Best Bespeaks Poems
The Curve of Time
This curve is the truest magic of space and time,
With one finite, the other infinite but not in kind.
Einstein’s vision gave us this new fourth dimension,
Inspiring mankind’s depth of a true infinite intention.
The infinite extension of this mystical curve of time,
Gives our poets much to ponder and to set in rhyme.
Piercing the veil of time travel exceeds finite space,
Whilst allowing man his place in this noblest grace.
Man’s primitive view of our Earth as being only flat,
Gave way now to an infinite future view to arrive at.
This infinite future view bespeaks a constancy of motion,
Descriptive of time, people, events, passion, and emotion.
Let us all dream of the enchantment of this curve of time;
For this shall give our poets the chance to set all in rhyme!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
July 22, 2017 (Couplet)
YOU ...
are a mystery, a spellbinding novel
each new chapter more enigmatic than the last
I read you with my fingertips
pausing to regard the inches, to savor each
like a meaty word that I turn over in my thoughts
in careful consideration ... of its flavor
with the gentle brush of my palm
one precious span of your opaline flesh is added unto the next
inch linked to dynamic inch ...
like the flowing, voltaic sentences of a master wordsmith
the journey of each phrase of your contours
bespeaks to my core a torrid tale of longing, pure ...
a hunger to delve ever further into the sultry, shapely, sinewy saga
that your alluring body whispers to me -
whispers and sighs, with its subtle, spicy shivers
to realize the destination of this epic journey
to unravel the mysterious and beguiling narrative
that your anatomy conveys to my core
the sublime, licentious and seductive story that is ...
YOU.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Mid November 2018 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Mid December Premiere" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.
Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.
The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.
The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.
Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.
The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.
The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.
An Echo Through Time
An echo through time follows all now in kind;
It’s the moment when poets find their rhyme!
Past-Present events give us a mirror to see from,
Of what Present Perfect events have now become.
Poets must write to truth what surely they mean;
With such wondrous verses the reader shall glean!
Writing with tone, tenor and syncopation is grand,
Giving poets that mellifluous effect desired by plan.
The echo quality of a great poem bespeaks its passion,
Whilst its literary panache shall always be in fashion!
An echo reflects a poem’s true resonance by intention;
Ensuring one’s mind shifts to an intellectual dimension.
Poets’ rendezvous with this echo through time is divine;
It helps us enshrine our thoughts now in continuous time!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 27, 2015 (Rhymed Couplet)
Thoughts On Infinity
Infinity comprises that endless empyrean reach of a
True continuous nature far beyond mankind’s ability
To truly comprehend and appreciate the sheer magic
Of the true enchantment and beauty of Almighty God’s
Kingdom of everlasting peace, love, and devotion.
Infinity is beyond all time, space, matter, and destination.
It is bounded by a mystical aura of a true divine cosmic
Perfection created by the heavenly design and intention
Of God Himself as He has made His revelatory overtures
To each of us for our eventual spiritual transformation.
Infinity oft bespeaks stark images of an endless cosmic vortex,
Punctuated by planets, stars, black holes, comets, and star dust;
When it realistically may be more of a perfected state of a true
Self-awareness and an accentuated level of consciousness that
Transcends mankind’s finite level of reality and understanding.
One day when each of us reach the end of our mortal coil on
This Earth, we shall, in turn, make that final storied leap to the
Heavens as our souls begin their cosmic ascension to God’s
Kingdom, and shall arrive at their ultimate state holy bliss into
The embrace and eternal love of Almighty God Himself.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 29, 2018 (Quintain)
F inesse sometimes happens along
A nd expresses much more than
L ove in his tenderness of poetry
O ften refining true workmanship
T hat bespeaks words not easily forgotten
I nfringing into my thoughts
C ausing me to ponder each line
O nly to hear a constant drum beat
On July 2, 2022, Connie posted her poem “The Blessings of Prayer” dedicated to her "loving poetry friends" who were so encouraging to her during her hospital stay when her heart had almost given out. To date, her poem has received 3 pages of comments! Her replies to those comments are incredibly precious, as they reveal her beautiful qualities. Her life story bespeaks loving-kindness. Our fond memories remain to remind us.
strength of character
ready supporter, true friend ...
always a lady
Stripped of friends and family
she lives in squalor’s misery
The tiny tenement room
bespeaks her gloom and doom
Yet when Friday evening arrives
her heart flutters, comes alive
Ignited by kindling Sabbath lights
her face aglow throughout the night
Love’s Spirit Speaks to Us
Love’s spirit speaks to us with deepest emotion,
Giving us all that touch of God’s true love divine,
Whilst helping us find the words and the rhyme,
To express His love eternal with holy devotion!
God helps us seek our depth of love and passion,
In how we find and relate to one another over time,
Whilst sharing, special palpable moments in kind,
As we celebrate our love by God’s intent and action!
Love’s spirit speaks to us in words radiant and pure,
As we find those emotive bonds that make us one,
And as we share our true feelings with hope and fun!
