Best Baffles Poems
Gentle light flows through the pines,
Inviting the oaks, the laurels, to sigh,
Echoing soft breath, smoke rising –
Mist in the sky, a moment of silence
Breaks the song, playing on the crisp morn’
This is summer’s sadness, when August
Shadows the heat, the sweltering thoughts
Erasing July quicker than sunlight erases
The dew from tender petals who remember
Only the beginnings of dawn’s presence
Soon, Autumn will write its lyrics in dancing
Leaves, vibrant promises of scarlet and gold,
Enchanting the dreams with laughing hues,
Music playing quietly on the still, cool morning
When a heart reaches through the misty air
This is the best recollection of the autumnal
Wings, airborne, soaring gracefully over the
Trembling skies – into the endless veils, vapors
Still, ashen clouds, mysteries in the heavens,
Inspiring poetry from those who write visions…
Warmest wishes, feelings like leaves faded
Beneath the strongest branches, oaks and birch,
Inspirations beguiling the moon to heed the stars,
Blow away the doubts from the storms, rains falling
Melodiously, stirring the embers of a heart, a soul
August noon awaits the temptations so soon removed,
Washed away by the fond webs, the drying memories,
In tones of ashen amber, soothing auburn, reflections
Breathing out psalms along the mountain ridges,
Repeating the trembling hopes, the dreams of a spirit
Eminent woes, memories peeled away in layers –
Intimate and healing, reassuring that fall will be what it will be,
Always alive with reflections, embraces, traces of hope,
Heartfelt desires and wondering affections kissing the truth,
Abiding inside those who know this is God’s unfinished painting –
This is the treasure of summer poured out in wistful
Memories and promises, prayers for the seasonal grace,
The inspirational – the thanks, given to the One who
Captured light and poured it across the earth in one enchanting
Explosion of amazing, marvelous, stunning – even the greatest poet
Can’t write a wonder like that –
His hand, His sculpture, His creation… baffles even the most confident artiste
With God, there is no impossibility and no reason for upset
With Him, not only autumn, not just august, but the entire heart
– the whole life, the entire soul – is blessed!
The wind against the trees make a rustling
A sound unlike any other around
The rubbing of the limbs craft a bustling
It’s a subtle music which brings this sound
Even the lake near land has a ripple
The wind against the trees make a rustling
And the grass nearby swishes and baffles
And the wind seems to give a great panting
The water has another sound, bubbling
Sounds permeate all throughout this calm place
The wind against the trees make a rustling
Mountain sits mighty with sounds on its face
Even the light seems to speak of high marks
The scene enlightens higher than heartstrings
Sound is the number one part that embarks
The wind against the trees make a rustling…
Russell Sivey
Contest: 'SOUNDS'
Sponsor: FRANK H.
5/11/2013
Beauty
At its highest
Baffles
You.
blind minions do not hear
deaf disciples cannot see
callous subzero frozen feelings
breed gibberish jarring jubilee
this bloody blind-eyed messiah
rode to town astride an ass
belching barking oratory
for an aimless lower class
a starry-eyed astrologer
alchemist extraordinaire
summoned shrouded quatrains
revealing he baffles with a flare
loitering lotus-eater
puppeteer par excellence
self-indulgent Machiavellian
pitched fabricated arrogance
adroit and ambidextrous
he summons the mercurial mass
conjuring decrees and fairytales
dictating his rules pass
lose not a bloodied hammered head
resign yourself to a running retreat
le guillotine administers
swift sweet and replete
no man speaks of that not heard
or sees that left not read
bony fingers point with indigestion
reflecting in fractured mirrors
Posted April 18, 2020
Who am I is a question,
That baffles and confuses me.
Aren’t I a stranger to myself,
When in me angels and demons cohabit,
Dwelling side by side.
Sometimes I am mired in confusion.
Sometimes I feel I am a moth caught fast in the fire,
And about to be burnt, when drawn to light
Mindless of the great peril looming.
Sometimes I feel I am sidelined and ignored,
And left out from the mainstream of life,
Like a book stacked away on a rusty shelf
In a dark corner, never touched or dusted.
After a wave of rising energy
I fall into a state when I feel so inert and dull.
At times, feel that I am a lifeboat without oars.
But soon I alight on the lighthouse of joy.
As the cycle of seasons keeps changing
The pendulum of my life swings from joy to sorrow
And hope and despair are threaded,
Into the tapestry of life as warp and woof
Essentially kind and compassionate,
I am moved to tears whenever I see,
An instance of human suffering
And tears of joy well my eyes
When I witness human excellence and pride over it.
