Best Bespeak Poems
In realm of love, you are the awe of mystique~
Musings of smitten soul, passions bespeak,
When glances romantic lure enamored night
To dance of fantasies moonlit revelries ignite
Waltzing with stars scintillating opaline skies,
As smiles endearing emanate from your eyes
Beaming missives esoteric, vying to explore,
Secrets of heartbeats extolling echoes of yore,
Adulating present as tomorrow’s dream soar
To domains heavenly, croons of love implore,
Infatuated by aroma your redolent vibes impart,
Abloom in elixir of the rose inside my heart.
March 26, 2023
Poem of the day on March 27, 2023
Placed 1st: The Rose Inside My Heart Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
I've been listening to your eyes
for what feels like eons,
noticing how the rain cries
unto your purposeful lips,
excited also, by the sounds of your
beautiful breaths in the smooth sunlight,
Tapping the pool of love blood,
rippling rose restless
to the edge of a frozen bloom
where the youth of our love wonder stood,
speaking to one another through playful madness,
tempting tragedy to resume
so to confess innocence in the fire flood
of the raw poetry pulsing in divine mood,
I find you in the fragrance of warm faith
and your eyes sing of sorrow unsold to sin,
palmprints upon our hearts bespeak a dangerous heat
that says love born of longing will never be safe,
for a moment we rue what's true about heartbeats lonely and thin,
You pull me within a hue of genius and clue of spirit discrete
revealing a teaching of soul engineering
where the meaning of living
is loving the bleeding
of pure beauty fleeting -
J.A.B. 02-19-2025
Avatar, Avatar
Do tell if you please
Is the one you depict
A glum or a tease?
Is the one you portray
A friend or a foe?
Avatar, Avatar
You MUST let me know!
He seems debonair
She’s all sugar and spice
This one is too "wild"
But this one seems nice
This one seems so shy
This one is too bold
This one's SIZZLING HOT!
This one just seems...cold
The face that you show
Is that a disguise?
Is that blue or green
In those dazzling eyes?
Is the person who puckers
Real sexy or plain?
Is the one with the glasses
A charm or a pain?
Is Miss Beauty Queen
All pretty inside?
Does Mr. Kind Looking
Have demons to hide?
Is Miss Sultry Siren
Curvaceous and hot?
Is Mr. “I’m Cool!”
All covered in spots?
Avatar, Avatar
Why are you a fruit?
Or a cat or a dog?
Does the character suit?
A scary faced monster
A symbol? How sweet!
Avatar, Avatar
The intrigue's a treat!
Avatar, Avatar,
Don’t tell me…I’ll faint
Is my favorite poet
A sinner or saint?
Oh answer me this…
Are you really real?
These pictures I see
Do they breathe? Do they feel?
Avatar, Avatar
I know you won’t tell
Your icons bespeak
A heaven or hell
Not one poet can peek
To see the REAL me
Avatar, Avatar...
That's YOUR mystery!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
M Angel call L
When God calls little
children to dwell with
Him above,
We mortals sometime
question the wisdom of
His love.
No heartache compare with
the death of a small child
They make this world so
wonderful with Just a laugh
and their smile
All grieving words to Heaven
will tell all the loved ones
in his fold
The Dreams, Hopes & Wishes
for a child that won't
grow old
Close eyes, Clasp hands & Speak
words bespeak your belief
Then a metamorphic change
within you will deepen your
Faith and Belief
God knows how much we need them,
He takes but a few
To strengthen belief in the
Heaven that one day we
all will view
Believing this is difficult yet
somehow all of us must try,
The saddest word spoke on
this earth will always be
" Goodbye "
When a little child departs,
this earth, to those who
get left behind
Know God loves all the
children, but
" Little Angels "
are hard to find.
Shadowbrook Poet
Minerva’s child addressed Lycaons son;
“we owl and wolf are truly one”,
for air and earth guardians we be.
I come my brother from the trees,
to meet with you upon this hour,
for Gaia says she will empower
us for guarding wood and bower;
we are her chosen ones.
We’ll spread the word across water and land;
there’ll be a day of reckoning for man.
All flora and fauna must be prepared,
to defend themselves against man’s snares;
from the skies to earth, beneath,
of devastation we must bespeak,
and warn all life, watch other’s backs;
for spiritual consciousness, so many lack;
the time for action is now at hand.
Awaken all ye sleeping bands,
of field and forest, river and brook;
there’s no one to be overlooked.
Warn in time for them to hide,
including those within the tides.
Extinction bears a mournful cross;
every lost life is Gaia’s loss
and for her we now make a stand.
The trees agree to hide us all,
within the woods and forests shades;
and amid the caverns and caves.
Warn those who dwell to hide away.
from human vessels hold their sway;
to the deepest caverns beneath the sea,
swim there now...flee...flee!
Without us great Gaia ‘neath man’s hand will fall.
The time of growth and change is done and past.
From thaw to frost activity prevailed,
And change came often, often coming fast,
Till finalizing Fall all toil curtailed.
With wintertime’s quiescence, come at last,
The old year’s final breath has been exhaled.
And now all nature’s quiet, all now still,
All bedding down, preparing for the chill.
The other seasons garner all the praise:
From sprouting Spring, through Summer’s fruiting fields,
To Autumn’s vibrant hues and bracing days,
Each one its own unique enchantment wields.
But Winter’s coming oftentimes dismays,
So cryptic are the blessings that it yields--
Yet unexpected beauty will abound
In many forms both subtle and profound.
Then gales gust frore as frigid flakes bespeak
The wintry depths which grip both heath and grange:
The rime-bound land is frozen hard, and bleak—
Yet bleakness has its beauty, harsh and strange.
And what seems dead or dormant soon will wreak
What surely counts as nature’s deepest change:
The imminence of warmth’s returning breath…
The immanence of life in seeming death.
For springtime’s semelparity is fate,
As sure as tide or twilight, and as strict.
It burgeons and it blooms, but soon or late
It goes to seed and dies. The clock has ticked
And knelled the midnight hour — but don’t berate
The seed for its mortality -- predict
Instead the miracle which will ensue:
That out of silence, life is born anew.
In My Power (For the survivors of the tornados in America)
If it were in my power, I would be there
To put back together all the jigsaw parts
The myriad fragments of your shattered towns
And piece together your broken hearts.
I'd renew the rhythm of your daily lives -
Driving to work or the grocery store...
Your normal life before the tornado,
If I had the power I would restore.
But then in your words of grief and sorrow
I hear your spirit of determination
On the evening news, you speak of resilience
As you ask for prayers from all the nation.
And your stories and voices bespeak a power
One which all peoples innately share
So, although I'm joining you from afar
By the power of love, please know I'm there.
Molly Moore
Walk me down these nostalgic streets
And laugh and make me wander
Make me feel the bliss that dwells in me
Before it tears asunder
For I have seen you often whilst passing by
These shops and bicycles and walls
I have sensed you in this rising smoke of
Restaurants and cigarettes and squalls
For even in these quieted nights
When my thoughts are left untold
I begin to bespeak your calming presence
In the words of my every ode
I begin to delude and question time,
Which in these false timepieces warps
I begin to rest my body in utter oblivion
As if it were a floating corpse
And every morning I awake subdued,
My feelings and thoughts misplaced
For even my coffee bears in its brew
Your bitter aftertaste
Tilting at Simplicity
William of Ockham
Harbinger of today’s
“Occam’s razor”—
His simplest solutions
Bespeak not always
Accurate conclusions.
A Simple Simon
Binary approach
Style vice logic
Solutions not always
Truest to measure
Requires real
Human variety.
Heuristic methods
Abound—of course
Tied to many
Scientific efforts
But how about
The Messy?
The Complex?
Simple rationale
On each conclusion
May be suspect
With only barest of
Variables considered.
Take your pick—but
Use your intuition
The easiest aren’t
Always most correct
Use common sense too!
