Best Aubade Poems | Poetry
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Aubade for incipient lovers
by Beam, John
Greeting the Sun - Aubade
by Hoffman, Terry
by Negron, Nayda Ivette
Aubade: Your Eyes
by Federle, Steven
by Irving, Devin
DAWN OF AUBADE IN MY HEART
by PALANICHAMY, SHIVAGAMY
Aubade on the Morning After
by Midkiff, James
View all new Aubade Poems
The Best Aubade Poems
Jewel-colored butterflies flutter in scarlet sage
Hovering hummingbirds on a red tubular stage
Highways they navigate apparently their own
Invisible to humans as they stay in their zone
These lovely creatures are by nature vivacious
At times if necessary can also be fallacious
Both either drift or glide in on a breeze
Plunge into a vortex of nectar sweets
Satiation of thirst while lost in the moment
Entrances spectators with similar enjoyment
There are days when fluttering colors
Dissipate daily woes... a gift of the hummers
Butterflies and hummingbirds are beauties to behold
Their appeal is captivating and never grows old
POTD - June 30, 2018
August 28, 2018
Contest 485, Any Form, Any Theme
By Brian Strand
Pick a Theme Contest
By Viv Wigley
Theme - There Are Days When
Altered from Poem Lush Garden - August 26, 2018
Copyright © Susan Gentry | Year Posted 2018
Am doing a new thing
A thing that sings a new song
A song that dongs a new hit
Am hitting a high note
Freezes your muscle throat
Whilst behooving to a new quote
Stepping up to mend the broken walks
A walk into miles of eternity
A word outspoken can never be softspoken
I wish to say a word that would inspire
It's a new thing to acquire
A new style to admire
An admiration that leaves your sensation without contemplation
Doing a new thing
Swimming along with the waves
Flying arms wide open with the doves
Stunning like the cloves
And fufilling a life like the full moon
on the winter solstice
A smile in the sky!!!
Copyright © Memory Melania Mutanuka | Year Posted 2016
The silence that's before us is a patent lie
For when you see behind the mask
There is darkness is those eyes
He says come take the high road
With his gracious and his meek
But down into a tunnel
His image has to sneak
I don't paint a picture
I don't wish him well
I don't tell his women
That he can rot in hell
If he tells a story
Check the words real fine
I heard them once or twice before
And I'm pretty sure they're mine
Copyright © raw thinker | Year Posted 2017
Always Something (Left) To Say
We riddle with change in pocket corners,
sit alone and sing an afternoon away,
nothing but the violin strings
and ukulele play.
Middle of this median, stuck on this border,
with you, sit and sing an afternoon away.
Everything but the engine moves
and I'm sure, had I not met you,
I'd never have something to say.
You throw coins in the starlit air,
Tuck your strings under your arm.
The sage sings for us in solitude:
His voice fades in the spruce
Together with his laughter.
And had I not met you.
Had I not been here this day,
Had I not sang the day away,
I'd miss the muse that's you,
And a sage in solitude.
February 18, 2017
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
let’s take the long way back
beneath shaded oak and aromatic pine
athwart the weathered split-rail fence
bent into the warp and woof of nature’s wiles
past the old place
with its long front porch
and massive beams holding memories
of laughter and dancing feet
in moonlit rooms resonating with sounds of
family and friends fading now
as we roll past the giant willow
bending shade into the shape of long afternoons
drawing water from the well
with the fresh coppery taste
so light and cool on a summer afternoon
we glide into the blue-amber glow
of the western penumbra spread long and wide
with faint lights glimmering in the valley below
melding light and shadow into night
as we drift on wheels crunching gravel
like popcorn between our teeth
the hour is right in its time
and all that might have been
trailed behind and lost the way
back to what we remember
of days that are no more
Copyright © David Sermersheim | Year Posted 2017
Her breath catches with each infliction. Her pain their addiction. She wades water in a sea of strife. Her day, her tomorrow, her animosity toward life. She allows them passage only to feel their sharp talons once again grab hold. Softly she cries love can not be bought bartered or sold. Bleeding from their pain she limps onward. Her heart broken down yet her gaze upward. Hope remaining intact for you still hear her heart beat. Her destiny her future her fate has never been exact surely one day they shall all meet. So broken down, bleeding, and crying. Oh their stubborn blindness. Quietly you can hear her praying Father please save us.
