Best Creams Poems
To appreciate our planet,
begin with its snowcapped mountains:
where sunbeams morph crystals of ice
into gems of glistening light.
See pink clouds hover in the skies,
afloat on a vista of blue:
and a setting sun smear scarlet,
onto puffs of marshmallow white.
And jungles, at its equator:
create a sash of vibrant greens;
while burnt sands ripple Earth's deserts,
with shifting dunes of tans and creams.
Watch Earth's leafy forests change from
deciduous to evergreen:
and tundra, pitted with blue lakes,
fade to stretches of virgin snow.
And volcanoes erupt in flames
spewing plumes of ebony smoke:
as lava bleeds from gaping wounds,
while giving birth to molten Earth.
See cobalt and aquamarine
waves, crested with white foamy froth:
and two tilted poles, capped in ice,
sparkle, like crystalline jewels.
View it from afar, as it twirls
within the vacuum of space:
like a phantasmagorical
cerulean marble: called Earth.
There is a part of me missing
There is a part of me that shall never be
Inside of this dark sad brooding mind
Is the painter who will never see
So I take my pen, and vaso of wine
I contemplate
I get lost in the drunkenness of time
Stooped over my own memories on a sour palette
I had the brushes staring at the naked breast
My paints were frozen, at such beauties unrest
Erect and tall, at her feet I did fall
The blind painter, who lost it all
So now you see I am a poet of some seedy sort
Painting Braille, is poetry of my last resort
I write down words with the flourish of my pen
The Braille poet, cause painting I could not fend
I take words and wish them bountiful explosive colors
If only I had talent, a painter and not a story teller
So for me, in pain and clad in the cloth of sadness
I write words, for this painter has only Braille
I have no painting brushes
I possess no smile, wandering along on wistful miles
Of blindness, blowing in the winds of the frail
No map for the future, and yet I set sail
Hoping my words one day will be seen
By an artist who paints the soul and the serene
She takes my blindness and paints boldly my dreams
Taking my words, from Braille to bright pastel creams
There is a place called beautiful nestled deep in my mind's eye
Gingham curtains crisply pressed frame periwinkle summer sky
Brass kettle on the old gas stove reflects cast iron pans
And always at the kitchen sink, I see busy, wrinkled hands.
There is a place called beautiful, I'm transported with a whiff
Of coffee brewing, dark and strong, I long to take a sip.
And in the air a trace of Tollhouse cookies baked this morn
And some perfume that only in this special spot is worn.
There is a place called beautiful I hear in perfect dreams
As Frankie croons and Louis wails all whilst the kettle steams
And as she works, she never tires as she hums and sings along
But the harmony of her lilting laugh is by far my favorite song.
There is a place called beautiful, it tastes like sweetest creams
Made in a bucket with a crank til her arms wore out, it seems
And topped with juicy berries that would burst upon each bite
And juices stained my mouth and clothes most every summer night.
There is a place called beautiful, I long to feel again
The naive sense that everywhere was as safe and free of sin
Where love and peace were daily served with a kiss upon the cheek
And grandma's kitchen always felt like you just found what you seek.
4/9/2019 / Poetry Marathon Final Placement / Sponsor: Mark Toney
Deep within my hidden pastel dreams
are soft sweet colors of a newborn spring
dressed up in mauves and pinks and windham creams
while giving hope to love and all it brings.
Painted in the colors of the dawn,
like pinks and purples of the morning sky,
magenta dreams will bloom and love will spawn
as newly mated hearts begin to fly.
And thus our lilac love has taken flight
while sharing orchid thoughts without remiss;
soft words and fuchsia touches in the night
are punctuated with a crimson kiss.
The coral sun rays beaming from above
are raining down these colors of our love.
October 23,2024
Poem of the Day - October 24, 2024
As biology goes, I'm surviving,
a few aches and pains and a cough
and I check every morning when in the bathroom
to see if my bits have dropped off.
Now, father time knows where I'm living
and likes to make regular calls
which I know by the strands of my hair on the bedding
that have come from my head and my nose.
(Yes, I know what that last line should be, but it's a family website)
The condition called male pattern baldness
is feared by men everywhere
and even I've tried all of the creams and the potions
to try and save my bit of hair
A comb-over like Donald Trump has,
using all of the growth that remains
was still not enough to stop that awful tapping
from every time that it rains.
I even tried growing my eyebrows
as long as I possibly could
to comb them straight upwards and over the top
but that didn't look any good.
A hair loss clinic was suggested
so I phoned them and gave my details,
but I bought myself one or two different fedoras
quite simply in case all else fails.
Then the hair loss clinic gave me an update
which I wasn't expecting so soon,
they'd found my lost hair on a Camel's backside
in a market just outside Khartoum.
(Written to the rhythm of "The Things that I Love", if you want to sing along!)
Eating black licorice and cake with thick frosting!
Not doing so many things too exhausting.
Trying out ice creams in flavors galore!
I’m always doing the things I adore.
Viewing good dramas that make my heart flutter.
Watching those movies with popcorn and butter.
Finding myself in a huge discount store!
I’m always doing the things I adore.
When it’s Christmas or my birthday,
That’s the best of all!
I always feel happy and now you know why:
Because I think life’s a ball!
Petting a kitty, curled up warm and cozy.
Doing my e-mails or writing a poesy.
Wave-running, sunbathing, down by a shore.
I’m always doing the things I adore.
Seeing God’s wonders - like sunsets and flowers.
Looking at paintings or reading for hours.
Dancing and laughing, and oh, so much more. . .
I’m always doing the things I adore!
When it’s Christmas or my birthday,
That’s the best of all.
I always feel happy and now you know why:
Because I think life’s a ball. Yes, life is just a ball!
For the Happy Days Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
In our Asian-cum-Eastern land
No one prefers or admires
the dark-skinned or tanned
Gosh, as if the fair-skinned alone
belonged to the so-called fairer sex
And here, 'black is beauty' a phrase unheard
All falling for the light skinned almost in reflex!
Bachelors on the hunt for a non-fictional Asian 'Snow-white'
Even an ugly heart will do if the skin is white, pale and light
For them lighter skin tis brighter and better at beauty
even if superficial and skin-deep
The dark-skinned maidens thereby left single to weep
But while the ebony dark- pigmented
go on applying whitening and lightening creams
The white Westerners frequented
the sunlit beaches for dark tans from sun beams!
So in westerners females wish to look browned and tanned
Thus the opposite is preferred
so to that end they may sun bathe for hours on beach sand
Ah and though from the point of view of my motherland
I am luckier that God chose
to model me from a peachy whiter lighter clay,
I still feel this tug-of-war between complexions
needn't really join the fray.
For when you and I glance at Naomi Campbell
we know beauty can be white, brown and black as well
Like love, beauty knows no colour, creed or race
As proved by this gorgeous black supermodel.
Besides, we all have come across
both dark-skinned angelic saints
and fair-skinned folks with sinner's taints
Ah, Black Beauty, or Fair and lovely
Beauty has never known any bounds
For God He distributed beauty rather equally
No argument can last on these grounds
Oh, a soulmate's inner beauty ought to be earnestly sought
Too bad lustful passions fall for those merely outwardly hot!
Blue Girls
John Crowe Ransom
Styling in your leggings, wildly designed,
Strutting to classes in your modern schools—
While texting. Roll your eyes at those old fools
Who think they're so refined.
Toss back the pink extensions in your hair,
And think no more of SAT's at all.
But plan to meet bff's at the mall
To shop for earrings there.
Make duck-face selfies while guys who watch dream
about your lovely, well-toned flesh so tight.
It will sag some day, bringing no delight—
in spite of firming creams.
You think I don't know beauty, but I do!
I know a woman with a poison tongue
and beady eyes that used to be bright-blue.
She turned heads near and far when she was young
and surely knocked the shine off all of you.
