Best Clear Eyed Poems
Disparate, she commented,
The word reverberating
As fond music, with pleasant
Measures and tingly tones --
And should we not be open
To others’ voices, divergence of
Thinking? As with clear-eyed
And blinking, a look-see is worth
The now, hoping, anticipated
Enlivened journey of daring
Vistas, elongated dimensions --
Spirit/mind ever on the hunt for
Spirit/source – life is a series
Of Lost And Founds...squares
Seeking their counterpart rounds --
Not diametrically opposed, just
Points and edges making intriguing
Bounds – but never a harmony all
Quaking Spheres. Simply enjoying
A unique volume of eyes, noses, voices
And pert little ears.
(Oso on a Purrrsian rug)
Lessons From a Cat
It’s okay to be independent
It’s okay to expect the best
It’s okay to simply sit and watch
Clear eyed, without emotion
As all around others judge you
As selfish or aloof or just plain lazy
As they project
Onto your purrrfect equanimity
(11/30/24)
Serendipity
God’s hand, like a muse of the serendipity,
Makes His presence self-evident
In marvels colliding
When happy chances of happenstance
Tango with moments of pure whimsy –
Living epiphanies’ lifeblood
In generosity flowing, spilling over,
With revelation’s laughter of surprise
To stumble upon clear eyed condensed coincidence –
The synchronicity of planets aligned –
Lost in the waxing-waning cycles of moonrises
A plea born upon the lips of a servant’s heart,
For parallel footsteps in pilgrimages and side by side
Linked by servanthood planned for such a time as this.
Hearts of affirming collaboration bloom
Like flowers growing through concrete cracks
When rainstorms hurricane this battered plan
A living answer for pacing eyes
Sometimes blinded, wearing discouragement,
As hearts appear in surprise parties
With glimpses of encouragement –
Moments when hilarity finds a perfect bubble heart
On a flapjack’s edge
Or a coffee saucer wearing a topaz colored gem
Tar droppings screaming “Surprise!”
Or thunderheads giggling in celebration of floating miracles
Eternity’s prankster – vitality’s elan
Living in the playful realms of a-ha’s inspiration.
7-22-21
Contest: Muse
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
When I changed the name of my ministry to A Servant’s Heart I asked God “Are you with me?” From that time on I have been seeing hearts – everywhere – even as recently as today!
Why does the heart get all the credit for love?
By so-called affairs of the heart,
that most storied of organs is not unduly inconvenienced.
It beats,
now faster, now slower,
that is all, its task ever unvaried.
But the brain.
The brain is swarmed
by a scream of consciousness,
the amount of work that lands on its desk
swollen by an epidemic of incoming data
as body-wide receptors caffeinated by intimations of love
report frequent sightings of
unexampled beauty followed by euphoric contacts.
Every signal, real or illusory, is taken into custody and interrogated
to determine its authenticity or duplicity.
Every word is a code that needs to be deciphered with a
clear-eyed detachment it can no longer muster.
Every look is transferred to the left side
for facial-contextual-inferential analysis but often hijacked by the right
for the purpose of aesthetic appreciation.
Every scent is identified and catalogued with
a perfumer's olfactory precision.
There are hints to catch,
spats to be postmortemed,
crucial dates to be inoculated against amnesia,
preferences to be recorded, compared, grafted,
model answers to catch-22 questions drafted,
declarations of adoring allegiance crafted.
The subject’s mind is apparently required to be read,
two sets of past, present, future to be crossbred,
blindness to other females pled.
There are virtues to exaggerate to divine proportions,
flaws to modify to virtues with willful distortions,
desires to mollify by counseling patience,
thoughts to be felt,
feelings to be thought,
vertigo to be fought.
Still the to-do list grows,
the repairing of an attention that no longer spans,
the mistaking of what happens to millions of others daily
as a unique personal miracle,
the confusing of being loved with being special,
the projecting of an untested passion into an eternity,
the steadying of feet that has taken to walking on air,
the murdering of ballads meant to be trilled,
and the admonishing
of that nonchalantly speeding heart
to be still.
There's a certain wistful aspect to her gentle grace
A dark haired lovely with elegance embedded in her face
Clear eyed and full lipped with cheekbones well defined
And just to top that outer view is the beauty of her mind
Such a combination must be more than many men can bear
So much for them to live up to - may they hope they can ensnare
A lady filled with passions that are reserved just for that one
Who offers safety for her heart and so can carry her along
With them hand in hand untill the night is never gone
Amid the certain knowledge that they will ever look upon
A sight that others cannot, as her views are just for him
The truth is that within their bond there never will be sin
For sin is just for other souls that have yet come to learn
Without deep trust and honesty they just cannot discern
The reality of true love is that we hold the other high
In every way above ourselves and without the need to ply
Our troth with false promises in the hope that those might sway
The other's will towards us without a momentary delay
For time is well invested only when all is quite sincere
Only then we will have earned the right to call the other dear...
©Rhumour
May 2nd 2012
words,
like wind,
sweep away thoughts,
of dark cyclones twisting,
truth, friction, half-lies and neither,
informing or deceit, inane and blowing,
mouths moving on removable friends,
smiles on plastic faces,
syrup or pap,
save us!
no,
not now,
maybe not ever,
this bed we made,
then wish not to sleep,
in piles of lies, cheap copies,
of honor bright, a truth,
and loudly act outraged,
at ending's result,
of liberty,
lost,
in dustbins,
or unrealized dreams,
our milk honeyed mess,
grand finale of men's trust,
bold blueprint, balm to burnt history,
of man's inhumanity to man,
but so easily rendered,
by hungering beasts,
bleating lambs,
slaughtered,
easily by,
those darkeyed ones,
wolves in men's skin,
whispering paradise, serving cold rain,
but push back the dark, oh
upright and clear eyed ones,
regain that firm foothold,
grasping the mantle,
willfully, again,
rise.
Darkness falls into endless sleep
Ego spawns, grows to overleap
This dark enemy gloats with glee
A silent death I shall be free
Demons expose the tools of use
With great happiness, self abuse
As if to be an open quay
A silent death I shall be free
Angst of worried despair and grief
There is no end nor no relief
Torture oozes from this emcee
A silent death I shall be free
To kill this ego deep inside
My focused mind becomes clear-eyed
Filled with peace, joy and so much glee
A vibrant life I shall be free
Context
Be like water - still, calm or move rapidly with momentum to bring fresh life.
Even the egotistic ocean of wild seas soon settles to be greeted by the warmth of the sun.
Poetry Contest: Kyrielle poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Date:09/12/2022
1 original, poem on the theme of .............
A KYRIELLE ABOUT WATER
4 verses
2 couplets per verse
8 syllables per line
Men in the rough—on the trails all new-broken obsession
Those are the friends we remember with tears;
Few are the words that such comrades have spoken
Deeds are their tributes that last through the years.
Men in the rough—sons of prairie and mountain
Children of nature, warm-hearted, clear eyed;
Friendship with them is a never-sealed fountain;
Strangers are they to the altars of jealous pride.
Men in the rough—curt of speech to their fellows
Ready in everything, save to deceive;
Theirs are the friendships that time only mellows,
And death cannot sever the bonds that they weave.
clear-eyed springs
unfold her wings
trumpet the joyful
sound of
cherry blossom trees
while
sharing her
branches
with
shiny black yellow
and
red breasted
lorries of the spring
oh lord
when
i
hear heaven sing
The restricted heart
shrinks bitter and remote,
punishes the spinal watchtower
with ghosts of tunnel vision.
Keyhole surgery in a dreamy eye,
so acclimatised to nightmares,
dissects each cold memorial
of the lids that cannot shut.
From the slitted earthen throats
flows dew and morning steam,
blood rivers course the wheat
burned black from heat exhaustion.
It isolates the feelings
and prods them with white sticks
and in so rousing
justifies the clear-eyed vision.
Blue porcelain statues reflect
patinas of desperation,
diseased with sunspot black,
the souls of latent atrophy.
What a spiteful lonely view
when gleaned from an ivory basement,
broke love in a dark bone cage
until sorry is all I have.
a common denominator
eager, calm, procrastinator
all those hoping to be greater
take on the ego deflater
self aware, in tune and clear-eyed
the completely bonafide
abruptly lost, quiet,tongue tied
embarrassed, trying hard to hide
silent, conflicted, filled with doubt
almost escaped but can’t get out
upset, angry, ready to shout
cannot help but let feelings out
poets and suitors, who speak thereof
hell below to heaven above
shallow, first, true or just sort of
every one a seeker of love
Wall in the Woods
A solitary pensive woodland canticle
Wanders through summer’s souvenirs,
A gypsy quilt of green transformed to crimson flame,
And prophesies of empty paeans swiftly riding
Through a meandering row of barren arms
Keeping silent watch at last light over crumbling lines,
Smooth river stones staggering
Beneath the jealous hand of gravity’s lament
For lost time and the skillful composer’s design,
As seasons fled to forget the wall’s divide;
One epoch stands at the trellis barrier of a foregone age
On a footpath two worlds collide - atonal echoes escaping
In a vision for once neat orchard rows overgrown
Separated from a scattered copse of Queen Anne’s Lace;
Seeking signs of clarity through slinking shadows
From the clear eyed composition, standing mid gracious ferns,
Barred from crossing – stepping over the seal of time signatures -
Yet led to find a rusted gate -a scrolling key -
To unlock a welcoming transition – melded vision transposition
A secret weald of melancholy song walking by a wall.
LION
She was upset, beleaguered and beautiful
(in a wholesome feline kind of way)
He saw her problems as recurrent and swift,
maneuverable, agile, hostile, a little bit mean
Her call for assistance was not a helpless
appeal for a romantic deliverance but a clear-eyed
call for a partner with skills, an blunt attitude and
enough of a heart, who would want her intact
when the dust cleared away
“Will you be with me?” she asked
“I am your lion!” he said, his mane an unkempt
mess, his fangs still concealed, his black-rimmed
golden eyes now more alert to the savannah beyond
“I was hopeful” she said, as some of her problems,
seeing this discussion, began sliding from cover
to find running room…..
As the time of spring beckons
We all have this moment of clear-sightedness
when we see we are of little importance other to the world
and clear-eyed grasp our smallness.
We can in our tiny ways push the world forward an inch
perhaps to a fairer society where children do not die under
the rubble of concrete.
We can do nothing to stop these people who will push
us into an Armageddon, and will they somehow think
they can avoid the calamity when there is no one to blame.
There was a time when one could travel unmolested
in the Arabic world, then the smell of petroleum and
the white man came and destroyed the peace for greed.
No, not us the lesser people, we are victims too of their
hunger to dominate and enslave us in mortgages and loans
that can never be paid; so we watch and wait and when
the day of disaster comes shall I help the ruffians to my lifeboat.
Down from a prospect, acclaimed
As that clear eyed
Of a Reisling grape
On the french side
With the local product spilt
Adds, dare I say
What of its sparkle
Gives life to bay.