Time has mellowed me, and wisdom has taught me,
To see the inner light shining in me.
Even when dark clouds creep into my night sky
Beneath the façade of my aching torso,
I see a soul eternal and indestructible.
At best, I like to think that I am a child of God,
And I strive to be led by that inner light.
Even when I swim in the doldrum of life,
I pray to release the infinitesimal quantum of energy,
That keeps the fire in me ever-blazing,
To add my lustre even to the stars.
To love and be loved is my credo,
For “even if I speak
in the language of angels and have no love
I am only a noisy, empty gong”.
There is a spark of heavenly fire in each one of us
Though it may lie dormant in broad daylight
It kindles up, beams, and blazes
In the dark hours of adversity.
So, frolic in the Living water and dance on the cliff
An edifice constructed through years of hard labor
May be destroyed overnight but keep building anyway!
What is Life
Life is a gift, with many ups and downs,
Its mysteries and wonders keeps’ us spellbound;
It takes us on adventures, that were not planned,
It has twists and turns, that we’ll never understand;
Life never stops, no matter the time or season,
Its existence is evolutionary, like the “Garden of Eden.”
It is a story book, pages full of complexities,
It baffles our minds, and exposes our insecurities
What is life? It’s beauty, change, imagination, too,
An everlasting rollercoaster ride, experienced by me and you!
Written: © 9/8/15
Poetry Soup
It's imagery, movement, rhythm, and rhyme,
Composition of words that baffles the mind;
Art woven meticulously, lines by design,
Pleasing the senses soothes like fine wine.
It's calmness, excitement, free flowing words,
With qualifying beauty like the Peacock bird;
Musical interludes that rises and fall,
Like the waves against an ocean wall.
It’s a hodgepodge of homemade colloquialism,
That challenges our thoughts through aerobic athleticism;
On occasion, darkness sprinkles the pages,
Spoon fed mixture absorbed in small stages.
Poetry Soup, food for the soul,
A deliverance of warmth through written scrolls!
Written : © 11/12/15
Submitted for: Your Absolute Best II CONTEST
Sponsored by: The Seeker
I'm new to this language; it baffles me so!
With so many mysteries I wish to know:
Why doesn't 'resolve' mean 'to solve it again'?
And why are 'wise guys' not the same as 'wise men'?
Why doesn't 'extraneous' mean 'once was traneous'?
Why's 'miscellaneous' not NOT cellaneous?
Enigmas that seem to me very unmappable,
Unflappable me has become simply flappable.
"You're incorrigible", my friend Mike said to me,
I said, "Corrigible I'll endeavor to be."
One museum we saw had a fossil exhibit
I asked, "Every bone was at one time a hibit?"
"I don't care for inquisitive people", said Mike.
So I asked, "What's a quisitive person look like?"
He looked at me plussed with a look of disgust,
now I hope I can change it to gust and nonplussed.
"Disgruntled employees", my boss said, distressed,
"are a pain in the neck!" I thought, "gruntled is best!"
He scolds my appearance: "Your hair is unkempt",
so I'm bringing a comb to make sure it stays kempt.
"Avoid work mishaps, and do not act unruly".
"Yes sir, boss. I'll only make ruly haps, truly"
He tells me, "Just try not to look so disheveled."
My note to self: make it my goal to look sheveled.
"Intrepid Improvements" the work poster says
"Avoid trepid provements" is my New Year's res.
"Such reckless abandon" someone said to me
so from now on, more reckful I'm hoping to be.
I've tried to appear nonchalant and undaunted,
I'm daunted that I'm more chalant than I wanted.
This poem I'll write in indelible ink -
…much better than delible ink, don't you think?
If you try to tell me that I’m just being a drama queen, the silent screams that suffocate my thoughts might just escape from my mouth. It wouldn’t matter anyway though, right? You’d just ignore my shouts. I mean, I’m not a man, so I’m not even important enough to be seen as a threat and even if I’m just barely clawing at my sanity, I’m still not important enough to be deserving of your help.
Please, enlighten me on how we women have all the power, how our superficial society believes that it can win us over with a shower of fake compliments, how you need a women to help your company grow because her beauty can flirt with each and every guy but she doesn’t have the need to know. She has the ability to buy you more customers with just a single look. After all, that’s what we’re here for. What else could we possibly have to offer?
It baffles me why you somehow consider yourself better than her.
You’ve never walked in these shoes. You live on the other side of the line, and these are my shoes so don’t you tell me how to deal with my blues and don’t you dare say something which which happens every single day doesn’t exist anymore.
Can’t I at least just have that? After all, it is a women’s world.
One day, one time, God spoke to me.
The Creator who knows everything supposedly,
had a question that needed answering from yours truly.
"You're always helping others in need less fortunate than you,
and many of these people aren't particularly liked by you.
Why do you do all of the charitable things that you do?
What's your reward? What's in it for you?
Most times you commit these acts anonymously,
so you receive no recognition, no praise, no publicity.
I Am All And Know All but this baffles me.
Why do you do what you do SillyBilly?"
My reply to my Creator was simply,
"The meek shall inherit the earth and live heavenly
as promised by my Creator of all that is and will ever be.
My Creator has shared that People Helping People is the key
and I'm just doing what I can to relieve my Creator from some of the responsibility.
It's just my way of saying, Thanks For Creating Me."
My Creator then looked sadly down upon me
and said, "I don't know how to say this, but I'm very sorry.
You are hereby sentenced to hell for all eternity.
I need to work on this. Guess you could say it's my pet peeve,
but I don't tolerate any of they who brown nose their deity."
My time spent in hell has dispelled all of the rumors
about God not having a dark sense of humor.
In the space of time which we can’t understand
a lifetime is lived
and memories
made in an hourglass
of sand though we
know that it is so
how it passes
baffles me in a day,
a year is spent
seems perception
is the key Harnessed,
we know it can’t be
nor can it be bought
Even too much
pondering makes it
overwrought what then,
do we do with time
with this hourglass
of sand live and
love, appreciate, that’s not hard to understand
Standing on the sands
of helplessness,
as waves of sadness
lap at my feet
I know not what holds
your voice hostage,
unable to comfort it
only baffles
At an ocean's length
of pain,
an essence cannot even
take wing on a breeze
So sadness is held in
a blanket of love
If the heart is not mended,
then love's breath
cannot
bring it back
A storm of uncertainty
tries to overtake
A need to absorb the pain,
making it taste of wanting
to be lessened
If not stated where
sadness is born,
all attempts to bring
joy back fails
As waves grow
building up,
into a hurricane
of grief
Drops of uncertainty,
fall on my face then
raging faster
While threatening to drown
the only hope,
of two halves to
become whole
An older poem!;)
She flings her body skyward
as every winter before, her heart afire,
she follows a pre set- migratory course,
divinely guided, from half a world away.
Coming or going her destination
always becomes home,
to nest again -raise another brood
knowing that generations drive her grand obsession-
the self- exile she endures heavy on her breast
She sees around her unfamiliar landscape
longs for lush valleys and trees of evergreen
With each day her inner call grows stronger,
fills her with an urgent sense to flight
to take to the endless skies- one tiny bird, uncertain, of her flock,
alone in the vast and blue unfriendly sky
Her wings falter, she feels that death is near,
a last flight comes for every bird.
It seems, what divine force
held her course before - is gone
she tries but her flight turns aimless
Below, the landscape is a map- less blur
that baffles her tiny brain
From the dark valleys below a black fog rises
Hostile winds impede her faltering flight
until the ground without warning or ill-will
calls the tiny form again to earth.
Premiere Contest number 9
Contest Judged: 9/8/2016 12:01:00 PM
Sponsored by: SKAT A
9th Place
Eavesdropping
A good man is hard to find
Said my Nana,
That was the day I saw tears in her eyes
As she nervously stuff the monthly tithe in the envelope
And headed to church that Sunday morning
Before, screaming at my granddad for hours
I guess she was mad as hell at the old fool
That was the same day when I found out that my hero my grandpa
Was having an affair with the widower Estelline Beckley
“Ellie you’re the only woman for me said my Granddad”
However, my Nana wasn’t haven’t any of that
So she slammed the door in Granddad face
I remember being scared, and confused,
About this family feud
So, I hid under the table, and prayed to God
for the screaming and shouting to stop
For several weeks all my Nana did was pray and prayed
And all Granddad done was burn her pots and pans
Boiling water and making coffee.
Nana told the neighbors, that those harlots with a trail
For a rear end, could cause a man to climb,
a mountain without his proper gears
That statement still baffles me until this day.
Until many years later when I met my mother half sister
the spit and image of my mother.
however, she had the very spirit and expression of my Granddad
so much for eave dropping and family affairs
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Form: