Best Confining Poems
When we search for answers from egotistic minds,
life is full of meaningless questions that lead us nowhere.
You sabotaged the sandman who brought me my dreams,
corrupting and confusing the clarity of my conscience.
In a world of betrayal, I thought you were my
saviour,
but your promises were sworn from a throne of lies -
where you perch as the king of false pretences.
Tired from being a victim of your insecurities,
I am not your mistake nor your abandoned
trauma.
Fate led my empathic sanity into your labyrinth of splintered hollowness,
confining me within a soulless sphere of unfair
madness,
yet, I still remember how you pledged to show me the moon -
falsehoods which led to an eternal eclipse for my eyes.
You stole the silver sewn with perfectly metered syllables,
calming the storm I carry in cacophonous silence,
but now, all I see is a megalomaniac monster, draped in rose tones of synthetic rhodolite, pretending to be an ivory dove in a horizon of vicious vultures,
hiding behind a decaying province of black petunias.
Your synthetic smile veils your cruel character, afraid that the vermilion you paint across your
sunsets,
will reveal the poison you fed my paralyzed soul.
My ink will always portray your true parasite persona,
about your attempts to assassinate my authentic aroma,
as now i blossom in meadows without your
toxic touch.
Before I die, I want my grandchildren to know these things.
Believe in yourself and be your own best friend.
No one else can keep your secrets like you can.
And if you do not believe in yourself, it will be difficult for others to.
I want my grandchildren to know this:
When you get old your hearing and eyesight may fly away.
Like birds on an almost weather day, never to return.
So do whatever you want now while you are fresh and young.
I want to will my five hundred paintings to my grandchildren.
For I feel my children will pluck them off my walls and burn them.
They know how swiftly I paint, and do not have a love for hippies.
Grands appreciate my neon colors, unicorns, dragons and faeries.
I want to apologize to my children for the mess I am leaving.
I did not bother to clean anything,
It will be a bonding experience for you three girls
A week or two of cousins getting together, which will amuse me.
I want to assure you that I will be in a catbird seat, watching.
I will listen to what you are saying about me, and I will laugh with you.
I never took myself too seriously, and it will be a great time for me.
Because life beyond this world is the real living. Earth life is confining.
Letting you in on a secret. I am an astral traveler in my slumber.
I am not in my body; my spirit is outside, travelling at great speeds.
I do not believe in death, because I am also an empath
I am not “dead” – I am actually more alive than ever before.
With wings of golden starlight your spirits flare
Each woman burst forth a steadfast astral pyre
Your valiant souls are / defying / confining
the tethered snare
Like distant suns that are piercing the boundless mire
With hearts unyielding you are shatter iron grates
Your unshackled wings where shadows once confined
And in your touch,
love's caresses, gentle graces
A serenade of voices, together
softly intertwined.
Through time's grand halls your histories reside
Your footprints pressing...
on ever-shifting sands
With every single verse
a truth you cannot hide
For you mend the world with...
steady guiding hands
O gracious women, blessed with beauty /
fierce and bold.
In every realm
your being we cherish
and behold.
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“No matter how tired you are, no matter how physically exhausting this work may be, it's beautiful to bring a smile into someone's life, to care for someone in need. What greater joy can there be?” Mother Teresa
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will." - Charlotte Brontë
A poet exposes scenes to explore new horizons
unfolding under expansive or confining domes
We slow it down, decelerate, discern
unveiling are a fable's morals and concerns
taking pause to commune with fauna and elm
serenely does nature speak throughout her realm
our phrases linger with new colors
hues vibrant encompass as skylines
our dimensions broaden anew
sentences chosen carefully carry more import
with words nuanced, renewed
with a more sentient bite
with emotions more candid
abashedly bare, a despair founded
with paroxysm of catharsis we quill
weeping of our dormant essence shaken to life
confessions deepening, plunging in thought
letting the afflatus of passion flow
I Am Anaya
quill & inkwell love
11/14/25
Ambition in its prime dwells within over time —poet
My special poet…
is one who gets their point across
without agendas or alliterations of a bitter boss
No need for perfect literates who sip on bitters
and pound out heartless ink to other bulls*itters
A black heart smells rotted and oldened by experience
with ordinary nothingness to relay for instance
Webbed tough with matured matted material
used over again, makes not a special poet’s verses imperial
My special poet…
does not grope for interpretation of what’s in the soul
Or use blackened words of mystery that serve to cajole
Or spits floundering anxiety pending
Nor is in one’s own tight confining skin
Nor a swollen head enabled by encouragement,
rigid and giving nothing back
Nor do they look askance from their egocentric self,
Outspoken words that hurt, sensitivity they lack
My special poet…
is one who gets the truth out
reporting issues of division and about
undecided poets who need to explore
not to shun away from what dangers implore
Expresses what’s needed to say
words you trust along the way,
to make what’s important aware
for those with no voice and in despair
We’re all a part of it, the crime and border
God is good, He wants you to know justice’s order
My special poet…
a girly-girl of a soft disposition natured
still rides along within, now matured
I have too much respect for poets
to call out bitter versed ones, we know it’s
not going to change anything or anyone
We are who we are bar none
Understanding the universe that comes first
Time is of the essence not disparaging the worst
When making a split discission
when it’s obvious surrealism,
there is no more discussing what is
special, sincere, sealed woe IT'S me
My special poet…
is not better just unique
It's not a prowess poet that I seek
It’s nice when real poet's genius peak
Cannot hit the ball out of the park every time
Yet it all maybe rendered sublime
We cannot alter our voices
This covers all poets of our choices
You’ll find poets who well articulate
though meanings may particulate
Every poet is special to somebody
and have one thing in common
including ME
I want to break free -
from this confining shell that
my soul inhabits,
warmed by the sun, cooled by winds
beyond the clouds and soaring
Revised for the One Nature Tanka -
Inspired By My Short Poem Posted On Contest Page of Rick Parise
The concerned politician was running for re-election
But a very cool, steamy sex scandal he struggled to hide
He used his thick, bald head to provide some harmful protection
By taking a scholarly, dim-witted babe to be his bride
By hiding appearances this loser won the seat he sought
But the love/hate relationship with his former mate went on
Under cover, above reproach the governorship he bought
The wickedly good scheme went awry, the lover suddenly gone
In the shadows of limelight his true love would no longer stay
The powerless governor didn’t want his private life public
And his charming, boring wife soon suspected there’d been foul play
Lying alone in her separate room made her healthy heart sick
A sleazy, reputable reporter showed her photographs
Of her husband and his lover in a platonic embrace
When confronted, the governor made a fortuitous gaff
Laughing contritely, he told his wife their love he’d not debase
But well-intentioned cons have a way of gleaming through darkness
For the long-lost mate found his way to the governor’s mansion
Startled resignation on his wife’s face so expressionless
To explain he was gay led to consolidated expansion
The news was revealed, the governor was forced into hiding
For he was no longer viewed as a truthful politician
He’d not been upfront, but back down in a closet confining
And he’d risen to downfall with a concealed revelation
*For Kristin’s “Oxymoronic” contest
Four walls.
Barricades.. built out of strong brick, but flimsy cement -
Strong force, but weak purpose.
It was ironic, she thought.
Society had set up four confining walls,
and yet was an unlocked door just there.. mocking,
beckoning those with the nerve to throw it open.
She was sure of it.
It angered her, these biased convictions.
She wasn't let to school. No work. No freedom.
And why? Why not, rather.
Simply because she was a 'she'.
But she would show them, she notioned.
She would show the world the suppressed would rise,
and break through the boundaries preset for them.
She would show them the women of the world could revolutionize it.
She would tell them,
and she wouldn't stop till her voice resounded beyond the four walls of the world...
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Dedicated to every woman reformer!
She seemed restless
Their gilded cage of love
That she had begged him
To imprison her in
With the bars of his passion
Seemed to be confining now
She never said anything
But he knew…
She felt different to his touch
He saw those wistful glances
Past the bars to the outside
And his heart bled
So he unlocked the door
But left it shut
Watching if the latch
Would show tell-tale signs
If the door would give away
Any secret whisper
Of an attempt to escape
His love
Days passed and there
Was no sign
No whisper
And yet…
At nights
Long after he pretended
That their love making
Had satisfied his hunger
He lay there quietly
Still hungry
For all that she was not giving him
Her soul
He heard her sighs of discontent
Long after he thought sleep had claimed her
And in the dark of that night
He prayed for strength
To carry it through
Every night
For next few days
He left the door just a little more open
Than it was before
Wondering….
If she would notice
If she would break free
He was risking his life
He knew it…
But he would not keep her
Against her will
He was not that kind of man
And she would not ask to leave
She was not that kind of woman
On the third night
He saw her eyes fix
On the half open door
A curious mix of wonder
And perplexity
Played on her face
He quickly turned away
Bur he felt the question
Lingering in the air
The sheer longing in her eyes
Burning in his mind
That night
She was on fire
Her love a blaze of passion
She responded to his every touch
Electrified
Energized
Feeding off his desires
Giving
Asking
Pleading
Screaming
Satiating him
Beyond imagination
She pleased him
In every way he had ever
Imagined
Had desired
And it was all he could do
To wait until
He knew she was ready
To reach that place
Where intensity rules
And everything else
Is subjugated
They were now fused together
No beginning and no end
As wave after wave of
Of pulsating ecstasy
Engulfed them
He slept then
Satisfied
Content
His premonitions buried
In the world of dreams
Until a stray ray of light
Fell across his face
And he opened his eyes
To find himself…. Alone
Alone
She had flown
And left a single feather
To remind him
Of her angelic form
Continuation in Part II
The Next Hitler
The next Hitler will execute the world’s masses,
Using costly powerful pharmaceuticals;
Feel-good grenades that bring euphoric explosions.
Metal bombs and bullets belong to a former age,
An old-school time when murder was expensive.
Whereas confining thousands of prisoners in camps,
Well, that is certainly not cost-effective either.
Food to feed these worthless ones
Requires a fortune in gold.
Best to leave the stressed masses alone,
Let them work for pitiful wages.
Let them toil and suffer as animals in barren times.
We will sit back and watch, and wait,
As they slide into addiction’s vagina,
Unable to think, move or breathe.
Head
is where
ego dwells,
cajoling soul
to negate silence
and indulge in desire,
that our fickle attention
remains fixated in deep fear,
thereby confining us in darkness,
a triumph of sorts, since we’re living light.
Strange it is, that soul pays ego homage,
trauma bonding with demons conjured,
though but a thought form illusion,
haunts us moment by moment,
contracting consciousness,
veiling light of God,
ever aflame
in the cave
of our
heart.
In the world where feelings intertwine,
Where hearts entrust their beats to one another,
Have you ever truly thought, deep inside,
How to love without confining them to a dance?
It’s not about ephemeral bodies here,
But souls that unite in secret,
Of mysterious women, of mothers and sisters,
Who find themselves step by step in life's dance.
Beyond the brilliance of a smile, the touch of lipstick,
Exists a world where love blooms pure and sincere.
A woman is not just an image, but an eternal melody,
With notes of passion, with chords of desire.
When you lose yourself in the warmth of her arms,
You feel the universe finds its place.
For in her heart lies a symphony,
A symphony of love, of hope, of dreaming.
And when you think you’ve deciphered her every verse,
Consider the mystery that still awaits you.
For a woman is not just an enigma, but an endless poem,
She is the music of life, the ray of sun at dawn.
So before you lose yourself in her dream,
Ask yourself if you’re ready to join the dance.
If you’re willing to love her, to accompany her,
Then open your heart, and let her lead you in the waltz.
O' Christmas Tree, dear Christmas Tree, you've given us so much pleasure!
Again you've graced our home this Yule Season with beauty we'll ever treasure.
How we look forward every Season to awaken you again from your drowse,
And release you from that confining box to spread your welcoming boughs.
You stand so regal with the angel at your top trimmed with garlands of gold.
With limbs embellished with dainty ornaments, you're a beauty to behold!
Tiny lights gleam from every branch to guide Rudolph and the sleigh,
To leave goodies for the kinder - ah, 'tis such a joy to watch them play!
Alas, we must fold your boughs and muse upon memories ever to remember,
But Lord willing, you'll stand tall again about the first of next December!
How we dread to place you in that confounded box but we know that you'll,
Spring to life in splendor next Noel to warm our hearts with another Yule!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
With dead remnants of autumn at her feet
Abreast a patch of green in early spring
Upon a rocky mantle in retreat
With grief still claiming what tomorrow brings
On her lap, a love story in a book
A satin ribbon marks the place it ends
She turns her face away, she can not look
Beneath an old oak tree that can not bend
She wears the dress that he will never see
Symbolic of a dream not meant to be
Still virgin white with ruffles at the sleeves
Confining her and every breath she breathes
Her mind in distant thoughts that only see
Those autumn leaves still clinging to the trees
Written: May 30th, 2014
Too late for the Isiah's contest, but I posted it anyway.
The picture was such an inspiration.
Human Trafficking
Freedom
Sacred, Invioble
Obligating, Purifying, Liberating
Opportunity, Autonomy, Servitude, Impotence
Repressing, Confining, Demeaning
Abysmal, Incomprehensible
Slavery
Sunshine Williams