Copyright © Rose Henderson | Year Posted 2017
See your dream
Yet know what you’re dreaming for
Achieving takes movement
Courage takes assurance
Encouragement is a fuel for influence
Take action for what you want to strive for
Get to the bottom of it being the core
However be confident for sure
It’s you the individual to explore
Nothing more than having a strong effort to pursue
It’s doesn’t matter if it involves moving heavy weights
But take your mind over matter and see how it relates
A dream is a destiny preparing you for the journey
Heavy weights was only an example
The method was helping you see being ample
Self-alliance at every cost
But you set the standard in what will be the course
Act like a Band Leader and carry the orchestra on
But to reach that, you must put perfection to the test
However, only you will be the one that will confess
Take control of any career you always wanted to do
But think carefully through
See you in the career of choice, and feel the career being at your grasp
Ability, commodity coming together in excellence
The sunshine shows your path
Destiny having a reason
Opportunity being the purpose
Awake now from your dream
The time is now in your reality
Let your footsteps going forward be like a cool stream
Yes it is going to be tough
But let your courage be solid like a rock in rough
Achieving won’t be easy
Excuses will often come
But say no that you will never be out done
Dreams only lead the way
But it is those excuses that will have you going astray
However that is not ok
You are victorious and have been chosen
The knock at the door says open, and your determination calls for you to fulfill
You have been given the thought and the will
But you are holding on to still
Only you can see your true thoughts
You are your own mover and shaker
Your tomorrow has risen with entities being numerous opportunities
Expect nothing less, but be at your best
Dignity and honor have been rewarded
Your true heart has applied.
Copyright © ANTHONY BLAKE | Year Posted 2016
I wake up in the morning
And I look up to the sky
I wonder why he took you
before I said good-bye
I look up to the stars at night
And know you're looking down
I'd like to think you're proud of me
But I'm just stumbling round
I crawl in bed and close my eyes
And realize that you're gone
Then comes the fears and then the tears
And life just seems so wrong
I glance up at the heavens
And I know you're flying by
My Angels watching over me
I'm happy as I cry
Copyright © moha lakers | Year Posted 2016
The restless night had ended
abruptly. Caught between dreams and
consciousness, the town was arching towards
the sprinkled light of dawn. A perpetual regularity
reigned over the dusty path that led wayfarers and commuters
alike in and out of this forgotten cluster of humanity. Somewhere
out there, a man cursed, and, as if to answer, a woman laughed. A
repetitive metallic clang—the whines of an iron plate being hammered upon an anvil—
twisted with a dog's tedious, short barking to form a discordant ladder of dread, telling how the day might turn out. Punctuating that were the weary shouts of
the night guard. An advice. A message. “Awake! Morning is here.” “Awake!
Morning is here.” A woman walked beside countless others in a long, silent
procession. Steps measured and heavy, hardly disturbing the dirt, eyes ever
forward, locked at the sunrise. Life hadn't been kind to her. At forty-five she
looked sixty. It was just her luck that age had been frivolous enough to come
early, and sketch a crude lesson at cubism across the pages of her skin. The
grey streams on her hair had become a roaring river of high
monsoon. The frozen, dark pools of her eyes had given way
to the smokestack dullness. On that day, like the day prior,
she had woken up with honks of a garbage truck out on the
street and drunk the cheap, inky tea that she
had made for herself and her son.
Bathing under a valveless tap, she
had put on her helmet, and set out.
The siren from the jute mill had blared
with an obscene loudness and promise.
She had to answer. She squared her shoulders
and trudged on, reeling back into the open maw of her
her slow, almost languid death, like a cassette on rewind.
Date: 31 / 12 / 2016
Copyright © Tamal Kundu | Year Posted 2016
As eyes gaze up-
evoked the azure of what was...
ambient and longing for
sips of golden felicity,
Came that from the emanation,
gilded upon a sun blessed cheek.
From the riverside’s
wholly reflection, the moon can be glimpsed.
The pool of milkiness
that the moon settles in.. be ever so
ethereal in what be the
As eyes gaze up-
from plucking apples from
There be the moon stepping in so
Leaves of orange brush, adorn the canopies
of everlasting autumn.
