Best Chambered Poems
In a mire brewed
betwixt puddles of hell and mute dissent
a martyr wades -
weighed down by chains of shame and disdain
alas the thirsting self-absorbed swamp
distills and swills her stewed silence
and swallows the last embers
from her goblet of dreamer’s fire
pursed breaths are pickpocketed by the shallows
in a breathless vertical twist
an escapist is lost in the swirl of a chambered nautilus
distanced and deserted in the dance of descent
stillness belies the waterline’s greed
as a heroine’s salvage is suffocated -
the slick of self-appointed apathy anoints the surface
and a disquieted wind rises to bend the will of reeds
their flutes airing plainsong in forced supplication
yet carelessly cast away like spindrift from broken crests
while storm clouds blindfold wide-eyed skies
stifling any play of sun on water
Susan Ashley
May 1, 2020
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 1
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Fourth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Spiral
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
So many think about changing the whole world,
few think about changing their very selves.
Standing on the precipice, peer beyond.
Pierce your personal, privileged bubble.
View the vast vision across all beings.
In wonder, count the petals of a flower.
Be amazed, probe a chambered nautilus.
Walk backwards out of Fibonacci's Spiral
into eternal embrace with enlightenment.
Spin science's vortex, fall into art's abyss.
Through the dark to the light and back again.
A looking glass within a looking glass,
mirroring all nature, realities' rules.
It seems little opens closed minds much
but when it does, it opens hearts forever.
Buddha's "mind-heart" path, hoping all will walk.
Walking through two doors at once can happen.
Trust that quantum particles jumping
in and out of existence can be real.
Or gaze deeply into a baby's eyes
and not picture the expanding universe.
Rather, see yourself this time, finally looking out.
Enlightenment finds you, you don't find it.
As it approaches, make your mind be still
all you need is loving-kindness and a smile.
Illustration Colored Pencil By G. Gaul
In the corner café across from the sea
he sits alone reading his book
Thinking of love while drinking his tea
and memories of chances he never took
Her name resonates gently
recalling moments,
of cheek touched whispers
yet hands unheld
and lips unsealed
What if?
What if he turned back time
Would she ever know,
what lies woken
in the dormitory of his mind
What keeps lingering,
in the alley of his heart
Would she be struck by cupid's arrow
tongue-tied and wanted
Would her heart melt
at the sound of his voice,
the touch of his hand
Would his feelings resonate
deep within her soul
What if?
What if then was now
Would she be the keeper,
of his heart
The object of his affection
Would she dawn into his eyes
like early sunbeams
Or disperse into the night
like the autumn mist
Would she tread her dreams
upon his footprints
Would she share the truth
which lies so still within
Or would she be restored
to a mirthless mouth
and twisted smile,
to somber moods
and bleak commands.
To griefing pain
that killed her life
Where would her chambered heart lead
What if she would confess
The last of his caress
is all she needs to breathe
I am winter
I can hear the birds singing,
calling for the sun to rise
from dark branches scraping an alabaster sky
Full of life they sound,
perched high above a frosted lawn,
clinging to sticks, crooked and bare,
formed of countless years trying
and mistletoe nightmares
Frigid sonatas echo
through a stoic countryside,
white dustings coat sparse thicket
woven in below freezing motions
Footprint remnants, slight indentations
wander finding nowhere a reality
along disguised pathways
Melodies bridge the breeze across
a lonely corn field of empty rows
and a garden of sleeping blooms
Life waiting to be reborn,
to paint the landscape with color,
bringing happiness to the birds,
chirping on the cusp of new,
the edge of beauty,
as eastern horizons wake
Grey skies still cling to the heavens
I listen, quietly to this music
as if their harmonies will lift
the chilly loneliness from my heart
Chambered worries of what will come,
frozen rivers in icicle vistas
Counting sunsets until spring arrives,
when I whisper a sad good bye,
but I will return…
I am winter
Pipe Dreams
Though I have a woman’s heart; it pounds with
dragon’s fire. Curled about the core of self,
I have lain in wait for Asia with claw, and horn.
Linked-locks and keys have spined beneath my hand
upon the tourist’s rails of China’s Great Wall where
builder’s bones rattle for redress upon the wind.
It is not China’s Long but Ryu ’s heart which pounds.
This was no place, no place for me.
Paper boats zhezhi have blessed my dreams. The
Divine Wind eases my way across a sea of longing
to Nippon. My two-chambered
heart can have but one loyalty—
I say no to the soldiers,
strident in beige and red—
Senkaku’s waves buoy me.
Buddhist temples waver mirage-like in
a gray-white haze of frankincense, the scent
of ever after, lays about me.
For links of love and family, are stronger,
than those of coercion and the gun—I will
island shelter—refine remnants—separate myself
from clay become porcelain—
beneath tori arches; I walk.
A stream in Kyoto
a bronze statue of a ballerina
dancing on point
within a circle
of gnats—
First Published in the Spring of 2017 by Illumen
An Empty Kingdom
The news did spread, a kingdom’s will
For sorrow placed its shadowed hand
‘Pon castle steps the crowd did fill
As heart break took a firm command
The skies, a darkened clouded stain
As children wept in mother’s fold
Now lost amidst a dismal rain
This hour of sadness frigid cold
How could it be, their precious queen
Had fallen to a woeful stead
A tethered seed, nightmarish deem
Her majesty this day is dead
The knight, of shining armor might
Her lifeless body cradled deep
Staring straight to heaven’s light
Then bowed his head, began to weep
He raised her body ever strong
Carried her through chambered door
An empty hallway wide as long
Depleted by this mournful chore
The villagers of forlorn feel
Gathered in the dampened street
The plight of loss in full reveal
Disconsolate of death’s defeat
When then upon horizon’s glare
A silhouette of staggered steed
Towards the kingdoms stricken stare
In slow methodic steps proceed
This figure slumped of saddle ride
And weary strains of wistful yearns
Through gates of iron, wandered stride
A shout rings out, “Our king returns”
“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.” - Jon Kabat-Zinn
Time has an interesting
way of revealing
riveting narratives,
embossed within ivory
clams in raven letters,
perhaps, it is the
crippling kismet,
that dahlia dreamers are
shackled by society’s
sanctimoniousness,
but I still follow my
roseate heart to swiftly
lead this pristine paragon
of moving minutes.
I can hear the wanton
wolves devour the
magnanimous moon,
transcribing unheard
nocturnal tales, emanating
through deep russet
eyes of a silent stallion~
as I leave poetic footprints
through heels of a black
caviar horse by
the nacreous shoreline.
Someday, the sun will rise
and allow me to embrace
colors of you again,
although torturous tentacles
of marine monsters malevolently
try to steal the soothing hope
within my soul,
from a thousand seas away.
If only they knew, skies
can reach beyond
prancing peacock dreams
emblazoning distant horizons,
with a plethora of
milky quartz, perfumed
in whispers of lemongrass,
reflecting silvery echoes
of a cosmic whale’s conch shell,
floating in an ancient bottle
of antique emotions,
anchored to the depths
of bottomless oceans,
where corals have
our fate rewritten
within chambered nautilus.
So, wait for me when
twilight dims, and meteor
showers come crashing,
to pour blazing stars
upon lime green planktons,
for my soul is surfing
through aquatic realms,
to find my homely
sanctuary in your arms
glossed in lavender balm,
I breathe beneath seraphic spheres,
devouring the ticking seconds,
dancing to the wind that whispers
in trembling tunes,
unafraid and unshaken
by the unknown.
I live in the moment,
celebrating the air that wraps
me in wisteria warmth.
The sun-soaked stairway
to porcelain
peacefulness,
is to steer your heart,
through the art
of mindfulness.
Upon rising, awakened by
ripening scent teasing my nose,
trilling my lips and tongue, – my taste buds opening
to bird-like songs as dawn's light breathes new life
and hope into my journey, so begins
a fresh flutter of time, an extending
run of exclamatory chirps and wing-full
stretching –
Muse beckons, yielding to artist'
pen and eye – we are co-authors, exchanging
thoughtful leafs and sun-dipped pages; mingling natures,
swapping poetic voice, reversing positions of artist vs model –
conjuring word-images and interactive, painted-canvases – confounding our seasons of
blossoming and harvest, embracing God's budding voice and fruitful manifestations,
His nectar-ed, figurative language, blending human with Divine senses....
displaying contrasts that stimulate exploratory forming
and transitory shading – clearing and clouding
affects both inside and on my outside, as the clutter of
yesterday, and promise of a spring-like showers soak
crusty sediments with saturating, fertile possibilities;
all taking bows – the theater that of spiritual mastery –
Mystery is
my source, my echo, my chambered growth.
My resources, exploitable enclaves of poetic walls, primed,
awaiting both solid and abstract vibrations, energizing
experimental blurbs, those planned and random into searchable
articulations, grasping, too often vainly, for fantastical alliteration
of sterile, common-place views –
I am deepened and ready to let air
we are each our best audience
my left-hand meeting your right
for a brisk clap of inspiration followed
by riotous applause....
The very essence of reality
Pricked the man's four chambered pump
Today he became a dumbfounded child
Taken aback by the simple reply
He was brought back to the ground
From the fanciful flight of his own little dream
She said"Distance is the river I cannot cross"
These simple words drowned the pictured life
His whole self was shaken to the core
That river lost him all
Trying to recuperate
And
Introspecting the things he said and heard today
He now asks" Why can't my dream be my reality?"
I put aside my heart where love betrays the nestled night,
And egotistical echoes fall short in their submissive stagger…
Sanctioned solitudes fill the antagonizing abrasive air,
As my eyes stare through the never-ending vapourific voids.
The essence of the love I held extinguishes upon existence,
Like a severed statuesque Idol I only feel the empty now…
My tangled tears run dry for I cannot wilfully weep,
Only the lachrymose rain supports me with solace.
Now stands before you the rigamortis ruins left to rot,
No sounds I hear, only entombments of a chambered heart…
No words I speak, enslaved by illusionary imbecilic love,
I am lost in the wandering wilderness of non-existence.
Aug.31.2019
Silence Poetry
Sponsored by: Silent One
Music...Butterfly Waltz
Music that will make you cry...
Piano & Cello duets...2013
With a female virtual voice
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
In wonder, count the petals of a flower
Be amazed, probe a chambered nautilus.
Walk backwards out of Fibonacci's Spiral
Into eternal embrace with enlightenment.
From Walking Into Enlightenment
Gregory R Barden's Contest 10/25/20
Liberum Divisa 2
I
Veins blue as death but they flow,
tributaries in a returning system.
They fork only when the mind
rides a lightly sleeping cycle
to a venous river
and there sinks within seeking a source
for it must be replenished, made to
travel on richer currents of air.
In such a reverie
blue threads splay, spread themselves
traveling to a nexus of stars on byways
stripped of any anatomy.
II
The girls and boys ride to school
ever faster,
a teacher fills blue inkwells
from a drip in his arm.
The children peddle swiftly along;
for on every desk
there's an apple for each of them.
In that fruit
a slow wriggling hex, a pishogue
sheds one desiccated skin after another
expanding its continuance,
but not so soon, not so fast,
not as speedily as the blue river runs
for it is the stream that feeds into itself.
III
That indigo atlas furrows a mounting gravity
through a chambered pump
for it has miles yet to cycle,
it surges and swells unhindered,
it crests and syphons
through transforming bellows,
around it pounds
unless that dark spell grows too large
and dams its onward course
then it may cease upon the morrow
or worse.
Nautilus, chambered.
Mathematics? Not really.
By nature only.
Smells more like…
Ah…normal distribution
(Of golden spirals).
You could look it up.
FIBONACCI? Not really.
Logarithmic coil?
Not exactly. Else
One or the other would fit.
Only nature fits.
Love's Symphonic Passion
by Odin Roark
Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.
The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.
The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.
Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.
Hence forth
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
present challenge,
chaos,
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.
The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
Rhythms,
Keys,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.
Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.
Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…
Awaits.
A holy man, a profit of God, but of what God?
Rasputin the black snake of Eden, endowed with
Silvery fork tongue of the viper.
It slithered into the golden palace of paradise,
Coiling and oiling around the royal cradle of
Innocence, constricting it within the folds of lies
And deceit until the inhabitance could not breathe,
Or escape his spells of evil.
Behold the snake charmer of men’s souls,
Feasting at table of the sinful, relishing in
Pleasures forbidden orchards of unripen fruit.
In the chambered hallowed halls of the last
Czar of Russia, a gray monk’s robe turns red,
As a snake shedding its outer skin, gaining in
Strengths and power with every act of evil
It performs.
A royal mother’s love betrayed, by faiths
Lying profit, a jackal laughs beneath the
Tapestry’s of refinement, and the child of
Innocence lies unable to defend himself
Against the viper, named Rasputin.
But others seek the green eyed serpant
That hinds beneath the queen robes of
Protections and invites this masked
Judas of debotury's, to a dinner of
Nights pleasure under the guises
Of Deceptions ruse.
Beguiling the snake with wines poisonous
Yet brilliant color and flavors bouquet, the
Royal guardian’s awaited for the grim-ripper
To arrive and do his deadly deed by the death
Of this living evil incarnate.
But Rasputin realized this deception, and cursed
The royal household, to fall beneath the enemies
Beyond the gates of the royal house of golden thrones.
At the stroking hour the assanian's killed the profit,
Of lies, yet his legacy lived on as the golden palace
Fell unto the power of Rasputin curse.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN