Best Begetting Poems
She wept as they buried her one true love.
Each day thereafter she brought him a rose,
the flower she knew he was fondest of.
Her grief unbearable, beyond repose.
What pain and suffering his death bestows.
Nothing prevented her daily visit.
She didn't want him to feel all alone.
When beside him her face was exquisite.
When weary she would sigh and then lay prone,
weeping for her love in soft languished moan.
There, in restless sleep, flames of love still burned
'til the twilight hour, when she felt a chill
as the gentle warmth of sunlight adjourned.
She heard a dove singing a mourning trill,
begetting heartache's tears to flow and spill.
November 3, 2022 ~ 2022 Marathon Mile 19 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Originally written on 23rd of July 2016
Three Stanzas of English Quintain, 10 syllables per line
with a rhyme scheme of a-b-a-b-b
It was time for day to bid adieu to the setting sun,
when tangerine hues blend with those of pale pink.
Not to miss the titian glow, I was afraid to blink,
now that the ebbing of twilight had finally begun.
Slowly, it descended below the horizon's edge,
a sanguine orb drowning in a cobalt blue sea.
Sunset is such an enchanting pleasure for me,
as sunlight disappears behind the cliff's ledge.
During the begetting of night, my mind was at play
with thoughts of writing of a moment I won’t forget
and of the crowning halo of light of the sun's coronet.
The one it offers to the moon at the end of each day.
Cascades of pastel colors stretched across the skies.
My shadow grew longer as the sun bid me 'farewell.'
I watched a last flicker of light dip in an ocean swell.
A radiant canvas loomed before my awestruck eyes.
The grand finale' of this prismatic pageantry, I lauded,
as this lustrous sunset slowly slipped away from me,
waved goodbye and sank into the depths of the sea.
Another sunset made its exit. I stood and applauded.
Some say mankind’s a blight upon the Earth
That left alone would be a paradise
But sucks its blood and lays on it a curse
Destined to burn or freeze in waste of ice
Cassandra voices preach in latter days
To craven souls, increasing sad despair
In strange alliance then they focus gaze
On tide of opportune chance to ensnare
Emotions raised from hopelessness to rage
Seduced by siren songs assuring virtue
Awarding promises of guilt assuaged
Enabling dominion, cancel, curfew
But do all men to tyranny conspire
Does nature lone and wild itself admire
**************
Yet there are those perhaps in greater number
With faith, they constitute a wider legion
Then true virtue and goodwill, now in slumber
May be awakened to become a beacon
Unmired in apathy of victimhood
We humans coexist, sister and brother
With all parts of existence, spurred for good
In co-creative hand, one with another
The world we know, we play part in begetting
Perhaps as agents all, of Providence
A diverse panoply conveys our setting
With free choice to make certain its defence
No! tyranny need not unchecked conspire
Our world could prove a backcloth to admire
N/A in contest: ALL YOURS (MAR 14)
M,
"If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around, does it still make a sound?"
the sound akin
a honey bee
guarding her hive
alive
with tiny wings
not letting
not forgetting
anyone
shan't slip on by
the dance
floors tapped
mouths taped
trapped
together
as shuffles brush the polish
illuminating
off the dwellings
of her naked floor
resound
praise
a knock upon the door
echoes
chambers
on knee
begetting
soul
deepened in pools of green
a serenade
the world hath never seen
inside
growing rings
wrapped upon a tree
beginnings
blooming
branch reaching branch
two entrance
eye to eye
we climb, we climb
worlds escape
eclipsing to be free
passed in between
intrigue
allure, amoré
attracting
moments evermore
a tongue, a key
a Bee
ever free
your ink
scripted so seductively
succumbs me
a statue of hieroglyphs
meticulous in manner
meandering
amid lasting memories
bleeding into my distended veins
you're a word of wisdom
imbibing
of my essence
with lips of long
as night stars hold view
shadows will awaken
with her solemn kiss
to the morn
begetting the radiance
beaming inside
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
there is a treasure of vast fortune in the likes of which man has searched for millennia
scholars, professors , experts of treasure hunting falter alike
searching in the sea scanning mountians , questing through ancient ruins, and devilish caves ,nary a clue to be found
with maps at there wits , books and scribes from new age and antiquity search, the trail goes dry , such an enigmatic quandary , only questions begetting questions
no evidence nor blind fate it is a mystery in its own , secrets of this great treasure is in the will of the hunt, secrets can say all , thus whispers remain silent
many of stories have been told, in hope to unlock the secrets, passion sweat , and wisdom will be had , it remains hidden
is there such , a treasure to be found ,
this treasure has been found by a great many, and eludes just the as many
the only treasure needed to be found is the immaculate love , divinity and essence of life , believe accecpt cherish , never give up the hunt
Once upon a time my dearie, I slept to wake Oh So Cheery.
Before that Raven clearly came, to knock upon my Dragons door.
Dragon took him in very nice, warming him up within a thrice.
Saving him from the cold and ice, now we dream to find slumbers door.
Wishing, wishing, clearly wishing, we keep praying for slumbers door.
Simply this, and nothing more.
Dragon saved that silly Raven, who had come from his Poe haven.
He came knocking very craven, wanting solace in Dragon’s door.
Hungry, lost, little, lonely thing, frozen clearly were tender wings.
Crying sadly from colds’ harsh sting, wanting solace within the door.
Thus when open, entered quickly, quickly entered our Dragon’s door.
If only this, were nothing more.
But this raven suffered dearly, nights he quoted Poe so clearly.
Giving Dragon nightmares dreary, causing wakening fearful roars.
Nightmares flared as Dragon running, into our bed quickly jumping.
On the floor all quickly landing, soundly the bed fell to the floor.
The raven came, on us landing, to gaze upon us on the floor.
Please Raven... Quote no more!
Sleepless nights continued passing, from the ravens endless blasting.
Night terrors steadily flowing, nothing stopped those endless scores.
An idea came to find me, on how his mind could be set free.
Eager to change the dreams to be, I sought an Ipod full of scores.
Scores begetting tranquil dreaming, solace finding and soothing scores.
Searching for this, and nothing more.
Begins the night’s shadows creeping, his eyes mocking, and beseeching.
I must stop his soul from joining, to fight with Poes’ shadows trying…
Trying once more, to take his soul, toward those demon littered shores.
Grabbing the ipod I forward tore, to give him tranquility evermore.
Pouch and ear buds firmly seated, engaged in a fierce-some war.
Morning found all, in blissful snores… Quoted the raven nevermore.
6-05-2014 I found it interesting to follow Poe's style measure for measure.
In desert that is poor and dull
On soil that is scorched with fire
The Upas-tree stands as a hull
as guard who's one who knows no tire.
The prairie's nature had a thirst
begetting Him in day of fury,
It filled dead green of branches first,
It poisoned roots these give no curing.
The poison flows through pale bark,
Noon smelts with heat His poisoned dripping,
The Eve congeals Him like a mark
as limpid pitch on trunk - He's sleeping.
There are no birds to fly to Him,
No tiger walks to tree, just swirl
embraces tree of death with scream
and runs away with toxic evil.
And if the cloud will irrigate
His ancient leaves and pause its motion,
Its fallen rain flows down as fate
along the branches like deadly potion.
But crafty man had sent a man
to Upas-tree with glance of power
And man had walked according a plan,
He brought the bane in morning hour.
He brought the bane - the deadly pitch
And branch with faded leaves of Oro
And sweat ran down the brow and bleached
it with cold streams in silent sorrow.
He brought. He's weak, he has laid down
under the arch of the tent on flooring,
The slave has died in feet of crown
that knows no loss that knows no longing.
The Lord fed arrows with this bane,
They are obedient to his power,
He sends the death, he sends the pain
to neighbors in decisive hour.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Alexander Pushkin
MUST I CALL YOU.....AGAIN?
Must I call you again, onlooker at my hurt,
Talking by the window, an inscape of wrecked
Solitude, impugned bad manners, and the curt
Commerce of refusal. Your blameless, decked
Hand of fate. Capitulation, a trade or pain
Of being alone. What mannered smile can lift
My woebegone future for the pull of rain
Making the shards of bright light shift
Away from wonderment, green-begetting magic?
An empowerment of the seeing eye inwards,
Making whole my patchwork, your solipsism so tragic,
In a smitten whorl of entire fate dragged skin-wards,
Renting with ache this sojourning material,
Glimpsing the light eternal, ethereal.
by Rosemarie Rowley
Published in IN MEMORY OF HER (2008)
1 Peter 3:1
Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands; that, if any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives;
[Ye wives, be in subjection] Consider that your husband is, by God's appointment, the head and ruler of the house; do not, therefore, attempt to usurp his government; for even though he obey not the word-is not a believer in the Christian doctrine, his rule is not thereby impaired; for Christianity never alters civil relations: and your affectionate, obedient conduct will be the most likely means of convincing him of the truth of the doctrine which you have received.
[Without the word] That your holy conduct may be the means of begetting in them a reverence for Christianity, the preaching of which they will not hear.
(from Adam Clarke's Commentary, Electronic Database. Copyright © 1996, 2003, 2005, 2006 by Biblesoft, Inc. All rights reserved.)
Ode to my Wife:
What can I say?
The woman is awesome.
She feeds me in every way,
to the top
and then some.
She makes me know I am loved.
Where does she find the verve?
Three score years and more
the pattern always the same.
My needs filled first,
never words which maim
and cripple the unity felt.
Sure we have our differences
every couple does.
But they wane and fade,
bend, blend and mascarade
to seemingly hide but daily guide
without need for charade.
When I think of her, there comes
a silent smile, a warm glow,
a need to be close.
Oh, I love that woman so.
© Charles Henderson
2/21/2017
The rented hall ways so surreal.
Cheerful alumnus ranting sex appeal.
Forgive my dropping a time bomb.
Taking Mother to the prom.
Our student body didn't shake.
All others escorted steady dates.
A proclivity prom, above all others.
Our band encrypted, "The Righteous Brothers".
Bobby Hatfield's introverted eyes, somehow.
Deeply scanned the milk punch bowl.
Imposter bandits, smuggled from Jersey.
Spiked the punch bowl, with laced heresy.
Setting alumnus minds; off and reeling.
We never, "Lost that Loving Feeling".
Alas, by now you must have guessed.
A convert Baptist to Catholic to Buddhist.
Thanked and Blessed.
Times worn quickly it seems.
I betrothed the crowned prom queen.
If begets lead to further begetting.
Trumpet in the table setting.
Now, before I forget to mention.
I'm Chief Commander of the United Nations.
The priestly Buddhist Monk is my adjunct.
No!!, pundits from paltry pulpits Shout.
No needed pouting, I'll get put out.
Covetous opponents horns, a' Blow-in.
I hold cards, but none are show-in.
That female candidate, can she insist.
A real, lopsided bubble purist.
Piling coals upon my trouble list.
She never, "Closes Her Eyes Anymore when Her Lips are Kissed".
Dear Jesus, may I adorn my Bobby Hatfield headphones.
Appreciating a, past on, baritones gigs.
Someone strummed an evil trick.
Thank You, for Your promised Rainbow.
One end of the spectrum, birth and mirth.
The other end death, it seems much worse.
"It Makes Me Just Feel Like Crying".
"You are My Soul and Highest My Highest Inspiration".
Pressure doesn't bother me at all.
What casts my craw into the fiery jowl.
How all my works got twisted.
As tho, I took your Mom to the prom.
Hoped betterment of bastion dorms.
Face radiance of holistic norms.
Is "Something Beautiful Dying".
My life has travelled roads less taken,
a tumbleweed, east, west, north and south,
all around the world.
Sprouting, enticing horizons beckoned,
each just as fair, opened to discover
by youthful emancipation from entangled roots.
Never an answer to who my grown up would be,
endless opportunities, challenges and changes,
in effect, constrained ever looking back.
Well along nearly two score and ten later,
sunset in the dwindling distance, I take momentary pause
for a meditative gaze back along the ways.
Lennon said life happens, displaces other plans,
an evolution of maturation from hopes and expectations
to what has been, is, and what is yet to come.
In the distance, an inquisitive, self-assured youth,
unstoppable, for whom failure was alien,
que sera, sera in mien.
In between, the midlife self schooled in life’s reality,
nil tallies begetting pragmatism, tempering intrepidity,
with neither hope nor hopefulness suppressed or quelled.
Today, my senior citizen contemplates its
ageless twenty-something heart and mind,
with as many questions, but fewer answers than they had.
There is no sigh, no lamentation, no regret
as I turn to continue along the current byway,
trusting that I have somehow made a difference.
© Copyright J. Nicholas De Bonis, 2015. All rights reserved.
PEARL
Invested with iridescence
Calcium carbonate could impersonate
And subvert solemn daylight.
In the indifferent ocean
Oysters copulate with future
And grow gravid in nature.
Begetting a rare solidity
Befitting a miniscule masterpiece
Which is just happenstance
For a huge price, this prised-out gift.
Mar 19, 13
S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Days of Forever
With every day,
we plant a bit
gather a bit,
use a bit.
Time’s waning irrigation
renders dry many tributaries.
From high in the ethos-sphere
some of purity’s regeneration
meanders down rivulets of calm
while certain regrets clamor endless echoes
from mind’s canyon to canyon.
Some may ask…
What of the times
when fragrance fills the air,
when Alpine’s flower reverence
dances its season beside trickling brooks?
And lest we forget our concrete avenues
where stanchions of glass and steel
hold mysteries aloft with lessons’
East side to West side,
seeking out willing listeners.
We always remember those rough and tumble planting seasons of growing up,
when sunlight seems clouded
and food for flesh
momentarily begets starvation of thought
Yet with temperance of satiation,
we arrive at harvest time
and suddenly new sprouting appears,
the cycling conundrum of time blinks open again,
the bard’s handiwork resounds: to be or not to be.
For such breath-held moments of question
ushers out the darkness of sleep,
begetting the radiance of sunrise,
the waking from Nature’s perpetual dreams,
opening eyes to harvest from those of seed.