Best Burnish Poems
I am poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I wonder what mortal mirrors reflect...
For me, all races deserve respect.
I often hear the splashing of rain,
and flood rushing down the drain.
I see the petals of the morning bloom
and dawn peeping into my dusky room.
I strive to forget the tales of ages long gone
when dreams died as deeds undone.
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I pretend to be a terrific tree
sapping the tears that betide me.
I feel old scars opening each time
my heart tends to commit new crime.
I touch the heart of the gentle moon
and worry if the Sun will shine at noon.
I cry for the youth and aged in need
and for gluttons in the grave of greed.
I hear the whispers of wealth and wisdom
flowing freely from the field of freedom...
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I understand the chains of our choices;
frailties of our fate; our darn differences.
I say let us not preen on what is not ours,
we will leave them in the six-feat towers.
I crave a world without woes and worries;
the mortal mall of matchless memories
where everyone trades a lasting legacy...
and love is shared on the platter of mercy.
I long to see gray skies turn blue
and my sweetest dreams come true.
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
I begin as a covet, dulcet demure
pure in play, unbound to a dogma or tablature, a luscious lure,
I find that nerve of passion's verve nestled 'neath narcissistic comfiture
a covey of tingles taunting the ambition you serve, swift and swill I swerve,
in you I introduce a tempo of truth trailing a kiss along your spine's curve
a persuasion of perversion purring patiently in almighty allure,
reaching your pinnacle pulse I assure,
Entwining myself around your libido with nibbling nurture
binding you to the alter of painstaking pleasure I relieve with analgesic swelter
hoodwinking your will with a delicate dominance I am the prima donna capture,
embellishing the envisage of eros, I burnish organs keen with aphrodisiac welter
you become a devout captive to me, the divine dominator,
I am the matador confronting your impulsive power
the target of your sexual tremor,
spear tipped with warm vigor
into you I pound a wonder,
vice and virtue surrender
to principle superior in passionate plunder, for you become the conquer's lover,
taking my spirit from specter to flesh victor,
I will make a woman the vessel of volcanic velvet,
revolutionize female thighs, simmering the sighs in eyes,
make the wrap of a man's arms a hearth of healing heat soul felt,
his tongue a torch pinging with paced pause within mouths magnetized,
A coup de tat taken to your Shangrila,
weaknesses my wayfaring, strengths the servants of my junta
my sweet magic of mayhem laid upon your lithesome lips, the coup de grace -
J.A.B.
Many times the ocean
has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea,
an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see.
The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide.
The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil
or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones.
Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own
scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform.
With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born
with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested
tested by the hand of He,
tested and found worthy.
The children of the Divine Wind
rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.
o there is a place that dwells deep within
it makes warm the sun as new days begin
wellspring of essence that found me beguiled
each wondrous footstep I took since a child
deep shines that spirit, alight as the day
noonday bright luster to fluster the fray
two feet on my path from sunup's first spark
scattering shadows to burnish the dark
it sees me thru day as sun 'cross the vault
shelters thru darkness and fear, to a fault
it lets heaven’s weep give life and inspire
and thru winter's cold, I warm by its fire
but …
like lovers in moonlight, stories and friends
life stays so precious cuz one day … it ends
daytime is joyous, drenched sweet by the sun
yet … moon and stars only beam when it’s done
I pray that one day my words dance on the sky
staining each sunset when evening draws nigh
when, like day dying to set twilight free …
my soul, with the sun, slips into the sea.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Completely Your Choice 3, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Completely Your Choice (3) Any Theme Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Slipping Soul Sunsets Into The Sea" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
SIGN OF THE TIMES
Silence is not always precious made in gold
In fact can be base alloy: dull and cold
Gleam gone dim, for the lack of active burnish
Now withheld - the living spoken words that furnish
On the nonce, response that endows communication
For that, in essence, is our spiritual libation
The substance of our lives as social beings
How sad, we eschew this act of spirit freeing
Each one is as in an insulated box
Transformed with a machinery that mocks
In imitations mechanist that don’t embrace
Most live exchange that could be face to face
Ease of access comes with loss for which I’m vexed
Sending isolation messages by text
23 April 2018
___________________________________
Married for more than fifty years, and happily so, I’ve often faced this question from today’s young generation. This sonnet shows how.
_____________________________
Mid-eighties as nudge my memory’s door
Time and again-- how the same love I loved--
She in twenties, me some harvest moons more,
Onward as our voyage of wonder moved.
The mystery of my long married life
Lied in falling for same love whilst on move,
Love grew, got deep to burnish, buff its knife--
The way I loved moving up high above.
At forty she loved respect, not romance
So much, more of partnership than passion,
Promise of love’s presence, lasting fragrance,
A bouquet of picks as if from heaven.
Rivers of love when flow in lively flux,
What miserly if love draws only once!
_________________________________
Sonnet | 07.03.2026 | life, love, marriage, mystery, river
These are the stones
that ground nails and sharpened talons,
they have slid under mountains of ice and fire,
have been polished by the glacial dead.
The stones endure now in layers of motion and stillness,
some are wind-tools shaped by a tireless chisel,
other’s glint with a past and crushed starlight.
The river has left signs of its scouring trace.
I turn a stone over –
look backward to a molten world.
I can hardly imagine
the slow burnish of such immutable forces,
suddenly I am a fish out of water,
my mind wriggling across an ice floe.
Torrents of emotion tumbling through the mind
Heartbreak and acceptance sadly now entwined
Catch the fading moments, filtered gold to grey
One fantastic hour, One remembered day.
See the concerned faces, lock them in your eyes
Hear sad conversations, tend the silent sighs
Soothe hearts with your comfort, bear the pain away
One fantastic hour, One remembered day.
Hold your dreams forever, never let them die
Burnish them with passion, drive your resolve high
Pound that haunted high road till it wends your way
One fantastic hour, One remembered day.
Why do the stars die?
What if such light vanishes?
What if glows darken?
Seek new horizons,
Illuminate dim radiance,
Burnish darkened clouds...
Should glows be polished?
Should obscure stellar cores shine?
Are they even bright?
Clear lucid dreaming,
Scintillant astral travels,
Flashing dimensions...
Should universal
Concealments be enlightened
From ambivalence?
Should such dull secrets
Be revealed or get unveiled
From black nebulas?
Dusk, dawn, day, night, gloom,
Time, space, gravity...;
Are they all shaded?
to wend through golden grasses of my past
with chill winds at my back from o'er the hill
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
thus far behind me stands that boy, miscast
while just a jester, much too bright and shrill
to wend through golden grasses of my past
the latter lad, thus pressed to love too fast
so saved his heart to burnish, soft and still
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
he stumbled into manhood, loves amassed
with wisdom gained from tragedy and thrill
to wend through golden grasses of my past
encumbrances and burdens grew too vast
while finding warmth in darkness and a pill
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last
so now I cross the fields of time, steadfast
renewed with all the love one heart can will
to wend through golden grasses of my past
oh how I wish the glow of spring would last.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Brian's Choice 10, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Your Best 2019-2020 Villanelle" Poetry Contest, William Kekaula, Judge & Sponsor.
My time has come... my time has come
To rise and meet the day.
In hope the woe that follows me
Has been lost and gone astray.
As I have a desperate need to make amends
To burnish up my life.
And fight those fiendish hounds from Hell
Who wish from me another mortal slice.
My time has come... my time has come
To accomplish many things.
And make such time that I have left
Worthy to stir an Angel's heart to sing.
But time has never been kind to me
So I must wrestle with its claws.
In hopes to usurp a brief respite
And further hamper Nature's laws.
My time has come... my time has come
To seek out and find my Son.
And tell him of the pride I feel
Before my time is done.
And pray he may forgive me
For my many foolish ways.
And gather about him the memories
Of my hope for better days.
My time has come... my time has come
To further count the cost.
Where my spirit soars to right past wrongs
And find dear friends whom I have lost.
As I hope to find sweet salvation
Tucked within their warm embrace.
And with their help, a fervent desire to sample
A smattering of God's eternal Grace.
My time has come... my time has come
To settle up my debts.
As it is time to pay the piper
And surrender to the One I most respect.
So with one last thought of tasks undone,
My mortal corpse I shed.
For as you see... my time has come...
I now lie here cold and dead.
Where we muster and flock as assimilator,
To imbibe the noesis as accumulator,
O’er this institute majestically,
And to nutrify our thirst magnificently,
Where we summon our metier and furnish,
Skills with the optimistic savvy and burnish,
The alpha knowledge of our profession,
And to inwrought our mind with passion ,
Where we unitely ascertain and acquisition,
The basics of our instinctive disposition,
As to acquire mere about pallor,
Worth millions of dollar,
Where we arrive and depart,
And fill empty spaces or apart,
Of our noddle so this fit as fiddle,
To solve and alleviate the medical riddle(s)
This comes veridical to Aero Medical Institute,
An organisation of infinite magnitude,
Of ethics, courage, bravery and fortitude,
So I pen and pays tribute and gratitude.
Written By
M .Shahid H. Chouhdry
Sparkle
to opals do they lend
shine
to emeralds they offend
exude
the missive they can send
glow
despair they often mend
burnish
surpass and do not bend
heal
put right before the end
Where we muster and flock as assimilator,
To imbibe the noesis as accumulator,
O’er this institute majestically,
And to nutrify our thirst magnificently,
Where we summon our metier and furnish,
Skills with the optimistic savvy and burnish,
The alpha knowledge of our profession,
And to inwrought our mind with passion ,
Where we unitely ascertain and acquisition,
The basics of our instinctive disposition,
As to acquire mere about pallor,
Worth millions of dollar,
Where we arrive and depart,
And fill empty spaces or apart,
Of our noddle so this fit as fiddle,
To solve and alleviate the medical riddle,
This comes veridical to Aero Medical Institute,
An organisation of infinite magnitude,
Of ethics, courage, bravery and fortitude,
So I pen and pays tribute and gratitude.