Best Billowed Poems
The sky is a gigantic bowl of pink turned upside down,
spilling soft rose petals that peeked out
from beneath snow white billowed clouds
till - fully blossomed - they burst forth.
Growing radiant at the edge of twilight,
they’ve scattered as rubescent streaks falling,
lush and luminescent, as we watch in solitude.
No parade this evening - just you and I aglow,
wishing for an eternity to be like this:
so splendidly in love. . .
in the pink.
Title and first line changed back to original
Submitted Oct. 5, 2021 (#8 word - Rosy)
for '''R'' Contest, New or Old' Contest Info
Sponsor: Constance La France
Dawn slowly awakened to supplant the moon
Empty, the canopy where stars had been strewn
In repose, Luna slept after wandering velvet skies
and spider webs shimmered in the flight of sunrise
Dew drops evaporated upon the fragrant tuberose
as a playful breeze billowed my sheer nightclothes
Seagulls swooped and scurried along amber shores
A salty crew grappled with the sea on labored oars
Muscles pulled in rhythmic chorus, as if in lyrical rote
as surging waves rocked the hull of their fishing boat
They surpassed each crest and triumphed over swells
The sun's prisms painted the horizon in muted pastels
Inspired by the milieu of ruffled swirls across the sea
sunlight dappled over its surface in sequenced litany
I sipped a second cup as thoughts were being seeded
Poetry spawned inside of me; a birthing to be heeded
For as driftwood hastens down rapids to a new frontier
I needed to ledger my verses, ere they hie to disappear
August 13, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
summer's lavish brush
canvas stroked in billowed swirls…
daydreams framed in blue
-16 Jun 2014-
David Mohn
Fire destroyed my childhood home one dark night,
Inside were all my precious girly things;
Raging, devouring gold flames billowed bright,
Everything gone- I wish dolly had wings.
It was a roaring hellish inferno,
The hot searing flames were unquenchable;
Our home was an erupting volcano,
The red sea of fire was insatiable
My father said there was nothing to save,
We wistfully looked at the charred embers;
I was crying and mother said- be brave,
Sadly, my memory still remembers.
Trees and remnants still glowed orange with heat,
And we just stood there- silent on the street.
__________________________
April 19, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/Fire
Copyright Protected, ID 16-780-598-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Elements Part 4: Fire
sponsor, Brian Davey
First Place
Come dance with me, my winged escape
and skip the skies in flight
we’ll let the wind lick at our nape
and subtle touch invite.
Our cares we’ll toss to milky moon
and resonate our silky tune-
our cares we’ll toss
our cares we’ll toss
in freedom’s name our love commune.
Come float with me, my winged escape
on billowed waves of blue
we’ll lift the night mist’s heavy drape
and sail on moonbeams through.
This golden eve will whisper dreams
on silver sheets where all it seems-
this golden eve
this golden eve
cascades our love down rushing streams.
Come bloom with me my winged escape
in midnight’s breathless hour
my petals spread ‘neath stardust cape
to nature’s heady power.
We’ll give ourselves to Spring’s last rites
awaken sleeping appetites
we’ll give ourselves
we’ll give ourselves
and Autumn’s zenith expedite.
~Trijian Refrain~ (a fabulous form by Jan Turner)
I looked to the sky
hoping to find the face of God
up
in the billowed clouds
I dived in the sea
thinking to discover Him
there
in coral beauty
I searched all the earth -
deserts, meadows, forests and
the
white tops of mountains
I watched a sunrise
till at last it dawned on me
as
sun poured down golden
I had been seeking
what was there in my plain sight
now
I had found my faith
Form is SPLIT HAIKU
On better days, On better nights
before wide blue yonder
turned into a black widow spider
Have we met , Have we painted a blank canvas
Have We shared the same pallette
Have We danced to the tango vals of words
through soft tangerine haze
that hoovered gently , slowly
Outside my windowpane.
I could swear you were here.
