Best Ceremoniously Poems
a lazy stream
meanders
under
sullen
midday sun
beneath
a rustic
wooden bridge
regal koi fish
ride
ceremoniously
humbled
glistening
glittering
rippling
gentle flowing waves
~
Published in my photo/poetry book ~KOI POND~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on March 29, 2020 for contest STRAND CHOICE T sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
15 of them begin the emotional ritual attired in silk & sequens,
they maneuver miraculously one after another on burning coals glowing violet,
the dance steps are heartbeats, curved & compassionate, their majesty is inviolate,
their Art is to suffer for Hope wrought from the ribbon of Reality's casualties,
fifteen to infinity the ladies become shooting stars
lazered through a constellation collapsing into a single sphere of suspense,
the crowd claps, cymbals chyme and a sorcerer's symbols
rain in a fury of subconscious superstorm, confusing chaos
and charming candor as relics vouchsafed in this cosmic cavern,
the Eye of Providence appears annonymously, winking with Blessings
on the forehead of a girl crooning for Roman gifts of iron roses & opium doses
as she poses prettily on top of the Arch of the Covenant
where angels scorch alms and demons dine on delirium,
a flame spitter and sword swallower run to the forefront
as the music deepens within the skulls of saints,
they confront each other with pride, mortal misgivings alight in their eyes,
a contest between Altruism & Misanthropy,
which will prevail, fire or steel, which to survive, love or hate,
one gets stabbed, the other burned, wagers wave through the theater,
lots of chatter, banter & bravado, the wounded continue with character,
Innocence tries to exit but is not allowed by Wherewithal
as the two forces seem to be fatally struck
a curtain closes ceremoniously and all that remains,
endangered enlightenment echoes, and echoes like thunder
while a beautiful candle glows, not yet bent or spent
and everyone in attendance calms and knows,
in absence of love, nothing but misery can be achieved -
J.A.B.
It's a term coined
for the times
propelled by actions
ceremoniously indulged
whimsically by the populace.
It's growing daily,
masses in tune
bubbling to surface
rife with rebellion.
Senseless conventions
imposed by the machine,
discrepancies enlightened
with blinding rays
of rationality
superimposed upon circumstances.
Keeping up the fight
against all odds
baffling to mindfulness
as they scramble to react
to tides of mistrust.
A chilly, wet, spring day when the icy mud melts just enough to soak your socks before you've even gotten to the car,
And all you can think about is getting to the cafe.
There's coffee there.
Everyone goes to the cafe on slushy mornings,
When the sun shines but wind frosts the eyebrows.
Today, it's so bad I wait outside the coffee shop,
Imagining the various flavors of warmth
Rivers and tributaries of delicious comfort
That steam my nostrils as customers hustle back to their cars,
Roasted beans tempt even winter's grip, daring her not to thaw.
Ah, to gaze through that glass, where each order is taken,
Where a few modest coins give so much joy...
And then, I pass through the doors as the line lurches forward.
Chatter and laughter create summer inside
Like fireworks between flirts and a carnival of cacophony
Humanity's warmth, deeper than the coffee in which it takes root.
Soon, I too have my name in the queue,
And my dream of warmth unnumbs my icy toes.
As my name is called, I carefully caress my beloved drink betwixt my palms,
Ceremoniously seasoning it with cocoa comforts and frothy cream.
I guard this small joy,
Bravely setting foot forth,
My joy apt, and sublime.
All too briefly enjoyed.
How fleeting I remember
When struck by the tragedy of ice
That stole my coffee,
Frosted my feet,
And dunked me frigid into a muddy puddle just deep enough to breach my collar.
How I grieved as life-giving brown sparkled briefly against dawn's daylight
Freed of it's paper-cup prison
Splashing hot pain across my face even as winter soaked my back.
I remembered the cafe's smells, and laughter, and blissful exuberance
That too briefly I enjoyed
Too focused on temptation's fate, a burned tongue, and warmed belly,
And I grieved her loss as she sprinkled amongst the snow and earth,
No longer mine,
And gone forever, save for a few drops' aroma
That yet wafted my empty cup.
The past has painted a dreary history
with emblems of bittersweet memories,
Benign soaring deeds in almost everything,
but generations to come will be a surprise.
When worlds far apart ceremoniously unite,
to leave the lowered frown of awful gloom.
Deplume made Africa arise from trampled dirt,
to be admired in fiercer clouds coming down.
With every drapery breath changing place,
Destiny hands over the elusive realms in time,
Casting crowns to a forgotten race of eminence,
To Bring them out from the labyrinth of decline.
Into a glorious sunshine far and high as the stars,
Joyful alliance made combined nations proud,
in greater orbits, their planets have no slaves,
Wearing paradise on their heart under a shroud.
Africa arise out of the screen of banners forgotten,
In the distant sphere, see a reign less radiant now,
Could that vapour be a drop of monotint dream?
With Caribbean faces looking through the window.
Narrowing the refit gap, brace for future impact,
although hope seems very far away,
Africa will arise to stand upon the mountain top,
when the vision becomes light as the day.
Walls explode, windows crash
Lightning in the middle, ceremoniously mash
the safety of my core, the distressed world of my being
that has given me a reality, gazing into the sky, seeing
the truth written in heavenly bodies and locked in a celestial
dance.
Wandering through the maze of triumph and defeat
Playing tug-of-war with every soul I meet
Straddling between two worlds, navigating a dangerous cycle
Wondering if the dilemma I’m in needs the presence of
Archangel Michael and the ambassadors of heaven who uncover
the remains of my shattered soul.
The prevailing unveiling of my unfinished tale,
Which has weathered every tempestuous and stormy gale
Rears its furious head and says in all its glory
“You can’t die now, you’ve got to tell your story!”
This echo from my center reminds me of a winter
that taught me and brought me to my knees, not wanting
to pay the spiritual fees of my accidental mistakes and coincidental
blunders.
A roughening up, a toughening up of my disheveled being
captures the root of my anxiety and serves it up seeing my
compliance, asking for holy alliance with the creator to make
sense of this newness of life, absence from strife, that I am not
familiar with nor ready to receive in the midst of being unprepared
for the blessings which lie ahead.
How can this be? I’m not ready, you see? This new thing, this true thing
that comes to the light! It feels wonderful, yet so scary,
so overwhelming, I still want to bury, the feelings that fight through the
dirt and the darkness to let me know that you are worth more than your violent past so stop wearing the mask of self-hatred, deceit, unworthiness, and defeat. You are not what has happened to you, not what someone has done to you! With a few more climbs and a few more chimes, the truth won’t be so gory...
The time has come, the nightmare is over…YOU’VE GOT TO TELL YOUR STORY!
*Image of Santa Clause, Charlie Calvin by Giphy.
The Glass Orb
In an e'er thus oft agitated contorted crystalline world,
Unconsciously being tinseled by the energies that transpire,
Flurries of fakery enshroud the encircled glassful menagerie.
Indifferent minions from habit, obey the traumatic turbulence,
Revolving in every-which-way of an inescapable no bars prism.
Liquefied mirage a wintry desert of horned camels and pine dates.
Nevertheless, calming ceremoniously exhibits, abruptly emerge.
Ambiguity surrenders gracefully, necessitating the delusion,
There exists a well-treasured keepsake immortalized in a globe.
Adoringly exposed glittering peepers to overindulge in disbelief,
As a seasonal passage liberates a once boxed stored wonderment.
2019 November 25
*1st Place*
A Brian Strand 4 to 14 line
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 08
*1st Place*
Stuck in a Christmas Globe
~~Bobby May: Judged 2019 December 12
Spaces like Life
Your death is no spectacle. It will unfold itself ceremoniously
like a soft-sweater worn and discarded because of a snag
I walk in a ghetto in the black of night, chunks of asphalt heaved up in more spots than smooth,
Makes me think of you,
57 murders of the kind I like
with his first touch, you’ve been archived,
dust collecting on your gilded frame,
curating feelings long dormant,
with the first exchange of flesh—no market bizarre bartering,
the store room caught fire, and you are naught but cindered-ash.
The body both fleshy life and a tomb.
How does paradox exist?
Think on it, scissors join to dissever!
It's one absurdity I cannot resist.
Such conundrums mere escapist thoughts
Bring a chuckle to my lips and a smile on a dog.
As I pass cars jacked
Up on bricks, weeds burst through their rusted out floors,
And brick buildings fenestrated with busted out windows,
once strong practical housing for those “less fortunate”
I cultivate a fondness for demise.
I grow a kinship with discarded things; another era
Eased into obsolescence by sheer neglect.
Baking was not an option,
long gone were the days (and nights!) of crème brûlée and bûche noël.
Such delicacies have taken a more...paternalistic
approach,
abstaining stove-works entirely,
however slippery,
often guided by such vintage luminarians as Einstein's popular 'words to live by' & action-tropes by the enticing acrobatic authors,
J & L Bird.
Various interlopers, actual or imaginary, instantly
stiffened to attention once the oven-door was opened and the klaxon bell engaged.
Ceremoniously, once alert, all in attendance
(rubber black-rats excluded) turned towards
shelved rainbow rivers of irises (plasic, of course!) and with goodwill (and smiles) together recited the Lord's Prayer,
and departed.
Dedicated to Clarky & his loving support team, you know who you are...
