Best Conjured Poems
When the sun kisses each drop of rain,
spirited colors warm the heart...
like a wind wisped feather,
landing lightly on the soul.
Romance calls,
from a fresh faint whisper
mingled cleverly among the fallen.
A daydream smiles,
in a seductive voice.
Conjured memories evolve,
from indifference to fact,
plunging deep into fantasy,
erotically eager,
intoxicatingly anxious.
All is euphorically joyful.
05/16/2021<>
‘Twas the night before Christmas and I didn’t care;
I had dozens of latkes I had to prepare.
The menorah was ready, with candles to light,
Waiting there by the window, a wonderful sight.
The presents were wrapped and I lined up the dreidels;
The soup was a’bubble, with floating knaidels.
The applesauce waited to chill in the fridge
In a Chanukah bowl. (Yes, I tasted a smidge.)
The cookies were baked like my grandmother taught,
(So much better than any that anyone bought)
Shaped like candles and dreidels and six-sided stars;
There were plenty to fill cookie platters and jars.
When I suddenly sensed there was something the matter.
I raced to the kitchen – the oil was a’splatter!
For while I was fixing the festive display,
I should have been frying (not quite my forte).
The first batch of latkes was burnt to a crisp
And smoke filled the kitchen (much more than a wisp),
But tying my apron for take number two,
I ditched all the burnt ones and knew what to do.
I lowered the flame and reheated some oil,
Plopping spoonfuls of batter I wouldn’t let spoil.
Then I conjured my childhood and Chanukahs past,
When I had no idea years would fly by so fast.
And I pictured my nana and grandma, as well
As my parents, my grandfathers and Aunt Sydelle
And my brothers and sister and cousins galore
And my uncles and aunts I’ve not mentioned before.
While my latkes were frying, so crispy and gold,
I remembered how Chanukah used to unfold,
When we played with our dreidels and gathered our gelt,
In our family’s embrace and the love we all felt.
So I cooked the new latkes with patience and care,
Knowing that with my kids and my grandkids I’d share
All the pent-up emotions I’ve hidden inside
With a platter of latkes, now perfectly fried.
And to all who will celebrate Chanukah time,
I do hope there’s a lesson for you in this rhyme –
For the very-best feelings our childhoods instill,
Through traditions, our hearts and our bellies will fill.
December 7, 2022
As I
Soak in hummingbird’s exhale
I feel tragic sonatas
Trying to chain
Trying to crucify
My sedentary grip on instability
I smell the repugnant commoner
Blasting scattered shots
Against yesterday’s decent
I became the handsome error again.
The godfather of uplifting idle minds
Sedated within the bosoms of complacency
Because, indirectly, I was the inebriated screw-up
Immunized with community pride
As 420’d lyricists
Puff corrugated burns
To keep their spine
Fused in relatable,
Flaccid significance
They dodge flagrant accountability
Like an intentional cripple
And I
Slow dance with agnostic prayer
There would be no commandments
To remind me
That I am still beautiful inside
Beautifully flawed.
Beautifully demonized.
Beautifully improper.
Ugly.
Yet, Gaia’s sun empowers this stanza
To breathe better breaths
To see what refuses to be seen
And no longer accept what cannot be changed
I carve milestones upon gravestones
In friends’ memoriam, nevermore
It felt peacefully redundant to be important,
Chiseling away the vowels of animosity
Attempts to hold my hands
Within this ambidextrous nightmare
Right hand, red
Left hand, chained
Courteous disdain
For developing minds,
Their figure of speech
Meant no blissful harm
With their 40 lashes
Conjured by judgmental testaments
Oh, how they preach for better tomorrows
While stirring yesterday’s pot
Becoming the “end” in “friend”...
©D.J.E.
Harvey Denning
1909 – 1923
“I saw the universe a thousand times.”
I saw the face of God
Spread out across the sky
Like a million cities on fire.
Like Troy cut into little pieces
By the slashing sword of Achilles.
Cut to shreds and bleeding.
There on the ramparts
There inside the fissures and crevices
Of ten thousand unknown dreams.
