Best Chronicled Poems
Into the valley of death
Fighting the dragon demon
Numb from the heat of his breath
Deaf to the yellin' and screamin'
Lying in vomit and left for dead
An angel of mercy arrived
Touching the sickness inside my head
How lucky I was to survive
Battles regaled in chronicled tales
As scars from the wounds grow deeper
Telling others I see, Just like me
The dragon belongs to the reaper
by Daniel Turner
Feb 25 2017
Categories:
chronicled, abuse, addiction, drug,
Form:
Rhyme
Anything but bread
I bumped into a man named Fred
And listened to each word he said
A story I was soon to dread
For all he talked about was bread
In detail he spoke every slice
Some made of wheat and some of rice
There’s cinnamon and sugar spice
And sourdough he mentioned twice
Banana nut he found so sweet
The perfect early morning treat
With coffee as you take a seat
To bake it though, a major feat
He chronicled each rim of crust
A lighter tan or darker rust
Or sprinkled with a pepper dust
I guess somehow he thought he must
When then he changed and featured toast
I think it’s what he liked the most
I can’t believe how he could boast
He’d tell his tale from coast to coast
I told him I was running late
I had a very special date
A meeting and it couldn’t wait
I headed out beyond the gate
I started walking down the trail
He didn’t stop, I heard him wail
“Be careful of the loaves on sale,
you’ll usually find that they are stale”
Into a café I then fled
And thought about that man named Fred
When asked to order, this I pled
“Just bring me anything but bread”
Inspired by Maureen McGreavy’s Baker’s Dozen poetry contest
That’ll teach me to read the rules first. : )
Categories:
chronicled, food, fun,
Form:
Rhyme
I Am A Book
By David J Walker
I am a book of Unread pages
I am a book
I am a book Written in stages in
A travel log On a road called Time
With the foreign stamps Of Passport Ministers
Checking my credentials along the way
I am a book
I am a book Of unread scripture
With the lectures on faith
In staggered chapters and the
Tattered chronicled collections of
Odd jobs We have asked of a Loving God
Written in a foreign language
I am A book
I am a book Of erotic poetry in
Pictograph albums Scrutinized and analyze
Then censored By holier than me censors
I am a book
I am a book With pages numbered
And then sealed Its secrets to be
Revealed in full on an unannounced
Judgment day with Disputes left in the hands of
A Divine Defender
I am a book
I am a book
To be colored Everyday
Where the lines do not matter
Only the hue and The view
In which you see me
I am a book
I am a book Not to be left On the dusty shelf of
A forgotten library Rarely opened in a
Distant history I am a book to be read
And even if misunderstood To be savored
I am a book
Categories:
chronicled, allegory, books,
Form:
Rhyme
In the course of years,
Vincent wrote out his heart.
Capturing his thoughts,
Around his life and art.
Sunflowers were his muse,
As he painted through the rain.
He beautified the canvas,
While adding hints of pain.
His heart, mind, and soul,
Were his artistic trio.
He chronicled his life of art.
In his letters to Theo.
________________________________
*Note: Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's
Letters to his brother Theodore describing,
his art, pain, and inspirations...
Categories:
chronicled, art, historylife,
Form:
Ekphrasis
It matters not you have the blood of heroes.
It matters not your family's claim to fame.
It matters not your riches and possessions.
What matters now is how you bear the name;
For though you have the blood of kings and heroes,
And their exploits have been chronicled through time,
It matters not who may have gone before you,
What matters is the man who's next in line.
Your ancestors were brave and stalwart people.
Your father was a hero tried and true.
Your grandparents were good and honest people,
And now they've passed the torch along to you.
How they lived their lives is done and over.
Their deeds are theirs and theirs alone.
How you live your life is now what matters.
What matters now is what seeds you have sown.
Will others now be glad that they have known you?
Will family be proud you are their own?
It matters not what be your heritage.
It's the name that you have earned all on your own.
Categories:
chronicled, inspiration, introspection, pride,
Form:
Quatrain
"Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it." Psalm 127:1 of the King James Bible
Behold me…
marked with awesome affectionate hues
exuding family love
radiating bliss of eternal security bonding
triumphantly prevailing midst smiles.
Recollect with me…
while exposing joy of home
along grateful heart of glowing faces
praise-filled, beaming with grace
bestowed by the Lord!
Be glued to me…
never blinking your eyes,
yet now welled with tears
as you are gripped with Mom and Dad’s love
transporting your very being toward siblings’ milestones.
Reminisce with me…
grand celebration of blood-ties reunion along prayer fellowship
as your Dad and Mom steadfastly hold hands
and you view them doing so in heaven
with their inspiring love story, upheld by faith.
Get nostalgic through me…
recalling sweet peace in your paradise
with hearts warmed midst compassion wonders
seeing your parents’ partnership of caring scene
creating legacy of kindness for your generation.
Now, treasure me --- more than a keepsake
as I reverberate your life history
chronicled with mementoes
never to be buried in oblivion
since I, your family picture reign in your heart.
February 8, 2025
2nd place, "Dusty Box of Memories" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 2/12/2025
Categories:
chronicled, appreciation, christian, faith, family,
Form:
Personification
There is a place inside the woods where I wound up one night
Way up in the mountains where I went to get a bite
Circumstances led me there the day my car broke down
I thought I’d get a meal as I was stranded near the town
It was a lovely autumn day, the trees were crimson red
It was their last hurrah before the leaves were dried and shed
The yellows and the oranges were mingled with the green.
The sight was so breathtaking, the most lovely that I’d seen.
The back roads were the prettiest and so I went that way.
My camera was my passenger and chronicled the day.
But halfway through my journey my car heated up and died.
My cell phone had no signal and nowhere was there a ride.
That’s when I saw the smoke emerging from a chimney top.
Way up in the mountain where I thought there’d be a shop.
And so I started climbing as the day had turned to dusk.
Even now, I still can smell the pine trees and the musk.
Echoes in the misty night surrounded me with fear.
Something was behind me I could feel that it was near.
I started walking faster as my heart began to race.
The eerie sounds of creatures filled the earth and every space.
That’s when I heard the howling of the wolves into the night.
And when I felt the burning of the teeth sink in and bite.
I screamed in pain and horror as I fell onto the ground.
I started crawling to a house, the closest in the town.
But just before I reached the door, I felt a bite again.
I know that I was saved but don’t remember how or when.
The people in the cabin took me in and made me well.
A few days later I was healed, the bites no longer swelled.
But now each time the moon is full I roam the woods til light.
All because my car broke down one dark and misty night.
For Gail Doyle's 'Stranded' contest, by Samia Ali Arroyo
Categories:
chronicled, autumn, car, day, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
In older writes today I take a peek
I read what brings me joy and what brings pain
A message left: a gift that I still seek
I see a face, and tears fall fast like rain
The writes and rhymes have chronicled my life
Like dearest friends the words bring solace deep
What grieves my heart is some remembered strife
I read again. I smile, I sigh, I weep.
Some of the poets now have passed away
And others now are silent, no reply
I wonder once again what might I say
to make those days return. I have to try
I cherish every sign in every rhyme
Of where I was, and where I've come to be
The journey that I take, is quite sublime
I'll write until I taste eternity.
Eileen Manassian
Categories:
chronicled, introspection, poetry,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
In Cities in Flight
transformations are chronicled over generations.
It can make us cry
out for the genius occurring
now and in our past. How
the unseen, unknown participant
was made known to himself
through devotion to those outside himself. He
guides his city
into space.
So, the father and the teacher
guide the family and the student
through the close spaces of knowledge
and obligation. And perform
the history that surrounds them.
Good actors and directors,
philosophers and physicists,
soldiers and foresters.
Today
steam rose from the asphalt
because the sun
has arrived in place, powerful, equinoxal
as the human song
that receives it.
Two big deer
Lope cautiously
Off the open road.
Two crows
Fly low
Above the Oswegatchie.
Frank Bassett
forester since '57
marks a stand of maple and black cherry
for selective cutting. His actions today
will be noted
by another forester, also acting alone,
in the 21st century.
New York City
in a froth of creativity
Pacino and Sheen in Julius Caesar,
Sonny Rollins at Town Hall,
films opening, one
that portrays the flamboyant style
and dedication
of a barrio public school teacher.
You cannot act alone.
You must belong
in your heart
to the flight humanity makes in Spring, north
toward wild flowers
in geese chevrons.
Categories:
chronicled, city, cry, heart, history,
Form:
Verse
Martinique is in our history too
Not just in our blood
Because Josephine seduced him
To make us reap more bitterness
From the ferment of the sugarcane
Martinique was also his home
His native shore
Long before Paris
It was his Algerian door
But why should I tell you this
For it is chronicled
In us who wear
A black mask
Over a white skin that do not appear
In the mirror of your soul
He could see beyond
The root of our insanity
Even when we were invisible
Not just to the whip cracker
Boot licker
Heartbreaker
Drum maker
Truce taker
This was our genius
Our noble gift to the barren world
Where shall I start over
My history, my image
I defended so long until I was washed in the night
And my bright brother does not see the carnage
Except Fanon tell them again
That in this polarized man
Are poles more wretched
And we wretched of the earth
Can hope now
For what?
Steve Biko knew what direction the sun
Come crawling on the sky like a maggot
Biting in the apple of the eye.
There is so much frenzy in a storm
Death brings peace
The only peace we get for free
The one we never desire
Sometimes I wish I knew
How to turn the sun into fire
And cleanse the earth of me
As an image in another mind
But where would I get
Another mind to know
The litany of our regret.
We all have a Morocco dilemma
We are wounded there deeply
Like he was
What world is this they founded for us
This third marginalized
This obfuscation of reality
How shall we find in this
Another identity for a new begining
What woman is there
That will cease dancing with her shadow
And love me for the hope I am
For the absolutely beautiful reason
That I dream of death
Impaled like a fish
Gasping on the sand of his flesh
Categories:
chronicled, history, peoplehope,
Form:
Free verse
" Human Campfire Legacy ... "
( Gen. 2: 4 / Gen. 3: 24 / Ex. 13: 21 )
( Ex. 3: 2 / Rev. 22: 5, 6 )
All & Every Family of Man
Must Have Gathered Around Campfires
Telling Stories of Dreams & Dramas of Life
(Tho' Some of Them Have Been Liars) ...
... Gathered Around Great Campfires
At The End of Sunlit Days
Gathered Close, Around Warm Campfires
To Hear What Storytellers Had To Say ...
... of Fantasy Or Forecasts Around The Flames
Feeling Protected By It Bonfire-Blaze
Or Gazing At Each Familiar, Glowing Face
... Gathered Around A Family's Fireplace
Such Was This Ancient Entertainment
Throughout Time & Tongues of Tribes
Telling Histories, Heritage, Legends, Myths & Fables
In Oratories of Bards & Scribes ...
" I Saw Four Men Living Out On The Street
Gathered Around A Big, Smoking Fire-Barrel
Their Hands Outstretched To Its Flames
To Ward Off The World's Ice-Age-Peril ...
One Was Gesturing & Speaking To The Others
And They Began To Uproariously Laugh ...
It Was Then, That I Saw A Glimpse of
How Mankind 'Sticks To' Campfires-Past " ...
... Gathered Around A Flickering Campfire
See, There Is Nothing New Under The Sun
And When Earth's Great Star, Staircases-Down
Man, Still Gathers 'Round Fires' Heated-Fun ...
So If You Find Yourself At A Campsite
Indulging In Its Ritual Tradition
of Looking & Listening To Campfire Tales
Or Gathered 'Round A Television ...
... It's A Long-Time-Honored, Human Custom
To Gather Around Warm Campfires
From Tents To Huts - To Applianced-Homes
Or In Palaces of Great Empires ...
The Civilizations of The Family of Man
Must Have Gathered Around Campfires
Telling-Visions of Dreams & Dramas of Life
In High-Def ... 3-D, Wire-Pyres ...
In Conflagrations & Rubbed Frictions of Man
Gathered & Chronicled Thru Sparks of Campfires
Some Became Skilled At Fairytales & Folklore
& Yes, Some Were Just Branded - Burnt Liars)
( Rom. 3: 4 / 1 Tim. 4: 1, 7 )
Written & Copyrighted ©: 5/20/2014
by: MoonBee Canady
Categories:
chronicled, allegory, family, fire, history,
Form:
Light Verse
It is the latest news that even claimed attention there in London...
A video clip somewhere in the city, the central part being redly encircled...
Drawing attention to the running digital display of a statement...
Of an Opposition leader to be imprisoned after a court judgement...
In a followup video received, we have the same politician in the flesh...
Fully coated, smiling wryly, face sombre and eyes rather distressed..
He spoke calmly and elaborated clearly the circumtances...
That has brought him into the present situation of being handed a jail sentence...
His was a call to arms of sorts from one brave politician...
Sounds like he is an unique one in a million...
Someone like Lim Kit Siang or the famous Karpal Singh...
History will vouch for their persistent and righteous stand...
Going headlong and butting the establishment...
When in truth they could choose to be in the pro government camp...
And be honored right up to Tan Sris or any other honorary titles...
And if Malaysian history is to fairly chronicled...
Men like these are men highly principled...
Here for their brethen, the community and the nation...
But their titanic and drawn out struggle for basic principles..
Is enspoused clearly in Bersih 5 and its objectives...
Listen friends, and do listen well, replay again if you must...
Think and decide, evaluate and then take sides...
For we can choose to be right, or we can take flight...
Now we are still free to be spoilt for choice...
Listen and decide, will you stand by your decisive choice...???
Categories:
chronicled, anxiety, community, inspiration,
Form:
Free verse
We have to rebirth, the soul of this planet
and pray it be cleansed and gentled evermore,
but as nails keep piercing
hands reach to smooth across her scared shroud
It has to be worshipped
like the apostle to the apostles,
but with a feast of celebration everyday
dressed in her finest,
she must be read and chronicled by scribes of all ages
If her spirit cries out for a easing, for the torment
that embroiders across and through her linen,
rent from the abuse and torture of her kin
having sewn by the hands, that marred her
our sacrifice,
will take Millenniums
to ponder at the fibers of her cloth,
for in the beginning,
as the interweave of her shroud
we started to spin,
Great wheels through time
our redemption,
to sew a forever
that rebirths from our torments
Dedicated the P.K.Page
Categories:
chronicled, devotion, love, natureplanet,
Form:
Free verse
"A photograph is a moment frozen in time . . ."
It is a family gathering
in the photograph I have found
of me as a baby and my beautiful mother
holding me in her arms;
frozen in time . . .
she gazes down at me,
and there is such love in her eyes;
her skin is porcelain perfection,
frozen in time . . .
with cheeks a sweet blush
and lips a whisper of roses;
her raven hair brushed off her lovely face,
and I am in a pink dress
with a pink knitted sweater from grandma
and pink socks on chubby legs;
frozen in time . . .
I am porcelain too with cheeks blushed
and lips a whisper of roses and raven hair.
________________________________
September 4, 2019
Note: This is a form I have created called "The Photograph" Look at
a photograph that is meaningful to you and write about it in 3 verses
of 6 lines with one line being a short refrain placed somewhere in each
verse and is indented that also becomes your title. A quote is added.
The poem can be left aligned or centered. Keep the lines short and
medium length.
Narrative- Definition
A narrative is story-telling, in the form of a poem,
where events or accounts are chronicled throughout
the tale to the reader, or audience.
Poetry/Narrative/Frozen in Time
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1178-834-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Write The Poem You Always Wanted To Write
sponsor, Caren Krutsinger
First Place
Categories:
chronicled, mother daughter,
Form:
Narrative
New World Order; Psychological Warfare
Split minds, souls at unrest; UFOs or USOs?
Wealth, lost in the wash, fear-mongering media,
indoctrinated control. Listen here, listen there.
Do what you are told. Lost, chock full of filth.
Spiking truth with lies, despised, crying,
"why, oh why?" Crypting minds dime by dime.
Dollars sought, tanked to banks, cashless society,
rank the ranks. Medicated troubles and crooked
ways chronicled day by day - cognitive dissonance.
Demonic subliminals, camera ubiquitous,
oblivious. Rhythm rocker, tossed into sleep
while cryptids creep. War crimes, cries of faith
as the world is hypnotized.
New World Order; Psychological Warfare
Corrupted governments gave a virus and masked
our faces; visions and viles, crimes of the time,
facial recognition. Our world grows darker, ripping
out hearts, and drinking adrenochrome.
Caught and sold in catalogs; Wayfair, beware.
Dead doctors and speakers of truth. Devils lead
the way into caves. Graves are full, ghosts are real.
Androgenous has sex appeal. Agendas creating
slaves digging mountains for golds. Bullets and
bombs thrown by protectors. Secrets burned by
religions, cults normalized like pigeons, spectacles
of the steeple filled with sheeple.
Unseen skies covered with chem trails.
Forced messages leaked through your ears by
HAARP and DARPA. We Trust in those who wind us up.
All we have left is blind.
New World Order; Psychological Warfare
Categories:
chronicled, corruption, universe,
Form:
Free verse