Best Backlit Poems
flames of crystal ice
the aura of purity -
backlit by sunlight
The golden hour for rising has arrived, and there are violet roses in the sky,
So, I bid hello to you, my robust friend, as the vibrant, cerise birds float by.
The obsidian night, it was very long, and was filled with pleasant dreaming,
Like scenes from the heart of jade forests, where lush nature is screaming.
But the dark hours seem as ages past, since you have risen on the horizon,
Reflecting your glory in the limpid waters, as day slowly begins to brighten.
So nice to see you again, my old friend, peering in the doors and windows,
As beautiful songs from emerald trees, begin their daily, rapid crescendos.
Soon all the world will be colorful and glad, like skyward birthday balloons,
Drifting on backlit skies of somewhere, like the aromas of various blooms!
We've traveled a long way, you and I, and like orioles, we've gone together,
Screaming our joys at midday hour, as warmth blankets the divers weather.
You trail every individual, peach dawn to dusk, and from season to season,
Forever going in and out of our lives, silently, and without apparent reason.
My work as a seasonal park ranger, has kept me in the glitter of your gaze,
As gorgeous wildflowers pursue us all, down the myriad, natural pathways.
Living with my family and my cat, and having a happy life on Pretty Street,
We danced all through deep amber days, terribly soon to become obsolete.
And often enjoyed memorable outings, birthday parties, and get togethers,
Like the euphoria of your floral days, are inclined to following predecessors.
Days at the beach, days at the park, ballgames or fun backyard barbecues,
At the happiest of times, everyplace I look, the first thing that I see is you.
And in olden, golden days, when I played on and on, your warmth was felt,
Like the presence of bittersweet autumn rose, though unseen, lately smelt!
Sweet summer evenings, you gazed redly, to say your melancholy goodbye,
Like the redness that strangely appears, when you're trying hard not to cry.
Crickets in the lilac bush, butterflies in the grass, all smile to greet the sun,
And yellow days are started and soon done, in dreamlike, skyward visions!
Flowers titter in warm, fragrant meadows, and oceans shudder with delight,
People beam at your kind warmth, and robins sing once they see your light!
Colors now shimmer in golden, backlit mist
where blue hydrangeas and red roses coexist
Purples and oranges adore a fresh morning.
Flighty trouble has, at last, gone away, riled
Since the mellow hour, my sunshine smiled
The green and pink birds are finally soaring!
Naturally, nature must love beauty so much
To shower flowers with silver, gold and such
Does pearly dew, gladden all of nature, too?
cool backlit clouds
moving rapidly in gray
share winters secrets
one night i dreamt i was surfing in cyberspace &
many images flickered in Adobe Flash
with every movement made, every keystroke &
slide of the mouse to & fro,
i hadn’t a clue (in real time), but i knew
that there were centillions of digital footsteps
being made with every moment
leaving their print upon the world within the screen
(still outside my own physical self)---
while my own history could partially be brought up
manually on my PC, i knew that
every phone call, every movie watched & every second
spent on the web,
had been recorded somewhere,
being held for an indeterminate amount of time &
unlike those nutjobs who say they had a
“near death experience” &
their lives flashed before their eyes,
i myself was fairly certain that
i would never come in complete contact with
this shadow of online presence.
this, however, did not bother me,
because whether my life was dragging down deep in
the gutter or
flying up in the air by the seat of its pants,
i was grounded in the cooling light of backlit LED pixels,
which would be with me until my dying day
(or until i became one with them in the future).
and there was no conversation with my PC,
because it was not a capable artificial intelligence
(as of yet) & therefore it had to abide my own human
error
(alas, PC, i pity thee) &
unlike the fictional “lord” of those religious idiots out there
walking in the sand,
it did not “speak to me” when i was down on my knees
squinting to myself with hands clasped
(um, for i wasn’t),
conversating inside my own head
hoping for answers to questions
to magically arise from my own fragmented,
severely delusional &
quite obviously
bat*****
mad
psyche.
no, there was no made up excuse
for which this human had to look to
in order to alleviate responsibility for those things
that are the most absolutely horrible
which all of us humans have done to each other,
the world around us &
to ourselves,
but rather
only quality time spent
between myself & my computer,
which had evolved from a less impressive model to its
current state,
but which would be outdated in a few years &
get scrapped for a better one,
until its own superiority
surpassed my own &
i needed to become one with it---
then, there would be no
digital footprints at all,
for they’d all be
within.
