Best Cleaved Poems
"Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune, and gave her Nature's most healing balm." ~ Louisa May Alcott
Dawn's light awakens me from sleep,
as morning light unfurls.
On the skyline I see it sweep
across meadows of grazing sheep.
Dewdrops hang like fine strands of pearls
on webs of silken whorls.
Like tears, they fell in waning night
as if the sky was grieved,
but in amber rays of daylight
I clearly see the dewy sight
of moisture, to which leaves have cleaved...
their thirst has been relieved.
Lush, the grass when it drank its fill
from Nature's water tap.
My garden is happy to swill
morning mist when the air is chill.
Petals fold to better entrap
drops for flowers to lap.
Prismed by the sun's reflection,
each pearl soon disappears,
dried by Ra's heated subjection.
There will be a new collection
when in the morning there appears
dew that's been shed as tears.
Original Date of Posting ~ June 18, 2022
Dewdrops Contest
This Challenge ~ December 3, 2022
Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
i'm just getting started
unraveling the threads
of this tattered lonely soul
sewn so long ago
apparition's crooked hands
grapples the rusty needle
as she unsteadily threads the eye
...flashback to childhood years
where a mother ties the loop
of darkened threads
cleaved from her own spool
pierced by torment
of each aberrant stitch
i am sealed in the seams
bound, unable to break free
as i bleed through the confines
of my soul's weary cries
my blood spills crimson
through shadows cast
of harvest moon
as she rocks unsteady
upon the walls of mind
beneath the hum
of unsung lullabies
watching as i undo
each crooked thread
sewn by her hands
unable to baste
with death's bony hands
she pricks through my heart
with soulless glower
as i disenthrall
the last threads
i stitch her deep
within the weaves
of memories
and poetry
...i'm just getting started
September 18, 2019
Just getting started poetry contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
*
/ \
/ \
sliced
and whole
a cleaved life
in flux cast dice
state of non being
potential in between
eternity's randomness
flip a coin up into the air
unpredictability flies there
alternate reality hints upon
•>•
parallel universes going on
realistically just one path
life’s inevitable no math
untangled observation
spit out my creation
god particle sown
new baby grown
chop the cord
use sword
spliced
\ /
\ /
*
Down the stairs turned chiseled rocky steps
the bare beauty cascades like an ebullient rapid
raw grace of Eve glistens on the satin skin
tinged with the hues of primeval nature exposed
sculpted in curvy contours of Michelangelo finesse
and charisma.
Amorous luster flowing in the cleaved vale
carved between the ambrosial mounds
opens up on the vista of the ivory meadow
supple rhythm of scented jasmine allure
wafts on the canopy of the yonder thicket
and waits.
The porcelain ballerina feet as insipid as
the stark sorrow of the defoliated winter tree
half-way on the staircase stuck motionless
a statue draped in symphony of au naturel shape
moonbeam lattice covers her with silver screen
and enigma.
October 11, 2019
A Brian Strand 1097 Contest
Giant Goliath never triumphed over young David
That’s instilled in each Bible story reader’s heart, verily avid
Arrogance always meets failure along strong faith’s fight
When trust in God prevails as did David with all his might.
Persistent to vanquish rude behavior
David, with poise, faced the haughty warrior
Then through his empowered sling
Came the killer stone’s great zing
Proving God’s power as most superior.
Thus was shepherd David’s rise to phenomenal fame
Acclaimed Israel’s king* who exalted the Lord’s name…
Yet midst his downfall caused by human nature’s weakness
He still cleaved to God’s love for triumphant blissfulness.
*Acts 13:22 …He (God) raised up unto them David to be their king; to whom also he gave testimony, and said, I have found David the son of Jesse, a man after mine own heart, which shall fulfil all my will.
September 18, 2019
Honorable Mention, "Clerimerick Couplets (Hybrid Form)" Poetry Contest Sponsored by Mark Toney; judged on 9/28/2019.
I'm that dog sitting in the rain over his best friend's grave.
I've waited fifteen years for your spirit to brush against my spirit.
I believe some brown-thumbed clod pruned your heart.
Cut too often- too deeply with a blade of insensitivity.
Honed his cruelty on your vulnerabilities.
Made himself a shrine from your broken pieces.
Tossed you to the darkness, cleaved your light.
Then offered you a cool drink on the coldest night of your life.
I'm the dog in the rain waiting indefinitely.
Steely-eyed
tight-lipped
she mouthed the words
'It's over'
twice,
so they'd sink in all the way
no tear in her eye
nor gulp in her throat
guarding her pounding heart
as she cleaved his
in two
The sea was a whisper before it was water,
cleaved through the wind.
I stepped into its silver mouth,
waves curling something pressing in
a wistful longing for a past I never knew.
Seagulls traced ethereal designs across the expanse
their wails scattered like fragments.
Somewhere underneath the foam,
the past was fossilized within sedimentary strata
waiting for my hands to delve deep enough to find it.
The tide came in more forcefully
and I thought of to how love in this way
always arriving, always leaving---
sometimes tender, sometimes intense enough
to split the coast in two.
When it ebbed, it left behind more than remnants of a disaster,
it embodied the ideal I sought;
calmed by the steady undulations of the sea,
gleaming in calmness;
as if the tide dredged up
on the verge of being forgotten.
He took apart
his soldier of tin
to see for himself
what lay within
expecting honour, strength
valour and pride
he eagerly toiled
to get inside
with soldier now
cleaved in two
he saw what he thought
could not be true
half of his warrior
now cupped in each hand
he gazed at an emptiness
he could not understand.
