Best Combines Poems
Many ingredients bake writing inspiration.
This recipe combines a stirring sensation:
Heaps of desires never realized
as marinated in teary sore eyes;
Quantities of wide open spaces
caramelized by nature’s appeal;
Ageless genuine emotional traces
sifted thru heart rendered graces;
Equal parts family and romantic love
as roasted within, without and above;
Measured creamed ideals of peace
with blanched pain and battle grease;
Diced wishes braised with thrill
bearing aromas of tangy heat or chill;
Slices of awe from a glorious tree
breaded with traits strong and free;
I do not forget sour spices of greed
dusted with mankind’s violent seed;
A mix of fears dredged in anxiety
with stress jelled in complexity;
and, lastly, faith garnished spirit
grown in a soul conscious thicket.
If able, I mix love with ingredients above
before sampling my recipe once warmed up.
I enjoy serving it in a poetry cup.
A sonnet I will write with you today
Inspired by the beauty that I see
Beyond this pane of glass where snowflakes play
Beyond this pane where raindrops used to be
The creek behind the house has turned to white
How silently she rests upon this morn
Her muddy depths completely out of sight
Beneath a face where ice begins to form
The trees once leafy raise their barren limbs
Where now those scarlet feathers can be seen
A Cardinal in flight upon a whim
Upon a winter morning so serene
Beyond this window pane from which I gaze
And stare in wonder...at this world... amazed
...
A blue jay breaks the silence with his trill
That sends those scarlet feathers to the air
Across the creek they fly to yonder hill
Where combines of the windmills creak...beware
The sun begins to rise up from the east
Exposing all the diamonds in the snow
Abreast the oak and maple leaves deceased
The frosty face of winter all aglow
With gratifying java on my lips
With a big coffee cup held in my hand
I tap my table top with fingertips
While humming Crosby's Winter Wonder Land
Beyond this window pane from which I gaze
I stare in wonder ...at this world...amazed
Written: Dec. 10Th, 2016
Night Light
Enfold me in your tender loving embrace
that reaches out from the past with
long arms to keep me near you.
Visceral pain combines with physical
in a continuous loop of uncertainty.
I feel as though I am drowning in
reflective deep waters, opaque with
darkness that lingers indefinitely.
Maybe it is the fullness of Luna
controlling my thoughts that spiral
to the depths of this darkness.
As this long night gives way to dawn
and another day begins, I pray that light
will enter to vanquish the darkness
within, while shadows of remembrance
peak and I step into sunray’s warmth.
8-30-22
'Your Second Chance 1ST Poetry Contest'
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
______________________________________________
12-19-21
Poem of the Day December 21, 2021. ~Thank you very much
Team Poetry Soup and Members~
STRAND (1045) Contest ~N/A~
Contest Judged: 1/4/2022 10:45:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand |
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
~Soup To Go~
This summer~ all I want is a bowl of soup
A secret flavor that combines every veggie group
An outcast taste of ancient granola herbs
All kinds of extracts that create different verbs
I will leave the table only to dance out in the rain
Round and round in wonder catering out my sweet refrain
I will visit mother and tell her I forgot her recipe
Brag about my soup and how I used and stole her ecstasy
Paint about the life she gives the grounded trees
Think about the sugar that makes me surrender to her sweet debris
I will order me a special~ with the right poetry breeze
Exchange my cookie dough with mothers pollen seeds
Hide behind her oak tree and listen to her endlessly
I can even cook myself a picture making nature my enemy
Close my eyes and smell the mist of self control
Hold on to my emotion and take a sip of my soup bowl
Add extra salt and pepper to every line I manipulate
Swirl my spoon around and smile at every thing I hate
Come sit down with me and collaborate
Lets cabbage out on mothers nature's plate
Wakening up to her blossoming sauce that drips with a certain flow
Driving by her White castle, and stare at another soup to go
Order me; a soup of all the things I see
Order me; a soup made out of mystery
Order me; a soup out of the things I wanna be
Order me; a soup made out of the sadness found inside of me
Order me; a coffee to go with my poetry soup
Type me a funny comment that will add a smile to my food group:-)
by;p.d.
Streaks of pink 'cross morning skies.
Land shaded lemon; last star dies…
Lightening blue spreads far and wide,
a half red sun. New dawn’s arrived.
This living desert yawns and wakes.
A foreign sparrow flits and takes
what morsel that darkness denied
to night feeders who now hide.
The sun begins its golden rise.
Shadows bear before my eyes.
Range of mountains now in view
look purple hazed and crumpled too.
A gentle breeze blows cool and soft.
A drifting hawk soars past aloft.
A static call echo's the morning.
Somewhere close, the first days warning.
There's golden bloom on mulga's face,
saltbush combines in shadow space,
a rabbit warren mounds the sand!
Three's company seems hand in hand.
The rugged hillside carved away,
gorged and furrowed brown and gray.
Eroded sand displays the shale,
where layered seams look to impale.
Tufted grasses dry and withered,
amongst that broken shale that slivered.
Stand out quartz already bright;
The rising sun turns glistening white.
A different swallow, black and white;
blue backed wrens dart out of sight.
Sunning now on walking tracks,
lay together; shingle backs.
And now the scene spreads far and wide,
to struggling wattle; sheer cliff side.
On closer look near at the base,
three kangaroos take a two-step pace.
Stillness lingers, there's an unknown call,
what bird is that? I love them all!
And the red plain grows beneath blue skies,
as the living desert welcomes sunrise.
Dumplings
As I walk into the kitchen, for a snack,
my mother, her apron, night black hair, and jade bracelet,
makes me dumplings.
She combines the mixture of monotonous ingredients
into something extraordinary.
The water, like a youthful spring, rejuvenated the frozen, faltering fruits of nature,
Mixing the Yangtzee, Hei Long Jiang, and Chang Jiang into a savory paste of veal and kiwi green scallions and chives.
The distinct sound of chopping drowned my thoughts, easing my stress, and bringing a unique rhythm into my mind.
The dough, seeping under her fingers, was firm yet malleable
as if she was molding
the future.
The clicking of the gas stove, rumbling of the pot, flattening of the dumpling skins, the clinking of bowls and chopsticks, the scrubbing noises in the sink.
A rousing prelude to an intoxicating fugue…
Dinner
The Mane Event - On The Catwalk
And now for something completely different! I invite you to experience this unique blend of music, where this dynamic video brings to life the essence of anthropomorphism, in an entertaining portrayal, highlighting creatures with human-like traits - a total figment of my fertile imagination.
Meet a lion 'With Attitude' so regal and fierce, as he prowls and sets the 'Catwalk' ablaze with his mighty roar, leaving a trail of awe, admiration and respect of the other jungle animals, and capturing the hearts of the lionesses. It's an auditory and visual feast, playing with themes of royalty, bravado, and humour.
Step into the vibrant spectacle of a jungle runway, 'The Mane Event'- On The Catwalk, a Blues Rock anthem bursting with charisma and wit, entertained by an elegantly dressed animal band and set to the gritty and soulful sounds and combines electric guitar riffs with stomping beats and deep, smoky vocals, inspired by iconic figures like the MGM lion. It combines realism with playful, cartoon-like elements set in a fantastical realm.
How does this bold and cheeky lion 'With Attitude' resonate with you? Could you see him becoming a legend on the animal runway?
Follow the lyrics on YouTube CC (closed Captions)
She tiptoes in quietly, pushing out summer.
There is a hush in the corn fields.
Even the crows are silent.
Scratch. Scratch. Everyone is readying themselves.
Full corn moon, autumn’s magic lady.
Bringing marmalade ideas to the farmers and the corn.
Everything needs to be harvested except the pumpkins.
They are still half way grown on vines.
Harvest moon silences us as she whisks past the combines.
Showing her sweet side to the forest, and her smile to Grandmas.
In the wee hours, as they stare out their windows
Frying bacon, fixing take away lunches with homemade biscuits.
Autumn moon smiles back, knowing her minutes are numbered.
It is four a.m. in Iowa. People are getting ready to harvest.
Harvest moon enjoys these final days of September,
Announcing a mighty winter. He will come in and rub her out, in
a cold fury using snowflakes, frost, and gusts of pure angry winds.
Good writing , like gold , combines lustrous lucidity with high density. What this means is good writing is packed with hints. ~ Eric Hoffer
And should I cherish lucid moments of my day
to dwell on how my words will paint the blue vellum?
Or dream that in those lucid thoughts may lie the way
to philosophies protected by dark pelham?
Soon to write my thoughts in a pleasing structured form,
I turn to flow my life for all to analyze.
Is it eloquence I seek, or a bright brainstorm
to loosely form coherent thoughts and crystallize?
Basking in boastful brilliance, words outflow freely,
purest unbridled revelry is extended
to writing fraught with inner secrets genteelly
hidden in subtle between-the-lines pretended.
Laying my pen aside, I read what is written.
Word by word, in silence, I am humbly smitten.
If we steadfast seek it,
feel we truly need it,
heed it as heart moving and joy fueling,
then spirit will send it, but the when
we decide is a date He will override.
Faith is more than asking, it’s relaxing even when
time leads us to believe too much of it has passed for
Him to show up on our behalf. Faith is knowing we
need not know what He knows about the perfect
timing for all things. From revealings to healings to
tangible needs, delivery time is only perfectly
manageable by Him.
When a need realization first dawns so does
the course start that will bring it forth.
Extending impatient hands will not hasten
the accumulation of factors needed for
manifesting a blessing we are after.
Too many details can lessen blessings compared to what
our Flawless Crafter can entail.
Perfection is an intricate creation, many elements converge
to aid it that only Spirit is aware of. Just the universe is
posed to spiritually know the truly ideal blend for the
ultimate, fulfilling send.
While the universe combines
many ingredients for our answers,
we, as an unaware factor, begin
an ebb and flow in thoughts and
feelings that grow us receptively
prepared for what, how and when
the universe shares.
My computer-- disassembled
is a maze of cables, drives
chips and ports--an array
of connections, silver solderings,
twisting wires.
But when the satiny case
is latched in place
coils and cables disappear.
The smallest particle of matter
is not an atom, but a byte--
a particle of magic that combines
and multiplies unseen
inside the blinking box.
Creation occurs inside my computer--
friends, family rest behind the pressing
of selected keys. Words and faces
form; smiles and frowns
become feelings.
Attraction becomes addiction.
Inside my computer
merchants buy and sell--
musicians sing,
artists train pictures into pixels,
poets recollect emotion in tranquillity.
Inside my computer
dreams are imagined into reality--
inventions, hopes, ideas are born
and nurtured into happenings.
Strangers share a table, touch
hands across the world.
Inside my computer
the pulse of human hearts
waxes and wanes
as people fall in and out
of love.
I move lightly at sixty,
a little less than the max.
Any faster, and the sunflower shells I spit
blow back in my face,
and any slower and the driver behind
becomes too distressed.
I move lightly at sixty,
homeward through the rural landscape,
past barns and combines,
engine humming, without straining,
secure that I need not be anywhere,
or anything, but myself.
I move lightly at sixty,
through the longer shadows of fall,
short days and warm afternoons,
trees variegated with the leafy
nostalgias of the year past,
and the years before.
I move lightly at sixty,
the old van's engine drones
as I "OM", indistinguishable
one from the other, both well worn,
and oblivious of the
years we show.
I move lightly at sixty,
no longer with a need to lie,
or prevaricate,
in love with every woman I see,
and no longer afraid
to say so.
I move lightly at sixty,
in love with the journey,
rather than the goal.
In love with the moment
rather than the hour and
the need to mark it.
I move lightly at sixty,
bemused by public anger over
a rappers words, knowing they
are far less harmful
than the blood shed
in my time.
I move lightly at sixty,
ready to gear down if necessary,
still able to speed up if needed
to avoid the hazards
of an overactive ego
and libido.
I move lightly at sixty,
content to be alone,
joyful to have company,
regretting neither,
thankful for old friends,
and old loves.
I move lightly at sixty,
finding that not acting,
is as important as the act,
knowing that one can be undone,
and the other, can't.
I move lightly at sixty,
like a comfortable breeze
on a fall day, a thermal for a bird,
uplift for a friend,
a drying wind for a
tearful cheek.
As I hear clinks of your cups
I can listen to orange sounds in your ample eyes
I can hear your obvious highs as if nearing a sea
Morning in a humming bee
You are busy at the mild harsh and tasty sound
The butter knife spreading butter on the dark dense toast
For the person you love the most
Eloquent silence all around
Soft munching sound from inside our mouth
Mingles with the wind from south
The door bell chimes its beautiful tune
Like the monsoon
Then comes the rustling of newspaper pages
The train crossing so many bridges
Combines with the rhythmic drumming of the woodpecker
The sound of your stirring sugar
Bubbling of boiled water in the kettle
They settle
In a silent sound of a loud red lily in bloom at the window
As rain falls in a crescendo
The flip flop of your sandals
Passing into your bangles clinking together
Culminating in the slurp as we sip tea
Real moments of pure glee
A great strength
Against the various wavelengths
Of the bang bark bray
Throughout the day
_______________________________________________________________
June 19, 2016
Quiet Please
I was born and grew up on the relatively quiet side of the planet. Nevertheless, there was a train line right through the heart of town.
And there were also cotton gins, tractors, and lots of farm machinery.
Obviously, we were not exactly 'noise free'; but basically, the noise I heard most were an occasional barking dog, crickets, bull frogs, and rooster crows.
After high school, I relocated to a very large northern city by a great lake. Suddenly, all my familiar noises of crickets, frogs, and roosters were gone.
Without warning, the sounds of combines and crop dusting planes disappeared They were replaced by commuter buses, automobile horns, sirens, and garbage trucks.
In my late 20's, I moved again to a large western city by the Bay and the Pacific. There, for 30 days, my family and I resided in a motel embraced by a street car rail line. Also there, we were annoyed by rap and rock from loud radios, and more sirens. But also there, we slept sweetly by the ocean waves and fog horns; gentler noises.
03082017 PS Contest, The Noises, Shadow Hamilton