Best Borne Poems
You are a thorn, borne deep in my heart
The prick that sticks me with each breath I take
A tether, whether I want to be bound to you or not
The flame I blame for burning holes in my soul
Droning chants are rants lingering in my mind
Rumblings and mumblings within my sad breast
The wrong kind of song written for those in love
My eyes sting when I try to sing the sweet lyrics
Broken vows spoken; words shattered like glass
The refrain of my pain keeps wounds from healing
Sorrowfully shaken and forsaken, I had to walk away
Your pretense was immense, the shame of your fall
Love was spoiled, foiled because of your weakness
Your reason for treason, based on a foundation of lies
The suppression of your confession has taken a toll
How cruel to fool the one who gave you her heart
dandelion drift
soft the seeds set sail windward ...
next year's bright meadow
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Hi-Ku (3)" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge 3, May 2019, Nature Haiku" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor.
~ Poem of the Day ~ featured on PoetrySoup.com on May 26, 2019.
She was weaving a silken tapestry with long silver threads
and golden memories from her life that hadn't yet faded
Drizzles of sorrow fell with every loving stitch taken
until the storm became a deluge, leaving her feeling jaded
She rose from the prick of needling work, leaving it forsaken
Walked to shed the weight of despair in her garden beds
but petals from withered jasmine were scattered around
blowing about in the wind, and some lying on the ground
Only one was left, its stem holding tight to the bloom
She smiled but dared not to touch the perfumed beauty
Humans discolor the purity of innocent flower heads
Ink flowed from pen to paper, her reminiscing took flight
Reflections of loss that no beating heart can e're restore
She wrote of Spring and a future that once seemed bright
of Summer days when love was hers to have and hold
Lines of the cusping of Autumn, and snow in Winter's cold
Times when she'd built a fire, burning deep inside her soul
She paused when visions began pooling in her weary eyes
Dropped the pen recording verses of remorse and grief
and blamed time, the thief who stole from her, loves once borne
then torn from her and still she grieves when remembering
when she'd worn her wounded heart on bloodied sleeves
….. I
. am
. free
. to go
. where
. breezes
. take me,
. free to be
. at liberty, . my spirit
. loosed
. on the waters
. to be borne of
. the power neath
. my strong timber,
. take me where’er
. you will, until the
. air of the mistral
. is spent and the
. clouds bid me
. cease …
.
your unfailing love has borne me aloft
but without you by my side, I am
…………. at the mercy of the depths …………………
by Bill Lindsay
October 14th 2015
For the contest, Creative Layouts, sponsor, Broken Wings
Not without blood…
and water’s flood
As stained water surged…
released an old man’s urge
By stained water surge…
the urge is purged…
and new men emerge
==============
The riddle of life reveals itself once one
learns that things pertaining to truth’s reality have
two applications; one is the beginning the other is
the end and the mystery are solved once we learn to
play both ends by grace of the middle! (Rev. 1:11KGV)
Ballooning o'er the desert
Sun peeks up at you...
Experience nature's gift.
Wafting on the wind's current
Silence in motion...
Reflections of a new day.
The fire of dawn awakens
Hills of umber gold...
Borne to see such wonderment!
Villanelle: The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
What were once cherished hopes serve only to nag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
All that one once fought for family position place
Lie now trodden by the wayside no sweat nor brag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The once fine psittacine nose at parties shone with grace
Now hangs pudgy a curlicue strawberry smudge a snag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
The ego shifts about the hidden interstices of the maze
Fears of the embattled siege in the psyche’s empty bag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
Sudden moments of anger take all spouse job and lace
Ego stomps out of the house grimacing grudge vowing no lag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
Deserted one sits unwashed on the pavements in disgrace
Eyes avert insatiable molly-coddled egos which drag gag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
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Life, within a breath; I took this vile containing the world painting my vision askew!?
All its glitters, thoughts, wants and desires atop ashes to become; dust upon dust....
Turning it over that it may flow into the winds once again; forgotten waters now lost ~
While raising my eyes their smiling towards the sky anew; afore times rustic burdens
These chains should they fall from the flesh aneath sight amid this cage, made night?!
Light to walk past what never was; covered by sacreds love; the children of promise....
********************************************************************
....“Borne, On `The 4th of July`” ~
When I was three foot tall I could fly.
Now that I've reached near six and descending
things have become more, grounded.
It wasn't an aeronautical event or
some Newtonian physics explanation,
or even a Las Vegas prestidigitation,
it was merely that my mind, that is to say I,
could entertain the obvious conclusion
of the possibility that if events, things,
were just right - JUST right, that I
would be able to see a view I had not
seen up to that point in time, and,
in fact, haven't, for some time.
When I was a yard high in my front yard,
I could arise, even higher than a yard,
brightened, and too, wide-eyed wondering
at the way the neighborhood looked from
above the treetops...who knew, I thought.
Did I get there by that some certain gait,
neither too fast nor too slow, but,
like some Goldilocks visa, just right?
The sunshine vitamin D blowing breezily
around porch poles and branches to press my face.
Who knew indeed, who knows now, or soon,
what can occur without Google glasses,
or no child left behind or
digital synapses to bit-by-bit,
obscure the inherent, the wonder, the view
borne away from civilization facts
to life outside or, above our gravitations.
When I descend toward a vertical yard again,
maybe that obscurant vision-set I have
carried pensioned toward epilogue will
fall away like deciduous leaves and
I'll be able to see the branches under
life, and rise away again.
© Goode Guy 2013-07-05
They call the waves white-sharks, and they run from them in fear. They say the water is so vast that you could disappear. And when a child goes near, they pull her back into the sand. They say she is borne from the land. They feel they need to grip her hand.
But I am sea borne and I will swim. I am sea borne and I will live. Upon the white-sharks current, and upon the vast deep below. I will take the child in my arms and swallow her whole. I will make her whole.
She is whole.
They save their own from my care. I am lost without the wear. I cry at night like the white-sharks do. I cry too, I cry too.
Intergalactic travel reveals some kinks.
Man visited mars and left a sphinx.
Cydonia and Mesopotamia saw new futures borne.
The “Tower of Babel” and ancient technology…men mourn.
Was man’s “spirit world” formerly preserved on Mars?
Did “sons of God” once travel among the stars?
Egyptians learned to build sphinxes to provide for souls.
Their tradition, also, distantly reverenced afterlife’s goals.
The Tower of Babel…great technology…lost.
Travel through the heavens was stopped at great cost.
Many marvels, modern man cannot explain.
A sphinx on a distant planet, mysteries remain.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
September 15, 2010
They call the waves white-sharks, and they run from them in fear. They say the water is so vast that you could disappear. And when a child goes near, they pull her back into the sand. They say she is borne from the land. They feel they need to grip her hand.
But I am sea borne and I will swim. I am sea borne and I will live. Upon the white-sharks current, and upon the vast deep below. I will take the child in my arms and swallow her whole. I will make her whole.
She is whole.
They save their own from my care. I am lost without the wear. I cry at night like the white-sharks do. I cry too, I cry too.
Lost am i
pondering over thoughts
lost in lines
faded in legend.
Before like a belive o the jews
so sealed was my faith
accepting all without question
beliving without thinking.
Authors and pens
wrote the tales
mortals and angels
gave it a name.
"the beautiful ones are not yet born"
i dare to doubt
like a religious rebel
rise i in revolt.
I belived once in the written pages
but now i see what lies in our ages
darlings and dears
with perfect smiles,such cherubic
faces.
I behold with every passing day
new brand of mortals striving forth
with each set of crystaline teeths
and when they walk? Ah well
measured feet.
I see our angels in the skin of girls
and ladies
our gods and lords in clothing of
youthful men
i see those witten words fading away
and a new dawn paving its way.
If factually were those words
"the beautiful ones are not yet born"
i defy them,for now we are borne
or still dare i but to ask, what then are
we?
Water-borne diseases
Man senselessly increases
With his trembling “No”
To drinks he doesn’t know
Instead of “The firmest”
That portrays “The Dead Earnest”
Water-borne diseases
One hopelessly increases
By not taking The Certified Pure
Or with a bow declining The Impure
Between tap water adjudged pure
And liquor blissfully a lure.
Isn’t affordable to the poor
Bottled water for official tour?
Then, one always pick one up after manicure
Beating the vulgarity of A Moor
And keep declaring for The Pure
For even elixirs that cough cure …
For their not-one-not-two numbing releases
Trifle not with water-borne diseases.
It didn't need to grow wings, it floats on the breeze.
Or...
If you don't believe science, you might as well pray to idols.