Best Avidly Poems
In the flickering light of the lamp,
Despite the chilly night, air so damp,
She surveyed books so avidly read,
Studied the guidelines now in her head.
Time came: she departed for the war,
Sure she'd care for all those wounded sore.
Many followed as she left her stamp,
At night she'd be the lady with the lamp.
I remember as a young boy, going out to play, I would sometimes see old Mr. Kimball, sitting on the steps of his porch, often reading the paper. World War II was in full swing so the newspapers and radios were avidly sought out for the latest news. Mr. Kimball was a fireman, and probably not even that old, but he seemed that way to me.
Sometimes, he would invite me to sit with him and we would talk about everything and nothing. I loved spending time with him because, he was the only grown up I knew that took the time to entertain the mind of a young boy.
In his front window hung a small flag. It had a red border surrounding a white field, upon which there were two blue stars. I was always curious about it, so I asked him what it was. He said “It's a Sons in Service flag. One star for each son serving. You remember my boys don't you?” I did of course. Chuck, the oldest, used to tease me, calling me a sissy to get a reaction. Bobby was a couple of years younger, and the bike I was riding once had been his.
Mr. Kimball went on to explain how Chuck was now in the Army and fighting in France. Bobby was in the Navy, aboard a ship somewhere in the Pacific. He didn't say it, but I'm sure he was worried about both, communications being what they were back then.
One day, when I was walking over to see him, I noticed that the flag had changed. It now carried one blue star, but the other one was gold. With the innocence that comes of being a child, I asked what the gold star meant. He quietly said “It means Chuck is coming home”, and without further comment, he turned and went in the house.
A couple of days later, I saw a hearse pull up to the Kimballs house, and four men carry a flag draped box up the porch steps. That is the moment the meaning of war came to a small boy. I knew Chuck was home.
No flame within!
do I hold for you
no delightful delicacy
shall I put to rhyme.
No picturesque words
in italics of your
woeful wildlife, no
acknowledgement of
the ancient mariner, he
that crossed the margin
of our “Atlas of the world.”
(Still in use, [I believe] in the
old stone museum.)
One can easily live in fear
of your many mordant moods,
to see you capture the
embracing horizon, where warring
clouds fondle the sunlight,
and the departing QE 2 is
reduced to microcosm.
How can one live in awe of
you, when at the end of each
day you snatch at the light of
sustenance, therefore
giving license to the veil
of damnation, soon to be cast
out of the east, driving impending
fears to languish upon the
unholy waters of the Styx?
(An extraction of the mind,
an evaporation of the memory
the spray dried brain
tossed into oblivion.)
Yet each morning an
interval to one’s ongoing
nightmare, when with renewed
levitation, the new light reprieved!
Begins avidly it’s universal
journey across Manukau’s
“Pack ‘n’ Save” Car park.
Oh yes! It is so easy to hate you;
you that brought the rest of
the world here, you that constitutes
a world within a world, that,
where the cycle of life creates it’s
own constitution, each player
judged on cue, to become an act of
fodder, mobile supermarkets
in ferocious competition with
nothing at all to give.
“Unless death itself is a gift!”
Upon the surface your
treachery still lingers, there,
tenacious tentacles lurk
within the sedulous surf,
groping blindly at sedated
rocks, those pinnacles of sanctuary
that harbour the weary,
support the rod.
Only when gravitation truly
intervenes, does the perpetual
invasion subside, leaving one in
no doubt about your promiscuity!
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Shall we guilty claim
a rose, as her beauties rain?
when suppressing her prickles
floods of her blood
bedew her roots
absorbed in grace.
Shall we banish beaming scents
of a rose rising in light?
when flourishing wonders
and streams of delight
flowing into human veins
avidly captured beyond words.
Shall we a beholder blame
for admiring in shining light a rose?
when many a reason
grant noble human hands
to hold an evergreen rose
rejoicing at divine creation.
Shall we a rose deny
a deep inner desire
to serve and give?
Bearer of Aphrodite and Venus Love
showy but unrevealing
transcends words what she conveys.
Shall I Euterpe invoke
my rose to inspire?
with sacred music
words above the clouds
penetrating fervent hearts
that never leave the heavens of poetry.
August 11th, 2018
Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'
In my university days, you burned in me
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.
Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your poetry is like a whispered secret still aglow
As a recluse, you hid yourself. From the crowd you stole.
Your poems give a glimpse into the workings of your heart
Your thoughts, bold and subtle speaks directly to me.
As I think of you, through my mind, emotions of awe dart.
Staying aloof, you watched nature and animals closely.
In your poems, you elevated the mundane to the sublime.
‘If I could Stop one Heart from Breaking’_
This poem, stays immortal in all time.
Your musings on life and nature are breathtaking.
Dear Emily, you shouldn’t have hidden your light,
Like a lamp under the bushel. Sad, your poems you buried,
Abhorrent of publicity, but posthumously came into limelight.
Now across oceans and tides, they are avidly ferried.
From high up
The rushing water leaps
A daring dive into the unknown.
Unrestrained
It tumbles down, eyes closed
Savouring the adrenalin rush
Of bold youth;
It flows in breathless flight
Crystalline streaks of exuberance.
Deafening
The roar of fulfilment
As waters meet and avidly merge.
--------------------------------------------------
Paul Callus ~ 29th October, 2014
Form: Parallelogram de Crystalline.
[It consists of 4 stanzas of 3 lines each.
The syllable count for each stanza is 3, 6, 9.]
Contest: Some Form Of Crystalline
Sponsor: nette onclaud
Placed: 4th
Joan of Arc – For God and Country
On the feast of the Three Kings was born,
a baby girl, in 1412, under the sign of Capricorn.
Destined to accomplish great deeds and achieve fame,
Joan d’Arc was her auspicious name.
A religious and political scapegoat,
her short life to God and country she did devote.
Fervently spurred by heavenly voices,
Joan’s fate was guided by singular choices.
She avidly believed in her mystical visions,
and was obsessed to fulfill her divine mission.
Each night she prayed, “Oh God, save France,”
until at last she was granted the perfect chance.
Leaving her family and the village of Domremy,
she pursued her destiny to defeat France’s enemy.
The “Maid of Orleans” with religious fervor and zeal
took a vow of chastity and her fate was solidly seal.
During the Hundred Years’ War, she took up sword and banner;
mounted on a white horse, arrayed in a white suit of armor.
Leading the French army to a momentous victory,
her rousing battle cry was, “For God and country.”
Abandoned by King Charles the VII and betrayed in the end,
she was burnt at the stake by French collaborators and English men.
Accusing her of witchcraft, heresy, and for dressing like a man,
at age 19, her life was all over according to their devious plan.
But even though her light was snuffed out by hatred and bigotry,
her exemplary courage and strength helped to unify her country.
Joan of Arc, a simple peasant girl, became a woman warrior,
and to the world a symbol of conviction, fortitude, and true valor.
Canonized a saint by Pope Benedict XV 500 years later,
Joan was named Patron Saint of France, rape victims, prisoners, and martyrs.
08-28-2015
Contest: Joan of Arc
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Placement: 2nd
A dapper morning awaits
as I gaze out
to an awakening
steeped in conviviality
so palpable in glow of
leaves bathed anew
radiant in glory
Glistening crisp
blades of grass
razor edged sharp
deftly cut through
weeds of gloom
Aromas soaked in mirth
envelope landscape
From my soul
infused with joy
escapes a sigh
embraced avidly
by bountiful breeze
the lines between us blur slowly
as it subsumes me
And I cease to be
my spirit merged
with universe...
Date July 10 2017
July Premier contest any form any theme sponsored by Brian Strand
A Grisly Tapeworm
In Anger and in Hatred, a Tapeworm I see
Unless internally hosted, its Life will not be.
From egg it starts Life, ‘fore an adult worm
Fed on Host’s blood, it gains a portly form.
While finer or fatter, greedy Worm gnaws,
The wretched Host, pale and thin he grows.
Then the anaemic Host, too ill to live a day
Falls in the dark pit, where there’s no ray!
*
The same story is true of a Man with Hate
Hate soon embraced, is an iniquitous mate.
So, I avidly learned , my temper to narrow
Perspective being that it eats man’s marrow.
To nurture it in Heart, Hate will grow so big
And wiggle one’s Dignity; like a tail of a pig!
For, Anger grows so fat that Man is in sorrow
By eating all his vim to leave a man hollow!
*
To internalise Hate is to eat a sharp blade
That curves from inside while fast you fade.
It spins some mortal blow in its incisive poise
That fates and finishes by its hushed noise:
The structure curves in, trusses cut and gone
He falls on the floor with not a single bone!
*
Hearken ye therefore, Hate begets dearth
Piety Mad Haters who know no inner mirth!
For, to lavish in Love, denigrating foolish Hate
Bestows inner Peace or sense of pure sate.
Gimme not filthy wealth, gimme not lucre
I’m a happy man giving Love and Succour!!
JM
31st Oct’ 2013
When I recall the tenebrous, gruesome shadows
Shrouding our lives conjuring deaths and sorrows,
In my vantage-point, I envision a massive bridge
Standing there resolutely over turbulent waters
Beckoning me avidly to cross over to tomorrow
Promising the other side is now within my reach
And travails of the yore will soon be behind me.
