Best Browed Poems
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.
Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family,
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.
Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log,
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.
In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black,
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.
Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There once was a lap dog named Chloe,
Well-groomed and adorned to be showy;
She pranced in the ring,
Applause she did bring,
With her tail and her ears long and flowy.
There once was a schnauzer named Pete,
Bearded and eye-browed so neat;
He wanted to win,
But failed to begin,
For Chloe had gone into heat.
There Winter Lonely Fallows Deeply Dream
Long after that ripe golden sunset gleam
Cool silvery tones, wavering light;
Then winter lonely fallows deeply dream
Into the grayish ghostliness of night.
Far off, yet looming bold and strangely near,
Within starry heavens they are aureoled,
Forested mountain-ranges far westward rear
Their high guardian towers as of old.
And lo! above their ancient stormy deeps,
In pensive grandeur, icy frozen browed,
One glorious forest summit there keeps
Transcendent vigil alone, pure and proud.
And we who see that shining symbol turn
A moment's while from its lone transient mood;
From that brief moment we clearly discern
Our lost souls within Nature's solitude.
Robert J. Lindley
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 160
Total # Lines: 19 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 103
https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=fallows+meaning
fal·low1
'falo/
noun
plural noun: fallows
1.
a piece of fallow or uncultivated land.
verb
3rd person present: fallows
1.
leave (land) fallow.
Origin
Old English fealgian ‘to break up land for sowing,’ of Germanic origin; related to Low German falgen .
fal·low2
'falo/
noun
plural noun: fallows
a pale brown or reddish yellow color.
Origin
Old English falu, fealu .
Translate fallows to
Use over time for: fallows
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/aureole
Aureole
noun au·re·ole \'o?r-e-?ol\
Popularity: Bottom 40% of words
Definition of aureole
1
a : a radiant light around the head or body of a representation of a sacred personage b : something resembling an aureole UNSUPPORTED CODE
2
: radiance, aura UNSUPPORTED CODE
3
: the luminous area surrounding the sun or other bright light when seen through thin cloud or mist : corona
4
: a ring-shaped zone around an igneous intrusion
aureole transitive verb
----------------------
Note- Sorry my friend- I know I promised you a sonnet on winter and Nature written today but my muse insisted on two more verses.
I learned long ago. my muse is a very vindictive beast when disobeyed.
they're not speaking to me now, the Muses;
they're being stubborn,
witholding information, like beetle-browed accomplices -
their mouths pulled tight as drawstring purses.
they sit on their twin thrones of epiphany and genius,
smiling silently,
mockingly, while my fingers twitch with impotent yearning
and the chambers of my mind are cold,
dark and hollow as a cave.
i have become a contradiction in terms -
the wordless poet strikes again...
writer's block is the yoke around my neck,
the anchor that sends me drifting lachrymose
into the suffocating depths -
i am drowning,
swallowing tendrils of seaweed and tufts of
gossamer melancholy.
a struggling artist shouldn't have to work this hard -
to pay the bills yes, but not to create;
without the birthing process there is no artist...
yet there is still hope, a smidgen, a dark smudge on the horizon.
some knight errant might appear, with golden locks
and a smile that trembles the knees,
to inject love and longing back into my sulky heart.
he might extend his brave hand, down into
these murky depths, and yank me up;
dragging my creativity, bedraggled, choking,
retching, into the bleak light of inspiration's flare...
but then again, who believes in knights these days?
i am just as likely to wither away down here,
among the fishes and the wall-eyed anemones,
until the words have all filtered from my brain
and poetry is just a fond memory
from long-ago halcyon days...
Her heart was a watercolor foyer.
Drifting about eddies-beneath fatal falls.
Wishing away the violets,
morning roses and midnight glories.
Fading mist-stained beating.
Her loves inheriting the aromas
percolating from her water garden mind.
Those who thought they knew her,
stood high upon crystal browed shores.
Slinging burning stones and bits of bone.
Summing up her life in bold font quips...
She was that-she was this.
Green viper bitten -black moon kissed...
As her final pallet faded,
blackbirds escaped her brilliant veins.
Time greedily sweeps the gild to gray...
The thrashers scattering her starry soul.
Into the misty orbit of Monet.
Charles Epps
1863 - 1903
It was I, Charles Epps,
The mustached mason with the triumphant trowel,
The bushy browed benefactor
Of my father’s farm tools.
It was I who laid the cornerstone
Of the Friends College
There on dusty Painter Street and Philadelphia,
There in the stunning summer shadows
There under the blue confluence of God’s amazing mind
His infinite sky of azure mercies.
The smiling ladies made lunch and
The whistling men formed the lines that day!
