Best Contemporaries Poems
Today's changing times tell me
I need to become more contemporary.
Yet these old bones of mine
Would rather remain with the familiar.
Using archaic words gives me a sense
Of connecting with the ancients in
Knowing that the sensibilities of past
Generations will not be forgotten as their
Refined speech fades into oblivion.
Each growing generation wants to separate
With what they define as old-fashioned.
Still, my exuberance is shared in relating
Some of these words to my granddaughter's
Eager ears as she absorbs and mirrors me.
I delight in her attempts to pronounce their syllabic
Content with her sweet three year old tongue.
As my fingers dance upon my Kindle's glass screen
I realise I am becoming a link between the scribes
Of ancient generations and contemporaries computer
Capabilities, enabling old dogs to learn new tricks.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Categories:
contemporaries, analogy, change, words,
Form:
Free verse
Tell me your reasons and I shall tell you mine; never ceasing stories, but!?
Sheltered as a child and kept from the world, to soothe anothers scars....
Crippled through time these lives; life, psychologically mauled in maimed
Precipitations blades, leading the way while as carving stones of gray's
Jetison retro metros hand over fist in, contemporaries fit; this ice age rain?!
Tears pouring from blood red clouds these pools of pain to walk their plank....
Pirates of the Caribbean playing cowboys and indians again; falling stars
Upon terrestrials planes, with their prehistoric stones shaped like guns and bows
Taking aim amid the night of celestial sorrows from whence, they came!?
Ancients heavenly spirit now gathering the winds atop times turbulent waters
Of crimsons crashing unto the carnelian reef of what was; hearts that bled
In yesteryears fears like icicles piercing their eyes, to shatter loves dreams....
Tell me your reasons divination and I shall tell you mine; this soothing sea
Menhir's painted carmine whispers from beyound the mystic, torn veil?!
Angels dusting bejeweled crowns as passage beckons; this beacon
Calling unto the once lost children of light, tis time to come home....
Put away the guns and arrows and swords and bows; tears, upon fading shores ~
********************************************************************
....“Kings & Queens II” *
Categories:
contemporaries, hope, life, love, me,
Form:
I had the worst terrors last night
My mind was in a gruesome sight
The ‘ol apocryphal scene
Insighted by the new regime
Migration bill stirs fear among
Farmworkers chant that It’s Wrong!
Phone app saves Honduran journalist
Can’t go back she’s on their death list
Can’t walk ‘n get food without stress
ICE is cold, enforcing arrests
Or anywhere, nonetheless
For a green card is meaningless
Now a tourist destination
Gaza's newest sensation
Take over plans for a Riviera
Palestine people’s tierra*
Taken; territory sovereign
New rich owner YOU ONLY gain
Who be the beneficiaries
Billionaire contemporaries
For undoence he’s called a hero
Those sacrificed their life for, zero
Those fought for everyone’s freedom
In vain forgotten in this new kingdom
Unbeknownst me how it plays out
Living in the USA, peace-out
Categories:
contemporaries, song, usa,
Form:
Lay
Know me?
Not even close ...
If I were to write about ANYone that I had "issues" with
It would be to them directly
Not hidden in poetic device or analogy
My use of metaphor is for ambiguity and generalization
(Or events and people in the past)
Not hiding my sentiments about contemporaries
Don't assume that I care enough about hateful, contrary people
To waste any time on creative tapestries about them
There is far too much negative and hate in this world already
Without me seeking it out in those bent by its ire
Love and kindness and understanding
Are the only worthwhile human pursuits
And all I truly care about
Not petty personal peeves
Know me? Not even close ...
But please, GET to ...
None of us have too many friends ... or too much love!
Submitted on December 24, 2018
To the "Late 2018 Standard Any Form" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
contemporaries, judgement, trust, wisdom,
Form:
Free verse
The Old Man and the Singer- Mystic
it was like the old man
aged and rustic
a Singer sewing machine
oddity to find in a river
rusted, like the old man
orange, colored rust
carried downstream
by a strong current and
a stronger shoulder
contemporaries they were
him and the machine
tan and tawny
both had spent too much time in
water and sun
the old man was battered but sturdy
the machine-a fossil of yesterdays
to him it was
a prized thing
harboring an industrial memory
of laboring hands
an antiquated Singer
what use had he for it
in its horribly decayed shape
yet, it was carried
downstream
by an old man
to a new destiny
9/28/17
Image Me A Poem
Categories:
contemporaries, old, people,
Form:
Free verse
I awoke this morning, before Dawns early light; the Sunshine still slept.