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
(Poem is in the peace symbol, created in 1958 by designer Gerald Holtom, upward V and later chosen by Bertrand Russell. Please read the first oblique downright and the second upright. Then, the last four lines)
Peace is worth it to find his peace from within.
Certainly not for weak Gandhi said, “Each one has
But for brave enough. Peace is the way.”
See a giant red banner “There’s no way to peace
With white peace symbol when there is no peace
Peace seems very pretty. “Peace, Peace”, they all say
Look at Pottery Barn Teen it speaks of a false peace
Get dazzled by backlit signs but this much is very clear.
Peace seems to be cool. & usage of the peace sign
On T-shirts and bracelets whatever the origin, meaning
Peace is accessible, at least as an accessory.
** "Peace is not merely a distant goal that we seek
But a means by which we arrive at that goal."
The day we stop fighting for peace is
The day peace will be ours.
++++++++++++
* Pacifist A.J. Muste
** Martin Luther King Jr.
Date 2-23-14
Dr. Ram Mehta
Second Place Win
Contest: The Peace Sign by Kristen Bruni
alone inside with me, less than inspirational
so look out for the more interesting folk
momentary excitement, the fiery motivational
beyond the familiar, to stoke and provoke
daydream departure from mundane conversational
adventures cocooned in my warm cosy cloak
cool charismatic characters, charming skills to admire
the wily wheelers, the dubious dealers
the mighty movers, the shuffling shakers, to these I aspire
delvers of science, the body-mind healers
frisky purveyors of seduction spray fuel to the fire
risky game chancers, the common sense stealers
suspenders of disbelief, poetic weavers of word
jovial jugglers of juxtaposition
addicted acquisitors, spinners shifting the absurd
fabulous fakers, deceptive magician
image presenters, dark or backlit, focused or blurred
sculptors of form, instrumental musician
composers of melody, glorious singers of song
whatever the stage, great performers of art
athletic achievers stretching stubbornly strong
rhythmic dynamo dancers moving close or apart
food-feeding salivators, their tasty pleasures prolong
delightful set dishes or delicious a la carte
whether imbibed on its own or in good company enjoyed
the brewer, the vintner, the masters of malt
innovative designers, architects of structure and void
the philosopher's stone, comfort-zone assault
insightful free thinkers, long-held paradigms destroyed
tall storytelling teachers without fear of fault
mathematical manipulators of numbers and code
quantum diving or high-flying to the stars
engineering fabricators, tunnel, bridge, rail and road
crazy drivers and loop-turning avatars
tinkering technicians, ecologists with wisdom bestowed
planners of protest, the remover of scars
inspirational givers, those with just the skill of their bent
empathy crossing over to be by your side
the meek, the afflicted, those who can ill-afford the rent
the refugee fleer from our wars worldwide
safety seekers, brave rational people with lives to augment
as we build indifferent walls... hope denied!
Nobody believes me!
We are killing ourselves and each
other everyday.
And no, we don't need a gun.
But, come on, they tell me,
Stop being a party pooper!
No, I won't get on the train of yours.
Anymore than "Old Sparky."
The train called "Technology Express"
Heading down all nations, ruining
brains, and bodies with no discrimination.
The engineer called WiFi infecting all.
It's not my responsibility to care for you!
that's up to your fascination.
But know please our government acts
without any moral discretion.
Technology effects blood, body and brains.
And~as long as the gov turns a profit,
to hell with us?
We have new toys.! Never a thought that
they harm us.
Googling it, won't say a thing, they
want to hear their cash cow ring
So to our ears the cell phone goes,
Planting tumors row by row.
Some in our breast, and sperm counts are falling.
And what do we do?
Of course, keep calling.
And sadly we ignore family and friends.
A face, a kiss, a warm embrace?
A text is just a text.
It's not a hug, but a curse.
With our eyes going to hell reading
backlit screens.
Even sex, online,with God knows who?
Welcome to the Technological Zoo.
