Best Chronicle Poems
"The Chronicle of Lost Lovers"
Lionheart, kindred spirit, my dear Confederate Ghost,
Golden Light emits clandestine hearts’ swinging lanterns.
Tis shadow play on love struck phantoms -
Pendulum incense imprints the air,
"The Chronicle of Lost Lovers".
Breathe into each other intoxicating Passionflowers,
they walk naked through some enchanted sleep.
Drink dew from sweet satin skinned hollows,
'tis the foxing hour in
"Lost Love Woods"
Plunge deep into her Ocean, thy ravishing tempest.
Hold tight her hand, for a Lionheart can drown
in her immortal siren song, she is your longest quest.
Dip your quill into her ink, your now lost Lionheart.
Love Lost, reverse.
In the Maze of Life, lost love meets as LIGHT through scenes of cracked time.
Lionhearts and Tempests, lie naked in their dreams, ne'er rhymes.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2018 Jan)
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2v5P0h66aCY
“This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”
D.H. Lawrence
Categories:
chronicle, imagery, lost love, love,
Form:
Romanticism
A fine mist, hovers close to the ground,
But it cannot be a fog.
It cannot be, it's a hundred and three,
This is desert, not a bog.
Strain as I may, I still cannot see,
The earth, that lies beneath.
Until a man, comes into view,
He gently sets a wreath.
My camera softly clicks, but once,
At the Solemn view,
I caught his eye, he walked my way,
And whispered " who are you"
I said, I'm taking photographs,
To chronicle this fight,
Just then, the mist began to clear,
My eyes beheld the sight,
For what happened here, the night before,
The worst I had ever seen.
I could not bring myself to shoot,
I just could not believe,
The soldier pointed out a patch,
On a dead mans arm,
The Stars and Stripes,smeared with blood,
Protects me from all harms.
I bowed my head, tears filled my eyes,
At the carnage I did see,
These men and women lying here,
Bravely died for me.
As I raised my head, to thank him,
The soldier with the wreath,
He briskly turned, stood up straight,
I could barely breath,
He raised a stiff hand, to his brim,
Slowly let it fall,
Then suddenly he disappeared,
If not there at all.
I walked among the fallen troops,
Looked down, could not believe,
The soldier that lay below me,
Was the one that set the wreath.
To the Soldiers of Desert Storm
Categories:
chronicle, inspirational, warsoldier,
Form:
Idyll (Idyl)
There sat in opulent xanadu, the
demagogue of empirical hedonism,
his granary once fuelled regal reign of epicureanism:
gregarious, restive, much-awaited successor of imperial dominion,
neurotic, obstinate, was the cynosure of cynicism.
The eldest child of Duke and Dutchess of York, erstwhile Prince of Wales,
the proclaimed young heir, stood far from the course of sceptical euphemism;
The heir apparent had a historical encounter with Wallis Warfield Simpson by fatalism,
by wooing Wallis, the royal blood encountered, clangorous cynical criticism.
The resultant mayhem broke, the blue- blood became the bottleneck of idealism;
sagacious, was brooding strategies to be the prototype of unprecedented heroism.
The proclaimed marriage faced vehement oppositions:
encompassing : religious, political, legal and moral objections.
The outright denial to accept Wallis as the king's consort, broke the anticipated rebellion,
Edward's refusal to give her up, led to his final abdication.
When was quite apparent, he could not marry his beloved Simpson,
finally settled to rebuke the throne from etched imperialism as emancipation.
The man of the hour was then entitled "the Duke of Windsor", a transformation stunned the world and wrote an unprecedented statement in chronicle after abdication.
Edward VIII, once epitome of monarchism, became an ideal icon of asceticism.
A sybarite, turned commoner by deserting the successive chair of the british kingdom to wed his ladylove;
a tale of unprecedented impeccable loyalism.
The abdicator's epitaph on Royal Burial Ground, Frogmore,
is still bearing in indelible transcription,
the testimony of an uncustomary love saga of renunciation.
An epoch making transformation, decades have ever witnessed from iconic monarchism to transcendental loyalism:
through unprecedented renouncement
of the bequeathed throne
to array chronicle's unrivalled iconoclasm.
All Rights Reserved © SILPIKA KALITA
Categories:
chronicle, appreciation, education, eulogy, hero,
Form:
Epitaph
While men worked hard until the barn was built,
the womenfolk were gathered for a bee.
They pieced together patches for a quilt
and chatted with the new bride happily.