My remote ancestral house I left a long time ago,
keeps on flashing with longing on my memory canvas.
So, one summer on the faded trail of beckoning nostalgia
I trace the track of time to reach the decayed past.
The picturesque porch is now enmeshed by wild ferns,
I walk through slithering creepers to the unbolted door,
enter the dark dusty room abandoned for ages,
but still holding the wooden staircase in its place.
I climb up the creaking stairs to the master bedroom,
pierced by streaks of sun beam through the cleaved roof.
On the defaced wall hangs a framed photo of my father
with the last rosette my mother placed on his birthday.
I open the half-hinged window on the bushy backyard,
once a garden vibrant with spectrum of exotic flowers,
their colors, buried now under the debris of fallen leaves,
return with the melody of my youth, the breeze whispers.
July 16, 2020
Contest : Decaying House
Sponsor : Constance La France
I found her in the forest,
the photosynthetic pigments,
the cleaved sunbeams between the trees.
I found her among the leaves,
in the ovate, the lanceolate,
the smooth, serrated, and lobed edges.
I found her in the gleeful toddlers,
the searching, jubilant preschoolers,
the wonderstruck, young ones.
So many ways, I felt her presence
on my journey,
I longed to acquire her wisdom,
but the acuity of her heart eluded me.
Soon, I came to a parable etched in rock.
A mother risks all for her child, it said.
In this way, your heart must be measureless.
Continuing my pilgrimage after hours,
I entered fabled buildings, abandoned shells.
In the sprawled graffiti, I saw these words:
Hate never finishes hate. Only love fantastic
holds this genius.
Even as I saw the truth of her words,
I studied my hands and felt meagerly human.
I continued my wayfare, many miles until daybreak.
I came to a river crossing, a place of becoming.
I discovered the next precept in river silt and mud:
Self-love is the mud and clay for loving others, it said.
Then I awoke to what I was missing, and she appeared.
She floated glistening, bright, and blissful before me.
Shanti, Shanti, my name is Guanyin.
Her voice rang like a bell.
You can now cross the river to learn love transcendent!
Goodbye, farewell, adieu, please go away,
this house is mine. I will not share with you.
You see my cabinets as a buffet,
pay no rent, and use the floor as your loo.
You fail miserably as a roommate,
and I’ll be more than glad to see you gone.
Sinisterly gleeful about your fate,
I’m anxious for the curtains to be drawn.
No more ceaseless chattering though the night,
nor any more wires cleaved by rodent teeth.
I won’t fret on small eyes reflecting light,
or creatures hiding in my Christmas wreath.
Escape, or, if you prefer, you can die.
I don’t care which, as long as it’s Goodbye!
Slaves of wages for generations
long forgotten in history’s screenplay.
Each hand for a moment has held
the torch.
The people are waiting in lines.
All toilers have resisted.
All skins have felt the blaze of blood.
The people are waiting in lines.
While trash still clutters the streets,
while starving stomachs
roam like rabid dogs.
The people are waiting in lines.
Our tears have been cleaved
and parceled,
sold like floodplain to the blind
by corporate politicians,
while the people are waiting in lines.
We are lured to live among the cushions,
to rest here where the river rises.
No markets can be called free
while hosting inequality.
The people are waiting in lines.
We medicate to escape,
numbing to the barbarization.
No economy can be called just
without democracy.
The people are waiting in lines.
We shall watch for clues.
We will know the signs.
Every torch shall rise.
The people are waiting in lines.
Published: Dissident Voice, August 2, 2020
Spindly stretching brambles rebel from main form
Amused bending stems eject spikes of rhino horn
Thorns barely a repellent for birds resourceful
Tweezer glowing twilight globe, a bitter morsel
Fresh field alien green cone births berry's infant
Chantilly lace pale pink petticoat wraps nymphet
Confetti celebratory moult bulges her fertility
Eighty protruding bulbs shiver in vulnerability
Stern season carousel chastens scanty branches
Snow swallow, boggy terrain new tepid attaches
Saw edge foliage unfold, twitching fox ears
Clusters encombour limbs, absinthe adheres
Florid flocks tossle, augment midnight family babble
Morning dew melt sapor stains fingers which dabble
Outcast tongue teaser, lumpy rubber cleaved
Mauve motivate jaunty juice, mouth received
9th August 2022
Written for Contest:
Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor:
Matt Caliri
A HEART OF GOLD
A
Symbol of a
Seraphic being you are,
For to the hopeless, without a
Behest a chest of hope on a platter
Of silver you offered, and the cold
Maimed, with your fur, warmth
You gave.
To
The feeble minded
In the battle against cruel fate.
Courage for conquest you gave.
To the ravenous innards, through
The darkest ravine undaunted
You trod to feed.
The
Cleaved hearts from
Belied oath of love,
Solace, found in your
Salving speech.
The solitariness fissured hearts
In your companionship suture found.
Nothing
Have I seen,
That you would begrudge
For a heart of gold you have
Even your life, you would as lief
As the celestial liege give.
For his nature, in you reflects.
He, though, just a pearl had, but on
The altar of love down laid him.
For the hallowed carmine from his
Sinew our flaws to blot.
Oh
How like the sun you are
For though we are by distance barred.
Yet, the warmth of your benign rays
Here I feel.
(DEDICATED TO THE GIVER)