Best Denote Poems
The Glory of Green
Green hues denote the healing of our earth,
That special season of springtime’s rebirth.
Green grasses growing o’er the hillside's face,
Embracing greening trees in leafy lace.
While amber fields engage in heaven’s kiss
As raindrops splash into emerald bliss,
I watch amazed as tender shoots abound
With daffodils and tulips breaking ground.
A floral scent begins to fill March air.
St. Patty’s I’ll wear flowers in my hair.
So many varied hues that can be seen,
This Irish lass loves every shade of green!
Happy Saint Patrick's Day!
March Poems, Old or New for Prizes Part 3 of Easter Series~Second Place~
Contest Judged: 2/19/2019 4:01:00 PM
Sponsored by: Carolyn Devonshire |
Cometh the end of each and every
December
January so to with it as well bringeth a
new year to start a fresh once all over
again
And though the time and date and
solar winds may change
The seasons somehow however never seemingly do
The sky is still just as blue as the sun
is red grass is green as is the night
tinged in black
Just as like when spring and summer
eventually return and dawn
Denote it's time to pack away our
winter warming clothes into the
back of our closets and cupboard
draws
That unless we truly feel within and
inside our head and heart's
A certain individual kind of love
and caring does reside that warms
us dearly
Then matter's not the time or season
place or age
Tomorrow they will be no more richer or
poorer
If nothing changes and everything remains
Whispers of talent are carried on New England breezes
Dickinson, Hawthorne, and the Irvings’ son Washington
Though I sense a special connection to all of these
None inspired more than Edwin Arlington Robinson
Three Pulitzer Prizes were displayed on his mantle place
His childhood in Maine he described as “stark and unhappy”
Though he went to Harvard, academics he’d not embrace
Arlington’s style was unique and his cadence snappy
“Miniver Cheevy,” displaced soul, longed for Medieval years
To Miniver I could relate, felt I was born too late
Wishing I’d ridden West with America’s pioneers
But at least my dreams alcohol will never desecrate
For his depressed brother Herman, “Richard Cory” he wrote
A handsome man who appeared to enjoy the perfect life
But the turmoil in his heart, his exterior did not denote
Richard shot himself in the head to put an end to strife
Edwin, your character studies touched something deep inside
Struggles you described of common men gripped me, made me cry
People whose dreams and accomplishments did not coincide
I, too, watch life’s play from backstage, feeling like a standby
Though I seek to display wit, tragedies pour from my pen
And much like my muse, my life seems filled with loneliness
As poets we reach out to touch lives of men and women
Hoping to find comfort as troubled feelings we express
* Written for Jared's "Ode" contest
Edwin Arlington Robinson (December 22, 1869 – April 6, 1935) was an American poet
born in Maine who won three Pulitzer Prizes for his work. His brother Dr. Dean
Robinson died of a drug overdose, perhaps inspiring Robinson to write of the
alcoholic dreamer “Miniver Cheevy.”. It has been speculated that his poem "Richard
Cory" was penned for his other brother, Herman. E.A. Robinson’s poems have a dark
pessimism stemming from dreams gone awry. The style and themes of many of my
poems seem to emulate Robinson, who often wrote in rhyming quatrains. “Richard
Cory” can be found at http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/richard-cory/.
To read “Miniver Cheevy,” go to
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robinson/12640.
I love the word 'stupid'.
I really do!
By using this word
I can denote
actions
that are illogical
lack common sense
appear absurd
or …. are just plain 'stupid'.
I do not use the word 'moron'.
(The word 'moron' is defined in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary as "a foolish or stupid person")
I also don't use 'idiot'.
(The Oxford Dictionary defines 'idiot' as "a stupid person")
No
just 'stupid'
just the action or actions
nothing else
nothing more.
(I hope this poem is not stupid)
I write unto the blank papers stare
A ball point pen in hand without a flare
The words enscribed should be a future quote
As I am the best or at least so you denote
I listen to your comments out loud
And damn you make me feel so proud
I know that I am one of the best
For you tell me so at least I can rest
I take your words in heart with pride
As I feel you only read what "I" enscribe
But as I read words from others souls
I see the same reply that you told
I read the same things told to me
You basterds are just lying to please
You said I have so much to say
I took it to heart as if it where a prayer
I scroll upon others works of "art"
You all say the same crap never heard a negative part
So tell me I suck so I can have pride
To be different than all these brown knosing flys
"You have so much talent why dont you go pro"
Tell that sh1t to the fool on the rope
"As usual you stun me with your words of hope"
I get tired of reading the same for all poets
Giving each other hand jobs for praise
If you didnt hate me now, I am sure your on your way
Do I give a sh1t? Hell no I just laugh until it hurts
At your pointless rantings of whos best on the blurbs
I speak my mind and tell the truth
Why dont you praise yourself and save time of the youth
As they have more talent than you
For they speak the "truth" and say "you suck" when its due
Flipped hourglass: a slipped tide or a passed second,
Has moved, like drop in a flowing river, beckoned;
Hourglass, an automaton, cannot run itself,
Humans must be at its beck and call, like an elf...
Flipped hourglass: a slipped tide or a passed second,
Has moved, like drop in a flowing river, beckoned;
Hourglass, an automaton, cannot run itself,
Humans must be at its beck-and-call, like an elf...
Times bind; we are bound; we at the mercy of time;
Wrist watch ties us; rather, us tying its chill chime;
With time we slip; unable to follow its flow,
Flipping with it we flip; our movements being slow...
Doesn't flip hourglass denote human existence?
With its fleeting, flowing and flopping in tight, tense;
Sand filled in is like air puffed up in our body,
Leak enough to leave the clock and body, shoddy...!
I had an hourglass, so smart-looking, glamorous!
I admired its function, and almost stood speechless;
My obligations and dead-lines remained undone,
Sand slipped; I slipped with it unknowingly; Like fun...!
Flowing with the time we could flow the time for us,
Buddha said, none can dip in the same river twice;
Time is fix flex flux; changing, churning, endlessly,
Pleads us to care it; keep going eternally...!
28 January 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 28 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Green hues denote the healing of our earth,
That special season of springtime’s rebirth.
Green grasses growing o’er the hillside's face,
Embracing greening trees in leafy lace.
While amber fields engage in heaven’s kiss
As raindrops splash into emerald bliss,
I watch amazed as tender shoots abound
With daffodils and tulips breaking ground.
A floral scent begins to fill March air.
St. Patty’s I’ll wear flowers in my hair.
So many varied hues that can be seen,
This Irish lass loves every shade of green!
Happy Saint Patrick's Day!
IT is a short, but mighty word,
so powerful, IT seems absurd,
'cause IT can be most anything.
Yes, IT can be a diamond ring,
denote a site or special place,
upon our Earth or outer space.
We say IT for a house or car,
the moon and sun, a falling star;
use IT for land or sky and sea;
a pretty rose, a stream, or tree;
IT for a cloud, the rain, the snow,
a thought or dream, a place to go,
that has a name, but we refer
to IT as IT when we confer.
IT is a shortcut in our speech
to take a break from naming each
one thing or place, so we say IT.
IT is a word, you must admit,
we often say without a thought,
and when we do, IT's not for naught
because by all, IT's understood;
for IT is simple, short and good.
Without word IT, we know IT's true
our thoughts are harder to construe.
IT stands for lots, we must agree...
our 'IT' has versatility!
November 27, 2017
~8th Place~
Contest: IT
Sponsor: John Lawless
Judged: 12/13/2017
Rice paper dreams, lanterns and beamers of peace
lighting the way to my heart you are in far remote
Intricate cutout beauty, please do not decease
for I need you to guide me with radiant denote
Lantern of love illuminate me with soulful grace
far deeper is your symbol than mere luck of age
Ramadan rose * Easter lily * Passover Iris- lace
some days I am sinner, some days I am sage
Star lantern of my heart help me keep my vow
to a dormant holiday that often seems demure
Oh spirit of the season, guide me to your Tao
and Universal truth, please do not obscure
the lanterns of my soul, as I celebrate in-grit
and return to love, with altruistic composite.
My land is culturally richest,
Yes not as bloody as canvased!
Purely we follow the same lord,
At same time we offer, so faith is restored!
Knotted in holy month to fast, all together,
In my home, religious values still haven’t blur!
So we speak different languages but,
The followers of same prophet!
And we have the different skin color,
Nationally but we are alike, greener!
In my home, hospitality for which people dote,
Nobly I say religion we culturally denote!
And the love imparted in closely knitted families
So rich, but live only under father’s monopolies!
I make hackneyed proclamation of beauty of my home,
Anchoring the same ship, we stand under the same dome!
Each species has its tools
to do what it can to ensure
its own survival.
We, try our best to
separate,
and say we are not
the same.
We pick a trait to denote
our exclusivity.
Other species prove
their relativity.
Once it was tools
and to our chagrin
we found they all
were using them
and so we redrew
the line.
Language is what
we are good at
until we found
that dog and cats,
parrots and dolphins,
chimps and all manner
of beasties with tales
or not had their own
tales to tell.
What's left for us
to claim as our
special trait?
I vote for
self delusion.
It seems to us
unique.
We murder and convince ourselves
it is for peace.
We raise boys to be killers and then
pretend surprise
when they are.
We foster hate among each other
and pretend
it is not really happening.
We enslave each other
and claim
to believe in freedom.
We pretend concern for
all mankind,
yet make sure that
few succeed.
Yes, I think in all these things,
the animal, we far exceed
Chip off the old block;
It runs in the family.
This all needs to stop
In our meritocracy.
Titles through ages;
A generation’s game.
Lordships by bloodline,
Some things need to change.
Birth won’t denote skill;
It keeps people out.
Mobility’s lost
When money they flout.
James Caan can shove it,
And let workers in.
Nobles move over,
Let our time begin.
I lose my fingers keeping count
the number of kids lost by murder count
in the eastern districts media houses dread
Patches of brown-black roofs on aerial view
Aunt hills of buildings single roomed
Shoot to kill, a governing tool
Stiff figures of teens bullet riddled
a common thing amongst those
shortlisted by fate to call home
Survival be the theme
U haven't heard of Vumilia
a small suburb rich in thugs
at least that's the word best used
by the papers you so dearly trust
To denote a group of youths
unexposed to a mastery of trades
The elderly in their twenties
those swift enough to dodge bullets
agile enough to survive the batsmen
and have caught the eyes of political dignitaries
war veterans with all due respect
Kim was almost nineteen
died graffited with bullet holes
Sarah was barely seventeen
wrong place at the wrong time
shooter: a blue boy in his fortys
We hath from a vicinity
where weakness is a rare condition
and the site of a parked car
sparks a dollar bill imagery
crowded class rooms, empty bellies
a deadbeat government
a thing called hope
THE EAGLE
From sheer Jurassic precipice he soared
Surveyed the land for gifts it might afford
Across the broad flat valley’s rich domain
With viewpoint high, low altitude disdain
In languid circling track approaching nigh
The eagle now came level eye with eye
He seemed to nod to one perceived as peer
Acknowledged coexistence without fear
His self assurance of a privileged strain
In higher echelon of victual chain
No predator to make threat to his being
Where flight has no concomitance with fleeing
We two shared aspect regal and remote
Above a distant world seeming to denote
A subject to be seen with cool detachment
From other lives set on their own enactment
The matchstick men in matchbox cars below
Proceed in patterns conjunct, fluent flow
As if directed by a master plan
The pieces moved as by an unseen hand
Yet inside every box there is a mind
That makes decisions well informed or blind
The myriads of choices of direction
Have source within those living souls’ election
I marvel at this concept: life centricity
The thought of such abundance, prolificity
Of individual life forms each conferred in
The ability, its intentions to determine
Some say we’re mere machines therefore robotic
Or otherwise controlled by force hypnotic
And some aver a plan: divine intention
By God who makes judgemental intervention
I claim no knowledge, or insight on this score
Perhaps one day I’ll know with sureness more
‘Til then prefer this chosen metaphor
- In freedom I would with the eagle soar
When the drop of
Cool water
Dropped
on a tender leaf
Giving a hard kiss
The leaf trembled
And screamed
I hate your shivery touch!
Before denote its love
The drop of water dissolved
Over the leaf!
Jayaratne Weerakkody