Best Beaconing Poems
Luscious leaves brush against my face,
pulsing veins deep enough to trace
time with a wind gust embrace.
Maroon, copper, gold they dangle
glistening to sunset's angle
with zeal of wind chime's bangle.
Lully leaves descend freestyle
becoming a striking pile
beaconing a playful smile.
Before dried crunches can accrue,
lively, I toss a pile at you
and you become a child too.
1/21/2021
A dad he was to my man,
lost in a world of abuse.
Selling all he had in life,
to fund his addictions.
Digging flesh from bone,
stabbing bugs crawling wild.
Demons appear in torment,
beaconing him deeper.
A knife into the thigh,
sent him sickly out.
Hospital tests for all,
not knowing the truth.
Infections settle silently,
staff reared its ugly head.
Confined in solitary moments,
being alone and scared.
Stitches close the injury,
sickness embeds his soul.
Taunting images haunt him,
through every corned space.
Eyes cloud with blurred vision,
surgery required suddenly quick.
Sight saved from blindness,
doctors breathe with a sigh.
Something else has happened,
immune system has shut down.
Disease rested in his marrow,
the fight fire life has begun.
Myloid Dysplastics Disease,
fogs his body hard and cold.
Respirators knocking loudly,
asleep he has no choice.
A gasp of air was his final,
machines took over from there.
The last time we would see him,
full of any kind of life of his own.
Two weeks has gone by,
no change for the better.
Septic shock attacks kidneys,
we all seen him enter heaven.
It was a total all together,
from the time he stabbed his leg.
Four months from that day,
his end would be forever...
FROM DREAMS OF DREAMS OF THE SEA AND ME
(FOR TONI M.)
Standing, staring seaward,
Sore eyes see the horizon resting content
On the frothing pillows of the beaconing sea;
Here I stand consumed in the web
Of lingering thoughts spun from dreams of dreams
Somehow always dreaming back to me:
Incomplete
Drifting dreams deferred.
The sun peeks out under shades of clouds reflecting
Sable apparitions: Beautiful blackbirds’ breasts
Gleam with ebony luster:
Sweet silent stares shatter.
The chilled ocean breeze conjures
Whispering echoes of screams:
Ancestral moans and groans echo
From the bowels of sunken ships;
Staring seaward, stepping sand
Backwards, I leave fading footprints.
The echoes follow.
The dark eerie fog and glowing gaslights. She sits woefully. He is gone again tonight. Rumors whispers of the terror, as she holds on once again. Murder by night and a stirring muffin man. The dark old Victorian house creaks with fear. A young lover grasps her pillow, shedding her tear. Not far from Drury Lane and not far from the insane. He has returned unnoticed and is the worker of the house. He needs his rest, so She softly walks like a timid mouse. She tries to share but he doesn’t care.Your going mad woman. There is nothing there! Do you really know the muffin man or any man? Gone again, hehe, you can’t catch me.The nightly affair of terror returns, as her mind wonders. Some imagination are easily dismissed but the flickering gas light, just doesn’t not quit, like a beaconing omen of their love. She thinks to rekindle but there is a knock at the door The police have her battered husband. We caught him red-handed for sure. Fears within fears, fears without, and fear without a doubt. Fears come in and fears go out. Dawn screams in the rain, as she finally goes insane. - Based upon the abuse of gaslighting and actual murders in London.
HOME
There’s a little brown log cabin
Smothered by a blanket of white,
Rich evergreens surround it,
The porch a crystal sun highlights.
Gray smoke billows from the chimney
Then freezes at winter’s cold bite.
The glimmer on the face of the window
Blazes like a beaconing light.
This dwelling is nestled in velvet
Like the moon is caressed by the night
And to see this cabin from a distance
Is, indeed, a rewarding sight.
But to know it’s the end of one’s journey
Fills this man’s heart with delight.
A distant dampness wrings the air.
A weight most profound presses chest
as indrawn breath holds silent;
in the stonehedge of overwhelming gloom.
So, the mighty have fallen
auguries of a mortal doom.
Without missive,
bluestone bones, stanchions silhouette
onto a plane of pastel sky.
Gargantuan, they rise, a tomb.
So, the mighty have fallen
auguries of a mortal doom.
Brittle brown blood expunged
by millennium three,
the still, symbolic, oak forest rises.
Frozen sarsens, five, forming an open grove.
Megaliths beaconing a golden eastern dawn
So, the multitude will rise within the circle
without earthly substance, soul;
through green grasslands loam
ashen augury of a different tome.
Beyond the world lies a journey,
a horizon that acquaints a magical destiny,
a solitude with soulful eternity,
a milieu abiding betrothal vicinity,
where deity is within the eyes
and the faith adobe vivid smile.
Beyond the human lies a viability,
a nascence that exhale a verse amorously,
a spirit with blissful sovereignty,
an admirer beaconing Elysian itinerary,
where deity is seen solely,
to a hermit heart wallowing ethereally.
In all honesty
I believe Love is actually blind
That she lost her road
And headed straight
Into the mess, she lays in today
I hope we all find her, bathe her and clothe her
Cos she's really a mess right now...
Love used to be the gatekeeper
Between the legs of young girls
Keeping the invaders out in the wild
But these days,
She's more like the green lamp on the traffic lights
Beaconing every car to drive that route
Deep into 'The Virgin Close'
Love used to be the backbone of every man
The strength and blood that pushes men to fight
Work and be the better person
But these days
She's become the gravity pulling every man down
She's the pickaxe used by gold-diggers
Digging the wealth out of our young men
Leaving them broke—like some shattered glass
Love was so innocent back in the day
All she knew was just letters
Written by some secret admirer
And believe me
The shadiest part of the letter is
You've got beautiful brown eyes
That's a classical one
But these days
Love does Sexting
She's all about the unspeakable...
Love is so rusty
She needs some work done on her
She needs rehabilitation
From her figure to her concept
Especially her use in this context
She is meant to be the binder
Between us all
But sadly, Love is blind
We've gotta spit on the ground
Make mud and rub in her eyes
As we proclaim the phrase (Jn. 9:6)...
Here's Mud in Your Eye
And all will come to know that
Love is not blind
Love is not proud
Love is not self-seeking
Love keeps no record of wrong
Rather, Love is kind
Love is patient
Love is true
Love protects
Love perseveres
Love is beautiful
Just like the Sea...
Inspired by Martha Machief
Critiqued by Ess—Jay
Day in, and day out, from the ripe old age of five,
I’ve take to sharp objects and whittled at their sides.
Lancing pristine white paper with brazen blue veins,
it was quite impossible for me to abstain.
Day in, and day out, from the egg to the cane,
with old age beaconing and more of the same.
Lancings lingering images on pages of fading memories...
perhaps they're dreams these blue traceries,
As impossible as it seems, impossible, and often strained?
I wonder would it have been best for me to simply have abstained?
That moment
That perfect moment
Where time became eternal
I saw
I opened my blinded eyes and saw
The expanse of your soul
To reword
To match time stricken words to an eternal glimpse
Absurd
So, I write
I write without reason
Flowing with the ink blotting the page
I ran
I ran around - all around
Into darkened corners and wounded places
I knocked down fortified walls
Cleaned up forgotten issues
Dressed open lacerations
With my arsenal of
WORDS
I SPOKE
I sang
I hummed
I belted out notes from the depths of my soul
I lit you up
And I giggled as I watched you shine
You skipped with glee at the sight of
ME?
I tried
Oh how I tried
To climb out and walk away
I yelled - I cannot be here -
You belong to another
But you offered me no ladder
So…I…
Stayed
I played
I played with words
Rearranging, inventing, creating
New ways to express…love
It was ok
I mean…I was just playing…with love
Not your
Marriage
One day
One beaconing reckoning day
She saw your light steps
Almost dancing with your secret
Play with love in words
With me - not her-
The invader
You didn’t withhold
But you didn’t invite either
I gave her my words too
She read, fed, and bled
I stood still
In awe of my
Words
I rewrote
I rewrote them again and again
But she couldn’t play
Fear had bound her soul
Some of my words reached her
Then, she decided
To kick me
OUT
She expelled me from hers
And expunged me from yours
She tried to push me far away
I stood in silence and
~ grieved ~
Your lighted steps
Became a plod
Her concern
Entered into rage
I put myself
To rest
In my Savior’s arms
Written by Trudy Schrader on 7-6-10
The torrential rain subsided
As she peep through the dark mute street
With her heart socked in regrets
A decision has to be taken
Parenting the small angel alone is hard to chew
The little angel smile at her
But she waved it swiftly
As she robed him beside the trash of life
Tears dropped from her eyes
With his umbilical cord still oozing
A connection to motherhood
Her breasts still beaconing
The innocent look, innocently smile at her
She reached out for her swift feet, lest hell is set loose
At sun sets
Passersby nodding
Vehicular moves halt
The atmosphere filled with fears
Has the world gone gaga as Lady Gaga?
Well we are all insane retorted a voice
The boy grew in home far away from her womb
With his true identity unknown
Terror and love visits him daily,
Questioning his identity
Who am I?
Am I just an accident by birth?
Am I actually Awoh?
Even as such,
If my true identity remains unknown
I shall give the world a definition.
awoh awoh
Liberty Statue
There she stands with torch in her hand.
Beaconing freedom throughout the land.
Welcoming those who come to this land..... of the free.
She doesn't care what color you are.
Whether you come from near or from far.
Many an eye has shed a tear.
To see her so Proudly welcoming you here.
This lady we call Liberty was a gift from France to you and me.
She stands on an island called Liberty, all on her own.
Letting one and all visit her home.
Greeting people of all nations who come to this land.
Liberty is the name she is called.
And Heaven help us if ever does she fall.
CLB520
Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.
As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.
The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.
Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.
By birth am an African
At death, I shall remain resolute and resilience to the African spirit
Strengthening the cords in the midst of turbulence beaconing
Blithering hope, when the lyrics of bloodshed is authored
Staging a holy war against scoffers of my skin
Fostering the lots of the black
Am proud to be black and blunt,
My aural is irresistible
Chaos and cure flow in my veins
Black is the colour of the universe
I do not seek your views in this
Come to think of it,
I am first an African
I shall remain in Africa
Even when the turbulence beacons
For this is my home.
awoh awoh
My Home in The Glenn
Passing the glen walking a curving path
Following the red bird, skipping on strath
Trees bend with the winds beaconing
Their invitations to come into the forest
Tall and thick with shadows moving
With ghost lingering, along the road
An overgrown trail of brush and weeds
Little tiny flowers from meandering seeds
Stones and thickets where the doe sleeps
Their fawn suckles until winters birth
The rabbit and the kids nibbling
Eating forest tarots and sweet leaves
She wanders home despite any threats
Her home rests peacefully in the trees
The lights shine welcoming her home
A time to dance and celebrate
A home tucked privately within the small glen
©2016 Bonnie Jennings All Rights Reserved