Best Concoct Poems
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…
Categories:
concoct, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
When the sky is a
sequestered sanctuary,
and the clouds croon
for sinking star-beams,
listen to the euphoric hymns of silence,
for seething storms throned
beneath rainbow castles
shall never obscure the
crystalline colors of compassion,
amidst thickened fangs
of dwelling darkness,
constantly trying to
seize peacock pigments
within violet-blue seas
of sequined sentiments…
O’ beloved white rose~
perfumed in vanilla love,
let not the wolf-spider gaze,
mirroring envy within black widow hearts,
confuse your diamond vision.
It’s just another day,
enveloped in a warm sakura sunrise,
there the gales of greed
looming in ghostly flecks,
question the redolence of rivulets
behind your veiled vigor.
There’s no reason to fear
when hope flows and drifts
like comets flying as fluttering butterflies
across the butterscotch horizon.
Remember, when the sage sun
seeps into foggy crevices,
and deserted dunes
speak in ashen accents,
their choice of words do not define
the rhythm of your seraphic symphony.
Your merlot wine spirit is
the whimsical wand turning unspoken
tales into wildflower wishes.
There’s no need for an alchemist
nor a sorcerer to concoct
spells that rearrange constellations,
as your voice swirls in magical mists.
You and I, are every last thing
we need to conquer the bewitching
perimeters we truly deserve.
Tonight, when my lids rest upon the
dreamscape of daffodils and dahlias,
I see that look in your eye.
I ponder, is it me that you long for?
Am I the unfading ink
within your saccharine sonnets?
I yearn to be the one you talk
about in sweet seclusion.
This trembling canvas longs
for no other skin to caress the acrylic
edges of my aching soul,
and I do not need
the wind and water
beneath whistling willows
to write my destiny
in green and gold.
We don’t need shades of shadows
following our intertwined silhouettes,
yet I let these metaphors
merge with the heat of
your passionate presence,
as you and I break through
the landscapes of grief
with mutual attraction
like the mulberry rays
between the moon and earth..
Categories:
concoct, deep, love,
Form:
Free verse
In a cynical realm where truth is tainted in black, rises she,
amidst whirling vortexes veiling reveries where she walks.
Yet society thrums thick skinned lies, whilst morning moon sighs in-
silence, seeing sunrise through eyes that mirror golden beauty.
Her persona resembles firm perennial petals like,
maternal warriors waltzing through wistful winds, singing the,
song of survival in loneliness through every forlorn night.
She's bestowed with selfless angels thawing wicked webs of,
time, freezing the rainbows hidden behind cloudless,
cerulean wrapped in balmy breeze blowing along cashmere climes.
She is her own sorceress with an invisible ring and
silver spells, her unbreakable spirit shines like starry
amulets of faith, sparkling across cold midnight skies.
She still composes calm symphonies in elegance and,
patience, whilst ignorant tongues concoct storms amongst all,
evil that reeks within a community that's-
ready to place names, find fault in words within the chorus of life, best,
written for the unheard voices ostracized, by merciless tunes of,
the past, where freedom fighters were left alone in the dark.
But she sprouts, like a sunflower growing in the cracks of emptiness and,
like an untamable warrior, she serves hope and love, that beams so bright.
“She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and bright Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty”
Categories:
concoct, encouraging, thank you,
Form:
Verse
Dear 2024,
I hope this poetic vow
wouldn’t be shunned,
as I block negativity
from my phone,
like my bitter exes.
And forgive my sense
of humor that
resembles sour grapes,
like a dash of salt
and pepper sprinkled
on top of old drapes.
Perhaps, as this
year bids adieu,
I’ll find the right
ingredient to concoct
sparkling wine infused
with giggles that
age like
chucklesome limericks,
as I fine-tune the
empty spaces
of my scribbled
pages with hilarity.
I’ll learn to laugh a
little louder and hope
the ebb of every
comical tale can flow.
Maybe a stricter
chocolate diet would
help me see the
sweeter side of
powdered comedians,
sharpening my wit
as endorphins enhance
my ability to spot
the depth of puns
punctuated
with bizarre tones.
