Best Blare Poems
The amethyst paeans of hyacinth
crest with a gust of butterflies
on the scent of orange blossoms
cascading to earth like snow flakes.
Blood-red geraniums blazon Spring's birth
not with a pulsing blare,
but the soundless blush
of love's ardent swoon.
Placid jade fronds drape,
acquiescing to silent bees
emerging from blond snapdragons
as euphoria of being exudes
from the garden's breathless murmur.
If you could paint a picture of silence
What color would it be?
Would you use a brush to paint the fog
in shades of gray, a touch of brown
to hush the season from all sound?
Would eaves be dripping to the ground
while windows weep with quiet tears
Where solitude has blurred the view
in states of lonely winter-lude?
Would silence be a shade of green
A forest deep, a muted scene
No sound to scatter birds from trees
No broken branch, or swaying grass
Missteps that crackle the fallen leaves
Untouched by clatter, harsh and rude?
Would silence be as black as night
A cave too deep for shards of light
A void within a famished core
A well of dark and empty shores?
Or would silence be of many hues?
A rainbow shade of morning dew
A soft pastel of sun declining?
No bedlam, blast or blare of noise
Could break the spell, a silent voice
As if the soul could slip away....
A hush, immense.....so sweet and keen,
Like ghosts unseen, or angels soft as air...
A silent sea, ....where mountains lend an ear
As clouds pile high, ....and wait to hear...
Only for this: such peace....such bliss
A sound so small, ... as welcome as a sigh
Buried Alive
These walls....
they laugh at me but no one else hears
They steal the very breath of me
...but no one seems to notice
They blare a suffocating silence
Leave invisible abrasions from unseen restraints
These walls I once called home
These walls have become my coffin
~FJ Thomas
Most of us run through varying emotions at times. It helps to jot them down and get them out ;) These walls can be emotional or very literal. Usually the one causes the other to collapse in along with it.
The important thing is to remember that there are others who very much understand how you feel; you are not alone. So never give up!
Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)
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Cherish the moments, rising on fabric of fuchsia skies,
Painting motifs of amber dawn, dipped in golden sunrise,
In brushstrokes mauve, tinted pink, on opaline skyline;
Where themes heavenly with dreams of morn entwine.
Ride path of sun’s trajectory, soak-in aureate sunshine,
Be amid nature’s mystery, sky-scapes of mystical design;
Rejoice the day, in its prime, revel life’s moments sublime,
Before they wither away, falling prey to reign of time.
Sail the blue waves, synchronize with rhythms of sea,
Undulating with inspiration of tides, vying shores of glee,
Ruminating of paradise, afloat on resplendence, carefree;
Blissful, hearing robins sing, watching butterflies spree.
Be hypnotized, on cusp of twilight, inhale the wild air,
Pulsating from hearts of trees as winds westerly blare;
Be the moment chiming, strumming tenor of breeze,
Snuggling rosy delight, caressing eve’s blush of tease.
Extolling arc of crimson horizon, lost in sun’s goodbye,
As day-decaying beautifies aura, in shades of magenta dye,
Capture the moments blazing fire, ceding to moonlight,
Dipping in the ocean, dispersing glimmer of ruby delight.
I love your heathered highlands,
steep cliffs and rugged islands,
hedges and gardens under
rainclouds of grey.
Old steeples rise above
those small rural towns I love;
your hillsides of sunny yellow,
rolled bales of hay.
Pipers will play their part
stirring each Scottish heart
binding together a nation
drenched with pride.
"Scotland the Brave" is ringing,
dancers are highland flinging -
proud Scottish hearts are singing,
joy wells inside.
O, highland games of yore
with racers and tug-of-war,
the cabers are tossed asunder
by mighty men.
I love your farmlands rustic,
mountains and lochs majestic,
as kilts of many tartans
hike through the glen.
Pipers will play their part
stirring each Scottish heart
binding together a nation
drenched with pride.
"Scotland the Brave" is ringing,
dancers are highland flinging -
proud Scottish hearts are singing,
joy wells inside.
Castles with ancient hist'ry,
Celt runes of ancient myst'ry,
we sing an "Auld Lang Syne"
and toast Robbie Burns.
Clans clad in plaid will whistle
fondly of Lion and Thistle,
dressing with tartan kilts
their wee bonnie bairns.
Hands high, your dancers dance -
crossed swords, I'm in a trance,
pipes heard for miles
with that old familiar blare.
St. Andrews' cross - the flag is
don't ask what's in the haggis!
Just eat your shortbread
and be glad you were there.
//These reflect some of my favorite memories from the 6 months I lived in Scotland, in 1990. I miss her dearly and hope I may be able to return some day. These words may be sung to "Scotland the Brave", a beloved anthem of Scottish national pride. You can hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzK2PWVQYX0
The tempo of this recording is much faster than I prefer, but I include it here in case you have never had a chance to hear this wonderful patriotic song. //
Written 24 Mar 2021
They are lined up along the long hallways
wheelchairs protruding, blocking the corridors.
The aroma of antiseptic spray attempts to mask
the pungent smell of body odors.
The loud blare of the big screen TV
reverberates from the empty day room,
while medical staff busily sort paperwork
behind the sterile counter tops.
Each ancient face, each frail body
huddled beneath their blankets
reflect a unique history, a life story
that is waning with the passage of time.
Men and women, now trapped within their
weakened bodies, once vibrant and strong
now confined and consigned to wait
away from the public eye, burning daylight.
Written on 4/28/2015
A woodland path in the dappled sun, hushed and quiet!
My soul is gratified as I meander midst its colorful riot!
Another glorious autumn has burst forth in all its splendor!
The Creator displays a vista no mere artist would dare render!
Gentle zephyrs stir eddies of colorful leaves along the way.
A myriad of wild flowers greet me with their brilliant display.
Trees that a short while ago offered welcome summer shade,
Now lift barren arms as if in prayer sans their leaves of jade.
Not a cloud mars the pristine blue of the Colorado sky.
A skein of geese wing southward sounding their plaintive cry.
Stately Colorado spruce 'neath which deer now gambol and browse,
Will soon have garlands of snow adorning their spreading boughs.
The shrill blare of an elk startles me from my reverie,
As he calls for a mate with his ever sovereign plea.
I pause on a nearby knoll to view yon shimmering lake,
Teeming with graceful ducks, guarded by a magnificent drake!
Foolish poets and artists have strived to portray each season.
They have tried and failed because of a very real reason.
Only He Who is the Master Artist and ruler over all,
Will ordain the beauty of the seasons, especially the exquisite fall!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Composed, he walks towards the podium.
At first to applause, until a hush forms.
His heart beats like a water pump,
sweat drips - eyes fixed at his ensemble.
Audience anticipates,
as he stands at the nexus of musical creations.
With a brief glance - nods and closes his eyes,
baton in hand and a flick of wrist,
an oboe penetrates the silence,
violins trill and bass begin to roar.
His empathy connects with each note,
as his wand moves to the tempo,
conjuring symphonic magic,
softly then dramatically,
as emotions ebb and flow,
like waves weaving solo tones.
Spectators lost in imagination.
Gradually the melody flows faster,
as trumpets and trombones blow.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest,
as his pores drip like little rivers on his lips,
but he still guides the harmonic mood
with precision and clarity.
As the horns blare and percussions echo,
he loses grip of his baton - falls onto his knees,
clutching his breast - the music stops,
pianist plays her last key - audience gasp
he falls to the ground - curtains close.
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces"
John Ruskin, 1853
~*~
Away from all the city's noise
my body sinks into the marsh;
as birdsong trills of whispered hymn
I slide away among the trees.
My reveries in forest deep
are well concealed and hid from view--
with jazmines pinned on hair, and then
disperse like fringes in a breeze.
While my voice hushes, quite profound
I trace northwinds, balmy and strong
when evening spreads its velvet cloak--
and muffles any wail or blare.
Here I dream of family's lore
the Sunday feasts, the mourn of deaths
beyond the place where moonlight glints,
where field of life drifts...warm and still.
All the Little Pieces Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France 8/31/2020
Full of marketable commodities like xebec.
Waves of pure affection are slashed mercilessly.
Feelings: a sea upon which to wander carefree.
Devil swears to be a dove to trick people cursorily.
The doll dances on a string of yellow-golden hair.
It dyes its lips crimson with the blood of its lost prey.
It attracts people with its flirtatious smile and low blare.
Because of her, falls even the most religious people.
The ashes of destroyed rags cover the black eyes.
A sparkling smile covers Beelzebub's smile.
Her mistress is responsible for her spiritual slave.
A dark soul lurked deep within his radiant skin style.
Silicon's enticingly boosted slopes were xyloid-brittle.
Sword-like claws dig into the soul in sensual delight.
Obsession can be generated by female objects.
She does terrible things to helpless people fight.
The floral fantasies all turn xerophilous and prickly.
Salacious downpours became unending floods of sobs.
A terrible memory of a lost love left him feeling empty.
The reverberation of her laughing still throbs.
Written: September 15, 2022
Tragi comedy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Word bank:
*xebec-also spelled zebec, was a Mediterranean sailing ship that was used
mostly for trading.
*Beelzebub- Satan, the Devil.
*xyloid- resembling qualities of wood
*xerophilous- A xerophile is an extremophilic organism that can grow and
reproduce in conditions with low availability of water.
Sing Me an Old Style Song
Sing me an old style song,
With pretty flowing phrases;
A story of love gone wrong,
In other times, in other places.
No trumpets blare, just sweet trombones,
A crooner, smooth tongued and mellow.
Hurting, aching, quiet, for me alone.
Sing me an old style song.
Let bottled tears stain my cheeks,
As your freckled nose appears before me.
For I cannot cry to beats and bangs,
Please sing me an old style melody.
That I may cry and cleanse my heart;
Empty and ready for a new filled start.
Written: November 09, 2023
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Meet me at the crossroads of my life.
Underneath the streetlamp, I will be waiting
expecting you to whisk me away,
shivering in the drizzle of coolness
truly trusting you'll truncate my trauma.
Meet me at the crossroads of my life,
need to sense your embrace as I wait
urban sounds drown out opinions of you,
as piercing sirens blare across the silent night,
A purr from a black dog terrifies me.
Meet me at the crossroads of my life,
minutes later, your svelte, seraphic allure shows up.
Seeing your stern sentence, I glance up
We stroll as one, holding hands,
in the abyss as nobody yet triumphed.
Is it the blaze that ignites the soul?
rather than the flame-holding heart?
Is it love that motivates a person?
or the spirit that ignites the fire?
the eye requires the light He created.
Written: June 14, 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 37 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
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Amidst the rolling hills and verdant green,
Lies a land of arcane, almost Xanadu if seen.
A place of ariose where dreams are born,
And the sun rises each day as an auric crown.
In this Elysian land, time seems to stand still.
Worries and troubles fade away, as if by will.
Here, one can find peace and tranquility.
The beauty of nature is its canorous serenity.
Glory in magenta and gold hues in the sky
The birds emit an opera of tunes as they fly.
The aroma of fresh flowers floods the air.
Trees soar high, their limbs rising in a blare.
Going upward, I have faith in my heart.
Through gloomy slopes and twisty parts.
The peaks are starting to come into sight.
Their tops were aurified with golden light.
I wander through this nebulous land of bliss.
And fathom a sensation of perspicuous peace.
I realize that I have embedded my idyllic place,
An oasis of diaphanous passion and grace.
Almost akin to Xanadu, an island of dreams.
It motivates me with whispered schemes.
The seal of the blessing of a utopian paradise
A realm where loveliness is eternal never dies.
She wakens to the most ungodly ring tone-
her husband's cell phone left there by her bed.
And next, her damn alarm clock's blare is fed
by noise of the neighbor’s lawn mower’s drone.
At work, suppressing groans, she is a clone
who answers e-mails, and with silent dread,
takes clients' calls. Guff fills her pounding head;
again and then again that ringing phone!
Then finally she’s home. Ahhhh. . . . time to dine -
except the children cannot break away
from Face book - and the oldest starts to whine.
Her hungry spouse then walks into the fray.
Amidst it all, as if to underline
her plight, that neighbor’s dog begins to bay!
For Cyndi MacMillan's
TIMELESS YET CONTEMPORARY, A SONNET THANG
It started as a trickle on the darkest night of all.
Relentless in it's joy and everlasting ecstasy.
Moving to the wreckage of a soul that had to fall,
Into the torrid trenches of a long forgotten sea.
"Lord help me," were the desperate cries that echoed through his hell.
Praying for the strength to rise above the cold despair.
God's love began it's journey while enfolding every cell.
The Holy Surgeon with the skill to make sacred repair.
The water of the spirit soon began to fill the soul;
Stirring light into the darkness of the yielding ebon night.
Illuminating love that makes a broken child whole;
That once was blind but now can see the future can be bright.
The Angel's sing, the trumpets blare, It's heaven's joyous sound.
Another soul has risen from the grim and lonely dead.
He asked for help, the good Lord answered, love is all around.
The great eternal Light of God now fills the road ahead.