Panagiota Romios
2/24/2019
My voice
Alive with tone
Yet sharply censored
By a mind's take on years
Of historical notes
Tongue no longer sweetened
By optomism
Or spiced with
Mischievous humor
Suddenly all I taste is
So dry
So predictably dull
Night steps forward quickly
Like a woman whose
High heels carry her too loudly
Over hardwood floors
I hear her sharp
And definite approach
Darkness surrounds me
Like mink
Soft to the touch
But cruel in creation
I lay my head down
And begin to dream
My lonely place in the
Darkness opens
Like a curtain
To reveal a carnival scene
Where pale pink cotton candy
Weaves itself gracefully
Around paper cones
I taste the
Incredible sweetness
Its pure reminiscent aroma
So filling with the
Portrayal of childhood innocence
A time lost and
So light in texture
I draw the moment in deep
To remember it well
My grandmother is with me now
Baking her rhubarb pie
Picked fresh from the garden
I'm sitting at her table
A bright-yellow vinyl tablecloth
Neatly drapes itself around
Oval-shaped wood
Loud carnival music
Compliments my meal
I open my mouth wide
Grandmother, serving the perfect balance
Of sweet and spice,
Says softly
"Eat child...Eat"
And then walks away
Alone now
I see the faint outline
Of a crowd in the distance
Lining up to take their turn
On the Ferris Wheel
I'm driven to the
Perfectly straight horizon
Vividly painted beyond
And to them
A wise-cracking clown
Accompanies me
Telling off-color jokes
And showing me "the ropes"
On how to effectively
Cut in line
I see my lover
Jeans torn and hair
Perfectly backlit by
The midday sun
He is at the front of the line
He is waiting
For me
All those behind him now
Have grown impatient
After all
It's been
A very
Very
Long time
The clown presses my hand
Firmly to my lover's
Like a rose forever saved
Between brittle pages
And with a wink
Waves goodbye
The crowd is cheering now
As brightly-colored balloons
Lift up
Released
They have found
Their rightful place
In the sky
TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT
Mercury flys in golden winged sandals,
making a dip in the suns blinding light.
Brilliant dark smudge to snuff out the candles,
too close to the sun, to know that it's night.
In transit Mercury sails by in May,
as a hot tiny black dot on the run.
On descending node, in orbiting play,
it waltzes with Earth and walks on the Sun.
Mars Rover once looked up and saw it there,
this cratered planet transit to a star.
Curiosity caught it unaware,
and filmed it backlit in vivid d'ivoire,
First rock from the sun and planet to fly,
a paparazzi deva in the sky.
BY Edlynn Nau
© May 09, 2016
For external use only-
enter the dragon and the spore.
The mold.
Allergen and Alopecia.
enter the giant ceramic logger and the ballad of the
blown fuse.
This is the outtage of power
interim
buds begin to flower and birds breed where
apple blossoms shower on
the living pretense of
Astroturf.
Sweating now, the
father of the flame
the serf draws his kerchief from his shirt and
wipes his brow
raises his axe and slaughters the
pregnant sow.
The Universal Man by
Ted Davinci. or was it
Leonardo Kazinsky?
Drifting languid, light
upon the damp breeze,
the seeds of milk weed fairy fly
upon the aching air.
Snow white, weightless, dancers
skirts upturned before the coarser green
of velvet lawn they flee.
Backlit as virgin lovers
upon the meadow’s spawn.
The castle walls dare not belay
the upward loft with daunting gray
for on fragile wings in autumn damp
The world is full, a whorl in white.
BEGUILED
a sunset,backlit
sculptures the aboretum-
I ,on 'morrow gaze
we keep away from the racket
street noise, huffing and puffing
to whisper intimately, a lilt of catchy
its weight of dandelions seeded
an ebb and flow of what others thinly imagine
we whisper a new kind of lyric
personalized
gratifying
soft words of casual enticement
me finding her eyes that dart like Dagwood tumbles
whispers to remind her of our shared love of lines
like Picasso angles
or lines of pine trees in backlit light
as hawk wings tower their bladed lines of life
hushed words
crafted to startle and surprise
a certain feeling of time slowing
what could go wrong in whispers
like syrup on waffles?
our way to trace clues of pleasure
rich in concealment
to fill our minds
with music at low volume
played within a world
as it is
pulling apart
tilted at us