Best Deliriously Poems
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
When Martians landed from outer space
They requested to meet a world leader
So Donald arrived with a smirk on his face
But soon turned green with an alien fever
The Martians decided to probe his brain
to see if they could cure his malaise
Their readings showed that he was insane
so they zapped him with powerful rays
Donald started to twitter deliriously
but the Martians understood every word
They didn’t believe he’s taken seriously
as his tweeting was totally absurd
The Martians communicated with telepathy
Using thoughts no one could understand
An interpreter was called immediately
and declared that as leader he’s banned
A torrent of tears fell from poor Donald’s eyes
His orange skin turned an odd shade of grey
The Martians usurped Donald and to his surprise
Their first earth words were ‘have a nice day’
The Martians decreed immediate world peace
And that we must all live in perfect harmony
We must love one another, all wars have to cease
No current world leader even dared to disagree
Latest news on Donald is he’s now in a better place
He sits in his rocking chair with a grin on his face
Take me to your leader Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
8/6/18
Jan and Darren joined the poetry soup site
Worked on our own poems in our own right
Started to collaborate on works together
Hope this happy union lasts forever and ever
When we joined soup they put out the 'welcome mat'
Lovely comments from PD, Anne Lise and also SKAT
Encouraging new writers is their wonderful gift
Joining poetry soup gives our hearts a lift
Being on the site we have found a lot of fun
In our poems together I’ve just become a mum
Darren is a perfect ‘husband’ and is a doting dad
He always makes me smile but his jokes are often bad
Friendship has blossomed, we've shared laughter and tears
Talked of what the future may hold and our worries and fears
We've discussed our youth and the things we did back then
So little we would change if we could live our lives again
Jan is very happily married, her lovely son is grown
Darren is deliriously happy building a life of his own
The beauty of soup is the welcome they give
Encouraging friendships that last as long as we live.
When we joined soup they put out the welcome mat
Lovely comments from PD, Anne Lise and SKAT
Encouraging new writers is their wonderful gift
Joining poetry soup has given our hearts a lift
Writing with others adds a new and rare poem quality
My collaboration with Jan means the whole world to me
We have intuition, though that may sound absurd
Sometimes I know what she'll say before she's written a word .
We have our page on which we write but love writing as a team
Creating something that might make us giggle or share a sweet dream
You'll find us on Jadazzle out there hoping to make friends
Writing poems we hope you find easy to comprehend .
When we joined soup they put out the welcome mat
Lovely comments from PD, Anne Lise and SKAT
Encouraging new writers is their wonderful gift
Joining poetry soup has given our hearts a lift
12th June 2014
Written By Jan Allison and Darren Watson
Written For Dave Woods Contest
~The Contest of my Dreams~
There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent
To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on
My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads,
following the same schedule
as the other…identical
She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The weed interrupted,
“Didn’t…don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort
This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,
“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”
Perplexed she climbed upon its back
and flew, holding onto
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…
Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray
She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up
When it appeared, hopping happily
Jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy
Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me
"And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…"
what if Adam had not taken that first bite
would paradise not have been lost
temptations come our way each day
surely someone else would have succumbed
what if Christ had not sacrificed his life for our sins
would our souls have remained in eternal limbo
what if the holocaust had never taken place
would Hitler’s alter ego have caused even more pain
should we prance ‘round and ‘round with such thoughts
dizzy and deliriously consumed by doubts
or accept what has transpired in the past
with resolve to learn from history
*For Desiree’s “What If?” challenge
June 10, 2011
Dust hapless had settled rough
On vacuous land, tanned in taupe
Lonely and distressed
As it simmered for life
Its flowers had died
Only a few left in time
To settle calm and blossom elsewhere
Bearing remnants of an era gone by.
Trees cried until they died
Their seeds lay morose
Unable to steal
Elixir for their life
Their branches lay fallen
Gathering a fire
Their ache in crimson
Stalking deliriously in vain
As their embers crackling
Reveal their pain
Unto heavens mocking above
Unaware they had turned surdomute
More than a long while ago.
I always saw myself, a rarity
My inner peace comes with clarity
I'm so extreme, it often seems
The world is so unfair to me
Then I was called an Aquarius
Turns out, there are many of us
About as rare as a rocking chair
Or a pecan in a can of nuts
But how in the world could it be
Are there really others, just like me
Deliriously mysterious
Tempting the line of both extremes
I've accepted that I'm strange
Agreed that I won't change
But I was taught, it was my fault
It was I who was deranged
Now I just observe
I need not speak a word
No longer blind, I see my kind
I admit, it seems absurd
As if I walk around
Without speaking sound
But even still, others will
Know I am a clown
They'll know I'm awfully odd
By the transparency of my facade
I cannot hide, won't tell a lie
They'd know I was a fraud
Just look at my date of birth
It will tell you what I'm worth
No need to wait, inevitable fate
Now you know henceforth
Demons
Deliriously dancing, destroying, dehumanizing decent desires
Attending adequate, amiable attractive, adoring ambient
Angels
...syllable count - 2,19,19,2...
April.03.2020
Let the Pens Flow - Antonym Poetry
Sponsored by: Jenish Somadas
Honorable Mention...Thank You
Illustrious? Too sophisticated.
Advanced? Sounds too modern.
Awkward? Not in the mood yet.
Animalistic? A nice ring, bereft of a special ring.
Will consider it for later though. Jotting it down now.
I could cut up some onions. I got up early to cook a roast right?
I get up from the chair, and my muse bops me on the head,
A light smack. I know, I tell her. I will be back in two.
It is actually ten minutes later. I had to cut up the onions and the roast.
Antiquated? Too prissy.
Profound? Dharm it! You already use profound in every other poem.
Pollutive? Is that even a WORD?
I will set the crockpot on high.
Trixie gets out her machete and leers at me, really mad now.
If you use that, I will not help you at all, I warn her,
So she files it back in her knapsack, and starts stomping up and down the paper.
She is storming angry when I return, I know because the paper is torn into
Teeny, tiny bits, I pull it back together, trying to read it again, as I recopy it.
Plain? Too plain.
Demonstrative? Circle that one. I like that one.
Delectable, delightful, deliriously diabolically, do-able.
The D words are here, and they are dancing and prancing.
Discerning. Where did that come from? Trixie helps me scratch it out.
Hey! Were you going to put the meat into the crockpot?
INSTANT brain stop.
We come to a screeching halt.
Dhramn!
I take Trixie to the kitchen where she hammers on Joe’s head with her axe.
Unfortunately, he does not feel it.
No one else here can put roast into a crockpot?
Yes, I say you should seek the absurd,
the outrageous,
the deliriously mad.
I implore you to find the happy,
the joyful,
those crazed with perpetual glad.
Spend your time
with insanely laughing idiots,
where tomfoolery abounds.
You won’t have time
to resent a day of your life
with this kind
of tribe around.
BUTTERFLY IN TUTU
Butterfly in tutu, deliriously delusional, bright
with spangles, tapping her wings. All knew
she was cocky with glorified golden teeth.
She followed the cockamamie caterpillar
with his root-tootie-toot-toot flute. Thoughts
of mopping up this contest after that
creepy-crawly performance. Her tutu, in
and out, in and out. Her wings of grace
up and down, up and down impeccable.
but the Operettes were up next - they were stars!
Dusk dimmed butterfly’s oscaring, dark
and darker, the glare of stars fell. The iridescent
tutu turned black, she stubbed her wings,
she spun out and crashed, and the audience
laughed……………………instead of hiding
she took a bow
12/23/2021
“B” Forms
Sponsor: Constance La France
*prose was six lines when posted.
STOLE HER HEART TOO
A golden feather, shaped like a heart - the point like a prima donna’s ballet toes. Spoiled feather fell from forever into mortal hands. The giant screamed, stomped at his loss. The whirligig like the lamellae of a music box. Falling from seventh heaven alongside the corkscrew tree. Jack, deliriously descending, on his way to visit his procured harp, plucked from the giant’s brother. The fair lass in silver slippers hugs the feather, agrees to kiss Jack’s stupid lips.
8/31/2019
Writing Challenge 4, August 2019 - Six Lines
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
Even the irrational, of a child,
running for cover, losing
board game, but especially
in his smile, hug, snowball-kisses.
The rolled-out dough,
cookie cutters,
little fingers sprinkling sugar.
Joyful stomping
of rainwater and mud,
dripping onto a sparkling floor.
Wiggly worms and dandelions
pulled from his short pocket.
The scuffed up pants
as he deliriously slides
into home base,
and the other way around,
as he zealously shouts,
“You’re out!”
Cleaned-up, tucked-in, fast asleep -
the simplicity of an angel.
How dainty and shy is she
She is even ever so, she warms the soul.
If you do handle her, handle with carefulness.
If she is approachable at all.
Sweet and delicate a flower
With a winter strength of gold
So I suppose she knows her
Elegance
This rose is so admired and LONELY
On winters dance floor.
For none other grows at the frigid
Cusp of this season except this rose
Watch her in the most frosted temperatures,
She hoards the empathy of passing strangers
On their way to festive affairs.
What a dizzying fanciful dessert
Any and every heart would dote deliriously
One of life's priorities, this golden rose
Rosy, rosier, rosiest
Every other rose knows
Fancies her, most fanciest, she's fancier
With her white snowflake dress
The most alluring. The golden quiet
Queen knowing her pose and poise
With silent rejoice.
There are three of them, Cinderella siblings:
shapely, deciduous, their leafy green
darkness undulating in the specter wind,
its silent snare drum emulating heartbeats
in syncopated symmetry. "Take us, Take us,
Don't stop!" say the sisters, moving as deliriously
as a woman beneath her lover, while their stripped-
down stepsister, one on one, spells out stillness
in inelastic nudity. Wind shears through her,
unconstricted by skeletal shapeliness.
Nothing to arrange here by the coiffeur wind
in the pared-down beauty of brittle lace-
work, if lacework be brittle.
One nest rests halfway up on a slender limb,
a single stem supports its phantom occupants,
imagined, their ravenous snapper beaks --
landlocked shark-lings, all minuscule jaws,
learning to prey under their mother's bellies --
inhabiting a denuded nest, awaiting a spring
of speckled eggs, cracking the silent thunder
of shells, to free those of gaping mouths, who
know nothing of being born, just that they
hunger and someone comes they do not name
as mother: She of the dependable providence.
For now, there are no newborns, only
a feather; feather, feather, whether or not,
provenance unknown, caught in a branch
far from origin like us, trapped in our casings
of skin: softness pinioned in lacework of limb;
ragged, if lacework be ragged. Here,
where the sisters have been to the Salon,
come back as frowsy as ever, but groomed
somewhat, from a blow dry and a cut.