When a child's eyes gaze from
the window pane… frosty and traced with verses..
from the soul itself.. a snowy ballad.
The ballad itself recedes.. Melting into the sound of
crystalline droplets, pittering- pattering
As eyes willingly look up..
to see what looms above.
Molten one be, glowering a rose
for fictitious, dreamy eyed children to touch.
A cerulean star.. Serenely floats in
The milkiness of the constellations.
As we look up- our eyes fixate
upon the moon in its crisp...
We notice something,
closely held, in the moon's ivory palms;
from letters aged, brewed by star crossed love.
To forgotten banters that now fluttered from her heart.
But what the moon held, clasped
within her cradled palms-
Was a newborn star, fondled by the moon's
Copyright © Madison Demetros | Year Posted 2016
first ray of sunshine
dreams broken yet they linger
new day has begun
Date: 26 / 01 / 2017
Copyright © Tamal Kundu | Year Posted 2017
A semi baked semi colon is neither a seminar nor a seminary session. It is in fact the whirr of wheels from the large overweight apostrophe on a bike. Uphill downhill and all around the picturesque towns, villages and hamlets but not cities for cityscapes' are carnivorous and carnivores can charm even a chalice from a wagon if and when sealed with the juice of a steak. Well oiled grease test then. All in line. Good. Garages grab greenery giving great galloping geraniums. On the phone now are we? Oh good afternoon. Good morning. Good evening. But never a good night in a customer query box ticked. Tickle a ticket to induce laughter. In many many rides on a bus or a train a mandatory mane maneuvers managing mere mobile movements. And always remember that the globetrotting goldfish in the wicker hat can sing mist loudly to a cone. Hahaha Kyu k pass hai saja hai mekhana and a fried onion belches to a melted cheese. *** geomorphologic Z
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2017
I wake up wanting to chat to you,
I go to sleep thinking about you,
and I dream about you holding me
the way only you do.
You have no idea how hard it is
to force myself to stop thinking about you.
All I can do every time I miss you is
to stare at your portraits and smile.
Even my tears can’t convey
that I miss you and how.
I miss you when I’m breathing.
You’re so easy to be with
and so hard to be without.
I cry when you not here and fear the worst
when you haven’t heard from you.
Without you here, the sun forgets to shine.
I miss you more than the sun misses the sky at night.
Absence from you is worse than death,
and frustrates hope severer than despair.
Always missing you…
The distance between us doesn’t matter,
because in the end,
i know we’ll both be happy in each other’s arms.
You make me feel whole.
When you’re not around,
I feel like a part of me is missing.
There is a hole in my heart
and the only plumber who can plug it is you.
How vulnerable a turtle feel without its shell,
is how I feel without your hugs.
I miss you like hell.
The distance between us has stolen my happiness,
everything in life seems dull and useless.
I need you to come back and lift me in your arms,
baby I am desperate to succumb to your charms.
A night sky without the moon or the stars,
is how I blank feel when you are afar.
Every single detail of our relationship
has been etched in my heart…
and now every single etching is poking in like a thorn
because I am missing you.
Copyright © Yuhi Musinga | Year Posted 2016
Driving past a crudely made bus shelter, it looks like concrete box
I took a picture because a mystery story was told about it.
A stormy winter night a man found the shelter it had a bench
glad the he was dry and he waited and waited only the bus didn`t
drive on this road any longer.
Years later passers-by found a skeleton the police was called but
the bones had no papers to tell his name and a mystery was born.
My dog disappeared when she found her way home she was
tired and petrified and like the skeleton could tell me nothing.
I think she was lured into the van of a hunter, tied up in his backyard to
be trained as a hunting dog. She got loose and ran and
ran perhaps for days and too scared to approach people.
She overcame this trauma lived a long life and now is a skeleton in
a black bin bag in the outhouse.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016
Why is separation apart from my match?
For what we have been so far from beloved.
Come near me now,you should be embrace me,
Not meeting me far away,bigger than you.
Do not think that whatever you can now tell me,
Do you want me now?
Is trust, then punishment, do not give it now,
Consider it love, now you importunity.