When in doubt
Trust yourself
Keep objectivity
Fail not to ponder
The complex too!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
(September 14, 2015) (Accentual Meter)
I am imprisoned
Amidst walls that speak
Beleaguered by chains
That read through my mind
That seek
I sense not even time,
Not a day, not a week
It is only in space
I find my years of light
I am a prisoner, a victim
Beyond all the painful and
The bleak
Still yearning to know,
I still bespeak
An essence of this complex, meek
Surrender
Sorrow befalls me upon first glance
Heartbreak bemoans my shattered soul
Tears on my pillow bespeak pain in my heart
All for the love of a broken bowl
While memories may dwell in a fractured mist
And some will never be whole
No one if any will ever forget
My ode to a broken bowl
~Piece out Man
The things I've been, the things I have been, the things I am, things I'm to be,
a symbol so dark, a sign so brite, a mark of the heart,
shadow of the soul,
rind of mind,
as the Buddhist meditates on mandalas of rich color,cycles,devas,dangers & devotions
I embrace the world with all my senses, with vigilance,
riled rhapsody,
Christians sewing psalms into the conscious
confounded with temptation, condemnation & damnation,
as Buddhists focused towards an ineffable destination
my terminus is an awareness that explains purpose without pain or pleasure
but with an indomitable patience for being in perfection,
as blue is blue for blue,
Freemasons have their acacia & aprons,
the magic of History, of memory, of Brotherhood,
I shall memorize the wrong & right of my behavior, of my beliefs,
carry the cross of carelessness, rub beads of bemusement,
scratch thy palms upon the rough ashlar,
bleed for the sake of beauty, for the right of recognition,
as a hawk glides and swoops with an exactitude
reminding One not to waste effort, to combine instinct & strategy
into trusted tactics, salvation found in solitude,
intuition aimed at the heavens can demonstrate
there is knowledge in not knowing,
serenity can be secured through suffering, happiness in creative endurance,
a nomad, a monk, mother of a nobody
may teach that freedom is measured as strength through degrees,
chessmen bespeak the value of loyalty & sacrafice,
police have a badge, judges gavels, bankers use notes, psychologists study dreams,
artists utilize shapes & sounds to elicit feelings
evoking meaning for life,
perhaps superstition is ultimate motivation,
subjective & collective interpratations for reality which make it all tolerable,
that special definition making life personal,
when a culture abandons, or forgets the symbols of it's constructs
how can it survive,
continuity can not color & inspire posterity,
a tree without water,
as when a human neglects itself,
disfiguring the ideal into something rueful or baleful,
then the mystic symbol must change with it
as rich soil to mud,
the symbology survives, elastic and plastic like a spider web in the wind,
nature will always reconstruct,
teaching that our lives are inflamed imprints for the future -
J.A.B.
ELITE ELOCUTION
Pray tell
My belle
Bespeak thy spell
And pierce my fragile shell
To make of me a harbinger in hell
My belle
Please explain
My swain
How thou shall surely be the measure of my pain
Please make plain
The stain upon my life which you will, with certainty, ordain
And about all my merriment which you have slain
Poor me, left with nothing left to gain
Caught in a realm where the unruly reign
My swain
Kindly repeat
My sweet
Why you granted me such grievances to greet
While mourning the morning we came to meet
A pert lady, both pretty and petit
Who elucidates the elite
But is far less than discreet
And defined well my love’s ultimate defeat
‘tis true
That is you,
my sweet
So utter goodbye and please finally free me
Because with you it’s not easy for me to be me
And let me make it all quite clear
That I fear
I like not liking you more than I liked liking you, my dear
So there!
© 2009…..free cee!
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
speaking severe nasal sounds,
when exhalation boyhood memory draws
obvious twang – another ace in the hole for bullies –
gnashing identityguard where gauze
superfluous, and those hurtful ingrates lobbed words,
when they may as well swang fists at me upper and lower jaws,
though decades in the past, the imprimatur indeibly etched,
yet stinging rebukes from maws
and faux paws trigger remembrance of things past
(analogous to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder -
in my case countless acromonious, denigrating, execrable names
contributed to Schizoid Personality Disorder –
though predisposition for sundry mental illness
most likely incsribed within mom and pop sic cull genes),
now greater enlightenment reacting/responding to stress
comprehending my biology, chronology, ecology, geneaolgy
(fyi – Amelie paid consultant at 23andme.com for blueprint
denoting fabric housing jumbled, linkedin, nested past –
results surprisingly showed 1% Neanderthal
comprise inherited) psychology,
thus explaining insatiable hunger for bananas,
and intermittant urge to swing from tree to tree,
whereby I willingly accept arboreal, corporeal,
generallly less than ideal traits
which pro active overtures arrest
(without a warrant), contest, assent everest
(albeit metaphorically) satisfactorily
extending virtual olive branch (pitted)
recognize immutable imposibility to confront
excrutciating bygone feelings,
this endeavor, a quest to test mine kempf zone, and endure
current flow of uneasiness (clammy
and sweaty hands fostered by andiety),
yet exorcizing mailer demons critical
to experience mindfullness, and requisite
to fast tract expeditious deliverence,
whereat ye ought not be deprived
THIS SIBLING (HAN SOLE BROTHER)
WHOSE LOVE TOOTH HE
(on account of dentures) DIDST OFTEN BESPEAK!