Best Distinguishing Poems
Between paper-soft
worlds of fragile
imaginations,
I float upon those
gossamer tulips
that split every
second of saccharine
musings and
eclipsed confessions,
distinguishing all
photoelectric synonyms
of lachrymose
stimuli towards
glassy manipulations
of blood-fragranced sun.
Everything that is
sown in sweetened
textures of afterglow-soil,
always blossoms upon
decayed fossils of
frivolous fates, as
balanced bullets have
forever pierced
through the pulpy
sheaths of nature's
rainbow-blankets,
but their aged roots
always adorn nourishing
gemstones of
ephemeral healing,
to spread their wise
branches across earth's
mirrors, as the thin
veil disappears.
What is the raven-spade
-hearted impulse
without its nascent yet
succulently flowing
snow-white mist?
What if, reality speaks
of those skies smitten with
hypnotic illusions of
chess-shaped horizons?
Have yin and yang ever
repelled each other's
rusty-maroon notes
that they whisper in
immortal prelude?
We have remained
skillfully blindfolded to
the isles of inceptions,
swirling amidst ripples
of diamond-kismet
estuaries, washing away
consciences with
diplomatic dewdrops
of frosty maple fog.
Tending to forget that,
we are mere syzygy knights,
crawling along
slanting seesaws as
bioluminescent bishops.
Our schizophrenic
threads have been
tied to the aroma of
poisoned satin within
these final alphabets of
enchante´ epitaphs,
where life will be
the last organ grinder
of karma, playing
an evanescent checkmate
which shall ascend
every soulful spirit
beyond Persephone's
penumbral embrace.
Someone near and dear to me
Has a child with Downs Syndrome,
Who, more often than not
Is beyond difficult to control.
The little boy is six years old
But acts as if he’s two,
He can’t speak at all, just yells a lot
Throwing wild tantrums until he’s blue.
He likes throwing things around
As if everything’s a toy,
And has difficulty distinguishing
Between bad behavior and pure, ecstatic joy.
(And his mother is a nervous wreck,
always picking up after the boy).
His fingers are his eyes at times
As textures are his friends,
If he doesn’t like the way it feels
He won’t go there again.
And he likes to lay down on the ground
Balling up like a boulder,
Until someone comes to pick him up
While he gives them his cold shoulder.
It’s difficult to fully describe
All the nuances of this child,
The range of his emotions
From anger and sadness to his beautiful, blissful smile.
(And his mother is a nervous wreck,
walking many lonely miles).
They wonder about his future
And those around him always near,
And wonder how much happiness
Will follow him through the years.
Will he learn to play an instrument
Or dance and sing a song,
Is it possible he will marry someday
Will true love come along?
Will he find friends who will love him
And treat him sweet and kind,
Or only those who will shun him
And close him off like blinds.
(And his mother is a nervous wreck,
And losing her own mind.
His mother is a nervous wreck
And loves him
All the time).
© Terrell Martin, 02/26/2025
Cancer's Cost
Cancer may ravage whole body parts
but it can never conquer resolute hearts.
Battered and bruised by aggressive procedures
we may hardly recognize our distinguishing features.
Remember this my friend, all hope is not lost
You can fight this evil enemy, but there is a cost.
The price is determination, a strong will to keep living
you have so much goodness left inside to keep giving.
Remember this my friend,
We are more than the sum of our human body parts
Cancer cannot kill the eternal love dwelling in our hearts!
John Derek Hamilton
December 21,2015
Floating in the air
Wavering in the breeze
Butterflies,
land with ease
(in my stomach as I read)....
Such passion,
such beauty
In the summer air
It's all around me
(when you are near ~so on I read)....
distinguishing you
and oh, my heart skips
to the tune
so much different
(with admiration I find
the butterflies.... the beauty) deep inside.....
Velvet, satin,
plain or platinum
Touching the degree
in which you speak to me
(where once upon I time,.... were butterflies).....
Yet I am still a worm,
trying so hard to be
beautiful in your sight
I crawl so willingly
(Yet beauty in distinction)
Free and falling
from the midnight air
into the great unknown
of the atmosphere ~
the flight (metamorphosis) of the butterfly ~
Note: Thanks John, :) March 29th 2011
Only Man sees beauty in a star,
or gleans delight from a bird in flight.
And He's the only being thus far
that can discriminate wrong from right.
Only Man can perpetuate hate
or feel the pain of love kept apart.
And alter the course of His own fate,
preventing problems before they start.
Only Man can decide to be kind
or separate His wants from His needs.
And ease the burdens of soul and mind,
while shaping His destiny through deeds.
Only Man can realize His dreams,
or understand He's destined to die.
And question what reality means,
distinguishing the truth from a lie.
Only Man believes He has a soul,
or that love exists within His heart.
And defining life, He takes control;
expressing Himself through works of art.
A disease intrinsic and quiet
infesting a soul which submissively accepts
presenting self inflicting suffering
to the body which covers it.
The record keeper of happiness
loses his work from gross idleness.
The fuel of laughter
even with words and lines so sophisticated
making the inanimate change state
cannot drag a drop of smile
from this soul so wary and pressed.
Company is replaced with tears
and all feelings, compressed into one.
Cracking an egg shell from its edges
is simpler than distinguishing its moods.
What a soul!
Why were you created when nature was sad?
Why were you formed when the gods were asleep?
Why were you blessed when the daughters of cheerfulness were drunk?
The cloth of loneliness
and the perfume of silence,
you need to unwear no matter how hard.
This will put on the light of proper existence
for you to bathe in the spring
of Life's beautiful varieties!
I am drinking you
With my eyes open wide
And my lips moist
My nose catching scent
I am eating you
Savouring every little detail
My tongue distinguishing
Sweet, sour, salt
I am seeing you
With veiled eyes
Shedding tears of salt
And sweetness
I am hearing you
And all the words
Not said but guessed
In all the small cries
~ At last! ~ At last! As
a sweet rejoinder to Him my
soul cried out aloud, at last, as I
marveled in the benignity of my
Lord. For imparting to me, the
liberal blessing of my life ...
and for giving me His
eternal assurances.
For delivering me ...
returning me to a veracious, and overt; amenable
position-of-hope-and faith in Him. Yes-for-purging-and
lifting; empowering and molding ... maturing me, indemnifying
me in His certitude, and enduring graciously the-horrid-penalty;
of my willful prides contumacy. For ne’er to trammel the ambling
of my committed volition. In the greater wisdom and grace of their
instruction I willingly did revolt in sheer defiance before His tender
eyes of mercy. (Amid the futile campaign, (of my own bitterness)).
Distinguishing only those weary days apart from the welcome and
gentle fervor, of His embrace; and so, through this detachment,
and His patient hands my heart’s longing was brought to know
compassion and to be absolvitory. As written on my heart,
and being able ... today, and thankful to Him to see. Of the
many roads I have peregrinated down, illuminated upon
this narrow path, of God’s all-inclusive way ... it is all I
~ have come to truly discern, of an aeolian peace. ~
The words of this poem, form the reference in shape and idea; of a heavenly amphora.
Petals drenched in poison pearls of emerald envy,
carefully placed objectives whilst adrift in my tears of realization
Longing sorrowful souls among lilac lakes,
buried deep into somber depths of tinkering procrastination
Starving for ruby righteousness and pristine perfection, and yet still reaching towards a tilt heart searching desperately sunset embers
Distinguishing luminescent authenticity among
bittersweet endives drifts away with each cooling December
Shall I pursue soft screams for kissed loving
ethereal roses dazzled with enchanting sensations
To float away from every twisted hazing hoax with every spoken whirling weapon - coated with fabrications
Abandoned are thine eyes, as they see not faces or light. Search now do they not, for there is no longer beauty in sight. The shapes of the world blur together, left now are no distinguishing lines. Only hues of greys lay before him, contrasting like shadows cast forth in to night. Tastes are fowl now and colors have faded… like the light from this travelers eyes. Wearily forced to trudge about this desolation, he slowly fades with each stride. Each breath a grain of sand, tumbling through the hour glass of that which is life. Faces lack detail as one blurs another, for each one, is always the same. A crafted grin, with familiar hints of a warm and welcomed embrace, hiding only intent to lay wrath upon him, he shutters with each whim. Tears form behind his hollowing eyes, blurring vision, of what lay before him. His face, lined with shame and regret blood tears and sweat, onlookers laugh as all now they mock him. Every gift of breath revealed as punishment though committed of no crime. He finds peace as his time here is drawn. A smile cast across his lips as does he know he cannot go on. His shadow fades into dust on the horizon. The light he once cast forth now gone, as the moon gives chase to the sun. This travelers journey now over, as surely as night is followed by dawn.
November and April
when the trees are first bare and last naked
have become my favorite months. All the food eaten
except last rose hips and earliest leeks.
Leaves innocent
as dying men and infants.
Study one plant or animal each morning
before writing anything. All reading -
poetry or prose, truth or fiction -
classified the same, the distinguishing
characteristics being helpful or boring,
beautifully or indifferently written. Then
practice trumpet worried not at all about
my sound or perfection. Afternoon, my sons
return from school, math and (again)
reading, piano. Wednesdays we walk
observe plants and animals and record
our observations to identify and classify
later in the week. Nothing else special
need be done but stay alive.
Take me back to the days
Where the feel of texture and distinguishing colors among Africans didn't matter
Where the only word was black, and not pale or darker
Where the only weapon was loyalty upto royalty actually smarter
Where mother toung superiority excelled the rest was after.
Where rituals and ceremonies were significant in culture
Where oral traditions activities was a preservation of history.
Where inclusivity wasn't done based on tribe, status or age
Where inspiration and education was passed from generation to generation through storytelling.
Where people performed rather than spoke
Where the media was the speaker's tone, volume, and cadence
Take me back to the days
Where people did not blame nationality, ethnicity,
culture, economics and education
Where there was no colonial domination
Where there was no concept of slavery, racism or discrimination.
Where Africa was rich in culture and not the fallacy of primitive and a backward jungle
Where Africa was peaceful and not a race with guns and violent.
Where shouting am black and proud wasn't important because color didn't matter.
Where respect for elders remained an unbroken cornerstone in african culture
Where birth, marriage and burial rites was honored.
Welcome to the days
Where exporting and importing of cultures have become the trend
Where cultures travel through deserts, cross trade routes and through immigration borders
Where exchange disregards our notions of geography and race.
Where virtues such as hospitality, empathy, courtesy and respect is long gone
Where the only thing left are byproducts of culture.
Where multiculturalism has faded and everone hails on becoming one
The richness is not in Africa looking like Europe
What makes the world beautiful is in the diverse contributions
Welcome to the days
Where culture is paraded on an image of drum beating
Where media's notion is dancing naked or eating bush meat
Where in the midst of it all culture lost its definition
Where there is no importance in defending a territory with no boundaries.
Where technology dominated our land and mind
The struggle lies in reclaiming what is rightfully ours
I refuse to fall and cramble because I'm for the idea of sameness.
In the mind is where it all starts
I put no blame on culture, not my affliction.
behind the camera
scenes comes to life
click of the shutter
opens to capture the light
eye distinguishing
yielding lights and shadows
in black and white
a stolen flawless piece of time,
a study in still life
kept captive, alive for all time
entangled in the mine
relieving memories of the past
photos unblemished echo
captivating the present
softly appealingly
art works of inspiration
place In a frame on the wall or in an album
By Eve Roper 3/18/2015
“Morning Star”
There, a Morning Star rose in the East
and reclined in the left side of my brain.
I called them Morning.
They called me Butterfly,
pinned me to the wall like I was an example
of what they thought love was like.
Prisoners are us, in this state of undress.
There is some pleasure in the pain
of a heart in full thrust, bursting open
like a dark, dark red rose.
The perfume piercing all senses,
intoxicating in full bloom, soft, full of dew,
inviting a kiss at close quarters
in their hard velvet time.
Face turned upwards
towards the wide smile of a burning sun,
arching Morning Stars and the immolation of fiery whispers
against the neck of a Van Gogh mind, the eyes fragile green stems, Monet irises swaying,
flecks of ultra-violet scryed within the treasure-pools of a twin flame reflected.
Gold stamens leave their trails like honeyed addictions, deliciously wicked;
Ochre-yellow ribbons tied around the tall stories of a whispering Oak forest,
the boundaries breaching the fire-shot hares and their blue-grey ghostgum sighs.
The ancient laws of desire -
distinguishing lust from love -
swallow us undigested, swept under the rugs of their Gideon pages.
Preying upon us, strange cardinals in their cloistered nests
in such complex states of red unrest, shake the boughs, to move leaves like fingers
that trace noughts and crosses over our naked hearts, sowing seeds in our breasts,
sliding their weathered veins all over our minds, shattering the blanched crystalised,
making the limbs of our stories flesh-borne, come alive.
We kiss under fresh, poisonous holly like it’s a new year.
The risks that we take for love,
the road to hell is paved with good intentions –
wearing fleece o’er wolf’s skin –
as below, so above;
The course of a full day never lets up.
The Sun rises in the east,
The Sun sets in the west.
We burn in between.
The embers of fire glow within the Moon’s luminescence,
ignis et aqua arriving like a tide hushing the prescient ocean
rocking the slick undertow - lux noctis aeterna sub silentio -
like a clam to be opened, a pearl to be plucked
from the fathomless depths of another dimension.
Over and over again, small victories are given up.
The shell discarded.
ex tenebris lux
Candide Diderot. ‘26
This morning I listened
To the simpleton and the sapient man preach
Yet as they orated to
All we who came to listen and imbibe
I was lost
There was no distinguishing
One voice from the other.
Later as I pondered
All that which was spoken
Spewed aimlessly upon us
I knew that I could not agree
With that which was said
By the simpleton.