Best Consoled Poems
One need not read her horoscope to know
this woman's fate, and though wisteria
cascades sweet blooms of lavender like snow
outside her door, it's still Siberia
pervading the dimensions of her mind,
for not one fickle thought or patch of moss
can thrive where bleakest shadows are enshrined.
No bittersweet, no dew drops. . . only loss
surrounds her heart. She tries to reminisce,
but like a barren continent grown cold,
she can't perceive one particle of bliss.
She's clasping grief and cannot be consoled!
Wisteria's perfume is in the breeze,
but in her soul remains a winter's freeze.
I hear the howling at the moon
as nightbirds then begin to croon
The cricket’s dance invades my ear
all creatures of the night I hear
So why then with this shrouded din
should I be in the mood I’m in
Perhaps I feel I dance alone
to claim no nightsong of my own
Yet when the morning dove arrives
to brighten all the mourning lives
And when the butterflies appear
the sounds of happiness I hear
The loneliness that once took hold
now banished, hearts to be consoled
The doves fly off and say goodbye
elated as we see them fly
A tease on the wings of summer's breeze
A tickle in the touch of whispering winds
A glimpse at the art of museum paintings
A stare in the eyes of flowering spring--
A poem is a song of my innermost feelings.
When I'm lost in confines of my thoughts
Solace I seek from brilliant cosmic stars
Prodding for answers to question marks
Uncovering truth in words of a paradox,
As the beat of poetry reignites my heart.
Verses I compose in fragrance of Jasmines
Linger merrily around blossoms of roses
Listening to voices of fluttering tree leaves
Soliciting rhymes from elate vocabulary,
Evoking the cadence of rhythmic melodies.
A giggle in a stream, a smile in my morning
A romantic kiss in the splendor of evening
An aesthetic dream in my night's revelry
A lonesome tear of my un-consoled grief--
My poetry's the answer to call of my musings.
February 23, 2019
Poem of the day on February 25, 2019
Placed first: Contest #570 by Brian Strand
Placed first: Poetry and me contest by Silent One
It snowed lightly last night.
I venture into the woods,
hear the silence reigning supreme.
Mutely a light breeze weaved its way
amongst the moss-covered trunks,
the high branches swinging serenely,
the verdant leaves of evergreen trees.
Occasionally a snowflake fluttered down
onto the white path that winded its way
across the solitary forest.
I felt peace in silence
despite the cold that griped
my arthritic old bones.
A few tears of happiness bleared from my sight.
The mist lifted like a silken veil,
all around shone in utter splendor:
a masterpiece of an ethereal painting
of some great master of olden times.
I felt your presence everywhere, O Lord,
I was exhilarated as a bird on the wing,
elated and consoled in utter harmony
with nature's song of praise,
a heavenly sigh to its Creator.
You Can't Remove The Glitter From Silver And Gold
Our love’s been bathed in sunlight and in the moonlight’s glow.
It comes close to being eternal and we have come to know
That when our time is over this truth will always hold –
You can’t remove the glitter from silver and gold.
Life will try to tarnish precious things we find
Living all around us yet always seem confined.
There is a sheen of greatness even when they’re old.
And some get even brighter, with age, or so I’m told
In life we’ve known the safety of sweet and caring arms
That embraced us with comfort and protected us from harm.
No threats have ever reached us where we were not consoled
Knowing you cannot remove glitter from silver and gold.
Our love has always been there as, steadily, we grew old
We never tried to separate glitter from silver and gold.
Written By John Posey
06/21/13
'Tis now known why the Willow weeps,
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid,
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another,
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice,
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear,
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb,
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines,
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs,
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day,
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen,
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near,
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within,
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears,
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used,
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist,
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath.
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.
The rose greets the dawn
softly the breeze reassures...
Dewy tears consoled
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Boated through the tantalizing Kerala backwater
in a pleasant summer morning;
Coconut groves were adorning
our way and perky fishes were chased by river otters
Cacophony of the swaying lofty coconut trees
and the nearby evergreen plants
produced a mesmerizing chant
that certainly consoled the chaotic minds and appease
Majestic banyan tree with its spiraled pillar branches
enthralled the endemic birds
and the migrating animal herds
on the river bank, renovated the place into the ranch
Suddenly the boat entered into the hollow way
where tangled trees made archways,
and fallen flowers filled our pathways
welcomed us, it was such an unforgettable day
Reflections of the slender palm trees on the waters,
painted a flawless picturesque picture
with the kaleidoscope of colors and mixtures
Which was untapped only in the perpetual back waters
Coots and cormorants swiftly plunged into water
When they heard the sound of the boat
Tranquility of the place calmed the hysteria
and it led to the apocalypse of worldly emotions
Sep-9-2017
POTD on Sep 11 2017
I was so happy and I felt so blessed as I received this honour on the death anniversary of my favorite poet Mahakavi Bharathiyar.
MY FATHER'S GENTLE HANDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stabile, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they ‘plumbed,’ rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as a treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions and dilemmas.
I remember my father’s hands as gentle healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
I remember my father’s hands—full of strength and hope as he took my trembling hands in his. Those hands gave me courage—the courage to reach up in search of everything impossible, leaving me with the unbridled sense that to do anything less was the greatest impossibility of all. Even now whenever I need courage, I can feel his hand around mine helping me to feel invincible once again.
In my mind’s eye, I often see my father’s hands—every line and every wrinkle. They told a story about the kind of man he was. I’ll remember my father’s hands for the remainder of my life. I’m grateful for him, for his enduring spirit and presence, which continues to grace my life despite his passing some years ago.
Dad's hands tell a tale
they did countless loving things
they touched and guided
they shaped and molded
they encouraged me to reach
they held the stars in place
they held rising sun
they sought deep understanding
they chased lonely moon
Revealed in that ancient place
where roses become stone and lips dry as dead bone,
the ruins of love my home, hopeless heart shown damp as sorrow known,
rubble etched with tears of deceased romance, a barren face,
my hourglass of power tilted by a hand rough as sand,
body aching for velvet confection, soul suplicant for a loving land,
age dulling the dream for a companion champion, stifling the search,
venturing daily into the world of common hazard and animal angst
standing, fighting, surviving and creating alone, an eagle with no nest,
the sky infinite in distance, sea always pushing my vessel back to fortified beach,
Unexpected like beauty in hunting eyes
you arrived in my life's arena like a veteran of volatile virtue,
speaking as if prepared to die for desire, moving with mischevious fire,
you were my vulnerable Angel, most passionate pulse with carnivorous cries,
we consoled one another when truth seemed cold and trust had narrow view,
offering me the pinnacle pleasure of a Lady's plush rush, I became the love rider,
your flesh, a sanctuary of sexual salvation, your blood, the spirit of immortal rose
Divine Intervention guided you to me, and I to you, together the meaning of love grows
J.A.B.
The secret she holds imperatively,
Locked inside cracked and bleeding lips.
Around her neck lies the skeleton key,
Awaiting the woman's seeking fingertips.
A Pandora 's box filled with sin,
Rests within her still beating heart.
Only a sentence is contained within,
'The world as we know to be torn apart.'
Animal rises by the bell's hollowed toll,
Dusk of desire to engulf and originate.
Restlessness becomes lack of control,
Energy merges and to the night she consecrates.
A cry, a sorrow; all of her distanced soul,
She builds her walls with stone and earth.
When broken, anger unable to be consoled,
Tormented by the blood of her birth.
How can people want rights but they aren't right
While working in the daylight with souls bright as night
The creator shall judge the judges, The evil deserves evil
Good people will get what is equal to their actions
And immoral skin passions have fatal lessons
God has a scale where He weighs & sits
Because everything has equal opposite
We selfish to others but hold our nose when they sell theirs
And not giving pardons while expecting God’s cares
And blessings while leaving others with our bee stings
Now turn to your devil’s favorite things
Praying to join the heavenly choir
But with an evil song you desire
So retire before you join the hell fire.
To be right there's no wrong, the righteous are morally strong
You need more than calcium to be the backbone of society
While society breaks you, to makes you. Surprisingly,
The -able are ignorant and unstable
Unable to add-up in the moral table
Telling fables of multiplication while being divided
Trying to add reasoning in facts provided
Their individualism is subtracting from the fold
Being percentages of a percentage, losing the stronghold
False foundation told about a “Doomed Youth”
While the witty wise horde the fake truth
As the truly righteous shake their head and sings
Go ahead with the devil’s favorite things
Praying to join the heavenly choir
But with an evil song you desire
So retire before you join the hell fire.
The battle of truth lies in the beheading of lies
The Righteous must write us
For justice to be just to us and right us
Bleeding thoughts to think, words to ink
Carving insight to push sanity to the brink
Punching Intel, in mind, for knowledge to sink
Unfold stories consoled foretell tails told
Today's prophets profit profits with souls they forfeit
Crumbling towers with warped foundations
Ripping families but cursed lives they’re facin’
Losing the troubleshooting; uprooting with a booting
Bearing false fruits flawed brings
Now play with your devil’s favorite things
Praying to join the heavenly choir
But with an evil song you desire
So retire before you join the hell fire.
Moonlight glistened like stars on the snowy mountain lane
Ascending to a mesa above the timberline
Horses from the valley ranch often grazed with free rein
More than once fillies had climbed up the steep incline
One morning after the mare Midnight had disappeared
Ranch hands formed a posse and set out to search the hills
The raven-black horse was loved; for her safety they feared
A winter storm set in; hands faced heavy snow and chills
As night approached, dejected posse members returned
The ranch owner consoled them and offered his deep thanks
All felt their rescue mission failed, hung their heads concerned
As snow piled high, blowing, drifting into heavy banks
Three days of frigid weather kept horses inside their stalls
Passing Midnight’s empty booth made rugged cowboys sad
It was on the fourth day they witnessed an end to snow squalls
A sight on the mountain trail turned many faces glad
Midnight slowly plodded down the hill, nudging her foal
A painted pony, black with vivid spots of white
The colt looked like her mother, covered with flakes of snow
Hoof prints down the mountainside shone in morning light
Midnight had taken shelter inside a tiny cave
Just large enough for a determined equine mother
To rest a few days after birthing a stunning babe
A miracle, ranch hands said, unlike any other
Theme: Horses and Snowflakes
For Constance, a Rambling Poet's "Horses or Snowflakes or Horses and Snowflakes" contest
by Carolyn Devonshire
There'll be another empty cot on the camp ground tonight.
Alas, a gallant soldier gave his all in the frightful fight.
His anguished pleas for peace were unheard o'er the battle's roar.
Will humankind ever learn from the barbarous futility of war?
There'll be a pair of empty boots at his memorial service today.
His helmet, rifle and identification tags will also be on display.
Also shown is a photo of a lad in the uniform he proudly wore.
Will humankind ever learn from the horrible futility of war?
Empty arms now hang limply that once held him in fond embrace.
Empty hearts that can only be consoled by the Heavenly Father's grace.
Just a simple marble stone will hallow his name forever more.
Will humankind ever learn from the disastrous futility of war?
At the holiday table this year there'll be an empty chair,
Tho' he'll be absent, they will e'er feel his presence there,
As they reminisce about their hero in precious family lore.
Will humankind ever learn from the merciless futility of war?
Oh! That nations would simply follow the Master's Golden Rule,
Practice brotherhood and learn unto others to be less cruel,
And eliminate for all time such savagery to its very core!
Will humankind ever learn from the brutal futility of war?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
For Timothy Lee, the Best of Me
Since our first night, I have dreaded the last,
thus my passion tightly fashioned clasp.
You are my one safe harbor, my refuge,
my cure for stress overload and pressed blues.
No matter any day’s shatter and stews,
at night I am consoled right beside you
where your skin soothes me secure again
and our wrapped limbs re-thread joy’s ends.
Some tomorrow’s sorrowful horizon
scripts our final intermixed, heart snuggle.
I cannot help but hope that it is me
who first dies and avoids solitude's struggles.
Our bed of blessed satisfaction defined,
would uncover woe for the rest of time.
Come the end of nights molding with you,
comes the end of our love's active value.