Best Aslant Poems
My memory is obsolete in fashion:
the short blue skirt I saw you in that day
is out of date eons ago. My passion
has cicatrized from when you went away,
but thrifty memory still stores your grey
T-shirt with spots of oil paint, your beret
of modern artist that you used to wear
coquettishly aslant, the bag across
your chest, the thuya needle in your hair,
the band-aid on your knee, the minty gloss
on your sweet cherry lips, the silky moss
under your pliant back, the sassy moth
around my stupid head, the distant laughter,
the flash of bliss, the willow’s leaf embossed
on your left buttock and the most sought after
remembrance of the panties that you lost
in ferns in haste… One day I will exhaust
my recollections but at any cost
I save this one, unclouded and precise,
as my permission to the paradise.
22.04.2019
Urban Sonnet Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
FOLK DANCE DWM
Attended Summer Camp at high school level
A happy happening, I would like to tell.
We assembled in remote suburb
where all quiet, nothing to disturb.
At the Fair met a rural Folk Dance team
Got interested on their cheerful theme.
The group consisted of young villagers.
We were enthusiastic teenagers.
Music started perchance.
"Dance Dear Dance
Don’t miss chance
Cast aslant glance
on spectators!
Spectacular show
in glamorous glow
Perhaps fast or slow.
We are entertainers
Not dictators!"
Village guys with multi colored attire
Lyrics seemed to be type of satire.
Girls wearing olive green glossy gown
with periwinkle flowery crown.
We dressed in Jeans and Tops wearing hay hats,
trying to match with close by wide paddy field.
Joined them prompt: Our pearly passion to yield.
Danced delight in rhythm on steps exact.
Two dances were combined.
Folk Dance -Ball Dance entwined.
A choreography of modern and rural style,
proclaiming a novel dance profile.
Feral flora foliage swinging in gentle breeze.
Our pleasure neither to measure nor to cease.
Little brittle ripples dancing on mossy pond
Haply our short trip enjoyed friendship bond.
03/21/20
Kim Rodrigues DWM Contest
On one night,
is it because of a bewitched full moon?
while driving my rusty shaking junk car
I became Don Quixote de la Mancha
mounted on Rozinante holding a lance under the arm aslant,
and with a full gallop, dashing into the battle field, through the street where
the full moon was hanging thirty degree above the sky between forests eastward.
The trees standing both sides on the street
dyed by reddish-yellowish gray moonbeam in silhouette
were the windmill sails whirling their gigantic arms in air to assail me.
The red and green one-eyed giants
often met on the way eastward were the fat and ugly
demon-possessed skins of red wine that must have slain.
Flourishing lance to the right and left
while giving spurs to Rozinante again and again
to advance rapidly, I found myself in the middle
of enemy territory before becoming aware of it,
detouring annoying barricades, I was running through
the path between ramparts while ducking a shower of arrows,
came to the endless water front where disabled Rozinante fell.
When raging waves come and hit the breakwater
for the water cannot advance any further or is able to return,
the waves break up the hundreds and thousands of beads and
return to the bottomless water while flushing its silvery blue scales.
And when sprays of water that dived into the deepest sea
gush out from its bottom belching fire, it rises to the sky
and becomes a gigantic dragon and swallows the moon.
In the darkness where the dragon gathering dark clouds
after swallowing the moon the rain falls, the torrential rain
hits Mambrino’s helmet mercilessly.
Then, Don Quixote kneels to make the sign of the cross
while patting a breathless Rozinante lying on this desolated waterfront.
The cross he made falls on the sands,
the cross he made mourns while washing away in the water.
[Someday,
some may sing Don Quixote with the finest lute in hand.
Praise the gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha
with silvery voice in one accord, with unforgettably kind remarks:
the one who lived true life of knight is
Don Quixote de la Mancha
the knight of knights, the hero of heroes.]
NOTE: The Golf Road runs from east to west on north suburb of Chicago, and east (ends or starts) at Lake Michigan.
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Wind, the wind bemoans her loss of reins and calm control;
Crows, the crows flee men of straw, sleeves slapping at the wind;
Grass, the grass defends with blades, impaling truant gusts;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;
Woods, the woods assuage the angst of misty brooding trees;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, dropping one by one;
Fields, the fields imbibe a quaff to quench an arid thirst;
Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Breeze, the breeze intones a tune, a mourning monody;
Sands, the sands, in chaos, dance across the dappled dunes;
Shades, the shades appear confused, alone in lurid haze;
Mice, the mice discern the dawn, their beady eyes ablaze;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue.
