Best Bestir Poems
Inside a temple Jean sits quietly,
clothed in radiant white from head to feet,
soft pale hands and a Bible on one knee;
a smile she beams on each who take a seat.
Within the room is finest polished wood;
all is clean, and the walls reflect the light
of purity, which sought, is understood,
for here abide the honest and contrite,
and peace resides to blot the worldly strife
they’ve left outside; sweet solace eases pain.
Each soul here can reflect upon his life,
for godliness and solemness do reign.
It’s in the temple I envision her
once the Spirit does her heart bestir.
Note: Jean is my mother's name.She is a very
spiritual person who enjoys the peace of the temples.
March 4, 2015
For the Pick a Subject Contest of Shadow Hamilton
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
I was a runner
fleeing from homespun horrors that
wrapped around my delicacy like a tourniquet
Only a child attempting to bestir
the warrior dormant within;
having no idea the enthrallment
she reveled in,
I learned to accost my demons
Nigh, even at the wide-eyed age of eight,
scarred
shattered
broken
I found, in a hand-crafted cardboard crate,
my only chance at freedom
Every Saturday I'd sneak away
to my makeshift universe
that gave life to dreams unspoken --
I would crouch and crawl
through thorn-encrusted branches
enclosed in a thicket,
sunbeams cutting into the tangles
alighting my face, piercing my eyes
The oceans breath
cascaded over the brush,
and everything, suppressed,
would fall into a hush
until I breached the winding path
Amongst the jungle of weeds/rose garlanded structures,
high above the jagged rocks
and wide open mouth of the watery abyss,
my hideaway centered --
flimsy cardboard walls,
brightly painted bold brazen symbols protecting all who entered,
tightly sealed with an invisible lock
opening only when voices of forgotten children fluttered through the air
I'd stand silent beneath the incandescent sky,
for just a moment,
breathing deep the silken salty breeze
and thrust my arms out to the sides
like the seagulls hovering over the loud, fathomless cavern of the sea,
Losing myself in the mist
In a temple Floria I see,
Clothed in radiant white from head to feet,
Soft pale hands and Bible on one knee;
Her smile beams on each who take a seat.
Within the room is finest polished wood;
All is clean, and walls reflect the light
Of purity, which sought, is understood,
For here abide the honest and contrite.
Peace resides to blot the worldly strife
Left outside, and solace eases pain.
Many here reflect upon their life,
For godliness and solemness do reign.
In the temple I envision her
Once the Spirit does her heart bestir.
July 12, 2020
for the Strand Completely New(9) Any Form Any Theme Poetry Contest
Written: September 2nd, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the depths of one's mind, foes reside.
Within oneself—a war cannot be denied.
Refers to individuals—their internal strife,
Struggles and spurs that shape their life.
In the realm of views and desires so deep,
Fear and doubt bestir—akin to demon creep.
Inner blows waged in the darkest nights.
People tilt with doubts—their inner fights.
Self-fuss, the first foe fated and faced,
Wariness whispers, leaving hearts displaced.
People may be snared by doubts so real,
But in besting them—true strength they reveal.
Inner demons lurk, negative impulses arise,
Anger, jealousy, and addiction—their disguise
Moral dilemma salient constant scrutiny of will,
Still, culling what's right or what's usable, still.
Emotional turmoil, a storm within the soul,
Grief, guilt, and gloom are taking their toll.
Complex emotions that can't be ignored,
A salient casus belli that we can't afford.
Dealing with this zeal is a joust to be fought.
But it's in facing the slam—that swell is sought.
Solitary sabotage that is self-saboteur.
Bewitching in behaviors that baffle our allure.
Success and well-being, they strain to impede,
But by owning the patterns, we can succeed.
The battle within, a constant struggle each day,
Enduring our inner demons, we find our way.
Through the depths of our minds, we forgo,
Facing gloom and letting pure selves show
In this inner enmity, we find sheer strength,
Conquering our fears, extant to any length.
No matter the challenges we may face,
We have the power to rout and embrace.
So let us defy our inner rogues with might.
And loom victorious, shining with core light.
So let us face our fear, doubt, and desire.
And ignite the fire inward that will never tire.
In the abyss of our souls, we hold the scope.
To rise beyond moils and let bloom hope.
Cows bellow, low, heads between rails
such large deep sad eyes, such full bags.
For whom do they await, no one home
to let them out, share out their milk.
Not long ago I saw you wandering off with him
his hand caressing your neck, gripping your arm
holding you stiff, obedient to his will
and you were bound to follow, no sound
escaped your lips, and me, why am I watching
for the scene to play out? Don’t we all know
don’t we all grieve, for the coming of that day
when cowl slips down, the bellow, low aches.
You won’t come home, will you my dear.
I guess I paid the right price for a job well done
Your cheating heart won’t bestir us to wait
Never more. This farm is sold outright.
Sweet sounds so dear—
Pure timeless tones of gladness—
Your melodies bestir my soul to flight—
Through darkest night
And doleful days of sadness—
I thank you for my hope and banished fear,
Oh precious music, mine to hear.
In sorrow born—
From dust to dust we wander,
Lamenting, all too late, come winter frost,
The springtime lost.—
Our lives we vainly squander.
The mourning bells do toll for us, forlorn.—
Oh may we hark to heaven's horn!
Sweet sounds so dear—
Pure timeless tones of gladness—
Your melodies bestir my soul to flight—
Through darkest night
And doleful days of sadness—
I thank you for my hope and banished fear,
Oh precious music, mine to hear.
– Harley White
[Song Lyrics for 'An die Musik' – Franz Schubert (1797–1828) ]
'Maria's Canto'
You bestir me, Aztec Princess
Awakening me from slumbers forsaken
Taking me on the path to your Caribbean haven
To my existence you grant sense.
