Best Cast Poems
You had me oblivious to your antics,
as you hushed me tenderly by the creek
into your hide and seekable
soul-surrendering secret relief.
There, you cottled me into softness
with a simple chin caress,
which continued to smooth
the entire twisting course
of my delicate remorse.
My garments shifted
from their skin,
slipped into the witnessing wind.
You convinced me to sin
so remarkably, so recklessly,
for one worshipped glide
of feigned intimacy.
I bemoan my mixed senses
behind the curtain of uncertainty.
Oh, Romeo, if only I'd known you.
If only I knew that
your prestigious people-pleasing smile
was practice for the play.
That those granny pleasing manners
and Band-Aid banter
would soothe my soul to sleep.
That those jovial jokes
and caramel coated coaxing
would lead me quietly to the creek
where your meaty man hands would span
each inch of my innocence and beyond.
That your chivalrous, chiseled chest
and incandescent camper's scent
would be compressed
against my gentleness.
By this indulgence
I had relinquished your respect
and you had tossed my trust.
So dissolved the blending of lust,
and with it the end of us.
Your camouflaged fibs
of forever love
would continue deep
through the space in my ribs,
into the closing scene.
Romeo, so applause-worthy were you
on your secret stage that
Shakespeare could have cast you
just as you had cast me.
Friends come and go, but some have passed me by
as swiftly as the sun that lights my days.
They wave goodbye; I give a little sigh.
It seems I barely had them in my gaze.
Sweet friends I knew from youth. Where have you gone?
My bonds with some of you I felt were strong.
But journeys that we each embarked upon
divided us, and now I write this song.
Its lyrics tell the longings of my heart -
to see and be again with each dear friend
who knew me when and shared a special part
which cannot be retrieved nor has an end,
for memories are shadows cast by sun
which haunt me even when my days are done.
4/5/2012
For Mark Toney's the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 11' Poetry Contest
I was happy to have my poem mentioned by celebrity hair
and makeup artist Wonderlandhairandmakeup-Alice Theobald, yesterday
on Instagram!
IF I CAN CAST A SPELL
If I could cast a magical spell
I would have a world,
Where all is well.
It would be erased of all distress,
A world of love and peace,
Such joy and happiness.
A friendly world,
Full of smiling faces,
No hatred!!!
It would be a wonderful place,
To be there for each other,
After all these difficult times,
To be loved and respected,
Would be just fine!
BE THERE FOR EACH OTHER.
Little Daisy Poetry by Daisy Meadows- book and ebook now available on Amazon!!
The fog rolls in at the loss of a mother…by Poet
climb
into
the last time
you feel cold sheets
against your body
others plump your pillow
you hope to see everyone
before you close your eyes to them
they’ve dressed you in a lovely nightie
cast away opened-back hospital gown
you lay on death’s chest- there’s nothing to fear
painfully know you have to let go.
you feel the boat pulling you out
tears stinging your eyes and theirs.
the body’s staying, soul’s
departing the shore.
kisses on cheek
and forehead
blessing
you.
It’s
final
they’re grieving
near the lighthouse
a lookout for rocks
the blast of a foghorn
they’ve drifted into its midst
lost half a year with the monsoon
friends pick them up, wipe away their tears
a buried treasure hugged from time to time
2/17/2022
E Forms- Etheree
Sponsor: Constance La France
HMS
'
where, in the shadow of a winter moon
beyond eternal skylines collecting stars,
does affection unfold in the sheets
of a nighttime whispering on the breeze
desperate wishes cast as stones on a pond,
smooth surfaces now laced with ripples,
spherical patterns meandering towards
a slumbering shoreline, drifting inward
a silhouette of love, an angelic form peers,
soft mahogany eyes reflecting yesterdays worries,
offering visions of a tomorrow woven between
today's dreams and desires, waits silently
thoughts echo through the dense forest,
evergreens listen as footsteps forage for a path,
a lone figure in the dark, beneath a braided canopy,
a mosaic of memories luring instincts and needs
winding a way through bramble and thistle,
scars fend off thorns, flesh withers in fear lost
within the mist of past encounters, pained
reminders though welcomed just the same
when in a clearing he pauses amidst swaying reeds,
perusing a distant horizon, witnessing the final ripple
slowly making it's way to the place she stood, now
vacant as a faint sliver of morning appears
falling to his knees
he pleads for the return of the winter moon,
the return of its shadow,
the return of...
I imagine when you first see it…all you see an old cast-iron pan…you don’t see where it’s been…you only notice the outside…not the history within.
But every time we use it…we handle it affectionately…because when we pick up this old cast-iron pan…that…is exactly what we see.
Some of this pan’s history we know…the rest we must infer…it was Debrah’s grandmother’s…passed down to her mother…then passed on down to her.
Now take another look at it…imagine, if you can, three generations of meals…cooked inside this pan.
Think of all the breakfasts, lunches and dinners served up lovingly…think of what this old cast-iron pan has meant to our family.
I wonder if that’s what makes anything cooked in this pan taste so good…as we think about how long ago it was cast…as the flavors we are tasting today blend with all those flavors from the past.
I suppose that’s why we get a little sentimental…why we use this pan so reverentially…knowing its age and history is what makes it special…knowing it’s a lot like Deborah and me.
And hoping how the three of us…Deborah, me and this old cast-iron pan…with a little bit of care and a lot of love…will keep cooking as long as we can.
We only hope there is at least one item in your house filled with memories…filled with its own history…an item like our old cast-iron pan…that’s part of your family.
Old crone, please tell me your secret.
Give a taste of your magical brew.
Whisper the herbs I must gather.
To mix up your potency stew.
A mere mortal born, I am helpless,
Unless you will lend me some power.
What ever it is I will drink it,
No matter how sweet or how sour.
“Close the book , ring the bell, light the candle”.
If that’s what we’re needing to do.
You can trust that I won’t tell your secret,
And I need just but one hour or two.
Long enough just to make up a potion
That will cure a loved one I hold dear.
For I have been told he is dying
And perhaps will not out live the year.
We’ve tried all the doctor’s prescriptions.
They are useless against his disease.
“Close the book, ring the bell, light the candle”
And with pity, take heed to my pleas.
By: Joyce Johnson For Linda Marie’s “Bell, Book and Candle.”Won a 3rd place
Cast Away
Waiting for you makes me feel
Like a cast away in Malden
So much golden sand
To slide my bare feet in
My feet feel each hot grain
Fills between each toe
Sun bakes the air around me
As I feel the warm wind blow
My eyes see an endless sight
Of such blue I can't take in
The waves, the crests, the tides
Loneliness, running thin
Waiting for you makes me feel
Should I hope you’d ever come?
I spend the day collecting seashells
Inevitably missing some
I’ll stare out into blue’s madness
Until the heat burns out my eyes
And never stop looking for you
Where the ocean meets the sky
Planes of rescue flew over me
While waves have eaten this coastline
I'm going mad in my sadness
Somehow wishing you would be mine
Written with admiration for Tom Cunningham ~ a gentle poet
maligned by one who really casts an aura of darkness
My smile is genuine and reaches to my eyes.
I do not wear a mask, nor a cloak of disguise
and I post poetry in my given Christian name.
From the hand of one it was written in a claim
that I cast shadows of dark energy around me.
Should I assume that I'm thought of as beastly?
Someone thinks that my spirit has gone awry.
I have to shake my head in disbelief as I decry,
"If you liken me to a sinister, malevolent being
I would ask what movies have you been seeing?"
Call me rude names if that makes you feel witty,
but each shines a gleaming light on your lubricity.
I'm not insulted by the sticks and stones thrown,
nor do I write anything that I would ever bemoan.
I will champion myself, my friends and my nation,
never seeking battle, nor in fear of confrontation.
I am not a troll, a gang member, or wolf in a pack,
so don't falsely accuse me. I won't take your flack.
There is no darkness surrounding my aura, I'm sure.
It may be that your malicious thoughts are impure.
You struggle with defining what's right from wrong.
Is there anyone with whom you can get along?
Friendships are important and you would be wise
to recall that poets should be a coalition of allies.
You're entitled to your opinions, and I am to mine,
but if they are different, don't moo like a bovine.
"Spiteful words," you said, my friends and I write.
Well, in this case I'll say you're absolutely right.
I've been told that rebuttals are a waste of my ink
but not a drop is wasted if it makes people think.
Think of the insult to a poet belittled by another.
One who treats everyone as a sister and brother.
Tom wrote of the bloodbath Putin draws in Ukraine
then selfish comments were made that left a stain
on his words that were written to ring out in truth.
Don't sling mud on other poet's by throwing a stone.
Give voice to your beliefs. Write one of your own.
And now, you're thinking, "You just slung mud."
Yes, I did, in hopes that it will land with a thud.
I don't relish penning negative lines of contention,
but sometimes things are in need of attention.
I'd rather write about Santa and Christmas cheer,
than calling out snide people who taunt and jeer.
yall devilish creatures tried to take away my family
My family is my world
let me take yall
back in time
were creatures of my
land riped out my heart all of a sudden
out of the. Crupted blue crowd of ugly creatures
with dead hearts.
literally tore my whole world almost apart.
they snatched my golden little angel
from my heart . they made up all these lies.
to try to get my family torn apart .
these creatures must have no heart , to drag a
family of gods creation straight into the dark.
creatures of hell , you dont snatch away god's
little angel from the original creature creator .
she was choosen to be with me heart to heart .
funny how the devil works he keeps pickin us with his
pitch fork.tryn to make us burn with them .
no , when we didnt do any kind of unholy sin.i hope someone out here can relate to satins workers like what they put my family through loops and circles of Satins unholy cobered up lies lies lies.
Across Mind's Fertile Fields New Seeds Are Cast
Across mind's fertile fields new seeds are cast
Oft spread onward by an innocent flame
If, if only, youth could forever last
Death would have to abandon its dark game.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Across flowering meadows oak trees grow
Near the lost graveyard where childhood once ran
If, if only, in June's heat cool winds blow
And more pretty girls show off their dark tans.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Across this great earth, life dances and teems
Sun rewards casting its bright golden rays
If, if only, river gifts cooler streams
We in our youthful zeal may pass our days.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Across mind's fertile fields new seeds are cast
Oft spread onward by an innocent flame
If, if only, youth could forever last
Death would have to abandon its dark game.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Robert J. Lindley, 1-25-2021
Rhyme,
( Memories From The Southern Meadows- 1968/1973 - to- 2021 )
Note:
Tis a terrible thing to look back and think of the time that
one once so wasted. Yet as noted- we are what the past has
made us. For better or worse, I survived much and believe
there is a reason for that survival. Perhaps could be as simple
as my writing.
Poetry has been in my blood firmly- as an addiction
- since age 15 - in 1969. The same year that my father died.
Now the ink that courses through these old veins.
Recalls the beginnings, youth and the wild years.
Life was crazy- living , loving, O' the pains.
Poetry cries, yes ink out those tears… ink out those tears.
THE DEVIL HIMSELF AND "ALL OF THOSE WHO FOLLOW HIM ARE "CAST" INTO "THE REAL LAKE OF FIRE EVERYDAY" !!!! IT HAPPENS AT "MID-DAY"!!!! DO YOU WAN TO WIN? YOU CAN WIN DURING "MID-DAY" WHEN THE DEVIL HIMSELF IS CAST INTO "THE LAKE OF FIRE" AND ALL OF THOSE WHO WORSHIP THE DEVIL,AND THEY CANNOT STOP US FROM WINNING "THE MONEY" FROM 11:00 AM UNTIL 2:00 PM BECAUSE THOSE WHO ARE "THE DEVILS CHILDREN WILL BE IN "THE LAKE OF FIRE EVERYDAY FROM 11:00 AM UNTIL 2:00 PM AND THEN WE WILL WIN "THE MONEY" THAT THEY WANT TO WIN" !!!! THE DEVILS CHILDREN WILL SOON END,AND IT WILL BE AT MID-DAY WHEN "THEY ALL ARE IN THE "LAKE OF FIRE" TO FULLFILL "THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY'S HOLY DESIRE!!!...............
Poetic Verses Cast On Angel Of My First True Love
Red dust stirring in her footsteps, grace in her shoes
she was a fearful angel, between old world and new
sweetness and joy in her bounty, purple in her blues
singing roads rarely traveled, in rhythms soft and true.
Her music ate into majestic sad and bony marrows,
gypsy of tomorrows, poetess flying upon desperation carols.
Red thorns set to bar her, from nights purely mellow
I her blinded witness, she a rose gleaming bright yellow
we stranded seekers, ignorant of life, its great dangers
lost in cavernous echoes, attended by ghostly strangers.
Her music ate into majestic sad and bony marrows,
gypsy of tomorrows, poetess flying upon desperation carols.
Hope fleeing as wherein her path broken rainbows fell
she innocent victim of Life, its many vicious hells
joining in her journey, a boy dying to be truly free
vows yet unspoken, twixt her soul and heart within me!
Her music ate into majestic sad and bony marrows,
gypsy of tomorrows, poetess flying upon desperation carols.
Red dust stirring in her footsteps, grace in her shoes
she was a fearful angel, between old world and new
sweetness and joy in her bounty, purple in her blues
singing roads rarely traveled, in rhythms soft and true.
Her music ate into majestic sad and bony marrows,
gypsy of tomorrows, poetess flying upon desperation carols.
R.J. Lindley, July 22nd, 1975', 1st edited May 7th, 2020
2nd edit- May 12th, 2020.
Sad Rhyme, ( Under The Blanket Of Memory, Hurt, Pain And Loss )
Note: "marrows"
mar·row1
/'mero/
noun
plural noun: marrows
1.
a soft fatty substance in the cavities of bones, in which blood cells are produced (often taken as typifying strength and vitality).
Note: Only girl that I ever loved that also wrote true and heartfelt poetry...
Left seeking future mysteries, as Life and Hope both our hearts fled...
Cast thy stones, cast thy stones,
Come ye one and all.
For ne’er were truer words than these:
“Pride cometh before the fall.”
Come ye saints, come ye church,
Let this be our creed:
“Despite the beams within our eyes,
This worn world was born to bleed.”
Come ye thieves, come ye whores,
Cast them if you may.
A martyr was I called to be,
So do so both brisk and gay.
What is sloth? What is greed?
All is vanity.
Have mercy priest and holy bride,
For sanity is my plea.
Take great heed, fellow saints!
For this is my creed:
“Forsake all pride and vanity,
Lest my cast stones make you bleed.”
there’s a seismic gap
between the then and now
i see it widen
with every gaping breath
working your way
to the other world
the fog is clearing
the bridge appearing
that’s it
the time has come
you’re leaving me
hardly by choice
goodbye to dreams
we shared
just one more i love you
another smile
one more connection
as nightfall descends
i hear the moon beckon
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on April 15, 2021 for contest ALL YOURS sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Originally posted on February 23, 2021