And as December rain
drizzles in symphony
of the darkness
my quill flaunts,
pardon these
peculiar metaphors,
I’ll raise a glass
of crocodile tears,
a toast for
more concise poetry,
and faces I’ve phased,
that I’ll no longer
vent about in vain verses.
Cheers to the
festival lights
on wheel of laughter,
may the florescence
forever flicker as
souvenirs of amusement.
I’ll dance into the
rising sun of a new year,
in an odyssey adorned
with shimmering dreams
embalmed in
tickling mint leaves.
Categories:
concoct, future, giggle,
Form:
Free verse
I need your ultra desperation
your ultra conflagration of love making exhilaration,
I want your ultra shout and pout
give me your slap attack
the amber of your abuse, the saffron of your emotions,
I crave the playful plenitude of your ultra uppidy attitude,
you let me experience hyperventilation at your disappearance
then inflation of euphoria in my Heart's utopia by your reappearance,
I want to know your ultra sadness
that song you share with the twilight of despair,
your ultra madness, your vortex of female complex,
I desire your hot and haunted psychology
your genius of ultra ingenuity, the pulp of your passion,
sometimes you love me most when you hurt me
a pathology of love cut sympathy that I can handle best,
earning the ultra soft surface of your pillowed chest
where I can rest the weight of iron soul, and slumber at your behest,
I want the whip of your hips and the sip of your lips,
I want the pleasure plethora of your ultra vulva
to access the pagoda of your sexual yoga
to concoct in you the froth of organic soda,
I want your Gospels and Revelations
the Path and the Wrath, your cross of ultra conquest
the morning of your ultimate ascendance
the midnight of your ravishing bite
the bounty of your breast and the burn of your brimstone
give me the lyric of your ultra breath,
your ultra love keeps me alive!
J.A.B.
Categories:
concoct, beauty, desire, devotion, love,
Form:
Ballad
When fate’s hands joined together, pounding seas
A monstrous storm placed fishing boats at risk
I called to Billy, “Captain, listen please,
Turn ‘round, the seas are high and wind too brisk”
With six aboard who prayed they’d make it back
Tyne’s ship was seven hundred miles offshore
From Gloucester, Mass, where they’d begun their track
Much farther out than they had sailed before
October 28th I’d been at sea
But safe in Nova Scotia I then docked
The fate of Billy’s boat I could foresee
And rescue efforts we tried to concoct
With life jackets, the men were found adrift
And to safe harbor we gave them a lift
* Written December 11, 2018
For the “Movie Magic” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Gregory R. Barden
Written from the perspective of Linda Greenlaw, Captain of the fishing boat “Hannah,” to provide a new ending to the movie “The Perfect Storm.”
Categories:
concoct, nature, sea,
Form:
Sonnet
Who cut the curd cyanide cheese,
thinning out the rank suspect crowd?
Who gassed death in the air bleed,
releasing an odor murder most foul?
Follow the phew olfactory clues,
motive scented everywhere ghoul smell
Mrs. White was it your grey hairs ...
leaving a poison bottom bottle mist trail
spiraling down the Library stairs?
Professor Plum where did you
just Hallway fruity fungi come from?
The Observatory Room window was open,
but now it’s mysteriously been closed
Did you concoct this suffocating wrench plan,
and what’s with the cotton-stuffed nose?
Everybody here got the crimson royal flushed face,
that could only mean one candlestick thing —
Miss Scarlet’s been butt creeping around the place,
no doubt, looking for the hidden bling-bling
Still, who got the super bad mojo Bathroom bowels,
so flatulently criminal ... making eyes roll?
Who put Mr. Green’s intestinal aerosol-laced towels
in the Kitchen behind the snuff dish bowl?
What do those Clues tell you, Lady A.C. detective,
it’s a foul play odor-kill so Murder She Wrote
A farted-out farce, very nasal encore hard to sniff —
the last big reveal is an Insp. Clouseau note:
Colonel Mustard did it
with a gastronomical strangling choke
In the Guest Room
with a belly-loosened, vapor belt rope
Categories:
concoct, fun, humorous, mystery, word
Form:
Light Verse
Alas, I shall never be a Shakespeare, that's for sure.
I'm content to plug along and just remain obscure.
Some folks boast about the number of poems they concoct,
But the quality of their writes often leave me shocked!
Rather than quantity I truly strive for quality in my verse,
Hoping to enrich my readers, yet adding nothing to my purse.
If I have any poetic talent at all, I give Him all the thanks,
And am very content to remain in the anonymous ranks.
I write not for glory but to leave a legacy for my kith and kin.
If I can elicit emotions in my verse I'll remain content within.
When my poetical journey is o'er this can be etched upon my stone:
"Here lies a passionate poet who was content to be unknown!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Categories:
concoct, writing,
Form:
Couplet
Around the corner and half a block away, the flavor would grab me, tie me up to some irresistible force, then drag my nose to the source of its home. The aroma that wafted in the air and up my whiffer was sweet and warm - rich with orchards of deliciousness and cascading with the buttery peachy-ness of what was to come. It knocked all other thoughts out of my realm and led me down a path of complete submission - surrendering like the energy of cold water on a hot skillet. With each step bringing me closer, my musing would swirl with the anticipation of that first ultra-luscious, gratifying juicy bite - the one that ever so longingly and lovingly would delightfully roll around on every palate of my watering mouth and lingering tongue only to succumb to gulping down the first chunk.
From the flour and water and salt
Her timeworn hands kneaded magic
A mystical mixture of love and fruit to concoct-
A pinch of this and that, nothing formally systematic.
This masterpiece was an untold legend that "rocked"
The socks off anyone and even rival the "Titanic"!
Her ritual was simple and deep rooted
As uncomplicated as a baby's grin.
"Easy as Pie" she mooted
And laughed while she hummed all the while.
Layering the rich sheets of goodness in a pan
From pie dough to peaches to butter and sugar
There was nothing in this world so simple or better than
My Aunt Grace's Peach Cobbler!
Categories:
concoct, family, food, joy, love,
Form:
Narrative
The ground rumbles, ominously, I'm on the steep side of a Mississippi River Bluff, mid-August, gathering bursting crimson red trophies of Staghorn Sumac for my favorite sumac-ade, a spright, invigorating tonic I enjoy this time of year. The smell in the air, forest-sage beginning to dry and ripen, the bitter tang of scattered paper-birch bark chimneys...must keep alert for the origins of the earthly rumble.
The unsettled earth, sweet and bitter smells...mix with my age and I sit down as if in a trance and drift asleep...harkening back to my training as a young man in a Manhattan Bagel Deli, assembling prep-stations for the customer onslaught about to descend. Proofed bagel dough, seeded and rotating in the elevator slate-shelved oven after a frothy malt-bath in the bubbling giant kettle, delectable aromas of fairly vibrating paper-sliced spiced meats and piquant aged cheeses, briny sheets of smoked lox, pots of sweetly acidic capers and luminous heirloom tomatoes...
But I'm much older now, my mind remembers, but my body can't function like it once did, I can't perform the once-easy configurations effortlessly like before.
The rumbling, just my imagination...
I awaken, gather my bunch of fluorescent sumac, which I am still able to concoct, mindful of God's Grace in my spiritual and physical evolution...He
Has Blessed me with.
8-13-20
6:03 am
Categories:
concoct, age,
Form:
Narrative
You speak of love as Chymistry;
as if t'were not a mystery
Yet no science can explain this thing,
of which poets write and minstrels sing
You speak of love as elements;
of atoms, bonds, not sentiments
Yet there's no formulae that can explain,
what Shakespeare's words doth make so plain
You speak of love as if t'were matter;
not a rhapsody, or a heart in tatters
Yet there's been no man, nor alchemist,
who'd concoct this thing we cannot resist
You speak of love as molecules;
as metals, crystals, things with rules
Yet there's no laws of love, nor of the heart,
no knowledge, skill, there's but the art
You speak of love as though you knew;
what part was false and what was true
Yet no substance is there to be measured,
only feelings, aye, these must be treasured
Categories:
concoct, love,
Form:
Couplet
The grandfather clock just struck twelve, that magic hour of night,
And there he sits drumming our fingers musing about something to write!
He's been biting our nails and running our fingers through his hair,
Scratching his head, searching for witty or apt verse to prepare!
Ah! Now he's flexing our digits and I detect in his eyes a gleam.
We think he's collecting his thoughts to concoct a masterful scheme.
Something comparable to works by Whitman or Riley, no doubt.
These fingers should get some credit, no matter how it turns out!
What will it be? A poem about religion, politics or the billowing seas,
Little children, old soldiers, love gone sour or scarlet hued trees?
Perhaps a few stanzas about cowboy lore - only the Lord can tell!
Our fingers just fly over the keyboard - that old coot types pretty well!
We're getting numb and need rest but he provides no reprieve.
He's typing at least seventy-eight words per minute, I do believe!
But never fear, we'll manage to keep ahead of his versatile mind,
And keep pounding away as thoughts from his prolific skull unwind!
Well, he has completed what he considers a masterpiece at last.
We're petered out and ready to curl up - we have typed so fast!
But all of us from our thumbs to our pinkies have had a blast!
We pray he never gets writer's cramp - that would leave us aghast!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
1st Place in Linda-Marie's "Finger Frenzy" Contest - June 2010
Categories:
concoct, funnyold, old,
Form:
Rhyme
Tho' some of my poetry may be a tad avant garde,
And 'tis fer dang sure I'll ne'er be a renowned bard,
But I try to concoct stuff that is original and creative,
That can be understood by the most untutored native!
Some verse I read leaves me scratchin' my head,
Tryin' to figger out what the composer said!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Categories:
concoct, humorous, poetry,
Form:
Couplet
He could fight and win battles, could this General Ulysses Grant!
Other of Lincoln's generals were continually sayin', "I can't!"
Though 'twas well-known that General Grant relished his schnapps,
Even soused he could concoct solid battle plans by studyin' his maps.
Becomin' frustrated with his other generals and their lack of action,
Abe suggested to an aide that if it would help them get some traction,
He'd like to know what Ulysses drank and where he got the stuff,
So he could send a barrel to every general to get him off his duff!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Categories:
concoct, history, humorous, war,
Form:
Couplet
(The rehab of a supervisor)
My eyes! Saturated
with industrial crap, eventually
to intoxicate what’s left of one’s
bewildered brain.
My sight! Shackled to the
delusion of corporate inconsistencies,
when leading one’s head through each
enigmatic juncture.
My ears! Burn with unprincipled
mispronunciations, after boardroom
lampoons of delinquency miss the
mark, especially when delivered
within the queerness of each
insidious secretion, only then to be
viewed with suspicion, when basking
within the formulation of one’s own
comfort zone!
“Labeled” Non aspirant
when introduced to those
emerging within the endearment of
one’s company charter!
“Without ambition”
The blind clown of managerial youth
articulates, one score and five
not an option in this perfidious
global arena.
Astute! The annual assessment
in place, only to bolster
insecure managers.
A feedback, to aid keep one
in one’s place.
The first phase of corporate
correctiveness, complete with subtle
innuendoes.
Barriers! Put in place to analyze
inflexible overtones, before pleading
guilty of being in possession of too
many answers.
But alas! Enlightenment validated, only
if, of a positive kind.
Ah! Is this the answer! Positivity with
in this negative world, where truth has
lost its meaning in a labyrinth of
corporate “Lunacy?”
Seminar after seminar concoct to
intergrade somewhat aimlessly with
today’s intellect, corporate logic
filtered through hidden agenda, systems of
corrective surgery implanted, to keep
“Shop floor” On track.”
“I! And some, from
a bygone era, ridiculed, insulted,
with in the classroom.”
© Harry J Horsman 1999
Categories:
concoct, education, political, work,
Form:
Narrative