In the dog-days of summer of so long ago
there were bear-hugging moments I like to recall
Like leafing through pages of ram-shackle books,
that are dog-eared, and faded, wearing hound-tooth worn seams
I had a bull's-eye encounter with puppy-tail schemes
There are cat-walks through memories, over turkey-trot trails
wearing pigtails, and Mother Goose, and laughter would peal
Where pony-tailed hairdos would swing like a bell,
and where kids could play leap-frog, and happiness dwells
We would run like the roosters and bull-doze the grass,
picking puffed dandelions, to blow with our breaths
Spreading the catnip and watching it gasp
Grasping the wind, while it wolfed-down the rest
Blooming sweet dogwood would bend in the breeze
Elephant-ears would line every path
With cattails and polly-wogs, we would bunny-hop home
for chickpeas, and monkey bread, and gooseberry creams
Then hug little teddy-bear, in our goose-down reclines
while dog-days of summer would live for all time
I remember you holding me in your arms
Rocking me gently while singing lullabies
I remember when you lived a short walk away
Relatives were local and get-togethers were the norm
I remember your amazing purple mohair sweater
You knit exquisitely and wore so gracefully
I remember your scented creams and signature ring
I never grew tired of holding your hand
And telling you how much I loved you
I remember watching in awe your bedtime routine
As you meticulously undid your braided coif
Dropping your soft wavy hair to your waist
I remember you never missed Sunday mass
And held on to that glow throughout the week
You knew about plants with their healing powers
Neighbors came to you for answers and advice
I remember how you would scrape savings for travel
Always working in visits to friends who had moved away
I remember the aroma of the pies you baked
After tireless hours of quilting, sewing, weaving
Embroidery, knitting, crocheting, and whatever else
I remember there was nothing you couldn’t do
You started tutoring me when I was three
And probably earlier as I was eager to learn
It was my favorite form of play
I remember hearing your schoolhouse stories
I’d picture a little house in a field and your teacher attire
Your turn-of-the-century class full of kids
Then I’d let you continue teaching me to read, write and count
Though I wasn’t yet of school age
I remember being uprooted and moving to the country
Leaving city life and you behind
I remember how good life was when I had you
To turn to for support and guidance
Or just for your warm bountiful embrace
I remember getting that gut wrenching feeling
That bitter call in the middle of the day
As I was told the crushing news
I would never again see, touch or hold you
How can I not remember
The inconsolable devastation that never dimmed
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~ALWAYS WITH ME~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2020
Submitted on September 26, 2017 for contest LOVE FOR MOVIE SCREEN sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
She remains a partial gift
some have none, yet some have much
for her scales, sideways they tilt
yet we crave her soothing touch.
With jars of scents, ointments and creams
ourselves we paint seeking her face
fanciful, our grotesque masks seems
yet she stays mocking our ways.
But true beauty in these things lie;
the morning dew on thirsty leaves
the new-born sun that's up so high
even in Nature's smiles on lonesome cliffs!
On a sale, my Aunt Bel can’t be denied
Access to mark-downs with red, yellow tags
Off for the big loot, her shoulders take pride
In carrying four gigantic tote-bags.
To keep poised, she dons fancy sunglasses
Like those models who shop but then conceal,
A giddy look that excites the senses
Obsessed about offers… Aunt’s set to reel.
Hurrying to snatch branded teenage jeans
Which do not fit her extra large belly;
She picks a bimbo hat, dye, and face-creams
As twinkling eyes roll … what a joyful spree.
While purchases are arranged , now she whines
The Mall’s closing with a long queue that’s packed
Bel groans,” I'm dizzy; my breathing's not fine,”
She gets ahead… feigning a heart attack!
Humorous Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Thomas Martin
My fingers ache—
muscles weary, spent, and sore.
Sweat soaks through my singlet.
Eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to repay seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each piece I write ends in his bin.
The sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them away with mean regards—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track,
not behind a screen?
I could have run twenty-seven miles
in under two hours—breaking the record—
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s a method, even, in this my madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to forty-two lines,
echoing kilometers run on marathon tracks.
Yet my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill its ache across my face,
where anger and disillusionment dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removes their weary veils.
Each day, each burdened weekday,
and each weekend, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, eat my meals,
beside the stubborn silence of this paper—
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor could ever deny of glory.
Worn limbs creak like tomb's ancient doors
Jumping from youth to old age with lightning's shock
Kind mirrors with mounting dust blur lines
Leaping into my shopping cart are restorative skin creams
Before gremlins make off with them, memories visit briefly
…What was it I was trying to say?
February 18, 2019
For Nina's "Reflect That Emotion" Contest
I have been on our beach, for 6 hours today
I watched it fill up with umbrellas and tourists
I watched children play in the sand
Adults in the sea playing with a bat and ball
I watch families
Sons, daughters, mums dads and grandparents
Enjoying the golden sun of the Algarve.
Children with ice creams spilling down their faces
Children covered in sun cream, to protect them from future harm.
I sit on dry sands made of miniature fossils
And I write, pages upon pages
Of pain, sorrow and tears
Of lost love, cruelly taken
Of sadness and heartbreak
Of grieving,
Of lost time, never to be regained
I cannot write of happy cheerful times
I cannot forget
I cannot forget.
You,
Who you were
The way you touched me
Smiled at me
Kissed me
Stole my heart
Then you left
With no goodbye
A vacuous space sits
Where you should be
You were my soul, my Angel my protector
Now you are a just a memory
Fading in the distance
As I wave you goodbye
For the last time
In my head
Tears sting my eyes
As I try to walk forwards
To our beach
Our golden sun
Without you…………