Best Classic Poems
For: Scavenger Hunt
In Honor of: ~Constance~Rambling Poet
Rambling around in a traffic jam,
Poetess naked and on the lam.
Constance’s very neat trick,
Behind a thin chopstick,
In the buff, dreaming a bluff, dream scam!!
Though diligently she did try,
`T was a failure to dignify,
By her most classic stance,
For without any pants,
Did lose her chance she had to buy!!
Note: From Constance's Poem "Traffic Jam"
Immerse in the tranquility of truth
And believe in the opulence of your
Devine being, BEHOLD IT,
As the proof, You seek is THOU
As Heaven’s Breath of Spiritual eloquence
As an Infinite horizon
In the radiance of light of Heaven
As beyond Yourself
As LOVE with Conscious intent
In the waves of Tenderness
Ascending and Receding
To return to the Egoless light
Behold,
Open the gate of your Heart
To witness the fountain of LOVE
The redeeming endless flow
That reconciles LOVE to life
Dear wandering pilgrim,
The gatekeeper Of HEART,
BLEED THE WATER OF LOVE
EAGERLY and BLISSFULLY
TO CLEANSE
THE WORLD IMPURITIES
And give gratitude to let the Fountain
Of Purity, Kindness, and Tenderness
Trail the robe of Bliss and Glory
TO BESTOW LOVE,
HUMANITY And COMPASSION
Until YOU REMEMBER
that YOU are ‘’LOVE’’
THE ULTIMATE HEALER
THE ULTIMATE
MANIFESTATION OF TRUE LOVE
THE TRUE SUBLIME CREATION OF LOVE
A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE
Viciousness and mystery erupt on arid soil.
Summer heat and idle time can make the spirits boil.
Languishing in stuffy rooms with very little sleep--
Night time flickers of the light-- imagination leaps.
Heat that beckons times long past invade a fevered head—
Athena pleases lovers mid her goddess silken bed,
Grecian legs march bravely –- prelude Olympian races--
Soldiers dream they sail away to see exotic places.
Heat waves shimmer landscape –men will do what they are told--
Spearborn soldiers helmeted sing down a dusty road.
Tho in mind they join their lovers whispering by the sea,
Drink of mountain waters --rest their head on sweetheart’s knee
Helen, when she sailed away –a wayward selfish wife
Without a backward glance she risked the cost of human life--
Was it the heat that made her crazed to do this foolish thing?
A fit of summer boredom could create this witless fling.
Autumn winds are blowing now-- Troy’s nights turn cool and fair--
Does Paris try to ditch her --as naked Helen combs her hair--
Does Hector tell his brother--get this woman out of here--
Does Helen beg to stay-- and tell her lover not to fear?
Heat can play the brain and make it dance a backward tune--
Clarity as sun tricks down—repeats a former June,
Perhaps there is a lesson learned from heat that sears the soul--
Summertime romance will write us each a tragic role.
Victoria Anderson Throop ©
1/11/13
The piano grumbled at his touch,
Playing fortissimo on command...
Nerves of steel snapping a string.
Ambitious to a fault, practicing the night into alarm,
Lizst spilled from the printed page
Like sour milk for a feral cat.
As he rose from the bench, music in hand,
An audible whispered relief rustled the curtains
And silence cradled the grateful room.
I was a classic 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, in mint condition, admiral and white.
My owner had other beautiful, classic cars, like stars sparkling into twilight.
My owner loved his old cars, saying 'they don't make them like they used to;'
And I enjoyed getting out upon the open road, to show him what I could do.
My fellow cars and I saw lots of sunny days, in bliss freedom of the flowers,
Traveling the length and breadth of this land, in the clasp of jeweled hours.
Flighty friends and I recalled 'good old days,' in rosy sunset times of finally,
Laughing and talking our memories in darkness, as moon shone, indefinably.
Forever friends were like feeling family, in the floral days of fuchsia's reign;
When flitting, green butterflies fanned for long, and falcons flew like a train.
I lived in the house of pleasant shadows, which didn't have many windows;
For it was one huge room without a view, like a path without the primrose.
Sparkling summer sauntered in silently, creating such scenes on my street!
Silken clouds roamed, when Sam ran his errands. Traveling was ever a treat.
Neighbors made admiring noises about me, going off on rides in neon night.
We cars were the toast of the neighborhood, nice nostalgia, in a golden light!
Clown orchids had ceased performing, in gone days of purple, beard orchids.
Now their summer relative had the holy ghost, like bliss from many sources.
Mask flowers held beautiful mystery, in alluring hues of pink, cream and red;
Like sweet secrets of moonlit shadows, and violet dreams after going to bed.
Once, Sam and I were cruising Sunset Highway, for it was my turn that day;
While dear friends waited in the cool, quiet of home, for their chance to play.
I felt a sudden impact on my left, and I knew I was hurt! There was damage;
But if not for Sam's expert driving, we might not have been able to manage!
This had happened to me times before. Such is to be expected in a long life.
As ever, friend Sam was my Superman, my mechanic in times of cruel strife.
My convalescence didn't seem so long, as I laughed about old days with pals.
When streets were not very busy, and many listened to front porch musicales.
For we were darling, daring trailblazers, quaint old paving way for all modern,
Leaving lingering feelings of fond nostalgia, like lovely fall leaves which yearn!
C-lassic
E-xcellent
L-ine
I-n
A-crostic
T-opic
H-as
A-mazing
X factor
T-o
E-ncourage
R-eaders
Topic: Birthday of Poetess Celia Thaxter (June 29)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Your bones
Your skin ~
Your lips
Your hips ~
Your tango
Your mango ~
Your smile
Your style ~
Your sacred figure sing
You were everything ~
Marilyn Monroe
Marilyn Monroe
(born Norma Jeane Mortenson June 1, 1926, died August 5, 1962)
26.03.2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
alone with the enduring Earth, and Night.
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape.
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky,
where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play.
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
the spots and struggles of the timid Dawn
here where seclusion looks out on a scene
not what will be, but what, long since, has been.
So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite
And where the red was, lo! the bloodless white.
THE relic taken, what avails the shrine,
or crackling holly, or the gummy pine?
The trees are full of the dark-stooping night
with octaves of a mystic depth and height.
When life is done? Perchance in other spheres--
across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,
I would not tarry if I could be gone,
as one who having wandered all night long.
Among th' immortal pow'rs, and free from care;
even the torment sighs soft in the air.
The shrieking of the tempest-tortured tree,
of her most ancient, chastest mystery;
untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon
with vain Inscriptions, which the Freeze has borne.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn?
Every conception that a man can find
that dwell within the compass of the mind
sink tower and temple; nothing long may stay
of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day.
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
an orb's dim throes, by iron stars controlled.
A climbing moon upon an empty sky;
the grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!
Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold,
who can distinguish darkness from the soul
for him, that calls for Succour from the Throne
till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone?
Catch the faint voice, and raise the languid head.
what need of name or music hath the dead?
I hear huge Pestilence draw vaporous breath,
come, heavy sleep, the image of true death
with silent feet into sleep's poppied lair.
My Soul. I summon to the winding, ancient stair.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men
as silent Suns to meet the Night descend.
Carlo Santana's Black Magic Woman,
in the 60's and 70's gave magic to his
band..
Drugs were part of this movement it's
fair to say. Getting high for many,
while listening to their music, was the
common way
Peace signs, beads, bell bottoms,
psychedelic shirts, desert boots, and
long hair and marijuana, is what was
in style. Looking back and being part
of that history lifestyle, makes me smile.
Peace protesters against the draft,
and Vietnam war. Jimi Hendrix, Peter,
Paul and Mary, The Beatles, Bob Dillon
The Beach Boys,Led Zepplin, Rolling
Stones,Elvis,Simon and Garfunkel,
Crosby, Stills, Nash and Neil Young,
Leonard Skynyrd, Eric Clapton, Carly
Simon is all we heard.
They kept our soldiers in Viet Nam
mentally occupied. It helped them
overcome their stress, and brought
some pleasure to their lives.
Rock N Roll Music had an impact
everywhere.The melodies and lyrics
represented a culture reflecting people,
who really cared.
Neil Young, Eric Clapton, Aerosmith,
Neil Diamond, Barbara Striesand,
Jim Croce made the scene. Years later
Disco and the Bee Gee's came dancing
in.
Disco died, it didn't last long, during
this time Rock N Roll kept rolling on.
Rush, The Eagles, The Police, Peter
Frampton, Boston, Reo Speedwagon,
Blue OysterCult, Fleetwood Mac, Bob
Seger, Steve Miller band, we listened
to. I can't forget Journey, Bruce
Springsteen, Foreigner or the Who.
Bon Jovi, Creed, Madonna, Red Chili
Peppers, Van Halen, Black Eye Peas,
Were hot then. Rock N Roll songs, will
keep on playing, and be appreciated
over and over again.
Time reflects the Lyrics in the songs,
of the good times and the wrongs.
Woodstock brought them all together,
a lasting bond to last forever.. .
Homeward Bound Simon and Garfunkel
was the favorite song with the soldiers. Also
John mentioned The Lion SleepsTonight by
the Tokens. Robert Lindley also mentioned
their groups that were left out. Please read his
comments below. I also thank Robert for his
valued input.
I just want to add that the 60's and
70's were my personal favorite years.
I say this because people really cared
about the war and each other. They
were right...
Michael Tor 10/16/2015 Nayda Ivette Negron. Contest: Favorite Music Type
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Country this guy they detest,
And save armpit noises he talent had none,
He thought they were funny and thought they were fun.
He thought that his 'talent' would make him a star,
But no one did care for the young Lochinvar.
He left San Francisco and charged straight ahead,
To Lower Manhattan is where he was lead,
But ere he was granted his first interview,
Producers were tipped-off and everyone knew,
His act was so silly and really bizarre,
They wouldn't audition the young Lochinvar.
Yet boldly he walked into Carnegie Hall,
And tried to astound them and tried to enthrall,
He made armpit noises and tried to impress,
(The day was quite sunny, but here I digress),
They dropped him in feathers and rolled him in tar,
'Twas nearly the end of the young Lochinvar.
"I won't be discouraged", he told them that day,
And then made his mark as he waddled away,
With sticky black footprints of feathers and tar,
He walked to the corner and bought a guitar,
Thinking, "I will be wonderful, I will go far",
But life would get worse for the young Lochinvar.
He took a few lessons, the Chet Atkins way,
With that and his armpit he started to play,
The audience booed him and tossed him outside,
He fell on his ass and it injured his pride,
And Lochinvar whispered, "Twere better by far,
Had I stayed with the armpit and scrapped the guitar."
He went to a bar and he drank a few beer,
He thought it would help him and give him some cheer,
But all it did give him was heartburn and pain,
And from that day onward, was never the same,
He'd never be famous and never a star,
'Twas the end of the line for the young Lochinvar.
He moved back to 'Frisco and rented a room,
Was the height of the Hippies, with flowers in bloom,
At Ashbury Avenue, corner of Haight,
They thought he was wonderful, thought he was great,
Now people throw dollar bills into a jar,
It's life in the '60's for young Lochinvar.
The loudmouth cowboy was challenged by an inebriated Doc Holiday.
"Draw your weapon sir," slurred the doc, "I'm your huckleberry."
"You're drunk as a skunk," said the cowboy, "probably seeing double too."
Mr Holiday responded, "Yes sir, that is very true,
but I have two guns,.. one for each of you."
CLASSIC MOVIES
it is surprising
how fine black and white can be
one listens better
one notices more
each word clear as a bell
folks keep their clothes on
blood flow minimum
black and white blood not so gross
favorites are great –
clark, cary, spenser.
katherine, audry, ginger
to love without lust
as I get older,
caring not for violence,
i watch more and more
as night classic fades
humming one two Mozart notes
lovers gently kiss
Judy Konos' Get Your Senryu On Contest
4/11/15
Say that everything will be just fine,
When I’m lying in bed with a bottle of wine.
And you’re workin’ on number nine,
Figuring out why I’m still on your mind.
Call me and tell me you’re alone,
So I can fantasize about the clothes
Scattered on the floor from your ex
Who hasn’t grown.
Beating this pallet that grows with paint,
Not color or water, just black that stains.
And when you finally answer to tell me lies,
I’m crying in betrayal but I stay on the line.
Because I’m holding onto the comfort you gave me.
Slipping into red coated train steam.
So close too everything but still can’t see.
Now, when the bottle is empty and dry.
I realize my mind is a flightless bird trying too fly.
Paralyzed by something that serves me no good
And it stands where my dignity once stood.
I’m fine, I’m fine while I drop down the cliff.
Choking on Disaronno, grasping a spliff.
I’ve uncovered a way too not caring,
Even if chaos rules my heart, and bones narrowing.
Part Two
From that moment onwards
Not when the fingerless muscles unclasped
the indented bones
But from that moment of knowing
from that very moment of sustenance
That day of human unbelief died unsung
And the depth of human grief buried long
bestirred a momentous song
It willed within me it were man
Some kindly soul no less
But in surfeit laid aside
The biscuits of distaste
It willed within me it were some organisation
Hurrying to the bed of despair
With the spare crumbs of conversion
The Holy Infant to succour
I willed then it were a friend
From want of excuse to teach
His fooling heart to bleat
Robbed his conscience of a treat
I willed and willed and never
In my thankless memory
Sat the image of my enemy
The fulcrum of my singular division
And when that day I delved into my depths
To find the words of irreproachable thanks
I saw you turn and stamp the light
Of my begging steps of penance
I turned, rebuffed
Should I have turned and gone
Away from the stony snarl of thanklessness
Away from all that I saw in that
One inseparable act
Away from my insurrection
From the illimitable doubt of humility
Far away from all the coquetry of cunning
No man was divided more
Between himself and self
Between life and cherished death
Astride on the unwelcome threshold of emptiness
Had I come out of dying
And yet the chained stick of fate
Was certain to unravel for me
No less, no more, the vicious sting of hate
And revived with urgency's gratitude
Twice over, reconditely, I was blessed
(Continued in Part Three)