Like an unsettled moon I blushed at your sight
Stars glistened just because I watched you smile.
Pastel Fresia washed my empty sheets
with fragrance Sweet and mild
I nestled in your arms like an embarrassed child.
But ... But then I turned my face away
I closed my eyes to sleep
I drifted with the wind that billowed far from dreams.
Reality hit hard . A stranger was and still to be
Naked of identity, sinking in your silence
Suspense and mystery.
Struggling in a prison too scared to be set free.
Too weak to show emotion
too strong to heal and feel.
On better days, On better nights
before wide blue yonder
turned into a black widow spider
Have We met , Have We provoked the spaces
Have We walked hand in hand
Did We create moments so hard to forget
Or do We live the memory that whispers
No regrets ! ! !
Inspired by an oldie song 'Feelings '
Grace had floated royal
among the sweet summered months,
and not a moment had passed
without the nectar of love;
Three feathered lords so fledgling
white-black,
sleeping white at noon,
'neath arbors brawn....
where the nestles are soft with love,
and dream to host all the world watching;
from horizon's scarlet painting pink
the billowed white hues ---
and black-purple from the Lord's smile
What crimson disguise five plumed hearts
beating as one,
return again o'er Swan Lake,
or with eternal love thy cherubin ponds;
with fountains swooning infinite grace
then they are gone.....
to privy their existence made,
sleeping black at night
('neath the gaze of tomorrow's moon)
the future brim with wind....
elder wings at dawn,
unto valor in evening's song,
fain to life again....
(flight of thy Royal Swan)
***Dedicated to the black swan and Queen's royal
swans of Ottawa***
The
golden
eagle flies
through billowed clouds
training his keen eye
on slight movement below.
Swooping, he clutches a hare.
Swift is the kill; now to a tree
he makes his way, carrying his prey
while calling to his fledgling in the nest.
Written 10/14/15 For the Golden Eagle contest of Shadow Hamilton
Words used: Flies, clouds, Tree, nest, Fledgling, Calling, swooping.
smoke billowed from her boiling pot
a spell for ages she had sought
a special treat
for kids to eat
some pickled plums so teeth won't rot
but children laughed at what she made
to taste the swill they were afraid
the witch was sad
and got real mad
their taunts one day would be repaid
all hallows eve had come and went
a day the kids would soon resent
a curse was laid
the children paid
their treats turned into hard cement
they moaned and wept and some did cry
asking questions and pleading why
they were upset
with no regret
wishing that witch would surely die
now this is what I have been told
the days have passed and I am old
one girl returned
her lesson learned
and turned a heart to warm from cold
**it is never to late to say you are sorry*
Comes silently
on sorrel moccasins
roosted on tortoiseshell
of root cellar
singing, stumbling
in numb imaginings
lit with half-light
vegetables
squeezed in jars
of russet and avocado
above
a cornice of sky
split with laughter
searching
for broken arrowheads
gold and silver among leaves
air billowed white
from lips
soft frail bones
of snowflakes
magically appear
scattering in breath
taken away
into apple night
A constant vein of nature’s blood cascading rock and sand,
Flushing grains of dislodged mud. The beat in a mountain band,
Currawongs sing melody. Black Cockies rasping call;
The whispering breeze that shakes the trees, near a waterfall.
Sassafras and twisted ti-tree display a rippling shadow,
Mosses mingling with lichens where the sunlight doesn't show,
Blackwood and Lilly Pilly trunks, struggling for the light,
Lost is the canopy, when mist rolls in a billowed eerie white.
Where there's always a river through a valley in the high country,
There's always something there that takes my breath away from me
along the banks by the shimmer, pristine life is shrouding me,
Walking this river, through a valley in the high country.
The flit is there, sharp eyes note, in camouflage a glistening eye,
A Ground Thrush as still as stone watching me go walking by,
The rustle of the leaves are gentle, attracts a fleeting glance
of a disappearing rodent. Instinct breeds no games of chance.
