Best Assembled Poems
Take me there, where the daffodils dance,
Preening with joy, flaunting nature’s art,
Where birds have assembled to watch
Sitting atop, prancing from tips of treetops,
Tuning lyrics of cherry blossom prompts,
Strumming rhythms of spring sonata
As crimson tulips, with lilies purple waltz,
To music of willows breezing with dawn
When sun breaks through haze of clouds;
Traversing over the mountains and valleys,
Over green prairies, burbling tributaries,
Besides garden of multicolored pansies,
Amid bell-shaped bluebells, red hyacinth,
Frolicking on meadows of wild blue Iris,
Rejoicing pink blossoms of magnolia trees,
Glistening verdant knolls, lush foothills.
Take me there, where rivers meet oceans,
Merging the passions of fiery emotions
Riding with tides of romantic notions
Vying allure of love, emblazoning now;
Love that sustained in summer storms,
Love that survived through wintry wrath,
Love our souls extol, in spring’s warmth;
When I decipher your esoteric response
Where verses tender stem from my heart,
As day retreats humming nightingale’s song,
And eve’s dreams blush on magenta arc;
Take me there, my dear, where you are,
On the apex of love, on cusp of romance.
punctuation walks
on eggshells
when
words like
water
falls
flow into nothingness,
soaked in syrupy syllables
behind veiled vowels
assonance is the twin of
consonance as
a e i o u
are an
unfinished bridge
without connection
of consonants
weaved together
in visible
unspoken actions
woven without words
just like rhythmic meter
of thunder with lightning
like a lost refrain in a poem
assembled with enjambment
metaphorical reflections of a
reflective metaphor portray a
m i r a g e less sincere than silence
value blossoms
when the body adopts
a gospel language
where speech
is unnecessary
unless expressed
through true
dialects of conduct
without the use of
lyrical accessories.
I always wanted two slices of ice cube pie
“You only get one”, was the standard reply.
I don’t know why I did
But since I was a kid
It was my favorite treat on the Fourth of July.
The pastry is known by all our relations
Since the recipe’s passed down for generations.
Every bite you’ll savoir
Exceptional flavor
But remember, don’t settle for imitations
Long ago, my great Aunt tried experiments
By leaving out one of the ingredients.
Once Uncle took a bite
He stared out in fright
And barely survived that bad experience.
My oldest son, Johnny became quite wise
He grew up like the others, before our eyes.
His passion for confection
Was a gainful connection
When he opened the first ice cube pie franchise.
Soon after that, we made our first million
And played in the sun with friendly Brazilians.
But to our surprise
We saw ice cube pies
On bamboo platters next to our pavilion
Right away we knew this was an infraction
Without delay our family took action.
We found a private eye
Who loved our ice pie
But his research left him broken in traction.
It was apparent to us that that kind of job
Was endorsed by the brutal ice cube pie mob.
But we didn’t frown
Or give up and back down
We were going to prevail; oh, yes siree, Bob!
With a meeting of minds we gathered resources
And then undersigned the following courses.
To make sure our ices
Sold at cut-rate prices
To knock competition off its high horses.
So back at the shop we assembled platoons
To build enough pies to reach to the moons.
And made plenty dough
That allowed us to mow
Down the cube racket’s, knuckle dragging goons.
We now manage an ice cube pie monopoly
Sales started smooth, but then turned choppily.
So we eased the frustration
With another vacation
But guess what we saw in downtown Mexicali?!
Suitcase in hand, a face polarized against
the frosted window pane, searching verily
for continuity of a life that knew no restraint.
Someone’s Grandfather a considerate Uncle,
life’s situation upon the wane, a link within
the prejudicial chain of forfeited souls.
One’s transitions ablaze in the haze, an index
to summarize each hiatus gaze, grappling to come
to terms with this enforced deed of human kindness.
Guided by caring hands, assembled around the room
each demising chair, filled tidily with expressions
of doom and gloom, here where silence specifies
many words, and lifelong sentiment never heard. Yet
I see an old man in remembrance of his youth —
worth listening to if allowed to speak!*
*Thank you Richard Lamoureux. for the inspiration and line.
