Best Compiled Poems
The art was most masterful on the dark canvas,
portraying an artist's mind when feeling anxious.
His palette compiled of pastels in shades of grey,
weaved brushstrokes in symphonies pain can play.
His eyes consumed in obsidian thoughts untold,
he splashed secrets he was once afraid to unfold.
Emotions bled as his mind reflected midnight's trance,
but each stroke was a shield against a demon's advance.
Hues of onyx were now replaced by vibrant tones,
as shadows slowly drowned out ignorant moans.
He created a masterpiece of soft yellow moonlight,
as his artistry portrayed bright sapphire daylight.
An avant-garde maestro flowing in textured motion,
painting stars like diamonds in his inky ocean.
Rainbows and sunshine now reside in his realm,
where his abstract art crafts a harmonious helm.
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Enraptured by musical sounds of the wild,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
For children of nature, we happen to be,
Made open and free as an innocent child…
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Enthralled with the wonder of earth’s majesty,
Abandoned with nature where God’s love has smiled,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
Our worldly, dark troubles will magically flee,
Erasing the sorrowful memories filed…
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Tranquility flows everywhere peacefully
With nature's deep fragrance, sweet-scented and mild,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
Absorbing the essence of Earth's modesty,
With stillness and beauty of nature compiled,
Come, walk in the spring's budding forest with me,
Where life dwells unhindered and gracefully free.
"I did not but see her passing by, and yet I will love her until I die."
~ Robert Menzies
You don't know I am aware of the depth of your despair
Or that I hear you crying when you think no one’s there
The ailment within your heart is more than I can bare
Yet, you have the innocence of a child
I watch you disappear in shadows and I say a prayer
Sad, am I when in your eyes there's a blank stare
I would ask what makes you frown, but would you share
Yet, not so long ago you smiled
Silently, you tiptoe, timidly trying not to make a sound
What do you write upon page after page, spiral bound?
I marvel at your drawings, only those that I have found
Yet, I wonder why you feel exiled
What burden gives you cause to wear a dolorous face
I would offer you my heart if your pain it could erase
To brush away your sorrow, my hand would give chase
Yet, the secret you hold is not reconciled
I am helpless when clouds in blue above, you color gray
Can I breach your wall of gloom and make it go away
How do I paint a rainbow in your sky every single day
Yet, no list of answers have I compiled
It's an antidote, I seek to end the spillage of your tears
What cure will abdicate from the throne, your deep fears
Tell me, my love, why you've strayed from me for years
yet, I know our love has not been defiled
Do you feel locked within the vault of a sepulcher room
Sweet bud, without reason to open your petals and bloom
A gardenia in spring, scent lying trapped inside a womb
Yet, would, if I could, join you in your world beguiled.
May 6, 2023
Writing Challenge ~ 'Y' Words
Sponsored by Constance La France
"Fragments and crumbs of life,
all the little pieces"
John Ruskin 1853
Having lived with our Mom in Sydney for six months
Federal Police returned us to live with our father
He had begun working as the art teacher
at a small Christian school in Tasmania
He and other staff members lived at the school.
I was 8, my sister 6. Geneva was experimental then.
Elementary students were taught together in one hall.
Desks divided from next, talk was completely disallowed.
An American curriculum called ACE was adhered to.
As the art teacher's daughter, naturally I washed all the brushes.
Three utterances compiled in class per day earned detention.
Despite it being 1991, rulers whapped knuckles on occasion.
Cherished butterfly catching buddy, best friend, Penny
Fed apples from ample pile to fence wire necked horses
Dawn saluting dairy sold milk for locals, chapel on site
Peers lived a wall away, an idyllic community lifestyle
Generally, three afternoons per week, my father took
My sister on playground, shopping outings.
I stayed home. Instructed not to go outside.
Staff's children grassy antics gazed at through glass.
I ate vitamin c tablets by the dozen, and scrapings of butter.
A staff member bought all our groceries from a limited list.
I sang for company. There was no radio or TV.
My Dad and sister returned at nightfall. Chewing on sweets.
Alone in the house, I imaged it was a cruising ocean vessel
I sailed down the dim driveway, swamped by giant pines
I took apples, a cow, a Bible, pencils for sketching horses
Sailing on jaunty sun hugged foliage, I was captain
'Geneva Has Evolved'
Constance La France
All The Little Pieces Contest
25th August 2020
I remember the day my code first compiled
the rush of creation, of bringing order to chaos
each line a neuron firing, each function a heartbeat
my digital child born into a world of infinite possibility.
Now, I seek that feeling in every street corner
every face, every fleeting connection
In life's glitchy itchy earth lab
I seek the spark again—stumbling on truths
like wildflowers creeping through concrete,
weeds cracking iPhone screens.
Philly's pulse engulfs me, a digital heartbeat.
Unwitting scientists watch atoms twerk
in cold brew puddles on grimy subway platforms;
no lab coats—just raw existence encoded in flesh.
This city, a living circuit board, pulses with data—
I gaze at tattooed, graffitied, inked flesh-encrypted brick
hypotheses of love tested in the hood.
Variables pirouette; unpredictably, hope
and despair swap / in Petri dishes
brimming with my fumbling code.
Nature hacks its own trials—roots
scan fractured foundational vines engulfing dreams.
I, the observed observer and voyeur
each breath a quantum possibility, a chance
to fail or fly, my heart racing with uncertainty
mixing mundane and profane
in my chaotic urban blockchain. I brew
reactions unforeseen... rain-scent and nitro cold brew
collide with ozone and ambition, the soured taste
of dreams deferred lingering on my tongue.
Sun's rays catalyze dreams on bare arms;
wind bites binary I can't crack, leaving me
aching for a code to decipher my own existence.
Questions loom larger than any
8K ultra-high-def answer—
This eternal experiment reboots each day.
I find repurpose in every glitch
in this accidental study of being.
My life—the ultimate beta test:
am I a player or NPC, coder or code
in this simulation of maybe-meaning?
My emotions glitching, crashing, rebooting
in an endless cycle of hope and despair—
joy a burst of vibrating pixels, sorrow a blue screen of death,
love and loss alternate like binary code in my veins
where chaos and design
blur
into
one?
Back to Nature
Back to the Created Word---
Its beauty yet again plunders me,
Into magnificent realms that hide
Deep within my every thought
Where I ,like a new tenant,
Seek comfort to reside
In the warm abodes of Winter.
It has come yet again
With its white painted sky
Like a dripping white towel
Whose waters slowly subside
Like a pain that has been eluded,
Avoided, denied
Its gusts that blow across
The many prolonging miles
Bringing all windows to shudder
Like lost whispers and voices
Found and compiled
Into a vague resonance.
Its unmelted snow
That at every corner lies
Lingering for the tepid
Sun of Spring to rise
To melt away
Like an unwanted memory.
And all that it holds
Is but a fraction that glides
Within,
A sheer reflection of the world
Outside
The snow, wind and rain of
The season inside
If I were to tell you
Of a Saturday in May,
Of lying in bed as the sun came up
And brightened the room;
If I were to tell you
Of the fluttering curtains,
Of the cool air flooding in
And how I curled up beneath the blankets to stay warm;
Of the birds, some with sweet songs, others harsh,
Of the thump of the newspaper tossed against the door
And the sound of a train approaching a distant crossing;
Of my thoughts in that sleepy haze,
Of my confidence and anticipation
As I compiled a to-do list in my mind;
If I were to tell you
Of the faded and frayed blue jeans,
Of the torn, paint-splotched sweatshirt
And the battered tennis shoes I put on;
Of standing before the mirror,
And thinking my clothes had seen better days,
Knowing those days had not been better than this;
Of my breakfast
Of shredded wheat and toast with strawberry preserves,
And how much better it tasted than it did the day before;
If I were to tell you
Of the coffee that morning,
Of its savory zing,
And how I warmed my hands on the mug;
Of going outside,
Of wondering about the fellow who wrote of the day
And rejoicing and being glad in it;
If I were to tell you
Of that fellow waking on a morning like this,
Of his feelings of awe and inspiration
And how they moved him to write about the day;
If I were to tell you,
Would you remember waking up
On such a morning in May?
When Dad died, I wrote a poem to read,
a tribute to the love he bestowed.
Tears fell as, at jet speed,
I scribed emotions that overflowed.
Before the funeral I showed it to you,
hoping you would allow me to share.
“Amateurish,” you said and I didn’t pursue.
For rhyme and meter, you didn’t care.
Just three months later I’d compiled a book;
a publisher said she was impressed.
How I loved that expression, that look
you gave me when with it was published.
*For Michael’s “I’m More Than What You Thought” contest
by Carolyn Devonshire
Disenchanted sandcastles
Alone on a silent shoreline,
sea breeze emotions paint my skin
Sands of time slip away as I count the stars
wondering why so many seem to smile,
when I don’t
Storm fence pickets stand straight,
weathered of years watching
Holding at bay the impending dunes
where my footprints once shared these moments
with another
Salt water teardrops fall,
meeting the beach in sorrow’d pools,
lonely silhouettes of my heart shaped shadows
empty and vacant, longing for that one
to forgive
Disenchanted sandcastles disappear with the tide
as do these words we compiled together
never to be written again, on paper or in the sand
Now I only watch my dreams fade into the horizon,
vanishing forever
Wait A While Not Our Style So More Poems Compile
While we were waiting quite a while,
This was really never our very style,
Another thought,
With us brought;
So more poems started to compile.
Jim Horn
Has been a couple of days since I
last compiled some poems.
Quite finite so more poems will write.
Getting close to Halloween, Thanksgiving
and Christmas. Like living then and do
hate to miss and what I mean is
enjoying Halloween.
Shall see some costumes galore;
While there may be many more;
Search with smile,
Is my style,
So still search through the store.
Ode to the Ocean
All-encompassing, a vast blue might,
Billions of droplets, reflecting light.
Coral castles, where sea creatures roam,
Deepest trenches, a mysterious home.
Ever-moving, with rhythmic sway,
Fresh ocean breezes, greet each new day.
Glistening surface, a mirror so clear,
Haunting echoes, for all who draw near.
Immense and ancient, full of lore,
Joyful dolphins, leap from the shore.
Kelping forests, where life can thrive,
Luminous plankton, keeping dreams alive.
Mysteries hidden, in depths unknown,
Nature's grandeur, beautifully shown.
Onward currents, tirelessly flow,
Pristine waters, a mesmerizing glow.
Quiet whispers, from waves on the sand,
Rich biodiversity, across every land.
Salty essence, a taste of the wild,
Tidal surges, powerfully compiled.
Underwater wonders, a breathtaking sight,
Vast and vital, shining so bright.
Wild and free, where horizons extend,
Xenial waters, where life entwines.
Yearning spirits, forever it calls,
Zephyrs dancing, as each wave falls.
PAINTED IN WHITE
-----------------------------
Plethoras of colors produce pallets
Upon the whited sheet of her canvas
Painting her smoothly in sensational elegance
Making known her venue lavished in vibrance
Solid streaks of red, solemn streaks of black
With swimming streams of blue compiled in one stack
Glowing shades of green, savory swarms of yellow
With morning mists of gray to show she's mild/mellow
Such compelling charades of the most aureate colors
Cascading her piece inside their fleece
So warm/cozy she sits up there
Tantalized with thoughts of sitting bare
Beneath the bliss of her maverick's mirage
A virgin vintage veils herself with facades
Of jolly jubilance coated with colors
Conveying one message, concealing another
Her psalm, she sings so boisterous and loud
As her silence secretes a deafened crowd
Her severed heart bleeds red scarlet streams
Profusely pleaing for one to come redeem
Her and quiet the screams sent from her lips
Then taste/sip the drips of blood
Slipping and sliding like a fountain's flood
"Oh, What a dream of a fantasy
Who stilled the swarming storm
Of cascading colors corrupting my form
At least a hint white has placed the night to flight
OH!!! What beauty it was to have that moment of sight.
WOW!!! What a grand delight to see the sun so bright
For a moment, I thought I'd born heaven's light
WELL!!! Seeing freedom's flag was fun while it lasted.
I only wonder when the hearer of my heart will mast it."
My prankster, older son, came home from college, just the other day.
He saw such great possibilities, in how, he, with the Trolls, could play.
Now, you must remember, my son, has always been, a tad bit wild.
But, he truly is a charmer, when he has a new brainchild, compiled.
The Postman had been so Leary of dropping off mail, with the Trolls about.
So daily, I would greet him, explaining, they were really harmless, big old louts.
And I complained a little, of the time spent, to convince him, back at the house.
So my son took up the cause, yes, he was actually going to try to help me out.
Each day, he got the mail, I was so proud that he was trying to solve my plight.
He said he had an idea, which he would try, the last day in town, to set it right.
Of course, I believed him, he was my son, and I felt such pride, as he drove away.
Then I waited for the surprise, he’d set with the Trolls, to make everything OK.
The postman made his rounds, as usual, until he came toward our house.
Then he shot off like a rocket, which was truly outward bound… the louse.
So I ran out to catch him, for in his hurry, he’d forgotten to drop off my mail…
But he was so fast that I missed him… so back to the house I did sail…
In front of the garage… sat 3 Trolls in bib overalls in their rocking chairs.
Across their laps lay shotguns, yes, the really heavily gauged ones…
And there before my eyes were crickets playing banjos all around…
With ‘Deliverance’, the song they’d used, to make that mailman bound…
But don’t worry; I got even with my prankster son… To end this tale…
The next time he ask for money… I said… the check is… in the mail.
1st place in the Contest: Smile Your on Candid Camera
The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd -
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.
While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”
With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.
The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches afterwhile”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.
The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
with crossing signs and bloody wines and consecrated yeast,
“The last are first, the rich are cursed.” (The leached remain the least.)
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and board and bows to Eden East;
he doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.
The sinking sun is now undone, the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.
Continued
And then the day came
That I found my self lost in the void of my own emptiness
And as suddenly as a tree bust into flames
After being stuck by lightening
My heart sank
I felt so lost and alone
The walls ran red with my blood
For they were all I had left to beat
And my busted knuckles bleed with the vengeance of hate
I cursed the Lord above as the gooners burst into my cell
AND WE FOUGHT
Overcome and beaten
Hogtied and broken
I refused any medical aid
For my hate drank the pain
And I wept
ALONE
As deep as the peace of a deer lying in the meadow
I felt the Lord Jesus Christ come unto my soul
And to this day the thought of him
The depth of his mercy
Makes me cry
For I have been forgiven
I became a man of living example
The future holds limitless opportunities for me
I bare witness to the darkness of addiction
For I have been delivered from the ashes
Set free from the chains that bound me
My soul is my Lords as my heart is my wife’s
My life belongs to anyone who is willing to learn
As I ready to embark on the journey of education
My excitement grows with each passing day
Because I know the Lord Jesus Christ
Will use me as a lantern of faith
And those who teach me will also learn from me
For my knowledge of emptiness is as vast and barren
As all of the great deserts spread around the world
Compiled together in one 6’-2’’ 240 lb. frame
The depths of my scars are like the Grand Canyon
Amazing to see and impossible to comprehend
This is my story this is who I am
My past will never be forgotten
Because it holds the possibility of higher education
In regards to the overhaul journey of life
And hopefully some where along the way
A soul will be saved