Love’s spirit tells us we mustn’t love’s bond abjure,
For our love by God’s word is sacred by His decree,
And that bespeaks His love for us with all cosmic glee!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
September 8, 2018 (Petrarchan Sonnet)
The Might Have Been
Illusion so bespeaks the might have been,
Which passes not for real, done, and when.
A grammar notion meant for a moment;
Descriptive too of a heartfelt lament.
Imagination swims in might have been;
A world of fantasy until time when.
Emotions so thought and not yet expressed—
Now cannot cancel such moments depressed.
Stating what you thought—but it happened not;
Meaning might have been is all you have got.
The might-have-been pervades such actions past,
And no forgiveness for mistakes made fast.
An event that never was scares one true,
When the real event makes one so blue!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(July 6, 2015) (Heroic Couplet)
Destiny and Fate
Fate is that noble force in future time;
Destiny’s look asks why and how in kind.
Destiny bespeaks the past as prologue,
As Fate shapes desire—leaving us agog!
Both give us a special import to reach,
And a rendezvous with what both can teach.
Destiny’s past is now motion frozen,
As we await Fate’s events as chosen.
Destiny and Fate walk with us in hand,
As our lives pass hourly like grains of sand.
Each differ by nuance of certain time;
Poets can muse past and future in rhyme.
Destiny and fate form life’s mosaic,
As we each seek life’s joy and not heartache!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 1, 2015 (Heroic Couplet)
You ...
are a mystery, a spellbinding novel,
each new chapter more enigmatic than the last.
I read you with my fingertips,
pausing to regard the inches, to savor each,
like a meaty word that I turn over in my thoughts,
in careful consideration ... of its flavor.
With the gentle brush of my palm,
one precious span of your opaline flesh is added unto the next,
inch linked to dynamic inch ...
like the flowing, voltaic sentences of a master wordsmith.
The journey of each phrase of your contours
bespeaks to my core a torrid tale of longing, pure ...
a hunger to delve ever further into the sultry, shapely, sinewy saga
that your alluring body whispers to me -
whispers and sighs, with its subtle, spicy shivers:
to realize the destination of this epic journey,
to unravel the mysterious and beguiling narrative
that your anatomy conveys to my core,
the sublime, licentious and seductive story that
is You.
Copyright © Gregory R Barden, December 16, 2016
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Mid November 2018 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Mid December Premiere" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
I judge men by the colour of their teeth,
And by the colours of their teeth I group them:
The Whites we have,
The Blacks we have,
The Browns we have,
And the Yellows too.
Life we all start as Whites, and with good care
Whites we remain.
With less care Yellows we become;
With yet lesser care Browns we become;
And with least care to Blacks we turn.
‘Tis thus that our descent down the rungs of color
Often bespeaks our personal quality.
By effort and discipline Blacks, Browns, and Yellows
are sometimes to Whites restored:
So it is that men can choose what color they'll be
If by tooth not skin we judge their color.
There is song and speech in the colors of their teeth
From which can be gleaned glimpses of their habits
and hints of their mettle.
But neither song nor speech we find in their skins
Which are born mute, live mute, and die mute.
So if ever you hear my skin speak,
Spinning tales of my habits and mettle,
Rather look up my teeth and hear their side.
They lack a tan but speak a tonne--
That much I know from my years on earth.
The whole truth they may not give
But what you get is closer to it!
Scarlett O' Hara's bonnet bespeaks,
"As God as my witness. I'll never be hungry again!"
It captures Rhett Butler, Fair Oaks and Tara,
Survives the Civil War and Ashley's sin.
72 years have passed, that's how long it's been.
Overflowing like the sparkling spring from acerbity,
The emerald stones on the relieve peak
Causing welling up like stormy waves,
And breath taking halt, grunting
Roar as the thundering drums reverberating;
The window pout unfold a feature
As when open wide,
Spoilt by the joyful loudness of croaking;
Grief lips drawn taut
Drop spreading flow,
Drop to wash the ripe Apple cheeky, drop
And meandering through grooves and porous ream
Obstacles of pendants and pillars;
Conclusively arrived, making the jugular waterfall,
Cascading into sea of tears.
True, men do not weep
That bespeaks Hercules vaunting ego,
But, I thank you sir,
Often they sob now or before
Not for unfaithful heart breaks
For loves aplenty,
Not often loves for not excusing
In passing by to greater beyond,
But on lucrative dear deal that sore gone,
On capital fretted away
On good look in,
But crash without remorseful pity
The masculine effeminately swim in river of tears.
Strokes of wipes to back from savage master
The oppressive bully to hapless youth,
Which draws livid reddish lines picture
And rabid yell of agony on twisted mouth,
When puerile little lad yelp
Could be for appeasing breast
But, definitely not for help,
Could lustfully be warmth of mama’s arms,
Things we’re n't aware but peradventure leg to arms
Or nothing, whichever way,
Their stubborn screaming suggest
Ways of impuissant expressing unanswered request.
Tears of gladness
Moved to elevating joy,
To see again long time lost love,
Surely for ages and time agone
Surprising hugs with all kisses,
Dearest who aforethought cross beyond
But now you are prospering.