Best Chokes Poems
« In love, mother.. ! »
sobbing words
an echo, like no other
the chokes and the pain, I recall
who was to blame for all that did befall?
What if
that love made sense
and the doors of heaven were open
to the voice of ardour
that could raze every single fence
we would to emotions have given vent!
What if
I failed to see through a mind
“that road was not to take”
from a dream
I was told I had to wake..
What if
I had the power of belief
In the beauty of that love
In a sweet ache
that was so brief
and so harsh..
What if
I could into my safe keep
that treasure between his ribs
ever vibrant, a rich seep
I might have walked paths of wonder!
I wonder
what would that love to me have brought?
what would have been to change a lot?
What if
I now could see the one
that got away
that one
who stole my heart in its heyday
would I recognise that feel again?
the taste of loss, would it be the same?
the pain of love, I wonder
if its savour would remain!
“What ifs”
the power to capture the beauty of the past
and transcend it to the wonder of the dream!
The nature of soul would never stand still
as the river of serenity whose current unseen
flows to reach the ocean with a spirited will
So is a poet whose pen has been drinking
from the river of life
filled with true words to the brim..
The One That Got Away Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
Where modern Gladiators go to collide
Like solders in prison these warriors ride
Mono el mono this is how they believe
No smoking mirrors or tricks up their sleeve
Guillotine, arm bars and rear naked chokes
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu certainly isn’t no joke
Royce Gracie changed Mixed Martial Arts
“The Natural” Randy Couture, man what a heart!
Many men have risen and many have fell
To the powerful striking of Chuck Liddell
Ken Shamrock is a warrior who deserves his fame
At UFC 100 Mark Coleman proved he still has game
Big time wrestler Brock Lesnar proved he is no joke
As Anderson Silva continues making fools out of folk
Lyoto Machida is now a champion again
Along with the true Prodigy B.J. Penn
Who is my favorite fighter in the UFC
Without any doubt that would be GSP
Written for Matt's Contest
Started within 30 seconds
written in about 30 minutes
(I had to look up how to
spell a lot of the words)
Actual writing time was about
5 minutes
In Honor Of Georges St.Pierre
Excellent fighting skills
The hideous and the humble
Blood peppers falling snow
As world hurtles to the tipping point
Life chokes on ignited air
Wrenching love from hungry mouths
Stars fall without sound
Some weep helpless, day through night
Ever wondering how
Never knowing why ...
The night like clouded charcoal scorched,
A sea of trees with starlight torched.
A night where laws are sound asleep,
Anarchic prayers running deep.
Alone I hear the wretched screams
Of screeching trees... or so it seems.
The cries protract into the air,
Without a sound they disappear.
The shrieks have bartered now anew
With sounds of meat and boney chew
Discharging from the faithless trees
And snarling with my memories.
But creatures' gruesome growlings drown.
I smell the gunpowder and frown.
The waging sounds of war advance
In battle stance with gun and lance.
The sounds of bleeding men enhanced,
The sounds of fate and time and chance,
No sooner do they cross the trees
Than fade as all their voices freeze.
But worse than bombshell sounds occur;
The storms, the winds, the thunder stirs.
The roars that shake the forest's roots,
The flowers, soil, and passion fruits
A rainy resonance restocks
The grass the air the woods the rocks
And washes with its dancing tingle
All the sounds that intermingle:
A dreaming forest in the night,
And trapped within its fanfare fright,
It chokes me in its thunder thrill
And hangs me in the silence still,
And hangs me in the silence still.
.
I found it between freshly cut buttercups
and a cerulean sea
Splashed upon a canvas
of a painter' s fantasy .
I am colour blind , yet since I was a child
I could feel, I could taste, I could hear
I could smell ,all that I couldn't see .
And its green. It is so green to me.
I smell it through the brewing pot
and pouring of a morning Indian tea
I taste its sugar from the maple leaf
And its green , it is so green to me.
I feel its velvets on my neck's nape
from the early buds of Spring
I hear it through the sheep bells
grazing on the hills.
I see it 'neath the harvest moon
when they drink white wine and sing.
I am colour blind , yet since I was a child
I could feel , I could taste, , I could hear
I could smell ,all that I couldn't see,
And its green. It is so green to me.
This colour of serenity
Makes me one with who I am
It is in tales and genesis
of Eve and every man .
This nature where I roam through
Far from envy, wild and free
Far from the climbing ivy
that chokes society.
Between freshly cut buttercups
and a cerulean sea.
Its Splashed upon a canvas
of a painter's fantasy.
Beyond those blues and yellows
Is it green that I can see ?
Its verdant fields I sleep on
wherever I may be
P.S - Inspired by Silent One 's Green (Colours United Contest )
bur not for the contest.
Though I'm not colour blind, this was inspired by
someone close to me who is colourblind to green and brown.
I see that acacia tree
and I get vacuumed back to the past.
When we both had
a different type of light in our eyes,
with the reflections of that clear brook
evident in our irises,
where we thought that the
sun only revolved around us, and us alone.
We thought we knew better,
or did we?
Did we truly know anything at all?
My heart gurgles a bit,
as it chokes, bleeding on memories...
I am beside myself,
and I look so stupid,
hugging that tree,
a lifeline to what was.
I envy that tree, for its sturdiness,
its roots being so deep-seated,
so much unlike us,
easily broken, swayed, uprooted.
I loathe that tree,
for it still blooms,
blushing with its bright pink flowers
so delicate-looking and beautiful.
So unlike myself.
I feel ugly now. I actually am.
With hate and guilt eating at me from my core,
how could I not be?
I am rotten.
I am corroded.
From the looks of it,
I seem to have drunk from that
brook (now polluted), ingesting the trash
strewn there
I just never knew how much filth there was.
I am not infallible.
I thought you were.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
You tried to pull me up, but
became too heavy for you...
I dragged you down with me,
so deep, too deeply
that I had to bury you.
Along with my heart and soul,
which have both turned into stone.
I am stoned.
Yes, I feel so heavy,
so heavy I wish someone
would bury me,
throw me in the sea
so I could sink to the bottom and be forgotten.
Or better yet,
is there a magic pill
being sold somewhere
that can make me go back—
Start all over
and do things over?
What I would give
to recapture that light,
to have you back
but I know it is too late.
You’ve gone already.
Left me...
Or so I thought.
I always had the tendency to be wrong,
and it had never felt so great.
I turn around
and a different kind of light
kindles my I(rise)s.
Like that acacia,
I bloom again.
We start at the end, with the warmth of his breath on her skin
Baulked by proximity, he never knew how to begin
A golden-tainted obsession, bitterly laced with lead
Transformed rapture to quicksilver the instant Cupid fled
A moment held, made static, tender touch met with distress
For seeded in her veins, lies a stem of the wilderness
Pursuit stalled just in time, yet time itself recalibrates
Supplanted upon breaking, a laurel shoot germinates
Oh, what should have been the faintest touch cannot be undone
Rooted in the throes of escape, bound to bask in full sun
Sinews harden to fibre, each pulse springs a bonsai tree
Bark chokes her voice box; silent screams nest in the canopy
Locked in abjection, as her praying hands first plead then splay
As liberty, though not consciousness, is taken away
Overruled in evergreen, contortion as regal crown
Petrified white marble shall become her eternal gown
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the god Apollo mocks Cupid for wielding a bow, claiming it unworthy of a child. In retaliation, Cupid shoots Apollo with a golden arrow to ignite love, and Daphne a chaste nymph with a leaden one to incite revulsion. Though innocent, Daphne becomes the target of Apollo’s relentless pursuit. Just as he is about to seize her, she prays for escape, and her body is transformed into a laurel tree. Bernini’s stunning sculpture captures the precise moment of this metamorphosis
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
Tumble, crumble cornmeal, salted flour
Stream olive oil
Feed water and toasty yeast with sugar
Crinkle, rumple, crease, and fold
Smooth a silky, doughy globe.
Cover, leave the orb to grow
Keep baby warm
Wrap with snug and swaddling towel
Linger, loiter, wait and proof
Sing a sunny, happy tune.
Overturn the ball on flour
Dust a wooden pin
Feed heart and conscience with honey
Rotate, flatten, compress, admire
Make a downy, level sphere.
Bridge the stretchy bread to pan
Curl edges like leaves
Swirl and ladle a coat of tomato
Thick, chunky, bright, and red
Sway to kitchen melody.
Peppers, onions, olives, chokes
Sausage for some
Rain down the mozzarella and Swiss
Turn and toss, precipitate
Drizzle a snowy blend.
Push the pie into a hot cathedral
Pray for happiness
Think about joy and contentment
Pause, watch, patience, serenity
This journey bakes the future.
Copyright © 2016 Tess Harvester
Watching leaves cartwheel down
we meet at the bench
tucked under the trees, in the park
Unable to speak
I am feeling a squeeze in my breast
My emotions are clenched
with years of unrest
since that day that I left, empty armed
Still weak in the knees
I must sit while I watch
this child, once mine,
sit cross-legged, in light
of the late August sun
His fingers unpeel
the paper, and twine
from the gift I have brought
from a little gift shop
that I passed when I walked in the night
With the package undone,
he smiles up at me
and I see in his eyes
the wholeness of him
And I am strangled to say
the words that I could….
Would I tell him the things
that would empty those eyes
of a soft place to land ?
Now he grabs for the hand
of the mother he knows
and I thank her with eyes
before I must go
I must leave him to her
and not say the words
that would follow him home for all time
I have broken away
any hold that I had
except for the one
that chokes out the sun
on a hot August day
in the late afternoon
A leaf tumbles down, then is swept by the breeze
Only here for a moment, then gone
___________________________________________________
A Fictional Poem Based On Contest: "Long Lost Family"
8/15/16
Resubmitted for the 'PIECE DE RESISTANCE ' contest
I, treasure you.
But, would you stay if I ever said goodbye?
Would inferno’s pilot light succumb to your tears
Knowing tomorrow’s uncertainty
Is our greatest fear?
Would my ill-timed laughter
Make you cringe in disgust
Changing your perception against my heart?
Would you
Hold me
As we wade through baptismal waters of sin
Without bruises from cedar scented crosses?
Can I count the ways
You would be my exhale
When insanity chokes the living within
The living, within!
Within cracked glasshouses
Covered by umbrella’s demise
Would you come to despise
My true colors
Shaded in blues & violets?
Would I need to come to your rescue
After you’ve kicked me when I’m down?
I WOULD!
I WOULD CRAWL WITHOUT YAWN’S FATIGUE!
I would sacrifice my Agnostic flesh
To become a new believer
Born-again
Within YOU!
I would remove my 3rd eye to present what I see in you!
I would become your contact lens that you’ll never have to remove!
I would taste degradation
Simmering in a gentle broil around my arms
And season you with my smiles
Just to make it through choke-holds of a Winter solstice!
I would become your handsome error
Hoping we can write each others wrongs!
I, treasure you.
But,
Would you be there upon last dance’s syllabic end?
My friend,
I’ll wait by this stainless steel chair.
Embracing the “never-say-never”…
…because, with you, my humanity is willing to believe in forever.
© - 4/22/2013
Submitted for the “What a Friend really is” Contest, sponsored by Becca Lucas; Won 5th place.
We go about our lives as if with no clue
that all around us things on earth are dying
as other “great’ activities we pursue.
Good habits should mean more than simply trying.
For many crimes, mankind should be atoning.
Humankind, BE kind, or you will be crying!
Prick up your ears, and hear Earth’s gentle moaning.
Hear it in the oceans filled with our debris.
Where she chokes from all our filth, Earth is groaning.
Hear the silent shrieks emitting from each tree.
With forests razed – oxygen is depleting.
Extinction of creatues already we see.
This senselessness we cannot keep repeating,
or a deserved tragic end we’ll be meeting.
March 12, 2021
for D.W. Rodgers' While Mother Earth Gently Moans Poetry Contest
She Eats Hearts and Worlds
In this world life stands still
heartache chokes in for the kill
Sidewalk leaps up to quickly slay
Fools racing all about every day
That pain sets just so damn well
she that strode from the gates of hell
Tarnishing all that gave in love
her sex fits tightly, like a glove
Those nights did so hotly soothe
she the sexy vixen so damn smooth
Always naked and steaming ready to go
no man could resist the sexual show
In her world you gladly die to play
such delights , pure passion every way
Then roofs came loudly crashing down
death came with smiles and no damn frown!
Robert J. Lindley.
Yes, I know fetid air has been filtering in
Everyone around chokes on the stench,
sour gin disguised as sweet words
from the mouth of the depraved, loving sin
one can never smother foul barnyard scents
It would take a thousand fragrant candles
to burn the donkey's ass
and get rid of the offensive odor and smelly gas
I sincerely wish this community
could become a site with more class
Will the rancid winds change direction
so the fumes of cow dung
stink up another pasture?
Something needs a serious correction
so, the sweet scent of roses once more
permeates the garden of poetry
poets dancing in harmony galore
I have come to accept the possibility
that I, myself, may be partially to blame (my compost pile of shame)
that I may have stroked the very wheel (unable to feel)
that, set in motion, is the cause of
so much pain (unsheltered in the rain)
Silently suffering through endless winters (embers, cinders)
without anticipation of Spring (hope an ethereal thing)
blind to Mother Earth's gifts (tenuous unfelt shifts)
the colors, the scents of her blossoms (habitually playing possum)
deaf to the melodies of the birds (knowledge lost, language
unheard)
as they sing
She calls to me but my barriers are thick (mentally stunted, physically sick)
densely scarred and wounded (as I am, to the quick)
As the sludge chokes the seabirds (screaming their lost words)
and the fishes (murdering Piscean wishes)
as Her forests are cleared by those
both greedy and vicious
I feel Mother Earth tremble (demons assemble)
beneath my feet
hear Her sigh as I place a hesitant finger (shaking, letting it linger)
on Her weakened pulse
thready and irregular
We are killing Her, Mother Earth,
mother of us all, matricide (no longer can we hide)
listen, listen to Her heartbeat...
I may have stroked the very wheel...