Best Chars Poems
The River
The river sings its sweet lament
in ancient voice softly lowing,
vibrant melodies subtly meant
to plumb the depths of our knowing.
Around each bend it curves, flowing
onward toward its fated reunion
with unkempt sea, wild and blowing;
embracing briney communion.
Its serpentine course scars the land
in undulant brown profusion;
shimmering gold in twilight's hand,
a gift of nature's effusion.
Pregnant spring plies it, unleashing
tempest's turgid downpour to slake
the lusty spate's thirst unceasing,
leaving ravaged marl in its wake.
Torrid summer's breath chars the soil
and saps the river of its strength,
but cool and sweet, the river's toil
paints a green ribbon down its length.
Demon winter glazes the earth,
garbs the river in frigid gown,
draws a pane of ice over its girth
but fails to stay its flowing down.
Since time out of mind, the river
has carved canyons from stubborn stone
and sought naught but to deliver
its lifeblood back to heaven's home.
Blue velvet caged
Behind rusty bars.
Soul within chars.
Fervent flames raged.
Mighty door creaked
Black-veiled phantoms
Chanting the anthems
Thus the dusts freaked.
All the phantoms read
The holy pages.
The pious sages
For repentance plead.
Life’s last drops
Time’s burning tears.
Soaked deep in fears,
Crushed by crops,
The soul crumples.
Satan’s oracle
Tempting manacle
On heart tramples.
Towers of flesh
Drag my weary bones
As the axe-man hones
His blade afresh
Heard the Devil's voice:
"Crimson Cross!"
My dice to toss
Fate's generous choice!
"Kneel by the altar
Take my rosary,
Or God's pillory.
You have to falter?"
Succumbing feet tread
On scaffold's heart
As the moments part
What's there that they dread?
Nails of Divine love
Prick my palms
Grope for balms
Wails a benign dove
Mocking herd of sheep
Ignorant vultures
The gaze tortures
The wound doth weep.
The Fallen Prince
Roars with laughter:
"The hereafter!?!
Who else to convince?"
"O thou Holy, hark
The Forsaken Son
Has thy Father won?"
All the rest is dark…?
O tender soul, o innocence defiled,
What cruelties did your youth upend?
Tormented by she who should cherish her child,
Instead her addictions made her your fiend.
Those eyes that should have beamed with a mother's love,
Grew cold and contemptuous in the throes of her vice.
What horrors played out in that hellish dugout,
As her demons unleashed their malicious device?
Did her hands that were meant to soothe and caress,
Leave marks of unspeakable malice instead?
While her harsh words like knives did your spirit suppress,
Leaving your young mind battered and misled.
In that lair where you should have known only grace,
An unholy darkness descended to reign.
Fear and anguish contorting your sweet face,
As her sickness lashed out again and again.
O the trauma embedded, those indelible scars,
That no child should ever have etched on their soul.
Your safe haven perverted by terror's brutal chars,
Stripping security's blanket that should make one whole.
And when at last you were plucked from that pit,
From the hell that your childhood had tragically become,
Other arms tried to embrace and permit
The shattered pieces of you to be some.
But the ghost of those horrors still stalked in your mind,
Echoing torments that never were quieted.
The hyper-vigilance always lurking behind,
As the demons you fled, you could not outride.
For PTSD's insidious grip took its hold,
Replaying those memories of helplessness felt.
The night terrors and flashbacks forever retold,
Of the agonies your young being did pelt.
O you brave, resilient warrior of the soul,
Battered but never defeated by your youth's blight.
The traumas that tried to leave you a haunted, scarred toll,
Could never extinguish your infinite light.
For though she was meant to protect you
love is awake
it does not rest
but a broken heart needs to sleep when
distortion of truth chars upon the arteries
of love that nourished the heart.
trust must not rest
its vital to sustain love,
when love is not awake
a heart will find comfort and sleeps.
At some point you are going to need to impress more than a few friends with some burnt toast. I used to have an old, heavy-gauge chrome-plated toaster with a dial to adjust doneness from 1-5. I took a Sharpie and scribed a 6 at the extreme. The pointer doesn’t actually go there, but it is useful for indicating my intent. It works better than the 5 setting which merely chars the surface. But 6 chars it darn near all the way through, enlarging the pore structure to retain even more melted butter. You gotta be cautious not to overuse that feature because it’ll burn the toaster, as in overheating the thermostat and melting the whispy wires. No more toast for you. Back at the store they were quick to figure out your attempt to exceed the capacity and the clearly worded statement in the ownership contract will be pointed out to you, that glamorous document with the curly-Q decorations making it supremely authentic like a stock certificate from the 1960’s. They replaced my toaster once, but the second and third times I only got a stern look of reproach. The manufacturer has black listed me through my credit card so now all my toaster purchases are cash only.
Front door brings in nippy chill,
You step onto the frosty path,
No pleasant air for you to initial,
Only a gut fight with the waft.
But friends are warm and bright,
Neighbours smile by their cars,
Old friends get in touch, write,
The hairdresser chats n’ chars.
What to give is a nice problem,
What to write on xmas cards,
Why not to give, there’s a hum,
Of distance, you only give cards.
Relative’s personalities summed,
Cousins hobbies are understood,
Relations interests taken, gummed,
And friends activities are all good.
Jumpers are purchased for mum,
Plus teapot, hand cream, soap,
Quality Street purple is a chum,
Candles jars are given in hope.
Sporadic robins brighten and light,
Kids build a roly snowman, just,
Dogs walk in cosy jackets tight,
And by-passers stop for a gust.
Families welcome drivers’ eyes,
When they look in the windows,
With flashing lights, mixed dyes,
In patterns, pictures, pure glows.
The atmosphere at restaurants,
Beckons xmas truth and tale,
When others also have nuance,
For special kin who chat, sail.
No negatives divide and split,
No text to state what to say,
Greetings are heartfelt and lit,
Your chat can be any old way.
Church is optional, a possibility,
But fires and heaters gaily blast,
Radios aptly inform about activity,
When Santa will visit stores vast.
Decorations furnish, fill stores,
Giant Christmas trees stand, line,
Large baubles hang on all floors,
Huge stockings see shoppers dine.
There is a righteous business,
In the air, filtering, at xmas time,
It’s friendship and happiness,
That's engineered, the told sign.
The central focus is a snug meal,
A slot saved and made for chat,
Where for each person the deal,
Is to converse, discuss and bat.
All are welcome, all can have,
Everyone can enjoy, participate,
Each one can find peace, shove,
Xmas with you does coaguate.
Whatever the question, give,
Everyone is part of Christmas,
A smile, joke, a chat, a forgive,
You can even restrain for a bash.
I used to say I love you, many years ago –
My passion-cries were wings of flight!
Like burning arrows pierced upon a snowy night,
I loosed my songs to let you know.
So long ago! So many years will change a man.
And now the songs of love lie burnt
Like cindered, wasted chars of music never learnt.
I live my life as best I can.
So now I only open doors for you - you nod.
I rub your aching back - you moan.
You only frown - I work my fingers to the bone.
My quiver’s broken, bare and flawed.
I still go on, I weed your flower beds - you pout.
I always serve as you command.
I take you to a restaurant - I hold your hand.
You point to trash - I take it out.
I buy you gifts - you ask me of my whereabouts.
I see your tears - I hold you near,
My arrows burnt by what I hold most dear -
Your nods, your frowns, your tears and pouts.
Beyond the dunes, I travel far, in this morass
Dust clouds assault these eyes' lodestar, in this morass
Herein, this mouth thirsts for your arms like waterfall
Denied by silken touch, which chars in this morass.
I find myself tracing your face on night’s misbah
When silence rips an ache bizarre, in this morass
Alone, hikes lead to rocks untamed, doubting my fate
Till desert wind echoes afar, in this morass
Where yonder on, our moorland births, without my hands
and cacti pierce, the landscape scars, in this morass.
an attempt on iambic hexameter
* misbah---Arabic word for lamp, lantern
Debbie Guzzi's Take A Leap
by nette onclaud
I wander down a cobbled street,
sodden from rain, heckled by whispers
revealing secrets on this blustery night.
They bewilder me in a surge of confusion
far beyond the juncture of cursory fright.
If this is collusion to drive me insane,
I beg deliverence from their echoing disdain;
Are these callous voices reality or delusion,
taunting me to plunge into depths of despair?
There is no hope of suturing my wounds,
or to eviscerate my harrowed heart.
If I could expunge them from my mind
would that ease the grief caused by the thief
who's bent on ripping my life apart?
Whispers are spilling from invisible lips.
How they tantalize me with false accusation.
My emotions are bereaved by the goading quips.
It's a conceived conspiracy of fallacious blather,
repeatedly mocking me in condemnation.
They've branded me with hot tongues they wield,
burning scars in my ears. Chars that will not heal.
If only I could douse memory's flames. I'm curious
to know if doing so would eliminate this torment.
My body is beaten, slashed by blades of driving rain.
Like shards of glass each raindrop cuts
my skin until blood seeps from the crux of my soul
and life drips away in scarlet flux.
I am wracked with sobs, prostrate with weeping.
And still the hissing voices berate me.
My head is pounding from their petition of jeers.
but I've no confession to give, nor act of contrition.
"Not guilty," I scream, but they won't let me be.
A vortex eddies around my bare feet
and my breathing grows shallow as whispers fade.
Dawn's warm fingers reach out to comfort me,
breaching the darkness on a cobble stone street.
June 25, 2018
8 word challenge-1.Fallacious 2.Eviscerate 3. Curious
4. Bewilder 5. Plunge 6. Tantalize 7. Vortex 8. Scarlet
John Hamilton~host
~~~~~~
A warm heart, yet…
It sizzles with anxiety
And melts away emotions
That still linger on.
A sincere heart, yet…
It chokes with evasiveness
And chars every feeling
That flickers with hope
A bleeding heart, yet…
One sleeve is left exposed
And burns with desire
To escape all flames
A singed heart, yet…
It smokes it’s own desire
And reasons with love
That flares without control
Tammy Snyder
Slow- fire gleams upon a nearby field
as I gather herbs from twig-like strips
adding creamy broth to stir the brew
under a moonlight of summer’s heat …
The mellow breeze warms my thoughts
where hands pour lemon mint, in a campfire
kindling essence of words for poetry soup:
then to grasp fireflies brightly adorned
until cheeks flush with tales spun nightlong.
The purée explodes to drink the light
of my muse, her delicacy soaked in potion
with a dash of tangy sage to flame verse
or rhyme Oh the meal is simple
but rich, delicious, releasing a flavour
uncommon even to me… a concoction
different each time , when a woman’s mix
of language heals, excites, and chars each
sip of soup mixed from the heart’s campfire.
Contest: Cindy Rockwell’s My Poetry Soup Recipe
1.30.2017
Change your name…
Change it for one that with its scorching stigmatic fervor will evoke blood from
those who hear it. That the word detonates at the level of voices and that the
ferocity of its enunciation’s chars your tongue at the moment that it escapes your
mouth. Change it for one that is cunning. Change it for another that will be a
mirror
that reflects the falsity of its songs. A name that once spoken out loud will wrench
the feathers from the wings of angels that are in the vicinity of the conscious.
Change your name…
Change it for one, which instead of screaming in hushed tones, will resound.
One
that reflects your anguish and murders you every time you hear it. One that will
challenge the word of God. Change it and discard the one that was nailed to your
forehead. Remove the veil of your name and replace it for a new one, although it
might become a shroud. Change your name of shame for one of damnation.
Change your name of supplication and submission for one of sin.
Change your name of dead Royalty, although it might be the one of a bastard.
Change your name so that at the beckoning…
You will not answer.
Two months past solstice
Subtropical climate sears
Just open the door
Step into oven
Midday sun chars skin and lawns
Sweat flows so freely
Water use rises
AC gives welcome relief
Scalding sand on beach
Take frequent showers
Florida lifestyle envied
Northerners don’t know
Blazing heat last months
Visits to the Sunshine State
Best planned in winter
*Entry for Francine’s contest, written August 22, 2011 by Carolyn Devonshire
How Alone Am I
How Sad Am I
You never Know
I never Show
You Smile WIth A Shine
I Smile with Wine
Your Enthralling Eyes
Defines My Style
Missing you is my life
Yes I live, but I strife
Finding you beneath the stars
Misng You my life chars.
My story begins in a fire, not the fire that burns and chars,
but a cold fire of depression, hotter than the sun beneath the equator
I lingered in limbo, devastated by the events about me
and then she appeared!
her face shone like the midmorning sun upon fields of gold,
her soul beyond the grasp of the fiery flames
should I tell you about her touch? Ah!
she will be my deliverer; my goddess of fortune and bliss,
the mirror of all my thoughts and the keeper of all my hopes
her name... PERPETUAL!
but this is not the real story, as a matter of fact this is not the story at all...