I read the stories of Homer
And the tales of a thousand and one Arabian nights.
And I read the solemnly immortal words
Of Longfellow, Poe and Defoe.
And I decided inside my mind long before I died
To perhaps write the greatest story ever told.
But I fell from my tree house
There on Dorland Street
There in the cool shadows of the walnut tree.
What would have been my story I wonder.
What visions would I have conjured
For all to read and envision?
My friend, will you write my story now?
Will you take pen in hand and possess my voice?
Will you find the noble courage to speak for me?
This forgotten dead soul
Buried here in the dark dust of Clark Cemetery?
If you kindly consent,
Please begin it with these words:
“I saw the universe a thousand times.”
In the pantomime of pretend prose,
the moon dances on lonely nights.
Before the lights go out at twilight,
unforgiven ice cold hearts,
remain abandoned, hoping this is the end.
Her eyes like Eve were deceived,
by manipulative sea green serpents.
Stranded on shores where time has no name,
the artistry of dread, breathed in poetic chills,
inhaling life, exhaling pain like dolent daisies.
Concealing metaphors of dying embers,
behind an avalanche of emotions,
she anticipated the rebirth of an artist,
by an art nearing the opposite side of yearnings,
because in the deepest chasm of poetic love,
an alliteration of antithesis attracts affection.
I was not as naive as Adam,
searching for heartbeats from heaven,
knowing that is how you ruin a poet.
An empathic spirit ignites pens full of fire,
burning the strings of poetic puppets -
the greatest gift of entrancement.
Rumi taught me the universe is infinite,
and so am I, so I knew I would meet my muse,
like stars greet the moon in a meadow of miracles.
As roaming romance conjured my dream's horizon.
Her name always echoed in the silence of quiet nights.
An empress without an emperor in a crumbling palace,
yearning to blossom in an epodic flower field.
Her seldom smile was as radiant as the golden orb.
Despite ghosts hiding in the shadow of sunlight,
mystical silver spirits were summoning me to her abode.
Her misspelt phrases accidentally fell on my page.
I found her burying her frozen quill under six feet of snow,
with a withered heart reliving a winter wonder nightmare,
constantly bleeding pearls in a silage of tears,
cursing her tormented tongue.
Her winter kisses were as tender as butterfly snowflakes,
but at first, her rage slashed at my wrists,
drowning me in her obsidian grieving seas,
but my soul is like a seasoned samurai full of scars.
I always believed small steps lead to great places,
and I would kiss her sorrows goodbye.
Upon realisation there's no blood in my veins, only poetry,
together we portrayed pastel coloured sunsets,
illuminating a celestial canopy of light,
sowing trees of forgiveness,
surrounded by colourful petals,
leaving behind the dark long road home.
In our internal garden of Eden,
there is no darkness,
there is no forbidden fruit nor sinning,
only an aura of love personified.
Silence breeds a droning bunch,
a blackened kettle, a stolen lunch.
The dismal lead while sheep give chase,
a silent echo, a spoofed embrace.
Abandoned youth viewed once again,
a manifest of mice, not men.
Hypocrites now preach the word,
murdered lines and vision blurred.
Despair entangles a shallow light,
disavowed, this tale they write.
A painted faux becomes the rage,
dyed and bleached on every page.
A conjured trick becomes their ruse,
theft and fraud showcase thy muse.
Invisibly, the truth is moot,
concealed in dirt, this hidden root.
Ode to Rain Drenched Paper And Rapidly Disappearing Ink Stains
Previously Penned a Moment Ago, Dissolving, Swirling Cyclone of Water and Ink down the Drain!
Silly Poet Stranded, Emotionally Sifted And Strained
Enchanted by Calliope's Impish Minstrel
Base Cappella of Rumbling Thunder, I Shudder!
Serendipitous and Wet, Expatriate Poet Without An Umbrella!
For You See I was Haunted and Teased By Moisture Filled Breeze
I Reached With My Pen and Tickled the Heaviest Cloud In the Sky With Ease
Silly Poet Provoking Poetic Rain, Prodding The Water Supply
Tickled and Poked With My Pen, The Cloud Bellowed, Then She Cried
Prism In A Pearl Raindrop In Custody of The Now Smirking Nimbostratus
Under Hyades Guard, My Penalty For Intrusion Pending Status!
Sitting In Humid Air, Amidst the Jury of Haughty Rain Nymphs Stares
I Should have use the Feathery End Of My Pen for the Inked Tip Created A Tear
Silly Poet, Drenched In Conjured Rain, Penalty for Pain, I must Rhyme Away From Here!
I Should Have Visited Erato's Garden to Borrow Her Myrtle Wreath!
Or Even Tea and Biscuits with Melpomene Could Have Been a Theatrical Treat
Euterpe's Sultry Flute Interrupted My Internal Musing, Rainbow Cruising Inky Hues
Silly Poet Seeking Poetry's Muses In The Conjured Rain In The News!
Conjured Rain Trance, Whimsical Chance, Pen In Hand, Here I Stand! Poet Pseudonym Debut
I'm Soggy, Not Sorry For My Attempts To Pen In the Rain, I Will Try Again, No Shame!
For Now My Sentence Has Come To An End, The Paper Filtered But Never My Pen!
Medusa’s Love
Medusa is a hideous and vile creature of Grecian yore.
Medusa, once a high priestess in the Temple of Athena,
Suffered Athena’s unforgiving wrath for violating her
Sacred temple as she and Lord Poseidon made love there.
Medusa’s Love entices all of her naive human victims,
Up to that special mesmerizing moment of her icy shock,
As they end up unwittingly gazing into her evil, hellish
Eyes and their bodies harden and turn to stone forever.
You can never trust those Gods who relish in making
The plight of mortal man more challenging on Earth.
Once a perfect paragon of radiant female pulchritude,
Athena transformed Medusa into this mythic monster.
As if this life isn’t frightening enough, with the advent
Of Halloween Eve and the cold, dark nights preceding it;
Medusa’s restless spirit as this grotesque Gorgon can be
Conjured from her lair at the entrance to the Underworld.
From the hissing and viperous serpents adorning her head,
To the ever-present shaking death rattle of her reptilian tail;
Medusa’s sneering and unholy visage paralyzes her victims
As her fiery and demonic eyes bring them a stone-cold death!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(October 1, 2015) (Unrhymed Quatrain)
We drank a glass of crimson wine
We drank to long lost days;
Where in the past sweet memories shine
When our love was all ablaze.
But seasons died and visions fade
With phantoms of love's lost dream;
The joys we knew have never stayed
They sleep within this ruby stream.
We picked the purple grapes that lay
Beneath the brilliance of the sun;
Where the shimmer of an autumn day
Was reflected where the waters run.
We hoarded all the clustered shapes
That brought old times conjured up;
Of feet that danced upon the grapes
And wine that filled the chalice cup.
Within these drops of crimson lie
Blushing shackles holding fast;
Those dancing shadows that can't die
Brought fleet winged dreams that hurry past.
We touched the goblet's silver rim
Each sip adored the grape's sweet stain;
Then bubbles sprang from the brim
To assault the spaces of the brain.
Yesterday's Flame
The candle’s flame still dances with the breeze
and casts her playful shadows on the wall
that pique imaginations with a tease
and bring back ancient memories that please,
and yet her flame’s not bright as I recall.
This once tall, slender beauty was quite chic,
in evening's dimming light she graced the room
while glowing with a certain soft mystique
that always left emotions feeling weak,
and filled my senses with her sweet perfume.
The fervent flame that left a warming glow
and captured my imagination’s dreams,
still softly burns, though not as bright a glow
that conjured ancient dreams I used to know,
and yet she still emits her gentle beams.
Today this candle doesn’t stand as tall;
her fabled slender fading figure flees
while beads of wax, like aging teardrops, fall;
though not the tapered beauty I recall,
her gentle flame still dances with the breeze.
February 20, 2024
If snowflakes set aflame the ground
They touch and wintry winds abet
The flames, would she and I this day
always remain deeply in love?