03/19/22
7:18pm
james marshall goff
PER CHANCE TO DANCE
Synchronization
Such a simple concept
As per a preconceived precept
And both so delicately adept
Fluidly
As one
Every step a humble bow to the sun
Every beat a reverent blessing for the moon
While ceremoniously synchronized to the tune
Every move calculated by an ovation and an overture of purity embraced
Each of our steps, by the other, so flawlessly traced
Two hearts too close and each made thus to race
While made, by the mysticism of music, to move with utter grace
Synchronization
Following each others lead
Dedicated to the dance indeed
No errant thoughts to collide with memory’s miscalculation
Just two souls adjudicating adulation
Whilst waltzing with a partner’s poised potential
Synchronization so reverential
With the essence of an essential
The embodiment of perfection as you are urged with urgency to float
Lilted aloft by every preordained note
As I sweep you around quite so sensually such as silk caught in an Autumnal breeze
And you with such embraceable ease………if you please
A pair fastened together by fascination while emulating an immaculate emotion
Synchronization
Such a very special notion
(c) 2013....copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
You, born of flesh without knowledge.
You, born of flesh, molded by love.
You, in time became one with another.
Gave birth, flesh without knowledge.
You molded flesh with love although not of its penchant.
Flesh took a path, different from you and failed the ordeal.
Flesh inclined others they also followed his ways.
When your box is ready, put away are you,
May ceremony be your wishes, and have someone to follow through.
You died, boxed and put away, without ceremony as wished.
Vengeance is not mine even when you're one with another
Is ceremoniously declined.
Phthalo Blue and White
My
White spirit is lifted
And poured ceremoniously yet with an air of joy
As colours are mixed upon the plate
To paint
A baby boy
Each shade and light I know so well now
As the lines on my left palm
I hope to reproduce his smile
With the very same
Gentle charm
I don't even know his name yet
But I know the phthalo blue which rest as his eyes
As gentle little halos though so young
Appear
Strikingly
Wise
Edwardo Badia
1856-1914
That low bred confidence man!
That snooking swindler who took me for a fool.
“Hey Gregg, you thief!
You owe me still, even as I rot here,
Regrettably ensconced inside this bursting old boneyard,
Final resting grounds of a thousand parted pilgrims,
No doubt suffering in claustrophobic hell,
Like this old besotted soul,
Decades and repeating weeks of years,
After Mister White planted me in this dusty earth,
Next to the famished broad oak over here,
A few yards from the stone crosses of the Luetweilers,
Buried and cushioned in the wrong grave,
Stuffed inside the tomb of a swindled corpse!
Sir, we shook hands on that deal!
I was to be transferred to Whittier Heights,
My new spacious home for these dusty old bones,
In exchange for the procurement of land there,
Burial land with pleasant vistas, green grass, and
“Eternally sweeping views of the Pacific,”
Fitting views indeed, for my sweet wife and loving mother;
And although my family was ceremoniously exhumed,
And taxied there by a duo of horses and a trio of men,
Sir, you forgot me here, forlorn and alone,
And still in this detested grave!
How could you knowingly leave me here,
Separated and apart from my sweet wife,
And my loving mother?
Sir, I demand a refund!
Ashes to transcendence mid infested holy waters
naught bearing ascertained compassionate divinity,
mad puppet masters fleecing wings in lieu of
ceremoniously exorcised influential malignancy
at the right hand of almightily held hallucinations
strapped over barrels & sanctimoniously flogged,
no show of mercy notwithstanding devoted defenses,
residing within sacredly inventive corrupt corporations
embezzling enterprising riches' dutiful abstractions,
bless them Father for they woefully neglected
the word of all gods' intent and persuasions, serving
no higher purpose than to gild collective repositories
of sinfully en-massed wealth in the name of religion
and the sacrificed blood of Jesus' crucified convictions
written upon coveted covenants' ingrained biblical bluffs,
struck settling false witnesses' far-side excised stonework
He stepped aside to clear the way,
casket carried up the stairs,
quietly, his love died that day,
gone are the worries, gone are the fears,
sick for so long,
in taking her
God did nothing wrong,
he stood, in the doorway,
ceremoniously, with nothing to say,
he thought it was going to be horrifying, terrifying,
ghastly, to be left alone,
his house wasn’t a house if she wasn’t at home,
but he sensed her awareness all around,
then he heard a gentle sound,
whispering softly in his ear,
telling him not to cry,
not to shed a single tear,
even in death she’d always be near,
he then looked at the children,
by the coffin on their knees,
begging her to come back,
God, please oh please,
friends behind him sobbing timidly,
he prayed softly, for them all,
because when God reaches, you take the call,
and what seemed to be a day of gloom,
wasn’t really,
because her ghost lit up the room.