Best Boulevards Poems
If only I could make my way to Paris
To search the boulevards and rainy rues
I'd look to find my lonely heart an heiress
An Irish lass vacationing her muse
We'd find a quiet cafe' on the Seine
Where we could sit and share a laugh or two
By candlelight we'd toast with French champagne
Pretend that we were on our honeymoon
But how could I convince her I'm the one
To make all of her fantasies come true
She knows there's more to life than having fun
In Paris hearts get easily confused
I'd get down on one knee under the stars
Give her the paper ring off my cigar
an original poem by Daniel Turner
On boulevards of memories, with you I walk
Reminiscing in yesteryear as I turn back the clock
And persuade the silence of amour to talk
As conversations of yore ridicule and mock.
When passage of time changed us, losing its way
Feelings that still evoked had nothing to say
And hearts then discarded rules of the game
For love no longer cared to ignite the flame.
Echoes of desires stopped calling your name
When lyrics of our song could no longer claim
Melodies foregone that altered our frame
As I stepped forward alone to take all the blame.
But, regrets that mount have no place to go
Except being drawn into pathos of woe
As winter emerges in the midst of spring--
In passions of ruby rose, its thorns now sting;
Like summer’s heat burns soft autumn breeze
And gusty gales shatter last leaf of barren trees,
When in serenity of blue-skies dark clouds frown
Raining on crimson arc in twilight of sundown.
We now reside in our separate new meadows,
Having barred future from sullen past shadows,
In nights of blissful reverie, kissing dreams of dawn--
Pointless it is to invoke dreadful spirits long gone.
From the fork in the road we’ve traveled far,
In abodes of our distinct worlds happy we are;
View in front is golden glow of vibrant sunrise--
Rear view spurs spent emotions of dreary skies.
October 9, 2019
Placed 2nd: If only we could turn back the hands of time poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Strand contest #670 by Brian Strand
After we met
I thought we really had something,
Really hit it off.
It wasn’t the words we spoke,
The easy fluorescent trail they made.
Maybe it was the Japanese lantern
Glowing over your bare shoulder
Or the smile you threw
To the side-
To someone.
Or maybe it was the cool damp air,
Slight seduction of rain
But no rain.
Perfect, cool molecules,
Layer on layer,
Air sitting on air.
But after, I couldn’t find you.
I couldn’t find you
In the heavy-sitting valleys,
Behind the cool barriered hedges
With stone guard dogs,
In the palm shadowed boulevards
Or the canyon mazes.
I couldn’t find you
In the final exhalations of space,
On sun baked, cracked cement plaza drives.
I couldn’t find you
In the starkly lined avenues
Amongst the serious-expressioned manikins.
It really is a desert here, huh?
Had said the pale cheeked waiter from Wisconsin
While we waited for you to come back.
Yes, I thought, touching the sweating water glass.
A stage set in a desert
Filled with mirages and promises
And doors that no one answers
And roads that curve toward the sun.
We both knew you weren’t coming back.
I won’t find you again
But I will keep looking
And looking
And looking.
There is always that chance.
Yes, to find someone like you.
That chance.
I leave alone,
Tip under plate.
A dog barks at my steps,
Waits, barks again.
We are both close,
Yet impossibly,
Far from home.
Note the golden morning sun, red and orange, blue aeonian sky
Silver reflections of moonlight cast on dead of night still waters
Window light that shines so bright welcoming you at night
The way your smile reaches all the way up into your eyes
Smell the boulevards rain-washed and bitter-sweet, hot coffee
Spicy, earth-rich pipe smoke and baking chocolate chip cookies
Lovers embrace with musky skin, a dozen roses perfume is heady
That unique scent the very first time inside your brand new Chevy
The good sheets - 600 count - fresh from a hot dryer
Sitting in the window seat basking in the sunlight's heat
Long or short, with every stroke, snuggle-soft is kitten's fur
Favorite faded holey jeans, shoes no one else would wear
Good morning songs from birds nearby, kitten's rumble purr
Soothing rain patters on the roof then booming rolls of thunder
Chirping frogs and bugs in grasses, the chattering leaves in trees
Waves that lap upon the sand, a sexy spoken please
This group of friends who share
with open minds that care
Patiently listening
Always there
may I always be aware.
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
Cityscape
The artist’s hand reshapes yesterday
In straight lines
Of hard edges -
Peaks of
Right angles perfected
Missing oblique or obtuse –
Claiming the horizon
In full frontal
Silhouette
Cut from ebony shades,
When daylight sinks into the shadows
And twilight goes down meeting midnight
One dimension pyramids,
Floors layered by steel reinforced
Triangulated honeycombs,
Octagonal rounds
Gather cotton clouds
Topping off their naked crowns,
Lofty spires
Scrape the midnight
To gather far flung stars
Flat rectangles with jute box tops
Soar with arches -
Lines leaping up and sliding down -
Squares low and squat,
Took up their space,
Yanked from the line,
Openings left
Like toothless
Grinning;
Concealed within the cityscape unblinking
The murmurings of urban sighs,
No rise and fall of breathing,
Foundation’s feet bound in stone
Swaying only when magnum cores
Tremble moving plates east to west, north to south;
Unseen
The doorway cradle songs
Of shivering dreams,
Desperation
Pacing
On the nineteenth floor
Fauna’s night perfume
Floating up behind dark floral gates
Of swirling iron
Grids of neighbors – blocks of neighborhoods -
Graphs of boulevards winding round,
Absent from the cityscape.
Inspirational verse – “When the lights go down in the city and the sun shines on the bay; do I want to be there in my city….I want to be there in my city.” Journey
Was it all that long ago
when we drove thru the streets,
Singing those crazy drinking songs
that you taught me?
Oh, how I wish for those days again
when the boulevards came easily.
Our voices in the open air as we sped
in that sports car of yours.
Your death gave me a voice that
I did not know I had until you left me in that void.
Now, words fill the pages of a writer
instead of the notes of a musician.
Sometimes the tempo rises
Other times it is staccato and slow.
How can I tell others my memories of those days
as I watched your courageous battle.
Your voice still sings those songs in me
from I know not where.
Was it all that long ago...
written: 8/11/2015
i dip my pen into the ocean of helpless
fluids searching for hopeful cravings
and my blood has rippled in a thousand torrents of expectations...
but do you know that my lungs has torn,shattered and broken on pieced streets and pierced boulevards?
know that i need need not be merged together for i am a victim,curdled on the back of expectations...
you are the lost garment i search for in the holes of a torn garment, do you know how your thoughts reverberates in the hall of my mind ?
ireti,what is the spirit that dwells in you?
tell me your backbone and its custodian..
you break the rocking of my bone and paralyse the swiftness it curdles and wait..you turn my head down on the tongues of hard rocks...
ireti..i am broken
see me emerse my thoughts in the flowing waters of wisdom our fathers hold
and i hold myself with twines of hope weaved by tender tailors with soft hands behind the hopeless garments of expectations...
i am broken...not beyond repair
for i am a victim curdled on the backs of expectations
Searching For Nothing
I like holidays when nothing is celebrated.
The streets are empty and Pigeons burst from cover
as I walk down wide boulevards, eagerly searching solitude.
No buses, no commuters, no human distractions to distort
my personal oblivion. Precisely this moment is what I crave,
free to squander empty thoughts, filled with nothing.
Then it floats into my head… where should I go?
well... anywhere is the answer I’m looking for. Then I’ve arrived
at my special place, where it all makes sense.
If I choose, I can walk across the busiest intersection,
only inspiration, crosses my path. Maybe head back across the
same street, and still, only possibilities enter my mind.
Solitude is purity… those Pigeons I startled earlier,
landed anywhere they wanted,
and so did I.
07/07/10
Genteel parade cascades in white trimmed linked,
though these blues, twenty-meter, inlander
also impressive, broad stretched branch, distinct
crown more stable. The Blue Jacaranda,
has smooth bark, aged scaly, bears enduring
violet flowers, panicles--cluster,
woody seed pods next. Flowers one month Spring,
one month Summer. Considered in danger
likewise, an invasive class, overrun
native class, but, concerned regions vary.
Ornamental tree ranks high, can't be done.
Surroundings and weather techniques, wary.
Streaked down the city's humming boulevards,
or nearby country lanes and quaint front yards.
These are the ones that write themselves,
That write themselves in racks as black as ink
On pages whiter than the white of sterile pain;
Down boulevards of shadows, shallow lanes
And corridors and alleyways that hold the rain;
Across the universe of astral skies and solar plains
And continents of fields and fields of grain
Into the stories they have yet to tell, they write themselves –
They write themselves in meanings meant to be,
In earnest measures borne from sea to sea they're aching to be free;
Through eyes and hearts and souls that manifest their destiny
They reach and grow and live and breathe
For us to feel for us to see
The promise that they hold, the music that they sing,
And we are humbled by the song and by the wisdom that they bring
—-
And these, these are the hands that wield the pen that gives them life,
Whose fingers plunk the keys that spell the words
That write the stories on the canvas they are meant to tell –
And it is well, for they have learned from forests and from forest spells,
From hollow trees and barren wells and empty shells;
From midnight flights and midnight morns
They dare to be set free, as surely as do we,
Though we are shredded, we are torn
And the stories we have yet to bear are yet unborn
—-
These are the words that tell the lives that write themselves alive,
That rises to their image, rises high
As paintings painted with the colors of the wind will paint the sky –
And the stories they construct about themselves are ever borne
In formulas pre-scripted and pre-formed,
Created as a dancer forms the dance it wants to see itself perform –
And they are mighty, mighty as the redwood on its own
For now they have been written
For now they have been born –
I would like a dream vacation,
Paris is my destination;
For me this would be a delight,
I am ready to book a flight.