Yet snow is snow-it’s wet, it’s cold
Its frigid blanket lacks the warmth
That lover’s hearts depend and thrive;
It stifles, smothers all that grows
and extinguishes any fire.
Snow-flames are just a fantasy
An image conjured in my mind
But in my heart our love is true
In any world we two reside
inventible or otherwise.
Let me tell you the story of the pie piper
Had a flute he played so said the flyer
The town we lived in was on fire
Our situation was grave and dire
That is why we needed to hire
This one and the only pie piper
With his flute through the mirk and mire
He conjured pies from the sky and higher
We needed them to sell enough to retire
In fact we were set we already had a buyer
What happened next was unforeseen John Dryer
Although he did show up it was in two nights not the prior
We agreed to his terms...he was preaching to the choir
Then the pies happened all kinds right out of the fryer
What I tell is true I am not a liar
Don't believe me just ask my sire
Fruit Pies of all kinds
Meat Pies great finds
Pizza Pies blew minds
Weird Pies with rinds
But then
Just then
The tide turned
We got burned
Trust unearned
Yuck he churned...
Quickly they began to really fall
Then all the children started to bawl
It was a disaster all in all
We tried to leave but moved at a crawl
Who would think of such a thing
We could hear the town bells ring
All others knew to stay in with this warning
This turned out to be a terrible morning
Actually changed into a kind of mourning
The sky was now brown in color
You could smell the wretched odor
We had not considered cow pies
Nor all the pests mostly black flies
Literally the **** had hit the fan
So much for our supposed brilliant plan
12~10~2014
Rhyme Scheme: aa aaaa aaaa aaaa aa
bbbb cc dddd eeeee ff gg hh.
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Contest Name: Plentitude of Pies
“Esse est percipi," said the man—
"To be is to be perceived." You see,
Existence is a product of the mind
Where only senses cause reality.
So what's behind all fastened closet doors?
And what becomes of things in dark of night?
How much is really there, or just a dream,
Conjured by smell or taste, touch, sound or sight?
"Esse est percipi," said the man—
"To be is to be perceived." I fear
That when I am alone and no one sees,
How can I know if I am really here?
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Reality
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 05/20/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: Humor
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Judged: 01/28/2015
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"Esse est percipi" means "To be is to be perceived."
Philosopher, George Berkeley, 1710
I want to be a poet to write those words which rhyme
But it seems I'm having trouble with tempo, tense and time
How do the poets do it rhyme words so undisputed
They neatly find the perfect word and exactly where to put it
They make it seem so simple words flow in easy verse
While my words go from good to bad and then they just get worse
Oh to have the poets flair for grasping words from out the air
But alas I stare at paper bare and pine for words which are not there
With ease the poets do it pen words so neatly dressed
While I sit here debating and getting more depressed
To them it's not too arduous to mete out rosy prose
While in my mind bewildering a musty cobweb grows
Ornately Poets do it scribe sentiment so clear
That lifts the heart and stirs the soul like music to the ear
As I scan their lines which meld and knit I envy those who conjured it
And when I read their words united tis my id which gets excited
I twitch and get elated when I find two words of whit
But I'll be darned if I can find another two which neatly fit
I thumb through my thesaurus till the moon is fully lit
But my brain is still in neutral and not a rhymes been writ
Each pair I work to sound enhance fails to bring the bards due dance
And the prose I opt for seems to lack the poet's gift of word romance
But I'll persist and see how it goes
And perhaps one day I'll write some prose
Life's like a poorly penned poem,
punctuated by emotions.
And lacking in substance and weight:
it feels abstract and mystical.
Influencing the heart and soul:
love touts its own philosophy,
And postulates its existence
as extensions of shared feelings.
At times, life can be frustrating,
while sometimes, it's enlightening.
Yet, meaningful interaction
is always its overall theme.
Hope imbues life with rhyme and rhythm,
encouraging feats of magic.
And reveals the reality,
fueled by thoughts of fantasy.
Curiosity motivates,
always leaving you wanting more.
And trust fades to an illusion,
conjured to appease scripted tears.