Best Contoured Poems
L i f e
a prison of pretense
and I still dream of
walking through tempests of chaos
barefoot,
allowing stones and pebbles
to tattoo my languid skin with love in lilac,
as ashes of yesterday
erase the thunder marks
that struck my spine
in ruthless rhythm,
oblivious to the scorching solitude
that swallowed the stars
swaying across the heinous horizon.
Trusting the tormentor,
dancing with the devil,
as I drink from the naive springs,
like a jailed jasmine,
to Stockholm syndrome.
I’ve heard the crickets croon,
I’ve felt the warmth of raining tears,
while w a i t i n g
w i s h i n g
upon pirouetting peridots~
a trick played by Lucifer,
as peace is a lie
fed from the serpentine scent of sunlight
that tastes like mists of malice…
Tonight I kneel
at the chapel of charades,
reminiscing fragmented forests
where I’ve long been
a forbidden lace of Lilith,
cursed by the fickle flames
of the blood moon,
like a tortured sin,
tethered by time…
O divine destiny,
designed with darkness,
see the angst,
veiled amidst contoured clemency
and manicured mercy,
the beginning
of an inevitable end.
I fear not the hereafter~
the realm of redolence and zephyr,
there phrases of regret
shall be a rinsed-away garden,
watered with saffron and amber…
Perhaps
when the last refrain of living
rewinds and repeats,
we’ll reflect
on the circus we performed in sheer naivety…
But would you then~
catch my soul, it’s willing to fly away,
feel my pulse, it emanates freedom,
heed my heart, it sings of love,
seize my ink, it flows with faith,
catch my sigh, it homes compassion,
hold my hand, it seeks kindness…
Hallowed be thy Name
Hallowed be thy Light....
An Empty Circle – Part 5
A clearing they did enter slow,
though haste was of the days found deed
Beyond the waters chanting flow
of driftwood doors and ancient weed
There stood a man in beard of white,
not startled as they entered sure
His staff possessed a jeweled light,
a robe of crimson fabric bore
Through misted haze of chanted sway
they spoke for it was their command
He turned to stare with eyes of gray
and silence them with lifted hand
“You words are known before you speak
of beauty taken to the gate
A potion, magic, which you seek
to wish on hope and not too late”
Upon the floor a contoured ring
in seashell essence powered stain
A cauldron empty smokeless sting
it burned their eyes, their skin the same
“Fear not for this shall be the path,
Now step within this circled mark”
As they obeyed, with wave of staff
and suddenly their world was dark
With woven lines of vibrant glare,
a feeling ‘pon their chests fell tight
Now breathless as their thoughts did share
when sure of foot they stood in light
As focus came their worried eyes,
their castle stood as if a dream
The shaman spoke, past sorrowed cries
“Now take me promptly to your queen”
Coffin lungs unhinge a chest open bare,
fragile skin ripping thin as bat membrane-
flutter in waves of vapor, from the heart that beats itself,
exhuming an illusive space...
defined by all that never was.
The only promise left unbroken,
held against all petty wills,
is the nothingness that eclipses the tangible-
contoured by chaos, it stands tall and futile,
leaving no shade for the shelter of lost dreams.
And so let the old void fill the new,
where Only Hope's clumsy shadow filters in,
and Fear blows every breath of whim,
Asphyxiating in this open cage,
for too long I chose to stay and wait
for empty promises to take,
and take,
and take.
Under the seamless sky of crystalline cosmic sheen
resplendent rays of the mesmeric moon embrace you.
On the sequined waves of the stardust surge I float,
see the luster of your heart in the patina of your eyes.
My dormant desires are enticed to feel enamored
your shimmering radiance in the moonshine, I adore.
Your ballerina eyes dance to the music of longing, I listen,
the cadence fusing with the melody of my resonant heart.
The florid finery of iris flashes in your sapphire eyes,
glitters with the grandeur of fervent pearls of dainty dew.
Rhapsody ripples in the emerald meadow of my mind,
I hear entranced the concerto of your yearning heart.
In vivacious vale of my mind contoured by your charisma,
I carve an ardent conduit of rapt craving to reach you.
The fervid clouds of my pristine passion melts in a torrent,
make my love for you a cascading stream, I swim.
Flowing with the current of your captivating allure,
my enthralled emotion sails in the bracing bay of bliss,
where your love designs the lilting lattice of stars in my sky,
the shine of its enchanting tinsels I preserve in my heart.