Upon this handmade quilt were babies laid,
and eldest daughters passed the heirloom down.
That barn became the place where children played
as houses multiplied. There grew a town.
The quilt, once shown with pride, became forgot,
and decades in an attic it was stored.
One day a fire blazed; the things not sought
stayed in the loft, while saved were things adored.
And so a bride’s first gift in ashes lay;
its glory long ago had passed away.
by Andrea Dietrich
For Nette Onclaude's Contest:
"Anything Handmade"
Categories:
chronicle, art
Form:
Sonnet
A mind of plane mirrors reflects rays of goodness.
It is weightless and indeed stainless,
in it right has a huge castle decorated in flowers of deeds,
roofed in kindness and painted in honesty.
Corruption knows it’s a waste of time
when it comes with its convincing lips and encroaching limbs.
Selfishness eavesdrops on all activities
to plan a way and snatch any opportunity.
Then the fall occurs as hands get dirty.
A heavy load is now placed on the inside,
guilt building a desolate and unkempt street
and its lash felt each time its victim’s name is mentioned.
All these run the batteries of conscience,
making wrong have a flamboyant exhibition.
Not to worry, trouble mind!
This is just a cleanable stain on the wall
of which it hasn’t eaten any solid structure yet.
A true confession and an honest repentance,
stimulated by a bitter drive coming intrinsic,
makes everything look new once again,
confirming the nature of being human
but not any flaw from a good conscience.
Categories:
chronicle, image, imagery, imagination, innocence,
Form:
Imagism
Let X be the percentage you need to find
When from Z you achieved Y of a kind
The Y is a source for your calculation
Now match Y and Z for a relation
If Y is to Z is what you indeed know
Then to 100 is what you need to know
If Y from Z is on display
Then X from 100 is in your way
So you have to find the X value
Putting 100 to obtain its value
So Z to Y is as such
Then 100 for how much
Multiply 100 with Y
And divide by Z that apply
The result is nothing but X
Yes X is the answer you need to get
Categories:
chronicle, education,
Form:
Rhyme
Feelings of despair dredged from the murky dephths of my past
Hoisted through my corroded conscience's porthole
Reconnoitering barge of restitution pushes despondent thoughts through my inner being
Then tows the shame and guilt of my depraved condition to mind's hatch
The murky dross of yesterday's sins seeps deep into my addled psche
The residual guilt oppresses my soul
The brackish bilge of cankerous jealousies trolls through my grieving spirit
My trembling hands grasp the anchor of remorse but slip into the deeper moor of penance
Earlier missteps have my struggling feet sinking ever deeper in the quicksand of hopelessness
The smokestack spews nautious fumes from the froward deeds of my virile youth
My shaky rudder teeters as the raw sewage of past debauchery overwhelms my senses
Sailing my sinking yacht to the edge of sanity and rational existence
Carried along by the unsettling currents of inconstancy and vacillation
Docking in the harbor of reclamation and recompense
Categories:
chronicle, allegory, depression,
Form:
Free verse
Loitering in the lair of incontinence without askance
Chaufeured by alter ego looking for any appealing circumstance
Besieged by an uncontrollable libido that craves a licentious remonstrance
Bridled by an insecure complex that insists on a meaningless dalliance
Bethrothed a licentious title by my consort's malfeasance
Bartering for a brokered, fatuous, amorous romance
Initiating a coarse, trite parlance
Scoring a lusty, lively, lurid dance
Surrendering to the leveraged buy out with due penance
Shearing, shackled inhibitions for a night of undocumented remittance
Shackled by a conscience that bears the reproach of my debauched demonstrance
Shielded from the mediating law of recompence by my willful ignorance
Surrounded by the guilt of my insatiable intemperance
Struggling to find the source of my carnal provenance
Sheltered by a boorish pride that stifles availing repentance
Separated from a mitigating mercy by a lingering recalcitrance
Sequestered from a graceful respite because of my strident indifference
Shamelessing skirting sanctifying succor through my froward inconstance
Stubbornly languishing in the throes of an indomitable, fleshly resistance
Shaking as I continuously ponder the deeds of my immoral exuberance
Spontaneously trembling as my jaded psche haunts with an eternal vigilance
Categories:
chronicle, introspection
Form:
Rhyme
Lissome blossom,
Look that shook,
Exchange on a long range,
Embrace with grace,
Kiss as if a bliss,
Infection of affection,
Dove like love,
Life without strife,
Material as well as immaterial,
Its flow sweet slow,
Rare care,
Together with no bother,
Understanding outstanding,
Happy and zappy,
They lived sipping nectar forever.