I took my coffee cup, out on the porch, and for “Lenore” I Finally wept.
The pain, the agony, years of grief: rolled down my cheeks: My Soul’s Relief.
A single ray of sunshine over the majestic purple mountains peak, peeks.
Out of this single ray of light, my Heartbeat; my Soul “ LENORE “ speaks.
“ My Dearest and Only Beloved ; I’m sorry I left, upon our Everlasting Day.
I’ll sing to you My final Poem, before OUR Heavenly Father; bids Me to stay
I remember every Rhyme, YOU wrote For ME : Lets memorize each TIME.
GOD grants US togetherness : “ LENORE, Lets make this HOUR, OURS.
LENORE and I shared Memories, OUR POETRY : many of OUR HOURS
As I came back, from this Adventure, the morning Sun was smiling at ME.
Atop the Mighty Purple Mountain he had climbed ; I was not There to SEE.
With eyes now wider opened, I watch the warmth of the SUN racing at ME.
I feel the wind the warmth flies in on, Flowing through my Grey White Beard
I Smell the flowers growing; I see the mighty OAK Limbs wave; WEIRD.
I must Retrain my senses; To see, hear, feel : TO WRITE!! My FRIENDS
Relearn the Basic laws of Truth and LIFE and LOVE and FEELING.
Must Retrain my hands to write of The Beauty of Mother Earth! My FAMILY
I have to Study very Hard, my Contemporaries , to quicken the HEALING.
Then I can Write, to the ones I love; They teach me Everything THE POETS
Categories:
contemporaries, devotion, history, love, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
Founder's day
>A wind of gratitude is waving
>River of love is dancing, exhibiting wonderful styles whiles meandering
>Cloud of commemoration is drifting.
>All to say ‘’ayeekooo’’
>’’Osagyefo y3 ma W'amo’’..
>The throne is set, come and receive a panegyric
>You are a relic in our memories
>Posterity will always judge in your favor
>A man of wisdom and valor.
>You fought covertly or overtly for then progeny's emancipation
>That fight had made us a proud generation.
>Your were the torch of your mother,
>Your contemporaries can't gainsay.
>Your foresight laid the foundation for your mother's future.
> You started building the walls that projected your magical plan's picture.
>Your confidence was willing to leave no stone unturned
>Alas, nature sent you to the urn.
>Great dreams stuck in the skull
>If you can hear me, speak through a necromancer.
>We have missed the great voice of an orator.
>Even if your phonetics can’t do, let us feel through your kinesics
>We will love you until our hearts are no more
>Your mother will remember your sacrifice until she closes her memory's door.
>You indeed are a founder.
>We salute your charisma.
>Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, ‘’mo ne adwuma’’
>’’S3 3nn3 y3rehyir3n s3 nsroma’’
>’’3y3 wo mm)denb) ntiaaa.’’
>We respect today.
>Because it is your day.
>Osagyefo Dr Kwame Nkrumah
>’’Mo mo mo’’
>We salute.
Categories:
contemporaries, africa, anniversary, birthday, happy
Form:
Lyric
I wear a toga bigger than the life I live
I know who I am so I scream aloud, clear
My name means unlimited abundance
Cultivating the earth is a blessed calling
Transcending generations even unborn
For man, food must be, for life must be
I know who I am, a facilitator typified
Learning in life has made man conquer forever
My contemporaries smile, they chose to learn
Like they sow, the more they keep reaping
My shepherds are led by their noses and stray
My portion varies wildly from existing branding
I reap with the pests and weeds and back ache
Years of manual tilling has tilted my pose
The sun has melted my swagger, resistance I am
I have never seen tractors only hoes behold
Monies for farms fund party rallies, orgies
Agricultural subsidies strictly for city men
No knowledge of chemicals and plant food
The human factor beats them all
The little harvest must be shared to bear
Streams of humans surviving on tiny bits
To share for us is tomorrow lived and beyond
While the bourgeoisie wallow during filthy wealth
These calloused hands they are bent to tear
Categories:
contemporaries, farm, life, political,
Form:
Free verse
Swirling vistas of such sweetness found floating through the auspian air ~
Pen to pad calibre idioms beyond the verbs measuring these tidewater inkwells aside
Beauties, evergreen genetives in red, white and pinks, pronounced; Camelots dreams....
Testimonials of daybreak amid the pacific keynotes?!
Her ambient adverb treasures, gently washing upon the shore inside, my thirsting soul ~
These syntax reasonings postulating now their exotic gatherings; stencils
Moonstruck truths at contemporaries point break; subverting the translucent waves
Amplified currents in forms approaching this high tides, ecliptic heart....
Shadows once shimmering their syllables of review; now, a nouns verse!?
Swirling my spirit deep inside this melding aqua paragraphs, seaside melodies; rhymes
In literatures pacific daybreak keynotes ~
Postulating Moonstruck testimonials; syntax reasons floating through the air of this, loves
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...."Comtemporary Romance Novel?!"
Categories:
contemporaries, faith, life, love, passion
Form:
The Owelle
of the realm
of Onitsha
their title,
Zik of Africa
Our vintage title.
Zik a real patriot
with core values
your contemporaries
were at the regions
but you dreamt of one
Nigeria at the center
Tribe and tongue in vain.
The Owelle was a champion
a champion of the center
though your ideals were
thawed by your peers
he solidly stood by it
even in the face
of the civil war
One Nigeria! One Nigeria!!
echoes that kept reverberating
One Nigeria! One Nigeria!!
Time and time again your
relevance proven
Turned sounds of Nigeria
relished.
Owelle of Onitsha
Zik of Africa.
(Written on the 30th March, 2015)
Categories:
contemporaries, appreciation, celebration, courage, dream,
Form:
Epic
Grandma was German raised to value beauty,
her art found in nature the flowers and the trees.
Grandpa, a Wentworth, from an English family
whose Great Grand sailed the Mayflower, across the sea.
In the time of William Morris, when craft was art,
Great Granddad was a shipwright that's how we got our start.
So, we valued craft and beauty and adventure charted.
Through tough times, poverty, still wisdom was imparted.
Born in a place of splendor miles from the bay,
Mom was raised on the poetry of Edna Millay.
I was born there to and in the woods I played
amongst maidenhair ferns and violets unafraid.
In art born, with brush and pen, often did I write,
raised on Lord Tennyson to great my delight.
And, I adored the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright
how he blended craftsmanship into each homesite.
Schooled in modern art Warhol and Mies Van De Rhoe,
my mind opened blooming to many new tableaus.
All my contemporaries were part of art neuvau.
Each masterly artisan's work helped me to grow
Categories:
contemporaries, life, nostalgia, on work
Form:
Quatrain
Cold commercial relics of industrial production;
As if production could harness the complex origin of pre-classic contemporaries.
Master’s of earthly arts and masonry,
Their blood and fears culminating in celestial creations of historic proportions;
Over vastly constricting landscapes.
I send phalanges of lost connection,
Deep past the ordinary boundaries of normal paths.
The sandy soil nourishes my calloused souls.
At night it soothes and refreshes the canyons between cracked and missing digits.
Frogs echo through the expansive night sky.
Resonating between the stars, and returning in an extremely complex yet simple pattern,
their message is sent.
Louder with each chirp and bellow, subtle patterns illuminate the differences in each response.
The spring has come.
Time to refresh the foot’s connection with continual movement.
Let your bellow dig deep to the soil of space’s horizons,
And return rooted in the rhythm of earth’s timing.
Categories:
contemporaries, art, inspirational, native american,
Form:
Prose Poetry
It was the time when art was king,
Of artists whose praises we all sing.
Great minds there were in the Renaissance,
Through eons , unsurpassed, with little advance.
Greatness was embodied in the works of art,
In Lorenzo's gardens did Michelangelo start.
But great there was one of Mona Lisa fame,
Master painter, inventor - Leonardo his name.
Contemporaries for sure, one really wonders
Of the two, whose work steals the thunders.
David, the Pieta, Sistine Chapel, and more
Everlasting they are through ages sure.
But then there's the Lisa, Last Supper, inventions galore.
On their ingenuity and genius, the world lays great store.
Can genius be bestowed in multiple men?
Can peace and tranquility be shared even then?
Can two kings sit and reign on one throne?
Or squabble and fight like two dogs with one bone?
And so, these men of unparallel fame
Were set by chance a mischievous game.
Asked they were to adorn the Council Hall
With paintings to settle rankings once and for all.
With gusto did the two set about
A Battle each to prove their clout.
Leonardo chose the battle of Anghiari;
Battle of Cascina was Michelangelo's quarry.
Great was the strife between the two,
Each strove hard for the other to outdo.
Of the rivalry ,I heard, - the worst of all,
Art was the victim - and the two took a fall.
Relates the great chronicler Vasari,Giorgio,
That the nadir of art was seen in the Palazzo Vecchio
As each of the greats thought little of their craft
But dallied and diddled, till the populace all laughed.
The Cascina on naked bathing soldiers was based
On the banks of the Arno it was placed.
But the scene that was rendered was so ludicrous
That his work, sadly, bordered on the ridiculous.
Leonardo's Anghiari was a shade grim
But his chances to greatness was very slim.
He used oils from Pliny the Elder's recipe
But soon these flaked , were smudgy, and drippy.
Be that as it may
To Art's great dismay
What should have been great works
Were diminished by Rivalry's quirks.
Vasari painted over these objets de art
And replaced these with his own from the start.
Now conservators do scan, to see if they can,
Which of the two, Leonardo or Michelangelo, was
The painter of the elusive Magnum Opus.
~18 Jun 2016~
Categories:
contemporaries, art, history, jealousy,
Form:
Rhyme
A wind of gratitude is waving
River of love is dancing, exhibiting wonderful styles whiles meandering
Cloud of commemoration is drifting.
All to say ‘’ayeekooo’’’’Osagyefo y3 ma W'amo’’..
The throne is set, come and receive a panegyric
You are a relic in our memories
Posterity will always judge in your favor
A man of wisdom and valor.
You fought covertly or overtly for then progeny's emancipation
That fight had made us a proud generation.
Your were the torch of your mother,
Your contemporaries can't gainsay.
Your foresight laid the foundation for your mother's future.
You started building the walls that projected your magical plan's picture.
Your confidence was willing to leave no stone unturned
Alas, nature sent you to the urn.
Great dreams stuck in the skull
If you can hear me, speak through a necromancer.
We have missed the great voice of an orator.
Even if your phonetics can’t do, let us feel through your kinesics
We will love you until our hearts are no more
Your mother will remember your sacrifice until she closes her memory's door.
You indeed are a founder.
We salute your charisma.
Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, ‘’mo ne adwuma’’
’’S3 3nn3 y3rehyir3n s3 nsroma’’
’’3y3 wo mm)denb) ntiaaa.’’
We respect today.
Because it is your day.
Osagyefo Dr Kwame Nkrumah
’Mo mo mo’’
We salute.
Categories:
contemporaries, africa, anniversary, bereavement, celebration,
Form:
Lyric
The Awakening, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Réveil
I’m back in the bosom of poetry !
Decidedly wealth in the million
Has rejected my fullfilment,
And this’s a sad denouement.
As for me, the chosen proverb to apply :
Water clear and pure and this bitter bread
Never to go without, as with
The gent strumming little tunes on the rebec !
As with me the bed of problems multiply :
The long white nights of darkening dreams,
Just as with me, the eternal hopes
Striding from mornings to evenings !
So’s with me ethics and aesthetics !
I am he on whom poesy laid its indelible stamp
Rhyming staggeringly fantastic lines
In the penumbra of a smoking oil lamp !
I am the soul chosen by God
To keep entranced my contemporaries
Through such rare and fine refrains
Sung on an empty stomach, O ! Serene Heavens !
I’m back in the bosom of poetry.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
contemporaries, poetry, poets,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue