Best Concocted Poems
It seemed like nature had concocted a singular miracle
As I sat on the wooden bench looking in towards the woodland.
A red maple tree stood tall surrounded by eucalyptus trees
While down below grew the yellow protea and acacia scrubland.
Sun filtered in between the green and red coloured full growing trees
Sending bright rays of light upon the lotus decorated lake,
Dragonflies flitted over flowers, as cicadas sang their song,
As a light south breeze ruffled the surface, what melodies they make.
Thus I sat amazed at the scenery so magical and bright,
Admiring all beauty God's creation that no man can design.
Meantime my daughter sat quietly next to me, mobile in hand,
Tapping messages away, heedless of the view as I did pine.
In a world bejeweled
with tainted trinkets,
and feigned flowers,
we follow the
wailing waves below
whirling wind,
like secluded silhouettes,
stranded on the
cusp of chaos,
unable to find the sparkling
streak of hyacinth hope-
between dusk and dawn.
Perhaps there is a
reason why I stopped
rewriting runes with
cashmere conclusions,
as I’ve long been
dreaming of dahlias,
on weathered willows,
oblivious to the
dancing rays
of rising sun swiftly
cascading like
caramel confetti.
I am like the
sleepless ocean,
letting the
fleeting phases
of bewitching moon
lure floating sapphires;
pushing and pulling
my insomniac tides
with turquoise triggers,
as the inner-child
continues to sail
through tumultuous seas,
healing from
the trauma I’ve been fed,
concocted with
raspberry ruins,
from silver spoons,
on dulcet trays.
I’ve tasted poison
in the fruitiest of cocktails,
although the flavors
of life remain
a mystery within a fickle
game of chess,
incomplete
and unattainable.
I search for a sanctuary
where peace lilies sprout,
beneath the eclipsed horizon,
blindfolding my third eye,
as I waltz through astral
spheres to reach
an elysian dimension.
Amidst unanswered questions
hanging like
unsolvable equations,
for all that I’ve believed
was but a myth concealed
in illusory amulets,
bruising my inner psyche,
preventing me
from seeing beyond.
Yet the morning sky
convinces me to
reconsider and realign,
as the whimsical breeze
whispers in a soft cadence:
the Universe is infinite,
so am I.
This pink granite
heart is as vast as
the spring-hills with
deepest of falls,
prevailing traces of
my silenced voice.
And when mauve clouds
kissed my frail fingers,
I remembered how stars
do not need our touch,
to unravel fate laced in
citrine dust,
Like how I breathe-
lavender love,
within me,
leaving no blood
in my veins but poetry-
flowing as the poem
of pearlescent tomorrows,
through thin
sangria streams,
in daisy dialects.
So who am I~
but a mere dot on a
faceless canvas,
an echo of your rosy rhymes,
an incomplete verse with
complex metaphors,
weaving woes in
sunflower silence..
As the sky weeps
in periwinkle petals of
multicolored roses,
rinsed in lemons, and lavender,
the poet within me
releases a bougainvillea
bouquet of unfiltered gratitude,
swaying to the celestial duet
orchestrated by
the angel of raindrops,
adorned in braided
wildflower crowns and
windswept wishes,
echoing dulcet melodies
rendered in whimsical accents.
I ponder, if tears had a tune,
would it be the
sound of drizzling dewdrops?
Would you then feel
the pain I carry,
veiled in smoky silence?
Or would I forever be
the silhouette cloaked
in fogs of charcoal confusion,
too dark to be deciphered
by the fragmented eyes
that eulogize
all that sparkles and glows?
But when stained sunflowers
swirl beneath starless spheres,
scattering seeds of sorrow
to cultivate a garland of grief,
puddled with poignant poems,
I remain throned,
as the goddess of black rain,
riddled with cosmic rituals,
sprinkling kaleidoscopic dust
upon forsaken fields,
while listening to the
drifting leaflets in crisp air,
pleading for the demise
of my unfaltering faith,
oblivious to the truth
that I fear not
mists of melancholy.
I surf through surging seas,
unafraid of twirling torrents
and blazing tides,
piercingly striking
shimmering sapphires
floating in deafening despair.
There in the abyss of obscurities,
I’m nestled within restlessness,
in rooted resilience,
like a perplexed paradox
weaving crippled odes to
the sun that longs to rise and sail,
splashing hues of cinnamon clemency.
Tonight, I’m counting crooning comets,
amidst quivering hailstones,
dancing in cataclysmic rhythm above,
to find my home within
an island of daphne dreams
and singing seashells.
For I hear the flaming flowers
in their solitary stillness
serenade rain rhapsodies,
to awaken the petrichor
soul of heavy horizons,
wrapped in stringed
milky-quartz beads,
bursting forth blooming tomorrows,
illuminated by chamomile water,
concocted from charismatic spring falls…
Yet I think of us, engrossed
in umbrella moments,
Cupid too envied this
symphony of romance
where love conquered all,
and grief but a blurred memory,
in sunlit souvenirs of yesterday.
It's Christmas Eve and through the house
there creeps a curious little mouse.
He climbs into the big arm chair
and finds the cookies waiting there .
He only takes the smallest bite.
Santa will find his treat tonight.
He gazes with wonder at the tree
and the bright wrapped gifts left there to be
a mystery tale to tell his spouse,
when he gets home, this curious mouse.
What an adventure it has been,
he has drunk of some spilled gin
that had been left upon the table.
His wife will think it is a fable
he has concocted to amuse her.
She is homebound, we must excuse her.
He once came home all out of breath
to say he had been scared to death
by a huge rat with fluffy tail.
She noticed he was very pale.
"While I was nibbling off some cheese
to bring to you, my love, to please,
he almost had me in his paws.
I'm sure he wasn't Santa Claus".
But this night is so very quiet.
He spies some fruitcake, has to try it.
It reminds him of that sip of gin
and wonders if his head will spin.
He hears a noise, runs for his life,
carrying fruitcake for his wife.
Christmas morning, spread before their eyes
for the baby mice, a grand surprise.
Their mama had fixed a Christmas feast
from food their dad had saved from beast.
A bit of butter, a glob of jam
and a fairly good-sized piece of ham.
Bread crumbs saved from other forays.
They had enough to eat for days.
Those little mice would never waste it.
If they didn't like it, they'd still taste it.
This food their mama set before them,
their dad risked his life to get it for them.
11/22/14
A monster now has been set free
in this once land of liberty.
This 'Frankenstein' divided us
due to the Covid vaccine fuss.
Glib leaders 'round the table sit-
like at a tea party, commit
to brews concocted every day
that keep their madness on display.
Vaxxed diss the unvaxxed for the spread
who say the choice is theirs instead.
Yet, now those jabbed can get sick too;
such dark unknowns hide what to do.
Now masking is for everyone;
the vaccinated thought they won.
Again, each needs to hide their face
as noteless beings in our space.
Divided families now fight-
each side pleads other see the light.
One side has faith in trial vax;
the other, side-effects attacks.
This monster 'Frankenstein' digs deep
into our hearts and minds to keep
division strong till final test
steals each free will as repossessed.
This freak is fierce, released from hell
by leaders that now undersell
the freedoms of democracy-
for bondage of bureaucracy.
August 3, 2021
~1st Place~
Contest: Frankenstein Tea Party 2021
Sponsor: Joe Maverick
Judged: 09/26/2121
You are far away now
Off in fields of gold
Dappled with evenings hot velvety light
90 degrees of separation has dulled the sword
eased the pain
The grasshoppers chirp in unison to your labors but they no longer ache in your solar plexus
Nor mine
What sweet sorrow is loss and gain
I now walk down the very paths I have always so longed for
the dark rich peat paths of happiness
contentment oozes from these fingertips as I write and I wonder if happiness is poetry
Or does it preclude it all together
The night sky fills with stars
The stars fill with fire flies that burst out of them like infinitesimal lightning bolts
jettisoned to my soul
he and I chase storms on decks swirled in smoke
We banter and bay at one another
you are in a field of gold somewhere
or beside
a river bed
The smell of the wet earth of shore beneath you reaches me… but momentarily
dismissed as the ash of the bonfire of a week ago fire or the grill of last night’s
unbelievably tasty ribs he concocted from air for me and me alone
but then we shared with so many
dinners
Lingers on my lip tips…the bottom edge
I kiss him and mean it with all I am
A being
a re-being
Super beings are we
all
and our colors wash
upon the canvas of my life
melding into one great magnificent us
Spectacular are we
the creatures who so love life
we give our only begotten selves to each other
and never ever forsake
us
I bleed poetry to heal through
midnight confessions.
Mistress’s ink does not seek
your caramelized validation;
it has no desire to please
your feed of presumed perfection.
I’ve never tamed this
skill as an online profession;
this is just an unbreakable obsession~
I’m drowning in for a distraction.
Don’t question my
hazy metaphors,
veiled away from towering
thorns of introspection,
too vague and meaningless
for the skies adorned
with sleeping stars.
These scribbles of sentimental
symbolism may cause
digressing reactions,
for I’ve been sewing a
waltzing nightmare,
whilst counting syllables
within concocted connotations,
surfing through wicked
schemes of sunset-colored
sestinas to sunflower sonnets.
