Best Assuage Poems
The many winters I had seen
When once I was a teen
Gathered inside our small living room
Joy and simplicity our faces illume
Warm with laughter at striking stories
Light is the heart and empty of worries
My sisters and sole brother
The treasure of my father and my mother
Mum, our angel of the earth
The springs of our gaiety and mirth
Moving in the magic of her young age
Our hunger for hot food would assuage
Would even bring a piece of paradise
To us, if we dared ask, for any price
Dad, overloaded, would tread miles for our sake
Serene reassuring smiles while so much at stake
The nights echoed holy verses dad used to read
Developing a sense of belonging to his creed
Opening our hearts to the graces and blessings of the Divine
In my veins, a life of a tender love I’ll ever enshrine
*****
Many winters had passed
Still nourished of a so precious past
Confined to the tranquility of the night
The magic box would offer dreams in black and white
Stress and concern evaporated and lost weight
Soft whispers.. suppressed giggles with life pulsate
The quietest of corners I would always look for
My sanctuary, my home made bookstore
Ever my worlds side by side shaping the inner me
No single worry over the one whom I would be
Why would I when I was entangled in more than one story
Preened myself on my pen musing in my world of ivory
My younger sis who of English knew no word
Would grant me her patience and love for what she heard
Love and most of all contentment and gratitude
Deeply remained, the reign of my worlds and my soul food
The cold of winters, now, how can my words perceive
In my realm of poesy what of warmth willing to weave
The winter of our Life which many abhor
My wishes I will have the grace to adore.
Atrocious affliction trembles voices of anguish
Brewing vile horror in death of tomorrow
Fearing for the newborn, women, and children
For yesterday’s massacre killed her husband
And the war-torn town screamed in agony
Wrapped in rags of shattered hopes,
Quivering hearts of disassembled valor
Incapable to assuage a hapless mother’s sorrow.
A lone crow caws atop heaps of rubble
Amplifying appetency for affinity of life,
Abjuring the blood thirsty hiding in disguise
To rob any remnants of civility and pride
From dismantled lives, walking shoeless,
Upon splintered glass littered in broken paths
When pigeons too left the desolate grounds.
Dreams once auspicious acquiesce to nightmares
Within awry silence of a burning dawn
As the allure of a new day inconsolably cries
When her only surviving child dies in her arms.
Divinity won’t absolve them of despicable sins,
That echo from playgrounds, shuttered bakery shops,
And the shrieks of families mingling in market
Where aroma of fresh bread once permeated air
And warmth of hot tea glasses greeted the day.
Wary footsteps march slowly to the other side:
It’s a bit safer there where a wedding is planned--
They don’t yet know, the young groom has died,
In a senseless war lost in poverty of thoughts.
Written: October 15, 2019
Submitted on 1/22/2023 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Placed 1st: Crazy A’s poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Required words in the order included in this poem:
Atrocious, anguish, assuage, appetency, auspicious,
awry, allure, absolve
Placed 3rd: Strand choice poetry contest by Brian Strand
Reject not sweet musings memories evoke
Extolling elation our passions amplified
Assuage the fervid hints emotions stoke
That eternal vows once callously denied
Let bygones fade away on skyline bright
When your smile scintillates opaline skies
Being my delight of Venus every night
Blazing flame of desires glinting your eyes
“Share the hopes within you still
And hold the dreams that in you reside
Invite a kiss from parted lips
And trace the paths where hearts abide”
Awaken your impulses reveries fantasize
As nightmare of yore in womb of dawn dies
And ambiance of day, aspirations surmise
Where sparkles of amethyst glisten sunrise
Savor again missives your feelings confide
As pleadings of hearts doting souls revive
Let whispers of yearnings be your guide
While blossoms of romance fervently thrive
Entrust me your voice, music of my choice,
Strumming evermore rhythms of your song
In concert of my beats, it is you I rejoice
Pulsing my heart where forever you belong
May 28, 2021
Placed 1st: Choose your form 2 poetry contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Placed 1st: All yours (June 4) by Brian Strand
She came to me in the noon day sun..
her world wistful, longing for an unsung quiet.
