Best Cyclical Poems
Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect rose.
So was a metaphor created from the rose,
Then plagiarized and used for all of time,
Simply here to represent the beauty of love,
A perfection to which we cannot aspire to in life,
Or even death, in the darkest of all those woes,
Great though they may seem by the passing day.
It's a fragile, soulful kind of love,
In the pressing presence of the breaking day,
Where your back breaks beneath ample woes,
And there just simply isn’t ever enough time,
To do what you plan to do with your life.
Then you start to resemble that rose.
Soft and delicate, with easy loss of life,
Mournful of the passage of time,
Counting down, day by dreary day,
Ever seeking out to find dear love,
The theoretical banishment of woes.
Such is the way of the deep red rose.
Has it ever occurred to us not to mark time?
Just to ignore it, along with any such woes,
Just to leap forth and enjoy life,
To live to the absolute fullest everyday,
And just as chosen by the poet's rose,
To find and hold on to, that one true love.
For I find, that it's mostly true these days,
That people don't make enough time,
For laughter and fullness in life,
So preoccupied with petty woes,
That they forget about the beauty of love,
And in doing that, they forget about the rose,
I know what the rose represents in my life,
And I work hard to expel my woes every day,
So that soon I will have time for true love.
*****Written in Sestina for Constance's Poetry 101 contest.*****
******* 5th Place winner*******
******Sarah Blake August 2010******
A sestina is a highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-
line envoy (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order
as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy.
II. Nature's Cyclical Dance
End is not death. Changing into something new is good.
A leaf falls, then goes back into the dark soil.
Next year's flowers sleep under winter's quiet.
We fear the end, but nature shows us it's not bad.
Death is a new start.
My Anishinaabe mentor Little Deer laughed at my wide eyes.
That first forest walk, as he plucked a bright trillium —
"Cherish her fleeting beauty, but mourn her not, my friend.
This flower's death will birth a thousand more to come."
His people know life dances on; death is rebirth.
I hear them now. Those ancient voices riding wind's breath.
They speak through birch and pine... calling me back to the way —
Honoring and not fearing, the seasons' turning tides.
Each dawn's first birdsong and each brook's gentle murmuring
Echoing the rhythm pulsing through this wild...
and wondrous earth.
Let me join this cycle, rooted but free.
I'll welcome death and the return of life.
Like the forest floor, decay and new growth mix.
With every breath, I'll connect with the source.
This cycle of life, death, and being born again is a gift.
----
"The Sacred Forest, a Nurturing Mother, never lets life die, / But reclaims, recycles, and rebirths in her eternal lullaby." - Daniel Henry Rodgers
Dorrie Ann left Herman again.
It happens on a cyclical schedule.
October, January, April and July.
A quad-yearly thing.
We cousins take her in.
Knowing in a day or two Herman will show up.
Sweet, with candies and maybe flowers.
He will sweet talk her back home
because he is tired of frozen food.
Dorrie Ann could be annoying after the
second day but none of us know this because
Herman’s pattern is cyclical too.
The wind waits for no man,
Nor tarries on steps of his fortune.
The tax man equates his ledger,
Ever wary of time that brings him none.
Great cities multiply and refuse to listen,
As pushcarts, filled with hubris,
Paint the sky with longlived hope for
change.
There, above the laws written by man,
Unicorns, resplendant in ivory coats,
Wait patiently for seasons to bear fruit.
At last, as soldiers march into battle,
God protects what man cannot see.
And all the righteous must abide,
'Till winds once more,
Refuse
To
Die
01/23/14
As unforgiving
nature may appear sometimes,
autumn leaves return...
*
Unequivocal
Divinity, eyes-shut Spring
Weathers winters’ all!
where one fist is thrown
another will see the knuckles displayed &
with each connection the rage from one
primate to the next comes spiraling downward---
there is a visceral reaction that brings the
onlooker back & if they are not sufficiently
distracted,
the cycle turns in motion like a perpetual machine
wherein the verbal fight in the workplace becomes
steam driven in the car to the pub after work wher
a skirmish ensues over the inability to release
stress through the affection of a sexual partner to be
discovered there,
instead, out into the parking lot,
with muscles thrusting, teeth gnashing &
all the feelings of the day sharpened & honed
right down to the tip of a needle---
where these bolts of distress & ferocity come from,
so buried deep inside, so much of our shared
animal state,
be it whatever way the energy bursting inside needs
to come out,
it will, without permission,
without cessation.
the pounding of another’s face,
the violence brought down like a hammer to a nail,
bashing relentlessly,
sends off lightening inside
erasing all consequences for a moment &
if it doesn’t go away outside,
it can be brought home---
in the illusion of comfortable peace found in the
american gothical bliss,
a maniacal jester laughs to itself
just behind the eyes &
the terror comes again.
this time, between two who once praised each other
in love,
now with tables turned comes the beating,
through only words or physical abuse,
the nature ripens & to any onlookers in the house
(primarily family), the destructor grows.
in destroying those around one, the claim is made
that the self is breaking down as well,
that the chaos in such a world is simply self-replicating,
something that will not die &
instead, will only blossom,
like the eggs of a cockroach spreading out to
create more cockroaches,
when the foot slams down to squish.
so onlooker learns the trade from onlookers
who stepped out one night to paint the town with
beatings & harsh words---
round & round & round the wheel goes &
where it will stop
(one would have to believe that it can in fact stop,
in order to finish this piece with the clichéd greeting
card-ish rhyme to be expected).
In this the third
Week of April
I loofahed from top to my toe
Every inch of
my scaly magnificence
bidding the lost parts go
Always loving a monday,
A first,ground zero
A change
Whether August or May
Or dawn of new day
I eagerly sought to know
To be at the pop
that starts a new race
On clean untrod virgin snow
What I sorely
lacked
Was conviction
In the self care
I hoped
To attain
To fall,then to rise
going wiser along
Without starting over again
Using what's gleaned
To propel me
To envision the pot holes and snares
Knowing that life
It is,what it is
Never advertised freely from cares
Spring as the first rays fall on frozen ground
The dew glistening in the early morning sun
And below ground the green curl begins
As heat from the astronomers source
Penetrates the distant land
The budding fern begins her journey
Long fallen autumnal foliage
Settled over winter under snow
Degraded now, brings new life
Nurture the ground, replenishing
Restoring natures balance to the soil
For new life to spring as the seasons forge ahead
The summer showers to moisten and some
The thirsts of long sun-soaked days
Restoring, verdant and texture as fronds unfurl
To sway in autumnal breezes, as earth cools
Damp in the air denotes the coming fall
Mists lay on meadows as nights draw in
Finally the green fades, dried and darker
Winter wind flurries and rustles the tendrils
All visible growth now returning to earth
Yes as the winter rages, snow and ice
Below the soil the fern she waits, patiently
Until the sun once more penetrates the soil in spring.
there’s a problem with faith.
Yes, I’ve seen mothers with interlaced fingers
& optimistic minds will god into
sick children.
Faith firm as cinderblocks,
building retaining walls against floods
of adversity.
Yet, I’ve seen fathers with frayed hair
& sweat-stained shirts fall
broken, like bone china
to the weight
of brackish, ebon water.
The duality of faith,
cinderblock strong, tea cup thin
leaves me with more questions
than answers.
So I’ve stopped looking at others for proof.
I see god in the bright orange
webbed feet of the ducks on Lake Mission,
kicking with ferocity at unyielding water.
I see god in the grapevine, each aphid praying.
I see god in the stomach of every mother possum,
children clinging to her back
& have to believe they’re all made
of concrete, but
Dawn drinks daylight.
Sunshine spreads supremely.
Briskly brightens bays and beaches.
Restless readers reclined rise up.
Freshness flashes fair faces.
