Best Cooled Poems
Why oh Why
A Collaboration between Seren Roberts, Tim Smith and Arthur Vaso
Poem inspired by Seren Roberts
Each poem written from a different view
The Murderer
The Murdered
The Mannequins who witnesses the crime
Why of Why
Lovers Die
Mannequins Cry
Sat, with his head in his hands
Remembering how love had once been,
Now, because of his stupidity
He was on his own, solitary again
Remembering, how love had been,
Behind the bars he now calls home
He was on his own as before and again,
Realizing, he was such a petty bitter fool
Behind the bars he now calls home
His mind, aflame with tears of regret
Realizing he was an utter fool,
To have stabbed her to death in a bloody pool
His mind aflame, with deep regret
Why... did he buy a knife that day...why?
To have stabbed her to death
Cause she had given love another try.
Oh how he wishes, its he that had died
Lovers Die
I linger with the scent of flowers
cascading over what was once spring showers
Your red hands drip passion
long since cooled
darkness surrounding you has lifted
and only I can see the light
Why couldn't you leave
a girl clamoring to be free
dressed in a burnt orange skirt
driven to the stake with your hurt
Words were written on the wall
but all you did was erase it all
Twisted as the knife turns
in a cell your hell burns
Mannequins Cry
We have no faces
We have no voices
You think we have no feelings
You see us as objects in commercial spaces
We saw the hidden knife unfold
We saw the young ones stabbed so bold
Pain is the emotion that frightens us all
Mannequins crying, tears running as we see her crawl
When the blood flowed
When the redness of hate showed
We with no faces
Shed tears at the human disgraces
Such young love so brutally robbed
By the jealous and lonely one, made us all sob
He regrets I am sure the hate that overflowed
Life's so torn it can't be sown
My nights have no rhythmic shadows on the wall
Our candle flame silhouettes no longer rise and fall
Our love cooled like dying embers without a spark
Filled with emotive despair, tears spill in the dark
We shared a tranquil pond in a love forged long ago
but our waters are dammed. Our stream does not flow
What remains of us is a cracked and dried river bed
and a wound in my heart, from which my life has bled
No relief when night is over and the sun starts to rise
'cause it's your face I long to see when I open my eyes
With empty arms, no smile of contentment will I wear
I am left with only memories; a grievous burden to bear
My nights are foreboding, and transcends until morn
Like petals of a rose, I wither, pricked by love's thorn
Desolate, I now languish in the web lost love has spun
Lingering at twilight and dawn, on the edge of the sun
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
the light breeze
cooled the morning sun
daytrip Venice
had begun
vantage views
from a vaporetto
inch-by-inch
the skyline began to grow
St Marks cameinto view
etched on a sky so blue
tourist scrambled
from the boat
sensory feelings inside emote
ambling along piazzas wide
campanile renaissance
a city's pride
byzantine palaces bridge of sighs
facias painted
in pastel dyes
gothic churches candles ablaze
carvings to draw the gaze
depicted ceilings vivant tableau
golden bedecked reredos
pizza italiano barolo red wine
relax chat then dine
'neath parasoled
courtyard shade
as gondaliers anchor
to quayside arcade
homward along canal grande
below balconies
overhanging sun-tanned
houses emulsioned terracotta bold
kaleidoscopic memories
made manifold
Rising on island,
Mountain, with peaks of possibility,
Valley lush and green.
When my knees collapse, lightning and thunder -
Call it butterflies.
The palms warmed and cooled us, warned us, fooled us.
Explosive, our love -
Once conjoined, often drifting in the sea,
Eyes leaping with fire.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Hearts of stone, lifting upwards, tears running,
Drifting on riffraff.
Outbreak of chortling might redirect winds.
La la…ooh…la la.
Sips of berries and pineapple; we share
Icy tropical
Attempts to cool things down; steam underfoot.
Ebb and flow of raft,
Seeking to poke embers - attentive ears.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Collapse of civilization, in grass
Skirt, paradise shirt,
Atomic timing sans wearing a watch.
Heads buried in sand -
Lips meeting in molten-red, not passive,
Dirty and tender.
Swimming in sweep of lava lake, suntan-
Baked, gliding upwards,
Climactic eruption, falling with love.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
We ride the flume of volcanic weather,
Can’t raise the tall man,
Seek the insane chance of sane survival -
Valiancy in strife.
Man and wife seeking each other’s island -
Pieces fit just right.
Synchronic habitation, breathing room.
Volcano’s, how old?
In the end it shuts its mouth… a whisper
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
luscious fruit of the tropics
sphere-shaped, tapered, oval-faced
beneath the sun dripping yellow;
tangy as cocktail's zest for happy hour- kisses
on lips that crave for its moist
sweet marrow... peeled
from its curved bodice; sucked
juice trickles from its base--
adding lime, mint to freshen stem glasses
that dangle and anchor the nape
for a voluptuous treat of mild
passion's heat: sliced, striped , tasted
by love's scent—the pulp bits ooze—like
varnished ochre mixed with light rhum
and wine filling hungry vessels
of tongues: the melting husk
cooled by ice as wedges circle around
to whip a luscious Mango Sangria drink!
A fruit like this entices my own
Summer delight, succulent as earth's nectar,
relishing every drool of a caressed,
early night's amber sensation.
For Alcohol Contest: Sponsor Thvia Shetley
Submitted 19/18/2107
I would have settled for a smirk,
for a quirk of smug lips
and that trademark dimple
that still makes me crazy.
I would have been happy
with a transient glint
in those forget-me-not eyes,
a momentary hint
of what I felt... and still feel.
I miss the endless routine
of midnight pep talks
and morning road blocks,
of stolen glances
and skillful dances
around this knot of nerves.
Now there's just a gaping hole
where the lava once pooled
before it blistered and cooled.
And I keep picking the scab.
I want to put you in an album
and keep you on a shelf
to collect fairy dust
and never-land must.
I want to forget,
but have the means to remember.
Instead, I have scenes
from last November
dangling from my seasoned mind
with drops of dew
in my evergreen eyes.
For Tracie's "Homage" contest
*This poem was inspired by one of my favourite poems here on the Soup: "Almost" by Drake Eszes. Here is a passage I especially love:
"I was almost in the clear
Setting free her unchained melody
Didn’t see a forthcoming pain
Saturday nights, no longer the same
My mornings are still of you
A drop of dew
Dangling from emerald green edges"
November Chills Remind Me
As November chill creeps in
I think of June and a friend
Sun beaming so eagerly down
our spot at the edge of town
Silent moments holding me
to a time and her pitiful plea
O' that this day last forever
and my love leave me never
She saw farther than I
the thought made her cry
I thought her so wrong
right she was all along
Clime cooled and so did we
leaves fell from our tree
October faded swiftly away
Parted on a chilly November day
November chills I think of her
so gone, I know not where
Shall June ever come again
will ever I see my friend
Sun shines down upon my Soul
keeping her should have been my goal.
R.J. Lindley 09, 11, 1976
note: Tomorrow will be two weeks and no new writes by me.
That is other than my private writings at home..
Found this in a old poetry book tucked in a chest with
divorce papers from my first wife.
Seemed fitting to present it because , well its November now.
Answer, no never saw her again. She moved away, I lost contact.
Life sent its distractions and the universe spun ever onward..
She is the whispering of the bluest waters
Standing in the stillness she calls to me
Within the sounds of the coursing river
I feel the ease of her comfort washing over me
Consumed by her soft flowing siren song
Cascading down the mountains banks
Waltzing in the descending whitewater
Coming to rest in a cooled pool of her caress
Illumed depths tepid in the evening sun
Enhanced of her life and ardor
Swimming free
Drinking her intoxicating breath exhaling out
My love is the river of azure water
Ever carrying me onward she moves
Whispering…
PASTORAL
Yes I remember when this was all fields
Patchworked across the vale to chalky down
The cornfield and the pastures and the weald
That fed the hearts and bodies of the town
Yes I recall the footpath that we took
To reach the hamlet and the blessed lake
O’er styles and hedges and the little brook
Where we would stop to give our thirst some slake
Yes I can feel the wind upon my face
That cooled our sweat as we ascend the hill
And as we climbed our minds rose up apace
Then widened loosing bonds to our free will
Yes I now hold the memory in my heart
And see the images as I near sleep
Though they are gone they still remain a part
Of my own world, reside in spirit deep
Submitted: 15 August 2019
N/A in contest: Any Poem You Want to Write 180 words or less
By Caren Krutsinger
.
sponge cake sunrise
reveals whipped meringue hillside
marshmallow cooled-down snowcap
weeks before Christmas
will Christmas bring
a snow covered night
miniture sleigh and flying reindeer
who knows, dreams might come true
Sponge cake is made with egg yolks where angel food cake is made from egg whites, therefore, sponge cake is yellow and angel food cake is white.
In childhood's wondrous realm I'd learned
How Your bright flames inside me, burned,
And knew, while those fires cooled or grew,
Thru faith, my heart was bound to You.
With youth's hard lessons, gains and errs,
I'd shared my dreams to life's sweet cares,
And though oft' times, they'd find me blue,
Thru faith, my heart was bound to You.
I'd worked to see those gains that meant
Most things folks deemed as heaven-sent,
For 'midst self-doubts and failure's queue,
Thru faith, my heart was bound to You.
I'd searched thru substance, flesh and pay,
I'd searched 'til hair and hopes turned gray,
Though what I'd found, God, tried-and-true,
Thru faith, my heart was bound to You.
I shan't e'er know what next should come,
What shadowed depths I might yet plumb,
But this truth stands ... past what I'll do ...
Thru faith, my heart was bound to You.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "In Praise Of God" Poetry Contest, Kim Rodrigues, Judge & Sponsor.
( Syllables = 20 lines with eight syllables each, counted at HowManySyllables.com )May 30, 2020
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Brian's Choice 11, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
I was a red-violet, sunny morning person, usually up at the crack of dawn,
When orange light poured from the east, upon revival, dewy green lawns.
With a cup of aromal coffee, I'd watch yellow sunrise creep in the window,
Enjoying the zestful song of red robin, while night and day were in limbo.
I would take walks at the golden hour, flooded in light, just after a sunrise,
In the serenity of wanton, floral summer, slowly unveiling a destiny prized.
Visits of friends were features of morning, for sunup fondness is infective,
As flowers soak up colors of white sunlight, telling of the new perspective.
Family and I fascinated flaming sunsets, fancy dancing like we had forever,
At evening fetes, long fated; like feathery, dark green ferns-wind treasure.
I lived in the house of taupe sunrise, always trending towards golden noon,
As fitful stars, flickering like fireflies, stay on course, in presence of moon.
Sunhats, sandals and pretty sunflowers, were summer sights on my street,
In tranquil days of wild seas, giving the selfsame roar, as it cooled hot feet.
Nearby stars gleamed like natural pearls, on nebulous nights of neighbors;
And the natural conversation flowed nonstop, like the whistling wind labors.
Bat orchids awaited watchful moon, yearning for caves among field flowers;
When ballerina orchids danced, entranced, by plum shadows' magic powers!
Crimson corpse flower was blooming, in a torrid wake, held in lazy summer,
And snapdragon seed pods imitated skulls, where future flowers slumbered.
One day dawned exceptionally beautiful, a sight bringing rapture to my eyes;
As plum and orange, merged with pink, gold and red-fleeing night disguised!
I went about my productive work, but I noticed the day did not seem to age,
Like a glorious history book caught open, when distraction didn't turn a page.
Although I was very puzzled, I relished a pause for precious, pretty mystery;
Like the lovely, floral pause of gemmed hummingbirds, in times of blissfully.
After several long and rapturous hours, testy time gradually began to move,
For a beginning ever looks towards the end, as if it had everything to prove!
Even as a child, how I used to enjoy
A simple stroll through the woods
When innocent instincts ruled my heart
And ran after every call from the wild or bush,
Mesmerized by the warbling of the cuckoo and the thrush.
It was a time when every rainbow and every peacock feather
Ignited endless curiosity in me
And colored my imagination wild.
How with my friends, I ran to the beautiful seaside
Watching the wild waves’ fury and cooled by the kiss of spray
Feeling the sea foam and the sand under our bare feet
With what delirious joy we watched at night
A hundred fireflies dancing around
Wondering if they were stars, fallen from heaven.
Like the sweeping breeze, we ran over grassy slopes,
Looking for the bleating lamb
Singing in chorus, ‘Mary had a little lamb’
They were all spontaneous acts like breathing,
With no interest in gaining anything or impressing anybody
But just the simple signs of being alive,
And a way of burning the exuberant energy that overwhelmed us.
I was never called a poet or an artist then—
Not worried about rehearsing or perfecting my art.
I was just an observer, inhaling all the beauty
With a fluid spontaneity, characteristic of childhood
Ambling thro' the museum today an object caught my eye,
Inviting me to pause and reminisce about a time gone by.
'Twas an old oaken icebox standing there on display.
That ancient relic served as the family refrigerator in its day.
I recollected that we had one like it when I was a tyke,
Growing up on the Hoosier farm on fabled Farmer's Pike.
It cooled the milk and cream and butter that Mom made,
To spread on fresh-baked bread with a tad of marmalade!
What a refreshing sight on a sweltering summer's day,
To see the iceman's truck slowly meandering our way,
Along Farmer's Pike, crystal-clear ice stacked on the truck,
And anticipating a sliver of ice to chomp on and suck!
Mom put a card in the window to show the amount of ice required.
The iceman took note of this and delivered the ice desired.
He'd carry a hundred-pound block of ice on his burly back,
As nonchalantly as if toting feathers in a gunny sack!
Iceboxes served their purpose and in museums they now repose.
Once in awhile you'll find them at flea-markets and antique shows.
Fancy refrigerators now cool the grub and make the ice.
The iceman's logo I yet recall, "Iceman's Ice Is Twice As Nice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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