Categories:
chronicle, inspirational, life, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
Ummm...
.
Sometimes when I linger in between the absolutes,
I look toward Heaven for some kind of cue,
But it seems as if Heaven is reluctant to move.
I’m impatiently waiting not sure what to do.
Again it seems like I’m the only one in the room,
Who hears the hushed whispers
Of the unseen Truth.
.
The frenzied crowd cries out for blood,
And the world gets washed away in the flood.
Disgraced face,
Covered in mud.
Flaunting the defeat as though a victory has come.
The broken hang their heads in shame,
Unaware of the Savior’s pain.
His cry muted by their self righteous refrain.
The empty promise,
Of religion’s lost game.
With their spit on His face Mercy still came.
Yet the less we give, the more we take.
Did we count the cost before we took His name?
What about the ones
Whose only glimpse of the Son
Came from the ones
Who only pointed their guns,
And then laughed as all the broken could do is run?
.
.
The skinny kid last to be picked on the team.
The fat girl ridiculed crying herself to tormented sleep.
The poor kid with worn out shoes on his feet.
Sitting alone at a free lunch table
As the populars flirt at the cool kids meet and greet.
The single mom that the judgmental church called a whore.
Like Jesus she stands outside of their self righteous door.
The little boy trembles at night on the floor
While the mean teacher by day berates him and demands he do more.
That same teacher that smiles on Sundays and stands at the Sunday school door.
Unaware that she’s playing religion’s new whore.
Laughing girls making fun of the Walmart dress
That the poor girl wears because it is her best.
The frail little boy fights back the tears,
As the bullying boys punch him and call him a *****.
He cries out for help
While the ones he trusted turn a deaf ear.
.
Will anyone tell these of heaven’s free gift?
That Jesus laid down His life so they could now live?
Those that society says have nothing to give?
Who will be
the example to them?
With blood on our hands,
How dare we speak of Him.
Yet His offer of life extends to us all.
The self righteous as well as the broken all have experienced “the fall”
He mends with His love both the great and the small.
“Follow Me” still
The greatest call of all.
Categories:
chronicle, christian,
Form:
Rhyme
Ummm...
.
Sometimes when I linger in between the absolutes,
I look toward Heaven for some kind of cue,
But it seems as if Heaven is reluctant to move.
I’m impatiently waiting not sure what to do.
Again it seems like I’m the only one in the room,
Who hears the hushed whispers
Of the unseen Truth.
.
The frenzied crowd cries out for blood,
And the world gets washed away in the flood.
Disgraced face,
Covered in mud.
Flaunting the defeat as though a victory has come.
The broken hang their heads in shame,
Unaware of the Savior’s pain.
His cry muted by their self righteous refrain.
The empty promise,
Of religion’s lost game.
With their spit on His face Mercy still came.
Yet the less we give, the more we take.
Did we count the cost before we took His name?
What about the ones
Whose only glimpse of the Son
Came from the ones
Who only pointed their guns,
And then laughed as all the broken could do is run?
.
.
The skinny kid last to be picked on the team.
The fat girl ridiculed crying herself to tormented sleep.
The poor kid with worn out shoes on his feet.
Sitting alone at a free lunch table
As the populars flirt at the cool kids meet and greet.
The single mom that the judgmental church called a whore.
Like Jesus she stands outside of their self righteous door.
The little boy trembles at night on the floor
While the mean teacher by day berates him and demands he do more.
That same teacher that smiles on Sundays and stands at the Sunday school door.
Unaware that she’s playing religion’s new whore.
Laughing girls making fun of the Walmart dress
That the poor girl wears because it is her best.
The frail little boy fights back the tears,
As the bullying boys punch him and call him a *****.
He cries out for help
While the ones he trusted turn a deaf ear.
.
Will anyone tell these of heaven’s free gift?
That Jesus laid down His life so they could now live?
Those that society says have nothing to give?
Who will be
the example to them?
With blood on our hands,
How dare we speak of Him.
Yet His offer of life extends to us all.
The self righteous as well as the broken all have experienced “the fall”
He mends with His love both the great and the small.
“Follow Me” still
The greatest call of all.
Categories:
chronicle, christian,
Form:
Rhyme
DOWN BY THE RIVER
reflections
ever changing
ever changing
reflections
IN MY GARDEN
I think,
day dream I suppose..
thoughts drift in as images...
In this quiet
I am so alone ...
....then I pick up a pen
MID SUMMER DAY
asleep,dreaming
imagination takes hold
its wings await...
EVOLUTION
a caterpillar on the Spirea...
...later
a chrysalis becomes a butterfly
SUNSHINE
Today has been fair
tonight still very blue
the wind blows..
Summer's supple glove
to caress flowers in bloom
ON A SEASHORE...
Infinite purples
rainbow fragments
spindrift,many-hued gossamer
....where,thoughts ebb and flow
AUGUST 31
Today,finale-
Warm,sunfilled and set so fair;
Farewell
Long,sweet summer rare
After style of August Kleinzahler
Categories:
chronicle, summer, words,
Form:
Verse
Ummm...
.
Sometimes when I linger in between the absolutes,
I look toward Heaven for some kind of cue,
But it seems as if Heaven is reluctant to move.
I’m impatiently waiting not sure what to do.
Again it seems like I’m the only one in the room,
Who hears the hushed whispers
Of the unseen Truth.
.
The frenzied crowd cries out for blood,
And the world gets washed away in the flood.
Disgraced face,
Covered in mud.
Flaunting the defeat as though a victory has come.
The broken hang their heads in shame,
Unaware of the Savior’s pain.
His cry muted by their self righteous refrain.
The empty promise,
Of religion’s lost game.
With their spit on His face Mercy still came.
Yet the less we give, the more we take.
Did we count the cost before we took His name?
What about the ones
Whose only glimpse of the Son
Came from the ones
Who only pointed their guns,
And then laughed as all the broken could do is run?
.
.
The skinny kid last to be picked on the team.
The fat girl ridiculed crying herself to tormented sleep.
The poor kid with worn out shoes on his feet.
Sitting alone at a free lunch table
As the populars flirt at the cool kids meet and greet.
The single mom that the judgmental church called a whore.
Like Jesus she stands outside of their self righteous door.
The little boy trembles at night on the floor
While the mean teacher by day berates him and demands he do more.
That same teacher that smiles on Sundays and stands at the Sunday school door.
Unaware that she’s playing religion’s new whore.
Laughing girls making fun of the Walmart dress
That the poor girl wears because it is her best.
The frail little boy fights back the tears,
As the bullying boys punch him and call him a *****.
He cries out for help
While the ones he trusted turn a deaf ear.
.
Will anyone tell these of heaven’s free gift?
That Jesus laid down His life so they could now live?
Those that society says have nothing to give?
Who will be
the example to them?
With blood on our hands,
How dare we speak of Him.
Yet His offer of life extends to us all.
The self righteous as well as the broken all have experienced “the fall”
He mends with His love both the great and the small.
“Follow Me” still
The greatest call of all.
Categories:
chronicle, christian,
Form:
Rhyme
the class
of summer fifty five
left to ply
their business lives
the office partners just two
pens pencils nearly-new
clerking the lowest
of the low
daily drudgery
reality soon shone thru'
down the cellar
my steps did wend
scuttle filled fires to tend
the 'old man ' yelling
'ere lad chop chop
get me baccy
from t'corner shop
wait-on
tea-break brews'
in a stew
bellow the back-office crew
one more task
to get done
for the partner's son
another errand no time to chat
he'd forgotten the fish
for his wife's cat
then
the switchboard clicked
the doorbell chimed
skills to learn juggle prioritise
which to choose to attend
mail in the tray
still to send
whew!
nearly five knock-off time
in view
just one task still to do
fetch the 'boss's evening news
was this really
the career to choose
Categories:
chronicle, business, memory,
Form:
Rhyme
life was presented
And all that it received;
A life placed on the balance
Of all that it achieved.
A Chronicle was written
Of all that was said and done;
And all the works were tested
And measured against the One.
The pages showed an image
Of the residue of love;
The image took on substance
And on the pages sat above.
A hand pulled out the image
A crown of finest gold
Engraved with the author's life
And the story that it told.
The One from all the ages
The One true King and Priest
Took hold of the golden image
And all noise in heaven ceased.
The throne of Glory rumbled
A name was clearly heard;
From multitudes of multitudes
The author now emerged.
The One went through the pages
And everything was read;
The book was then presented
And the crown placed on his head.
Then all of heaven erupted
We heard the angels sing -
“THE SERVANT BACK ON EARTH
IN HEAVEN NOW A KING”
Categories:
chronicle, christian, faith, future, heaven,
Form:
Rhyme