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
First Place
Pick a Theme Contest
By Viv Wigley
Theme - There Are Days When
Eighth Place
Altered from Poem Lush Garden - August 26, 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!!!
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
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
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.
Up slightly past midnight,
we finally called it a day as we
exchanged goodnight kisses and
amorous glances with tired eyes
Half-awake early morn', I lay supine
on the left side of our king-sized bed
I scanned the right up-and-down for her;
with my outstretched arms; surprising vacancy!
She's gone...
unbeknownst to me!
I sprang fully awake with two consecutive thoughts...
"When, oh when will my main squeeze return?"
"She left without saying goodbye?"
Then my face meets the mirror,
and voila! An unmistakable crimson stamp
on my right cheek
to remember her by...
unbeknownst to me!
She did say goodbye, after all.
And I miss her so!
Submitted for...
Strand Choice 9 Any Theme Any Form Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 01/28/2020
Date written: 01/26/2020
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
Love me, love me not. Doves flew; kneeled.
Breaths of flaunting daisies yield.
Across the narrow Irish loch, a leaven
Bed of grassy emerald field;
Bequeath, abreast
the mountain crest,
Beneath daunting, darken gray of heaven.
Love me, Love me not, seven doves shield.
8/1/2019
You ...
are the breath of heaven,
an exhalation of the divine ire ...
a "l’appel du vide" angelic, pure,
accompanist to the day's glory,
a sacred diva's note, sustained
for the sheer indulgence of joy.
I dip my spirit's brush in your
blinding hot, golden brilliance,
and paint my day with dazzle ...
I splatter the canvas of my soul
with your shimmering brilliance,
bristles let loose of life's splendor.
The result, a framed exuberance
worthy of Pollock and Kadinsky,
but born of the colors of daylight ...
the essence of wonder renewed,
and the sublime realization of
all that it means ...
to LIVE.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New 16, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
The morning shown as a mono gray
but the forecast called for a clearing sky
which gave me time to read and pray
The morning shown as a mono gray
later on will be time to play
to write a verse or bake a pie
The morning shown as a mono gray
but the forecast called for a clearing sky
I wake again, the sky still ash
Mostly soft, not quite the weight of lead
seen at five a.m; that god awful flash
of knowing there is nothing when dead
Here inside a room, trying to recall
if sleep or darkness shapes it all
Whiskey breath eats away my face
Oh good! Aubade… finally shows a trace
The afterlife sleeps in, it always does
Woken up in the usual way
Another drink, a top-up buzz
Lifts my spirits, just above dismay
I fumble around with unopened post
Get dressed, eat flakes, feeling like toast
Hope and despair make a meagre pact:
That life bears fruit, and breakfast lacked
I breathe, then sniff, try steady a hand
light a smoke, or slap on a patch
Gesture defiance, attempt to stand
brave it out past the hallway latch
Go search, or not, for what comes after
opt in, opt out, call on the pastor
Who's high as a kite on altar wine,
“There's nothing” he sobs, “or do you bring a sign?”
His eyes light up, as I offer him a line
And you know! that day turned out just fine.
We have talked together
But never about love!
We have walked together
But never as couple!
We have laughed together
But never with shy!
But you locked me alone
And never let me out of you heart !!!
You made wonders for me!
Your words frozen even the sea
and made my life spangled,
Though my inner heart tangled .
But we rarely see now
and we hardly speak about love
I am now a pale dove
who is not worried for all above!
Only my tears knew my love,
because they stay with me like hand in glove!
Though people come to chat with me,
I stay with arid smile like a deserted Christmas tree…
I heart often repeats your name
But you search only for fame
And turning our love lame!
Please throw me, but not my love in shame!!!
The leer at-
the anointment,
a cruise controlled gear-
gets no appointment,
the gruesome task is
to trust the element-
scarce-
or even just feebly miscalculated,
as another was given the equality one was torn out of the page book,
a traveler,
an infector.
On the snow
A piece of sky
A blue umbrella
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