Once, a girl in my tip-top prime was I,
not much sleep needed after a lullaby-
contoured figure with toned legs and buns,
gym at 6am just to show off my guns.
Now morns are as rough as a sty in my eye.
Rising early can be so unbearable,
but back then it wasn’t so terrible-
I’d leap with a pep in my step with a tune
in my head awaiting my nap at noon.
Now that alarm I hear is not comparable!
“OUCH! IT HURTS!” that buzzing sound.
The unrelenting noise does astound
me when I try my best to get up early morn,
eyes water and my forlorn body worn.
No time for laundry when your bed bound.
In the summer I awake at almost one,
demanding nights, so much to get done!
I used to be able to sleep much less,
now darkness in the morn does cause stress-
I can’t stand rising earlier than the sun!
for contest COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier
August 10, 2019
swan song
.
you made my world bigger
then smaller
then so large
i did not know east from west
as i stood so alone
in the middle of desire
and that proverbial non-place…
wantonness
.
i showed you boats on the water
and vivid red roses
while you took me to the land of lincoln
and made me feel
the hope of craving
.
we touched grafted roses
with bougainvillea vines
entwined, inseparable
.
i often wonder where you are
breathing silently
some nights in pennsylvania
sitting alone in a wicker chair in spain
or typing mercurially at your
ergonomically contoured keyboard
in every province of canada
.
i know you like to dance by the water
on warm southern california nights
(you told me without meaning to)
.
yet when the doors of evening close
and lights are turned off
i can hear your breathing
musical, melodious, wonderfully
you
.
because of the desires
of your heart
your passion sounds sweeter
than the splashing cascades of
powerful water splashing, falling
in snoqualmie
.
laughter is easy with you
.
when my tongue glides
across your trembling belly
is it hopefulness, excitement, passion?
.
is it the wandering thoughts
of your mind
hoping the roadmap of your body
will lead to hills and valleys?
.
is it
where the combustion of craving
ignites into a flaming torch of admiration?
.
my wish, for you
is the rising of your
innermost desires will be
felt as comfort and consolation
.
so today may be regenerated
as a beginning
of wishes come true
.
©~tolbert~
Yes, I know, it hurts real bad
Yes, I know, we do not really need it
But then, in a man's world
Even if we do need to be a feminist
Why, a waxing does make us, women, glad
A waxing does be, to ourselves, to our bodies, a little treat
A waxing, why, to being beauteous we have accomplished
Why, a must it does be, even if for rights, we do be emancipacionists!
A torrid hour spent at the beauty parlor
A torrid hour during which we shall pretend that it is all fine
A torrid hour spent in trying to look cool
With a smile, plastered on our faces, a smile, trying to feel so, Belle!
Pray, we try not even to whine
Yes, all we do is to breathe in deep
And make ourselves believe that a waxing does be something cheap
Yes, that it does be worth its value, that it does be much needed
Pray, say I to myself each time I am about to get waxed
How come the cavewomen did live, without waxing, yet, so relaxed
Yes, now the society demands so much of women
From perfectly done hair, well contoured make up to perfectly manicured hands
From a perfectly shaped figure, to perfectly assorted clothes
Even to being all perfectly synchronized in moods
Why, do we, women be taken for roses
Just made to look pretty in flower vases?
All we do ask is to be let
Yes, to be let to live
To be allowed to breathe
More, to be accepted the way we do be!
Waxing hurts,
But without it, I would just be a misfit
Waxing is a pain
But without it, I would be looked at with disdain!
Even if the world has changed
Even if now, feminism does be a choice,
Pray, waxing does be the one with the louder voice
Yes, indeed, waxing, a real pain for a great gain!
There she was
just a few feet away
Glossed lips
Powdered face
Faux lashes
Contoured cheeks
We locked eyes
then she looked away
cold and distant
Maybe she was
tempting me
to walk in her fire
She was sweet
like sugar
Sugar is what tempts us
pouring upon
our wildest fantasies
Sugar gives us cavities
rots our teeth
our soul
our world
It seems
vanity is
always in style...
Cerulean pools
cascade slowly
with glistening pain,
tracing the gentle curve
of your soft skin,
caressing each
contoured crease
as if sweetly kissing
your flushed cheek.
Like the bright beaming
rays that fall silent
on the frozen blue
of winters snow shadows,
the crescent moon
mirrors the secrets
in the turned corners
of your blushing lips,
crimson window
into your beautiful soul.
Lost in your reflection
you hide from you,
unable to see
what the world sees,
unable to feel
what I feel
unable to know
the special beauty
you possess,
the beauty that envelopes
each person
you touch with your
magic embrace.
Lost is the sound of
your dulcet song
from my longing ear,
sweet melancholic words
of your sad sorrow,
buried deeply
in your demon's
hate filled ebon bosom,
as it pushes the wonder
that is you,
the beauty
that is you,
the lost essence
of you
and only you,
ever deeper
inside of its lonely,
cold, cruel hate,
gone forever in
dark emotion.
02/01/15
(for Jon Accomando)
mine was the last generation to be spanked. sensuous and real, w/ corporal punishment— at
least you felt something.
sadly, it too has been corrupted.
in the new violence no one raises a hand— eyebrows and whispers, an errant son reclaimed?
“fr yr own good. for your own.”
i am somebody’s son.
no.
i am in the living room, barely. the remote in johnny’s hand, an extension? new american
phallus, contoured to fit your palm.
push the button. change the channel. roll over and fall asleep. it’s all been said, done.
it’s the weight of history that crushes us. maybe a.d.d. will cure us of our inertia. maybe.
maybe is democracy in ashes.
no.
the cat is sleeping, quietly by the fire. i remember envying him once; a quiet life, pins
and needles— i was born for.
the cat is neutered. he spends more time licking himself now, and he’s grown fat.
we’re not so different really.
i am willing the embers from the fire in his direction.
i asked johnny once, “if you could make the world anew, shinny and perfect...”
his face lights up in anticipation. a million abstractions, he’s been waiting all his life.
“what would you keep the same?”
he doesn’t know.
“Television. I would keep Television.”
my face is gently bashed in.
oh, mild america...
one day, when the oil runs out and the apartment buildings reach the sky things will
change, they have to.
where there was silence—whispers. a fast talker now a lisper. whisper down the cities.
shudder down the buildings.
man’s love, man’s work- is made worthless. we’ve been pissing and moaning so long that
it’s coming out screams and yawns.
no.
blessed! we are blessed!
w/ suffering and desire.
w/ big macs and rubbing thighs.
w/ quiet eyes and shaky hands.
w/ heartache and lone.
w/ genitals in my coffee.
w/ 10,000 thoughts in my pockets.
the simulacra of the ‘good life’ is a pacifier. i’ve had enough.
no.
no. no. no. no. no.
in the living room i am empowered. i have willed an ember from the fire onto the cat.
kindly he remains asleep.
i told johnny “the cat is on fire.”
johnny nodded.
the cat continued to burn.
I call her Angel
My man made metal guardian
Protecting me from pearls of the sky
She provides me with warmth and comfort
As she accompanies me through life
Her contoured racy chassis of silver
Not too unlike my own
Her alloy wheels grip the tar
Taking me to all new destinations
That were previously unknown
We complement each other nicely
As I sit behind the wheel
Excitement is beyond imagination
But speed is not of the essence
In my fast and furious mobile machine
All shiny and glistening like new
Sparkling clean with fresh glazing
And lined with silver chrome
Headlights brighten my path ahead
Ensuring I find my way home
I am attracted to shiny things
We women love a bit of bling
My car is like my man
Simple and safe
I take care of her as I do him
I love to drive on empty roads
Just me and Angel on our own
Blaring our favourite music so loud
Me singing on the top of my voice
She doesn’t care I am not in tune
My car is my second home
I clean her as often if not more
She sleeps in her garage safe and warm
Until the next time we uncover
Even more adventures galore
Atop old Penistone
From bumpy stony track to peak the summit
No ledges, drops from which to plummet
A quarried mound that boasts sweet heather
Loyal and strong despite the weather
The climb to top, a meagre stroll
But views abound, sights to extol
Bilberries aplenty on summer day
Rich pickings from a lush array
On one gray stone, a single rose is laid
where envied views boast hills of jade
In memory of a beloved view
Recalled by one faithful and true
Down slopy rubble on rugged track
A tarn exists amid the crags
A mirrored well by fallen sky
For calm reflection to stay awhile
And on to sepulchered random rock
Sculptured by time, turn back the clock
Grand memories of those since gone
Each tilted stone bears one loved name
Proud Penistone portal to the way
Not much to see, I hear you say
But look awhile on peaty ground
Penistone hill, not just a mound
A vantage point of contoured green
In memory of a beloved view
Mid-life street woman from red town
she was...I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still contoured like a Paul Gauguin urn, is wrapped
in arms lovely in flesh and heat: fanned banana
leaves swaying to samba notes while cooking
fried bamboo roots; her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic beat. How she then pinched
my cheeks with her tapered fingers still
pink on veins floating through her quivering
body…
Somehow, she gave me this epiphany of touch;
the slow wave of body rhythm lightly fondling
the rosiness of my adolescent skin. If i knew how
to pivot in the wakening garlands of Latin
steps, it was her ample hips winding and bellying
in nights and morns of her own wanton sashays...
Oh how I long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still blazing among
bursting seeds of female treachery or finery.
I tell myself, there is no age when her fire sways
in places where tropical eyes dazzle with her
near flowing, soaking limbs…so tenderly
wild because she, Livia, nymph of the forest raw,
has nothing else to lose.
©
for Debbie's Women, and SKAT's Poem #2
by nette onclaud
In numerous locales countrywide, they hold sway
Pirouetting at intervals like ballerinas from Bolshoi
Beauteous, feline and very feminine
Slender to the point of emaciation, not quite
Cultivating the undernourished look on a frugal diet
Decidedly austere for a longer tenure in the limelight
Basking in the fleeting warmth of an adulatory audience
A gathering of the doting kindred and the upwardly mobile
Some dirty old men on the sly, dirty young men too
Glued to their seats craning for a better view
By and large captive by choice, a handful perforce
Sitting through to pen their weekly column
Giving those they fancy their due in the sun
Witnesses to a parade of demure eyed lasses
And a few with flashy looks walking tall on stilettos
Essentially female and contoured though not prominently so
At least not to a marked degree, yet with excellent muscle tone
Opulence, no longer deemed a career necessity
Once considered right stuff, now rejected as wrong size
An hour-glass shape belonging to an age bygone
But hardly so, from the viewers’ mind, in retrospect
Enchanting and alluring yet not overtly titillating
Each in a state of dress and undress
Willing tools of designers flaunting their creations
Sporting dresses and hats and shoes, and lingerie too
In black or white and loud or subdued hues
Displaying formal wear, casual wear, swimsuits and sleep suits
Some scanty and figure hugging, others flowing and loose
A bony look required for some, others fulsome
A voyeur’s paradise, to be sure
Indulging a fetish without stooping too low
Chilly weather was never reason enough to cancel a show
Heat of arc-lamps taking care of goose pimples
Or brandy taken neat infusing the needed heat
Harbingers of tomorrow’s fashion and pall-bearers of today’s
The strobe lit platform of the pageant
Serving to launch new faces or is it legs?
The leggy look personified by Twiggy of yore
Carried through in the interim and sustained by the new genre
Captivating without doubt, and thorough professionals
Displaying unruffled demeanour and tutored bearing of thoroughbreds
Exuding confidence with every graceful step they take
Cool as ice despite the harsh glare of stage lights
And callous catcalls from boorish males
Performing in a backdrop of future fashion trends
Money and fame finding some, eluding others
Be it centre stage or in the shadows
It is bread on the catwalk for all
Thumbs wiggling on east wing, backstage
lines skipped like a broken record
with trails of script on hand, sweat poured,
pale rose-in-waiting was I on moist page
Theater brimmed as crowds filled seats, agaped
bright spotlights roamed, my eyes rehearsed the words;
thumbs wiggling on east wing, backstage
lines skipped like a broken record
Panting fast, I tucked wired nerves in head's cage,
that as curtains blew, this name was soon called
recalling to breathe, my flesh was in crazed rage.
Wait! "Clear dry throat; focus on scenes contoured",
Thumbs wiggling on east wing, backstage.
, ,,,,,, ,,
*anxiety experienced before performing
the role of Medea on stage.
* Rondel form: consisting of 13 lines: two quatrains
and a quintet,rhyming as follows: ABba abAB abbaA.
The capital letters are repeats.
Posted under rondeau
for Susan's Wait Contest
19 July 2012