Yet, I feel fear gripped in jaws of deadly throes
And sense saddened tears fretting abyss of woes
So I summon courage, spurring resolve to cope,
Drawing assurances in embrace of my beloved
Entrusting-- in despair too-- grow seeds of hope
Believing in the promise of scientists, medicines,
And heroes who sacrifice in service of humanity.
Beyond that bridge are the pristine green prairies
Cheerfully inviting me to joy of winsome spring
Where glee of vibrant season burbles in streams
Washing away remnants of yesteryears’ misery
Frozen in gelid winters when lives were stilled,
As I continue trekking to dreams of my dawning
Aiming to arrive there clasping strength of family.
April 8, 2022
Whispers
How can I ever forget the evening we first met
Under the twilight of placid sun about to set
When your sweet whispers ably set me afire
As I embraced in earnest your loving desire.
You held me close intently as if for ever
In language of sweet love eminently clever
Inviting the peeking moon to join our affair
As a distant star blushingly glared with flair.
Lyrics of our romance resonated in my ear
As rhythm of our hearts echoed with cheer
Revealing tenderly a tale of heavenly bliss
Singing sweet nothings with a passionate kiss.
Your urges grew steadily more meaningful
Each time your verses called me beautiful
Intimating fondly that I occupied your mind
Towering to heights only true love can find.
We told each other wishes always come true
For love we own is granted to a select few,
As happiness willingly resides in our hearts
Bonded with admiration that never departs.
As your eager vibes pronounce our love anew
Every word of passion draws me closer to you
Conveying me to fervent places I never knew
Craving for your touch as our feelings renew.
Discourse of love resonates with adoring smile
As we revel in romantic talk avidly fragile
And echo of our minds reverberates with a sigh
Enamored in angelic love that will never die.
November 17, 2017
Whisper Sweet Nothings
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
First Place
To the happy lady behind those black shades,
I dedicate my poem as an exchange gift
for her incredible kindness and gracious wit...
even her words amaze the youngest lads!
Since her work was featured on Poetry Soup years ago,
I've become her admirer, and avidly read every poem she writes
with the passion and aspiration of a true poetess who immensely delights;
and doesn't she always capture the reader's attention with her unselfish ego?
Many are the dreams she has...as we all do for another laud,
and from her insightful thoughts written with refined style;
who wouldn't be her loyal fan and often drop her a line?
Read all of her poems and feel what makes her proud!
Sweet and lovely friend, accept my dedication
and add this name to the memoirs of your ambition;
sincere and kind friend, isn't honor the greatest joy
when someone such as me praises you as Helen of Troy?
Breathe laden islands rise and fall
beneath the steam graced surface of clear water,
capped with rosettes, red-brown, silken, warm,
beaded with water running in rivers
down mountainsides of flesh, puddling,
in the darken depression of navel.
The water rises, about kneecaps
pristine and alabaster in hue.
Angular shoulders hug the far end of the tub.
A slender neck held aloft, crowned with auburn hair
and hazel eyes, changling orbs, of green and gold
an a oval face rivaling Modigliani’s Madonna.
A ruddy glow spreads across high cheekbones.
The rising water submerges all,
but porcelain neck and upturned face,
tendrils, tresses, coil, splay on still water.
Lids droop languidly, lips pout petulantly,
and still the water rises
buoying delicate arms, ending in fingers
...avidly playing.. upon
the pearl white key to desire.
Every minute, every hour of each day,
my heart entreats you with longing.
I desire your heart trusts what I say
every minute, every hour of each day.
If God exists, I avidly pray
He accords my desire for belonging.
Every minute, every hour of each day
my heart entreats you with longing.
Every minute, every hour of each day,
I desire your heart trusts what I say.
If God exists, I avidly pray
He accords my desire for belonging.
My heart entreats you with longing
accompanied by true love’s prolonging.
If I could control my muse, things would be delightful
I could pretend that I care about the possibility of normality.
Trixie is a wild woman, a pirate queen, a gypsy soul.
She dances around the campfire of my soul in her birthday suit.
She laughs at my alarm when she throws crazy ideas onto a page.
But wait, is she not a part of myself?
I ask my witches, faeries, and dragons.
They nod, accepting me as I am, encouraging me to retain my power.
But if I control her, can she be as clever? As outrageous? As cute?
Ouch! She is batting me about my head and face with her little feathered Pen. Bright blue ink is flipping little dots onto my cheeks and nose.
Amusing me greatly, and not making me want to control her at all.
She is my imagination, my wit, my vigor, and my energy.
I dare not insult her, I must revere, respect, and love her.
I avidly search for her good, and point it out, nourishing her ego.
Loving her, adoring her, taking bits of my power back little by little.