Best Blears Poems
Many of my sleep dreams do fade
Like the soaring birds in flight,
But there's one that seems replayed-
I inherit a house from who knows who.
Old furniture with many drawers fills each room.
Some are open and some slightly askew.
Vintage hankies, linens and lace, it must be a delusion.
Enthralled, so many more drawers yet to open.
My dream begins to fade, this can't be the conclusion.
Each and every time this dream fades right here.
Like a broken projector reel,
It flicks, the picture jumps and blears.
"Curiosity killed the cat" it's said,
But so many drawers not yet opened.
This dream I do wish would continue ahead.
05/05/2013
For Russell Sivey's contest, 'Dreams'
2/21/17
The sap from a pine smeared
Onto clothing made from hides of deer
Not all organisms and lifeforms cry tears
Across a dark and bright sphere
Objects quite near
Or at distances of millions of light years
My mind clear
I'm sincere
I've only got so much time here
Could sip or skip on an iced beer
Got to take it to a higher gear
And pioneer
Close and by piers
Near the lowest and highest tiers
Could be all set to go
From head to toe
You just never know, might be more or less than nine years
Among items dull or sharp like spears
Experiencing things first hand is different than hearing it with your left or right ear
Occasional events that cause mass panic as it continues to strike fear
In plain sight and places you would never think of, signs appear
In control of our own ships, so you better try to steer
Near the end of days you just may have a greyish white beard
Hearts colder than ice jeered
Often at one of the only nice seers
Due to being unable to understand what they'd find weird
Regardless of if others might sneer
In and out of different areas my eyes peer
But occasionally the line of sight blears
By: Dalton Ogletree
So many- gone before us these past years-
dear friends and family have left our side,
to whom we said goodbye with heartfelt tears.
We shared such joyful times with kin and peers,
through ages when no worries were implied;
so many- gone before us these past years.
Yet, time does not stand still, but leaps and veers
in ways, we never dreamed it would decide
to whom we said goodbye with heartfelt tears.
So like a roulette wheel, age chooses, blears
those sick and weak we hug at their bedside;
so many- gone before us these past years.
With those now left, we share, from yesteryears,
good memories of those held dear inside-
to whom we said goodbye with heartfelt tears.
And now, we hold hands tight and hide our fears-
which one of us will join them on death's ride.
So many- gone before us these past years-
to whom we said goodbye with heartfelt tears.
Time and its Daughter
I love your face and your face loves itself
For its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure.
The way you walk pavements adore you
rain shies away as not to make your hair wet
I love your face and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street car horn blears
All by themselves and white cars turn pink
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure
Sun doesn´t burn your skin, makes it golden.
Till, one day, the mirror tells of a wrinkle, and
you know years are ganging up on you.
You only enemy is time it waits in the wings.
As furrows settle on your forehead.
I love you face, your face doesn´t love itself
Car horn doesn´t blare anymore, get off
The road you lazy old woman, they honker
Your fragrance of youth has lost its allure
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls