Best Argent Poems
Winter’s Fantasies
Winter walks the mountain hills at nightfall
Breathlessly awaiting evening’s first flakes of snow,
An alpine carnival that rowdy clouds threatened to toss upon their faces;
When, at last, the brumaled storm releases a snowy masquerade
Sweet serenity fills dusky eyes with wistful fantasies of twirling snowflakes,
Visions of barren aspen arms embracing shivering jewels of glittering glitz,
A carnival of crystalline jubilee in wind whipped flakes.
Winter smiles as the evening sky slowly turns her dark side inside out
From black to white to turquoise and to blue
The moon slow pulls herself above these mountain hills in festival
To ride a winter sky watching over midnight’s silver shimmering earth
Alive with twinkling moonbeam stars, bright refractions of sisters in the sky,
When the mountains glimmer cold as midnight – blue as stars –
Wearing new ermine alpine furs -cloaks of argent sparkle.
1-12-22
Contest: Winter Wonders within Nature
Sponsor: M.L. Kiser
The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Bread
Billy Joel and The Grateful Dead
Suzi Quatro, Styx, Kate Bush
Elton John, Yes, Kiss and Rush
Freda Payne, The Brothers Four
Dolly Parton, Sandie Shaw
The Jackson Five and Bruce Springsteen
Elvis Presley, Slade and Queen
David Bowie, The Beach Boys, Sweet
Rose Royce, Madness and The Beat
Dusty Springfield, Fox, Nick Drake
Neil Sedaka, Sparks, Greg Lake
Three Dog Night and The Ramones
Pink Floyd and The Undertones
Blue Öyster Cult, The Dave Clark Five
Bachman-Turner Overdrive
Golden Earring, Argent and
The Sensational Alex Harvey Band
Mott The Hoople, E.L.O
Dr. Hook and Status Quo
Skeeter Davis, Iggy Pop
Alice Cooper, ZZ Top
The Rev. Al Green and Steeley Dan
The Who, The Jam and Steeleye Span
The Monkees, Abba, Cream and Free
Lynyrd Skynrd, 10CC
Renaissance, Blondie and The Clash
The Faces, Love and Wishbone Ash
The Moody Blues, Deep Purple, Mud
Frankie Goes To Hollywood
Bob Dylan and The Shangri Las
The Kinks. The Birds. The Doors. The Cars
The Seekers and Roberta Flack
The Drifters, T. Rex, Fleetwood Mac
Tina Turner, Prince, James Brown
..And all the music from Motown.
What if Mother Nature retired, and I applied for her position?
How would I dare to assume her secret duties, her un-ending cycles
Could I invoke such power, or must I simply become her?
Spin myself into a cocoon of natural faith.
Let the atoms of the cosmos transform my light into spirit.
Would I then emerge, complete with every force of mystery?
Awaken each day with a pink mist, and burn each evening sky with crimson?
Command each leaf, each breath and every symphony of living?
Would I wear her gowns of argent, lavender and aqua?
Step lightly on mossy stones, and dance upon silvery meadows?
Grace the heavens in cloud-white glinting wings
and in the depths of darkest night bear stars, filled
with the promise of every new beginning?
In Honor of my Fave Poems Andrea Dietrich.
First Place.
101 in a ROW contest -2
Contest Judged: 7/27/2016 9:30:00 PM
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
5th. Place
Sunlight or Moonlight - Moonlight on Meadows chosen title 8-21-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Moonlight on Meadows
Moonlight lays with meadows
Splashing auroras of platinum mist
On midnight
As lupine enters Luna’s corona
Dressed in veils of silver blue.
Light’s fingertips spread wide
Taking in the silk caress –
Hypnotic lavender and clover.
The silent silver flute song
Parts tangled nests of moonlit shadows
Sinking deeply into the crucible of light
While florid breaths of tuberose,
Leave an argent kiss
In moon pearls of satin dews.
Garlands of scented leaves
Undulate in polar wax and wane
Swaying
Holding close arching moonbows of sterling.
In full splendor of lunar madness
Sweet midnight ambrosias explode
To dust the moonlight and meadows
With crystal bits of silver glitz.
Operetta
Opaline arias glow in moonlight
Shimmers in the whip-poor-will’s reminisce,
Opalescent anthems silvery delight
On the still waters, moonbeams leave a kiss.
Iridescent serenade sonatas
Echo across sleek undulating swells
Choruses of nightingale cantatas
Rise up in sheer murmurs from argent wells
Midnight luminescent harmony blends
Overtures of plaintive loon duets
Glide over satin ripples to transcend
The song of hero and saucy coquette
In tranquility soft moonlit scenes close
Midnight’s operetta in dawn’s repose.
Author’s Note:
This sonnet is the sequel to "Ere She Trembled", as directed by the most esteemed Lustrous Lin; henceforth ventured by a poor votary of the Muse, who dared but follow the path her imagination had first ordained.
—The Jewel of the Crown—
When midnight loosed silver from her hair,
I stole where nectar’d dreams veiled all her breath;
She turn’d, and drew me through the perfumed air,
Till warmth made pale the hoary frost of death.
Her throat, where alabaster bloom’d, was warm;
Beneath my hand, her pulse began to sing;
She met mine eyes, and hush’d the gathering storm,
Whilst moonlight trembled on each secret thing.
Then breath to breath, where waking woo’d the dream,
Our silence melted, honey-sweet and deep;
The stars grew languid in their argent gleam,
And night forgot her ancient right to sleep.
Thou art the jewel sleeping in my crown;
I’d lose the world before I laid thee down.
Author's Note: These verses are wrought for a poetess-painter, a fellow poet whose sorrow kindled their first ember; may this little flame, in time, find its way unto her.
—A Quatrain Beneath Eternity—
Upon one leaf, where gravity dreamed slow,
a rain-born orb did tremble under heaven;
her argent quiver made the star-fires flow,
and dawn stood hushed beneath the empyrean;
an ant climbed forth from bark's primeval shrine,
then paused before her—dark against divine.
He drew towards her as the firmament
bent its vast curvature about her sphere;
as though some adamantine gravitation sent
a wandering world where worlds should disappear;
he touched her light—and through his six limbs ran
a shudder older than the breath of man.
He deemed her painter, fashioned out of rain,
with leaf for canvas, sunlight for her dye;
she bore the green world's secret in her vein,
and whole lost heavens trembled in her eye;
their minute orbits crossed beneath the tree—
two infinitudes made briefly one decree.
Then he ascended towards the ancient bough,
she followed that inexorable green descent;
no wound accused the other of the why,
nor did their parting bear resentment;
and time, beyond the jurisdiction of years,
let Earth spend eleven seasons unawares.
He came again. The old light knew his tread;
she had not ceased her pilgrimage through green;
no reckoning rose between the living and dead,
nor any blade of old remembrance keen;
one quill returned above the waiting page—
four living lines outshone an earthly age.
Then came the storm. The leaf became a sea;
the firmament was riven from its throne;
the wind took him beyond all astronomy,
past every star by which the lost are known;
she quaked, and all her little heavens broke—
yet waited for the word he never spoke.
Perhaps he bore one universe to tell;
perhaps her own lay folded in the deep;
perhaps the storm extinguished one farewell
before its syllables had learned to sleep;
she moves still downward through the shaken green—
and somewhere, the fifth line remains unseen.
Chaste and more graceful
Than the white canvassed Dhow:
Reclines sweet Nefertiti
Upon a Blue Nile breeze.
Fabled entity more whiter
Than the purest white snow
That thickly blankets
And folds over the wide Pyrenees.
Dipped is thy beak
Into a harvesters August sunset;
A Bohun proper,
Gorged and chained with a crown;
Tipped Argent quills
Thus scrawl across royal warrants:
Plodding, punctilious creature -
Of high born renown!
Proudly thy trumpet Lancastrian ascension,
Emblazoned on a Heraldic shield;
Pomp and indignation
Paddling alongside contemptuous scorn;
Sinuous neck of Serpentine undulations
Tensioned as if a Longbow -
On whose plaited strings
The sturdy Yeomans Bodkins were drawn!
And did Columbines mask
Ever hold such indignant eyes
For whose feathered heart
The diligent cob did attend?
His sedulous efforts
To court within impassioned grunts
When intertwining throats
Do abouts and lovingly wend.
O, Cygnus olor!
En monde bosse - glittering Dunstable jewel;
Pen and immortal verse
Chart beside heavens gilded streams.
For under old mariners discarded stars
And above silvered byways:
Whoop the beat of dusted wings
Inside slumbering clouds wandering dreams.
You have grown to be such a man
yet, I cannot help but see the boy in you
you are my Son, who wears many uniforms
as your father, I cannot help but be Proud,
I see you march in the Orange and Black
your new horn, the one you have polished to a glow
every step you take, Orchestrated to perfection
with every note played, My pride, Crescendo
Then, you have worked hard, and Matured
a letter arrives, Office of the Governor, the Man himself
an invitation, Ambassadorship, a Musical one
Travel Europe, Summer next, Seven Countries
A Father, busting with pride, Why? I'll tell you!
Because, " Your Easy to be Proud of"
Yet as proud as I am, there is this other Uniform
the one you wear with Honor, Duty, Love of Country
the one with Medals, Braids and Epaulets
the one with a special pin, a hometown pin
Five Stars Golden, enveloped by Black and Orange
Tenne' a Chevron, a Chief, a Ring of Life
of the First Argent, A Scroll in Black
an inscription, " Classis Adhaereo Adstringo"
A Motto, In Latin, ascribed by the Navy
for Five hometown boys Lost in War
of how they lived and died " We Stick Together"
Albert,Francis,George,Joseph and Madison Sullivan
In that Uniform, I see the Man, not the boy
I cannot help but be caught, in solemn thought
This Man, with Anapolis in sight and mind
on this, the Eve of the 9/11 tragedy and War
That solemn thought reverts to Sacrifice
the Sullivan's sacrificed,9/11 over 3000 sacrificed
all did so,willingly or not, for Country, for God
I think you have foreseen Your Destiny, Your own
Josh, whatever Uniform you decide to wear,
whatever path, you may choose to walk
I'll always Love you, Be there for and with you
and be So Very Proud of You, Why? Because!
You're Easy to be Proud of!
With all my Love.....Dad
Copyright 2011 Richard Pickett
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Pulling down the argent blinds
He shuts out the sight of moon.
Half bare, half cloaked
in an ebon velvet coat
Her limbs dances to his tune
He rejects her Winter-light
through the marble- mosaiced room
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Pulling down the argent blinds
He shuts out the sight of moon
He sleeps longer with the night
In his dream dust rides each tide
Casting shadows upon the edge
of an early compromise
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Pulling down the argent bllinds
He shuts out the sight of moon
Fog have made him become blind
Frost kept him forever cold
He couldn't feel , He couldn't see
All those beams of molten-gold
Glistened on the pebbled shore
which lead always to his door.
He shuts out the sight of moon
Pulling down the argent blinds
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Playing with the vacant night
with the wind,the rain, and tide
He stopped playing the bassoon
just to watch the crescent moon.
~ Flute Song ~
Born in the deep depths of a hollow womb
Winsome notes float out with a sweet perfume
Poetic pearl tones glow through twilight gloom
And from sacred shadows pure music blooms
A haunting call from melody’s cocoon
Heaven’s breath invites trills of joyful tunes
Spread on sweet silver wings ‘cross fields and dunes
Wand’ring lithe airs born burst from tone heirlooms
Argent brush of angel’s wings for new moons.
11-2-22
Contest: Monomixorhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
Syllables check with www.howmanysyllables
Rhymes checked with www.rhymezone
Pearlescent specks were sprinkles in a sky
that would have been dark but for the white
of those ivory flakes I saw
twirling so tranquilly down.
Swirls of serenity -
those pearls of the night
filled me sweetly
with delight
before
bed.
When
I woke,
I looked out
my window to
see what night had brought.
While I had been buried
in dreams gone unremembered,
dull barren land of December
lay enfolded pristinely beneath
a beautiful argent eiderdown quilt.
Joy in the hazy moon
and sunny afternoon.
Joy in all seasons’ birth
bursting forth from the earth.
Joy in the dazzling sun
before day’s work is done.
Joy in the argent stars,
besting all other pars.
Joy in all I see and do.
Glory and praise go to You!
Written: December 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Tom Woody
******************
My fingers are stone—
numb knuckles carved by the night’s chisel
Feet drag as anchors through drifts of powdered glass
The compass of my breath falters,
And silence gnaws at the marrow of my resolve.
I have always worshiped the wild
Scaled ridges where condors carve crescents in the sky,
wandered valleys where rivers rehearse their rhapsodies.
They warned me: "not alone, not in winter."
But I have always been a misfit pilgrim,
a shadow that strays from the procession.
Above me, the moon is a lantern of bone,
It's a halo crown of cold fire
I can hear as the air is so silent
the quiet of galaxies swirling,
the tiny hum of everlasting
despair hangs through me
similar to a worn-out cloak,
I wish to shut my eyes
to break down into the lull.
Yet—
In the argent glow, a vision unfurls.
Not a face, but a flame-shaped silhouette,
weeping rivers of light,
calling my name with a voice
that trembles the frost.
It is her.
My wife, my tether, my echo.
A surge rises—
not mine, but borrowed from some celestial reservoir.
Words ignite in my skull: "Rise. Rise."
And the mountain, once a labyrinth,
unfurls a path as a silver ribbon.
I stumble forward,
hearing voices braided with wind.
“Is that you? We were sent to find you.”
Before the dark folds me under,
I whisper, “Who sent you?”
And the answer drifts,
soft as snow,
bright as salvation:
"Your Guardian-angel."
Before the cedar learn'd the speech of steel,
Or heartwood yielded to the carpenter,
Its argent rings kept covenant with the weal
Of thawing springs and every pilgrim star.
No bough begrudged the tempest what it took;
Each wound became another living book.
Then came the hands that quarried trunk from loam.
One sought a boundary where lambs might rest;
One sought a crossing, calling strangers home
Across the torrent's vehement unrest.
The timber neither gloried nor complain'd:
It served the purpose into which 'twas grain'd.
Long years I honour'd bridges for their grace,
And deem'd all fences born of timid fear,
Till autumn, in a lichen-haunted place,
Unveil'd a quieter arithmetic there.
An ancient rail, half-vestured now in moss,
Kept not one flower, yet shelter'd all from loss.
Beyond the hill a broken arch was thrown,
Its patient span relinquish'd to the stream.
The river mourn'd no less, yet journey'd on;
It would not counterfeit a perish'd dream.
Some crossings, once unfaithful to their end,
Grow holier by refusing to pretend.
Then first I saw the oak had held no will
To part the meadow or unite the plain.
No fibre cherish'd malice, good, or ill;
No grain distinguish'd blessing, loss, or gain.
The tree gave only what its nature could;
The hand alone interpreted the wood.
I search'd my heart and found, with inward shame,
How many fences I had call'd a scar,
Though they preserv'd what tenderness became;
How many bridges bore me from my star.
For every road I should have left untrod
Had ask'd my feet to wander out of God.
There are estrangements mercy ought to heal—
Proud silences no sunrise should forgive.
There are departures only fire can seal,
Lest dying falsehood counterfeit the live.
Discernment is the rarer, sterner art:
To know which timber waits within the heart.
So now I bless neither the flame nor nail,
Nor praise the wall, nor crown the spanning frame;
I ask but this when love and judgement fail:
What keeps another soul more true to flame?
For wood remembers only how to give.
It is the hand that teaches it
whether to divide—
or let another live.