Best Concocts Poems
"Wondrous" this dynamic group,
That concocts their hearty poetic soup,
Then sit, then wait, always polite,
For comments that the others write.
But lofty are artistic goals,
As we bear our hearts and expose our souls,
And catapulted into heaven,
When we receive that cherished rate of "seven".
A "six" is like a pesky "B",
Like the one I got in chemistry,
Then pondered of my studious failing,
My heart and spirit, reeling, ailing.
Hunting sevens each new day,
New techniques, a different way.
Isn't life's adventure such,
We hunt our sevens way too much?
Comfort, silence, laying low,
I type this poem, a gift, although,
Should you love these words I write,
A seven will help me sleep tonight.
Winds blow; clouds thunder.
Occasional ephemeral storms
That this season concocts
According to its whims.
Chill spreads as suns set
Yet each twilight is painted,
Each different, in various hues.
It is a peculiar season, so appreciated.
Golden leaves fall, footsteps crunch.
At several houses, pumpkins glow.
Street vendors briskly sell their cooked chestnuts.
Let us embrace the beauty of Autumn.
Remember, Christmas is nigh.
I prefer them a bit tattered and tired.
(a slow lick on a hard knife edge).
A midnight she-cat, sparkling like a pinwheel.
The kind that makes you obsess about
why they're one hour and five minutes late.
Why their mascara is off center.
Why they have that strange, strong scent.
I like them a little mousy,
a little off the beat.
A chick that can spit with class.
Kick the living MAN out of me.
A fireball that contorts and concocts,
attends to every want and need...
(You all know what I mean).
Admittedly, what I really need is periwinkle predictability.
A Crisco-oiled apron, the one mamma used to don.
A deep-fried lullaby in the quiet cove of a racing mind...
I want to go way back into Crayola Crayon time.
Alone with my thoughts-
My Mind concocts
A thousand, million, billion dots
Connecting through my Brain
Colors spread through the depths of my Head
Then I wondered, "Am I dead?"
For no one ever said-
The Truth could hold such pain!
*An old experimental type piece written on LSD; the rhymes are meant to be irregular (I suppose lol)
To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature,
embracing truth as only reflection can hold.
While our mind concocts fastidious pleasure,
in search of mottled excuses bent to unfold.
Some threaten openly, words of censure,
hurled against the family tree displayed therein.
Yet which innocent, casts with stoic composure,
a stone of malicious word for the game to begin.
While the tree of life muddles fate in quiet solitude.
Its restless soul begging for optimistic pleasure,
It thinks its time before the mirror, but an interlude,
when in fact, the angel Gabriel takes his measure.
Only the tree of knowledge, cannot be maligned.
Within the face of it, read this significant truth.
From a reflection, the soul of man, you will not find,
only the sweet, sweet face, of innocence of youth.
© Apr 17 2011 Charles Henderson
for Constance "the tree" contest
a family tree, tree of life, tree of knowledge
I ask not who is king; I tell you all
it’s he who stirs the pot of darkest dreams,
whose genius then concocts tales that enthrall
his faithful fans, who relish silent screams
and feeling (underneath King’s spell) flesh crawl!
Andrea Dietrich/ Dec. 27, 2009
For Brian Strand's contest: A Literary Love Affair.
I really do have a love affair with Stephen King (whenever I open one
of his books or watch a movie based on one of his novels)
For 5TH POEM ON THE SOUP... Poetry Contest
Brick House
We call them bricks.
Cold, hard and clueless.
Stacked together, creating a thick wall of ignorance.
Unwilling to learn, resistant to change,
Eyes dull and confused,
with faces as dry as the day before.
Dragging themselves to their designated seats,
not expecting much from their day.
No energy, no enthusiasm,
no imagination or curiosity.
Just there to fill a space.
We shake our heads at the occasional shout of a wrong answer,
a spit ball, or a fight.
Helpless and hopeless
we go on, speaking to no one in particular.
No amount of planning can spark their interest.
No measure of strategy can help them to understand.
A last glimmer of hope concocts ideas of action.
Hoping to make a difference;
to convert their mentality from complacency to achievement.
Our attempts are rejected.
With deliberate defiance we are met with objection.
The lack of support produces disappointment and regret.
A new found disdain hovers over us.
Optimism is a fleeting thought.
Helpless and hopeless we go on,
Speaking to no one in particular.
Denouement
The plot thickens broadens in plastered confused juxtapositions
over time there and then weaves tapestries lost unfound caught
Viscous tears dried out shed rivers searching oases oceans of love
squeeze suffering hatred solid misconceptions scripted resolve
Crocheted dreams unsnarled in disguise colour rainbows stain-bows
stain blows and arrows offer inkblots from coiled council reconcile
Waters cascades cataclysmic beginnings alleviate alluvion’s weight
skirmish tease entice droplets of truths splashing change alteration
Naïve native losses childish unadulterated tangential torrents unfold
allude inundate delude adulthoods’ illusions commence from afresh
Under the bridges of ricocheted echoes trickle drops from Styx to
Ganges feed and contend with the seagulls and vultures of life
The story line concocts and conceives tell retells and remembers
the past as it blends narrates a misty final initiation’s webbed spray
Resolute resolution wets the gills washes clouds spins them around
until springs guzzle project thoughtful narration to entangle once more
Denouement Renewal De-new-ment confer contain depositions repositioned
as some tangling wisdom posits one swims in the same ocean never again
09th August 2016
Originally entered for contest 'Denouement' judged 24th August 2016
I smell the fragrance of love
On the bed of crimson roses
Memories of thee beguiles me
And million emotions my heart encloses
Those eternal love-filled hours
Feel yet to be so few
Oh Love! Rush down my core
As this heart concocts the brew
Silent I lay beside you, all cuddled up
That drives me to the golden shore
Seeing through my inward eye, I become
Nostalgic to the days of yore
Unidentified my world
this push and shove battalion
take from them and leave them broken
Crassly ridiculed by viral industries
black blood automaton
the throwaway plagues of economy
Enemies arduous in pestilence promise
digital demons disposable to pay the fist
take from my brothers and leave my sisters bereft
Born to breath into not my world
the grit pitiful distance between unity
as miseries tourniquet mocks all of us belligerently
From innocent eyes to haunted heart
a misplaced paradigm of sentience
concocts for idiots the demons ideology
For a lifetime the world of not me
my rebellions soaked in propaganda
liberties plasticidal warrior
take my brothers
take my sisters
and suffocate their orchestra
And all the more the cruelty shall reap
the intoxications of biles inaction
and rejoice in the cursed ideology of demons
Unrecognized my world of human
compassions every degree shall embrace every soul
and with the quill of love a future transcribed
by heavenly scribe in the ink of life
is written for our children
A wizard drops his briefcase and he’s
late again to the mystical gig!
Knocks into a green-fur dragon
milling about, smoking a cig.
Stupid dwarf, he double parked!
In the cab, he holds his nose
(a potent spell to fend against
the rancid smell of dandruff and booze).
He slips on hay as he sways in;
a levitating hop-scotch keeps him going.
Dust on the elevator knob, it sparkles
like sand in glass, but upward flowing.
His body is flying, pulsing and hot;
He gulps down gallons of inky potions.
Splitting wide, the chamber door
guffaws and laughs at his silly motions.
The draw-bridge closes, sealing in
his nervous airs like rabid bats.
He quick concocts a pretty image:
gentle mouth and abject hat.
Icicles pierce the feeble enchantment.
Council has cooked a spell of ire:
embers light the bridge ablaze.
“That’s it, Merlin…You’re fired.”
My son Scottie turned out to be an amazing chef
Whatever dish he concocts, it's up there with the best
Know not where it's from
But it's up with my thumb
Deserves the World Culinary Award he's up to the test
The heart within pumps
The rich red royal fluid
And your body machine functions
Your creative, expansive mind
Concocts formulae
Deciding how your body organism
Finds sustenance, enjoyment
And most of all avoids pain
The dreamer, you, perceive, create
As you build, block by block
To accomplish
To reap rewards
As you move
Ship, build, design, experience
On a higher plateau
You do this within the framework
Knowledge acquired
Reap the reward
Beautifying your nest
Dress fashionably
And end each day accomplished
Proud to the point
Of ignored acceptance
Yet strip all clothing
Wealth – all materialistic
Right to the naked bone
Your total stored mental reservoir
Your intellect, your acumen
Like the youthful wise hermit
Now, like a savior in sheepskin
Gather your companion
The echo “What is life all about?”
Sex, debauchery, procreation
Or our collective wisdom
Our attitude towards harmony, friendship
Local and world peace
A sensibility to friend and foe
Yep – platitudes, platitudes
Our ego sparkles and blind
Our lust driven bodies
Enter the arena of flesh
Gleaming immediate status faction
While the nuclear bomb is waiting
Some of them are drifting vapor,
fluid pastel flavoring my tongue.
When awake, they linger like nectar,
or the hidden symbols of Jung.
Others are more like nesting dolls,
hand painted selves inside of selves,
secret centers wrung in reluctant recalls.
Narcotic sleep concocts misshapened shelves.
Still others are Fabergé eggs,
grandiloquent intricacies, ornate and refined,
interior parlors absent of regs.
Fantastic reservoirs are carefully designed.
But most of them are made of celluloid,
cinematic and impossible to avoid.
Published in the first PoetrySoup anthology- 11/20
My nights have lately become sultry
as suffocating heat chases sleep away,
I lay wide awake unloved and sweating
beneath the murmurous ceiling fan
hoping for some refreshing relief.
Each eventide I hear her bittersweet song
drifting from the verdant vale
like seductive perfume on the breeze.
I cannot resist for long. I must visit every night.
People say there's magic in her.
Rancorous rumors have it that
she seduces with a whimsical smile,
subdues with an enchanting laugh,
soothes with a surrealistic sigh.
Maybe they're right. I know they’re right.
For I am under her arcane spell.
Late at night I leave my rumpled bed
and like a somnambulist I tread
through mysterious corridors of my house.
The dazzling moon shines the pathways
that lead down the surreal vale
into the sonorous cavern where she
concocts her alluring recondite runes.
There I hope to get a glimpse of her
Embrace her gorgeous beauty for untold time
Till inexplicably I find myself alone back on my bed.
Can you blame me if I’m under her spell?
8 January 2021