Best Copious Poems
Coral life forms in copious swarms
feast in the Cambrian chyme,
dividing their cells and forming their shells
to end on the seafloor as lime.
Tectonic churning and magma upturning
renders marble whiter than bone.
The marble is mined, but the cutters are blind
to the angel confined in the stone.
A young sculptor arose, with a bend in his nose
and a transcendent creative spark,
charged with ambition to fulfill a commission,
an angel for St. Dominic's Ark.
An artist sublime who will live for all time,
his genius is to see things not shown.
For an angel to achieve he first has to perceive
its splendor enclosed in the stone.
At dawning's first glow he surveys the tableau
of the blocks the stone cutters supplied.
In some he sees dreams of potential themes,
but only one holds an angel inside.
“A beautiful thing never gives so much pain
as does failing to hear it and see it.”
The block that he chose was rejected by those
who then lied and claimed to foresee it.
With talent and skill he falls to with a will,
surrounded by rubble and relic.
His method you see, for the angel to free
is to remove all the bits not angelic.
Michelangelo’s art for all time stands apart
but there's something further to heed.
For there's a bit more to the fine metaphor
in the tale of the angel he freed.
“A beautiful thing never gives so much pain
as does failing to hear it and see it.”
For in all our insides a bright angel abides
and is just waiting for something to free it:
to remove all the parts which harden our hearts,
to chip out the darkness and pride,
to smooth the rough patches, to polish the scratches
and unshackle the angel inside.
© January 26, 2013
‘Tis You’
It’s a tempestuous, wuthering, wuthering day
as I set forth exuberant and merrily on my way.
I pause to hearken to the symphony of sound
as natures harmony plays and swirls all around.
Ignited flaming thoughts to fill a love sonnet
as I march on and grasp my dishevelled bonnet.
Singing with a lilt - the moors copious with heather,
I am blown to and fro like a weightless feather.
I hither towards the midst of my burning desire;
Longing making my feet rapid as if on fire.
If I was today my sweet love, my kiss to miss,
Nay - I must not surrender and think only bliss.
Romance - oh the seductiveness of it all!
Cascading down upon me like a waterfall.
Each rising, descent, of the sun as day goes down,
Submerged in his love I rhapsodically drown.
Since thine I have always pledged to forever be,
My ravenous eyes shall only seek to find thee.
I surge on until the glorious sight that I behold
appears suddenly before me like a treasure of gold.
The apparition manifests and it seems to glisten
as I catch my breath through squally weather to listen.
A tuneful, loud whistle from a source closest to my heart,
A call for lovers to reunite - no longer apart.
I knew my love would come being no creator of sorrow,
And I shall yearn again for him till it be morrow.
Thou art more to me than my own self - all life together;
He of sun-rays, moonbeams, his divine light altogether.
Joyful musical notes, a bonnet, in the wind left behind,
As I cry out ‘tis you’ and in loving arms, myself, I find.
Due to growing Nimbus clouds of oppression
an area of low pressure has been building
Rest assured, it won't lead to bouts of depression
but rumblings of thunder have now been heard,
foreshadowing the bombs of fury soon to come.
Be advised: the ripping winds will not be deterred.
To counteract and neutralise any negative vibes
this Poetry Souper has been on a strict vegetarian diet
of lentils, cabbage soup, curry and beans; re-fried
They have been consumed in copious quantities.
Take shelter from wind gusts. There may be a riot!
Steps are being taken because many have died
from the expulsions of a toxic build up of gas.
It's predicted to be tornado level turbulence
emanating from winds blown out of my a s s
Anatomically referred to as expelled flatulence.
Blowouts should be considered as lethal blasts,
and not to be taken lightly, ignored, or scorned.
This is a public service alert of severe wind forecast.
The approaching storm is of gigantic proportions.
Gas masks are advised. You have been warned!
Warning Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
Submitted to Weather Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Angela Tune
2/28/20
Sonnet I
In realms of emerald hush where sunlight strains.
Through veils of green. A silent throng takes root.
A clovered congregation on the plains
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
No melodies from throats unseen they sing.
No pleas for mortal ken their silence breaks.
Yet in their rooted quietude they bring
A symphony for Nature's gentle stakes.
From dust they rise, by unseen hands embraced
To greet the dawn's first kiss, a deep-green dream.
Unfurling fronds that grasp the sun's warm face...
A silent pact with life's sidereal stream.
No eyes behold the light their essence drinks
No lips confess the air for which it thinks.
Sonnet II
Through fragrant whispers secretly softly pass
On unseen currents borne a cryptic lore
A web of messages that dance like grass.
A wisdom! newly sworn on Nature's floor -
No clash of arms? no battles fought in vain.
Yet messages they send on silent wings...
A language dovetailed deep, a copious chain,
A bond that knows no end, the green world sings.
With patient strength... they pierce the earth's cold hold.
A testament to will unyielding. Strong!
Unmoved by tempests' raging fury bold,
Their roots like anchors grip where they belong.
A silent war against the storm's harsh might.
A battle fought unseen, in verdant light.
Corona
A quiet war in bright green
A song for animals and plants
Listen to people in every green leaf.
No songs from hidden throats they sing.
Through fragrant, sotto voce... secrets softly pass
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
Couplet
A lesson composed in green, a truth to glean.
Where verdant nature creates and wisdom sings.
Life is a journey with a blend of rough and smooth.
If it bestows you copious lemons, make lemonade.
Feel life's breeze on your face, l i v e in the moment.
Embrace the ridiculous and sublime. Enjoy the ride!
My soul seems to be hidden today.
Where can it conceal itself?
I thought it was always with me,
Roaming the endless paths
That clatter the corridors of my mind,
coursing through my arteries and veins,
invading all essential organs
that keeps me alive all day.
Maybe it flew away
Like some mad eagle that lost its way!
I will not search for it.
It will return when it feels
There is a need for it.
My feet follow tracks unknown
Oblivious of time and space.
I meet old friends and strangers,
I pass on,
I do not recognise their mien.
I thread through paths lined
With rampant dark green ferns,
I slush through shallow muddy pools,
I rest below the copious hedgerows.
Down in the valley cows are milked,
Geese cackle and cocks crow,
Cats copulate in peace.
Fragrance of new-cut hay
Makes my nostrils flare.
Smoke billows from the chimney
Of an old cottage near the farm.
Should I invite myself,
Betake a country hearty meal?
I am welcome
Urged to taste the home-brewed beer
Or the new fermented cheese.
I feel a kind of peace.
Perhaps my soul is back
Or perhaps it's the beer or the cheese.
Who can say?
There was no finer detective than Inspector Thaddeus Tweede of Scotland Yard!
He was most astute in solving crimes and could quickly detect a fake canard!
He joined the force as a 'bobby' working himself to the peak of his profession.
You daren't pull the wool over his eyes when he was seeking a confession!
Ah! He could have been cast in a movie since he was a detective's prototype,
In his tweed suit, tweed cape, tweed deerstalker's cap and ever-present pipe!
When investigating crime scenes he'd mull the facts with his chin in his hand,
Puffing his pipe making copious notes should he be called to the witness stand!
The highlight of his career was solving the case of Prime Minister Percival Hoar,
Who was found by his maid one dark and stormy night sprawled upon the floor!
There was no evidence of forceful entry or anyone breaking through the door,
Nor was there any sign of a struggle, bullet holes or oozing, bloody gore!
Who could have done this dastardly deed that brought the minister to his doom?
He took prints, photos and noted a strange odor as he moved about the room.
Thaddeus called on all his experience and training to solve this mysterious case,
Muttering to himself and doing a lot of 'hmming' as to and fro he did pace!
Eureka! He noted a bulge in the prime minister's jacket he hadn't noticed before!
Gingerly lifting a bottle from the pocket he deduced he needn't search anymore.
It wasn't a gun, the butler, jilted lover, political enemy or an envious friend
That did the terrible deed - 'twas demon rum that brought the minister to his end!
Here we are in 1650, which is ten minutes to five
swing the wheel to the West, which is left,
put your sun cream away, man the mizzen and the stays
as we set off for some murder and some theft.
You'll find us as your hosts on the sunny Barbary Coast
and from there we venture forth to ply our trade
we've been out leaving them for dead from the Atlantic to the Med
before we skittle off back home our fortunes made
With a yo-ho-ho and a barrel of grog
and an arrr and some other cliches
table leg for a thigh and a patch on me eye
as a Pirate I will end my days
As I previously stated we all get inebriated
from our copious imbibing of the grog
our excuse is there's no Cola in the bars of Hispaniola
which is why we need the hair of the dog
With a yo-ho-ho and a barrel of grog
and an arrr and some other cliches
table leg for a thigh and a patch on me eye
as a Pirate I will end my days
Got a woman in Bermuda and another in Tortuga
and they give me lots of lovin' for some coins
and although they're very foxy they're just both a pair of doxies
which I'm sure explains the rash around me groin
With a yo-ho-ho and a barrel of grog
and an arrr and some other cliches
table leg for a thigh and a patch on me eye
as a Pirate I will end my days
Now we're really no buffoons when it comes down to doubloons
and our treasure chests are burstin' at the seams
then old Blackbeard started spouting about doing our accounting
so I said (before I shot him) 'in your dreams'
(ye chorus)
As we skirmish the Atlantic I was starting to get frantic
since the one thing on my voyage I've always feared
is the men who've not been coming for a while across some women
have all started wearing lipstick, which is weird
(arr, the chorus again)
Well it's reached that point me hearties where we anchor down and party
so me shipmates here on board I'd like to thank
though the mix of food and beer has now given me diarrhea
which is why I've made our cook just walk the plank
(for thee last time, chorus, arrrr)
September 17th 2015, 'A pirate's life for me' contest, sponsor Kelly Deschler
(Author's note- there are several spellings of diarrhea, but it doesn't matter, they all have 'arr' in 'em, me hearties)
To myself to I, to God I asked
what nature of sample shall I give,
the tribute must be something, already possessed
and not a thing to be acquired or easily accessed,
what type of treasure, what placid pleasure,
what measure of scintillating success should be expressed,
many feelings, dealings, winnings and blessings I have
like the menificent merchant of an ageless & melancholy market,
however I am disinterested in the buying & selling of impressive items,
something of my core should be present, priceless, respirative,
multitudes give Deity thick thanks in pompous prayers
or grim graveling of worship,
others offer animal immolation or coin from shallow pocket,
as does everyone I experience the panic of pain,
that terrible teacher of no remorse whose curriculum
makes carion of cowards,
but as a student of Life and thus a pupil of pain
I realised that my mind can be a calm cistern,
my heart a coffer of adversity's copious rewards,
the determination is made,
my proudest possession, enlightenment derived from pain,
enchanting and admonishing like the howls of hungry beasts,
a gift of character, a jewel of dreams manifest,
God accepted and said,
" Someone, somewhere, somehow is suffering to better feats" -
J.A.B.
Days of autumn enter late September,
Yearly glory in hues to remember.
Naked limbs cling to mem’ries of summer
As cool longer nights lead to sweet slumber.
Mountain tops catching the first drifts of snow
Inviting cold winds to valleys below.
Copious colors patch quilts beneath trees
And Nature endows a harvest to please.
Under horizons of soft orange skies
The gath'ring of pumpkins soon will arise.
Upon Halloween each carved funny face
Meets with delight as children thrill to place
New costumes on for the ‘trick or treat’ fun.
© Connie Marcum Wong
9-4-17 (rev.)
Acrostic Poem about Fall or Winter - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Janice Canerdy
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
When the river runs dry
When the river runs dry, tears of sorrow fill this poets eyes
The words just won't flow, as the blank page clearly shows
All life dries up as ideas and thoughts they get torn in two
All around us can see it and sense it they feel the sorrow too
For what is life without freedom of thought and it's expression?
All poets like their words to be heard and read without exception
Our Maker well knows our needs, knows us better than ourselves
When the river runs dry, He gives us clean waters found in his well
When we go to him and drink deeply of his fresh waters of truth
Our soul and spirit are invigorated renewed like the days of our youth
Our prayers are answered as copious tears shower down from on high
We drink it all in till we're dripping wet, that's when we understand why
When we rely on ourselves our own thinking from our imperfect minds
That's when there's trouble, the page is blank and so the river runs dry.
John Derek Hamilton
April 17,2016
Poisonous air streams down
As plastic-laden waters choke
Fishes and Universal Motion's glow ...
So much has changed through time,
I wail against slow death of UV skin,
while plundered Mother Earth rakes
in her once fertile womb...
yet indifferent hearts care not,
incensed by greed and unrecyled junk.
O children listen; build a new earth,
Let your palms turn soil into a fertile bed;
And allow the forest to stand tall, uncut
By gifting them with a cleaner environ;
That each gracious deed will find blessings
Copious from heavenly skies.
Until each hour breathes through
A fragrance of one taintless expanse, blue.
This wide universe is our home,
Our manna of fields for every mouth,
And pure rain cooling quiet nightfall
With daylight's pattern soothing din;
To hail nature, may it never come to an end
As Spirit's Love refills our dreams!
Thomas Martin's STUFF
6/19/2015
With timid steps and a trembling heart
I walked through verdant barren paths.
Toward a rusty gate it took my feet
Into a garden of roses among the weeds.
Carmine flowers, dripping in blood
Wrung my heart in pain of fear.
They caught me from every side
With their lithe and sharp thorny fingers.
Raveled in clutches of copious wines
Turning and twisting I struggled to escape.
Evening shades pirouetting ghosts
Trapped in light tracing fiery faces.
Pouring perspiration pooled my feet
Shedding grappling thoughts I decided to run.
Back to the sinuous path,
Away from the puzzle of life,
Till I reached the black bricked wall,
Beyond it I lost my memories,
Maze of mind closing behind me.
First Place in Maze - 10 Word Challenge Poetry Contest sponsored by A Dear Heart
UNION
No one could ever love you
More than I. This I know to be
True because my heart
Fills the sky, every cell of my
Body explodes when I think
Of you, every heartbeat tells me
This is true. But truth moves
So slow and time moves too fast.
From my very first waking breath
I’m thinking of you until my last breath
And all of my in-betweens, too. Not
To mention the copious dreams of you;
We dance together, I admire the view.
My thoughts travel far but never
Far from you. Time is the keeper
Of the plans we make and dreams
Are the sleeper waiting to awake.
Even angels lose sleep dreaming
Of mortal men and chastity lost,
For love is the healer, it is never
A mistake, it soothes the spirit,
Relieves the pain of emptiness
And longing is the wide, dry plains
Anticipating the gentle, loving rains.
The poet speaks many languages
But love is his mother tongue
And love never lies and truth never
Dies, it is golden. In the union
Of night and day our flesh exposed,
Two lovers lay, the blushing Moon
Our witness, the preacher Sun
And we are forever one.