Best Decry Poems
Open eyed, long tearless, foul silvered orbs
have you no pity? The aqua tide rides dry.
Blind staring scorches, accusing twin barbs
who burrow inward, a destiny to decry.
Scattered rendering, puzzled pieces aligning;
"Please mercy has a place, why can't I cry?"
Remove the cataract veneer, stop my pining
"Have you no place for maddened souls such as I?"
Nailed to the boards you see a canvassed psyche
dabbed upon a casein shroud in hues most bright.
"How many lamp lit days will you seek to find me?"
The light betrays me and I live in eternal fright.
Eternities unfold in Lovecraft Tales
upon the silvered side within my eyes; hell wails.
“The silent song of the sighing breeze,”
In leafless demeanor of shuddering trees,
Whispered cries of a dismantled dream
Augmenting dissonance of broken theme,
A theme composed in the promise of yore
Avowing endearing passions evermore,
Of love eternal, enamoring core of soul,
Till its amorous glory, fate savagely stole.
Though zephyrs forlorn, still cruelly blow,
Wailing lovelorn woe of forgotten throe,
Despair is vanquished from song of sorrow,
For hymns of bliss sing of hopeful morro.
Pledges of today, foretell future of ardour,
Vying dreamscapes, musings-ecstatic adore,
Buoying tides of love to tomorrow’s shore,
Abandoning yesteryears memories abhor;
Of pensive sighs, spent-emotions decry,
Of dejection lamenting love gone awry,
Of nightmares trembling sleepless night,
Of allegories wistful, destiny’s hands write.
“The silent song of the sighing breeze,”
Now sings of love, from flowering trees,
Whispering melodies to a dulcet dream
Augmenting allure of lovesome theme.
Line #1
While gelid breezes of winter, quiver emotions of decaying rays,
And arc of horizon cedes to dusk, evoking grimace of malaise,
Casting shadows tenebrous, shrouding glimmer of a slowing day,
Desperate hope lingers still, in resplendence of autumn’s decay;
Gawking in yonder, where gamboge-orange woodlands fade,
Reminiscing in seasons harkening, realms of love now evade,
Mindful of the broken vows, when grievous calls destiny made,
When forever promises receded, and pledges eternal strayed.
Love now mulls~ if kiss of passion was a subtext of final goodbye?
Was it the last tear of hapless eyes; a bawl of love gone awry?
A silent protest, concealing mindfully, anguish of a forlorn sigh?
Was it the clamor of jilted desires, love enamored chose to decry?
Springs of past summon hope, having risen from wintry throe,
Nights of nightmare cede to dreams in halo of daybreaks aglow,
As candle of love revives hearts, fueled by inspirations of soul,
When whispers of sensuous hints, aspirations of romance cajole.
Desperate hope expounds repentance, vying healing through time,
Unsure if, pleadings in atonement, will redeem future sublime;
Whether love saplings will ever sprout, from ashes of passions bygone,
If dreams forsaken will blossom, in womb of tomorrow’s dawn.
Written: September 24, 2023
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I care, I search, for the spark of divinity,
That resides within every soul's vicinity.
In the eyes of a child, so innocent and pure,
I descry the answer, as simple and sure.
In the embrace of a loved one gentle and warm,
I find the solace that can weather any storm.
In the laughter of friends, so joyful and bright,
I decry the link that bestows everything right.
I care, I search, for the meaning of life,
For the purpose that transcends all strife.
In the depths of my heart, a quest unveiled,
To grasp mysteries that have long prevailed.
Through mountains high and valleys low,
I journey on, letting my curiosity grow.
Cliffs were sentinels reaching to the sky
Gulls chided my presence with loud decry
I scaled a hilltop to glimpse the sea
Piety washed in gentle waves over me
Never had I felt so humbled before,
watching fingers of foam fondle the shore
October 26, 2021
Bite Size Poem no24 Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Poets
Why is it poetry, is a like dirty word and talked of in undertones?
It’s like a naughty postcard, more flesh than there are bones.
Poets tend to deny their art, “I’m not a poet, I’m a rhym-er”
Come on you lot get stuck in don’t be a poetry two-timer.
After a glass of alcohol some may admit-“I like a little verse”
“But no I m not into poetry…” It’s like a speech they did rehearse.
Now poems I’m getting good at, but famous poets I don’t know any
Don’t ask me if I’m a poet, because in wages I don’t earn a penny.
Now rhyme I am not bad at, but at free verse I would stink
As for haiku, senryu, and other forms, I stink I really think…
I listened to some so called poets; decry their art the other day
They denied their art while they listened, to what each other had to say.
Standing there with their poems held high, “I’m not a poet” they all said
Well get down from the microphone and let’s hear a poet instead…
They pass their poems around the table, like some black market currency
Not wanting anyone to see it, but they are at a reading for poetry.
So be loud and proud you poets stand firm for what you believe in
Tell them you are a poet, and just get used to all the teasing
I used to be a shy poet and I write verse with some frivolity
But the definition in my dictionary says “words with a pleasing quality.”
So now I am open to judgement from all of you wonderful poets
You have all commented on my work, but do you really know it?
You all have qualities that scare me, you really seem so clever
So can I finally admit to being a poet, from now on and forever?
~GG~ 27/09/2012
She walks with dreams, deep passions woo,
Into euphoric ambience of a moonlit night
Carrying sweet secret, so intimate and true,
Sprouting in her womb blossoms of delight.
Though they are together, he feels all alone,
Trapped in turbulence of memories unkind,
Nothing she can say would emotions atone
Grief of matrimony he chose to leave behind.
Agitating unspoken, dissonant pulse of strife
His turmoiled heartbeats now brutally amplify
Frightened by weary past to embrace a new-life
When spiteful bonds of yore earnestly decry.
She tries, yet decides, now is not the time
Waiting till moon and stars are so inclined
To witness with Venus, dear-moment sublime
And unveil the script that destiny designed.
Clenched clandestine vibes utter a soft sigh
As happily her stomach churns butterflies;
And, until next-time, she bids him goodbye,
When they’ll guess the color of baby’s eyes.
Vulnerable she feels now, how will he react:
Will he welcome baby, yet harp in the past?
Will he face with courage or opt to retract?
Convulsed, she shudders~ will this love last?
May 5, 2023
Placed 1st: Pick-A-Title, Vol 36 – Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Though they thought it didn't matter,
fate would soon decry its loss,
those who stroked the raven's wing,
cushioned by the verdant moss.
They who spun the silken fibers,
iridescent shades of blue,
molten silver coursing downward,
hissing through the morning dew.
He whose gray eyes knew their essence,
he who flew on velvet wings,
when the final toll was taken,
wrote the lyrics rivers sing.
Written: October 09, 2023
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There are no blooms to snuggle in the twilight
No promise that it will ever reach the zenith.
Either the sky is clear or a cyclone is brewing
Unpredictable, akin to the whims of fate.
Life sheds its brimful aura and amorphous shells
No longer a folk-waltzing performance,
But an aphonic and agrestal appendices
Shifts sustain, the skin splits and slides,
Revealing the vulnerability beneath,
A skin split that resonates in the heart
Where forlornness resides, tearing at the seams
In this ever-changing world, seasons shift.
Some souls only shine once a year.
Or twice, if they're lucky, reaching even higher.
When you least expect it, or in the spring,
They decry what bestows them delight,
Appreciating the winding road of life,
Finding beauty in the midst of anguish
There are no blooms to snuggle in the twilight.
Written: October 23, 2023
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In an expanse full of vibrant marvels, I roam.
A restless poet soul, aiming for a spot to call home.
Amid storms and destiny's unremitting draw.
I sustain to propel upward, my spirit strong flaw.
Stand shoulder close by with the towering trees.
I still sway, in sequence states of sublime sleaze.
Having both a zesty sanity and a nexus soul.
I am a lover of tales and contemporary tole.
At a wooden desk, wrapped with trepidation.
I reveal the enigmas unveiled in my orientation.
Salvaged from time, akin to riches of the past.
I dabble with words, trying to craft a story to last.
In frostbitten palms, emotions nestling deep,
I decry solace in the icy promises they keep.
Quenched by the whispers of wind and icy breath,
I let my thoughts wander, defying death.
Inside my mind, a world unfolds,
Where stories are told and destinies are bold.
With each word written, a new chapter unfurls
As the wanderer's tale takes flight and twirls.
Through wooden limbs and ancient lore,
I paint a canvas of emotions galore.
From the storms of passion to the calm of peace,
Every word I write, every line I release,
Carries the essence of my wandering soul,
A tapestry of longing, of life's intricate toll.
For in the words I weave, my spirit finds release,
And the wanderer's tale finds its eternal peace.
Written: October 10, 2023
Night Bewitches Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
A dream is a microscope through which we look at the hidden occurrences in our souls. Erich Fromm
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In the placidity of the night's embrace,
bewitched the cosmos with an arcane grace.
The moon, a silver orb, may induce its rise.
Oozing its ethereal aurora over the skies
Whispers of worm words waft on wafture wear,
As the stars spangle, their nexus is spare.
The night wiles with its vestigial spell,
Drawing us in, under a talisman dwell.
Penumbras plaster pegs poltergeists of trees,
The twilight augury decry casts souls at ease.
Geezers of nightgown awaken from slumber,
Suing solace in the Cimmerian shade to clamber
The eventide sky overawes with a cosmic array.
Stars bedazzle and coxswain us on our way.