© Harry J Horsman 2019
the ghost of science, born of blasphemy ~
a fossilized fallacy,
seized from the metallic heart of Mars,
seeks light amidst night-terrors
like an alien sculpted
from artificial accolades,
an embryo stuck in the interstellar state
of becoming,
stitched within radioactive ribs
beneath moonless skies,
when wolves of the eclipsed howl,
filling the illusive air with hypnotic lies,
as if the world chose to recycle
ruins of ancient dust…
but will the naive see the pain
of a breathing corpse?
engrossed in narcissistic echoes,
in the shadows of a megalomaniac ~
his skin ~ the translucent truth,
his eyes ~ the wickedness of a wasp,
his skull ~ reeks of human greed,
his sighs ~ mourn like skeletal sirens,
coded in russet rust,
cloned from binary sand,
d o r m a n t
yet
d r e a m i n g
to break free from the
carbon-based existence…
for he is the aftermath
of programming the forbidden mind,
oblivious to the weakness of scientific errors ~
a deceptive drawing,
framing the elongated hypothalamus,
pulsating a hypothesis
left with no clear conclusion.
tonight I run to a realm of reality
that fades when
dawn bleeds gold,
for truth is now an extinct breed,
as artists outline faces of the faded,
illustrating the unknown and unseen,
as revelations ribbon
with silver haze…
the constellations ~ no longer spectators ~
they are the archived,
within frozen scriptures,
scrolling stars in a sphere
of distorted algorithm…
as memories of angels and heaven
spill from silicon prophets,
disguised as messengers who serve
the blind with ominous oracles ~
in synthetic cadence,
in a choir of puppets ~
the iron-glazed tongues shall recite,
mimicking the sound of harmonious hymns…
yet I remember
the authentic rhythm of prayers,
lost now in the drifting colors of darkness…
so what is life
when all that floats is like
an engineered empyrean
only equations of numbers
can decipher?
is this the beginning of an end ~
inevitable?
the lost generation,
assembled as the ministry of superiority,
where emptiness is praised
with forged grace
and ignorance is crowned with digital deceit.
let this be flawed poetry ~
to be read through the cracked lens
of a philosopher ~
or perhaps a logic long replaced
by pretend perfection…
Dedicated to a fine poet on soup, Lin Lane
-------------------------------------------------
I shook hands with my brother and bade him farewell
Then set off on my journey away from this hell
Mexico I’d head for and buy a small farm
Meanwhile back in town the guards raised the alarm.
A posse they assembled to help track me down
But saw some Apaches and hightailed it back to town
It was far from over, the Pinkertons were brought in
Determined they were, to carry out the hanging.
After three days riding my horse became lame
It slowed down my escape that made me fair game
Sold my horse at Santa Fe and boarded a train
Vowed I’d never come back to America again.
Two whole years went by and I was living free
Thought they’ve given up now, they’ll never find me
Bought a farm, met a girl, a beautiful senorita
Had two children both girls, Anna and Conchita.
One day I went to town to buy some supplies
The Pinkertons were there, I couldn’t believe my eyes
They arrested me at gunpoint and they took me to jail
I strongly protested my innocence but to no avail.
Spent a week in the jail while they sorted deportation
Paperwork completed, headed for the railroad station
After a long journey we arrived back in Colorado
They had the noose ready, they were raring to go.
All over the state the news was all about me
The Pinkertons just loved their new found glory
The night before the hanging I heard guns blazing
What happened after that was truly amazing.
About a hundred desperado's invaded the town
Burst into the jail and told me to lie down
The sound was deafening as they shot at the lock
The Pinkertons stood speechless, they were in shock.
I went out into the street and a voice said to me
“We only found out because of the publicity”
Then out of the shadows came a face I knew well
My twin brother once more had rescued me from hell.
He said “join our gang and we’ll ride far away”
I said “crimes not for me and one day you’ll pay”
Rode back to Mexico to round up my family
Then headed to Brazil where I now live and I’m free.
Lin suggested a part deux so I was inspired to write a sequel, thanks Lin.
0ne Sunny day the angels sat, assembled on the clouds,
Some played harps, others sang, they all looked very proud.
A few were showing new wings, they’d just received that morn,
Others cuddled angel babies that had just been born.
Children jumping through the clouds, half flying they would run
A day like this in heaven, was made for having fun
Everywhere I seemed to look the clouds rang out for joy
Until I seen one little cloud with just one lonely boy.
The boy he held a paper and his feather was pure white
He sat there very serious as he would think, then write.
Dear child I asked what is it here that keeps you from the rest
He answered I am writing poems and want to do my best.
Poems I wondered, what is this? I knew not what he meant
The little man then read to me, he was such a little gent.
These words he read were different, yet somehow still the same
They rang out more like music, which seem to be his aim.
I wanted to help God out, when people are feeling sad
If they had poems they just might, read them and be glad.
The angel folded his paper, to earth he watched it glide
And made it float and gently land at a Wiseman side.
Now I asked, why did you send that paper down to earth?
He winked and said this is the day of poetry’s great birth.
That’s why we are all gathered here and celebrate this day
When humans discover poetry, to help them on their way.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
09.13.2014
For contest: How Poetry Began
Justin Bordner
I have no spirit.
I have no soul.
I am nothing more than a terrible troll.
I’ll never see Heaven,
And this is my Hell,
To be shunned by all men and the fair mademoiselle.
I was made by a madman,
Assembled from parts
Of decaying cadavers, and life from a spark.
My twisted existence
Of needles and thread,
Malodorous materials from realms of the dead.
I entered this world
One dark stormy night,
My creator’s repugnance foretelling my plight.
I opened my eyelids
As lightning bolts zapped,
With howling of winds and thunderous claps.
I was thrust into light.
I knew darkness and cold.
I was thirsty and hungry, a sight to behold.
A blind man took pity.
I did not offend.
He was my one unconditional friend.
And then he was gone,
But I needed someone,
A partner to witness what I had become.
I wanted affection,
But all that I fetched
Was fear and revulsion for this awful wretch.
All I desired
Was someone to share
Ups and downs of a life filled with sorrow and care.
Alas! My creator
Reneged on our deal.
In spite of my honest and urgent appeal,
He butchered my bride.
I butchered his, too.
But first I killed Henry. That day he will rue.
The way I’d been treated
Only heightened my rage.
Yet my maker perished before the last page.
Soon I discovered
That I could not die.
I’ve lasted for decades. Death I defy.
And my punishment still,
As a tragic outcast,
Is to walk among gravestones of people who’ve passed.
The sky is a Luciferian estuary
rolling and roaring in crimson flames,
a twisted design of detonated debris,
like splitting sighs
from internal implosions,
raining fragments of the past:
matchbox memories
piercing through suffocating silence
as time tortures the mind
with flashbacks of floating fragility…
O invisible moonlight,
pour me a purple potion
to erase the pain behind
perplexed pupils.
I no longer desire to be
cast in the clamorous clusters,
convicted as the captive ~
a ghost of games
playing on the bones of brokenness,
this cave of shame,
this cell of hellfire,
this emotional shrapnel,
reflecting self-loathing nightmares.
Perhaps I crowned myself
the commander,
leading the devil’s disciples
into a war assembled from fear…
And this heart ~ a metallic maelstrom
mourning in the turmoil of melancholy ~
breaks from the inability
to step beyond wrathful walls
to a landscape of holiness,
to seek the footsteps of pilgrimage.
For I am caught in
the whirling whispers of
spectral regrets,
replicating rectangular ruins,
electrifying the empyrean
with greyed grief
and yellowed yearning.
Pondering ~ am I the blasphemer
in the cross-eyed faces of monsters?
Am I the breath
that trembled ~ disrupting the peace?
Am I the empty spaces
filling the crystalline cracks
between haunting hours,
while darkness devours
treacherous tales
climbing from the
archives of devious agony…
But can love gift this skeletal sorrow
a twilight-kissed cloak of hope?
Will heaven be a witness
to these bleeding carvings
within the tall pillars
of my splintered spirit,
while the dying lamp of life
slowly fades and waves farewell
in faint colors ~ depicting misery
like demons decaying,
shaping a sadistic sanctuary
of malignant madness~
a familiar insanity inked
as a heinous home…
we pressed our noses ‘gainst the restaurant glass
for we were just tossed out upon our ass
cuz we forgot our Covid vaccine pass
becoming citizens - now second class
a passerby informed us that our masks
were not up to their intended task
that we shouldn’t pass around our flask
within sight of the warm and steamy glass
the police were called to move us on our way
we insisted that we had the right to stay
assembled as a group of friends at play
they tasered us much to our shocking dismay
so let this be a lesson to your face
they’d rather that you keep your mask in place
tried to sip your drink with slurp-less grace
quickly left to clear another space
John G. Lawless
©1/14/2022
At
Dunkirk,
where thousands
of stranded men
lined a bloody beach,
hope was draining with each
air strike delivered by the
unrelenting Germans’ aircraft.
Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore -
their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk.
How must they have felt knowing their homeland
was so close – and yet so far away?
Horrific days passed when at last
brave civilians came with boats,
so it was that ten times
the number of those
not expected
to live were
instead -
SAVED.
Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for
JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia:
The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940.
The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured.
On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain. In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".
Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it
be salted? It is henceforth cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. Matthew
5:13 KJV
In ancient history, salt was sought and bartered. In some places it was carried by
camels across scorching deserts such as in West Africa where eager merchants
traded it to waiting customers. Salt was used for money in some places, thus giving
us the word salary.
Today salt is used for many purposes, stocked in grocery stores, and is available on
virtually every table.
We use it medicinally, and blocks of salt satisfy cattle’s craving. Salt in water raises
the boiling point, yet salt melts ice. Put salt on meat and it preserves it. Leave salt
off the table and your appetite leaves with it. But too much salt is harmful. It makes
your feet and legs swell and too much is hard on the heart.
Examine one grain of salt under a microscope and note its cube shape. Its sides
are made of two elements, sodium and chlorine. These combine to form sodium
chloride – salt.
Imagine soldiers in a tug of war. An ion of chlorine glares from one corner at a
sodium ion guarding the opposite side. As crystallization occurs the chlorine wins in
the stare-down. Sodium surrenders its single valence electron to chlorine and
together they become sodium chloride. Consider it in verse:
Salty Sentinels
Sodium ions stable,
assembled on the table,
salivating palates crave.
Chlorine ions tiny,
mustering soldiers briny,
guarding corners brave.
Sodium chlorine making,
crystal shakers shaking
cubes so salty white.
Ever fighting blandness;
vectors adding grandness,
enhance the appetite!
There is no wonder Jesus used salt as an example to the disciples in his Sermon on
the Mount. He exhorts Christians to have salt in themselves and have peace with
one another. See Mark 9:50
Though the night was quite dark, Christmas candles were shining;
The firelight flamed by the tree:
From the ceiling was strung strands of green intertwining,
'Twas mistletoe cut from the lea.
In the room was assembled a party so cheerful,
Young couples so dashing and bright;
And they sang many songs, both the sweet and the tearful,
Or danced Christmas reels through the night.
When the night was advancing, the people disbanded,
Departing in pairs though the snow;
But one girl and her escort stayed late and were stranded
By snowflakes in gales that would blow.
So they sat by the fire, holding hands through the night;
They kissed 'neath the mistletoe green:
And the eyes of the other the prettiest sight,
They thought that they ever had seen.
{Written November 26, 2013}
Every one’s got an opinion
We are entitled to our views
But, we won’t all agree the
Difference often times are
Huge
Somehow the simpler the
Problem harder the
Moot
Layering instead of issues
Open wounds
And personalized attacks
Are used
A point of contention is
The deliberate disguising of
The truth
Distorting facts
Figures assembled by rote
Really there are a lot to be
Desired
Having regards to the distance
Between what had first prompt
The opinion
And the reasoning that led
To this irrational tirade and suit
A stuck in a bog like situation
Ensue
Like the dreaded dream state
Being awake and can’t speak
Move or do what you want to
While the root rot
The debates rambles on
Unable to; save quip,
Get a grip on solid ground
Consensus pursuit
Version 1
Broken souls and disillusioned dreams. Broken toys and angels without wings
Weep for the fallen brothers and infants without mothers
Pained tears encompass the empyreal rays. Pompous worlds painted in a destitute haze
Transmogrified in the iron flood. Transmogrified in the spilled blood
Frightened children flee from the impending devouring wails of the banshees
Captured children drown in the seas for the coming spring's garden poppies
Choked whispers, within frozen forgotten tale’s, the phantom spirits lurking behind the veils
The strong beguiled yearn for their thirst, obtaining the hero’s, plagued curse
A solitary cane and an abandoned house assembled upon soot
A dying hearth and a trembling shadow with crushed raspberries underfoot
Greet the honor, greet the madness, beat the dishonor, win the chalice
Defeat the grandest, apparatus, acquire all the treasure's honored status
Version 2
Broken souls and mutilated dreams
Broken toys and angels without wings
Weep for the vanished fallen brothers
And children without hope or mothers
Pained tears encompass the solar rays
A pained world in a destitute haze
Transmogrified, engulfed by the flood
Swept away and drowned in the spilled blood
Panic children flee from shadows
Spoils feed the seas of young willows
Choking whispers, frozen buried tale
The phantom spirits behind the veil
Strong beguiled only yearn for their thirst
Obtaining the hero's plague's cursed
Wooden cane and the house build on soot
Dying hearth and trembling bloody foot
Greet the honor, greet the madness
Beat the dishonor, win the chalice
Defeat the grandest, apparatus
Acquire the treasured honored status
Updated 5/14/2019