The reason I am walking here, with times eternal strain,
I find no battle with my mind. Up here the world lives sane,
Life and death hold constant beauty, complimenting every stage.
Slow is change that's left alone, even when the waters rage.
Where there's always a river through a valley in the high country,
There's always something there that takes my breath away from me
along the banks by the shimmer, pristine life is shrouding me,
Walking this river, through a valley in the high country.
I give credit to the birth of this poem to Connie Marcom Wong. In her comment to me on 'Merlot Was Overflowing,' Connie wrote, "This poem has a full moon sadness..." Thank you for the inspiration, Connie.
She adored rainstorms and roses
love notes he left on her keyboard
craved chocolate as a necessity of life
music, the rhythm to which her heart beat
and poetry, ah, poetry, refreshment for her soul
Life was simple and simply beautiful
until a thunderstorm disturbed her peace
torn apart were the fragile petals of rose blooms
destroyed were the tattered pages of his love notes
she no longer heard music, her heart weakend in despair
Poetry, ah, poetry. . .
no words could she bear to write
billowed clouds of gray filled her days
misfortune struck and took away her light
Full moon sadness darkened her every waking hour
The waves lick the pier-deck beams,
a boat has passed upon the lake
to shuffle the song upon the wind,
ebbing whooshes.....
The smoky waters still to tease
slow with ancient whispers,
The Loon leads upon the woody melody,
some sylvan songster
too beautiful to languish,
still sleeping....
Not floating upon the dawn
through misted peace;
all ears have heard
the first kiss of throngs,
Gentle as waves upon the tide,
from the very earth it seems....
the sweet haunting cry
echoes souls through silts
leagues deep,
The very marrow of stone,
and pine and leaf,
A morning hushed but for its
pretty plea, a male perhaps
(so tender with feminine appeal)
They all call so, pillowed
their first-light throngs,
Angels upon the deep billowed morn,
Where the very clouds above
have seemed to hover
above the lake along,
Their soothing cry
fills the waking wood....
hushed waters, still as stars
feeds the twilight with song
(pining through hovering hats of mist)
I noticed her limp immediately
when she sat next to me on the bench
in the park outside of the Prado.
I inquired about her deep brown eyes
behind her octagonal glasses
that looked sad and defeated.
“I was robbed here yesterday,
during siesta,” she said.
“Two men with knives
jumped out from the bushes.”
She was Finnish and her trip to Spain
had to be cut short
because of the incident.
For a moment, I wondered,
but that didn’t stop me from asking
her if I could buy her a cup of coffee.
Minna looked tall and slender
in black jeans and matching leather boots
and her hair billowed while she hobbled
as we walked to a nearby café.
We chatted about our countries
over coffee and chocolate;
I told her about Brooklyn and baseball
and she talked of a girl’s life in Helsinki.
When our cups were empty
we drank cold Spanish lagers
under the café’s awning
and we laughed and connected
and Minna seemed to forget about
the previous day’s terrible afternoon
with each cool sip.
I trusted her true and dusky eyes
and asked her if I could lend her some cash.
“You can mail me a check
when you get home,” I said,
but Minna shook her head.
“At least take some pesatas to get
you through the day,” I added.
I reached for my wallet,
but she touched my knee.
She smiled faintly and brushed her hair
out of her face.
“There is something you can do,” she said.
“I don’t want to leave Madrid
with a bad taste in my mouth.
Can you walk with me
past where I was robbed yesterday?”
My guard went up again and I thought,
for a shameful moment,
that this was part of her plan.
I reluctantly agreed to help Minna
exorcise the thievish bad vibes
and we walked back to the spot of the offense.
She held my hand and I half-expected
a knife-wielding duo
to spring from the shrubbery,
but there was nothing except
for the sleepy midday Spanish sun
poking itself through the canopy of trees.
“Do you feel better?” I asked
as we returned to the bench
in front of the Prado.
She didn’t say anything,
but held my hand tighter.