Now I knit hyacinth haikus
in honeysuckle hues,
woven from pristine petals
amidst wilting wilderness,
awaiting twilight that
would awaken words written
in repetitive refrains,
reigniting the flames
between spaces on fragrant pages,
so dreams will no longer
be more peaceful
than the air I breathe.
Although these lines
do not rhyme with teal-green
tides that sketch
turquoise beginnings,
I still hope time can maybe
guide this canvas home.
Sometimes, we expect
the sun to rise and smile,
through hazy hellish clouds
carrying vindictive
verdicts of venomous vultures,
surmising hues of
ink to pierce through
pores of this bleeding pen,
imagining rainbows
will unravel colors,
in violent violets and
intricate indigo streaks,
refusing to walk around
streets with
hailing stones of storms.
But what if the skies
unfold mysteries of yesterday,
would tales of truth need
translated transcripts?
oblivious to the weight
of every thorn I sustain
within these words I weave.
Whilst daggers
on my spine
still remain rusted with
runes of revelations,
as I’ve felt claws sharper
than twisted tongues,
so those feculent fingers
pointing at abstracts
across fields of
fruitful flowers,
adorned with
smokey quartz
jewels of life,
is nothing but
mere artless blades,
that burn bridges
from blunt blindness.
Let the bare brokenness
of your rags be
the conqueror of your
own demise,
I’ve seen too many
ghosts turn into
steel hearted devils with
tasteless plans.
Yet these cracks
won’t grow wider
from misconstrued
conclusions,
from barely noticeable
turbulence within a
psychological warfare.
I am more than your
definition of sharpened
needles and knives,
as I’ve been nurtured
in fearless forests with
herds of faceless wolves,
this warrior spirit
is unmovable,
by a million mountains
engraved with
lifeless blood and
bones of your kind,
so take your little
quilt of cowardly questions,
wrap them around your
fragile little ego,
perhaps, sleep too
can reveal
rosier dreams
in your doomed
nights filled with terrors,
for I refuse to
drink from chalices
of emptiness
concocted from
bitter ingredients.
We read each other so perfectly
two minds with a single thought,
when we combine, baby it's explosive
chemistry like ours cannot be taught.
The electricity gets me jumping
and attacks the heart's beat,
this experiment you concocted
has revived the frog's feet.
Like a volcanic lava lamp
an eruption of emotion flows,
the heat welds me to you
our bond that nobody knows.
We met inside this classroom
where my opposite attracted to yours,
like magnetized paperclips
we were linked right from our cores.
We're closer than Dr. Jekyll was
to his hidden self, Mr. Hyde,
but, I can take you by the hand
as we go along for the ride.
I was reminiscin' the other day about times that were more sublime,
And got to thinkin' about those old stores called Kresge's Five and Dime.
I recall browsin' through Kresge's Stores as a lad with Mom and Dad.
There ain't no more Kresge's Stores as far as I know and that is very sad.
There was a Kresge's in every sleepy town along Main Street.
Sittin' on a stool at the lunch counter was always a special treat.
Munchin' on a hotdog and tater chips and then a slab of cherry pie,
Or maybe a sundae concocted by the soda jerk would lighten up my eye!
Notions galore were displayed on tables, bins, racks and shelves.
Friendly clerks stood by to help but folks generally helped themselves.
The cashier put yer money in a tube that sailed off into space,
And in a trice returned yer change from some mysterious place!
I recall the squeaky wooden floors and visitin' the store at Christmas time,
When Santa Claus doled out bags of candy to kids at each Five and Dime.
Alas, those neighborhood stores have been replaced by huge national chains,
And only pleasant memories of Kresge's Five and Dime Stores remains.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
My Emancipation
The convoluted misconceptions concocted in your chaotic mind
Will no longer deaden, dim, nor darken the light that I shine
Constantly minimizing and compromising, the extent of my plight
I’m stepping out of your dark shadow; I’m stepping into the light
Hiding behind these disguises, I’ve forgotten my reflection
Brushing phony smiles, over the hidden frowns,
Just to camouflage the rejection
Your bad intent is surpassed only by your insecurities and ignorance
I will no longer recite from your ridiculous script
I’ve been concealed behind this mask that you painted for far too long
Continually reading your words, and singing your songs
I’ve followed your painful paths and I have walked far enough
You’ve shown me your hand, and now I’m calling your bluff.
Unleash, unchain, and unshackle me
I am reclaiming my life, I demand to be free.
A strange sight upon a lonely road.
A dream ripped in half.
Looking closer, I wonder what was the travail.
An old price tag attached, making me wonder at what price it was sold.
Along the edges, tattered and torn, it gave forth an evil laugh.
As if some sly devil concocted a way to turn someone pale.
Onward I traveled, with pack upon my back.
To the left and right of the road were littered with more broken dreams.
