Best Armful Poems
Evergreen flavored mantras
did nothing to purge bitter bile from my lips
nor slake the smoldering thirst for a Rosary remedy.
Tick-tock petals unfurled one by one
as your poppy shed its last sepal
releasing a scarlet sigh across sunset skies
whilst I placed a tender kiss upon your twilight.
If but for your gossamer bloom in persimmon perfection,
I would not hunger for your ambrosial whispers
nor rue the earthly drought of undying nectar.
I stray, a waif lost with my armful of loss,
blind behind the tear-rusted folds
of a weeping veil’s eclipse.
My psyche a pauper
rich in the poverty of penniless promises,
empty as echoes in hollow holes
ringing with wringing reverberations.
In the grasp of atheist fingers I clasp Holy beads
tilling cries and whys.
Every tear a sorrow sown in brambles,
whose sloe fails to ripen sweet redemption
in the fertile sham and barren sand of my humanity;
crushed by the tusk of this damnable dusk.
Susan Ashley
April 13, 2020
~ First Place ~
February 5, 2023
2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' FINAL Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 9
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Your Best Poem Ever
Sponsor: John Hamilton
~ Seventh Place ~
Premiere Contest: Crushed
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
~ First Place ~
Standard Contest: Your Best Free Verse 2020
Sponsor: John Hamilton
In Spring there’s friendship that’s lasted through the Winter,
all those cold nights of salted drops and quilts of snow.
The obsidian plague of midnights, melancholic drapes,
but all the while the candlelight of friendship did glow.
you’d think she’s the sun -
i wax and wane in restraints
having lost my way
The flickering of her tongue as she wet our weep with wine.
O how the shadows flickered on the walls as if in mirth.
The slow burn lasted as the wind howled, the chimney choked.
Her wrinkled, waxy skin, a kin to suffering and pain.
each deep etched line spoke
a sticky web of knowing
lips barely moving
That Spring, she showed up with an armful of daffodils,
and silliness, tears stinging her neck, this honeybee.
She understood madness, and the brumal sun. Outliers
could not drink our elixir nor interlope upon our phoenix rising.
cascade of the moon
no longer afraid of dark -
white lacy curtains
I've written the lyrics to two lullabies for my daughter, Shereen. I even made
up the tunes, and I'd sing to her when she was a baby to put her to sleep. She
still remembers those songs at 19 years of age. For my birthday last May, she
wrote this poem as a gift....just like last year. The quoted parts are words taken from the lullabies. I adore my daughter, my greatest and most precious gift.
“When she smiles, I feel like a bird in the sky.”
The words softly sung to the weary child-
This bundle of whimpers
This armful of distress-
Hoping they’d ease her restlessness
Hoping they’d calm her disquieted heart…
And they did.
Like nothing else ever could.
Nothing could comfort her
Like the voice of her mother.
“She is the apple of my eye.”
Rocking gently in time with the tune, she swiftly fell
Fell into a peaceful slumber
Nuzzled in the warmth of her consoler
Whimpers softened, distress vanished
Quiet. Serene.
Floating in the promise
That those words would be there
To welcome her in the morning.
Nothing could comfort her
Like the voice of her mother.
“With laughter and joy she fills my heart”
Nestled in that kind embrace
The child, now almost grown
With tear-stained face and heavy heart
Couldn't fight the world alone
But whenever she was breaking, too tired to go on
She’d search for those same words-
To ease her restlessness
To calm her disquieted heart…
She’d search for those same words
To find them in those same arms.
And she’d fall. Like she always did.
Fall into that peaceful slumber
Quiet. Serene.
Floating in the promise
That those words would be there
To welcome her in the morning.
Nothing could comfort her
Like the voice of her mother.
Written by Shereen Nathalie Ghali (May 18, 2014)
Please read The Month of May...which is Shereen's first birthday poem written for me and posted here. You will find it if you type the title in PS's search engine. It is a beauty and is in rhyme.
Oh! How I despise dawn’s blushing optimism
and dried hydrangea blooms sepia skinned and papery thin.
Humdrum hands beat doldrums drum.
Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness?
A gnawing hollow where my heart should be.
Where cinder clouds float in negative space
memories collect like nesting sparrows beneath eaves.
I stray, a waif lost with my armful of loss.
Your death did steal my breath and heartbeat like a thief
while October’s wind trembled aspens like harp strings.
(Ten Poem Titles)
The Corruption Of My Lust For Life
Autumn Side Of September
Mundane Matters Of Mortals
Theft Of My Will To Survive
In Woes And Throes Of Sorrow
A Vanilla Dove
Escape Of The Bluesman’s Song
The Sham Of My Humanity
Death Is The Bane Of My Existence
The Shedding Trees Of Autumn
On this peaceful solitude I stand
A barren golden area trampled by me
Miles and miles and miles I’ve walked
Empty-handed, broken-hearted, mind-numbed
Relentless destiny, you’ve fooled me
I’ve found nothing to fill my hands’ void
Hearts are hobos and souls are minxes
Both have abandoned me in the darkest corner
Thorn me in my chest, you enemy of mine
Sweet me not if a vow of silence I shall take
Fur me at night finger tipped by your presence
Foretell to me like Cassandra would
Remind me not what my ears won’t hear
Minds are jesters and tongues are vipers
Both have taken me under their wings
Like a swallow during its night flight would
Hopeful hope rain down on me
As teardrops of a widow’s mourning
Running across her cheeks
Armful arms, sun on me
As diamonds hanging off a chandelier
Illuminating a ballroom floor
Alas, I wander and wander through Realworld
I’m still searching for what I don’t have
I know one day I’ll reach the moody skies
And kiss the ground of Dreamworld,
Oh silver-lining dream of mine, ever be.
for Aidan in row 5
At the edge of the sky, there is a crimson slash
seen through the leafy scrolling of trees that soldier
the perimeter of the lake. Overhead there is only
gray, as in the war zone of my heart where there have
been far too many casualties. Lamplight in a window,
abruptly extinguished, takes out what illuminated
a mid-November Crepe Myrtle, aflame with
leaves destined to fall; yet, it rises regally red
in royal transformation, before the dark comes. Then,
with no preamble, a carnelian blush spreads
the clouds as if punctured with a pin. There is always
the unexpected. So, Take heart. "Be of good cheer,"
parting words from my dying friend, Cyndy, from her
hospital bed. "Be there when I come," I reply.
Even so these days, I cannot stop grieving for the lost
and missing. At noon Mass on Sundays, a boy, four or five,
heavy glasses dominating a small face beneath a luxurious
crown of curls--the image of my dark haired, sweet-armful child
of the past--sits on the floor in safety between his parents'
chairs. He's busy with his books and toys, until he's told
it's time to go to the priest at the altar, and they
help him to his feet. Come, he will, but not alone--
clasping in his two hands his necessary companions:
soldiers, centurions perhaps, the protection of a Praetorian
Guard; talismans and amulets, with which he would not
part. As for myself, I have none of these, not of plaster,
not of flesh, but if I could hold this boy in my arms,
I believe he would heal my heart
Whenever I'm troubled by my modern day folly of living by the bill of exchange.
I run to my stacked sandstone campfire with an armful of deadwood arrange.
With a strike of a match and a breath from my bosom the flickering gold dancing flame
lights a fire in my soul as the smoke starts to roll 'round the log that the hot embers claim.
I'm calmed by the light of the campfire, eased by the warmth of its glow
and cozy inside as I sit beside my campfire.
As I yearn for the money and material worth that I've been conditioned to want,
a Spirit within me from long, long ago rejects this unnatural affront.
It guides me to a walk in the wilderness, to look up to the heavenly skies
then sit by my sandstone campfire and listen to the coyotes' cries.
I'm calmed by the light of the campfire, eased by the warmth of its glow
and cozy inside as I sit beside my campfire.
As I question my purpose past misguided deeds,
unwanted weakness, ill-conceived creeds,
Great Spirit returns me to the laws of the Earth,
to faith, cause, and guidance to heavenly worth.
I stand in a forest of pine trees and gaze at the vistas around
with a fresh breath of air I pray and I listen to the crackling campfire sound.
I'm calmed by the light of the campfire, eased by the warmth of its glow
and cozy inside as I sit beside my campfire.
Powerful tool –
Harmful at school,
Or great device?
Not always nice;
Each one: think twice.
Burden of proof lies squarely on the accused’s name;
The filer can exaggerate and overstate any imagined claim.
In Minnesota, Judges are forced to approve nearly every filing,
Driven by social movements and organizations beguiling.
Oft approved ex parte, temporarily, a future hearing scheduled,
This scorch the earth weapon, leaves most divorce issues settled.
Children are torn from their nuclear parent’s loving arms,
Under the malevolent guise they are protected from atomic harms.
Homes change hands before the ink dries on an order penned,
Leaving the respondent in the streets on their sore hind-end.
Given ten minutes under a Sherriff deputy’s mindful and glaring guard,
One can enter the house to take an armful never to return to the yard.
Future proceedings can take many months and in some cases years,
Simple items forgotten will not be given until the MTA clears.
Falsely accused, you’d think it would not ever get worse,
Until one discovers the plaintiff also firmly grasps strings on the purse.
Given days to mastermind and execute the unfolding of events,
The accuser never looks back considering recompense.
The use of OFP’s in divorce is not only legal,
Attorneys are even encouraged to inveigle.
No laws exist to punish use outside of the scope of legality,
Lawyers readily encourage the OFP’s use as a simple formality.
Even when the order is rescinded or released upon first hearing,
The status quo has been set in favor of the plaintiff endearing.
The state says they would like to minimize conflict in divorce,
Out of fear for real abuse victims they simply will not change course.
But, the moral of “The Boy Who Cries Wolf” ends in his grisly death.
Protect real victims, punish the abuse of the OFP use and breadth.
The Snowflake
Sit quietly
And pretend
There's a roaring fire
In the fireplace
The snow
Silently builds
Against the north side
Of the house.
Smell
The smoke?
Listen
To the wind howl?
And maybe
In the cold night
Hear a barn door
Banging away?
But we're wrapped
In our feather filed
Quilt q
Quite snug...
My feet
Cold from taking
Off my boots
Then walking barefoot
Across
The bare wood floor.
My big ears
Tingle as they warm.
A cricket
Brought in
With the
Armful of
Seasoned oak
Warmed by the fire
Begins,
To sing...
Crick-et, crick-et, crick-et.
Frost had his
Road not taken,
Alluding to how
Being different
Is the now.
For me
The last line
Says...
An insignificant
Choice
Makes all the
Difference,
There is no going back.
Fpr Lillian Hillman
Walking through
The deep snow
to the
Train Station.
There is
No Train
And looking about
There is
No Station.
Lost in a Winter
That
Has no end,
A creative
But disturbed woman.
The heat rises
From the iron cookstove
A curl
Of escaped smoke
Finds passage
Through the beaded
Ceiling
Into the cold attic.
There on warming
Cedar shingles
Of the roof
A snowflake falls.
Absorbing
Heat
It becomes a droplet
Of Water
And begins its j
Jouirney
To the sea.
But wait,
It cools
And upon reaching
The roof’s edge.
Pauses
Then joins others
In its descent
As sheep
Crowding to escape
Over an unseen
Barrier.
Gives up its
Latent heat
And becomes
A part of...
Morning and
In the clear air
The icicle
Among others
Sparkles
In the Sun
Dangles
From the roof’s
Edge.
Snap one off
And taste the cold
With just a hint
Of the cedar
That gave it birth.
Memories
Are forever.
A bit of mind’s cosmos
To be shared.
the dialogue and the time have flowed,
then the night came and rolled over the pavement
with opening its huge and dark wings
embracing armful fallen leaves in her breast,
and goes leaving a romantic whistle behind
the two hearts, smaller and larger, those have swallowed dialogue
though come together, the four suspicious eyes were going
to different directions with their own hardened thoughts
for the truth from the untruth
the taste being bitterer and more unbearable,
and for distressing perjury, the moment was much too long
the groundless tales that lain yonder the thickened wall
were spreads before in vision broadly
and empty hearts, which hearts do not know, even that is
the real desire; yet, desiring to have the things that are worthless
and unable to get, were going far away without destination
oh, what a miserable moment it is? as time goes by
the day called tomorrow will certainly visit again
and for awkward to look bright sun the perjury
again to be repeated for it became an obstinate habit
after all; when in alone and not one eye stares at,
toss around the floor holding the deep scar in heart
and cry out loudly
and run after wretched untrue truth
for perjury leaves these agony and pain
in the disfigured heart
Late summer is a challenge for me.
Every year I’m overwhelmed with desire,
when passing fruit stands, vegetable stands,
and even farm wagons on front lawns,
overflowing with fresh produce.
I salivate in the car and especially the grocery store,
when entering to purchase more butter
to put on my corn. The freshness
calls me by name and I come to my new friends.
I can't resist.
The month of August should be renamed “Binge.”
You would think my beautiful wife of many years
would be a tempering factor regarding my weakness,
but she is as committed to binging as I,
as we slather more butter on our cooked carrots.
Pea salad, 3 bean salad and everything tomato
make it onto my plate without limit. Piles of fresh
produce are covered with salad dressings and mayo,
that flow like wine. Salt is consumed by the pound
on cooked squash and mounds of steamed broccoli.
The harvest makes its way to my table by the armful.
Day after day more and more arrives,
like rain, and I feel a duty to the farmer’s market
to make sure nothing goes to waste, while,
unfortunately, it makes its way to mine.
The good news is that it will soon be over,
and these apples will be applesauce,
these grapes, grape juice,
and the tomatoes will be spaghetti sauce.
Oh! Did I mention how much I love pasta?
WIFE
YOU WILL TOUCH MY SWEET HEART.
IN MY LIFE IT WILL REMAIN FROM FIRST TO LAST.
LOVE WILL ENLIGHTEN MY HEART.
WHEN HEARTBEAT FIRST.
HEAR THROB SOUND LIKES TO BE ENTERING IN MY EAR TRUMPET.
HEAR ECHOS IN MY BELOVED HEART.
YOU ARE MY BELOVED WIFE, OH MY SWEET YOU ARE LAST
COOL BREEZE FLOWS IN OUR HEART.
TAKE YOU’RE CH-ARMFUL TASTE AT LAST.
OH MY GOD SO THAT SHADOW WILL NOT OVERCAST.
SAROJ KHAN [SAKHA]
CORRECTION DONE
NOT MY NIGERIA
Not my Nigeria that is dead among them.
Not my Nigeria that is downtrodden,
Not my Nigeria that those helpless children
Are littered here and there like grains.
Not my Nigeria that I saw with a broken
Lips but pretends that all is well in a well.
Not in my Nigeria that those birds without
Songs are seen walking armful with arsenals
Not my Nigeria that Once stood gallantly,
but now mocked by dwarfs who knocks publicly on her...
We've waited so long, here is the season
Of our song which hang in our throats.
The Nigeria I know has no grave that
Never get satisfied nor earth that clamour
For more, not my Nigeria that is useless!
She is among notable notabilities on earth,
She is not in a deserted desert land as you think.
In her are bags pregnant with cash and wisdom.
Not my Nigeria that I see with a mournful song,
No! Not my Nigeria, not my Nigeria in abyss!
Tell the new born sun that Nigeria is great!
Tell the birthed wind that her mother is a warrior,
Our mother is a saviour; Saviour of the blacks.
She has learnt to be a mighty woman among all.
Not my Nigeria you see without eyes and nose,
She still see those embezzling in her well,
She still perceive the aroma of her children.
The Lines she outlined her feet are still there,
She is not missing, no! My Nigeria is not!
Not my Nigeria you see among those thieves there.
She has been lull away to new dreams and love.
Let Nigeria be Nigeria again not in a dream.
Let the silence of loneliness loot not her pride.
Not my Nigeria that is beaten hands down,
Not my Mother that is seen barking in the
Street like a mad dog chasing after nothing.
My Nigeria will overcome all this someday
When we gather to make Her Nigeria again.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
The intended was upended
by upshots unexpected.
Star burrts of ramifications
shot into the air
despite all efforts to stop them.
It was like trying to control
an armful of crazy cats
frightened by a dog.
Cries and scratches flew
as intended harmony
became unintended chaos,
with dire consequences en-trained.
It is so hard to predict
the hurt caused from
the backlash and bite backs
to quite innocent intentions
which tensioned the web of status quo
to breaking point.
How can the unintended originator
be held responsible when
the Unintended is a martyr,
a victim of their own making?