Best Decanter Poems
I'm an ashen dove,
fading in zephyr
of wine valleys,
saturating in fog
upon enchanting hills,
draped in
grape-green silk,
where fantasies of forest,
sprout cynthia moon
of a bygone
medieval saga,
amidst heavenly
eventides,
and wailing weeds
prick my shadow,
infusing iced intentions
of the puppet's paradise~
floating in islets
of shackled bones.
My wings are
made of violet wool,
fluffed with
blueberry cotton
and stitched
with the fabric of
amethyst satin,
but as soon as
my tiptoeing feet
touch the
seafoam grass,
it stings my silent
glacial flight,
making me bleed
in chloroform-
dipped letters.
If love was a
rosy matte comet,
I would carve
pastel orchid smiles
amidst kismet-coated
cherry blossoms,
with frozen floral paints
and forgive
beige betrayals
of aqua sirens,
to which the
scents of evermore,
sweetly succumbed.
But maybe,
jasper tinted
jasmine petals,
are sewn with
poisoned thistles
whilst being
dispersed upon
the chambers of
midnight raindrops,
and those
soulful stars
in your eyes are
a mere mirage,
flourishing
false silhouettes of
a perfumed
saudade in
nocturnal negligence.
So, pardon these
bleeding metaphors
that echo sombre
sun's soliloquy in the
hazy kiss of gloom
and follow me
to the teal towers,
where this
fluorescent flesh
slumbers in enfolded
spruce leaves of
sequoia sonnets.
For, when the last petal
falls as poetry,
my soul would be
alive in wistful runes,
mourning in a
doleful decanter,
whilst eyes
would frown
in fragile promises,
wiping diplomatic
dust of dolent delusions
and knitting mists of
manipulations,
carelessly sinking~
to soil of feathered
dandelions.
Where nurtured seeds
of jade reflections,
still haven't ruptured
every pixie dust of hope,
in their life's
dormant decession,
reminisce me
as an ivory moonrise,
fluttering beyond,
dahlia chains of sunshine.
Categories:
decanter, black love, hurt, life,
Form:
Free verse
The decanter is filled with chicory blooms
(blue, for the sky is her pleasure)
while the snapshot turns nigrescent
marking rain for the evening weather
The ring with which they two had wed
lay gilded 'round her finger
With her eyes closed oboes quarreled
'gainst the scent of him, that lingered.
Her languish comes but once a day
She turns to the mackerel sky
and sits upon her lonely porch
In sight the ibis fly.
She remembers sweet the sparkling mint
his eyes had held in winter
and the rush of tangling wild wars
they waged when he did kiss her.
As evening falls the grass gives up
it's scent from dew to rain
and again her footsteps lead her
to a solitary grave.
Categories:
decanter, death, life, loss, lost
Form:
Free verse
Ruben looked deep down a decanter of hopeless glass
Engulfed in spirits of the wrong kind by his inner nemesis
Saturated with agony delusions and soaked surrender as he
Opened the screw top and drained drunken promises
Lingering at agony’s abyss he glanced at the sink hole
Unrequited love was a reason to live and not to dissolve
Tempests of titanic proportions tempted his resolve
In the face of drowning he tied a new essence to his dreams
One day at a time and sober he now faced life on it’s terms
Naked to the core he put the genie back into the bottle
15th January 2020
Categories:
decanter, change,
Form:
Acrostic
Nigh on sixty years ago this Yankee from the State of Indiana,
Wed a lovely Confederate lass from the State of Louisiana!
I thought I knew her pretty well by the time our vows were read,
But there was a New Years Day secret that she had left unsaid!
Seems there's an old southern tradition that I'd never heard of before.
By eatin' black-eyed peas on New Years Day you'd have good luck, she swore!
That lowly, bland legume is rather tasteless but a hambone spices it up.
And my spouse adds this and that to the mix, usin' her measurin' cup.
With the black-eyed peas is served cornpone (as it's called in Dixie land),
From a recipe handed down by generations and it must be made by hand!
Since I was introduced to that humble pea known for its great good luck,
'Tis our chuck on New Years Day with a generous decanter of Cold Duck!
Now, in Hoosier Land on New Years Day we ate sausage and sauerkraut.
Whether is helps to eat peas or kraut for a year's good luck, I somewhat doubt,
But, I must confess with my spouse at my side, life has mostly been a breeze.
Do you reckon it has somethin' to do with eatin' 'pone and black-eyed peas!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 3 in Russell Sivey's "Good Luck Meal" Contest - Jan 2012
Categories:
decanter, funny, holiday, day, day,
Form:
Rhyme
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
Categories:
decanter, imagery,
Form:
Prose Poetry
And what doth bring me
here to this spot
timely turns,
east west dyslexic learns
me to be ...
where is the space now?
Here before
a different time
out of place
out of mynd
and in tending to
my flock in kind
internally subjegating
unresulting rhyme
ballistical banter bereaved
its' decanter !!
"unearthing truth is only
interperative archaeology"
merely controlled science
in alliance to powers that
are to be believed in its
ruling theology....
And here in this spot I sit
a microchip
in the cog
an earmite
in a farm of hogs
a dustspeck, to be
boiled in emphatic blaspheme
a bar code
with no face
a Dunkin donut
with out the cream,
the parametics won't notice
nor the National Guard
not the Supreme Judicial tortoise
or the puppets playing cards,
but 5. O. is tight
& they'll sniff you outright,
'specially if you've violated
evidence for the Jury,
for 4 deflated desserts
are nothing but flirts
always withholding
the cherry...
Categories:
decanter, angst, introspection, philosophy,
Form:
Rhyme
She was as sexy as sexy can be
Body undulating like the sea
Hips gyrating at the speed of sound
Billowing breasts holding gawkers spellbound
Legs as shapely as candy canes
Inviting as a decanter of fine champagne
Lips so enticing that some have said
Their natural hue was deep ruby red
So what she had three eyes, five ears and a tail
All and all, she was a real hot tamale
Just what you'd expect from a Picasso origina-le!
November 18, 2018
Entry in "Sexy Poetry" contest
Sponsor: Lewis Rayes
Categories:
decanter, art, humorous, sexy,
Form:
Light Verse
total fiction
I heard the words repeated on the news
so sick of them that my mind rebelled...
"Doge's plan and Trump commands
the Constitution should be banned.
Hell to that Chief! There's no relief
Breaking news only heightened the blues.
I don't want to hear anymore.
By seven P.M. I lost count of the trips
I'd made, walking fast, past my kitchen,
refusing to turn on the light to see
a day's worth of dirty dishes
that wish I'd make them sparkling clean.
They're staring with a look of contempt at me.
I knew what I'd find...
coffee grinds stuck to the filter
Raisin bran flakes
caked along the edge of a bowl
a saucer with a bunch of crusts
cut off of a sandwich from lunch.
I'll get to them later....
The excuse I used on myself
when the sink is a refuse of clutter.
I've become a recluse
and no one will see them anyway
and the old cliché of...
Tomorrow's another day.
By eight thirty I was bored
a time when food comes to mind
Hunger would not be ignored
A frozen dinner of mac and cheese
"Geeze" said my stomach
when it saw it coming...
"Oh PLEASE, don't do this to me"
Ok, ok...
chocolate ice cream
sounds better anyway
By ten, guilt pointed accusing fingers
lingering and wagging before my face.
Stop it!" I actually said aloud
"I'll get to them later,
first thing in the morning. You'll see."
My new mantra was repeated.
I decided to go to bed. My usual stunt,
but culpability was on the hunt
haunting and taunting inside my head
Two steps over the kitchen threshold
and my conscience took control
when I smelled the leftover fish.
The thought of facing each greasy dish
would not be on my to-do list come morning.
I knew my mouth was puckered in a pout
No doubt my yawns were angry at me
and my sudden notion of conviction...
a vow of benediction, it seems I'd taken
awakened me to the need for sanitation.
Liquid was pouring from two spouts
Hot water in the sink
and a 'clink' of glass on glass
Pinot Noir flowed from a decanter
I raised my stem and toasted the dishes
"Here's to wishes that don't come true."
Categories:
decanter, humor,
Form:
Free verse
BALLAD OF STRANGER.
I have come from a far off land
A stranger on the greyer steed
Thence I have seen my true love
Where all sweetness of her resides.
She is a maid of starry nights
With hint of wistfulness in her eyes
Having tasted her starlit fenced gaze
A pause for a moment to contemplate.
Honest I have seen such a lass
From dazzling beauty shading eyes
And pity for my heart to loose, sighs
Because her beauty has so many guiles.
No more I will bemoan my fate
I will tell the tale again and again
I have drunk from decanter of wishes
Blessed be my fair maid and her kisses.
Categories:
decanter, love, sweet,
Form:
Ballad
She came upon me in a dream deep down from within my destination
Which coursed the mind and soul of years for my memories' inspiration
The path was crowded with bouncing hooves and wagons decorated
With fantasies ornaments adoration painted with merriment unabated
Echoes' subconscious sound of wild horses drawing cart wheels' canter
A symphony's reminder of nectar's flow from a coloured glass decanter
Bewildered I reminisced on sentiments nostalgia and what lies ahead
Fanfares of homeliness adventure passion to pounding of a drumhead
Heated stallions ran wild with mares and took my innate flight of fancy
Less trodden though in modern times a covert path offered me fragrant tansy
Potions of wild garlic lavender and bouquets of aromatic blue sage scent
I grabbed the message by the horns and galloped to my heart's content
One face stood out and reached my fired feelings as I took off one blinker
A nomad girl dressed in rags whistles bells whom you might call a tinker
Olive skin and amber eyes beyond all reason teasing all sensual needs
Her hair like forests full of tangles I must touch her locks lest she proceeds
Around her neck dangled an amulet crafted from ivory and ancient oak
Grant me a whiff of freedom give me one chance to embrace and stroke
The skin's wilderness and passion which may save me from my strife
A single breath or little smooch from cherry lips to give me the kiss of life
She shone as bright as ruby petals and took her path along the lane
Of elderberry flower and hawthorn hedges which made me go insane
Her chest adorned with orange curves she wore a crown of quince
She's been imprinted on my summer screen for more and ever since
And still the magic rings hooked on her ears of nectarine shaped silver
Stir the image when I hear a voice singing the praise and beauty of her
A scintillating Roma bride sculpted from nature of the purest sense
Prophesy omen oracle and metaphor in one quite magically intense
When sunshine arises red and purple with violins and tambourine
I pinch the moon in thanks for right next to me slumbers my Fairy Queen
Once upon a time I handed her a golden peach an oath and sacred bond
She calls herself a gypsy and kindly waves to me with her magic wand
11th April 2020
Categories:
decanter, dream,
Form:
Rhyme
There is a longing in my soul, the emptiness created by the absence of my fathers role.
I have had the happiness any child could wish for, I have had the sadness no child should endure.
I imagined you my whole life, holding me, scolding me…
Putting your arms around my shoulder whilst we walked, tripping me from behind like some fathers do.
Sitting under the stars, stoking the fire, listening to your stories, talking about glories past...
I’ve searched my whole life for someone to fulfil your role, teachers, preachers, non can plug this hole.
Anyway your gone, I’ve never met you, you were taken in your prime.
All I got left is your decanter, we’ll always share the wine.
csd
Categories:
decanter, father,
Form:
Tonight we’ll share the heavens;
Souls knitted into one,
Fly together we, the ochre moontrails,
on gossamer wings.
The decanter overflows with nectar;
its sweetness permeates the ethereal void,
like ephemerous orbs when touched
by the hands of a child.
The secret Garden’s lit by Eos’ mirth;
polychromatic hues emanate from glassine showers;
Gait filling the place, radiating in splendor,
Warming every psyche in its solace.
Silence may, yet rule the void;
Plenary peace acquiesced e’en for a nanosecond.
Then from some aperture, a tiny tingle crescendos,
as the angelic host thunder their majestic heralds.
Come with me now my beloved;
Dry I your tears with lotus petals,
Come with me now, reach out your hand
and together we’ll share a millennium in a succinct moment
in this paradise called DREAMS.
Categories:
decanter, dream,
Form:
Free verse
I have been pre - oc
cupied
i have knot been per -
used to periodical nomanclature nor have I been be -
spectaled by the enormity of my
self
but have been painting numerous
simple questions to my
self:
under guises that I have flat
out
denied.
sorry if I have scared
you with this literal literary
banter, I didn't mean to impose or be too
daring, by posing
contests of painting the decanter
from this email poster...
to hear that the health
of you two
has improved
and sickness, and blues
are freed - form obtuse,
Once Pasteur once said:" It's not what yr eatin' -
It's what yr fed"
that I missed
yr visit and scared
you with my insecure
are you there? rambling exclamations
I sent you proof that I
am merely a typist
out in cyberspace...and that I was in need
of more than online conversation...
sorry sylvia, I will
no longer bother you, I am sorry
of my over - reaction, but not of the attraction
I sensed from you,
and never from the time spent between us 2
Categories:
decanter, forgiveness, introspection, sorry,
Form:
Rhyme
Sometimes he writes to her
upon a white paper moon.
The ink of his thoughts
dries to invisibility
as he folds the love-letter
into an origami model
of a flightless bird,
a creature now extinct.
He imagines her putting on her face,
dressing up
getting ready to take a taxi
to his Bayswater, London apartment.
At such times
he waits like Noel Coward
for his China dream girl
in some long forgotten play.
He picks up
a cut glass whiskey decanter
swirls the last inch of Irish around
smiles as she appears once more
at his door.
Categories:
decanter, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
In the fading heat of a waning falling October night
Trick and Treat travel on their broomstick’s front seat
high speed velocity twin turbo engines in roaring flight
‘We must beat others to hallowed doors and beat defeat’
‘No one must impede our finely tuned Quidditch’s path’
Speeding on angel gas enriched with technology’s potion
they whiz through the busy sky have projected their math
have hacked air control have consulted internet motion
At a gate of a palace of fine marble and extravagant riches
old Scrooge bickers ‘in my day we were lucky to get an orange
and maybe a piece of coal you two modern and greedy es
I have something to teach you a lesson for I am The Gorringe’
Here is a coin ‘that’s the way the money goes pop goes the weasel’
At the Eagle Tavern Scrooge has prepared for revenge in delight
the landlord fills Trick’s and Treat’s goblets from a decanter of diesel
‘Have one for the road you measly creatures please don’t get a fright’
Despite all mod cons they are suddenly grounded high on the fuel
hallucinate happily have glorious visions of hot sausage and mustard
while there in the mood already dream of the forthcoming Pagan Yule
nothing worse than going cold turkey but they imagine cold jelly and custard
When Trick and Treat crash from above because their parachute fails
the old man in his wisdom chuckles to himself because he is still standing
his bones are crackling but a sound mind feeds on the moral the story entails:
‘If you underestimate seasoned wisdom there might be an unhappy ending’
30th October 2018
Categories:
decanter, irony,
Form:
Rhyme