I will walk the wide boulevards,
And sneak a peek at nice backyards;
Oh, it would be lovely at night,
I am ready to book a flight.
I would drift on the Seine River,
The Louvre- I would stay ever;
The Eiffel Tower, what a sight,
I am ready to book a flight.
At the Notre-Dame I would pray,
In the boutiques I want to stay;
In an old cemetery- write,
I am ready to book a flight.
And search for my French ancestors,
Unadorned graves with no answers;
Oh, almost there, but just not quite,
I am ready to book a flight.
__________________________
February 4, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Paris, My Destination
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 752-282-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Take A Vacation,
sponsor, Lin Lane
Fifth Place
Listen to the wisdom, oozing from the wheezing woods,
Whimpering in euphony, far from the bustling boulevards,
Crooning, mumbling mellow chirping soothing strains.
The warbling of the warbles, buzzing of the bumblebees, fetching sputtering riddles!
Listen to the cryptic hooting, hissing, howling of the forest critters,
The whooshing weald is whistling, winking, whooping as living being!
Twittering its' silent sagacious saga when the ringing roots are entwining,
Gusting, the swooshing symphony of the smashing symbiosis.
The seeds are throbbing spasmodically into mature trees;
Sheltering the myriads of native wild species.
The wild blooms in seclusion are trilling in the tranquil breeze,
Twiddling and twirling in oblivion, invigorating the dying dandelions.
There is no hubbub; discrimination, feeble and strong, old and new,
Even cheeping competing species sloshing in consonance are clinking in gleeful communion!
The flapping, fluttering forest is clicking, caressing each other,
To enliven, the stup of the felled trees for hundred of years.
The mother trees are murmuring the lulling lullabies, nurturing their saplings.
They know not, the survival of the fittest, the gluttony!
In the thicket, there is no cacophony, but mere
Mellifluous rumbling of dribbling polyphony!
Jane Merchant (2)
Invalid of flesh (but not of soul),
She saw Creation whole,
And hymned the seasons come to pass
Beyond her bedroom window-glass—
December trees—and April rain-wet grass.
~
Jane Hess Merchant was born in 1919 on a dairy farm outside of Knoxville. She was the
youngest of four children. Her family lived on farms in Knox County and Jefferson County
until she, her mother, and her sister Elizabeth moved to Knoxville after her father's
death in 1949. Jane was confined to her bed at age twelve due to the congenital bone
disease Osteogenesis Imperfecta, which made her bones extremely brittle and thus prevented
virtually all physical activity. Indeed, what little of the outside world Jane saw was
from her parents' arms when they carried her outside as a child. The same disease that
confined Jane to her bed also caused her to go deaf at the age of twenty-three. She lived
with her mother and sister Elizabeth, who cared for her until her death.
Although many people may have considered Jane to be hopelessly crippled and thus to be
treated as an object of pity, she was extremely active in the literary world until her
death on January 3, 1972. She wrote more than 3,000 poems, over 2,000 letters, dozens of
prose pieces, and published ten collections of her poetry. Jane did not consider herself
pitiful in any way: as the Reverend Gordon Sterchi put it at her funeral, "no one who knew
Jane pitied her or thought her life dreary. They understood that her life was more joyful
that their's [sic]. They realized that she saw more from the bed than they saw from the
boulevards."
Bring back blonde babes
with big boobs and butts,
showing bare bellies, wearing black and brown boots.
Because they get the bikers and big boys
to bring in big bucks buying bottles of
Budweiser and, blue ribbon beer,
Besides the booze and beef burgers
on buns with bacon and baked beans
for brunch while they watch and
bet on baseball games or boxing matches.as
they banter with their buddies at the bar
or in the booths and bathroom.
The jukebox plays Blondie, Blues brothers
big Bands, Bono, Bananarama, Brandi, Billy Ray Cyrus.
Benny King., Backstreet boys., Beach Boys, Billy Idol
Bobby Brown, and so much more
at Big Busty Babes Bar
Bring your best buddies with you to
Big Busty babe's bar. Down on Broadway and Bakers Boulevards
Near Buster's Barbecue and Bobby's Billiards and Bank of America.
Bonnie J Hollywood-Cutts