We worked there, up on that hill,
The hill to the east beyond dusty Painter Street,
Worked there until sunset’s yawn.
With rippling muscles sore
And calloused hands splintered,
We erected the future of this Quaker town
With nails, timber and sweaty brows.
My friends, you must come to Clark Cemetery sometime,
And visit the shadows.
We lie here quite alive!
Alive amongst the perennials
Awaiting as forgotten wisps of spirit,
Awaiting God’s greatest gift-
The body’s resurrection.
A four piece string ensemble competes
with fluted crystal glasses harmonizing
to the tinkling of fine silverware
underpinned by the purring whispers
of well-to-do's and their hobnobbery.
Buttery lobster and rib-eyed supper in
opulent gravies and exotic spices;
cornucopia fruits on sterling platters
all floating about the ballroom on
white gloved tuxedos.
There’s a thick pretense in the air;
a high browed notion of superiority
reflected off each gold-fitted gemstone
amplified when ostensibly viewed
through a monocle lens.
I suppose it’s a lonely company they keep
esteeming each other as conquerors
by cordially extended handshake;
dodging and redirecting questions incessantly,
so as not to be rude, no doubt.
All the lavish excess of the night
is surpassed in every rise and fall
of her chest, as I contemplate silently
what fate has befallen that life, no more
beaming behind those sapphire eyes.
Empty sockets abound, lifelessly
betraying boisterous expressions of mirth.
Dancing corpses swig their Dom Perignon
forgetting for tonight, at least,
the toiling lilies of the field.
Preston Graham
(Grahamburglar)
08/16/15
For Contest: Puttin on the Ritz
Hosted by: Judy Konos
When conflicts raise its ugly head real soon,
our nations won’t inevitably swoon;
a time that real détente and peace attune.
Some people still record the slights most ever stored.
Thus escalate discord, their armies can’t be bored.
But bearing painful past in mind, endowed
ensuing loss with angst, so many bowed
with hidden resentment and furrow browed.
In corners hide the past, persistent ghosts which last.
The indiscretions vast: those overboard and fast.
It shan’t depend on inner child if strewn:
‘To never stand against the wisdom roared.’
Do kowtow when rambunctious children vow
t’ ensure revolt replaced by great repast.
Although yours truly modest,
the only personal issue
I will lightly boast about
constitutes lingering
self worthlessness bred
if not prior to first grade,
than most definitely incipient,
academic deadlines
loomed large with dread
and exacerbated by procrastination
quickly adopted as linchpin
damned obsessive compulsive
currents (i.e. thoughts) fed
modus operandi, which intricate
schema writ over lifetime invisible
within this talking head
who ironically enough
never uttered a beep
engendered from lack
of confidence, esteem,
somehow worthlessness,
insignificance,
emasculation, et cetera
took root, and didst leap
(axon to neuron)
and said mindset did seep
percolating into every nook,
and cranny comprising
aging shades, transformed
gray matter, sans this
beatle browed bummer, a deep
purple, though easily mistaken
for minuscule Uriah Heap,
or perhaps, ewe might notice,
(albeit while in a sheep
push disposition) similarities
between mine fist
sized thinker, and another creep
pee totally tubular Charles Dickens
character, or maybe
even a commercial
for nano bot sized jeep
grand Cherokee keep
up a moderate clip despite,
and/or because I
oft times feel a light
buzz sensation within me quite
average gummed up noggin
jammed numb skull,
(essentially barren aged
teenage wasteland recently
undergoing gentrification),
(yeah how really) excite
ting, a no brainer fright
fully glommed with peevish
gobbledygook plus worthless,
obsolete, and crammed academic right
hand busily twiddling, scribbling,
and sloppily drafting
error riddled assignments
deliberately failing heavily
marked with bright
colors adding oomph
to mental blight
punctuated by
attaining puny height
(...oh, about seventy inches),
nonetheless, my slight
physique and mute quiet
as a mouse, I might
as well hove been a stand in
for Charlie Brown right
down to the tree eating kite
good grief - never an ending fight
with Lucy, hence now this knight
in rusty armor forever
disparaged his might
and attests to
20/20 hind sight!
Every time I get happy
the Nana-Hex
comes through.
A dog's canines
change into chainsaws,
toothpicks turn into knives,
coral reefs diverge into dirty sponges,
a sandcastle into a mausoleum,
a soldier-ant burrows deeper
into my borrowed grave,
reveille trumpets tap
a tip-toed timpani of
disenchanted malevolence;
all for the Nana-Song.
I am eleven.
I am naked.
I am screaming.
