Best Converses Poems
Her face launched a thousand verses, into the worshipful waves she immerses
With the mermaids, she converses adorned by many in the ultramarine universes
A star child of the celestial seas her warmth blowing benevolently in the breeze
For humanity, she will appease as her tears of joy fall from the terpsichorean trees
A heart bigger than her white smile, as she indulges with the fish on her lost isle
Sailing serendipitously is her only style; touching many a heart admits many a mile
She dances underneath the stars and moon, a Delphian dreamer of twilights tune
Signals of the heart from her lavish lagoon, sending to us on her rainbow balloon
Tender are her words in a heavenly view, morphing with water of the ocean blue
Her heart will help you mend and start anew, with shimmering light shining thru
A beautiful soul loving and living carefree, of this earth an angel of the first degree
As my thoughts sail across the sentimental sea, she will always be a Hero to me.
Nov.18.2017
HERO
Sponsored by: Silent One
This poem is dedicated to Akinna Downing... a beautiful soul and poetess here at the soup...her warmth and kindness have come across in vibes of friendship at times of need...I'm sure you will agree with me...there are many more beautiful female soul poets... I encourage other's to do the same, as I will in the future...thank you again, my dear friend, Akkina...for your warmth, friendship and white smiles...
(To be sung to the tune of the Christmas Carol - “Away in a Manger”)
Nature’s Language of Love
The landscapes are glowing when the world awakes
And earth smells aromatic as the dawn breaks
Then when day is done and the dark night has come
That’s when scenic mystic magic is begun.
Nature converses in her language of love
Through wonders created by God up above
She is a composer of melodies too
Look and listen to the things nature can do.
Proudly elegant, beauteous stately trees
The leaves on the boughs sing their songs on the breeze
Trees provide feasts from the fruit of the harvest
And shelter from storms when one’s at their darkest.
The water we need, the air that we all breathe
Humans, animals, birds, butterflies and bees
Without nature nothing could ever exist
The earth would be barren, what we’d have all missed.
Grant thanks to our Father in heaven above
For gifts of nature that come wrapped up in love
The life that we have, the miracle of birth
Rising of the sun, moon and stars o’er the earth.
An emblem of love is nature’s fragrant rose
Warming hearts with her charm where’re a rose grows.
6th October 2021
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Change The Record Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
I plead guilty
Of saying,
My grandchild is
The most beautiful
The most wonderful
The most intelligent,
It shows, it is so evident,
Absolutely so loving,
Character and nature so giving,
Makes friends instantly
And acts independently,
And so much fun,
Takes my hand
To help build sandcastles
In the sea sand,
Likes to share,
Tells you if she feels you are wrong,
That is not fair,
And how old is this little wonder,
Who is not even afraid
Of an intense storm
With lightning and thunder,
Two years and 8 months,
Who converses so sensibly,
And comprehensibly,
I am not exaggerating,
Such a wise little mind
Who is also so truly kind,
Who tells me I am not pronouncing
“Absolutely,” Correctly
It is ab-so lut-ely yiayia, she says,
And I beam at you with pride
You are so little, yet mature
Everyday we love you more and more,
And one day when our time is up,
I hope no time too soon,
When you look up and
See a full bright moon,
And lots of glittering stars,
It’s Yiayia and pappou ,
Sending you hugs
And love galore.
YIAYIA AND PAPPOU ARE THE GREEK WORDS FOR – GRANNY AND GRANDPA
An illusion a mirage
Ethereal she glides
Most graceful nymph
Our Lady of the Lake
Appears surreal at twilight
Tends to her waterlily garden
Converses with the butterflies
A lost soul she ambles and meanders
She haunts the silence of the night
Then disappears dreamy as the mist
AP: 2nd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2020
In lands where words like rivers flow, beneath the moon's serene, soft glow,
A scribe with pen in steady grasp, captures life's essence, breath in clasp.
Each line breathes life, each word a beat, where hearts and artistry meet,
Within this dance, where lines converge, syllables and dreams emerge.
Upon the page, a dream's soft march, where truth and fancy blend and arch,
A world from deepest musings drawn, where words and wisdom dawn.
Here, poetry unlocks the soul, freeing minds, making broken whole,
In every line, a universe, in syllables, life converses.
So raise our cups, filled with the ink, to poets who dare to think,
Whose words can heal, can tear, can bind, echoing through the mind.
