Best Daubs Poems
In swoon ‘neath golden moon and sable sweep
let bathe with hues upon my canvas soak
romance a mingle, brush and pigment sweet,
enrapture me your passion’s hungry stroke
explore an aura, fluid colors blur
imbue the skies of empty eyes a soul,
in deepest purple daubs a midnight stir
as lover weaves a dream to make me whole
caress the edge to fuse desire and shapes
lay a layer one atop the other
a throb of contrast, feelings free to traipse,
smoothing over yearnings with a flutter
starlit glaze and silky graze artistic
awaken chroma crave for drama shades,
mood’s aglow, aroused and optimistic
before the painter’s lusty palette fades.
Susan Ashley
April 7, 2020
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand No 1165 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 5
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Standard Contest: Your Fave Poem 2020 Not Written For A Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
July 29, 1890
Colored daubs and swatches
crave artist’s practiced hand.
Justice, nearly blind, yet watches—
unwrought art upon a stand.
Regard the brushes in a row—
the palettes and the sponges.
Genius maimed by status quo,
vain a hope that fate expunges.
Guttered myriad lifelong dreams—
in desperate ruination.
Fading now the piteous screams
of self-inflicted termination.
Time Passes
Abruptly then adoring praise—
contrived their sudden expertise.
Rude cabal who would appraise—
byzantine their guileful sleaze.
Each masterpiece a servant
of craven yearn and greed.
Bang the gavel, swift and fervent;
sate purveyors’ inveterate need.
Justice now is truly blind;
vanished those She would impute.
His final piece is left unsigned;
and undisclosed, for now She’s mute.
4th Place: I Love Rock and Roll
Inspired by Don McLean's song, Starry Starry Night
where the pipeline meets the lake
spewing sewage in its wake
several snowdrops grow and help to paint God’s earth
and as acid rains from clouds
upon the litter strewn by crowds
lines of daffodils speak more than words are worth.
next to piles of household waste
tipped by those who fly in haste
there are bluebells growing wild on urban floors
and as plumes of factory smoke
suffocate disperse and choke
there are birds migrating to these hallowed shores.
where graffiti daubs the wall
of society’s wrecking ball
there’s a patch where tulips dance beneath our sky
and as shards of broken glass
lie in pieces on the grass
two young lovers holding hands walk slowly by.
oh, my precious child!
let me kiss away your weep -
do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night
(stars whispering their ancient lullaby)
swallowing not, the western reach
but merely giving pause to the day, waking
so that the grateful star of morn
should adorn its burgeoning bosom
let not the salty seep of your cheek yet trill
such certain and elegant inequity there be
should a stain darken that pinafore, pressed
a scandal be my name with thy mother
should those eyes dampen your Sunday best
and surely not for the sake of Luna's languor -
oh, such dire dalliance, that!
I adore thee, my wee lass
Boundless are the ways -
Echoed in your mother's smile
There, so deep your gaze
'tis true, his aged face did blush, fleeting
dipping his dusty chin to the sea
but it was for Sol's regard only
(their goodnight kiss - pressed tender, a-cheek)
and no misfortune was spun
we shall return, my child, sooner than soon
and you will bear witness their recurrence
your old man moon will beg company again
with his patient aspect beaming
shimmering bright for your veneration -
soft, soft, so daubs the moon
soft as bluebells blooming -
wan on skin to softly swoon
e'er a dream's consuming
yes, I vow this to you, my daughter -
you shall dance again on this shore
bound and prance, my tiny ballerina
you will twirl in the breath of evening, I am sure
lit by the gangling glow, star-ward
and tonight's lament will seem a silly song
you shall see and be heartened, my little one
and should I yet kiss that weep away, too?
ah, but joyous, those tears...
and as the heavens themselves
(and the best born of a father's heart)
how immeasurable their number …
oh, my darling, precious child!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Your Choice (4), Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
oh, my precious child,
let me kiss away your weep -
do not be troubled, the moon but bids good night,
stars whispering their ancient lullaby,
swallowing not, the western reach,
but merely giving pause to the day, waking
so that the grateful star of morn
should adorn its burgeoning bosom.
let not the salty seep of your cheek yet trill
such certain and elegant inequity there be,
should a stain darken that pinafore, pressed.
a scandal be my name with thy mother,
should those eyes dampen your Sunday best,
and surely not for the sake of Luna's languor -
oh, such dire dalliance, that!
I adore thee, my wee lass
boundless are the ways -
echoed in your mother's smile
there, so deep your gaze.
'tis true, his aged face did blush, fleeting,
dipping his dusty chin to the sea,
but it was for Sol's regard only,
their goodnight kiss - pressed tender, a-cheek
and no misfortune was spun.
we shall return, my child, sooner than soon,
and you will bear witness their recurrence!
your old man moon will beg company again,
with his patient aspect beaming -
shimmering bright for your veneration -
soft, soft, so daubs the moon
soft as bluebells blooming -
wan on skin to softly swoon
e'er a dream's consuming.
oh, I vow this to you, my daughter!
you shall dance again on this shore,
bound and prance, my tiny ballerina!
you will twirl in the breath of evening, I am sure,
lit by the gangling glow, star-ward,
and tonight's lament will seem a silly song,
you shall see and be heartened, my little one!
and should I yet kiss that weep away, too?
ah, but joyous, those tears...
and as the heavens themselves,
and the best born of a father's heart,
how immeasurable their number!
oh, my darling, precious child!
Wilted rose petals
unable to attract bees.
Concubine's mirror
holds the reflection of gloom
as she daubs rouge on wrinkles.
Date: 08/19/2022
Note: For the contest (Bite Size Poem no51) by Line Gauthier.
Honorable Mention
Portrait II *
By: Tom Wright
1/31/02
Meticulously mixed, my days as paint,
my life, a canvas, on an easel stand.
Each brushstroke from the palette,
precisely placed by the Masters hand.
Solely exhibited will be yon things,
which I exclusively, in stone, have cast.
Finally on canvas, change I can't,
things permanently etched into my past.
As each day's paint is so aptly applied,
with others, interlaced, they quickly dry.
Oft, seen are things that disappoint,
such as black daubs, on dapple colored sky.
Each day , has been a single brush stroke;
In paint, one life, that soon shall fade.
God's portrait of another unique person,
a rainbow, consisting of every shade.
Night's grassy fields furrowed beneath starry bait,
calls us to cast ourselves upon the straw,
above the Pointillist's daubs spark a hungry slate
to entice our soul while we chew our chaw.
Where we render ourselves like straw
we skew limbs and mimic far-off Orion,
enflame our heart while we chew on chaw
and drink ourselves numb on Milky Way ions.
Limbs askew we guard like Orion,
count falling stars and bargain our wishes,
drunk on Milky Way ions,
we battle mosquitoes with snaps and swishes.
Counting falling stars that grant our wishes,
we poll the planets and ignore Man's moons,
battle free of mosquito's little bitty swishes,
we hope for snipe, snipe and settle for morning loon.
Planet's poll finished and ignored void of Moon,
let's us cradle beneath stardust flaring Bourealis,
until our hope for snipe is settled by morning loon,
when we rise on frozen limbs heated by sun's kiss.
Heart cradled within stardust-flaring Bourealis,
mind drifting on Pointillist drape of hungry slate,
no longer wobbling on limbs heated by sun's kiss,
we're content night cultivated our star-mad fate.
Sheri Fresonke Harper
for Paula Swanson's Pantoum Contest due 12/10/2010
Paintbrush colours blue
indigo to ocean hues
and baby blue tints
cerulean daubs on canvas
next to Prussian blue patches.
Carol Fillmore
for Francine Roberts "Blue" contest
written months ago commemorating
the graduation from a vaunted charter school
in Bend, Oregon of thy lovely youngest,
this papa could not attend -
geographical distance constituting the primary determinant.
* * * * * *
Soundcloud springboard no matter
what destiny each young man or woman
decides to pursue. Though accolades dedicated
genuinely (just my outlying participation)
special veneration x2c accorded beautiful
radiant daughter ecstatic gloating honestly jubilant
kindred made noble perseverance reaching
the ultimate write x zit that will usher her
onward toward opportunities sustained
by confidence gained thru academic ambition,
dynamic dedication, and gigantic germination
of maturation, whose individual future
* * * * * *
trajectory predicated with the rubric of essential
scholastic tools essential to gain positive
further education and thence employment endeavors.
So Punim (whom this papa does
love and miss) attempted to let the words
tumble upon the display screen communicating
in my patois, (a gallimaufry of mumbo jumbo
shrimp limp ping missive) at your success
attaining a laudable momentous occasion per
rejoicing, no matter the message possibly
lost amidst this cobbled gobbledygook,
which attempts to pass as acclaimed literary
endeavor. Okay, I experience tears of euphoria
and misgiving at lack of finances to share
in person how this dada daubs dribbling
tears ducts. Congratulations thy beloved Shana.
A child shelters ...
Under a bloody, swollen moon
Yearning the daylight
Soft beams show the way
But there is no ember ... no brightened clarity
No warm-to-the-marrow saturation
It is beautied, like the elements of love
But it can not fill the sky or heart
Wan and weak, it is pale substitute for sunshine
Even the shadows it daubs are undefined
Puddles of inky disregard and neglect
The night's cold, unaffected
Love's longing stretches deep into the dark
Questions crimping the edge of want
Ever nipping at self-worth and pride and expectation
But the child's eyes, transfixed ...
Moonlight has few equals ... shimmering, beautiful
But like love unexpressed, it is ONLY that
A word not said, a hand not held ... time not shared
A kindness unseen, a sacrifice unappreciated
A precious tear not kissed away
Moments - small and not - wasted
They all hide there in the shadows of the moon
Like the dear child ...
(Soon grown and gone)
Longing for the bold definition of daylight
The warming wonder of sunshine
The lasting aspect ...
Of LOVE.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Your Best New Poem" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Pale Shelter" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
( Inspired by the song "Pale Shelter" by Tears For Fears, and my own childhood )
the sky is like a canvas
splashed with modern art
multi coloured daubs of clouds
streaks of blue apart
a reddish splodge sun
slowly slides towards the edge
and dusk has begun
Jack Horne, 29th September, for Nette’s WONDER OF DUSK IN SEGUIDILLA contest
birth of a haiku
wind daubs earth's tent with spent leaves
first frost's colored ink
Brian Johnston
October 19, 2015
exclamation, which does nothing to stem dead locked high tide
proliferation of high-powered assault bazookas
manned by berserk cruel death eaters,
arch nemesis picks off life with a blip
simultaneously bipedal hominid(s) grip handily rounded dirk
as backup in case clip
misses mark, where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprinting into lockdown mode deterring by a drip
fiendish homicidal metamorphoses, where transmogrification
of generic guy wielding weapon subjugating hostages pits malignancy fill lip
mailer daemon hell bent on besieging bait (unaware
Snapchatting linkedin flickr ring beings) burst deadly quip
barrage of bullets malicious intent to spray
killing machines deliver click and rip
paying plenti deathly instagram howls amidst pandemonium,
thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate taking souls to Hades trip.
Brutal and nasty nefarious scheme directed at humble lettered folks
(like those comprising my home town -
once evoked pastoral meme Lake Woebegone)
minding their p's and q's, when in extremis
out of the blue nightmare interrupts idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings terrorist catcall
followed by red tide and river of bloodied body where caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood within lies corpse,
pistol whipped, shredded and outkast, where mortician daubs creme.
Soundcloud boom echoes, thus occurs staccato sinister sonic strafes across
freshly fielded tombstone; pearl jam gray slate, some formerly anonymous
namesake, which underling, higgs bo son or daughter blitzkrieg cross
invisible trajectories shatter (at shutterfly speed),
democratic rubric rendered dross
disposable lives of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence
pines nostalgia for Mill on the Floss
when life seemed innocent against gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss.
Celeb
No sooner does a Celeb opens his closed lips
Than eager pens poise to ooze ink from tips!
Such is the woe and pain for my brother Caleb
Who’s a reviled, demeaned and stalked Celeb!!
Whatever he utters is perceived as controversy
While ruthless stalking gives Caleb no privacy?!
With garrulous chaps, when reviled or railed,
Noblese oblige is a cross on which he’s nailed.
They pounce for taking breather showing face
Moving off, Camera Men begin a Chevy Chase-
Has he any peace? Will he not in public do sex-
Denied liberty by every keen eye’s sharp reflex?
His dress they scrutinise, and call it funky style
His taste they sample and give it a cold smile:
Vile ink daubs all publications with acerbic scorn;
Either: “archaic dress” or “contagious ****!”
Dress! The worst that meets a Celeb with vile
Wretch in rugs joins despicable rank and file
At pelting and at condemnation of our Lady Gaga
Who with either style of dress is labelled gaga!!
So they give a relentless chase of the racy tail
Dailies and some other loud and sneaky Mail
While Fashion flows as tresses of an eager Clown
Dancing a scary plague out of a diseased town!!
All that they do or what they take into account
Is always a deplorable and a deficient account:
A Celeb is a sweet Orange treated like a lemon
Or, Saint condemned like a wandering demon!
JM
05th December 2013