Copyright © Kishan sharma | Year Posted 2017
In an attempt to establish an uncertain linkage between 2 parables,
Ivo Torena resorted to impress his colleagues all night long; hence,
awkward as a cow on a crutch, he was cowed into pilfering bananas,
and when he was caught red-handed by the deputy, his eyes showed
no response even though his arteries were friendly. Thus, a series of
tribulations took place inside his troubled mind for outlandish
reasons, and his whereabouts were commended by one of the top
enemies of the state: The twerp from Antwerp. On a serious note,
a cabal of notorious hotshots devised an agenda to unnerve Ivo
until the cow comes home. Still and all, Torena has a truly unique
composure, unlike the belligerent Belgian, and his mannerisms
can't be reciprocated with ease. Furthermore, the notoriety with
which he prattled and sprattled was momentous! His uneventful
birth can't hold a candle to any cinematographic invention although
his water bottle company is a candle in the wind and the pieces
begin to assemble duly without second thoughts whatsoever.
Copyright © Ivo Cosentino | Year Posted 2016
I hate waking up.
My eyes are always heavy.
This Morning I lost my coffee cup,
And this weather is making me sweaty.
Copyright © Bridget CArnival Pizza | Year Posted 2016
The Golden Syrup
Oh the sunny day’s,
the sunbeam's trickling
down into golden syrup.
dripping off the cedar,
the picnic table,
swathed in a yellow
table cloth, laced
with white stitching.
within the sweet
lemon zest dusted atop
the fluffy cake,
atop the golden
The crisp rim of
morsels of blueberry
relished upon the pancake.
Ending the day:
with a glaze of
syrup to the
Copyright © Madison Demetros | Year Posted 2016
The rushing waters speak of
Intricate and intense depth.
It whispers his love - both
Consummated and unrequited,
Cries his crackling hatred
For everyone and no one.
Has he become indifferent -
Perhaps, drowned himself
Into the vastness of the sea -
Or maybe still, when his feet
Slip into the warm sandy bed
As the waves hit his thoughts,
He comes home.
- maria corado
Copyright © hija de la luna | Year Posted 2016
A town wheezes the last rites over
its people through phlegm-ridden
lungs and turgid cankers.
Its blistered wounds are coated
in the mud that lines its harbour
The loss of the dockyards was its lowest tide.
Now, existing work taunts the town from
the other side of the harbour,
separated by low tides and disused ferries.
As the town slides closer to its knees,
the landlords willingly house
the subsidised washouts.
And gang fights marry into husband
and wife fights, twisted around petty
pride and sectarian bigotry.
Leaving kids to run about half-stoned
and roaring with cider, where the
unpredictable waits around the corner.
And rape happens behind the church,
under God's careful watch, where worship
of the needle leaves only emptied lives.
And lost souls sleep under cardboard palaces.
This is a town that wants them out, so that
it can shut the doors, draw the blinds
and start again.
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2016
A view from a teaspoon selection is very spellbinding indeed. Half a cup of multicolumns and a pint of milk singing and swaying together. It takes much effort to pick up a seed. Much kilograms queuing for weight is to wait and to wait is to wave five hundred times at a doorway. Putting pet fish in a cistern whilst flushing is stupid, and cruel, and rather unnecessary for cleaning the tank. But bringing a bull into the house will promote heating. Specialized agencies of horn fur and raged eyeball in a coat. OBE in a tree. Sittingbourne sitting down. A pile of curtain cloth should be ample material to wipe away smears and residue of acidic peelings, nine metre forts of brain, televised episodes of epics, and balls of glowing colourful spinning radishes. Enter then leave. Mesmerizing merrymaking men make monsters. Mainly in a red reflection. Hum the twenty song loudly. All together. Detract no horror but horror is often hidden in even the most sparkling paper tissue. But the calling from the bead of time, that bell in the breeze. Will ensure a cake gives news that is sufficiently correct. Justification then. Good. At last the commas play with the full stops peacefully. Fantastic isn't it? Ha ha ha ho ho ho and a flow from a cactus in a nice crown. Ha ha ha but no ho ho whistling waters with wanton soup. Xxxxx anthropologist z z z z z z z z z Z!.¥~¥~¥~_^>
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2017
has always been a bone of contention
the way your eye lashes skim your face
are they your own or an acquired invention
no sign of an embarrassed blush can I trace
your teeth are like pearls
very old ones that have yellowed with age
a crimson red gash across your face
not suitable for a number one page
noticed a few more things that aren't right
your knees seem to knock as you walk
you might think I am being trite....yet
I also noticed that you stutter when you talk
are there assets I have missed
maybe you drool when you're kissed?
words used..... bone...eyelashes...teeth...knees...talk...drool...kissed
penned 9 Sept 2016
Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2016
"My Name is History"
My name is History
I’m here to take you back in time
To a land called Israel.
I desire to teach you a spiritual truth about two men.
I sincerely hope God will burn it into your mind!
One was a young shepherd boy by the name of David
The other was an older man, his name was King Saul.
The things that happened between the two of them
I see it repeating itself in many Christians today.
Saul was a disobedient King who felt threatened by the lad,
He was very angry, jealous, and full of envy, wrath, and strife!
He was so blinded by sin that he tried many times to take David’s life.
But David was a very wise young man,
Against the Lord’s anointed he would never stretch forth his hand.
David humbled himself and kept trusting in God by faith.
He never tried to split the Kingdom himself
But on the Lord he would patiently wait.
Although he had done nothing against Saul
And Saul was the one who was in the wrong
David never took matters into his own hand,
He always turned and went the other way.
He did not try to convince others who was right or who was wrong.
He was wise enough to just leave it alone.
Now what David did not know was this
God was using Saul though Saul never knew he had a part
To make and keep David, the man after God’s own heart!
David was learning then what he would need when he was older
When his own Son, Absalon, a young man would rise up against him.
David could then look back on his past spiritual history
When he trusted in God to keep him from wavering and taking a fall:
David knew from his own personnel experience
That God was still in control of it all.
Listen to me Church, because my name is History
Without a doubt I know what I’m talking about.
There’s a spiritual lesson to learn from these two men even today
And it is this:
God uses other men like Saul’
To help crucify our fleshly outward Saul
And then cast it away.
Remember, my name is History so take heed to what I say!
God’s Word bears record of what I’ve said is the truth!
Let God make you the man or the woman after his own heart
By using the outward Saul
Who wars from against me and you to keep us in the Faith!
Selah, and Amen.
Evangelist and Christian Author
Clyde C. Parker, Jr.
Copyright © Clyde Parker | Year Posted 2017
a walnut waltzing with a willow tree
A molecule is neither a destitute mop without a bucket house. Nor is it a seven acre field that is very cold due to having no grass. Even the most prepared of ground is a haven for a gloved concrete whose acidic greedy greyness freezes the earth allowing for no breath from the ground. It is located between the purple mountain and hawks head valley. Where the hypotenuse causes a massive erosion and lesion in the wild vibrant landscape. Birds sigh at the chaos. Trees cry for their home. And the dark eyed mystics shaking rattles speak of prophesy that was spoken and handed through time through pictorial evidence, speech, story and song. Moving a large display of teapots in a shop is imperative to create a nice display for consumers. They might buy one so always make sure spouts are facing an easterly direction for this will ensure sales and sales are salivating selfish sea lions with suits. When placing the money. When digging for liquid gold. When leaning on graves. When balancing on a breadstick over a precipice. Exert no power. Exert no pollen. Exert no excretion. And always move to the sounds omitting from a nine mile moon in a cereal packet. Harnessed by wire but untamed. Pockets picketing players. And a nice big soup causing chaos at a roadside. Yachtsman yawning yay. And the gang members are swimming in tutus. Up the mountain down the mountain. Peeling the spoken steely grey suits. Lucid suits. Sinkhole weapons of underworld. Chat chat chat. And an operatic gold star warbling on a shelf or a door. Put into a cake tin then and bake at 800 degrees. Thus ensuring leverage is even. Events equalling extraction. Then boom boom boom. All gone fishing. Xxxxx formulations Z Z Z Z
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2017
It was in Peru
And the moon was full
Working long hours, I went early
To bed and didn`t see the moon that often
I had gone ashore where I met Maria in a bar
We walked down to the beach
Sat on an upturned rowing boat looking at Luna
Naturally, we made love on satin sand
She walked back to the bar I walked onboard
Happy and thinking how wonderful life was
Five days later I needed an injection of penicillin.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016