Best Bequeaths Poems
women of dusk and dawn
who love to feast on their senses
in a banquet ripened by love and courage,
chilled to last till the moonlight
bequeaths more hours for stories
about earth's flesh...
oh, let the first drone of music
praise the female spirit voluptuous
as hips sashay in gaiety wildly wet,
empresses hunting for the eyes of god in men
softly flowing in veils of mystery
that hover in the fragrance
housed in chambers of rich legends
and reality: taste their tears,
cuddle the apples of fertile breasts…
yet no one can touch their essence
or own life’s primeval wombs;
women are women like their children
defying any explanation.
Contest of Chantelle Anne Cooke Favorite Free Verse
2/4//2019 Repost
The poet dreams, and with a simple glance
at trees or sky or at a mountain spring,
begins to write, endeavors to enhance
each sight of beauty with imagining.
He paints midsummer as a day of gold,
the song of birds at twilight as the tune
for his beloved, whose aspect is extolled
and likened to the splendor of the moon.
At times, his heart is pained. It seems that doom
pursues him in that chasm where he grieves.
He finds he still must write. . . and there may bloom
sweet wistful roses on his journal’s leaves.
Though meager be his assets, he bequeaths
to us a treasure with the words he breathes.
For "A Poet's Worth" Poetry Contest
In wisps from a gentle spirit,
I do my crying in the rain.
Softer grace, I must inherit,
when only angels know my pain.
Harps sacred music beckons thee
as gentle rain bequeaths its will.
From faith and love reveal to me
an angels heart to shield me still.
Angel In The Rain Contest.
06/13/2018
This Night Under Pale And Pallid New Moon
In sad moonlight I mourn for thy soft hand
for your loss, is more than I can withstand
you were my all, orchard's sweet fruited bough
alone in hollow realm, this heart weeps now.
This night under pale and pallid new moon
waiting in your favorite month of June
each gust of your gentle breeze a godsend
upon this eager face, hope never ends.
Come swiftly my love, eternity calls
from its golden depths, its most loving halls
I hear your sweet voice and beg your dear touch
no other treasure bequeaths me so much
as does this fleeting hour you and I meet
with prayer, I again fall at your feet.
Robert J. Lindley, 7-23-2019
Sonnet, ( Epic Depths That Death My Bring A Lost Soul To )
Being of sound mind and body, this dude
Bequeaths his soul to help those who've come unglued
The world needs more giggles
And more positive signals
For a better world to emerge with a new attitude
Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616...
The Bard Bequeaths
'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth,
This twenty third of April owned thy fate.
Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth
In midst of spring as summer's passions wait.
Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears,
The blood of inspiration spake and writ,
Like life itself, upon the stage appears
Until, at last, a poison potion sipped.
Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell
There, hidden in the chaos is reward.
Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell,
Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword.
Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind,
Conception's want that cannot be confined.
Winter bequeaths you.
Velvet crocus tease my flesh.
The tides thirst for more.
Brenda Molmod Atry
Copyright February, 2018
#YouandMeandHimandHerAndThemAndUs
The ancient anguish of a hurting heart
Bequeaths no beauteous scene to me today.
It’s just a jagged chasm gashed apart,
A stream with boulders strewn in disarray.
Like rusted leaves that bleakly canvas fall
Or barren trees that bear the winter snow,
Its listlessness conceals a stonework wall
That bars the beggar from his bungalow.
A long-abandoned barn where pigeons flock
Beside three worn-out crosses marking graves,
It’s lonely as a lighthouse on a rock
Forever battered by the crashing waves.
Their ceaseless song may soothe a sleepless soul,
But how, I sigh, can sad be beautiful?
---
Date Written: January 3, 2019
Contest: Beautiful Sadness, sponsored by John Hamilton
Chalkboard solitude eats at my mind
My fingers leave scars in the written words
And behind me a herd of sheep cries out
As the remaining words run red
And blood drizzles down the board
My thoughts were abhorred
But my actions were lauded
What a twisted juxtaposition
Mindlessness is a cancer
So critical of every flawed detail
But envious of others despite their ineptitude
And fire could burst from my fingertips
You'd never know it from all the silence
And when I finally turn around
What a surprise it is
To find me alone in the white walled room
Dreaming of yesteryear
But there's paint chipping on the wall
And I dig away at it
And behind the whiteness of the walls
Is a mold that runs deep
That's been festering for over a decade
These white walls are merely a facade
For an ugly truth buried beneath
That bequeaths me with sorrow
And when I turn back around
The chalkboard remains
Without any words
(1946)
Walking in Sailor Fields amongst the nettles
picking blackberries, the brambles
cut deep savage the mind.
Yet the bowl to be filled the jam
to be boiled the bread of hope
to be flavoursome, while the innocence
of it all enhanced by the beauty of the place.
The Village shimmers in idyllic peace,
while each evening from the east the veil of night
chases the setting sun, bequeaths it’s
heavenly sequin blanket soon to lovingly
cloak God’s very own.
Life had not changed all that much
in the place, except the men had returned
leaving their memories over yonder,
while some stayed away their bones to lie
within ‘Alien Soil’
Alas the hurt does not diminish,
for those left behind walking in Sailor Fields
amongst the nettles picking blackberries!
© Harry J Horsman 2011
Sweet pleasures kindle a family of hearts
whispering amen for ripples of affection
on homely broths, glazed with smiles
to wrap dawn and night-time into a vessel
of holy gifts, spilling naturally for all roofs
across continents: blessings of life's harvest
shared fully, far richer than ancestral sprouts
birthing rapture of universal wholeness , so divine.
And this my neighbor's colony meshes like
one tree: spirits content as a world
bows to the giving, the loving, the tender
yearning of kinship near or far.
On my lane ,I greet a couple next door
wrapped under an umbrella in the rain...
that by sending them my light, my prayer;
I feel a connection with everyone
illuminating unified kindness which bequeaths
days more ethereal than sunset’s silent intent.
Mystic Rose's Contest
Who Is Your Neighbor
9/13/2015
May the hand of our Lord always guide you
May His tender love daily anoint your heart
May the peace of His heaven fill your world
As this New Year's breath begins to start
May His grace in your mind be steadfast
May the light of His Spirit fill your face
May you never again feel any loneliness
As you live daily in His loving embrace
May your spirit be blessed very abundantly
Writing and sharing what He bequeaths to you
May you strive to inspire and touch another
In the wonderful way He also does for you
Be charitable and kind in your daily walk
Never finding hatred or prejudice within
Living your life each day in a humble way
As this new year in your life now begins
May each step you take this year resemble
The sharing life our Lord always displayed
And you will find His spirit blessing you
As His grace guides your life each new day.
In his book, "Out of my life and thought" Albert Schweitzer recalls
the afternoon in a boat at Lambarene, where he first conceived
his guiding philosophy, "Reverence for Life". The staggering
implications of such a seemingly innocuous generality still
confront us today...and perhaps more than ever with recent
discoveries at the sub-atomic level in quantum physics. But when
I buried my dad, it came to me that all the contempt I have for
anything military was compromised somewhat. I thought that day of
Arlington, when the historic burial rites of the US Army had
such a profound effect upon me.
Schweitzer's Creed
The doctor would have smiled, I think,
in reverie off Lambarene's shores,
to field a posthumous dream--
to learn dry atoms' call to other worlds
can reach and penetrate those alien shells
with marching cadences.
How so like Blake!...who found his universe
within a grain of sand,
for science stops in awe where life begins--
for it begins forever.
Small boats and yes, quixotic ideologies
will never let us be; old lives give way
as sandbars to the river; the old doctor
takes his bow, steps into history
and smiling still, bequeaths
a still more monstrous God of life
where even Alpha and Omega yield
to immortality!
~
I will keep this one simple as it involves one with love
to get the full impetus this song fits like a glove
I am a lover, or prostitute/gigolo of love, but a guitar
reigns all and rises above all. Thank God for Youtube and the offerings
it promotes from a antique man that its presents promote. So much I have l
listened and so much I've lost to vinyl, tape, 8 track and more than it cost.
Whatever the measure the venue that speaks is all that I ask for and all that
bequeaths. Way past, past, pre present now forward, lends ears to all measures
that motivate pleasures to all that appreciate without no man clatures to ageless
yea man playtatures. Music is all to one and all regardless of age and for one for all.
My middle son suddenly I heard him of Frank like I did as a boy in Ohio a dank. Is there
something to astrology, heredity, DNA, that speaks to the aforementioned
in a word yes foretay. Hidden, hiding, promising, pre eminent, ever prominent
evasive, compromising maleovenent. This is where parental promotion is prime
where u forget about convention, discipline, and sublime. Letting them be,
and be and be be, without social face premises to see. My sons r the greatest
as they think arraigned,unassigned, unhinged, to favor fathom their existence
in line to their own place in the present time/place/passion position equitable
and free forth coming to a future fashion fusion frankness filled with
love, caring, forgiveness, and global nurturance for all things human. Yea,
right. It is possible if u drop yr ego and give yr other other self half a f-ing chance.
A mirror works both ways my friend.
Who Said Can't- Constanza
Who said can’t breathe air of freedom?
That’s what you make your self-belief.
Your portion from life you won’t thief.
Breath to life bears many kingdoms:
For you and your treasures’ relief;
Except should your choosing are grief’s.
Life and death are ways to end-doom.
Should you want comfort midst brief,
And both to court and live you chief.
Wedlock is beyond bride and groom.
Expand life in pairs: man and beef…
Lo, your turn over a new leaf.
Warrants meek and mild on seldom.
Too humble soul, the disbelief;
But frankly, bequeaths no mischief.
Who said can’t breathe air of freedom?
Breath to life bears many kingdoms:
Life and death are ways to end-doom.
Wedlock is beyond bride and groom.
Warrants meek and mild on seldom.
A.O,5/01/2014
For: Craig Cornish's "Andrea's Inspiration, Connie's Form, Constanza" Contest.
Please visit About This Poem