Best Clement Poems
clement moons lose glow...
sun rises dries dewy tears
heart of mist broken
© Harry J Horsman 2023
Once upon a time so brightly
I had this compulsion to dance
Just holding you oh so tightly;
In thoughts of romantic perchance
Realistic dreams of nuance.
Your silver beam of love the lure
Bathed in splendour ever so pure
In breath upon the breeze clement;
Held here within your light the cure
I thank the lord for this moment.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
When tongue is silent, but muse is chanting - that's poetry.
When we write what the heart has been asking - that's poetry.
As dawn's hues glisten golden rays, in blue, bronze, orange skies,
musings mirror daydreams, so enchanting - that's poetry.
Butterflies smooch cosmos, as bees sip on dahlias nectar.
Scents of deep red roses start enhancing - that's poetry.
Clement air pleasantly overwhelms with pleasures of love,
muse becomes a bard lost in romancing - that's poetry.
Mentality turns dark when clouds spread densely like ash smoke.
Scarlet ink screams tears to stop storms advancing - that's poetry.
In shades of loneliness, thoughts reach out to our loyal moon,
beneath her moonlight we sojourn, standing - that's poetry.
A heart is healed by spoken words composed with compassion.
Poets smile when they see sad lips laughing - that's poetry.
As sands of sorrow pause, soul glows like a million fireflies.
Nature's metaphors leave our pens dancing - that's poetry.
Stale ink dehydrates and thoughts become segments of cement,
mind is a machine, where words keep jamming - that's poetry.
Daylight or night, bed, bath or driving, lyricists inspired
by sunshine, snow or when rain is lashing - that's poetry.
Word weavers scribbling sonnets, free verse and poetic prose,
forming imagery instead of ranting - that's poetry
Silent One, writes to honour Rumi, Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
In hope my words will be everlasting - that's poetry.
The Silent One
29 August 2020
An example for the Ghazal contest.
This Ghazal has a two worded refrain. Slightly different in format to previous ghazal, I posted, called 'Only the moon understands.'
This one has 14 syllables each line.
There are different definitions for a Ghazal, and different interpretations of the from.
Ghazal poetry is poetry of longing. Traditionally, the ghazal tended to focus on unattainable love, often illicit, or sometimes on metaphysical questions. But, today, the ghazal has broadened to touch many types of longing and loss.
The ghazal is a form poem that uses the art of rhyme and repetition. As it is originally a Persian form and the Indian subcontinent, the refrain and rhyme can be lost when translated to English, as is the meter.
Clement weather is often just my dream.
I don’t mind wispy white clouds way up high,
or marshmallow ones topped with whipping cream.
Alas, brooding nimbus are drawing nigh,
I yearn for azure skies and one sunbeam!
Raindrops fall, I hear them pitter-patter,
then hail stones bounce upon my brand new car.
I daren’t go outside and watch them batter
my garden, too. Ice storms are so bizarre
and their crashing makes such a loud clatter!
Rain still teems down, it’s been pouring for hours.
Where’s the warm sunshine, and vivid rainbow?
Torn to shreds will be my lovely flowers,
trellis of sweet peas, just starting to grow.
How I loathe these sudden April showers!
Dark clouds start to lift, a rainbow appears.
Sun’s peeking through a minute patch of blue.
Prisms of colour, I’ve so adored for years.
I’ll venture out to get a better view
for such a welcomed sight moves me to tears
Charming cheerful chemist chummy classic clement capacious
Aesthetic affable agile alchemist alert ambitious ascetic
Terrific teacher thankful thoughtful tranquil trusty telepathic
* I love cats :)
* Acrostic Agility Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Oliver Mckeithan.
Spring arrived, softer than the paling dawn
Wildflowers flourished across verdant hills
Bees were swarming, lush grass covered my lawn
in the season of splendor, as God wills
Glints of gold sunlight gleamed o'er pastel skies
Bird trills filled the air with resonant song
Life was a color palette through my eyes
On wafting breeze, monarchs fluttered in throng
What a joyous time when hope is renewed
Every living thing seems pure and pristine
Nature revived, and its beauty imbued
My heart is content and my soul, serene
God enfolds us in clement alms of Spring
The gentle season after Winter's sting
February 28, 2021
meadow obeys the fragrant breeze
caressing the waves encircling love
sweet scent of the passion
while a clement moon rises.
© Harry J Horsman 2014
Under clement moon
sits a night owl with pen...
her prey poetry.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Dedicated to Andrea Dietrich
Enchanted by this lovely clement day
while writing poems like Calliope -
I wish in springtime I could ever stay.
To see the sun come up above the bay
as shadows of the pre-dawn quickly flee -
enchanted by this lovely clement day.
To hear the cheerful chirping of a jay
as I sit underneath a cherry tree,
I wish in springtime I could ever stay.
To smell the fragrant rose bushes of May
and hear the buzzing of a honeybee -
enchanted by this lovely clement day.
To watch new birds performing their ballet
in azure heavens as they glide so free,
I wish in springtime I could ever stay.
To ponder how sun slowly slips away
inside a pink-streaked sky, then down to sea,
I wish in springtime I could ever stay -
enchanted by this lovely clement day.
A clement breeze brushing over skin,
A salty scent breathed deep.
Eyes closed, waves heard below,
A muffled crashing,
A cool, gentle spray.
Eyes open, ebony ocean,
Stippled with touches of moonlight.
Rushing air caressing fingers,
Higher above the water.
A million grains of sand shifting under foot.
Still.
chaos, am i ... all that is not understood
poison, am i ... once on your lips, the taste of ruin
callow, am i ... a child's heart that beats erotic
obsessed, am i ... as the black coal scarecrow's eye
clement, am i ... friendship and love, embers of my soul
byzantine, am i ... tangle of wispy intentions, dreamed
singularity, am i ... Universe and atom - lepton and void
horror, am i ... warm darkness that whorls, obsidian fire
ocean, am i ... cold abyss - ebbing, flowing - pulled by the moon
heaven, am i ... of the dearest light ... the bloodiest weep
life, am i ... the lost ache for love ... the purpose, pure
death, am i ... but a tender ripple in the surface of eternity
timeless, am i ... naught but now, naught but never ...
naught but ... i.
Written and submitted on May 12, 2020
For the "I Am: A List Bio Challenge" Poetry Contest
Andrea Dietrich, Sponsor.
“Stroke-a-back
stroke-a-back
someone’s going to touch you
in a moment from now,
I’ll draw the snake
but I won’t end it.”
The old gas light flickers
above the old school wall,
a game of “Stroke-a-back”
To the song of the Swan waterfall.
Pastoral faces full of laughter
innocence disembogue,
a time to relish
this evanescent vogue.
A fall pipe to clamber
a railway bank to view,
our cottage upon Sugar Hill
Where the flowers once grew.
Pea-shooting bobbins
From Town head Mill,
A Burnside clangour
from a spinning shed of skill.
In unison sincere looms clatter
Gates Of head scarves bobbing up and down,
Reed-Hook used with aptitude
a woven piece for “Half-a-crown.”
Eternity for the shuttle
Weft and Warp intertwine,
mortal weaver in traction
for that packet of “Woodbine.”
The mighty Oak and Sycamore
shaking off the morning dew,
mist that mingled undaunted
footprints that followed the view.
For there, where twilight kisses the breeze
behold carpets of Lavender Blue,
The sweet scent of the Honeysuckle
Clement “Nesfield” Grew.
If one could walk within a memory
caress a perpetual dream,
then one would have to believe in miracles
a mislaid youth to redeem.
'Stroke-a-Back' is a hide and seek game'
© Harry J Horsman 1995
There was a man named Kaldi who herded sheep
He fed them berries in Ethiopia but they could not sleep
He then told his friends and they tried them, too
Soon everyone worked harder and said goodbye to curfews
Not 600 years later, it had spread through the Arabian Peninsula
Then Turkey, Egypt, Persia, and Syria
There was a terrible time when the Turks invaded Hungary
But rumor has it that is when they brought coffee
From 1520 on the story goes
Coffee spilled through Europe and put people on their toes
But many people in the church they had their concerns
They called it Satanic and in hell coffee drinkers would burn
But Pope Clement VIII he gave the bitter drink his blessing
Then in 1670s London King Charles II took to his own messing
There were fears of coffee meetings and political uprisings
But by the end of the 1600s Kings Arms of Manhattan cafe was jiving
It was brought by the Dutch to New Amsterdam
People preferred tea and beer but would give coffee a chance
Decades went by and they sipped, worked, and danced
But by 1773 something forever changed the fate
Of not just coffee but the colonies' reason to celebrate
King George III went wild with tea taxes
Revolutionaries rebelled by the masses
They had the Boston Tea Party and then the war
America was born and it opened a door
Not just for freedom but the bitter, once Satanic drink
It changed the way people socialize and the way that they think
From Ethiopia to Turkey to England and the US we have Kaldi to thank and our minds to impress
A very touching version of Clement Moore's 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. A warm tribute to all dispatchers & police officers everywhere.
T’was the night before Christmas, and all throughout comm.
We sat at our consoles, expecting it calm
the Dispatchers with their headsets, the CAD in high gear.
I looked at my computer, and the phones waiting to hear.
I started my dinner, the microwave to ding,
of course at that time a 911 call did ring
An intruder was the call, per the person on the phone
My dinner was interrupted by the ole’ hot tone.
The address was given, and with a flash officers flew
their cars going code-3, Their lights red & blue
Stay on with the caller, We need more was their request,
Typical, telling us how to do our job, was our quiet jest
Now this being Christmas, Santa was hard at his job
He could never imagine, being accused of intent to rob
2 cookies from the plate, and milk from the glass
While giving out gifts, he didn’t expect any “sass”
He first heard the growl, and then the dog gave a bark
Everyone was out of the bed, quick as a lark
Santa heard them start to shuffle, and knew it had begun
When someone yelled I have a gun, and we’ve called 911.
Officers set up a perimeter, and a command post
They had a K-9 enroute, this suspect is toast.
The Dispatcher remained calm; kept the caller on the phone
Obtained a description of the man, let them know they weren’t alone
Dressed in red and white, his belt and boots all in black.
Santa said I will give you all coal, plus I’m taking your things back.
Officer’s then gave a code-4, just a man giving out toys
We figured with this shift it would be Taser deployed.
Our blood pressure came down, still maybe up 10
The family went back to bed, to sleep once again.
Santa said thanks to the officers, with their badges and guns,
He said a special thanks to those who calmly answered 911.
Thus I re-heated my dinner it was only 2 hours old
But working in dispatch, food is better eaten sometimes cold.
Santa flew over the comm. center, later that night
And we heard him yell out, as he flew out of sight.
Thank you for answering all of those 911 calls
Your pride and professionalism make Holidays Merry for all.
May you all have a safe and wonderful Christmas Holiday.
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.