Best Droops Poems
His scarlet head droops
towards his soulless emerald chest.
Perched upon a fruitless branch,
his spiritless eyes stare
at the emptiness of freedom.
Above, streaks of ruby hints
flow among coral flamingo shades,
as golden streaks swim through
crystallised kaleidoscopic skies -
but he feels no enthusiasm to fly.
What he thought would set him free,
has left his heart a companion-less hostage.
A lovebird without a purpose,
he is unable to warble a melody,
nor whistle for the love he left behind.
Raindrops splash his forlorn feathers,
he is too scared stiff to spread his wings.
His heart thumps like thunder,
as flashbacks of sitting, singing and locking beaks,
with feasts of berries, apples and seeds,
are regretful reminders of his misjudgement.
As he falls,
his last thoughts -
maybe freedom is not all that it seems..
Silent One
22 September 2019
The flower that is given little light
tastes not enough of joy and cannot thrive -
then fades away like dusk into the night.
The soul who struggles just to stay alive -
much like the flower wilting in the dark -
tastes not enough of joy and cannot thrive.
How can a fire be lit if there’s no spark?
Without hope’s gleam, the soul will waste away -
much like the flower wilting in the dark.
This is the plight of one whose world is grey:
Though others say a paradise exists -
without hope's gleam, the soul will waste away.
A man upon this earth who tastes no bliss
is like a soul brought low who droops his head
though others say a paradise exists.
How sad that someone rather would be dead!
The flower that is given little light
is like a soul brought low who droops his head,
then fades away . . . like dusk into the night.
Written 11/15/12
For the "Hope" Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Now for A Brian Strand Structured Poetry Contest
The screen door droops lazily, slightly ajar
Crickets croon lullabies, heard from afar
Kid’s sticky faces, betray ice-cream bars
All on a summers eve
Legs peel off chairs, from the sticky, wet heat
Rocking chairs sway, creaking out restless beats
Mosquitoes, they feast upon my grass-stained feet
All on a summers eve
Young lovers strip down, kissing perchance to swim
As jealous moon watches, and sunset grows dim
The sand dunes heat up, begging for skin on skin
All on a summers eve
Bold daisies flirt, nodding their modest heads,
Ivory faced roses blush, burning them red
Tiny seeds toss, and then shoot from their beds
All on a summers eve
Butterflies tease, as they flit-flutter by
Somewhere a windowsill holds fresh baked pie
Magic is born within jars of fireflies
All on a summers eve
Wild, woodland faeries dance in faerie rings
Children will grin, picking flowers to bring, to
Their surprised mothers, whose thankful hearts sing
All on a summers eve
Fishes gaze warily at worm-hooked poles
Marshmallows roast above fiery coals
Keen mother horses watch boisterous foals
All on a summers eve
Impatient winds blow, making love to the trees
Zephyrs entice; then enrage the calm seas
While lilies and hyacinths bewitch the breeze
All on a summers eve
Love will be found, and remembered, and made
Peace is a book, an old tree and its shade
Summer to me, tastes like cold lemonade
All on a summers eve
So, come with ye, summer; be gone snow and sleet!
I long to feel grass on the soles of my feet
And jump in the river as suns rays retreat
All on a summers eve
Shared 2nd place winner in Karen Neary's Summer Enchantment Rhymed
poetry contest. Thank you!!!
I can tell by your face
the clouds intimidate, when weeping,
one look into your soul
tells one how you are keeping.
Oppressive droops the raindrops
wrenched from the saddest sky,
tormented the grey mist swirls
yet my affection, oh so slow to die!
I still see the summer breeze dance
within your tolerant chaste,
till autumn’s manipulation long past,
and quaking trees stand bare.
Throughout my life I recall
blue skies, sunrise ablaze,
one day to recollect again
in this place, where we both were raised!
© Harry J Horsman 2023
Written: March 05, 2025
***********************
As the final petal droops
upon quivering leaves,
while the soul begins to decay
akin to the evening lights
fading into a coffin.
Tears flow quietly across vacant rooms,
sheltered in the hidden retreat,
of a hapless fool folly.
Aged and forsaken, an ancient blade lies
on a ragged oak table.
All around the termite-ridden
floorboards are strewn with
tattered sheets of stories.
Valiant voices of victory,
vibrate in vivid verses,
preserved with lively Ink.
Decades of disarray have faded away,
leaving behind a cherished tale,
its inked revelations whirl into a frenzy,
as I peer through the glass,
reminiscing about those golden days
when my youth overflowed with joy.
I couldn't assist but notice
the drooping scarlet dahlias.
A gleaming golden crown,
sparkling with lovely
crimson queens
rests upon the head of a forlorn exile—
and that is all that remains.
Under the relentless sun
that preys upon the flames,
how can I rise above
the crimson chaos
that encroaches at the edges,
surrounding the ghostly grave
of the poetic soul
I have lost in the quest for acclaim.
Within the weeping window,
a wild wonder reveals itself,
draped in a vivid shade of vermilion.
Amid the whispers of wayward spirits,
the flawless porcelain of our past
now bears unsightly marks.
Fractured dreams are embellished
with delicate threads, while shafts of
sunlight slices through shadowy skies.
The family fortress,
frozen in cold stone,
waits for its wary wanderer,
beckoning the illustrious
to traverse its dimly paths.
In the serene silence of slumber,
the sorrowful saga emerges.
The embrace of eternal sleep.
A chilling chronicle of the collapse
cascades in the corridors
akin to a haunting harmony.
The aspiration and avarice
ultimately overwhelmed us
As the clock chimed cheerfully
at midnight on that chilling night,
the cunning usurper brandished
a blade and brutally
broke their beings,
birthing ghosts of grim,
unspoken words to weep
behind weathered walls.
At this moment, I am
the emerald evening
of the early dawn,
The waxen white wick
that waits before their
weathered tombstone is
withered to a whisper.
I dance when my eyes blink
I dance to touch your soul with an indelible ink
I dance when my heart sings
I dance to give a caged bird its wings
I dance when my soul sobs
I dance to the happiness of the harvested crops
I dance when my spine shivers
I dance to soothe your nerve tremors
I dance when I rise high to the sky
I dance to add glister to your gloomy eye
I dance when I sink to the bottom of the earth
I dance to celebrate the revival of hope on its rebirth.
I dance when my head droops in the darkness of enigma
I dance to the rhythm of the words that give a third degree to dogma.
I dance when my hands tremble in the frozen forest of fear
I dance to provide warmth to the icy days of the calendar year
I dance when my hair strands race through the waves of the air
I dance to the giggles of the roller coaster at the children's fair.
I dance when my fate gets flipped
I dance to outspread the wings of love that were violently clipped.
I dance when your fingers tickle the veins of a flute
I dance to digest the harsh reality of a bitter truth.
I dance when a mother experiences the baby bumps
I dance to wipe the tears of abandoned moms.
I dance when success embraces my best friend
I dance to drive the dunes of disaster away to their far end.
I dance when it rains
I dance to turn the barren land into a green belt of grains.
I dance to my wishes
I dance to my fears
I dance to my smiles
I dance to my tears
I dance to my blood flow
I dance to my inner glow
I dance when I am low
I dance when I lose my show
Dance is in Me
Dance speaks about Me
Dance completes Me.
Its raven skin follows without a 'woof,'
no bark no bite,
darker than a shadow in sunlight.
It reflects in the mirror,
staring with 'Edgar Allan Poe,' ebony eyes.
At dawn it's at the bedside,
wanting to wander into the morning mist.
At twilight it rests its head on my pillow,
stalking, into my sleep.
It sits on the passenger seat,
without a seatbelt, unfocused,
unconcerned, like it has no need to exist.
It plods slowly around the office,
slumping forward, back curved like a 'jack knife.'
Colleagues ignore its obsidian paws,
sore from scabs, resting on the desk.
Its head droops with my sullen, dull ache.
Its tongue looks rough, no saliva drips -
a bit like my cracked lips.
We both seem to breathe in dry air,
as it feeds on my molasses mind.
It has no interest in sticks nor treats,
nor cares to leave my side.
A sinister magnetic faithfulness.
Unmoved, as I vomit black bile.
I wonder how is he a man's best friend?
On an old bicycle, he pedals the streets
finding a steady supply of following feet
"Here comes the balloonwalla", in unison they scream
clamoring for the balloon of their dreams
Each one gets one at rupees five a piece
leaving a tiny little pair of hands empty
Just when tears well up disappointment droops
the balloonman with a flourish, downward stoops
Pulls out a little piece of blue with a twinkle in his eye
happiness smiles end to end as the balloon grows as big as the sky
Tiny hands cannot grab the big blue thing
so he ties it to the little finger with a string.
Afroze Ali
date: July 19th 2011
For Francine's contest 'Happiness is a balloon'
(the Balloonwalla is a man who sells balloons, on his bicycle is attached a pump to blow the balloons.)
Words as hurtful,
As sharp blades
Inflicted! chopping a rose with a knife
In hundred pieces.
Gets hit painfully from all sides, all corners,
She stands alone!
Upright, unperturbed, resolute, strong!
Inside,
She bleeds profusely!
Inside, a well of tears rise and fall,
A mirror shatters into million pieces!
The flower dries and droops,
Petals fall on the hard ground
Without a noise!
You hurt her so deeply,
The cuts are intense!
The saddest part is - you have no regret,
You have no idea how gaping a wound cruel words can cause
To someone who did not know the face of cruelty!
Now she does!
She droops her head in drowsy snooze
awaiting for the rise of dawn.
She covets eastern sky pale hues,
as she stretches and stifles a yawn.
She cares that soon ol’ Sol will rise,
her head ascending with his light.
She’ll follow him across the skies
until it’s time to fade at night.
Every blooming flower knows
that jolly orb that passes by.
He smiles and shines for only them
and sings to them from lofty high.
In field, in garden, or in pot,
they wave in silent voices bold.
"Hello!”, “Goodnight!”, and “Worry not.
We’ll soon again your face behold.”
Yes, Son,
Even when it is not the season of your death
I live to remember you
And in every place, every new notice of death
Brings new longings for you
My ton
Of grief weighs heavier than the all the seas
Nothing dries it, nor tropic sun, nor balm breeze
We ran
There once, we played that game, we hugged
The same dream in our hearts
From the outside let them believe I shrugged
This, inside I'm nailed with darts
I scan
All possibilities to vision how it would be here
If I could substitute you again for my tear.
Mikhail
Grief has no season, and hope no horizon for me
To beat you at chess again
The waves on the shore are each like my memory
But nothing washes pain
Fragile
Is the heart that loves, and mortality too feeble
For love's lost, it droops all fire, who can be able?
Each day another velvet petal fell
like somber tears from weeping eyes.
A perfect flower was severed to quell
and lay withering as it droops and dies.
Flawless flower, from bud to bloom...
sweet-scented rose, it was no wonder
that stifled in that sepulcher room
you are enshrined, awaiting plunder.
Sadness lingers in me over your demise.
Withered petals are always a cause for pain,
but I'll remember you without tears in my eyes
for the memory of your fragrance shall e'er remain.
Written: February 13, 2023
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An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
The weary and gloomy moon
Droops alongside confident mountains,
Tries to stay until noon.
Clings to the boundary, slipping down
Being hidden but not wanting to hide.
To time, old moon is bound.
A longing, endless.
Sad moon surrenders to the horizon, daylight lessens.
Less ends of light to grip; reject regress.
Dull moon falls west, sun rises east.
A longing, a chase endless.
The pursuit is a beast.
For the moon craves to collide
With the eternal flame it is infatuated with,
That’s why we see high tides.
The moon’s heart lies in the sea
Becoming swollen
Wanting the sun to see.
The moon, lonely,
Is in love with the sun.
Always has been, always will be.
06 March 2020
Title Chosen: A Lull
Contest: Pick-A-Title, Vol 14-Tristich
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
"Colorful language is the best way to recreate the incident as it happened and to picture it for the audience". Dale Carnegie
______________________________________________________________
O, colors, enthrall us through their splendor
Infuse the mundane world with vivid shades
Dazzle with hues and send a melody so tender,
No harp plays a role in tunes or serenades.
Lush velvet stains lips and hands with blackberry
Ripe grapes drenched in bright, blithesome lands
A colorful kaleidoscope lies in a flower vase—airy,
A sparkle that imbues the shadows and expands.
Olive and amber—ripening akin to wheat,
Grating upon nerves, a symphony so sweet
I love color, from flaming reds to vivid greens.
Royals flaunt purple, a sight that sheens.
Flaming reds and vivid greens—I adore
Royal flaunting purples, I simply can't ignore.
If I were the color blue, I would sing a halcyon song.
Leave you frantic—recalling your youth for days long.
I hold my breath as sapphire skies spread.
Vast quietude, serene—filling my head
Rainbows, prisms—tinsel glitter galore,
A wheat harvest of yellow—a sight to adore
Ripples and runs—floats and flies,
Subtle shades and sheen, colors that mesmerize.
Crimson and azure—glowing with grace,
The purity of white is a vague oasis to embrace.
A streak of gray brought heaven to earth
Crackled turquoise, vivid glow of calm sea worth,
As a slow hawk stoops—prey in the deep,
The sunflower droops; a lazy wave creeps.
The wind sleeps—swirling in dazzling links,
And loops, creating a symphony that never sinks
The crickets chime their pauseless rhyme,
And the colors run—toward the sun climb.
Before the wind feet, in the wheat, they stun.
The green of elms—a sage discourse troll,
Hemlock green, oaks, and juniper trees spun,
A color symphony, one actor—this world scrolls,
A never-ending show of beauty and poetry.
Crafting a lasting metaphor of beat and symmetry
A magnificent show of shadows and brightness.
O, hues, how you seduce my air with lightness.