Image of Free Heart And Love by Pixabay.
Continuance
Climbing waves crept ashore and stole our footsteps
yet prints went aslant, surrendered none to our
unbroken hearts in bottled notes cast adrift
~~boundless praised afar
Country road, a bit bumpy, grassy, pressed ground
yet spontaneous passion stays eternal
matching close limitless decorative spread
~~tough and tamed amour
Curtains flounce in the wake of teasing zephyrs
yet our infinite spirits perpetuates
as the energies overwhelm and control
~~our love is endless
Chaotic episodes choke in riddled voids
worthless babble festers o'er empty pages
yet unsung strength fills the bottomless inkwell
~~unwavering writes
Coins flick to the bottom of a wishing well
ere sparkles, hopes hang on first in the night sky
candles on cakes, wishbone breaks, touch blue come true,
~~us everlasting
2021 June 04
*1st Place*
All Yours (June 14)
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 June 13
*2nd Place*
Writing Prompt - Endless
~~Constance La France: Judged 2021 June 13
In the flickering moments of my mortality
I am haunted in the dimming by a thought.
Did I do what I could to temper this reality?
Why did virtues supernal nag me for naught?
It’s too late to remedy failures of yore
Too late to tender countless apologies.
I’m afraid they perceive me at my core
And all too well know my chronologies.
My slights are aslant, extant in my sight,
More so now that I cannot make amends.
They conjure shadows where once was light.
Short seasons ago we were beloved friends.
Will, I whisper, a blanket “sorry” be okay,
Gasped in longer seconds twixt each breath.
Oh God, I pray my farewell fears it will allay
That they will know of my remorse ’ere death.
January.
I now perform the annual alchemy,
my purpose :
to capture Spanish sunshine in a jar.
Seville :
white fragrant flower to bitter orange sphere.
Childrey :
sugar, water, shredded peel to liquid gold.
Now attend
and carefully stir the boiling cauldron,
Shakespearian
witch-like, the transmutation is complete.
Scottish myth.
Her courtiers cry “Ma’am est malade”, forsooth,
Mair’s headache
cured with orange confiture, a royal preserve.
At breakfast.
The early morning sun aslant the glass,
light shining
through shredded peel makes goldfish in the swim.
Marmalade.
The bitter-sweet tang melds with buttered toast.
Marvellous
flavour. What better way to start the day ?
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
IN ZEST AND ZEAL
Be positive, not negative.
Go active: Fittest to survive.
Never turn stagnant or static.
Run dynamic, optimistic.
Interact bold to act with tact.
Self- dependence is strongest fact.
Busy life not in indolence.
Easy throw gaining confidence.
Dance delight casting aslant glance
Frolic freelance, not to miss chance.
With zest and zeal, always in thrill.
Work ceaseless, desires to fulfill.
Head erect, mind pure, brain directs
Respect Morals and let dictate.
Be precise, something to surmise.
Success in progress: No surprise.
03/19/20
There lived a country mouse
In a catawampus house
With roof aslant
From back to front
And crooked walls as well.
He did not mind at all
Running circles in the hall
He kicked at peas
And nibbled cheese
Then groomed his hair with gel!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Nursery Rhyme 2023
The garden abounds flowers tumbling down
from the trellis roses sweetly scented
delicate pots strewn with colourful crown
groaning tables are with flowers crested
Plates filled with delicacies await
vol-au-vents and laden pastries sit
hungry mouths will eat and evaluate
leaving behind scattered crumbs of wit
Romances will flourish under the hot sun
dalliance or two with consequences
that appear in nine months to the ton
causing aslant glances at the lapses
Still the flowers bloom with vibrancy
colourful petals gleam all waxy
written 06/24/2014
contest Garden Party
footnote
Ton is another word for people from the nobility
ie lords, earls and ladies
A Teardrop
I slipped on a teardrop
and landed on entrance of your heart.
I did not get hurt,
but you were alert.
So I made a stop.
You cast a hesitant glance aslant.
A teardrop sparkled to enchant
me, about to slip down.
You made a fake frown.
In vain I tried to grope .
Then ventured to gallop
over each wobbling.
I fell in love, My Darling!
I slipped on a teardrop
and landed at entrance of your heart.
Open the door, do not shut.
Do not put me apart.
The event should not go flop.
.
Please do reciprocate.
Do not judge or hesitate.
It is a sweet accident.
Cheers! Do not stay indolent.
I have placed you on top
of each yearning.
I fell in love, My Darling!
I slipped on a teardrop
and landed at entrance of your heart,
My Sweet Heart!.
My zeal I will exert
to feel me as your prop.
Teardrop though soft, yet ruthless
has made me absolutely restless.
I cannot resist myself.
It is you, who can help!
Let our love glow in pomp.
Your eyes are now shining,
I fell in love, My Darling!
06/21/16
Fifth Place
Sponsor Broken Wings
Third Place
' YOUR CHOICE (5) Contest by Brian Strand
Ya’ know
It seems I’ve been here before
Else how could I know
How many steps up… to the door?
Just which plank would squeak
Beneath my feet…The porch swing
That hangs there no more
The bell push dark tarnished
The door stripped of varnish
Seems I’ve crossed this threshold before
E’en the doves that sob softly
In the trees…seem to me
Fairly familiar… and what’s more
The shutters aslant at a perilous cant
By sides of window sash
That hold glass…no more
Have I trod away on the sod
That cuddles this house
Looked back and bade it nevermore?
My memory is confused
and time has abused it
So I truly can’t be sure…anymore
Back down the stoop
My shoulders adroop
One last look o’er my shoulder,,,no more!
Ya’ know it no longer matters
That both my memory and
The house are in tatters
But so it surely seems…
It could not have been in my dreams?
No! I’m quite sure that I’ve been here
…before…
Sometimes I have questioned this fruit, upon which some call, divinities tree?
So deliciously appealing it has seemed, unto these desirous and sometimes wistful eyes
As they have gazed upon its splendour and beauty, which adorns its lovely branches....
Standing amid this amiable Garden of Eden; whilst reflecting upon, "'My Fathers' Words" ~
"Of all things are yours," He said, "but choose wisely, that you may live"
"Eternally within this everlasting paradise; which I have created for you and My children!?"
"For nothing should you wish, shall never not be yours"
"Yet I have placed temptation afore your eyes, that your faithfulness may be sown...."
I have walked through this garden as if, but only a dream
Beholding paradisiacals boundless and endless glories; majestic ~
Although, when I approach this certain simile that, "My Father" had spoken about
I always stop and stare for a moment; marvelling upon its wonderment
This golden fruit; which sometimes permeates my wanting heart
From wall to wall and throughout its corridores
But for a taste, of its enticing flavours
Glistening before my wanton red lips, this metaphor....
Sweetened desires; to savour upon the very tip
Of my thirsting and yearning tongue!?
Ahh, just one bite I think, as I then do contemplate, if "My Father," would ever know?
For she looks so lovely; as spellbound becomes her enchanted
Amid her listful and temptress view; aslant....
Caught betwixt the flesh and the spirit once more, as I peer upon her leaves
Finding these stirring rushing currents, soaring through my searing veins
Within another day inside of this garderobe; my soul perplexed
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before this metaphoric tree of, such, forbidden fruit!?
Particles of ice dust, high in the atmosphere
Surrounded by vapor, condensing on it’s skin
More and more, they coalesce together
Forming rain clouds, of tiny droplets within.
Growing heavier, reaching saturation point,
Impossible to defy, gravity’s taking over,
Falling from skies, in critical mass formation
Turning into a mist, drizzle starts to pour.
Running for cover, not wanting to get soaked
Standing in a doorway, but shelter is scant
Coming down sideways, I finally surrender
Drenched to the bone, keeps blowing aslant.
Puddles fill up, turning roads into rivers
Gutters overflow, creating makeshift streams
Big lorry races by, causing a tidal wave
Gone beyond caring, don’t bother to scream.
Kicking high water, all along the footpath
Perhaps I’m actually, standing in the sea
Almighty flash, then terrific roar of thunder
Oh give me a fishing rod, catch my own tea.
By
David Kavanagh
Tea English = afternoon meal
Soft day Ireland = heavy saturating drizzle