Best Canvassed Poems
Open eyed, long tearless, foul silvered orbs
have you no pity? The aqua tide rides dry.
Blind staring scorches, accusing twin barbs
who burrow inward, a destiny to decry.
Scattered rendering, puzzled pieces aligning;
"Please mercy has a place, why can't I cry?"
Remove the cataract veneer, stop my pining
"Have you no place for maddened souls such as I?"
Nailed to the boards you see a canvassed psyche
dabbed upon a casein shroud in hues most bright.
"How many lamp lit days will you seek to find me?"
The light betrays me and I live in eternal fright.
Eternities unfold in Lovecraft Tales
upon the silvered side within my eyes; hell wails.
Chaste and more graceful
Than the white canvassed Dhow:
Reclines sweet Nefertiti
Upon a Blue Nile breeze.
Fabled entity more whiter
Than the purest white snow
That thickly blankets
And folds over the wide Pyrenees.
Dipped is thy beak
Into a harvesters August sunset;
A Bohun proper,
Gorged and chained with a crown;
Tipped Argent quills
Thus scrawl across royal warrants:
Plodding, punctilious creature -
Of high born renown!
Proudly thy trumpet Lancastrian ascension,
Emblazoned on a Heraldic shield;
Pomp and indignation
Paddling alongside contemptuous scorn;
Sinuous neck of Serpentine undulations
Tensioned as if a Longbow -
On whose plaited strings
The sturdy Yeomans Bodkins were drawn!
And did Columbines mask
Ever hold such indignant eyes
For whose feathered heart
The diligent cob did attend?
His sedulous efforts
To court within impassioned grunts
When intertwining throats
Do abouts and lovingly wend.
O, Cygnus olor!
En monde bosse - glittering Dunstable jewel;
Pen and immortal verse
Chart beside heavens gilded streams.
For under old mariners discarded stars
And above silvered byways:
Whoop the beat of dusted wings
Inside slumbering clouds wandering dreams.
They float effortlessly
zigzagging,and fluttering,
so care free.
Watching them enjoying
the savory nectars, that
ripened flowers share and
release.
A pallet of majestic colors
are lavishly worn.
Orange, and blues,
lavender, and yellows
are vividly shown.
So many designs and
colors are painted on their
majestic beautiful
canvassed wings.
Inspiring the great
painters to paint in the
early spring.
They start out as a
larvae, who would have
thought?
They would metamorphise,
into, masterpieces and leave
us completely in awe!
Michael Tor 12/14/2015 Skat A Sponsor For Men Only (Could You, Would You)
Write About Butterflies Contest.
"Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy."
~ Gilbert Parker ~
Laud precious memories when cold nights prevail
Those that fan love's flames as wintry winds wail
for upon those images, a lonely heart sets sail
if only in an interlude where grief cannot assail
Tho' behind and betwixt are storms, dark mortal seas
yet love births sweet glories, devoid of costly fees
Far more beautiful than earth is Nature and its trees
On a romantic path, in truest light, may God it please
Mourns the heart when memories are bittersweet
Each one a plunging dagger, blades of winter sleet
A mighty foe one cannot banish or cast off in defeat
for with each renewed attack, pain is wont to repeat
Memories of past failures plague sad, wounded souls
Invisible afflictions impose such pretentious tolls
Past wrongs are seared into regret's grievous roles
remaining as fair warning, which wisdom fairly extols
But there are melodious moments; dulcet thoughts
where flows trickling memoires and elation imparts
rushing through veins 'til canvassed in pulsing hearts
as treasured paintings; unforgettable works de' arts
When a smile, sans apparent reason, plays upon lips
and eyes shine as though emerging from a lunar eclipse
there will arise a memory, perhaps in cursory snips
a prize to relish, delectable as wine a connoisseur sips
I cradle and rock him,
He's so fragile a thing in my arms,
So perfect, so innocent,
So unlike his mother.
His mother was broken and wicked,
A being rotten from within,
But I had loved her still.
It was foolish, I know,
But is that not what love entails,
Accepting someone for who they are?
She likened herself to a grey petaled rose once,
Sere and dying.
He'd likened her to a little candle,
Hidden beneath a bushel.
She called her life a colorless canvassed painting,
With him only as red.
When she saw only lifeless skies and muted chaos,
And her sanity danced away;
To some silent unheard rock music,
He fastened to her hand and danced with her,
Till the music turned gentle,
And it's tempo slow.
I had known she wouldn't stay for me,
Believing otherwise would be naive.
I had thought she would stay for him;
Our little boy,
Thought she could lock away those parts of herself,
That part of her mind that played terrible scenes;
Of still bloody rivers,
And terrific demons,
And scattered husks of men;
All in haunting recaps,
That compelled her to recreate such destruction.
She did not think she was worthy,
To look upon a thing so perfect and innocent,
And call her own.
She was broken and wicked,
And she was rotten from within,
But she knew in her black shriveled beating-box,
That he would take care of him,
Like he had done for her,
As her healer and her friend,
Though he was not his own.
So she'll close her eyes for just a little while,
For she believed all will be well,
And she hoped to go where there was silence,
Flawless emptiness.
It would be beautiful to her if death were like that.
She'll love them both still,
In that world of total blankness,
And isn't that what love is about,
Letting someone go when you know you're not right for them?
Asleep on a pile of hay
my dreams are waiting for the day
when summer relinquishes her ray
to a re-canvassed season of red clay ;
Burgundy leaves in the wind sway,
as September returns like a Jay
Sponsor Line Gauthier
Contest Name Bite Size Poem no51 |
Memories: Friend and Foe,
collaboration with Lin Lane
"Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy."
~ Gilbert Parker ~
Laud precious memories when cold nights prevail
Those that fan love's flames as wintry winds wail
for upon those images, a lonely heart sets sail
if only in an interlude where grief cannot assail
Tho' behind and betwixt are storms, dark mortal seas
yet love births sweet glories, devoid of costly fees
Far more beautiful than earth is Nature and its trees
On a romantic path, in truest light, may God it please
Mourns the heart when memories are bittersweet
Each one a plunging dagger, blades of winter sleet
A mighty foe one cannot banish or cast off in defeat
for with each renewed attack, pain is wont to repeat
Memories of past failures plague sad, wounded souls
Invisible afflictions impose such pretentious tolls
Past wrongs are seared into regret's grievous roles
remaining as fair warning, which wisdom fairly extols
But there are melodious moments; dulcet thoughts
where flows trickling memories and elation imparts
rushing through veins 'til canvassed in pulsing hearts
as treasured paintings; unforgettable works de' arts
When a smile, sans apparent reason, plays upon lips
and eyes shine as though emerging from a lunar eclipse
there will arise a memory, perhaps in cursory snips
a prize to relish, delectable as wine a connoisseur sips
Robert J. Lindley and Lin Lane collaboration.
Rhyme, 12-09-2019
Note: Thank you Lin. An honor to collaborate with you
and see firsthand your fine poetic talents on blessed display..
God bless...
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
April brings in the overcast darkened skies,
and wet days yet to come.
Rainy days linger, and don't allow the
slightest peek, from the rising sun.
A beautiful Monarch butterfly is resting still
on a Wisteria vine.
Taking in her fragrant scents, that are so
deliciously divine.
The days turn into months, as the seasons
brings in climatic changes.
Mother Nature then waves her wand
shortening her days, as she watches falling
leaves do their spiral dances.
Vibrant hues transcend upon the picturesque
landscape imagery, as ripened leaf colors, overwhelm
leaving a visual memory.
A bright harvest moon adorns, the silhouette
of a night owl, perched on a branch.
Watching this outstanding image, and
savoring this once in a lifetime surreal glance.
This wet weather has hugged the pumpkins,
with a covering of frost.
No abundant harvest this fall, as farmers
sadly give up, their cherished crops.
As time progresses, there is a burnt leaf smell
lingering in the frigid air, and a cold shivering
gusty north wind blowing, through my hair.
The light snow starts falling, creating a white
canvassed impression,
As children play and make snowmen, in this
wintery illustration.
Michael Tor
August is ending with a heat that gives no mercy to the land or man
so intense that the air swelters off the river into the tree tops,
looking ahead, its as if we are passing through the gossamer of summer's spector,
Private Shanon has been missing for six days
although, we believe he is lost, not captured or deserted
only God knows where his feet have taken him,
evidence along the riverbank indicates that he is alive and pursuing us
perhaps mistaken and disoriented, thinking that we are further up river,
Old Dorion is seeking him now like a clever wolf,
Shanon was seperated from me while stalking a coyote
a most mischievous animal that is entirely foriegn to us except in prank,
a bottle of whiskey goes to the first man who can lay a coyote down,
yesterday half of the expedition went hunting the prarie dog
a critter more cunning than a cat and jumpy as a log spark,
after several hours of scrambling around like lunatics
Private Sheilds has finally caught one with pork bait and a twig basket
the poor rascal squieks like a cheap violin,
eventually I will send it to Washington with other novel specimens,
President Jefferson and the Philosophical Society will be good guardians,
the men and I have been refreshing ourselves on the jewels of soil
the wild grapes are so succulent that the Italians would believe
Bacchus himself had seeded this earth with a secret serum
and the plum groves cuddled in the most unadulterated coves
invite the mind into Eden's shadow,
on this journey we have observed migrations of pigeons
that have rivaled the stretch of storm clouds,
crowds of squirrels so numerous they have canvassed the ground with a sea of fur,
and now the mighty, mythical buffalo walks before us
a legend amongst beasts, monstrous in girth
with hooves that peel the Plains and horns shaped by vengeance,
as they graze we seize the prize of their offering with thanks in our aim,
not having horses strategic concealment is critical, they are reknown for retaliation,
we dropped seven of them in a great pandemonium of panic
the gun smoke, field dust and perspiration meld into a fragrance of sacrifice,
our sustenance is secured, their lives feed our future,
J.A.B.
In a castle on a hill,
Sat a king upon a throne,
Who thought life was dull and still,
Because he was alone-
He summoned castle criers,
To find a bride to be,
They canvassed all his shire,
And found suitable were three-
The first was very pretty,
Marked vanity was her want,
The king felt it a pity-
Only looks she liked to flaunt-
The second yearned for power,
Her heart was full of greed,
Demanding things each hour-
Of love she had no need-
The third was quite possessive,
Each friend of his she shun,
The king found her obsessive,
And knew she not the one.
In a castle on a hill,
Sat a king upon a throne,
A ruler of free will,
He chose to be alone!
Moral of the story: Better off alone than with one who doesn't love you!
written for Castle On A Hill contest
The grass, just about dry,
is canary, clothed in evening sun,
now sinking beyond the colorful portrait,
canvassed on nature’s abundant spread;
a brilliant form, painted by fall’s seasoned fingers.
The cool breeze funnels through valleys
carved into towering crags,
and gently commands the trees to stir,
while prompting nebulous wits to think of wintry smiles.
A lonely guinea hen begins a boisterous chatter,
moon-stricken;
a crack at preserving a cogent mind.
Water lilies, a daub of pink and white,
caressed by the sun’s slight light,
settle buoyantly amid roaming rain clouds,
but secluded from toadstools sowed in animal droppings
on the mucky banks, which hush the tributary.
Waterfowl soar across the blue in a unique motif
to slice the resisting wind, and ride the up-lift.
Young goats ramp on the giant shaft of a fallen oak tree,
and Lulu’s cow has a calf, a male calf.
The bovine, English-bred, is a burden to his mother.
Round and apathetic; he lurches like a drunk.
His back is a toilet for egrets and sand-pipers.
He impedes the progress of the herd,
and the bellowing is far too concentrated around the stream,
where, on tranquil days, sad reflections trickle away.
If anyone should inquire why life here is such a drag
Your best reply should be:
Lulu’s cow has a calf, a male calf.
I step up
the open door awaits
sights appear in front
canvassed blue is what I see..
Into it .. I jump..
and drop
spearing
spiraling
careering
head first
into the unknown
trekking down
at blistering speeds
Where I wake up..
and spread my arms,
birthing wings
with sturdy legs
as my quest begins
and I am full of wonder..
for the moment comes,
the clock ticks,
and like a bird,
I begin to fly.
Death of the King
– a threnody
Since the day of freedom,
the crowned king has sat
stately on state affairs:
atop this tempest
this illwind,
this boiling cauldron of corruption.
Blowing and blowing and
siphoning away our joy
and commonwealth!
The king’s green white green clime
is groaning under the weight of
the ILLUMINATI PATRONS –
His extensive tentacles striding
this wretched world of ours,
like a colossus, stripping
poor pockets of their smile
His flag flying fully –
unchallenged:
torn;
dirty;
blood stained, graft-ridden.
Marooned universally
and ripe to die!
Oh, what a reign of rape!
The green white green attire
lies forlorn at the backwaters
of modernity –
Oh where is the peace of cradle
Oh where is the fertility canvassed and
midwifed on freedom day?
At dusk,
the king is on his deathbed.
His sun is setting rather late.
Legion hands are at work
and they conspire for his death.
His statue is inclining towards
the dust for a lethal bite!
And now
the royal stream is flowing low,
drying up!
Handcuffs are on the prowl –
arresting and herding PATRONS
to the penitentiary to await
the inevitable:
The death of the king.
Postscript:
Oh King,
the hate we dedicate to you,
in death, is without end.
Your tomb lies in our psyche
without date, license, incense
or casket –
Except this eternal pamphlet
of your epithet, enthroned.
Accept, o king, this dirge as a
memorial of your repose and
sojourn in the hottest
part of hell.
Today my flowing pen
Streams screaming words
Cascading to hungry eyes
And thirsty ears of waves
Of the oceans of minds
Waiting to be sailed upon
In the winds of whatever
The day has decided to blow
Into sleeping sails awaiting
To be blown into awakening
Awareness breezing their way
Over wrinkling waters
Tearing to froth upon healing
Shores to be absorbed by
Dry sands of hope seeking
Long awaited rehydration joy
Waiting to be indebted
To imagine messages of love
And forgiveness raining down
From the cistern of clouds
Of joy thundered with canvassed
Guidance pitter patterning
Divine wisdom in a soft sweet Niagara
Flow frothing bubbles of keloid
messaging memories of 21 years ago
When we collectively died and survived
Together in a Bermuda-Triangle less
That taught us how we can and must
Live together here on the blessed
Shores of the land of the brave free
Who must now seek to finally become
Debt-free graduates of the oneness
Of living together in a unified America
Where we have rolled away the stone
From the tomb of onement releasing
The onederful echoes: "...One nation...
Under God...indivisible...with liberty
And justice for all..." in this sea of life:-