Best Elicit Poems
Callused fingers press vibrating strings,
drawing passion from a violin.
And with burnished wood snug to his cheek,
amplifies what he feels in his heart.
Subtle notes saturate my being
as crying strings elicit feelings.
And expounding on love and desire,
music stirs the imagination.
His bow hangs, like a lingering kiss
savoring the taste of ecstasy.
And with a tear trickling down his cheek,
he unleashes unbridled fervor.
Combining hope with pangs of rapture
sound slips the bounds of reality.
And each vibe resonates in my heart,
reigniting passion's dormant flame.
As callused fingers tug my heartstrings
I've never before felt so alive.
And in this state of exaltation,
I feel my pulse race, and my heart pound.
How do I tell you that you’re beautiful?
How can I be different?
How can I express my attraction?
When columns upon
Columns
Of testosterone filled wolves
Dressed in rented Italian suits
And discolored, mesh sneakers
Speak similar flirtatious dialect
Will this baby scented Sunflower do the trick?
I picked it from my walled Garden of Eden.
I spent 4 years mending these butterfly coated petals,
Solely for this moment
How can I express my need for your smile?
When tattered paper donations have been sent
To elicit short-term, newlywed goose bumps upon your flesh
...
May I have this dance?
You’ve never heard this sensual ballad.
But, it’s an element of my Spoken Word
Waiting for your translation
I await your palms,
Because this is not a Man’s world
This can be ours.
But, will you leap off from trampoline’s corazon?
My syllables are in your hands.
My book is within your misunderstood palm paths.
But,
If you’re going to read between my lines,
Do not be illiterate to my heartbeats.
Your move…
©Drake J. Eszes
Raging fires roared, yet nothing could hold her back;
she was born in flames...
Sadly, that which helps forge vitality, indubitably, burns.
Embers soon seek refuge in blanketed debris,
praying to fade as apathy attempts to nurture injury.
Mercy, I beg, draw near and peel back ashen veil;
enable compassion, tenderness, and understanding to elicit
tears of gratitude, for they are certain to ignite abandoned flames!
Let passion's fire forever radiate deeply within this and every soul.
May all come to know her warmth, be guided by her light,
feel her rapture in righteous endeavors, and
nevermore become singed nor devoured
by her eternal blaze.
PEACE, LOVE & JOY TO ALL
2020
Some folks smile when I say I’m a writer
Some smirk, suggesting I should get a job
My stories and poems make our days brighter
Fantasy often, and, occasionally macabre.
Some of my poems make your heart throb
They may elicit laughter when I am lighter,
Friends enjoy going out with me to hobnob
Some folks smile when I say I’m a writer.
Writing opinion, I can be a fierce fighter
A sarcastic line I have been known to lob
To meet a deadline, I’ve pulled an all-nighter
Some smirk, suggesting I should get a job.
My profession does not make me a snob
For I need your stories to write a nail-biter,
Just as history gave us Hugo’s Les Misérables,
My stories and poems make our days brighter.
I edit a great deal to make my writing tighter
Much time and effort’s required, I’m no slob.
I write a mixture of genre, I can be a compiler,
Fantasy, sometimes; occasionally macabre.
So, I pay little attention to the illiterate blob
To those who delight in being a backbiter,
Who are no more important than a watch fob
Spending their time in meaningless blighter,
When I say I’m a writer.
Written June 15, 2022
#33 on Best New Poems List
Poetry Soup
June 22, 2022
#36 on Best New Poems List
Poetry Soup
June 19, 2022
Of parrots and parakeets, no one knows
now numbering in the thousands
no longer Mexico's bucolic birds
new urbanized citizens migrated
to the suburbs.
If you travel to Los Angeles and county
where hobo avians flock to Pepperdine
hoping to matriculate to paradise..
Pasadenans know the raucous calls from palms
festooned in bright feathers and pheromones.
Should you wish to elicit a response
from a Red-crowned Amazon..
just ask any witch cat which hungers
with an acute accessory olfactory
rife in feline grin and purpose
eye'n the skies cheerfully.
And somewhere Marianne Faithfull warbles
'this little bird who lives on the wind,
this little bird that somebody sends.'
they're listening too, with a coo and squawk
o'er the skies of Silverlake
and Eagle Rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Little Bird sung by Marianne Faithfull - Lyrics by J.D. Loudermilk 1965
She pleaded to me with a blushed body,
ready readily for the holiday my maintinance could muster for her pink engine,
the electricity my overtime bedtime love ryhme induces, innerbody outerbody attention,
my woman pled and I fed, her skin smelled like sweet leather, expensive and exotic,
her taste, oh her taste,
a salt infused with inimitable vanilla extract of erotica,
shes my virgin tonight, shes my soul purpose, my handicraft her sole investment,
my rough hands ceaselessly surveying the surface of her vulnerable and vital being,
no flaws are found, because no flaws are sought, no resistense, nothing fought,
upright together, gripping her nape, kissing the pulse on throat,
flaxen hair swiming across my focused face, one arm around lower curve of back,
in unison the slots inbetween my thumb and index sweep upon her breast
cleverly turning & tightning into nipples elevated for enclosing excitment,
eyelashes grazing my cheek and her moist mouth on earlobe
elicit the need for perpendicular laying, for ramming motion ritual,
I unfold her, with fingers lovingly clasped on that nimble neck of hers
as I insert and glide with a job to do, a love to pursue,
the words came latter, instinct inspired now -
J.A.B.
A tender discourse of artistic thoughts
Ambles my mind searching for prologue
Aiming to become a poetic dialogue,
Striving for words that elicit a response.
And you enter with an aiding portrayal
Letting my words live and breathe,
To evolve into lines of synchronic rhythm
And emanate sounds of lyrical music.
And you tell me words must be set free
To hear as I hear, and feel as I do:
Joy of romance or sorrow of heartbreak,
Elation of birth, or anguish of death.
Words set free weave a cohesive likeness
Choosing a dawn or night of darkness,
Painting a world full of cheer or fear
Upon shiny meadows or wispy pastures.
Shedding limitations of form and syllables,
Guided only by poetic aspirations
You awaken me with a wondrous theme,
You think so big, poem of my dream!
October 27, 2017
Placed first in standard contest #138 by Brian Strand
tap of nails, slide wood, pull drapes
stains loiter in round mug shapes
water sipped, books stack, words leap
hush wizened pages, neighbors sleep
journals, confessionals, down or up
old cartridge spills, pens horde in cup
shackled hands, lungs breathe, heart drums
an empty tissue box, lamp hums
Try, stay busy, must forget
One more read, she might regret
mordacious night, she wakes from sleep
her bursting thoughts alone must keep
pack nightstand, smooth trifle snags
slip his book in its carry-on bag
His words elicit songs in ear
from his masterpiece, held dear
open drawer, last book in pile
bottom of the heap, exiled
giving in, she dares to rest
his hard cover on her chest
remove jacket, ne’er oppress
dust off passion and caress
thumb his chapters, breathe him in
recite his name and notes again
too much cologne, too much sweat
open pages, fan her breast
She knows he does not write for her
emotions shatter, dreams endure
she scribbles margins in duress
between his lines, her discontent
the nightstand drawer hides her distress
she’s indexed under “o”, obsessed
Written 4/4/17 for Eight Word Challenge Contest
Oh father of mine - who long has withstood
trials to which I can’t even relate -
how sad you must feel – how misunderstood.
On your deathbed you lie, filled not with hate.
Unable am I to communicate
with you very well, for thus is our fate.
Oh father of mine, long-faced much like me,
with eyes like mine too, but more tinged with blue,
any words you might say – a rarity-
I try so hard to elicit from you.
Words that would show me what I never knew -
the “you” that my mother knew. . . but years flew.
Oh father of mine, years flew to this time
where I sit by your bed, watching you die -
all questions unanswered - as I write this rhyme.
Mental illness estranged you from me. Now I
am here- but lacking emotion to cry
as mortality I’m seeing fly by.
I hope in the next life, oh, father of mine,
our feelings and thoughts at last can entwine.
For The Urban Sonnet Poetry Contest of Emile Pinet
My father is at last at peace. He passed away June of 2019.
Alas, I shall never be a Shakespeare, that's for sure.
I'm content to plug along and just remain obscure.
Some folks boast about the number of poems they concoct,
But the quality of their writes often leave me shocked!
Rather than quantity I truly strive for quality in my verse,
Hoping to enrich my readers, yet adding nothing to my purse.
If I have any poetic talent at all, I give Him all the thanks,
And am very content to remain in the anonymous ranks.
I write not for glory but to leave a legacy for my kith and kin.
If I can elicit emotions in my verse I'll remain content within.
When my poetical journey is o'er this can be etched upon my stone:
"Here lies a passionate poet who was content to be unknown!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Tik Tok Lost Its Pace
When you turned, I got a glimpse of your face,
And then time stopped for me, though you moved ahead...
When I resumed from there of that moment,
It's the playful thoughts only retained and it was so pleasant.....
Now that I'm recalling that moment,
giving words to those scene and events,
The chime of wind which then sing, When you turned back to me,
It Touched your face, blew your curly hairs, then revealed the pleasing face....
And then tik tik lost its pace.... Wou ou aa aa a...
I don't know why, you starred at me,
You spoke aloud or just smiled at me,
I don't understand you left no clues,
Or you blanked me out, no I was fused,
Now that I'm bringing back, to elicit yes I've to trace
Why tik tok lost its pace..... Wou ou aa aa a...
I remember those expressive eyes,
That sharp look like of a spy
I wonder how you adorned them
So blue they were like the sky of heaven,
Do they sing some cosmic song
Yeah it's a spell and it's so strong
So tik tok lost its pace...
So tik tok lost its pace...
So tik tok lost its pace...
So tik tok lost its pace...Wou ou aa aa a...
~Ashok Kumar Mishra
He is wizened, shackled to the horde,
Trifle deaf, he would loiter use mordacious words,
Owned cartridge of film that would elicit laughter.
06/04/2017
Contest: eight word contest.
When dulled down shock painfully became
a pickaxe ache behind shimmering eyes,
the bludgeoning screen hammered memory cells
repeatedly, over and over.
Tears exploded, soft rain dampened flame,
the grumbling dust cloud debris disguised
broken hearts bursting in agonised swells
searching for life confirmation.
Crashed vultures, evil in senseless flight,
beating humanity for hours like a drum,
cramping the breath with holocaust claws,
gleefully gloating, gloating.
Yet humanity does not die in the night,
by the warped wicked ways of fanatical scum,
humanity fades not, nor crawls on all fours
the prey of abomination.
Could Hitler pulverise humanity dead,
could Stalin annihilate it's very soul,
could Hussein defile it's essence to dust,
could they, hell.
It arises from rubble and ashes instead,
steel resurrection, reassembled whole,
in the love and pride of people it must
elicit restoration.
Beneath the veil of despair-crippled night
a broken city seethed neon 'till morning,
mortal wounds blazed and shone in rebirth,
defiantly living, living.
And hope prevailed in each bulb burning bright,
in each filament, tube, each spark a new dawning
of all that Heaven allows on Earth,
a prayer-shot inspiration.
The carnage of angels bedazzled with pain,
yet the courage and conscience of saints empowered
a neon-lit love of brother for brother,
a blinding, blinding sight.
From sorrow and sacrilege raining again
humanity's wonder, upon them was showered
the love of the brave and the just for each other
that they become the light.
CHARACTERISTICS
a dedicated
focussed
display
appeared
en tempo
side by side
in
situ
a
seductive
vista with
in vogue
contrasting
hues
a
bathetic
flotilla
with
a surreal
oblivion
tender
&idiosyncratic
in
elicit
mellow
moments
An Empty Page- Free Verse
Empty thoughts loiter in his mind
As new words he tries to find
But shackled by an absent muse
No words come forth for him to choose
His wizened face now wears a frown
And the cartridge of his ink has dried
He searches the silence for a clue
But it fails to elicit a response
His mordacious muse now prefers
To leave him without a horde of words
To trifle with him at this stage
And leave him with an empty page
-----------------------------------------------
An Empty Page- Triolet
An empty page, a poet's woe
In panic mode as muse departs
The moon and stars have lost their glow
An empty page, a poet's woe
Thoughts come and go, no words to show
Just a line and a verse jumpstarts
An empty page, a poet's woe
In panic mode as muse departs
Not For Contest
..