Best Diverging Poems
I.
End-Cut Prime Rib of Beef,
Crab-cake, Lobster Tail,
Sea Scallops.
I feel — no — need to,
eat those foods
you asked I get you.
So I scour the internet
for upscale Manhattan
restaurant menus, listing,
first and foremost,
roast prime rib of beef,
confident, if I find that,
the seafood items
will appear on at least one
of them, also.
It’s the Post House,
on East 63rd Street,
that has everything.
And, on this day,
the 1st anniversary
of your death,
I’m eating the foods
you craved, yet, I do not
savor a morsel. But
not to worry, Renee,
for next year, same
date, I’ll try again, and
maybe, just maybe,
I’ll find it easier to enjoy
what you surely would have,
if only I’d realized there was
no time left. No time left,
as I held your hand and
watched American Idol.
while you morphed into what-
ever it is one becomes
at death.
II.
I muse if Robert Frost
had taken the other road,
would he have moved to
England, where
his poetry was a hit
from the get-go;
would he have remained,
the constant farmer, or
teacher, or journalist
he been, rather than
the bard who'd crafted
the simplest words
into mysterious,
memorable poems;
and the father who
couldn’t prevent
his children’s deaths;
not the husband
who couldn’t keep
his wife from sinking
deep into depression.
Renee, every day, since
your death, I think about
what I could’ve done
and should not have done
as your sister, your twin.
How I’d sat on my laurels
and let you navigate
on your own, with me
never wholeheartedly
trying to steer away
from conflict with you.
Me, who found it too hard
staying involved in that life
of yours. Truth be told,
if I'd seen two diverging roads
to choose from, way back when
— neither the worse for wear,
I would’ve sought you out —
asked you which one you’d take
if you were me, and surely
I’d have taken the other.
The sound of the oboe is an invitation for love. – My quote.
Listen, my sweet love, can you hear its sound?
It makes me wish to hug tight and kiss you.
It vibrates softly through the woods around.
It is no wonder true love always grow.
The oboe's balmy melody that haunts,
Resembling a fine choir richly endowed,
But what need have we of people around?
Reminding us of love and all our wants?
Once heard, not forgotten, though there's no crowd.
Listen to our love sighs as soft as sound.
A rune in honour of the rising moon.
From languishing lento, or diverging
Into a crescendo only to tune
Mellifluous melody, varying
Blue birds sing their lovely tune which resounds
Around the mountains as the oboe sings
Its magical melody. Our hearts feel
The pain of euphoric love, which confounds
Though we feel as titanic queens and kings,
Only by love our life is made real.
Then we rest a while under an oak tree
A light breeze brought to us our oboe's song,
Could we not be as merry as could be?
The kiss we give was long, enticing long.
We make our way to our lonely warm hut
How well, through our love we do understand.
The echo of the oboe makes its way,
A fine fire is lit and wood crackles but
The tender meat stew flavoured smell so grand,
Surely fairies wish to have their last say.
3 May 20222
Placed 1
Subject Love
'Form O- Ode- New poems' Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
HowManySyllables and Rhymezone Used
“Love is a power so strong, yet if compressed without
outlet, it is as good as stagnant waters"---by poet
As we roamed under the star spangled sky,
Sharing many a trivial thought
I failed to voice my clandestine whim
Structured within my heart's inmost core
When words got suddenly broken up
With a lump forming in my throat
I failed to convey what I meant
In a language explicit for you to grasp
Gazing at each other, as we stood
Without uttering a word aloud, never making explicit
My thoughts with inhibitions subduing me,
You failed to notice my love lit eyes
Sadly glistening with tears, about to shed
Sad, my thoughts scattered like dead leaves
Abandoned by the trees in harsh autumn wind
Whirling down directionless and fated to rot
At the end of a pleasant united jaunt
When forced to take our own solitary paths
With life’s journey diverging in opposite tracks,
We failed to say even a parting word
As a gesture of courtesy, due for both
Alas, when the past has dwindled slowly away
We remain in our own cloistered cells
Failing to forget what has transpired
With wounds bleeding all through time
Whenever I think of our love, that got thus fused
Standing speechless and tongue tied every time
I force a wistful glow, wondering what might have been
If you could see my heart split wide open
And known my true feelings which I could never once divulge
___________________________________________
June. 6.2022
~Placed First~
This or That, Vol. 12 Poetry Contest
Subject Chosen- Split Wide Open
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
When I was a child,
I thought like a child, played like a child,
free of worry and stress, innocently happy.
I dreamt of knights and dragons,
of spaceships and adventure,
my Chi clear and peaceful as the sea.
But now roads are diverging in the woods,
a dire beast drags itself toward Bethlehem.
Shall we continue our every day, dealing useless goods?
Or concern us with countless devils, try battle them?
For the end, my friend, is very, very nigh,
whether by alien extermination or asteroid strike,
or underreported, nefariously political, virally thrown die,
our world, old poets and authors saluted, will not end up as we like.
I've been tracing the starry sky with little dots,
my fingers dancing in diverging paths of knots,
I long for a curl leading to a slumber in blues,
through these sinuous rivers my thoughts cruise.
A garden of warmth, my woolen scarf I nuzzle,
my nose itches against the embroidered puzzle,
I remember mother's fingers turning with devotion,
beautiful threads twisting on the scarf in motion.
"How do you identify the threads in that maze?"
I would often ask following the needle in daze.
"Oh you just need to hold on to a single strand,
and knit or loosen it retracing the color band."
How will I ever escape my fears if I am lost?
I realize this question in my mind hadn't crossed,
her answer echoes my hopes trapped in dim rooms,
to extinguish agony I need to plunge into fumes.
Holding colored love, labyrinths of threads I face,
her ethereal touch in my scarf, my fingers trace,
through whispering lullabies in stars I sprawl,
led to an ocean of light beyond that fearful wall.
June 25, 2020
Maze - 10 Word Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance(A Dear Heart)
~Winner: 1st Place
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood….”
Robert,
You let the split remain unresolved,
and while we stand in awe,
staring at your crossroads
etched in gold and shadow,
do you ever wonder
what lay beyond the path
you did not take?
Even though you say,
“I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
Did the road arch upward,
an unfamiliar melody on the wind?
Or did it tumble into brambles,
a half-forgotten warning?
Even now I see your boots----
Mud-caked, maple-tinged-----
pausing at the edge.
Here’s my advice, if you allow it:
Don’t linger too long
in the pondering.
Step once more
into the thicket, the gravel,
the unknown blaze of paths.
And when your pen hesitates,
push it further
to sketch the forest where both trails end-----
or perhaps where they entwine,
branches brushing like old friends.
Some questions don’t need answers,
but oh, how they crave
a different kind of wandering.
Regarding Robert Frost’s famous poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.
“You can’t make homes out of human beings.”
— Warsan Shire
Wishbone
He appraises me as though my bones
were fashioned for breaking,
two limbs diverging from a sacred centre,
his hunger already choosing
which half it intends to keep.
There is an unfeeling felony in such looking,
the way desire can undress a person
until even personhood becomes superfluous.
He makes an altar of my anatomy,
then calls appetite reverence.
He would tie me to his tongue
and still not know the aptitude of my name.
He mistook possession for intimacy,
lust for fractured divinity,
my body for some reliquary
he might prise apart for providence.
His eyes of penitence arrived too late.
Beneath fractured halos,
what hollow absolution resurrects
a woman reduced to portions:
mouth, waist, thighs,
the convenient mathematics of flesh?
He had already tested where I was weakest,
where the bone would give,
how much wanting could be mistaken
for tenderness before it became cruelty.
That was the anatomy of absence:
to be entirely present
inside a body someone else
had already erased me from.
I was no omen for his wanting,
no little bone upon which
he might wager a wish.
Yet he still broke me.
But he did not know what wishbones remember:
that they once belonged to wings,
that fracture is a hinge, not an ending,
that some things split
without surrendering themselves.
He expected two obedient halves,
a clean division,
something small enough to possess.
Instead, the fracture disclosed
what his hunger had failed to comprehend:
I had never belonged to the bone.
And if time turns,
will scars stain the sky?
Let them.
The larger fragment in his fist
never meant he won.
It was only proof
that possession leaves evidence.
He had to break a thing that flew
to believe it was his.
Identical Twins
Time is passing
Life is fleeting
We will all be memories
Some day
We bid them farewell
Those we have known
With no compensation
For broken hearts
Each life has known us
Though we are strangers
Your eyes are so similar
To those I loved
But you are leaving
As I am expiring
We are remembering
The faces lost
I did not know you
You do not know me
Identical twins we
Of diverging lives
Each love we have known
No different from those
Exquisite beauties
We held in each other’s hands
I don’t know why
You can’t see, you are me
The same reflection
On an alternate page
Just as much passion
No less the grief
Our tears are counted
By our hearts beat
Part of the ocean
Our love is remembered
Part of the ocean
Of humanity
Time is fleeting
Life is passing
We will all be memories
Some day
Tonight, I want to say something wonderful
For the left-handed people who can adapt
to a world full of left-sided thinkers. The ones
who can navigate with all the specially opposed tools,
like the ones made standard for the 90%. I prefer
their open-mindedness, abstract, creative, those kinds of thinkers,
The ones who can use a can-opener
backward or flip scissors upside-down just
to cut. The ones who twist their paper or hands gracefully
to write beautiful things. The ones who learn
to use a mouse with their flimsy palm, while
they search on their computer for left-handed poets.
They are the truly special ones who change the world.
That’s why I want to say something astonishing
Like: Sinistrality, a graceful glove that is worn
on the opposing hand, those destined to be struck down
by the back-hand of a culture that doesn’t understand
what it really means to think with a right-sided brain.
Those few special beings have always impacted the world
The greatest minds, the greatest hands, the ones like
Napoleon Bonaparte, who strategically learned
To lead with his dominant hand as a guide to conquer
and rise to be great. Leonardo da ’Vinci who had the creator’s
gift bestowed upon his left hand. To write, paint, and create awe.
Jimi Hendrix, a guitar God, played upside down, but not wrong.
Mozart, Bill Gates, Aristotle, Leo Messi, Babe Ruth
Michelangelo, Raphael, Rembrandt, Picasso,
Ben Franklin, Darwin, Newton, Einstein, Marie Curie,
Helen Keller, Joan of Arc, Queen Victoria, Oprah,
Honestly, the list could go on and on and on…
But instead, let us praise them for being so inclined
to change the world by diverging their minds.
Ode to Sinistrality, ode-to the right-thinking kind.
Deathless Aches, Heart's Desires
Thoughts of Heart are as mystical ships that traverse
Ranging amidst the restless ocean ways,
Their crimson prows surging through the sunrise,
Their golden sails adream in evening haze.
Thoughts of broken spirit wander sadly
Unfriendly waters; raging, storm-shattered they roam;
Sea-reft their beauty, moaning all their music,
No haven dares to call them home.
Far sundered are their soundings, far diverging
Magic winds that sing their course,
For some may find the Hesperides, but others,
Those far, sad and dark islands of Remorse.
There they may safely harbor, dark as hell's morn
Awaiting in that cradle, where deathless aches are born!
Robert J. Lindley, 10-13-2015
Note- Non-traditional sonnet, archaic messaging.
*****************************************
(A) "adream"--Webster's Third New International Dictionary
adream adjective
Etymology: a- (I) + dream, v.
dreaming
old people motionless and adream
- See more at: http://findwords.info/term/adream#sthash.UnF3w8ZI.dpuf
(B) "reft" ---A past tense and a past participle of reave.
reave
rev/
verbarchaic
carry out raids in order to plunder.
rob (a person or place) of something by force.
"reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast"
steal (something).
source- https://encrypted.google.com/#q=reave+definition
(C) "sundered"--sun·der
's?nd?r/
verbliterary
past tense: sundered; past participle: sundered
split apart.
"the crunch of bone when it is sundered"
synonyms: divide, split, cleave, separate, rend, sever, rive
"his father and he were sundered by religious differences"
(D) Hesperides--Definition of HESPERIDES. 1. : a legendary garden at the western extremity of the world producing golden apples. 2. : the nymphs in classical mythology who guard with the aid of a dragon a garden in which golden apples grow.
Hesperides | Definition of Hesperides by Merriam-Webster
www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/HesperidesMerriam-Webster
LIMERICK
You can have the two kids but not the hound
And I'll need the Caddie to get around
Said she I'll take the house
You good for nothin' louse
By your cock and bull I will not be bound
HAIKU
love that drifts apart
like two diverging rivers
ne'er to flow as one
COUPLET
Their marriage made in heaven was as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar
'Til his boozing and roving eyes caused the whole affair to falter
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in PDs "Divorce Club" Contest - December 2010
written:may/30/2009
You must go,yes!
Go against slumber,
When even early birds ignore worms,
But the falling thorns purnish gurus
As the roaming anti-mother blanket kills faint gurulings.
Here we march marshals,
Along grumbling swift paces,we shall!
Walking-yarn appetises expectations,
Since many paths leads to the road.
Diverging to coverge,we must!
As swarming of the apocalyptic plague of the book,
Brushing along all along that belongs,
Into the shipping tower,we all plunge.
Now blinking sea-eyes of a naked mind,
All beholding spoons for a bloodless war.
Its too late to retrieve and hot to hold.
An often dreaded monster you face,
Must in "Government call" retire.
Yes! warm to hum,
like a soldier into war,
triumphant but not victorious.
When asked why? we say,
this is the ROAD TO FSLT.
BY:TUTUOLA MICHAEL
The eyes of need, the eyes of a disciple,
the eyes that sees perfection from a dad so human,
the eyes of expectation, the eyes of loving tenderness,
painting a heavy weighted makeup on a lighted loving face.
Every of dad’s habit is a white clean handkerchief
images of a hero seen as the family’s Hercules
eyes so sticky, holding unto daddy’s head
mental pictures, guiding the road of parental deeds
overcoming a temptation when the sight of disappointment appears
seeing a sorry one when diverging from responsibility’s route
doing things right to maintain the happy countenance
discipline and care putting both eyes to an intriguing debate.
Tears of joy dilated by love and satisfaction
a squeezing pair thrown at horrifying relationship or neglect
eyes of different speeches, sight of telling languages
causing various reactions with specific conspicuous rhythms
pouring out life or to drown in society’s unfair mud
nurturing its growing sight to snap each of experience’s posture
just looking up and outwards because the inside still yearns
through these eyes, I face up the beautiful challenge of being a daddy.
It appeared, for the longest time, that I was over you.
Each day my mind would bury your memory,
Continualy obsturing your face and your touch.
I began to shift my gaze.
I started looking straight ahead.
The past was to my back.
But most recently, from the depths of my mind,
You sprang forth!
Now I am once again at a crossroad.
Which path should I take?
That is the only question that is on my mind.
It devours my whole being.
To my right;
It is a life of hardships,
But in the darkness you'll be there.
Embracing, pushing away our troubles.
And that is all we would need, each other.
Mediocrady, but love.
And to my left;
Life like the gentle flow of a river.
Lonely but easy going.
Walking in solidarity, being content.
And I will ever long for more.
Exceptional, but alone.
Thoughs are my options, but I am stuck
Looking at the diverging road.
Sweetness in the morning sun
In my memory
Angel eyes and silken wings
Awakening with me
Sparkling rays of glitter
Diverging on your lips
Gather to your hourglass
Of smooth and shapely hips
Melting to a sweet caress
The wakening is long
Rising to distinctly shapes
Hearts are beating strong
Ever loving depth
Feathering embrace
Coddle to your cleaven heart
Valley of your grace
Silhouette upon the scape
Rising ball of fire
Waking on a sea of love
Flowing with desire
Distinctly tantalizing
Shapes to face the day
Lay upon a flowing breeze
Slowly drift away