Best Dutifully Poems
Look...See how long nights are drawing in.
Dreary birdsong gradually abates -
Opaque dusk grows dim;
And just outside the creaky little garden
Gate,
Stood opposite the empty wood
Where the vacant threshold silently awaits,
I pause, when, resonating quietly back...
I now hear...
Far distant echoes of my glorious childhood
Tugging like a Siren upon my ear.
With a heartfelt pang I turn to move,
Before my staring should offend some
Old friends ghost
To manifest in vengeful affright,
Towards the comforting sanctuary proffered
By the warm kitchens weak neon light...
That sneaks out from behind the half-shut
Door,
But held - Transfixed!
Brought from wither-not-where to this one
Small place - Staid...
As if caught in a state of heavenly grace,
Conversing to the soft wind in harmonious
Angelic rapport:-
Thus soothes like enchantments waves...
Rolling gently up to repeatedly break upon
Magical banks girdling Nivians lakeshore.
For what be this odd muse
That upon my aging senses does so readily
Enthuse...
And to my inner soul so inextricably
Implore?
Ahhh...But this much I may be allowed to
Say,
Before darkly gathering skies extinguish
Over weak flames of the last spluttering
Ray,
Perhaps it is our inner voice
That seeks out the solitudes of
Tranquilities choice -
To witness and record and dutifully store...
Those rare and fleeting moments
We all too briefly adore.
“I cannot give a name to pain I’ve never known.” - by poet
What do I know of sadness
when it’s grief that is profound?
The misery of wounded hearts -
in anguish they are drowned.
The mother – who downtrodden -
sells her body to survive
and put food on the table
to keep her kids alive.
The father who dutifully
fights in a bloody war
comes home with missing limbs
and still dreams of gunfire’s roar.
The child caught in that same war,
who runs from an awful blast
and sees her loved ones dying -
a terror unsurpassed.
What know I of losing
everyone or everything
in an earthquake or tsunami?
What utter suffering.
Of being someone snatched up
from the street, then like a slave,
be forced into defilement
or thrown into a grave.
Of being born into
a family of abuse
and no one has a clue.
Kids like these cannot get loose.
Of prisoners of war, of Jews
packed like rats in dirty trains;
of all slaves throughout history
and souls now still in chains.
I think of all the torture
humanity’s gone through -
unlucky folks whose fate would be
that nothing could they do.
Babies with serious defects
with lives seeming aimless. . .
Because I can’t know pain like this,
for me, it all is nameless.
Regally it stands, the staunch guardian of her lonesome heart,
Reminiscing in revelries of yore, treasured memories impart,
Defying glum turbulence of now, hanging on to seasons past,
When springs-winsome banished, doldrums harsh-winters cast.
Disheartened, the gate harkens back~ O, so young its master died,
Lamenting of distressed times, when grief stilled her teary eyed;
Yet, with resolve, it squeaks its hinges, resounding a voice of pride,
Beckoning to benevolence of bliss, fate had so callously denied.
With kindred vibes it greets her, vying elation of cherished days,
Suppressing aches and rattles of its rusting, clamoring, phase;
Preferring realm of time, when he was the keeper of this place,
As dutifully now it opens wide, exuding mirth of youthful grace.
O, how fondly the gate recalls, dance of duo beneath full moon,
Humming melodies intimate, passions of doting souls croon,
Embracing celebration of life, as heartbeats enamored attune,
To rhythms emanating song of love, strumming infatuated tune.
Despite groans and whimpers, blaring aloud clattering of pain,
The gate vows to protect her, refusing ever to wither or wane,
Unwavering through thunders, rains, vicious strikes of feeble age,
Challenging its steeled bones, to gallantly defy seasons’ rage.
My poetry garden of late has lain untended and forlorn.
I succumbed to shock and dismay upon entering recently, for I observed that
great disagreement had erupted and now vehemently
raged among adjoining unmade weed-filled beds of subjects and verbs.
Modifiers that had been dutifully arranged and carefully
kept in check upon their trellises now dangled everywhere.
Sentences had spilled out of their beds in fragments or running
on and on while cases of subjectives and objectives shamelessly
intermingled and were now easily mistaken one for another.
Grammar, whose care I had entrusted to first, second and third
persons, lay in shameless disarray, as if no one could tell the difference.
Gerunds casually consorted with infinitives, many
of which had split. I recalled with a sigh how many years it had taken
me to tightly bind them. [To bind them tightly is what I meant.]
Commas were everywhere, rendering those in appropriate
position practically unrecognizable, which I suppose was better than
what had happened to the capitals, now completely ignored.
No reason for the rhyme with forms confused or misplaced altogether.
My lines, unpruned, were of disparate length and hideously incompl
An unfortunate mis-spell had been cast and provoked an infestation,
such that many of my friends had departed without comment.
The contest entry was blocked, so I bowed my head in shame,
turned around and shuffled silently through the exit marked N/A.
Posted July 24, 2014
'Let the Pens Flow - Narrative' Contest
Jenish Somadas
she's absolut
i'm hennessy
i'm rush hour traffic in L.A.
she's a small town in Tennessee
she's left handed
i think i'm always right
i love the way she will compromise
i never give in without a fight
hard/soft
she's satin sheets
i'm the body wrapped within
together were complete
without her i feel without a friend
i'm lust
she's desire
she's my redemption
my salvation from the fire
and while were not exactly opposites
she compliments me beautifully
picking me up when i fall
and standing by me dutifully
I want to talk to you about something
Well, l actually have a little gossip l know to be true
About certain letters in the alphabet
Please don’t share with another….its just between me and you!
Did you know that the letter U has quite the reputation
Creating unrest amongst other letters
Popular and loved by some
Disliked by many though as U is quite the go-getter
So lets start with the letter W
V and X’s next door neighbour
I do believe “W” is in love with “U”
Due to her natural beauty and confident nature
W is completely besotted with U
And as W’s adoration for U grew
A single U was no longer enough
So one U became two….known as W
Next…is Y who stands opened armed
Between the very disliked X and Z
Y is so very unhappy there
X and Z being the two most unpopular letters… it is said
‘Why oh why’, yells Y
‘Am l stuck between these two’
‘I desperately want to move within this alphabet
‘Beside the desirable and beautiful U’
Now, what l am about to share with you is of the most sensitive nature
It is in regard to the letter Q
Q frankly has some deep seeded issues
When it comes to the letter U
Q suffers with separation anxiety
Is fully dependent on U
Q is unable to function at all
Without the reliable U in view
U sits dutifully next to Q
So Q can function and thrive
Q will live a fulfilled alphabet life
As long as U stays with Q…..Q will survive
U feels trapped by the relationship with Q
As U loves another… it is true
U’s heart belongs solely and completely to F
Both desperate to marry and be known as F.U
Written: March 12, 2024 For Constance La france Contest
N/A in Contest: No 1294
Rumi Quote: "The garden of love is green without limit and yields many fruits other than sorrow or joy. Love is beyond either condition: without spring, without autumn, it is always fresh".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath a deep blue, clear sky
With wonder, I watch the stars explode
Moon sings gently in wonder
Clouds bear the rainbow icons,
Savor timeless appeal of the night sky
My soul dutifully obeys its hypnotic call
White blooms and gentle azure sky
A scent of musk rose fills the air
The location is truly captivating.
Crystals gleam alone, pair at daybreak
An onyx sky gleams deep and ethereal
As loneliness becomes habitual, I weep
A bond surpassing the brightest galaxies
Clusters of sunken astral bodies fit finely
A deep clay soil, a dark void of apathy
Enthralled, my soul begins to reveal
The soul sparkles on a sunny day
A divine place as souls carries on to play.
Alarming and true, in the ominous bay
I greet the vulnerable and delight in joy
A starry crestfallen drifts ever near
Alone, sipping solace, words
I found comfort in a blissful rhapsody
My heart is graced with night beauty
Stars above drift on and on
To a tranquil spot for solitary spirits,
I feel a presence in this divine place
A sturdy refuge from life's perils
Caught by weak hold, in joyful frenzy,
I check my faded stars, sliding into night.
I find solace in this verse at night
The sky is my canvas,
Stars are my beacons of light
Amidst this tranquil oasis
I drift to quiet beaches
A spot where the sky is magnificent
Fills my heart with awe and joy
Into the deepest midnight blue
A link is true, and the spell is cast
Stars glisten in the azure sky
Their stellar flight captivates me
Shooting stars are truly marvelous
Bathed in the moon gentle glow
Clouds display a rainbow of colors,
I find myself in this enchanting realm.
She sits perched, like a gorgeous gargoyle, upon the boulder
splotched with spots of mint chocolate ice cream moss - the wind tasting
her lovely locks as if it were spicy cinnamon straight off the tree.
It excites the senses (to put it frankly) watching her gaze
pierce the sapphire roof of the world
with a challenge to be met.
Or was it the twinkle in her smile
that shone like polished ivory, reminding me of the legalities
of elephantine tusks, and the slippery slope of falling
for that gracious grin and hallowed hope.
It could just be, she's got a lasso on my heart,
that takes delight in my vertigo - flipping and flopping
much like an oval shaped wheel.
I'd ask her to grease the hinges, or go back to the drawing board,
but to tell the truth - it adds character to the path
digging dangerously into the dirt dutifully
causing a spray of pebbles to the face of normalcy.
It could just be, that letting go ain't in her vocabulary,
reeling me in like a big fish story in one of those backwater
little ponds, that spawn such discrepancy.
I'd say she's a catch, but that would be cheesy
(though that does bring to mind her chef-like tendencies,
plopping strawberries on my tongue with little tidbits
of Wisconsin sharp cheddar)
It could just be, that life according to Miss Ooh-La-La
couldn't get any better ...
... then again it could just be
I'm waxing eloquently.
So, what is the best theme for
a poem? No guarded secret, all themes --
Freely to Roam! And what, the prescribed
destination or direction? Wherever the poet,
himself, deems worthy of fond or pertinent
affection –
Poetic Theme (extended metaphor)
So, what is the best theme for
a poem? No guarded secret, all themes –
Freely to Roam! And what the prescribed
destination or direction? Only those fond
and pertinent, giving affectionate-justification as
reason for procrastination – to linger in a moment's
subtle discovery – the courses followed only those
which the poet deems entrancingly divine – he seeks
heartfelt permanent encampment – or just an
amicable pause, in a neighboring field, fertile for
blooming enchantment; with his companion pen, to chronicle
canorous visuals, fervently inspired – or simply folksy,
lyrical rides; for the poet, alone, decides where his poetry lives
or temporarily abides –
(his muse, never far off – nearby, perhaps reflecting in the shade of a flowering
fruit tree: heaped in petals, not trying to hide – more enjoying the velvety feel of an
apple before the outer peel, though colorful, would be far too bitter for his present
aromatic meal) – muse and poet, composing through a single eye. Writing as one:
sharing new sights – sounds with scent – their mind dutifully toward poetry
bent – shades of detail, mellifluously transcending common scheme and rhyme –
incanting verse worthy of a brief performance, or immortal, blessed shrine –
It's all fair, such dulcet affair! All subjects! All seasons! – preferring spring, in which to self-lavish and spiritually entwine. Therefore, his paths are fanciful, never truthful as definitive
would define; often choosing glitter over harsh realty, yet can be a prophet and oracle if a troubling-time -- though never, a ruling class mime; – in this sense, he is a likable charlatan, a chimerical rebel...irreconcilable passion his soulful crime, therefore not ever exhibited, an atoning-word or act of sorrowful contrition – so loved by God, who gags at his counterpart, the lying politician.
Quote: Every day is a page to write a new story.
DAILY DEWDROPS
Freshly fallen snow,
no print left yet.
An empty box,
with no pretty bow.
I get down on my knees,
to write a prayer -
a wistful prayer of bittersweet.
My finger shivers in the breeze.
I cursively draw,
on this wall of white.
As snowflakes fall
from eyelashes, I bawl.
A white bunny’s hop halts,
little twitching eyes read my poetic plight.
Dripping from my index pen, a blizzard of tears -
erases all of my faults.
Tomorrow, I will start anew,
writing my escapades
on a pristine white carpet -
perhaps many words, perhaps a few.
And what might each day bring?
A quilting upon white cotton…
An epic on framed canvas…
My emoticons might vary, but dutifully I sing!
12/12/2016
Nayda’s Quote Response Contest
The tree of my ritual was old and tall,
though not a true giant;
the next one may be, but needn't.
It possessed consequence in its bough
and the places around it,
which may have been occupied
for one of any number of reasons.
It was a fine tree, and my ritual was,
I hoped, appropriately reverent.
Respectful, yet uneasily godless,
my incantations whispered
with the light and gravity of the shade.
Hopeful, yet sorrowfully faithless,
my supplications revolved patiently
and drifted irreversibly into the air,
seeped deep beyond the bark,
sank into the soil and the root.
Godless as I was, I would not pass up
a fancy of random thought;
if it was a fancy of still unknown truth,
it would need nurture,
dutifully I would nurture.
Only such a tree could be worthy
of such faithless supplication.
18th October 2018
I tug my vibrant summertime skirt
but it unravels from a chair :
Reaching dutifully for muse's pen
this mind now becomes a haze
I seek to light an imaginative flame
still, phrases yield not to me
and with despair in the glaze of sunglow
imagination's furnace would not spark
on crushed pages seemingly obscure--
Beneath verses smashed by juggled letters
my fresh ink muddying through heated hours
and papers remain blank with dead-end rhymes.
Poetry And Me : Silent One's Contest
2/22/2019
(Base USO club, Zweibrucken, Germany, 1963)
Of a lazy afternoon, I sit
propped up,
Bones aching, sorely tired from
lack of work,
And dutifully read the comic
strips
With bored eyes while my mind
dozes.
I sit enveloped in my peculiar
Grayish pallor, which clings
And will not disappear,
And martyr myself to the gods
of convention.
I smoke acrid-tasting cigarettes and
Loudly chew a cud of gum, popping it
Absent-mindedly, and I turn the
crinkly sounding
Pages, one after one, slowly
and intently,
So as not to disarrange the sheaf.
The dryish smell of printed
comic strips
Irritates my nose, but I don't
sneeze --
Merely wriggle it a bit for some
relief.
My brightly polished shoes are propped
Upon the table and I lean back and tilt
the chair, and my hair
Is closely cropped and combed with care,
no strand
Out of place, pomaded and arranged.
My clothes are neat and clean
and stylish
And I brush away a nonexistent
crumb and
I slowly chew and loudly pop my gum,
Moisten index finger, moisten thumb,
And turn the colored printed page
of comics,
Snicker at the antics pictured
While I glance about.
And wonder.
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
Dragon found a Fairy Ring and quickly jumped inside! Heaven Forbid!
Dancing round and round, he suddenly disappeared. Yes! He surely did!
As he disappeared I knew that trouble would without doubt, now ensue.
So I blew out my breath, and immediately did the same, I’d seen him do.
As I landed, I followed the mob, knowing Dragon would be in demand.
Sure enough, there he stood with the great sword Excalibur, in his hand.
The future King Arthur was standing empty handed, looking kinda sad.
Merlin, however, not amused, started chasing Dragon and looking mad.
Without Arthur to pull the sword from the stone, Camelot wouldn’t be built.
You might say that Dragon was in deep doo doo, all the way up to the hilt.
Things progressed far worse, as Merlin shot crazy magic at Dragon’s face.
He missed Dragon… leaving ‘Sir Mouse a lot’, in Sir Lancelot’s place.
Dragon dodged a magic bolt, from Merlin, hitting Sir Gwain, like a mace.
Yep, if this kept up, the whole round table was about to end, without a trace.
So I jumped Merlin, bringing him to the ground, as I screamed at Dragon!
Put that blooming sword down!… As in: YEP! BACK IN THE STONE!!!
But by then I was changed to a frog, and a few croaks were the only sounds.
Old England had become the new Mayhem Falls, both alive and now found.
Suddenly, Grandpa Troll appeared, yanking the sword from Dragon’s hand.
Putting it back in the stone, he bowed to Merlin and all of his medieval land.
Next he grabbed Dragon by the ear, and me as I hopped across the ground.
We quickly made an exit… by use of the Fairy Ring, now so very profound.
Camelot’s problems, would no doubt, be from ‘Sir Mouse A Lot’s’ overload.
Imagine what might have been, if we’d never helped see, that day bestowed.
Would the world have been better? Would Camelot have longer survived?
We’ll never know. But the Moral is: Beware of Fairy Rings and Dragons!
For they can bring about the worlds end, as we know it, on any given day!
Camelot had that story put on a Tapestry along with Arthur’s great event.
He dutifully, also, pulled the sword from the stone… Yep… You might say…
For them it had become ‘A Great News Day!’ As I did ribbit and hop away!
Written by Carol Eastman 8-29-2016