Wildlife awakens watches.
Life loves lusciously.
Man makes much merriment.
Responsibility reckons…repeatedly.
Continuity continues its cyclical connection.
© November 14, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
The Well
The Watcher watches all the watchers, for the Watcher knows
That what the watchers are watching, is something to behold.
But what are they watching? The Watcher can’t tell.
For it appears to be only a plain looking well.
The Watcher asks and pleads for the watchers to state,
Why they are watching this plain looking well and what is it’s fate.
But the watchers don’t budge, they don’t make a peep.
Why they are watching, that secret they will keep.
The Watcher is frustrated, he wants to know, why?
The Watcher gets ANGRY! so mad he may cry.
He YELLS! at the watchers, he abuses by voice!
But the watchers keep watching like they don’t have a choice.
The Watcher watches their faces he studies their stance,
The Watcher looks on for hours, not just a glance.
Curiosity sets in, the anger subsided.
“I’ll examine this well” the Watcher decided.
The Watcher scans the surroundings, then peers the inside.
Too dark to see bottom - a good place to hide.
The Watcher looks, he stares, he steadies his gaze.
A peculiar scent arose, put his head in a daze.
He stumbles backward, refocuses eyes.
The Watcher stands like a statue, can’t move but he tries.
He stares at the sight, can hardly believe.
Frozen by fright, there will be no reprieve.
The Watcher stands and he stares like the watchers before him.
All the watchers scared stiff, the sight dreadful and so grim.
The watchers all watching, all watching in line.
The watchers keep watching, bound to watch throughout time.
There they all stand watching that plain looking well when...
A new watcher happens upon them, starts watching, and then...
Happy children with masks parade house to house,
Sneaking and creeping in way of a mouse.
Wearing cheesy cat ears; one a rhinestone crown.
There goes a princess in a glowing evening gown.
Superhero with invisibility cloak, power of flying.
Hershey bars next door? You’d better not be lying!
Blurry harvest moon shines with her best light.
Why does it always rain so hard on Halloween night?
Left on many porches are big plastic bowls of candy.
Here comes a cowboy; his red pistols are dandy!
There goes a dad, camouflaging his can of beer.
Halloween fun comes back like clockwork year after year.
Hitting all the highs then the lows
thinking it will stop, on it goes
like a river, life just flows
water falling, break my bones.
I suppose I must keep swimming,
though the lights just keep on dimming,
joy and laughter keeps me winning,
till the next day finds me sinning.
I finishes with distractions,
reality of life providing satisfaction,
loved ones keeping me soul laughing,
there is nothing I am lacking.
But my soul has not yet settled,
All these actions make me disheveled,
Drowning in pressure I'm in peril,
I check out from my emotions.
Find myself overwhelmed by people,
impressing others should be illegal,
cant focus on my easel
abandon my mission in upheaval.
I must keep my focus tight,
eyes set on my goal in sight
people come and go all night,
My thoughts stay calm and cool despite-
The chaos.
This entropy, it's endless.
I'm captive in your void of sleep.
My eyes are strung open,
My hands clung to you
But I'm drifting off,
I'm drifting far away,
Away from here, and as hard as I grasp onto you,
I know I won't be back.
Every time it happens.
I can't think straight,
I am so far off,
And if I can't be me,
I can't even stand to be you.
Dormant. Defenceless.
So I hold you by your neck and scream, but
It won't come through.
It never comes through.
And how could it if I can't freaking move?
And how could it if you never wanted a defence
While I'm thrashing and crying
And my throat is burning
With all the hatred,
For every time this happens,
For every night you betray me.
Repeating.
You always take the bait.
We always lay dead in the trap.
And you're leaving me.
You're bleeding out.
Like that, gone for good, without a last chance to bid farewell.
And I can't help but think that,
I'll either live without you
Or die without you
And I can never think what's worse.
So if you can't even see this...
If I can't just breathe with this...
If I don't just kill myself first...