But I would not remain still, nor silent,
though her hours in life, never meant for long.
Desperately I grasped her up in loving embrace..
And in her arms cried, please let her remain!
I offered myself in sacrifice to assuage,
but enchanted sirens called sweetly, come.,
and left me alone on an empty stage.
another somber rise of day through autumn's reign
where clouded thoughts backslide through eyes
while the anguish of my pain lies misted in the lash of october's skies
i watch as the breeze strips color from these trees
crimson drops aloft on the awry path, downward in spirals
like a child's mind trying to find assuage from life's affliction
through atrocious little lines carved upon shrouded flesh
in an auspicious attempt to find relief, momentarily unrestricted
sometimes i long to be like the leaves of autumn, spun golden
twirling in the allure of whispered breezes, adrift in the winds
carefree on the jaunt of life of these memories that taunt
other times, the appetency to be the tree is greater in depth,
to be bare, weightless and absolve the heaviness of life's burdens
as you cast them downward in wayward winds to their death
while your roots remain grounded, although twisted, still stand firm
sometimes i'd like to see the beauty in october through other's eyes
to glow in the dawn of my day, not shiver in its winded breath
beneath the grays of skies, where all i can see is impending death
in the season's foreshadow as the leaves slip like blood through hands
October 9, 2019
Crazy A's Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
I stood as though reborn on mounded dirt,
which seemed so moist it strangely could assuage
the ache from bowels that howled from so much hurt.
Would ground then be my cure or a mirage?
Enticed, I deeply pressed each foot through soil
till they took root and fixed me to a spot.
My ever-thickening trunk served well to foil
the plots of those who’d cut me. . . . they could not!
My limbs, though mighty branches, could not bend;
stubbornly I fought my transplantation.
I weathered storms that God or man might send,
sightless, living long in desolation.
Self preservation did this much for me-
old loved ones passed and I remained a tree.
Moonbeams fade from the depths of night
giving way to dawn's rays of light
Sunrise dries morning's tears of dew
but not mine of sorrow and grief
I search for comfort and relief
Solace in glints of life anew
Each day provides an empty page
where hope is a balm to assuage
and skies a lovely hue of blue
another typical day, with feet on the ground
ordering the hedge to meet my image of trim
many measured bits fall before the cutting edge
casual thoughts detach, is there anybody in ?
then some mental inner disturbance jangles
with corresponding jig, nerves rip in deeper
following the run of a stalk, the hang of a sprig
so prune the untidy and unwelcome creeper
movement to the side of my eye is caught
something is scared, behind dense vegetation
the fast beating breast of a baby brown bird
frantic flutter flash, demented aggravation
descends to the pavement in fear driven escape
panic ruptures in flood from a half sliced-off wing
chest partly open, feathers flecked red with blood
cupped warm in my hand, young life does cling
grim realisation, fledgling with no hope
pressure leaking, ebbing from a dying heart
but then our eyes meet, answers it is seeking
where's my mum, when can my flying lessons start?'
the deed is now done, the light that shone has gone out
just the salt of my tears at this horrible juncture
the killing of one hundred and fifty million years
and this clumsy ape's evolutionary puncture
undiluted guilt, too much concentration to bear
to forgive and assuage, soothing rational thought
replacement anger and even more depressing rage
bombs target children when careless wars are fought
imagine that child, in screaming terrified terror
in mortal trouble, reduced to core instinct base
an external world has turned your home into rubble
where's my mum, why can't I see her familiar face?'
