Best Crisscrossed Poems
She moves in silence like a jasmine breeze
through a moonlit garden walk
She doesn't journey like a star
with a lustrous shine in a celestial sky
But just like a little rock
a little limestone rock
that crisscrossed muddy rivers
and made it to safe shores
A lifeless rock so fragile
not sturdy yet still strong
Her beauty doesn't shake fresh dewdrops
from water-lily leaves
Nor does it make blushed plum buds fall
from murky forest trees
But when his mind is filled with thoughts of her
Oh how She gets him on his knees
She lurks deeply in his soul
Her eyes,a golden tint of fireflies
glowing into his own
She kills him with her smile
like hundred nights before
and thousands moments gone
Then walks away from the forbidden door
Her fingerprints She leaves
over his lips,across his cheeks
and all her perfume in his sleep
So every woman that ever goes to him
to tease him with her kiss would know
It would never be,no it wouldn't be
His arms belong to their once upon a memory
She is the owner of his heart
and would never set it free
She,She is still his sweetest dream
His saddest song,an empty verse
The sound of a child's laughter
and chapters in between
She is still the wild street flower
The promise made to last
The lady of his life
The woman from the past
the box of Crayola’s has fallen to the floor
like pick-up sticks they lay, crisscrossed
and I without a partner or a pair of jacks
rolled paper named & swirled in ink of black
periwinkle and puce displayed
side by side the candied rainbow huddles
like children whispering at play
lilac and orchid cuddle
see the rusty red and the crimson lay
grin and giggles surround the paper pages
as the parents are kept at bay
lemon yellow is the sun
and saffron the flower in the bay
pink the fingers which grasp and pile
the colors so arrayed, by the fallen box
of crayons in the golden light of day
4/12/14
Sunset Spirit
Close your eyes,
and stop thinking.
Take a moment...
breathe.
God is already beside you.
He has always been there.
It is you,
that must slow down.
Stop rushing in and out,
back and forth,
where you believe you are to go.
You have gone,
passed the point you meant too.
The chairs in the room,
are full of angels.
They have come to listen...
to all sing.
Those that can not,
will mouth the words,
and still, it will be,
beautiful unto Him,
raised in praise faithfully,
if silently.
The heart of all gathered,
holding the ends of strings...
knotted and crisscrossed,
scoring and underscoring the importance,
of faith, seen and unseen,
but always felt,
and forever real.
The blood and lapis daylight sets
in ether. How the mind resets
brutality of winter chill
with February's codicil;
what gossamer a dream begets.
I hear the crickets in the dark,
their clicking takes up where the lark
has been. The flagrant marigolds
have huddled into twilight's folds,
on sanguine nightfall to embark.
The eastern zephyrs fall and rise
with rapid movement of my eyes
and echo whispers midnight makes
of blood white trails on moonlit lakes.
In silhouette I recognize
a dogwood, though can only sense
its glowing coral consequence.
The blossoms tell me they comprise
sweet spawn of sun rays in disguise
and capture all my heartbeats hence.
Now honeysuckle is entwined
on crisscrossed pathways of my mind
with jasmine in a potpourri
to conjure shamrock reverie
that leaves the pewter scape behind.
Around the lambent dogwood tree
alone upon that verdant lea
buds can prosper, bees will hum.
As though seduced by opium
I greet a vista I can't see,
at least not quite. I know it's there
and feel the dogwood everywhere,
behind me, flanking left and right,
an omnipresence in the night,
like answers to unconscious prayer.
Now high upon a clovered scarp
the tree is standing clear and sharp.
In silence I see restless blooms
play music that my ear assumes
is chiming dulcet as a harp.
Such Efflorescent star bursts splay
like windmills on a gusty day
that in ebullience do portend
a vibrance that will never end
and all my reticence allay.
In waking to a winter storm
that's February's gelid norm
I long still for my fulgid tree,
resplendence that surrounded me,
but only meet a turbid swarm.
