre rather than my
office. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!
My questions for more experienced haiku writers include:
1. Can a real haiku be intentionally dense. ie., carry emotional overtones?
2. Can a real haiku have only one real interpretation, ie., the poet's intention?
3. If a haiku has as many possible interpretations as it has readers, how can it possibly be art?
Species sundry sentential
Line the lost lowered loft
Whose weary wayward-ceiled
Roof raises itself over the lot:
The diverse specimen bottles of pharmaceutic potations,
Mortared and mixed as by the Hawthornean sawbones
And apothecary, yclept, poetically rendered: "The Quack Haunted."
(Aye,) Haunted and hunted he was, by that vile old crone,
Whose life he did not decrease one iota nor span,
With the ingested application of one of his odious elixirs,
By the harridan so quaffed.
Yet, the obstreperous host of the soldierly soldiery of dozens of nations,
Yclept herein by the appellation, "Plagiarism," they fairly encroach upon
The tableau naught but ominously.
And thus ominous be also the tone of this,
Which 'tis my most perfervid and prayerful hope that
'Tis utterly unclassifiable, unidentified and unidentifiable.
I do not care for the onerousness of being pinned down,
For living up to the hoary and draconian standards of the vast
Collect of poetry-of poetries.
This I will not brook.
(But before I end this ebullient and elliptical encomium,
I must turn once again to that species of alliterativeness that
Provided the nutriment for it and me: the "grist for my mill,"
As the archaic idiom has it: )
Therefore, these things
Have henceforth
Come casually
To their
End.
Form:
A canticle I think I'll be,
A rimed thought, hoary and ancient,
Stinking as the dust heaped up empyreal on the hills of
The Judean sands;
And as dulled and dimmed as an archaic coin tarnish'd.
This is what I think I might be.
I'd as lief be this as any other you might care to name.
Valid is this, my remote and removed claim,
And it all began hereon.
O, that was an age ago, that remote and bygone time,
Rimed with hoar-frost and the whitishness of ancientness,
When as blood-soaked, cruciferous hills remote and circumvallatory or else
Perhaps circumferential to the great, walled city, itself circumvallatory;
When all this began.
When this particular beguine to which we've all been dancing lo this many score of years began.
It was as a woman bedecked in black on a Sunday morning newly kissed by the auriferous dawn,
(A goldener dawn than even that on which she met the man whose coffin she was now appointed to follow in a moribund processional, a macabre and solemn, ceremonial dance of death,)
Going down to the fixed graveyard.
That day was as the day on which I first deigned to join this,
And adopting unto myself the sobriquet, shibboleth "A canticle I think I be"
(For I was not permitted to use the full appellation I wished to apply to myself,
Owing to some stupid and recondite rule regarding and regulating the use and due conservation of characters: Yet not those as those of the mainstays of literature, no! I mean to say the characters that are synonymous with words and spaces and punctuation and the like,)
And here the tale ends, though 'twas not Moschean nor Noahide as
I perhaps meant it to be.
Oh, well: All's well that ends well.
(For was this not an idiotic tale, yet a harrowing one, whose lightest word would harrow up the young blood of any and all who saw it, read it, perused it?)
Form:
You say you don't like seasons then try living on the moon;
Religion's dreams, man’s reasons, try Death’s sunken pit (1) in June.
If "compromise" just sickens you vote Donald Trump again,
Our homegrown fascist leader hates all humans with a brain!
Don't let him know you value hearts; he'll take yours for a spin,
Contract with rodents, sell your parts, (before he does you in.)
Of course, the truth is we all die, but better him than me,
Titanic ego, Grinch's (2) Son, his death, like Christ, could free!
The devil's minion’s boss now, and what he loves best is lie,
For each man fooled, awarded star, his "tinker toys" (3) of sly!
Self-righteous friends cut funding for a government “too large,”
And then pass savings to the rich, for favors they discharge.
These terrorists have trunks of tales they spin till folks can't stand,
While this "divine wind"(4) fills its sails, they rape and pillage land!
Brian Johnston
July 8, 2017
Poet’s Notes:
(1) North Americas lowest sunken desert, 282 feet below sea level is called Death Valley and has recorded temperatures approaching 134 Degrees Fahrenheit.
(2) A name for a man who is mean-spirited and unfriendly.
(3) A toy for a very young child for whom "building blocks" are too easy. Such a child (like our president) is still not capable of life beyond diapers.
(4) The appellation for Japanese pilots who would commit suicide by flying their explosive-laden planes into enemy targets to further the Japanese empires aspirations, valuing dogma over humanity.