"the anguish of grief leaves me with an appetency and yearning for peace . . . "
the allure of love was enchanting
the promise between us a delicate flower
love was like a guest unbidden
well-timed and auspicious
for my heart was a ravaged garden
and you knew how to soothe and calm me
how to assuage my fears
and the scars on my soul faded
we lay cuddled 'till the crack of dawn
sometimes you would look at me awry
with a crooked smile
and your laughter was music for my soul
now . . . I hang my head like a wilted rose
and the memory of time is my heavy cloak
for I am broken since that dreadful day
the pain atrocious and brutal
you left me for heaven and I scream why . . .
the wind blows in trees like the wail of violins
and I stand in the summer, the fall, the winter
and spring staring at your engraved name in stone
and the clouds float in the sky
and the birds sing me a sad and dreamy song
for years and years I have been chained to your tomb
but today, I absolve me
I set me free . . .
and I forgive you, my love for leaving
'cause I understand that it was not yours for the choosing
but had been written . . . in the book of time
______________________
October 13, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Unbidden Love
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1188-348-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Crazy A's
sponsor, John Hamilton
First Place
“The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.”
----- “Portrait of a Lady;” T. S. Eliot
A golden afternoon,
Late October, and my thoughts
Are all of you, Suzanne…
Vestiges of your being
Appear on visages of
A hundred different people;
But none are you, not one
As green, as golden.
Hard it is to know no miracle
Will mend, no giddy hope assuage,
The scourge that slowly puts an end
To our valiant green and golden girl.
Memory takes us to days of indolence,
Of innocence, of children lying on a levee
Deep in lush, green, summer clover --
In sunlight almost as golden
As your hair -- beside a flowing river
Bearing away your golden hours
And the painless green of youth.
Now, in your green room, reclined
In shadow, our golden girl reposes.
Your courage lights the coming night
That does not dim the gold and green
You always shared, and still you share.
Three Sonnets tell a story, in sequence.
[From the narrative poem, "Don't Go to Wyoming Alone"]
I. Natural Instinct (Chivalric Sonnet)
He saves a wad of cash and designates
the stash to finance trek in far-off land
in hunting boots and custom gun he built
for me with love and hope for trophy grand.
"Is this a trip I've dreamed about?" I ask.
"Can I enjoy the hunt, savor the kill?"
I contemplate the danger in that land -
will heat, dry thirst and bugs defeat my will?
Might this be atmosphere I cannot stand?
Excitement builds as I heft gun with ease
and find the answer soon on target range
as my bull's eye displays my expertise.
Though I have no inborn instinct to kill,
my reason tells me not to waste this skill.
II. Lost Vacation
Our trip is planned, we'll soon be on our way,
he's called and found the perfect spot to stay.
The husband leads you out to hunt the wild
as room is cleaned, clothes pressed, wife cooks gourmet.
Alas, things change, his current bent is new.
While Mom and I go west without a clue
he flies the skies to satisfy desire
from Air Force days where first the hunger grew.
But circumstance forced him to stay aground,
our funds were tight and kept him budget bound.
Since children now are wed and off the corn
he's free to choose to play or bum around.
When we return from trek out west by train,
he's spent vacation cash to buy a plane.
III. New Dimension (Couplet Sonnet)
What fun we've had in years of golden age
as we, in freedom's row, our thirsts assuage.
We climb above the ground in utter glee
and view the earth below from Cherokee.
We join a pilot's group and meet new friends.
We travel now as time and space portends.
Each time we fly we bring two more because
two empty seats invite our friend's' applause.
But soon we build a smaller home down south.
I close my ears as words come out his mouth,
"The plane's for sale, I need a tractor now
to plow off snow and grade the road." It's how
our trip to Africa, in quickened time,
became a tractor. Surely, that's a crime.
It stood a while, alone, the perfect phrase
Entire and beautiful upon the stage
As lovely as two words could ever be
‘Till came the muse, the ancient ***** of days
Demanding blood and ink upon the page
Insisting passion and complexity
And sacrifice, and violent hymns of praise
Her hunger and her ardour to assuage
In wild defiance of simplicity
The poet quaked in terror, and betrayed
His words to slake her raw and awesome rage
In her cold hands they cried for company
© Gail Foster 13th December 2016
To be immune from aspersions mean and vile
May assuage our hurt feelings for awhile
But to really uphold the Golden Rule
We must also withhold words harsh and cruel—by poet
In an upside-down world
Where self-victimization
is a realization and hatred lingers, it goes nowhere
May not yet get it, and still not self-aware
Now some may think that healing is
Ignoring what is destroying and go on enjoining
others near them to do the same, their end game
Using, medicating with words as ammunition stored on a shelf
Toxicity is there, taken aback, down deep in yourself
Hatred lingers, collecting dust mites
Imploding, suffocating smites and is on reserve
In a mindset where glory they deserve
Personal gut-wrenching bile packaged
Collecting more dust, disgust has an impact
It only makes you a stronger hellcat
One that hasn’t let go of the baggage
Is in an upside-down world of their own
On their own and may think they’re OK
Flies in the ointment, stagnant, a delay, decay
In a world where “making it better” ails, and means
Undoing what has taken lives in time in details
Only bequests, and is deeded
A new form of healing is much needed
Healing is embracing the newest challenges
There are bigger issues, bigger things
Then just you, heed the warnings
It begins within
“Civil war tested the proposition that America is one nation indivisible”—from the book “With Malice Toward None"— Stephen B. Oates
I accidentally let one loose
A ripe for roasting, fattened goose!
The ganders in Orwellian mode
Honked out the news in gaggled code.
Rash Farmer Giles, blood red with rage
Would not be easy to assuage
And goslings flapped their wings in fear
As if to say ‘Get out of here!’
The rooster crowed with all his might
To publicize my sorry plight
And terror-stricken piglets squealed
As rifle cocked, he left the field.
I turned and fled: there’d be no grace
For farmer Giles had picked up pace.
But then, a crack, a curse ; a whopper!
Old Farmer Giles had come a cropper!
This close escape I did embrace
For he had run a wild goose chase!
And as I raised a thankful sigh
A cackling form went flying by!
Competition entry : I accidentally let one loose : Charles Messina 22 July N/A
Applicable Not Applicable Contests Poetry Contest : sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
19.05.19
Penning my thoughts is an important part of who I've become.
Some memories hit me hard, like they're beating on a drum
forcing me to acknowledge them, and a poem is the outcome.
Others make me smile, and to write of them I gladly succumb.
There are moments when my emotions inundate me with rage.
Flames ignite inside me that I fear could singe or burn the page.
That pent up angst against someone or thing I have to assuage
and writing poetry frees me from rancor when I must disengage.
Not all I write is of personal experiences in which I've had a role
I'm a bit too private to compose an intricate blueprint of my soul,
but I open my thoughts when creating idyllic imagery is my goal
and reveal heartache when writing of lost love and I lose control.
I write because when my heart is broken, I allow myself to cry
If my wounds have need to bleed, I offer no excuses as to why.
I can break Cupid's arrows, and clip his wings so he'll never fly
near me again, for love hurts too much to ever say 'good-bye.'
My poetry can sing a mourning song or take flights of fantasy
In verses I can choose to be anyone or anything I desire to be
The power of my pen can turn a fallacy into the truth and reality,
and change a pending tragedy into one that ends quite happily.
Authorship of verses gives me liberalism to pen with expression
Sometimes I concede my guilt and write a repentant confession
As a poet, I think composing is a catharsis to bouts of depression,
without exposing everything during a psychoanalyzing session.
I express my feelings when I view the beauty of a moonlit night
or when I witness sunrise paint the sky with glorious pastel light.
I scribe romantic sonnets about a princess and her white knight.
This gift of writing provides me with pleasure. and thus, I write.
Submitted on August 30, 2022
For the contest: I Write Because... Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon