Best Cleared Poems
Her life is just about to take off,
As she straps in behind the stick.
The destination might be unclear,
But the route is hers to pick.
Education fuels her craft,
And graduation trips the switch.
She wants to see what there is out there,
The call of adventure is like an itch.
Her family is the tower that tries,
To make sure that the runway is clear.
Letting her know that back at home,
There’s a safe landing for her to steer.
The time has come to place her faith
In these untested wings.
In the faith that the Lord above
Will grant the joy that this life brings.
As she hurtles down the tarmac,
Her destination comes into view.
An endless sky before her now,
A boundless sea of blue.
With a confident smile upon her lips,
And a glimmer in her eye.
She rises above the firmament,
The time has come for her to fly.
The Blossoms Cleared Out
When she was alive
She talked about the good days
Pineapples and sugarcane
Wild and feral
She worked in those fields long ago
As a native of Hawaii
And as a child growing up in paradise
She loved her home
Especially the fruits of her labor and roots
She and her family lived off the land
Fresh vegetables, fruits, and fish
That was the way of life
For three generations her family subsisted
And blossomed off the land
Then the clearing
It started when the Hawaiian Monarchy was taken
The turn of the 20th century turned on the natives
Foreign intrusion brought their apples and oranges
And money, and power
All were looked upon as pesticides by the natives
Everything indigenous to Hawaii was slowly wiped out
The blossoms, pineapple fields, and my mother
It cut at the heart, the bloodlines
Today the walk of life on Oahu is mostly concrete jungle
Sadly
The pineapple fields turned into subdivisions of homes
My mother's family home at the mercy of requisition
Without any compassion or retribution
Sadly
I can surmise to the cheers of the apples and oranges
I remember my mother's final breath
I could see, still, how the clearing welled in her eyes
And can imagine a plume of pesticides in her nightmares
connie pachecho
2/20/23
#The Cloud That Never Cleared
Once beautiful hues of Blue fell through, never to be renewed.
Replaced with Charcoal Mist Gray...
No Transparency, No Glimpse of Breakthrough,
Just a Permanent State...
An Unrelenting, Non-repenting...
LOOKS AND FEELS LIKE SMOKE IN MY EYES...
Resulting FATE. Is It Too Late? The Blue replied...
"I AM OCEAN BLUE, DEPTH AND TRUE, RE-BOUNDER*
OF NEW ELEMENT, CLEAR AND FREE OF ALL IMPEDIMENT...
*A PERMANENT STATE* WOULD HAVE BEEN MY DETRIMENT."
©Renee Denise Gross 11/9/2017#
clear my conscience Lord
Pray for us we are sure to
have such a clear thought
my desire God to live
honorably now always
9/21/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid, seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
.
Slang
deck = cool
gillespie = hipster
meow = I want
confuddled = confused and befuddled
derp = anything and everything
Cleared Away Mire
Cleared away mire and started to aspire;
Goals started growing higher and higher;
Though am inept,
Mission did accept;
While we wish Trump would soon expire.
Jim Horn
To the spirit that resides
Within my brain
Pack up your bags
And get on that train
You say I am cracked
And out of my mind
Well I say you are whacked
And that you are blind
My mind has been cleared
Of any wrong doing
Your rep. has been smeared
Cause of all of your screwing
Don’t walk away mad
Or run away angry
Try not to be sad
I don’t have a hanky
Pack up your stuff
To get it all out
I am never rough
And will never shout
When the smoke left it became clear
Wondering about the cause had put him in fear
As in all these things it would take some time
He would need to come back to it when he was inclined
His plane would need to fly on
To where he was sure the enemy was gone
And the plane flew on forever
The hum of the engine kept the time in its measure
He tried to raise the others on the intercom
But it seemed he was the only one not gone
At the base they listed the bomber as overdue
As the bomber into a red oblivion sky flew.
© Paul Warren Poetry
J-ust let the morning break,
O-ne evening passes from view;
B-eautiful blue sky above
O-pens the moment for
Y-ou.
Q-uest for the fine clime,
U-ntil the rain disappears;
I-nclement weather turns fair,
N-ew dawn dries away the tears.
T-hird month thirteenth day,
A-fter the shadows are gone;
N-ight cold chill has faded,
A-s the haze is cleared by the sun.
The funding of wisdom,
bankrolling death
Thoughts to withdraw
from a ledger unspent
Refinancing life,
true folly indeed
With memory cashed in
—eternity free
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2020)
Between the rise of dawn and the cleared dark of twilight,
Lies a hidden season of dream, when the indulged daystar makes its nest.
Between the warmth of summer and the chill of harsh life,
Spring strings its arches of renewal and hope.
Between the unequivocal black-and-white fabric,
Mysteriously flows a grey veil of ambivalence.
Between the babel of noise and sacred silence,
Stretches a space for retreat, an island of calm.
Between birth and the fragility of age,
The season of fertility revives, in rhythms of mystery.
Between the maturity's dusk and the spilled perfume of childhood,
A season of innocence opens, a gate to the primal Eden.
Between the sin that erases and the sweet grace that heals,
Rises a time for decision, a choice between two lights.
Between vision and the pressing solid reality,
A time for prayer breaks through, a heart's murmur that prays.
Between the trembling doubt and the marriage of wonders with the world's eyes,
Lies the season of perseverance of faith, boundaries unfound.
Between love and the spiteful indifference of hate,
Awakens a predilection for mercy, a season of your warmth.
Between the despair of death and the triumphant birth of life,
Stands the clarity of heaven, a season of light, wandering fragrant.
Between the lost garden of Eden and the second coming, a celebration of resurrection,
Stands the full timbre of anticipation, wilting surreptitious expectations.
You are dying inside me,
my little god.
I am awakening after a long pause.
The forked hazel wand
does not bend back, perched on a buried treasure.
I am disembarking from divining.
I stayed without body, nervous;
like aspen leaves trembling at slight doubt,
hearing footfalls of dew drop.
Fear of old fear arrives again,
when the seeds begin to explode
in the womb of a fallen tree.
For the spoken word, sting in the tail
becomes star-struck. Death zone enlarges on black
pyramid. Conscience is on its descent.
SATISH VERMA
R-ain
I-s
C-leared
A-s
A-nother
C-oolness
A-nd
I-mpressive
N-ewness
B-egin
A-ppearing
J-ust
E-arly
Topic: Birthday of Rica Acain Baje (September 18)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic