Best Eastern Poems
In moments of twilight civility
an exchange of gifts -
darkness for light..
RISING
from beyond the softening silhouette edge
you brighten like a blushing damsel
hazy haloed
unabashed in the pleasure of ripening
daydreamer
...a vivid blur of lemon drop...
veiled by a wispy fanfare of mares’ tails
windswept forth in pinkened pageantry
heralding the maturing marmalade horizon -
arousing a drowsing periwinkle sky
your prosperous glow casts a molten net of gold
slanting low across the ebb and flow
igniting the imagination
- agleam with peachy dreams -
of just-waking waters
while catching fire-tipped riffles;
rubies gathered ride the tide to the coastline
glamorizing the washed still-sleepy seaward sand
saturated in the rose-colored nectar
of your generous nature ~
Susan Ashley
October 13, 2018
*Mare’s tail: a long narrow cirrus cloud whose flowing appearance somewhat resembles a horse’s tail, often indicating high winds in the upper troposphere.*
Written & Posted, 3rd January 2025
For the International Contest, CHOOSE A 2025 POSTED POEM
Sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 4th January 2025 (Second Place)
Poem of the day - 5th January 2025
I checked my watch and checked my phone,
but everyone’s in a different zone,
Eastern, Central, Mountain, Pacific,
maybe I should be more specific,
the dollar says in god we trust,
but love thy neighbour bit the dust,
I wasn't feeling all too great,
after that late night altered state,
shining my leather mourning shoes,
watching weather and breakfast news,
a gunman shot the truth today,
the eagle had been blown away
so had the snow white turtle dove,
won’t somebody tell me, what time is love?
~
Morning light now comes to glow
on weary smiles and waking eyes
As ribbons of a crimson flow
paint dawn upon these early skies
I gaze towards an eastern place,
so far and yet so near to me
In hopes of dreams I long to trace,
such beauty for my eyes to see
And as the heavens cast their shine,
a canvas tinted sapphire blue
This wondrous day again is mine
as I awake to thoughts of you
~
Someone dipped their fanbrush
Into the charcoal gray
Painted the sky in whispy clouds
To open up my day
They softeded the dreary color
By telling the sun to rise
Bringing a harvest of cherries
Right before my sleepy eyes
Thanks be to the benefactor
Who graced my day with surprise
How I love these charcoal mornings
With color in the Eastern sky
The sun has now painted
The clouds an apricot color
Looks like a gaint female Cardinal
Flying through the air
What a way to begin a day
With color that flies so fair
I
Without computing Light Years (LY)
Rain could join Space-Time
For making accessible rainbows
II
I walked under - the greatest Arch
White-clad sprites streamed promises -
edible flavors, rainbow colors
He left by the Eastern Gate
Slipping through the fading light
Before they closed the city
Against fast approaching night.
They first tumbled in the grass
Under a tree still growing there,
Her skirts as disarranged
As the wind disarranged her hair.
He had loved her with a passion
But a love that had to sadly end,
For while he loved her as a lover,
She had just loved him as a friend.
He stood at her wedding
Then before it was too late
Slipped from their city
Through the Eastern Gate.
She missed him for a long time,
But as time slipped surely by
She could recall his name
With regret and maybe a sigh.
Sometimes at the Eastern Gate,
With a casual sort of care,
She lays bouquets of flowers
By a tree still growing there.
A Tribute to the Masons and the Order of the Eastern Star
Self ever comes after others.
Empathy makes of strangers, Brothers.
Respect for All gives Pride of Place to none;
Virtue reigns, with good works done.
Integrity rules the heart and mind,
Certain is the path we find,
Enlightened by constant Light,
Devoted to the Majesty of Right,
Observant of laws of God and Man,
Glorious since they both began,
So stand our Orders strong, by Day, by Night.
snow swathed twilight woods
owl’s screech stirs superstition -
the deer hunter shakes
Susan Ashley
October 16, 2021
His surreal cerulian cherubic blue eyes
are to die for cause they tell no lies
The way they look in the moonlight
never departs his heart's soul plight
His blues sing without singing a word
his heart is heard in his soft caresses assured
The cowboy walk of his style is not east coast
cause he has that southern drawl boast
In his dream he's a southern man down south
in my heart he's an east coast boy gone south
sporting them wranglers singing the spangler
purple mountain he sits majestically arranged there
All the while singing the blues....
All the while singing the blues....
All the while singing the blues....
If the sun shines
Vicious that the hands could hold its heat
If the wind whirls and wails
Turbulent, with fierceness of rushing water
If it becomes icy cold
That it could freeze the mind
If the sky, sullen and sly
Suddenly wear, without a tear
And the heaven unlatches its showers
Unceasing regardless of the reigning season
If cold and heat engaged
In a no conquest duel
If there are mown meadow mountains
More than human habitat
With hills spreading and sprawling
Sparingly shares expanse of space
If the valleys are fast and vast
Height-locked by conniving hills and mounts
And the plains, plain and plane
Laid bare of thickets and thorns
If you keep ascending and descending
In rhythmical crescendo and decrescendo
If the landscape is strewn
With mingling lily white egrets and sheepish African cows
If summer, winter, spring and autumn
Rolls, in seconds, minutes and hours
If all faces reflect Mandela
And most voices resonate his accent
Then, it is Alice, another wonderland!
The little Xhosa town; the University town of Fort Hare!!
Eastern Cape of the South of Africa
he was sent eastward
the carnage was horrifying
it was unbearable
single malt sanity, sanitized, ionized,
with a little communion salt.
sprinkle replace, sprinkle to taste,
sprinkle with haste to the holy face.
yet still ground balsa wood icons
perfectly semitrical work to preserve
lesser linoleum countertop grains.
Like in winona minnisota where the midwest
vacuum sealed religion remains intact.
renewed morning by morning
by olive shaded stanley thermoses.
Displaced only on occasion by rubber
gripped cellphones and coffee mugs.
winona Minnesota....
where the Mississippi is the only
true dialect.
home to sugarloaf bluff and
the basilica of saint stanislaus.
that lesser known bishop of krakow
who may have been martyred but first
got stoned at fourteen underneath
the sugarloaf.
See him now stacked up and slid down the bar
the bishop of all cardboard regalia.
Holy under a golden pint ring halo of IPA..
I produce old silk flags to undulate the mist-
I”m just another Torturated Body from the East
I take the Medicine and try to resist
among Big Mammals, fighting with a spoon
I put one foot on the Moon for a catatonic walk
and the other foot on the street
to sustain the back
under a yellow skirt
wearing an orange shoe
that gives a great stability
by throwing out sweet glue.
www.simonadancila.com
A little porcupine in the midst of hungry pythons;
her quills are a danger to each attempted swallow;
trouble grows tall from the moment she existed;
And once upon a time, in six days a gang is conquered by her might.
She’s characterized by waters so low,
from the dead one to the Sea of Galilee.
She’s an open museum for religious sight seeing
with official mother tongues coming from her own conflicting world.
Her stamp against size zero maidens stood as the first;
she’s the main and king’s banquet hall
for same sex feasts in the entire middle east;
a trail blazer in the voice mail technology
and a breeding town for chess grand masters;
all sums up to the glorious inscription of her crown.
Even with her wonderful friendship with friends quite far
she’s still most hated by those very close.
Everyone who knows me, realises I get my inspiration from news items. Today, Sunday 10 July 2016. There was a mention on the radio of a bull fighter being killed in Eastern Spain, whilst fighting a bull and being televised live. Pardon that last expression, but it was actually used. I have always been a keen supporter of animal welfare. I hope this poem does not offend anybody, but you know it need not have happened, both the death and this poem!
A Bullfighter was killed in Eastern Spain!
A bullfighter was killed in Spain!
Not by a sword or gun.
No, it was by a bull.
In an arena of no fun.
You see the bull should have died.
The Matador bow to applause!
Be cascaded with flowers.
By senoritas so adored!
Did everybody gasp?
When the bull won instead!
Did anybody praise that bull?
To see their hero dead!
I have not watched the video.
I don’t know if there is one.
I expect others killed that bull.
No one praised that one.
Who in a one sided battle!
Did the unthinkable!
And.
Won!
Condolences to the widow if there is one and children if there are any. (The mad Author)