Best Conceptions Poems
Even as a child of God -
when it came right down to it
she stood firmly on her child’s side -
not God’s
.. and damn
how I envied that..
my friend
much to my dismay
chose a parent
as a closest confidant
breaking all laws of teenage angst
and going against
all preconceived
conceptions, norms and nature
I watched as they walked
a harrowed path together
mom being there for child —
smugly snuggly hammocked
in her emotional safety net
.. and damn
how I envied that..
I walked my path alone
because my mother
would have chosen
God’s side...
.. and damn
how I now envy that..
Susan Ashley
September 9, 2018
~ Ninth Place ~
Contest: Truth Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Categories:
conceptions, angst, appreciation, introspection, irony,
Form:
Free verse
I raise my voice and rage a fight
for little children trashed and thrown.
Sweet little coos and burps never heard,
the printed mittens never sewn.
These tiny children wanted to play,
and be held and cradled so near.
To hear Mommy say,” I cherish you”,
and lullabies to wipe dark night’s fear.
Their marble eyes never touched the sun,
never touched a rubber ducky in soapy arms.
Never had a chance to shriek those circus smiles,
or twiddle Grandpa’s warm violin thumbs .
Their tiny breaths chopped in a moment,
with pierce of the sharp metal they expired.
Were they able to shout silent screams?
Or trapped in a cocoon where they can’t hide.
Their pink little fingers stopped squirming,
Heart beats blocked fading black and blue,
The luster of many decades of unlived joy gone.
Is this the most convenient thing to do?
And there go more of abrupt conceptions,
Unborn babies are gifts from God to behold.
The love for children has no need for shame, for guilt
As news of birth is the greatest wonder ever told.
...... ........ .
Contest of Scribe Marlon: Unborn Babies Dream
By nette onclaud
Categories:
conceptions, childhood, children, children,
Form:
Rhyme
Would you crusade to remote regions
in search of that timeless tomb, the one made of seasalt & sandstone,
to towns tempered by the terror of war, windswept with worry,
Do prayer calls of the Jihadist singe the comfort breathing in your books of traditions,
could the Koran summon an instinct of journey in the feet of your hopes,
perhaps the Bardo Thadol a simmering shout from the monastery of one's monsters
suppressed in cells of selfless sorrow, daring repressed in reminiscence of rectitude,
in the Old Testament do you find aged allergies or fertile figments of prophets' pennies,
saviors in the center of gravity cinching the flinching surfacing in proverbs proofing
along the borders of the desserts chilling in the kitchen of your cares,
Maybe in front of the Wailing Wall you'd find dust entreating you to become a martyr
for the charm of morning, on your knees amid the Caaba perhaps sand jinies will jest,
in the midst of the tree grip of Angkor Watt the tongue of first life might muse of miracles
sewn into the sackcloth of parents' aspirations, conceptions wrought from the wanted,
take it to the sky, take it to the soil, take it to the core, let saints keep score,
take it 'till there is no more -
J.A.B. %
Categories:
conceptions, faith, prayer,
Form:
Didactic
Then ...
Where were you?
Don't you know how diligently I looked ...
How I begged for fate to pity me?
Every face, every curve, every eye glint and crimped grin
I sought for that spark ... that flicker
That attenuate shimmer to the eye that would pull me IN
Deep and close and warm
Every laugh or whisper that tickled my ear
I listened, rapt ... examined, intently
For the precise affect that bespoke a rarity, pure
For the musical tone that breathed to me a song of fire
That stoked my ambition with a hunger, hot
And a craving, cold ... and keen
How many, the gazes measured and met?
Countless, the unspoken prayers for the next lover
To hold that sublime, laughing magic
That unique knowledge of what was but silliness to others
Those tiny, secret, utterly romantic musings
That ever spun in my mind and passions
Those sexy things I wrote with my fingertips, (in cursive)
On every warm surface of moonlight-swathed skin
That swam the sheets with me at night
In vain pursuit of that most precious and elusive ...
Soul mate.
Where ... then?
Now ...
In a place where it can NEVER be
You stand before me
Perfectly imperfect ... in all the ways that define me
In every aspect that I can imagine
Or that I have ever dreamed and hoped
You. Are. The. One.
Yet you are the one thing that dashes all
That plunges my conceptions to the rocks
And turns true love to hopelessness
Oh, how I wish I'd known you
Then ... when I was young
For now you are the one thing I can not accept ...
The only thing that could now crush me
Another's.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "That Was Then This Is Now" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Wish I Knew You When I Was Young" Poetry Contest, Julie Leigh Rodeheaver, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
conceptions, love hurts, nostalgia, soulmate,
Form:
Free verse
Today ...
Today the sun shined ...
Horizon-to-horizon it warmed, marrow and moat,
Tickling those things below that wait patiently for a turning.
Tomorrow?
Snow, so they say ...
But as life, what tomorrow brings, only tomorrow knows,
And perhaps hope lies waiting, trembling in cold soil.
Two-thousand-and-twenty is but a babe ...
And though it was brought forth in the brisk, biting breath of winter,
It holds the opportunity and prospect of the sun.
Long days always follow short,
Cold always bows low to warmth and bloom,
And while those white flakes may dust the air with crystals on the
morrow,
Though hardship and challenge may place themselves under our feet,
And the year start with ominous clouds of question and challenge,
They, too, are but ephemeral and brief,
And the day, AS the year,
Is what we make of it ...
The cold clay in our hands will warm to mold and ply,
And the things we fashion are naught but as the weather -
Limited ONLY by what we sculpt from it,
What we envision and forge and spin to shapes
Upon imagination's wheel.
The forecast?
Widely scattered conceptions,
Hope and possibility on the horizon,
With a steady downpour of potentiality!
One hundred percent chance ...
Of life as we make it,
And dreams ...
As imagined.
Submitted on February 6, 2020
To the "Strand Select F Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.
Categories:
conceptions, analogy, life, metaphor, new
Form:
Free verse
Behold Creation in a blink of an eye,
ethereal elation of the siring sky,
Reverberant rotation will comply,
with nebulous narration to beautify…
Metaphysical displays soon awake,
ambient arrays conceptions partake,
Solar winds agaze as they intake,
revered rays amidst their birthing bake...
***
Celestial seas that navigate,
bionomical breeze surround to stimulate,
A frigid freeze to isolate,
dawning degrees of stellar suns that incubate…
Upon the mind of an eternal god,
all designed creations to their applaud,
And thus mankind to be awed,
a shutters speed blind that we are flawed.
May.14.2020
Shutter Speed Poetry
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Placed 5'th...Thank you
Categories:
conceptions, creation, god, humanity,
Form:
Rhyme
My poor heart aches as my mind cogitates
upon the deep desires of my dark soul,
and searching for profound truths that can be
expressed in mystic subtle syllables.
Alas such thoughts come at the worst of times.
I dream of them, elusive to extreme.
I wake and these abstractions spiral up
into nothingness of infinity,
ethereal concepts lost into space,
misty spectral reveries, brown studies
of doubtful natures, devious musings
of negligible earthly happenings.
All lost, unattainable conceptions,
leaving me spiritless limp and listless,
a ramekin of moronic despair,
riding a foamy crest of frustration.
Until my looking glass is tinted rose,
the black clouds break and faith is reassured.
Then I shall take up my pen and paper
and scribble all my endless worthless thoughts.
Alas that holy day is still to be.
Categories:
conceptions, angst,
Form:
Free verse
Of course, art is always somewhat
subjective, breaking established rules: the artist
intuitively adding imaginary inches to a canvas;
a work in progress, riding waves, finding depth
both on and off the easel, creatively flowing – a
vision on the loose –
(paused, but never finished...a true birth
having voice and life beyond the parent's release,
like a child going out into the world alone...
a must, for the painter to keep fluid a moistening eye:
that mysterious exorcism by his instruments...a true descriptor
ultimately not bound by the Catechism of Lines nor a Page's
World-edges;
no mural out of the soul, seeking spectacular release
is ever entirely confined to interior walls nor the sides of buildings~
that is why certain poems are read over and over, as if catching up
with an old friend~filled-in on what is new, an evolutionary rapport...
or one revisits The Museum of Modern Art – finding aged modern
in the old modern, the past meeting perhaps a cloudy moment and
today a day of awakening transparency – each vintage, an individualized
spirit-manifest,
a motivating shade of scentful-color~of brightness and overcast,
with searchable, unseen dimensions, the spaces science
has yet to fill,
the private domains of both
experimenting student and seasoned mystic...
the limits of what we
know, transformed by the revelation of what we dream,
the artist, and not the scientist, life's true conjurer of miracles,
only bound, when at all, by his own restricted conceptions of
time transforming space.
Categories:
conceptions, art, creation, imagination, international,
Form:
Prose Poetry
...inspired by 'Portrait of a Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally in your heart,
you cannot break the bond, the sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings pure to art.
Your friends are true disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the screeching of the violins,
the humming of the basses and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the bass drum then begins
to pound a loud crescendo of its own.
I listen, is there something out of tone?
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our differences didn't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and follow its eternal yearning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay forever in the cold.
Categories:
conceptions, hope
Form:
Verse
Teaching traditional
Is based on transmission
But is receiver tuned?
Cannot transmit culture.
Culture needs discovery.
A teacher must accept
To hear the students’ words
And work with their conceptions
Constructing day by day.
No discipline succeeds
With rules imposed as truth.
Discussion is a need
To improve a conscious thought.
Become constructivists!
Categories:
conceptions, teacher,
Form:
Prose Poetry
All true logics be lifted of holy grail,,
When divisions of human skills,,
Become well versed of love skills,,
Dispersing density of human wills,,
Given to the infancy of holy grail,,
Human skills will be sovereign thrills.
All true wills be lifted of holy grail,,
For life’s Precept of infinite pride,,
Is in a son’s concept willingly crucified,,
Not in a son’s logic of concept that lied,,
But in concepts logic of precept mercy died,,
Not in the conceptions of himself relied.
All true logics be lifted of holy grail,,
O death concept where is thy sting,,
Draw the bow string of cupid’s fling,,
The very Precept of life is in everything,,
Toward heaven’s bevel, Agape’s thing,,
Fill up the cup, mount up on Eagle wings.
All true wills be lifted of holy grail,,
Precept faith is Agape of futuristic wings,,
Concepts’ futuristic flings, have no wings,,
The wings of flings are in imaginary things,,
As the insects of strife in humanoid’s life,,
Infatuates human passions by concept strife.
Selah
Categories:
conceptions, angst,
Form:
Elegy
Here’s to each other and our fathers and mothers,
Children, family and friends;
All those among us and others departed
Whom we all hope to meet someday again.
Here’s to our homes and places we’ve roamed
And memories we’ve made ’long the way;
To our losses and gains, joys and pains
And the dawn of each new coming day.
Here’s to our faith in God above
Whose mercy and love prevails;
In stardust and light and dreams in the night
And the wind that billows soft sails.
To our different conceptions, thoughts and reflections
On religion, faith and war;
Apologies for sins of past mistakes
And the hope for good things that endure.
To me and you, sky azure blue
And stars beyond our reach;
To oceans wide and trains we ride
Holding babies fast asleep.
Here’s to football, laughter and smiles
And love like a fairytale dream;
A full moon shining in a summer night sky
Walking barefoot in the sand by the sea.
And lastly, to tomorrow and forgetting old sorrows
And making new ties that last;
The transition of endings to new beginnings
And all that we learn from the past.
Categories:
conceptions, introspection, faith, hope, love,
Form:
Rhyme
Soup Contest
The day was Sunday
The time was just after noon
Church had just finished
The choir that day enchanting
You could feel the anticipation in the air
A Soup contest like no other
Everyone in the village was there
Young, old, the happy and the sad
All where hungry though
Who would be the winner?
Of the Magical Soup Festival
Who Who Indeed!!!
Seven finalists, all nervous and shaking
Will it be me, of she or she over there?
You could smell the flavors of competition
Beautiful aromas floating in the air
Now I was the judge in this contest fair
I too nervous, how to choose a winner
Did I even Dare?
Then a thought dawned, happy was I
Mondays prize, to the Chicken veggie soup
Tuesdays prize to the Cream of mushroom soup
Wednesdays prize to the Wedding broth soup
Thursday prize to the Noodle and beef soup
Fridays prize to the Bergen fish soup
Saturdays prize to the Barley and Oats Soup
Sundays prize to the Corn Chowder soup
I placed 7 beautiful first prize ribbons
On the happiest smiling faces I had ever seen
My heart this day warmed by soup and the kindness
Of all these giving cooks, proud and content
The contest over
All the village sat down
To the festival of Soup
Full stomachs and happy souls
A winning event all around!!!!
Notes: Often we create our environments and realities with our conceptions of life, For one to win, it dos not mean another has to lose, competition is great, however, kindness and compassion, are also great traits.
Categories:
conceptions, encouraging, friendship, giving, introspection,
Form:
Light Verse
Singularity of transparency
bias; one sided,
and hiding -
Apparently.
Voyeur de schadenfreude,
suddenly;
study me
Where's Sigmund Fraud, huh?
Social entrapment;
Find a Nietzsche -
in a market?
Huh, no reaction.
Not a segment of perception,
derives from solace;
still worried -
now recreating conceptions.
Tick-tock, tick-tock
These four walls wonky;
Dali's work as read by Noam Chomsky.
This clock; which clock?
~
Philosophical influence
Vs
Idiotic affluence
Categories:
conceptions, introspection, metaphor, philosophy, political,
Form:
Rhyme
Silence is Golden
In a laboratory in a far away place called
Lahore
Was a mad scientist, who experimented
Offshore
He fiddled and fuddles deep inside his lab
Making clones of his glorious self
Thinking they mighty fine lads
He cloned twenty or thirty or a hundred and more
All chattering and gabbing, their master they adore
Oh yes, he’s the mad scientist from Lahore
He has many accolades for he had many votes
He cloned so many, democracy was a joke
But the governor caught on
And saw through the clouds
Something was evil under the shroud
Banished he was to the prison of deception
Hopefully he will clone no more fake conceptions
Categories:
conceptions, america, art, creation, funeral,
Form:
Free verse