Your mind is keen, shown by a sharp intelligence
On your countenance, your honey skin a godly sheen
In all you've been, as woman and goddess
Heaven and Earth will you rule as queen, but to me
To me you are the premiere enchantress.
FOR DR. ABUBAKAR OLUSOLA SARAKI
Ilorin is bereaved again: another calamity has struck!
Ilorin has lost another pride of the community.
Saraki this time! Why has Mr. Death focused on us?
He has already extorted enough from us already
but his discontentment has prodded him
into snatching Saraki again. Ah! Extortionate!
Our unique exponent of politics has deserted us,
leaving us bereft of confidence.
After the consecutive demise of Oniwasi Agbaye and Sulton Kamal,
I thought my pen would go to bed and rest
until the dawn of 2013, but it was not to be.
Abubakar Saraki’s departure is enough to cause me
to bestir myself again, especially when I visualize
how he lived and bested his opponents,
leading a life that was devoid of failure and defeat.
God has a way of perfecting some like that.
After the death of Baba-l’Agege,
I believed Arabic literature and outright bravery
had followed their commander, and that was the end of it.
But a good many brave writers surfaced afterwards,
though their skills not matching his.
After the passage of Alhaji Agba,
I thought we would never get over the expensive losses:
his matchless knowledge, adorable tolerance, effective prayers…
But many an embryonic scholar emerged,
though not the exact like of Baba.
God’s omnipotence is not subject to limitations.
I send condolence to Dr. Bukola Saraki, Sen. Gbemi Saraki,
and my brother, Laolu Saraki, including their followers and fans.
The peoples of Nigeria I sympathize with you.
And Ilorin community should not be dejected.
Saraki was a man of conspicuous looks,
a man of benign character, his benevolence
extending beyond his arms-length.
To him kindness means kindness, even to one’s enemies.
He was a man that commanded respect home and abroad.
Yet all this appealed not to desperate Mr. Death.
O’ God, Saraki’s presence was encouraging,
characterized by successful children, love and care.
Strengthen us so that his absence shall not create
a foreboding of more tragedies, but be an exit
that betokens more fortune for the bereaved.
Heat days arrive with cloudless skies.
A sultry haze hangs evoking earthquake tales.
Sticky twilight mauve moves
another day, another month
another year passing
as sporadic fireworks explode
weeks before the celebration
of another date.
Dog dead days
bestir record keepers
to pronounce and announce
what few brain cells
have already registered ...
it is hotter than hot.
Leaves hang limply from thirsty tree branches
No breeze dares bestir them, foul is the air
The grass lies dying, a faded sere brown
No bird his song warbles, flies thickly abound
Tired pups on streets lie, their tongues hanging out
The sun cooks their fur, miserable drought
Empty the parks, no sounds of kids playing
Rancid garbage piles up, its stench dismaying...
Affairs of the heart, they no longer flower
Humidity drains all their vitals' power
While the sun burns lovers' walks by the beach
The hazy sky's brutal---blood-sucking leech
The dog days of summer extinguish romance
Unbearable heat just won't give it a chance
Iambic Pentameter
When did I write such a sad line? .
No date and therefore can’t recall
what circumstances prompted me
that from my pen such grim words fall.
Here’s one about the weather, yes.
So often foggy days occur.
On sunny days my words are light.
Grayer days, dark thoughts bestir.
The Poem
The fog lies low in my valley. *
It’s bearing so hard on my soul.
I’m tangled today in a cobweb of gray,
a fly in an upside down bowl.
Trying to climb from the darkness,
I’m reaching for holds that aren’t there.
Befuddled and on the floor huddled,
just needing to breathe lighter air.
Darling, you’ve taken the sunshine.
I’m struggling to find my way home.
Burdened by fog of my spirit,
I’m lost in this gray catacomb.
I pray the sun throws off his blanket
and brightens my day with his shine.
There… now I have written a poem
from finding that one single line.
*Inspirational line
By: Joyce Johnson 9/10/11 A no. 1 among many
For Carol Brown’s contest “Pieces of paper…A poet’s heart”
you usher me
with the allure of your muse
on drafts of featherless wings
through the breadth of night's air
away in the distance of dreams
i am swept
into the depths of imagery
that bestir my imagination
and arouse my ardent desire
wrapping me
in a blanket of verse
that becalms my weary soul
as words fall down tenderly
encompassing me
with the caress of thoughts
that trace the edges of my existence
with the whispers of your voice overheard
as i read each poem scrolled
i lose myself within the lines
as i send wishes adrift on stars
on the drafts of featherless wings
and fade in the distance of dreams
our words one can compress
but our focus as wordsmiths
is to let creativity take charge
each and every conversation
becomes a writer’s permit to
master their authorship
choreographed words bestir
and challenge mind-numbing
beware of what you share
pursuits of passion my pen
not to be silently suppressed
Palms pressed against the windows chilly glass, feet
never touching earth. Outside looking in.
Slip inside where it's warm, imaginations haven.
Sleeping angel. Long, dark hair tosseled, half
covered, beautiful face. Chest bare, strong, muscles
shadowed like eched alibaster. Voracity overwhelming,
sweet suffering. Silently at his side.
Feathery touches to a cheek, brush aside the soft mane.
Sweet tempered kisses to his brow. Immersed in desires
scent. Hearts bestir, craving, hunger aroused.
Loves specter, precious illusion. Fleeting glimpses.
Unsated passion.
Dreams dispeled, paridise relinquished.
Jagged consciousness. Morning comes...and I wait.