In every verse, a life, a tale, in poetic seas we sail,
Where lines hold sway, in night or day, guiding us on our way.
I called them monsters,
Green eyed ogres
These writers
Full of mediocre.
Some slam what they do not understand
Praising the most bad poetic verses
For the sake of reciprocation
I detest these writers lacking converses.
Green eyed monsters they are
I don’t care what they think of me
Green eyed ogres full of crap
I don’t care I am free!
Blues in the Night.
A malignant moon
shines his metallic claws -
combs my hair and brushes me forward.
I am alone in the shadowy crooks
of a poisoned metropolis.
A clandestine garbage chute -
where waifs and strays burn
within the fetid bowels
of a cavernous concrete underbelly.
The orphanage awaits my arrival,
as muted outcries are crushed
beneath my footsteps.
A parentless prison
teeters atop Utopia's dreaded brim;
the hamlet where Orwell slew Hilton.
St. Peter has been released
and no longer tends the kitchen.
Agony and angel wings reneged
a redundant brotherhood of sorts.
His recipe for remorse shall be missed.
Blues in the Night.
In the distance,
feigned epileptic outbursts
placates a patron's fears.
Caffeine injections
stimulates another's venial sins
as it magnifies their cardinal options.
An insomnious woman converses
with a napkin holder. The surface
is dull and unreflective, like she.
Banter never-to-be heard
by her never-to-be gentleman caller.
I am home –
amongst the dead I adore.
A haggard waitress serves me a menu.
A laminated journal stained
with melancholy and mustard.
Desolation and demi-tasse
are tonight’s midnight special.
Ten cents additional, if you order deluxe.
Blues in the Night.
I twiddle my thumbs
for I have no other’s to borrow.
I catch my rugged reflection
in the asylum’s window.
I espy my counterpart again
in a twisted spoon -
realizing I’m three utensils short
from a grievous quartet salted
with Mack Sennett misfits.
A collection of dishes clatter
above the sanatorium’s jukebox.
I place my spoon on the counter
and pick up a lifeless knife.
I envy its potential and possibilities
as Woody Herman croons
in the background.
verses in lines, wing that shines
converses and do streamlines
contemplating on pages
transcending spanned phalanges
I know six languages,
The one I write in
The one I speak in,
My mother’s words,
My father's verse,
And those of my brothers.
My mother speaks quickly
In baking terms and 80’s slang
She speaks in sewing materials,
Starbucks orders,
And references to Bon Jovi.
My father speaks with nature,
I just happen to hear him.
He converses with trees,
And pebbles worn smooth by time.
His language is filled with bar chords,
Childhood lullabies,
And culinary jargon.
The words he shapes are crafted by knowledge that I won’t admit I see.
Two years younger than me is an entirely different language,
Though one I understand.
Covered feelings form a language
I used to know quite well
Spoken in anger
Or begrudging hope
He lives in a pixelated world
With his eyes glued to a screen
He speaks in accordance to what is thought,
Usually not his thoughts guiding his actions
Strict participant in social norm,
Too much is said about what he hasn’t done and not enough about what he has
The youngest speaks in an entirely
Too innocent language
One I have come to detest
For the unwelcome flashbacks it brings
I don’t speak his language
Doubt I ever will again.
His quick words are full of legos,
Cartoons,
And Kung Fu Panda.
His actions are a reminder of a song I have forgotten.
I speak in limericks,
Dramatic monologues,
And Iambic Pentameter.
My words are full of colors and grasped by few
For they float by much too quickly
Full of mentions of J. K. Rowling
And pop culture. My wonder is stuck
In the impossible,
For I have yet to believe it is so.
I speak in song lyrics and quotes.
My words are full of grudging resilience,
Quick wit,
And sarcasm.
It does not matter what language we speak,
Or what percent Irish we think we are,
We are alike on what matters,
Like our love for literature,
Our patriotism of Gryffindor,
And our intrest in politics.
The languages we speak tie us together,
They are what make us unique.
Do you think about us the way I do
within my heart, where only I can go?
I'd love to know what it's like to be you,
for there's more to you than I will ever know.
All that I feel I filter through my heart,
where my conscience converses with my soul.
I want to think we're not that far apart:
each facet, contributing to the whole.
Life, at times, seems to be an illusion,
played out in the synapses of my mind.
And I think, if it's all a delusion,
what does that say for any truths I find?
But when your soul communicates with mine,
our thoughts somehow magically align.
In the darkest hour,
Of the coldest night
When the Heavens deign
To open wide
And e’en Angels
Take startled flight
From eerie sounds
And silvered light
The Cosmos converses
In Cosmic verses and is
Softly scriptured, the melodies
The stanzas…the bars
In the gelid Winter’s night…
And would’st one lend a careful ear,
Perhaps the Gods… would grant him hear
…The whispers of the stars…
What can we expect from a government denying God's plan
that which speaks in parseltongue the language of snakes
this which is a skill that converses through black magic
Pretending to care it focuses on taboo subject matter
how blind has become the darkness surrounding these souls
They start shedding when the light illuminates their heart's desire
working tirelessly bending the will of many to comply and submit
Let's thread the needle and pinpoint the words
fear where the fruits of this deception grows
without roots rotten apples trying to spread an agenda removing choice
there is only one Law I obey these days and it sure as hell is not man made
It was the rhythm of the fingers
Running through the black and white keys,
The feathery strum of the hollow guitar and
The beat of the arms that converses with the melodies.
The voice of the soul is not lyrics but song
That slowly lured the tie that has grown so strong.
This poetry’s not aimed at singing the tune
But only to hum the memory that began in a June.
You lit the room where the poet longed for a brother
And lay a hymn to the unsung dreams.
You strike a chord at him not to grieve and bitter
About life’s shrill discordant volumes.
Standing across the road from the church where I was confirmed; a teen
Blue jean jacket and jeans, Converses, I felt pretty cool with a pack of
Marlboro reds in my pocket, blue tip matches..
It was time away from tending the flock of sheep back home, and my regular
after school job supported my later habit.
Perhaps I wasn't that bad, seems as though I was not getting caught smoking
in the bathroom.
Deep in those Appalachian hills I wondered at times as the rain would come, I
would grab my old jacket to take a walk. Funny how that warm summer rain
was the ailment, my mother in a distance calling me back in, and my: "I'm
fine Mom... Just taking a walk".
Farm life was not hard, not so much a lady until later years. It
was the eighties, Finding myself on those sleepy little streets of the Village,
where they roll up the side walks at five pm, and every once in awhile, when I
felt the coolest of my cool, all by myself, I'd take a Marlboro out of my jacket,
strike a blue tip off my zipper and toss it.
The farm got foreclosed on in my adulthood, no lambs
play king of the mountain, butting each other off the huge stump in the rock
in the pasture.
I walked back to that sleepy little Village when I came back not long ago, My
blue jean jacket and jeans, converses, Marlboros and blue tips.... The village
was a ghost town, nothing open but a pharmacy that had opened thirty years
ago it was a store in a bank building that Bonnie and Clyde hit, and closed it
on down.
I was rather amused with the vault open, storing two liters of Pepsi
there, browsing at the sunglasses too long with the elderly working, I was
asked if I was going to buy something. I said well, you took out the fountain
coke machine, so I guess not, I walked outside the door, lit a cigarette with
my blue tip, and slowly walked down the side walk, the sun set different,
shadows fading Of used to be's, they never mattered to me really....
Shy of condition
Shyness afflicted
Shy opaque canvas butterfly
Who only speaks when addressed
Oh shy , Oh shy
Opaque butterfly
Who only speaks when addressed
Converses only in chilling whispers
shyness permitting
Corner to corner when in a room searching camouflage in which
to shelter cloak invisibility
Personable , polite , contrite yet
sadly lacking personality
Apart from shyness to call
on as a solent friend and crutch
to lean upon
So shy and friendless butterfly
has no one but himself to pacify
his mental health
On the outside but still a bystander
fenced in by wall's built out of social
convention barricade stone's
Alone is shy with untapped depth
bound and blighted by crippling
stage fright
For fear of letting one's presence
be known and felt in company
But no less worthy of being heard
than those who crave and hogg the
limelight for themselves
Who are probably no less or
even more insecure than the
terminal shy
Both suffer from the same
personality condition
just express themselves
in different or their own way
Shy , eccentric , exhibitionist
two sides of the same coin
Unable to express oneself
for fear of being torn apart
for being different
In a world shepherded by sheep
where everyone aspires to be a
lookalike
Everyone eventually ends up
looking like mutton dressed
up in lamb's designer wool
With the wool pulled firmly
over our eye's