Best Deftly Poems
I See You...
Wanderer, wanderer, lost in the haze
void of direction, succumb to the craze.
Give ear to my madness, so deftly designed;
deception de-jour: aimed to muddle your mind.
Hocus and pocus no need for free thought,
erase your opinions, your conscious to rot.
As sugar and soda your smile decay,
a hoax and swindle, then off on your way.
Smoke and a mirror, please don’t look too close.
The truth makes one banal; drugs for the morose.
Illusion can conjure emotions untapped
a quick misdirection, now I’ve got you trapped.
You think you arrived here, quite all on your own
you’re one of a billion, another sad clone…
I’ve stolen the treasure that once made you free
brainwashed you to thinking all’s as it should be.
Gobbledygook and hyperbolized drivel
platitudes, platitudes, mentally shrivel;
accept what I tell you, and not an ounce more,
wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore.
07/12/15
in silence, we connect through gazes
knitted by starlit eyes ablaze
like dusk's luster wafting by the sill ...
and we need not ramble in paraphrases
of night’s canticle, while folded hands
caress the rhythm of twilight's melody.
how deftly breaths and fireglow understand
our same tunes, our same wafting waves,
gentle as entwined roots jutting out
from your palms, my bosom… together,
we feel the stillness of love from the same face,
and if our flesh doesn’t chafe in the peeling
of autumn’s chill , it’s because…
we have been soul mates
before time was ever born.
Your Best Poem EverContest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Written 9/24/2014 Resubmitted 6/19/2020
When morning breaks in shades of wine...
with claret skies to blush the dawn...
I will stretch and yawn, and thank the night
for this polished, apple day
I will wait until the sun is high, where dew upon the rose is dry
I'll have my cup, .. with toast and jam...
then, make escape, ..........the quest begins,
to seek my small reward
It happens slowly...
gathering reason from an untamed mind
Up into the meadow where the brambles climb
twisted and tangled, through burgandy vines
while deftly my fingers, will probe the maze
and reach for wild berries,.....warm from the haze
Then, thumping their goodness, one after one
into the bucket, dented and worn
A search through thorns, a prick on my thumb
till my back is ripe, and wet in the sun
Finger painting my faded blue jeans
Knowing my cheeks are flushing in pink
Sucking sweet juice from two crimson thumbs
Who cares a lick, of the thorns or a bee?
I am a bee, buzzing serenity...
plucking small bits of reason and sanity
taking home goodness in a battered tin pail
feeling alive, on a wild-flowered hill
Tonight's sweet delight, is warm berry cobbler,
oozing with goodness of juicy red gems
staining my tongue, and turning lips scarlet
dripping blood droplots onto my chin
Yet never as splendid, or tasting as fine,
as warmed by my smile, straight from the vine
Picking red berries, and freeing my mind
* *
* *
* *
*
*
counting vermillion clouds that are spun
then heading back home, with the red crimson sun
_____________________________________
For Shadow Hamilton's Contest: "Colours"
5/4/13
Resubmitted to Skat's contest:
They know how to press those buttons,
With just a familiar chosen word or two,
How to enrage one's spirit with a tone,
A glance sharp enough to pierce the skin.
A will that screams, I am better than you,
Stronger, louder...how they deftly dominate.
Sometimes a controlled backfire is needed
To control the intensity of growing flames.
A tempest tipped to dissipate, to drown itself
In blending the cold air with welcome warmth
As atmospheres of milder temperatures prevail,
Mildly melding together, creating a balmy breeze.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Note:
Those couples who argue and make up will relate to the metaphors
used in this poem. A definition of *backfire is for those from other countries.
NORTH AMERICAN
*backfire: a fire set intentionally to arrest the progress of an approaching fire by creating a burned area in its path, thus depriving the fire of fuel.
In the nighttime hours
As the world deftly creeps by
I summon my powers
Spread my wings and fly
Past cotton clouds,
Snow-capped mountains, white
I am lost and I am found
I am beauty and blight
Past the midnight chimes
A soul searching for home
Tangling myself in rhymes
So as to not feel alone
Catch the updraft of hope
Friendship sun on my face
My place in this world in scope
Loathing, with love replace
The Lord weaves His grand tapestry across the skies
He outlines charcoal colored clouds with silver threads
sews the sunlight of dawn into rays that caress the sea
and folds ocean ripples into fans of intricate patterns.
Each morning God’s canvas awaits His ready hand
a master Artist, His creativity knows no bounds
He dips His brush into the spectrum of rainbows
like a whirlwind, He mixes and paints dazzling designs.
God deftly blends pastel shades to greet the rising sun
He sweeps white, cotton clouds that hover over land and sea
He paints the morning light to touch lush liquid waves
and adds violet colored shadows that fade into the horizon.
His living canvas continually changes its hues and tones
each moment rearranged by heat, wind or sudden storms
a cornucopia of shapes sweep across the heavens
like rapid time frames that move within an eternal film.
Will not many among the nations fail to see His mighty wonders?
Will not many among us look up to relish in His majestic sky?
God’s handiwork daily displays His infinite creation
may we lift up our eyes to behold His unending glory.
Written on 1/17/2021
Bloom Road
Wherefore be this heavenly place?
Untouched by the metropolis'
inhumane demands?
Tis in your heart, dear friend, such
a place be.
Free of political buffoonery.
One must be a bold discoverer of
the heart.
For if not, Bloom Road is naught!
In the sweetest dwelling of your wishes,
Lies Bloom Road, and warm, delicious,
awaiting kisses.
Life is not an accident for those
with drreams.
It's an actuality that's both planned
and deftly carved and schemed.
Be off now, and the hunter be....
Bloom Road and thy keenest lover,
Are at the ready, just for thee.
August 17, 2020
The shell remains
picked clean by hungry vultures
ravenous with greed.
Gouged-out eyes
now bare hollow sockets
vacant in their stare.
Morsels of choice parts
deftly stripped or torn away—
and gutted vitals, furtively devoured,
have filled the wanton needs
of scavengers who shared the feast.
The carcass rests
flat on bony frame
supported once by plump, round legs
on which it mightily ran.
There it lies—
a brittle, empty shell—
the poor abandoned Chevy
on the Harlem River Drive.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Bring To Life
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: 04/14/2018
~3rd Place~
Contest: East Jesus
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
Judged: 01/02/2015
Note: Inspired by my many trips years ago in the late 70s, to visit my father in a hospital there. I would see so many abandoned cars lined up as 'empty shell carcasses' along the Harlem River Drive in New York City.
continued.......
In his bed she hears him approach with long strides.
The covers are over her head as she pretends to hide.
With one swift yank she is left naked and bare.
Meeting his eyes in a longing appreciative stare.
In his bed he falls swiftly into her welcoming arms.
With a fiery passionate kiss he surrenders to her womanly charms.
She hungers for him like she has for no other.
Just being with him sends her into a delicious shudder.
In his bed she helps him out of his clothes as quickly as she can.
Wanting to feel his skin touching hers yet once again.
She marvels at his physique, he is a feast for her eyes.
She can never get enough of him no matter how much she tries.
In his bed she gives his nipple a lick, then a gentle bite.
Her hand grasps his hardness, they both are filled with delight.
She lowers herself and teases him deliberately with her tongue.
The music that they make together has only just wondrously begun.
In his bed he pulls her gently away, for he is on the verge.
He does not want any waiting time before they finally merge.
His eyes light up as they take in each and every curve.
A giggle escapes her lips as she sweetly whispers....."self serve!"
In his bed he is overcome with hunger, his eyes fill with lust.
His lips trail kisses down her arms before they settle on her bust.
Up and down each leg, not a spot he wants to miss.
He feels her body twitch and tremble from each perfectly placed kiss.
In his bed she feels his tongue lascivious lick her inner thigh.
She marvels at his patience, he is unlike any other guy.
She lets out a gasp as he zooms in on the right spot.
He deftly uses his tongue and lips, shy he is not.
In his bed he hears her breath quicken and feels her body shake.
If this is a dream, then he hopes he'll never wake.
He covers her body with his and miraculously they become one.
The pleasure so immense and they only just begun.
From high above the mighty eagles soar
and gaze with teary eyes upon the land;
a proud and peaceful nation thrived, before
the bombs began to fall with czar’s command.
Their saddened eyes see blood upon the sand
as innocence lay scattered on the shore;
they’re witnessing the slaughter now at hand
from high above as mighty eagles soar.
Her cities lay in ruin from the war;
her leaders pleading for a helping hand;
the world in horror watches evermore,
and gaze with teary eyes upon the land.
Atrocities and pillage deftly planned
erasing all the joys from days of yore;
the villages and townships now unmanned
where proud and peaceful nation thrived before.
I cannot see the reason for this gore
nor endgame of this despot’s evil hand,
and history repeats itself once more
as bombs begin to fall with czar’s command.
And what will be the outcome of this stand
when smoke has cleared the war which we deplore;
and who will be the next at his demand
as angel’s tears begin to fall once more
from high above?
July 1, 2022
A gondola floats o’er romantic tides
as you and I caress Venetian skies
laced deftly in exalted stars applied
by brushes dipped in hues of lover’s eyes.
A kiss beneath Rialto Bridge in spring
feels like our first so many years ago.
On every breeze, O Sole Mio sings
a serenade in city lights aglow.
This hope of love rekindled miles from home,
could be our chance to dream and reminisce.
Enlightened by a full moon’s wink, we’d roam
down Grand Canal in gleaming nights of bliss.
Our renaissance, a second honeymoon -
to Venice, we could not escape too soon.
Written 3/3/17 for Where I Want to Go Contest
“ So It Shall Be ”
Aye... then so it shall be...
as faire lass doth so request now o'me.
A'holler so 'twas that o'which she'd asked...
In a where and a how thus thrice deftly masked.
'Tis no need ye'd wont worry...
if'n or not I'd been a bit poorly...
Fer time a'me ownsake moves with a'pace...
only in wait... another well drawn ace.
'Tis this if naught other, that which has been found...
as time for us all doth spin 'round.
A'back to there from whence it began...
'tis all can we encompass in one o'life's span.
Once a'stroll back through time's encapsulated stills...
test, trial or mayhap notion o'will...
as if watched from a'far mine own time's skill.
As oft as not... yet surely at best...
'tis all but to do a'such fondness in jest.
'Twas life that go-round oh so thought merry...
'twas we were those guided by myth sung her fairy.
Yet so 'tis then true as last o'words do be spoken...
'twas all but naught other than token.
For must well be he paid that oarsman o'dread...
When 'tis time for me dreams to be gone o'me head.
SeaWolf
©
Serenading me with vivid poetry
Her pen extends thoughts so lovely
Weaving words into graceful birds
heart-felt phrases deftly placed
Feeling is conveyed in lines well displayed
stanzas of emotion perfectly painted
Beauty not contained in just script on page,
Her eyes search kindly smiling
Lips pursed to quench kiss thirst
Welcoming as only sincerity can be
Empathy radiates in the care she demonstrates
Angelesque pursuit of nourishing soul
........................................................................
Where prose meets pose...she models from either side
touches with words, caresses with sentiment
Inspires my writing by supportively guiding
This lady's both Minstrel AND Muse
Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!
He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
His face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.
He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.
It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some,
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!
The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.
May 9, 2017
We walked among the birch trees
To pass the summer days.
And did our best to trick ourselves
To try and lose our way.
But with success of getting lost
Our courage turned to fright.
When concern gave way to worry
That we may have to spend the night.
We trampled through the cheerless woods
With the Sun still overhead.
Unsure of where our cabin lay
And where this trail led.
The younger kids were quite distraught
And their tears began to flow.
While my Brother and I looked about
For a direction we should go.
The hours faded and the time grew late
As we walked on dappled grass.
But nothing seemed to ease our plight
With twilight's gleaming set to pass.
We came upon a quiet meadow
And sat to ponder the challenge we all faced.
In hopes a hurried rescue
Would bring a Parent's warm embrace.
When at that moment a car drove by
On a road deftly hidden by towered weeds.
And our spirits soared to see the path
Which would quite comfortably suit our needs.
An hour later with the Sun asleep
We arrived home with a hush of anguished pain.
But we were all eager for tomorrow...
When we'll happily lose ourselves again.
The End
*True story. As kids we would march into the woods, get lost and see if we could find our way home.
*For those who might be interested. I will be posting my cartoon 'Bob's your Uncle' on my homepage. A new one will appear every second day.