So many that one could not keep track.
Some having been blown into the parallel stream.
So, I checked the pack upon my back.
And, yep all my dreams were there in a stack.
Cold winds howl, trying to rip my back pack to shreds.
Freezing were the winds, but forward I march.
Never losing sight of my dreams in spite of many dreads.
They all hold up strong even though many times I'm in a lurch.
Suddenly I see people returning to the road.
Going back and picking up their dreams.
Dusting them off and restoring them to their pack.
Each and every one said to me, you are quite bold.
To go forth and not let the cold winds of fate not destroy your knack.
To face life as it comes and not give up even if offered gold.
Good, bad fortune, are likewise of no importance.
Put a failed dream back in your pack and maybe a new day will appear.
Where you can unpack that dream and give it another go.
But, for today, march forward, today's failure might tomorrow's dance.
You gave it your best, and win or lose, that game has ended with a spear.
Win or lose, that game is done so pack it's knowledge away in your pack and grow.
Suddenly down the road a new vista appears and a brand new game.
Left high and dry or victorious are the two possible ends of any venture.
But in truth, knowledge is all you will have, win or lose.
For tomorrows game is just around the bend, all the same.
Win or lose, the game of life only ends for the moment within sight of the new adventure.
So, to quit and call it the end, only makes you look like a goose.
On the bank of the James River,
Virginia Colony,
a proposal was conceived to constrain the African fire.
The ploy, a real achievement in the West-Indian settlements.
In Rome, bodies were paraded along the byways,
to make a statement.
My Massa used ropes.
We dangled by our necks like roosters in a slaughter house.
When the pining for liberty was stirred up in the marrows of our bones,
we set ablaze a few bungalows,
and murder some dumb beasts.
The statement we made was called an uprising.
The fields were abandoned, the livestock ran wild,
and the slothful young mistress had to breast-feed her own child.
The scheme had the ingredients of breaking a mule,
and Virginia Colony was the first lab for creating fools.
A prophet’s blessing was given to the merchants,
and black diamonds were shipped;
they were purged of the soil of the mother land.
A new being was fashioned, dependent on Massa.
A man was set against his consort and his seeds,
and the whips wrote rules on our backs in their faces;
our pride drained from the gorges in our hides,
and respect slowly seeped from their eyes.
The bond was broken;
a ***** was concocted
without the spirit of Ghana, the Warrior King,
and the Ashanti, the pre-colonial backbone.
Should we not push as a woman in nativity for the renaissance?
If only you knew the feel of a zephyr,
With its current swooping around hillsides
Ruffling the spruce trees everywhere,
Or descend downwards towards verdant vales
Where flowers bloom all through the year.
If only you knew what the oceans utter
As wonderful waves smash into each other,
Or roll nonchalantly towards the bays,
Destroying sand castles or wiping up
The poor love letters which were written there.
If only you knew the various sounds of Earth,
The laughter of little children playing in our parks,
The parade of grown-ups commemorating feasts,
The sounds of aeroplanes fighting for supremacy,
Whilst on the ground tanks rumble on firing at will.
If only you knew the evil concocted by selfish persons,
Where kindness seems to be at a premium.
Yet I discern others who are compassionate
And help others less fortunate than themselves.
How grateful receivers of good works will be.
If only you knew how many angels fly above
Around the silver stars that orbit in perfect harmony.
Angels that care for this poor land which
We have ruined successfully through our unwanted trash.
While food is thrown away when others die in famine and pain.
Placed 1
*Image of Agoraphobia by Pixabay.
KJV John 8:32 "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
Agoraphobia
I mistook my pain for a summer's eve,
For this is what loneliness does to me,
Adrift on an orchid sweet stern petal,
It is lofty thoughts that steer my mettle,
For such frees me from my isolation,
Self-delivered like my separation,
Sites make a quarry, I try to withdraw,
Diverse regions clumsy, like a jigsaw,
Simply, naught to gain any sense I face,
Seclusion oddly is my happy place,
A zenith sun beats away at my door,
As carpet brand paces made on the floor,
Meds just let others see me at my worst,
For my inner self tells me I am cursed,
No potion concocted, no spell was said,
A sad delusion this shadow has spread,
A shedding sun frees me from my prison,
Like so many, I somewhat have risen,
But unlike them, it is for mixed reasons,
My annular trek for all four seasons,
The night, my phantom friend, my luxury,
As it lingers, it will embolden me,
Though my rest will not be the same but brief,
For my restless mind robs me like a thief,
As tomorrow lends vast hope advances,
Can I recover, what are my chances,
For I dread the dawn, fear it be the same,
To hide and not be found plays out this game,
It is common knowledge for those who know,
Agoraphobia, my true shadow.
2020 January 12