I rise and pull back hermit drapes
to see the torrid flurries traipse,
yet through the chaos can discern
the leafless frame for which I yearn
beyond the window storming scrapes.
The dogwood stands just as before
unclad upon the icy moor
with nascent berries undeterred
as though through humble verse and word
like daylight through an unclosed door.
2/23/18
Strength Thru Adversity
Gregory R. Barden
Just now … crisscrossed sky lanterns
fog the walls of a withering foliage,
like hushed matte from dusk’s greenery
Pouring balm on a requiem in need of shade,
while in her veins drip… a constant gush
as meshed twigs still interlace on leafy ribs
Immersed in the ardor of their moments,
one fragrant orchid and musky trunk…inseparable,
bound together by affectionate, yet lost stars.
With slight acceptance this rooted love will always
meld despite tree of life faintly drooping;
...in clinched angle, she lays on his buried grass
until dim twilight shuts off.
For Broken Wing’s Entwined Contest
2/12/2016
Beneath the glowing satellite,
a path for lovers grew.
So I set off and followed it
in hopes to find love too.
I wandered down meandrous roads
that twisted and crisscrossed,
but could not find love anywhere,
that wayward feeling, lost.
The light that once in music rose
faded and suddenly
bedimmed the tracks and hid the way,
at least it did for me.
What of the orb that's sung about
mysterious and praised,
if it can hardly shed or keep
that light for lovers raised?
Perhaps the moon drifts here and there
as broken hearts will do,
finding it hard to stay afloat
because it's lonely too.
I wonder if that mystic sphere
will light the path and when
or if in fact there really is
a way to love again.
Just last night we got two feet of snow,
enough to make all of the school’s close,
kids get excited, ready to blow,
made them put on all their heavy clothes,
what happened next everybody knows,
the boys ran outside, started a row,
air crisscrossed with snowballs they throw,
if you get hit you feel slushy woe
until soaked socks chill up the toes,
how winter should be, I deem it so!
My teenage daughter flips through her phone,
into the white she’s too ‘cool’ to go,
the couch, it seems, is permanent home,
my son with snowball creeps up real low,
I hear her shrieks, and just say,”Oh no.”
This day really does belong to the snow.
I always knew that my father loved me
Though he never said those words
And hugs were not shared between two men
I know, today that sounds absurd
I remember that day I had to wear a tie
But couldn’t create the perfect knot
Though my father tried to show me how
Follow his instructions, I could not
He tried to tie it for me facing me
But had trouble himself that way
So he stood behind reaching around in front
And I felt his hug the first time that day
We both looked into the mirror
As his hands crisscrossed the tie
The image could not be clearer
As I stared into my father’s eyes
He may have been uncomfortable being this close to me
As I stood so perfectly still
I felt secure wrapped tightly in his arms
Forget that feeling - I never will
No words were exchanged between us two
As the Windsor was pulled up tight
He smiled, then messed up my just combed hair
And at that moment the world was right
I still wear the cologne he wore that day
The smell of it brings back memories of my Dad
And puts a smile back on my face
Thinking about the good times that we had
The young woman sat astride the young buffalo
Her dress was a flimsy, homemade from the cured skin of a deer.
Two cured boots, quite wide, hiding each a dagger,
Whilst on her back, crisscrossed were two swords.
One large and heavy, the other lithe, small with a green gem.
They came to a murky river, the small buffalo
Treading the depth of the bottom full of weeds.
Suddenly it stopped. Two dark hulks of a man
Were beating a poor and small old man.
It was clear they meant to kill, such was their force.
A dagger appeared from her boot and flew
It was embedded in his chest, right where his heart lay.
The other man tried to escape, but out came the small sword.
A flash hit him between his eyes, blinding him completely.
Then he fell, trembled in his death throes and lay still.
Birds flew away from the scene, and all was quiet.
The buffalo crossed the river and approached the man.
There was no fear in his eyes as he handed back her dagger.
She picked him up, not much of a weight really.
Slowly, they wended their way towards his shack.
A few well-chosen leaves cured his wounds.
And made him rest on his bed made of clothes.
Later, fearlessly, she fed him to regain his rest.
She cleaned her swords and prepared to leave.
The old man hobbled towards her bracelet in his hand.
“Take this. When it turns red, you’ll know.
Danger is not far away. Be prepared.”
Tough Love
Sometimes with such strict parents, a tendancy to lend;
overlooking boundaries crossed to be your child's best friend.
I love my son with all my heart just as he does his mother.
Tho the path that he was taking; I just could not go further.
Stunned and hurt when I said, "You have to leave my home."
He wasn't his kind loving self; always drunk or stoned.
I held myself together; to his back I closed the door.
Then litteraly went to pieces falling to knee's upon the floor.
I knew he would end up in prison or maybe even dead,
if he could not shake the demons messing with his head.
It took everything inside me to stick to my decision.
I wanted to run after him, again to him be pleasing.
With tear stained face and puffy eyes I prayed with all my might,
" Please Lord spare me the dreaded phone call that comes so late at night."
Only twice I've heard God's voice aloud, not just a sign.
He said as clear as crystal, "Don't worry about him." "He's mine."
Immediatly I ceased to cry, such comfort in those words.
I know God deals with us best when we are at our worst.
Driving late he had a wreck; two poles ran through his truck.
It was him left praying on his knees; survival was not luck.
The poles crisscrossed around his neck tho he was never touched.
Three inch splinters in his hoodie; didn't miss him much.
The road was rocky coming back but thank the Lord he made it.
God's protective hands covered him; so near a death evaded.
My parents too strict then I too laxed; he's balanced tween the two.
A wonderful husband and father; he began his life anew.
The hardest decision I ever made but I thank God above;
my precious son now understands why I chose tough love.
A Porsche squats by the side of the road,
keys tucked in the ignition.
We stare at the coupe with our salivating glands…
this devilish hint revving our hidden pleasure.
Slowly, slowly we cross the street
on impulse, Roy and I open the door,
gliding our bodies unto the pompous seats
as wheels start the trip, reeling like a breeze.
Not a soul in sight; this is a twosome joy ride!
With nary a conscience, we ram this big-time treat;
sliding a playlist right down metal -rock road.
Then, boomed a noise louder than the soundtrack
popping flamed lights, sirens in the distance…
oh, we just wanted some naughty fun;
but, men with badges are after us now.
The timing and urge for adventure, too brief
Our luck written on crisscrossed stars…
beneath flashy neon, we got whacked,
Roy and I hauled a thief’s runaway car!
Carol Eastman's Humor Contest
by nette onclaud... * from the perspective
of two young men, partly fictional*
1/18/2015
All. Day. Long.
I sit there, in my chair, All. Day. Long.
Glaring at people I hate.
The people who are but mere memories.
Mere dust in the wind.
All that I know has blown away,
taken by my faulty actions.
The dull replay of Meteora fills my room with lyrical insanity,
tempting me with beat and anger.
But I’ve realised it’s not the music that’s dull.
It’s myself. I am dull.
Dull, empty, detached, dead.
My actions have caused this, my mental instability.
My arms and wrists, they’re crisscrossed with faint pink patterns,
the product of my attempts at reattachment and relief.
Eternal smiles of violet beneath my eyes, wrinkles surround my lips.
My skin, yellow from the drugs, reflects weakly the sunlight from outside.
I blame everyone but myself, my personality rotten to the core.
My lungs, as well, shredded by smoke that acted like needles.
I couldn’t help myself, I jest in my mind.
I’ve been trying to shove the blame onto something but myself,
only to find there is nothing to blame but myself.
My body has been wracked to this state,
a state well beyond my mere 29 years.
My mind, hanging from a cliff.
Threatening to free fall at any moment.
As I sit there, in my chair,
memories of an age long gone from my life flash before my eyes.
A girl I loved, laughing.
Her and I lying in the grass, at a lake’s edge.
A cat akin to night, eyes green as mine, purring softly in my lap.
Flashes of guns, from a war forgotten by all but me.
As I reminisce these memories, a spark of feeling—pain.
Upwelling in my gut.
Through my chest.
Stabbing into the side of my head.
The pain triggers a new wave of recollection.
Again, the girl. My mind so foggy I can’t remember her name.
Dancing slowly to a song no longer heard of.
Snow. A blush of the cheeks. Hands in mine, warming and comfortable.
The pain in my head intensifies, blinding me.
I fall from my chair, the first time I’ve moved all day. In 2 days.
Shaking my head, I pull myself up. Standing, I look around.
Another flash of pain, followed by a sensation I’d all but forgotten.
Her lips. At dusk. The very first time.
I stumble away from an unseen being, crashing into the wall.
Blinking my eyes furiously, I right myself.
Waiting a moment, I sit back down.
And let the dullness take over, the pain ebb away,
and the memories to replay.
All. Day. Long.
"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it." - Confucious
All she could see were her scars.
Painted perfectly upon her chest like
a river flowing to her sadness.
Scars are proof of pain and pain is
proof of sorrow. No sorrow could
compare to the sorrow she held
deep inside after the mastectomy.
Slashes across her chest where her
breast used to be. Little lines from
the staples that crisscrossed each
other and lingered under her arm.
She fought the fight of breast cancer
and it gave her strength but it also
brought loss of self-esteem. She
never thought she would face such
a tragedy at such a young age.
He held her closely. He laid his loyal
head upon her chest and found
beauty in her scars. They represented
the determination to fight this
disease and she won. There is something
about those scars that gave him a
sense of wonder. She had been his saving
grace and those scars were her saving
grace. They are a prime example of the
fire she was burned from and the healing
of each burn created a miracle. Disguised
under each line from each incision lies a
story. Each story tells a tale of triumph.
The chemotherapy and radiation just
weren’t enough. This disease could have
taken her life, and it did not. Instead, it
gave her hope for a brand new fresh start
with a future of joy, she could carry on with
her little family of three.
See, everything can hold beauty if you
just have faith. All the darkness has light
and all the sorrow can be turned into
happiness. She felt her scars disguised
beautiful marks of a life force energy
that gave her the gift of a vigorous
confidence. Her courage revealed fortitude
as she finally accepted her struggle with
death as a pathway to healing.
Dedicated to all my friends and family who have faced breast cancer. I am in awe of your strength and courage. May peace be with you on your journey.
Beauty In Disguise
January 4, 2017
Mac Caulley was a farmer-O
Living off the shores of Badachro
His fields were sown like tartan-O
The crops crisscrossed in every row.
The evening pulled him to the coast
Where on his pipes he’d sound a toast
To all of those he loved the most
A declaration, but n’er a boast.
Not all were happy with this gam
Those said he shaved with razor clams
That thistle leaves had spiked his dram
While hives of bees, lived in his tam.
He pushed aside the verbal stones
and squeezed the belly, to a moan
A sound akin to grizzly groans
That shaped itself to Highland tones
Sheep wagged wooly heads, to and fro
Fish danced through water, far below
A Stag waved antlers, at his doe
Through rowan trees, the music flowed
Mothers tucked tired children into bed
Fathers sleepily nodded, weary heads
Sleep wrapped itself in myriad threads
About their minds, like pretzel breads.
Mac Caulley set his pipes aside
His feet were damp from shifting tides
He headed homeward, with quick strides
To his doorway lit…by dancing eyes
With heavy muddy feet.
The chambers of our hearts are Crisscrossed.
We were once light-footed and golden-leafed,
but time always unveils its true........ offbeat.
Shakes the color from every tree
rapes the berry from sweet offerings.
Ice fills December's coffee cup,
seasons removed from the smiling bud.
Roaches nibble on the bones of love...
Flitting down the path, yet another dove.
Throat rimmed in gold to cloak what's to come.
Rain freshened flowers, devoured by dollops of mud...
Crisscrossed.