Best Burgeoning Poems
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
So you fancy that you know the poet?
I for one, wouldn’t dare make that claim!
Poets have ventured where few men have been,
And the poet is no stranger to pain.
Poets don’t live on the same plane as most,
Theirs is much deeper and higher.
They have dipped their quills in the blackest of ink
And climbed farther than most can aspire.
In a way, they are like a reporter
But their stories do not come second hand.
When their words bring to life vivid scenes of delight
You can bet there’s more gold in the sand.
The poet who writes of the joys of a puppy
And paints pictures of frolic and play
Has watched his companion grow old and pass on,
And thanked the good Lord for the days.
The man who rejoices at a burgeoning oak
Just breaking forth from the brown
Has sat in the shade of a towering red wood
And wept when it fell to the ground.
When the words of a bard touch you deep with its truth
And ring in your heart like a bell
You can bet that they paid for that seed with their youth
Or snatched it from some unknown hell.
For ‘tis poets, not fools who will quickly rush in
Where good men and angels refrain.
Only there do his cryptic words yield their meaning,
Only there can you feign know his pain.
I dream poetry;
I breathe poetry, for poetry
calls your name, feeling your
inerrant essentia—
your soul bleeds into mine—
a collision of cosmos,
diffused magnetically, once
a vagrant in a haze of miasmic
vapors—wildered and exposed—
you unshackled me from
this purgatory;
inversely immersing me in
your sphere of solace, and
blooming artistry,
lulling the vast polarities
splintering each layer of my veracity.
I dream poetry,
for your love drizzles
burgeoning constellations, amid
rosette sepals galvanizing my
orphic nuclei, with
every spark we sigh,
tethered to the infinite composition
of our unwavering love compellingly,
beyond heaven and earth,
devoted to you—
your fallen star; no longer silent, circling
nocturne arias entwining our destiny.
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
oh, my precious child!
let me kiss away your weep -
do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night
(stars whispering their ancient lullaby)
swallowing not, the western reach
but merely giving pause to the day, waking
so that the grateful star of morn
should adorn its burgeoning bosom
let not the salty seep of your cheek yet trill
such certain and elegant inequity there be
should a stain darken that pinafore, pressed
a scandal be my name with thy mother
should those eyes dampen your Sunday best
and surely not for the sake of Luna's languor -
oh, such dire dalliance, that!
I adore thee, my wee lass
Boundless are the ways -
Echoed in your mother's smile
There, so deep your gaze
'tis true, his aged face did blush, fleeting
dipping his dusty chin to the sea
but it was for Sol's regard only
(their goodnight kiss - pressed tender, a-cheek)
and no misfortune was spun
we shall return, my child, sooner than soon
and you will bear witness their recurrence
your old man moon will beg company again
with his patient aspect beaming
shimmering bright for your veneration -
soft, soft, so daubs the moon
soft as bluebells blooming -
wan on skin to softly swoon
e'er a dream's consuming
yes, I vow this to you, my daughter -
you shall dance again on this shore
bound and prance, my tiny ballerina
you will twirl in the breath of evening, I am sure
lit by the gangling glow, star-ward
and tonight's lament will seem a silly song
you shall see and be heartened, my little one
and should I yet kiss that weep away, too?
ah, but joyous, those tears...
and as the heavens themselves
(and the best born of a father's heart)
how immeasurable their number …
oh, my darling, precious child!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Your Choice (4), Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
She was tragically wounded in her fragile heart
Betrayed by her lover, the one who tore it apart
with vile words and deeds he chose to impart
leaving her as addled as an abstract work of art
There comes a time when what was is no more
The strong become weak, the rich become poor
A delicious apple is simply reduced to a core
Hearts drawn in sand are washed from the shore
Sometimes life gets twisted by anger or fate
Things loved suddenly become objects of hate
When burgeoning signs of Spring arrive too late
There comes a time to have patience and wait
Budded flowers bloom before they wither and die
Truth is found to be nothing more than a lie
Relationships flounder until they go awry
There comes a time to whisper, "goodbye"
There are times we cling to hope, running deep
When mourners no longer have reason to weep
When we'll scale mountains, too high and too steep
And sowers of seed have bountiful harvests to reap
Things change with time, as dark becomes light
Tides ebb and flow and black fades to white
A golden sun bows to a silver moon at night
There comes a time to make wrong things right
We wear life as a cloak, a cloth of fragile weaving
Mended at the seams when ripped by deceiving
There comes a time to put an end to the grieving
In yourself, you must always continue believing
A chrysalis becomes a beautiful winged creature
The ambitious student becomes the wise teacher
Disbelievers find faith in Lord Jesus, the preacher
There will come a time when pain can't reach her
An iridescent sapphire cuts into the night’s sky clearly
a gift unasked for and predestined appears solidity
love is the luster smelted inside the eastern chambers afar
Hooked upon the waxing moon’s burgeoning smile that shines
mesmerizing silver shadows dance under your bloodstained beams
beckoning freedom in an heavenly escape reflects back unconditionally
A tantalising call nurtured on the precarious wind surrounds the soul
shaded Sacred Heart images dance beckoning inside chorographic unison
never imagined acceptance of grace awaits in your tender loving embrace
A co-written piece by Liam Mcdaid & Donna Loughman
unrhymed tercets
We lived in a crooked house.
Built on a muddy mound of hope with the corpse of yesterday half buried beneath
Sad eyes and smiley faces. A gilded countenance to pair the four walled fiction – Painted thin; only just enough to cover our cracks.
Widening like morning eyes; a mirrored reflection.
Dancing in a zigzag to the tune of the tremors. An ugly soundtrack coaxing ugly art.
Those damp walls. The cracks swallowing torrents from eyes in the sky
Wide eyed boys watching sliding droplets crashing into droplets. Swallowed like pride.
Doors jammed in water seeped jambes. Knotted and gnarled. A need for a greave
Trees weeping at what they witness from the outside looking in. Shedding leaves for tears.
Oft trampled floor boards creaking and crying in solidarity with those that walk its back
Whisper and scurry light-footed like mice in a hurry so easily scared by the wall breaching wind
Trying hard not to wake the monster sleeping downstairs - Breath held like tongues, voices low
Like the swing in the garden tied to the tired branch of the hunched tree. Seat sunk in mud. Ashamed.
A tip toe down the slippery stairs; in fear of drowning in the basement swimming pool. A watery hell
Festering in the bowels of this building ever since the burgeoning moat breached the ramparts of this faux castle.
Lopsided family photo frames hanging by a thread. Nailed to crumbling walls. A slipping semblance of home.
The rising cigarette smoke staining the walls like those words from the same pursed lips from the mind so hard to rid
A cloudy plume with no silver lining; an excuse for eyes to water; blurring those family portraits.
That poisoned smog escaping through the chimney. Blown out over spluttering trees aghast at what this house concealed.
The wind once blew from the west. The house had many faces then but when the east wind struck its walls, the face it pulled it stuck. Doubled over, bent and crooked.
The trees perished like dreams and time brought change
But this crooked house remained the same.
To eyes that see spiritually,
prayers at their most ardent
appear like random meteors
or lightening flashes,
ascending suddenly
amidst the myriad of points of light,
creations' more common invocations.
Burgeoning in sky as glitter dreams
or solemn supplications, and some
as fervent pleas from dangers' depths,
they rise and soar. . .
to the glorious celestial door.
Seraphs at the portals,
besieged by beautiful entreaties,
strive to answer each and every one,
but heaven's ways can be mysterious. . .
Ardent prayers unanswered
drift back down,
returned not to their supplicants,
but rather to earth's angels
clothed in flesh,
who prompted by the Spirit,
and at the time ordained,
help fulfill the Father's will.
Being sensual isn’t necessarily about sex.
I recall a night of such immense innocent delight
that all my senses -heightened- far exceeded
my teenage expectations of romance.
My sense of sight had already been triggered
from the moment I first met the young man
whose eyes so flirtatiously met mine.
As sweet as chocolate, his eyes melted me.
His smile was honey and his voice too,
which dripped with an accent which was French -
instantly attracted my sense of hearing.
In the front seat of his Buick Riviera,
this boy from Quebec taught me the allure
of taking time . . .
taking time to gaze into each other eyes,
taking time to feel . . . to really feel
each little nibble on my ear lobe
and the sweetness of his breath
at the nape of my neck; to feel his fingers
as they softly traced the features of my face -
worshippingly -
as if I were a goddess he was touching.
Even my sense of smell was aroused by his colgne.
Taking his time . . .
such lingering precious time,
he arrived to that first anticipated kiss,
and my sense of taste was then aroused,
for his kiss was ambrosia of the gods.
To touch his silken skin and hair,
and then to feel his lips moving smoothly over mine!
In synche with him -
romance was nothing but sublime.
All the while his hands – so magical -
caressed my hands, my arms, my shoulders,
and my back down to my waist.
Feelings I’d never experienced before
overwhelmed me with bliss.
I was still a virgin, and he knew exactly how far
not to go.
Keeping me at the brink
of something I was not to know till I was married,
I was more than satisifed and never before in my life
had I felt more cherished.
Every sense of mine was totally engaged
by his dulcet whispers
and the beauty of his eyes, his nose, his mouth,
and his entire tall slender body.
The touch of him, the feel of him,
and the feel of MY burgeoning emotions -
for me this was a virgin’s dream
of sensuality.
Feb. 3, 2021
for the Sensual Poetry Contest of Charlotte Puddifoot
“Promises in September's magic”
“promesse nella magia di settembre”
Sweet September arrives again,
hearing the celestial melody and
symphony of a nocturnal wind
calling your name, beneath a
shimmering rain of stardust, my Venus.
I picture your rare beautiful soul
gazing at the glowing moon,
searching for mine in the firmament,
closing your eyes in abandon,
to the soft touch of the breeze,
my korean princess.
Enveloped in your rhapsodic cadence,
I can hear autumn's footsteps,
emerging from its seclusion,
kinetically flickering amidst mahogany foliage
rustling in remnants of summer musings,
as I wear a crown of marigolds,
graciously framing the aspen
contours of my enigmatic aura.
Let the autumn winds dance through
your hair beneath our tangerine sunset,
walking along the boulevard of our
diamond dreams, hand in hand,
reaching serenity in promises of
tomorrows and whispers of love,
my Aphrodite.
There is magic in the autumn air,
merging our sapphire emotions in depth,
with your divine essence, like the
lifeblood that wraps me in an
elysian bliss of our vows, to be
the cure and light for each other,
crossing over storms, adversities and
darkness, my marvelous creature.
I patiently wait for dawn,
hearing your heartbeat with mine,
playing our love song, amidst your
enchanting, breathtaking smile,
gazing into my eyes, as I
get lost in your beauty, for you
are the first marvel in this world,
my blue rose.
I wish I could float with the clouds,
beyond silken horizons,
gliding towards your
euphoric essentia, pondering;
what hides deep in the shadows?
Stumbling upon vast constellations,
discovering your mesmeric aphrodisia,
binding my heart and soul to yours,
breathing in our burgeoning love story.
Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.
"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms,
"Someday soon you will understand."
And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.
But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.
So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.
NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.
Dear Rosebud:
The morning dew gently caresses you
like the faint whisper of a young child's kiss.
Your limbs yearningly reach for the sun
as if awaiting a long lost lover's embrace.
Only a pair of vacant eyes could fail to see
the wonderful symphony of color waiting to be.
If allowed to come into full bloom uninterrupted,
butterflies will dance liltingly across your awakening splendor
as honey bees sing praises to your blossoms burgeoning bounty.
I can only pray your thorns grow sharp and rugged enough
to defend against the groping hands of life's wickedness.
Only the desires of the most savage hearts would ravage
a still unfolding beauty and extinguish a spectacle yet to be.
Only a vile pair of ears could fail to hear a shattering heart
and the soul deafening screams of a rose picked too soon.
Love dad...
PARTY VINE
The Sweet Pea is a social climber,
behind your back, a wisenheimer.
In the night it wields its powers,
Sweet Peas strangle other flowers.
Sweet Peas think the rainbow's somber,
they use the Fall to upstage umber.
They twirl tulle skits in every tint,
cheat the rose and pungent mint.
The splendid buoyant burgeoning pod,
is full of seeds it dumps with a nod.
Sweet Peas are fervent fertile bunnies,
they tease the bees with shameless honeys.
This pea legume will make one drunk,
it throws loud parties from its bunk.
In sweet perfume and showy dress,
it's backwards with oblige noblesse.
Sweet Peas smell like Orange Crush tastes,
It weaves green tendrils like Irish lace.
When breezes blow so soft and heady,
they throw their blossoms like confetti.
By Edlynn Nau
November 8, 2015
Emerging from sleep dream temerity,
his remote aurora spectral prisms
from which his wakefulness gives legerity,
from which surfaces new burgeoning aphorisms.
Truth’s contours arrayed in fluid fluency,
his morning ataraxia in the still water lake
from where his senses lose their truancy,
from where ideation sheds the opaque.
He finds repose in a moment's seclusion,
his lucid cortex in reflective possibility,
but he learns his real confirmation in inclusion,
and learns our fellowship best protects our fragility.
So quickly we imbrute each other with walls,
he knows how militarization is summoned by anxiety,
he weeps at the endless requiem protocols,
he grieves at history’s long cruel impropriety.
But he detects his promise in human need,
our struggle against forces of dehumanization,
our commission in communitarian creed,
our hope in human family realization.
Awarded second place in Poetrysoup "Grace and Solitude" rhyming poetry contest sponsored by John Hamilton.