I am kneeling in the shower
and every time I shriek:
"I feel like dancing today or
look, I can tie my shoelaces or
my bruises have healed or,
my neck is not scarlet like
the underskin of
Grandma's fingernails" -
it plays again, it reprises -
like a Bizet refrain
scraping pitchforks
against agate slabs,
shaving fresh flesh.
All for the resurrection of...!
All for the redemption of...!
the Nana-Hex.
Now, I am fifteen.
I don't talk. I fail to eat.
I scratch poetry and snivel.
My front teeth
are chipped and broken
like the high-browed brim
of Nana's low-ball snifter.
I picture four undertakers
from my windowsill.
Three of them are for me -
the fourth filthy fist,
clutching a scratched
chromed rung,
is for her.
Throwing confetti
from a guarded train
as she selfishly vacated me,
Dr. Zhivago evasive and...wait!
"look I've made my bed, dear Nana.
I lost another tooth, I received
an A+ in geometry.
No. I'm not part of one's family circus,
I'm not a crippled duckling
in a shooting gallery anymore."
Mom, Momma - I...
I can't catch her confetti, Mother.
I can't, poor Momma - but...
when her swastikad locomotive
bleeds into the
frozen chambers
of Auschwitz's
omnipresent shower heads,
and my stifled tears choke
your starved larynx
like a rabid cat
untangling balls
of matted string; then...
and only then -
dear God,
please tell Grandma Nana -
I've formidably said:
hello.
Spring the magical season of natural splendour,
It's glory brightens and blooms every life,
Birds chirp in meadows and call for their mates;
The tap-tap of the woodpeckers,
And their courtship dances,
Welcome the mating season in cheer.
The bold Ashy prinia with perky tail
Found in thickets, the jungle mynahs
Seen in noisy groups at sunset,
The spotted owlet with a hooting sound,
Seen in banyan and peepal trees,
Are sights of delight after a dreary winter.
The white-browed wagtail,
Scurrying in open spaces wagging its tail,
The pond heron with its yellow eyes,
And the Asian koel singing kik kik,
His mate too joining, singing kuoo kuoo,
Create a symphony of magical melody.
Date: 02/26/2021
Submitted for: Spring Birds Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Brought back from the world of fantasies
By the 8’o clock warning device
Raised up undesirably at a lazy pace
Retrieving the welcoming hateful whole day race.
Jaded by the whole day lecture and ruined by assignments
Projects got to be compiled and pending PPTs
Next week’s above mentioned tasks
The lecturer did a job on my weekend plans.
Beetling of from the blue mind
On the way back paid for a RS pint
The evening amiability
Then changed my midday adhor.
Desirous roomie on my glass
Extended my evening all to night.
Budget hashed out and yet a penny left
Contribution counted to three
Held back for the late-night hour,
Program scheduled just after dinner.
Prepared nuts and crisped chicken
Horror flick lappy screen and encircled auditory sensation
Filtered flake lit up and welcoming the upcoming
Pollyannaish mood.
Three ready glasses and poured down first small pegs
Mixed with soda and measured cold drinks
Awaited Cheer up, is now appraised.
Valueless gabs and college couple scandals
Tittle-tattle few lectures and against soul mate’s lambasts.
Last sip downed
And the empty glasses quashed.
A bit stronger second and third
And the time seems to date-back.
Bulge out blushed eyes and orbing love stain bed
Latent hostility and fags myriad.
Enthroned activities
Except time none to put an end.
Deaf-mute fourth and last
Heedful sore past
Lonesome few moments and
Unenviably brought back.
A maudlin reverie expression
To see the past back to present
If matters could be deepened
Would endure the malign again.
Roused up from blues and faced the benighted
Sleety mezzanine and beetle-browed breeze
Yet stood placidly
To face the agony.
Mere empty thoughts
And faded memories
Seemed to calve a baseless spirit.
A sudden wink,
Out from the world of miasmas
To a reining state –
Caught up with existing faith
A new time ignited.
Bibulous state and duple images –
A feel to fly
And uncivilly liberty,
Did a moment time
An unexpected eternity.
The night to welcome the dawn
And unwished obscurity nap
Impermanent few hours of morning
Lasted till…….
Retrieving once again the hateful whole day race.
I once met a man, in the forrests of Tibet.
His counternance was pale yet his name was Robinette.
Past the clearing of the Belt and down into the bottomneck stream
is where he lived in isolation with a gift of crafting dreams
With just a scroll and his ink he could conquer Goliath
a GIFT THAT enscribes him a legend, a self-imposed pariah
His mind was unhinged so the words were unhindered,
never once did he blink,lest his memories squandered
he would wield that pen, the greatest painter of minds
would surrender each soul with the lies he devised
he would keep an accounting of the words in each page
in all of those scribbles, were worlds to be named.
Those words made me sleep, guarding my peace
rendering this beast to a ransom release
The sentences were a rhythm that I could breathe
the punctuation of which, was smooth-calm light breeze
As I browed, frowned into the pages that were
So too the the vast letters my eyes chauffeured
mY senses mangled, my vision blurred
this was more than a vision, this was my life's metaphor
So the PAINTER MINDS,did paint me a dream
scratched out my boundaries and stroked in a stream
created new paradise, and new heavens unearthed
but the later was not to be, and the former re-emerged.
COOKING POT
I looked around me, everything was dark
as if my own eyes were completely shut,
that the would have come to an end,
my eyelids were very heavy,-
like I had a sleeping spell on me,
I was seeing things that were given me
very bad dreams,-
the stars are all on dim
they skip around the sky,
upon the sea, I have seen the reflections of he
standing over me,-
the colored moon beamed upon the land
upon everything my eyes could see;
I tried so hard to open my eyes
But I couldn't it was as if I was dead,
I dreamed many dreams in my head
I see things of an ancient time,
I felt I have been bond to my bed;
as if I was quite insane of true madness,
in my mind, I saw a different set of eye
looking back at me from another time,
I see slaves dancing around me,
crying out to a king that stands before me,
the sky was dark; the fair is hot;
I could see a big cooking pot,
words of their time weren't of mine,
you could feel the evil all around;
the anger browed in the pot,
words of truth weren't in their mouths,
lies and so much hate with not faith,
Witches are casting out their evil spells,
giving a queen life of a living hell,
their face turned to me
as I started to scream,
I have seen many things that come to me
like something of darkening dreams,
they were very old holding no youth,
I forget your name they would say
In a cloud of smoke;
frogs are being tossed in the old cooking pot,
a chicken tongue, blackbird eyes,
bugs of the desert land,
the thunder in the ancient sky roared while
the storm moved on by;
I see holly ones being persecuted;
the words of accurate knowledge
was told to never be promoted on the land
where the old witches stand
on blood, stained sand, that was a command,
words of truth are forbidden;
enemies casting names of thee into the pot of hell
while somewhere rings a bell;
bodyguards took the prison ones
out of the cage; those who have lost their way,
ravens are flying around to eat up on the dead
the ones who have lost their heads,
words of temptations of the flash
dancing around the cooking pot,
my body started feeling cold
I didn't have any more control
while lies where being told,
my eyelids were heavy as they could be
I was cast into a deep sleep.
Poetic Judy Emery © 2001
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
(while trapped in Pottstown
Memorial Hospital parking lot).
My humble apology to those,
who posted uber up lyft ting messages
to this Macbook Pro Facebook keeper,
without said scrivener swiftly
tailoring timely acknowledgement
from one harried styled leaper,
thus feel free to take
leguminous litigious licorice flavor
flav can deed extra-legal
imprisonment against my liberty,
(though catty, I am pusillanimous,
sans feline nine lives cheaper
by the dozen), plus verbally ejaculating
out gee golly jeeper,
or more pointedly
calling me a mother f****** bleeper,
for seeming to appear unresponsive
as a stale petrified marshmallow peeper,
and yes quite understandable
bitcoin torrents of rage runs deeper
than a blockchain though close call,
yet just lemme explain,
how during my most recent sleeper
state, a clear as bell curve
living dream nearly
saddened Matthew Scott Harris as,
cuz he got subject to grim news, viz
inducing him (yours truly) to become
deceased within a split second,
upon dropping to sleep
while all around, an
inconsolable weeper
wept sorrowful seas,
more so those family,
and facebook friends
many fine companions
linkedin thru Internet
invaluable cherished persons as keeper,
but believe this secular humanist,
he, who (honest to dog)
unexpectedly subsequently got engrossed
with the grim reaper,
discussing local, current (national), global,
and cosmic events, superficial,
and/or somewhat deeper
(topics oh...and as a non sequitur
d'ya know the name of original
Glen Elm occupants are named Leiper),
anyway Xmas universally
renowned throughout space
yes, jolly saint nick with his farout trappings
topped off with electronic digital beeper,
yepper siree he gets touted,
lauded, and celebrated be
leave ving with whatever
dogmatic faith hen knee
dear rabbit reddit reader doth embrace,
or perhaps being atheist like me,
(albeit I most likely appear
as somewhat highlee
beatle browed from across the universe),
nonetheless, whether er rather,
when still alive this chap aimed to - dee
light, enlighten, and playfully
frighten alien nations
(even those pizza peace loving
inhabitants resembling free
ranging gregarious teenage
ninja mutant turtles)
coming out their shells with glee.