Moonlight sumptuous aura in a gentle glow,
Steer us through the shadow as the nexus flows.
Ebony necromancy decry a glamorous sight.
Drawing us close to the serendipity of the night.
In this cosmic wee hour, dreams bear flight.
Our souls are raised, and our hearts blight.
So let us indulge in this nocturnal delight,
As dusk vamps, squirting a glamor of delight.
Let us wander in the moonlit haze,
As sableness susurrous surreptitious sprays
Wee crepuscule twiddles, a plum night symphony
Where conceit phantasm and verity shed sympathy
Allotting an awareness acumen ariose and aureate
Upon ubiquitous utters uncanny unsophisticate.
Every poem
An invention
Some would say:
When a romantic
Creates a breathing rose
In the mind
For the heart of another
A far superior find
Than all
Man’s Relativities—
So—
Let Einstein rest
Of his atoms
Undressed;
And Galileo
Further divest
In some far
Distant sky,
Too far off
Even
For modern
Glass-eye
Perhaps now,
As I,
Would also decry:
That the artist, alone,
Sees and lives,
A true icon,
Beyond the grave—
A slave not to science,
But to love and beauty;
With far more inquisitive duty,
That of revealing
The Universe
The soul of it
Divine—
Voices facing headwinds feel the calming seas
Elephants grasping backdraft tails are letting
go and hearing the rumble of discontent.
The runaway (with your $$$) train called washing-
ton with earplugs jammed so tight hairpieces
jiggle with every falsehood.
People are waking up!
People are waking up!
Were you asked if money is better spent (1/2 trillion$
stolen from
your future) arming blurred sides in Syria that we
intend to bomb? then decry their use against us?
We the people are no longer in control and live in
fear. Do you worry I cannot speak freely in this
land of liberty?
WHY?
My ancestors died in battle so I can write this
diatribe!
You, all of you artists, they fear us most...
and silence us if our words pull the sheep
away from 'dancing with the stars'
I am not a slave...I am not a slave
Rejoice in liberty!
Join my voice!
only james marshall goff
proud ancestor of the
Scottish Black Watch
12/12/14
© All Rights Reserved
The Strength of Truly Gentle Men
Who wouldst decry such chivalry
deny the outspread cloak, the proffered hand,
plod through puddled mud, drag silken train,
in smug reproach of such a gentle man.
Hast all the glow been scrubbed from humankind
till every gesture – weighed - is found to lack
the power to deflect cold sightless eyes
from barren search o’erlooking all but self.
Should we, in vain reproach withdraw the cloak,
splash also in the muddled, mindless muck
that passes as the futures promised hope -
wash - Pilate-like - the stain from outstretched hands
Lest the cloak be tainted by history’s tarnished brush
and denied the strength of truly gentle men.
John G. Lawless
11/30/2014
Written with admiration for Tom Cunningham ~ a gentle poet
maligned by one who really casts an aura of darkness
My smile is genuine and reaches to my eyes.
I do not wear a mask, nor a cloak of disguise
and I post poetry in my given Christian name.
From the hand of one it was written in a claim
that I cast shadows of dark energy around me.
Should I assume that I'm thought of as beastly?
Someone thinks that my spirit has gone awry.
I have to shake my head in disbelief as I decry,
"If you liken me to a sinister, malevolent being
I would ask what movies have you been seeing?"
Call me rude names if that makes you feel witty,
but each shines a gleaming light on your lubricity.
I'm not insulted by the sticks and stones thrown,
nor do I write anything that I would ever bemoan.
I will champion myself, my friends and my nation,
never seeking battle, nor in fear of confrontation.
I am not a troll, a gang member, or wolf in a pack,
so don't falsely accuse me. I won't take your flack.
There is no darkness surrounding my aura, I'm sure.
It may be that your malicious thoughts are impure.
You struggle with defining what's right from wrong.
Is there anyone with whom you can get along?
Friendships are important and you would be wise
to recall that poets should be a coalition of allies.
You're entitled to your opinions, and I am to mine,
but if they are different, don't moo like a bovine.
"Spiteful words," you said, my friends and I write.
Well, in this case I'll say you're absolutely right.
I've been told that rebuttals are a waste of my ink
but not a drop is wasted if it makes people think.
Think of the insult to a poet belittled by another.
One who treats everyone as a sister and brother.
Tom wrote of the bloodbath Putin draws in Ukraine
then selfish comments were made that left a stain
on his words that were written to ring out in truth.
Don't sling mud on other poet's by throwing a stone.
Give voice to your beliefs. Write one of your own.
And now, you're thinking, "You just slung mud."
Yes, I did, in hopes that it will land with a thud.
I don't relish penning negative lines of contention,
but sometimes things are in need of attention.
I'd rather write about Santa and Christmas cheer,
than calling out snide people who taunt and jeer.