Best Browned Poems
I watched it fall
In spiralling flight
This browned yellow leaf
A saddened sight
For not long ago
It was alive and so green
In a canopy of cover
Above the stream
I watched it meander
Around rocks and through eddy's
On the stream it continued
Becoming more unsteady
It's protective coating
Now a shadow of it's past
As the water moistens
It's out on it's last
It came to rest
Between two rocks
As the water cascaded
To the bottom it dropped
The end of it's life
But it's journey goes on
For nature will use
This leaf that roamed
.
On the Horizon
My limbs and leaves are trembling
My green days of shade and blue shadow near gone,
For on the near horizon lies
The first cold flail of fall.
To compensate, my Maker made
My edges to wondrously curl and color
Dipping and spiraling as butterflies,
‘Ere I am browned and blown
To the ground.
I remember when I raised my head
After dark winter’s bitter gales,
Stretching my arms and blossoming,
And being caressed in warm sun, adored.
From that gracious beginning adulation,
Rich maturity and pride were mine,
My limbs grew long and reached strong,
Higher and higher to the sky.
From days fast passing, I must then bid farewell
Grandly with gold, blazing red and orange
To let winter have its hibernate way
As I Leave this short life behind
And pray for one more.
I stand alone a barking tree, where silent sorrows of ripples flee,
No one hears my calamity, wearing weeps of my raped reality…
Branches droop to ice-cold ground, solitudes surface of their drowned,
Abysmal anguish of leaves have browned, lacrimal echoes of their sound.
Randomized reflections of rivers flow, suffering scourges in their woe,
Ripples raging in their row, creating cabalistic contrasts as they grow…
The forest dense as to populate, the seeds of seduction must copulate,
All is dormant until the eyes dilate, weeping willows that magistrate.
I accept my life near the lamenting lake, weathering wounds as I wake,
The wood whispers as to ache, secluded shadows share the snake…
Wandering waters that ripples bring, vines that struggle in their swing,
Alone in my salvaged spring, where sparrows segregate in their sing.
Gif # 1
02.25.2020
Placed 1'st & POTD...Thank You
Lingering within
It sits upon my widow sill,
after all of this time,
the Magnolia bloom you sent
Wilted and shriveled,
once the purest white -
now browned with age
Yet what it is,
is just as beautiful
as what it was
We all age, change
collecting wrinkles and new colors
staring in the mirror
wondering, where did we go
how could this happen
it was just yesterday we were – young, beautiful
Though as I tenderly hold, lift
this flower I know
it still retains
a hint of fragrance,
that sweet aroma of love,
the essence of that day
and its loveliness remains
as if time has no meaning
We need not look any further
than this alluring scent
to know that a bloom
will forever be as beautiful
as every yesterday
it was shared
You are beautiful -
we are all beautiful
regardless of how time
has wilted us -
Open your eyes,
find the fragrance
lingering within
yourself
12/26/16
Written for the Beauty in Disguise Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
The floor was carpeted with wonderful trees,
stomped and storm-clawed leaves
they arise again as specks of magic dust
fire starts from ash on the eyelashes
air-blazing amid the fall haze.
The flakes were light and shimmering
I delight on snow-covered roadways
leaf, branch, and body ripen in spring
now I can relax in the pristine snow
burying the wreckage after a fatal fall.
The snow was softly pelted by the rain
white crispy flakes gradually melted
below the softer, warmer raindrops
grass that had browned.
I spin heavenly songs in the universe
I am a classic song in the art
a tawny friend, lament for your sight
our blood's delight of rage
can you discern the flow?
Weaving our way through the mist,
we become gnawed trees
a smorgasbord of a busy spiritual realm
snowflakes are created when rolling
November's ice storm.
The breezes freeze in November
the cold seeps into the bones
as winter approached, the sky was dark
hollowed trees show the passage of time
the window shows a blank space
there is a man here, unnamed
when the window is shut, petals vanish
things will improve soon.
Written: November 05, 2022
1St Place Contest Winner
November Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
In our Asian-cum-Eastern land
No one prefers or admires
the dark-skinned or tanned
Gosh, as if the fair-skinned alone
belonged to the so-called fairer sex
And here, 'black is beauty' a phrase unheard
All falling for the light skinned almost in reflex!
Bachelors on the hunt for a non-fictional Asian 'Snow-white'
Even an ugly heart will do if the skin is white, pale and light
For them lighter skin tis brighter and better at beauty
even if superficial and skin-deep
The dark-skinned maidens thereby left single to weep
But while the ebony dark- pigmented
go on applying whitening and lightening creams
The white Westerners frequented
the sunlit beaches for dark tans from sun beams!
So in westerners females wish to look browned and tanned
Thus the opposite is preferred
so to that end they may sun bathe for hours on beach sand
Ah and though from the point of view of my motherland
I am luckier that God chose
to model me from a peachy whiter lighter clay,
I still feel this tug-of-war between complexions
needn't really join the fray.
For when you and I glance at Naomi Campbell
we know beauty can be white, brown and black as well
Like love, beauty knows no colour, creed or race
As proved by this gorgeous black supermodel.
Besides, we all have come across
both dark-skinned angelic saints
and fair-skinned folks with sinner's taints
Ah, Black Beauty, or Fair and lovely
Beauty has never known any bounds
For God He distributed beauty rather equally
No argument can last on these grounds
Oh, a soulmate's inner beauty ought to be earnestly sought
Too bad lustful passions fall for those merely outwardly hot!
Me a colored blind dreamer
My other senses honed
You ask
What can I know about color
I am told red is the color of passion
I feel the heat
Between us
I smell the rose in your long black hair
The feel of the red silk nightie I remove from your body
Beneath is your browned skin
smooth and luxurious
I see it with my hands
I travel to pink with my tongue
Separate your lips
Taste the essence of you
I see the blue of my eyes in your smile
As I swim in your ocean
You who knows every part of me
Yellow is the brightness of your soul
You light my spirit
Permeating all my dark corners
You are the color of all my dreams
My rainbow and pot of gold
I am satisfied
Yet I have no desire to leave your embrace
I see and feel all your colors
Satisfy me again
Let me hear the sound of our colors combined
Two poetic hydrangea mobiles ~ happy or sad, take your pick
~
Weeping hydrangeas spill
sapphire tears falling,
drenching grey scale gardens
suspended, free flowing
a mobile of distractions
on tiny threads scattered
above clouded daydreams
Worded floating silent streams,
spinning slowly, creating phrases
on whirlwind petals,
browned edges frame
whispered wonderings
sans answers
upon somber breezes
of yesterday’s questions
or
A cappella Hydrangeas
send harmonic petals floating
upon melodic wind chime breezes,
suspended soft concerto clouds
on love sonnet strings
tuned to a spring day,
as flowering symphonies,
acoustic mobiles of emotion
bloom within a garden
of daffodils dreams
in unison with lyrical
compositions of nature’s
enchanting song
~
Alone,
slicked with sweat,
and hearing the locusts’ cries
deep in my neck,
I stood over the remains
of Sal Paradise.
The spotty grass
around the tombstone
was browned and littered
with trodden Camel filters
and corroded bottle caps.
I reached into
my inspired rucksack
and discovered a Deutchmark,
forgotten like a sleepy drunk
at crowded a tavern.
I placed it on the granite,
amid the years
and a crusty half-empty
whiskey bottle
a different friend had left.
I hunched over the grave,
my head bowed,
but not really praying
or thinking about him.
And now I sit across the street,
seated by the window
in a little Italian restaurant.
I am the lone customer,
ensconced by piped-in light FM muzak.
Beneath the sunset, snug upon blue hills
are stalks of corn; a standing army gold
but long, their shadows fall like swords that stills
a weary legion cold with growing old.
Like soldiers dug in trenches they hold ground —so holy.
They hug their summer-season-dreams of youth.
The sun, their crown, now spurns them burned and browned —unholy!
Nor’easters shred what’s left with claw and tooth…
Oh, solstice rays once s w e e t as sugar maize,
the shadows short as days were long. The throng
of lazy mornings bathed in earthbound haze,
ah, leaves raised higher by the evensong.
September swans press wings in hum against the freeze;
a whisper to the rooted to concede to Autumn’s seize.
(Contemporary Sonnet)
The fog sits heavy on broken ground,
Snow lays light where the stubble’s browned.
No sun, just hush and hoofbeat slow,
And breath that drifts like chimney smoke.
The cows stand scattered, heads hung low,
Dark shapes caught in a pale gray glow.
I ride out quiet, don’t make a sound...
They know this hat, this horse, this ground.
A calf’s come early, slick and thin,
Laid out cold with his legs tucked in.
I swing a loop with a steady hand,
No sudden moves in this kind of land.
The stubble snaps beneath each step,
And time don’t care how long you’ve kept.
It’s just you, the rope, the breath, the need...
And a life hung tight between frost and feed.
My mare don’t flinch, just shifts her weight,
Knows well the line ‘tween luck and fate.
Ain’t no crowd, no song, no stage...
Just a man and stock and an honest wage.
I rub him down with gloveless skin,
He blinks, then breathes the cold back in.
His mama lows, I step away...
That kind of trust ain’t earned in a day.
I ride on slow through fields gone bare,
With wheat stems pokin’ through thin air.
And I reckon that’s what winter is...
A test of quiet, a trial by whiz.
This life don’t shine, don’t boast, don’t beg...
It’s a coffee pot, a frostbit leg.
But it’s mine, and I’ll ride it true...
Just like this ground remembers you.
As summer nights of listless warmth
descend behind to the past,
fruits of spring hang heavy now,
ripe, and are ready to cast …
The mornings bring forth a pleasant chill,
for Mother Nature’s tired face,
who yearns for rest in a winter bed
to rest from another years grace …
For the bounty she shared with us all
are recipes blended to keep,
with a new season changing to slumber,
so quickly she drifts toward sleep …
For now all her greenery’s faded
to rustic reds, golden or browned.
Shadows are twigs and the branches;
autumn leaves now carpet the ground.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound
the lamas leap and the water falls-- clear,
mindful, the wind's play on the Quechua's ground.
The majesty of the Andes astounds
for from behind the clouds, the peaks reappear.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Like great red-clay dunes or snow capped mounds;
courts rise and fall in terrain, so austere;
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Rainbows of red, blue, and gold oft surround
distant ruins of gray stones, now severe
from the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Solid, earth-bound, sun-browned, lost to the hounds,
so, Quechua shepherds bound stairs cavalier--
mindful; the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Pachamama's love surrounds without bounds,
long gone are the conquers; all life is here,
from the mountain's peak, the wooden flutes sound--
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
* Quechua is one of the native people of Peru
**The Dominican Monks set hounds trained to kill
on the natives who refused conversion.
*** Pachamama, fertility Godess in Incas Mythos
Her faint voice quietly sings
a cheerful love song
mixed in with the tapping sounds
of the falling water
from inside the clear glass shower
The morning light illuminates the room
and I can see her reflection
in the half-steamed bathroom mirror
A gorgeous sight
happiness radiating off her cheeks
and a smile you could die for
Quietly I sneak downstairs and start breakfast
nice plump honey browned sausage links
a couple of poached eggs
finely cut hash brown potatoes
garnished with some fresh succulent strawberries
and a hot cup of lemon tea
Merrily she enters the room
with an I love you grin
wraps her arms around me
and kisses me good morning.
When flowers die,
they die slowly-
edge by edge
the petals curl,
still, silently,
without complaint....
Unlike us,
cut flowers
should be let go before
the first tinge of death
while they are yet
radiant in deepest color.
We humans, however,
must stay alive long,
long past our first bloom--
till we have crinkled and
brutishly browned from
the excesses of time.
Yet we have
what flowers have not:
our love for them
dies with them
while our love
for our beloved blooms
ever more resplendent
with the long years,
lasting past the fading,
lasting past even death itself....