Best Entreats Poems
The Bodhi Tree
I am a Bodhi Tree with branches reaching for the sky.
My cooling shade entreats a song, a lovely lullaby.
My roots run deep above and below the blessed ground
Where prayerful spirit looms my ancient trunk is found.
Siddhartha Gautama became Buddha beneath my tree.
In harmony reverent lines form to pay homage to me.
Enlightened beloved spiritual teacher of India’s grace,
My humble trunk was honored to smile upon his face.
5-24-22
Wisdom from Trees Poetry Contest~Second Place~
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
12-31-19
I am a tree Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Delilah Ventura
The gate to Monet’s Japanese garden’s open,
beckoning, and green as Giverny’s winter wheat,
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
Monet’s Rose Cottage-locked to all but the wrens-
though curved trellises invite, and a path entreats;
the gate to Monet’s Japanese garden is open,
but the tour bus’s door closes, we can’t go inside.
Deep within submerged, asleep, in their frosted retreat
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
Black skies sully the palette, a torrent begins
all hope lost in the thunder’s accompanying beat.
The gateway to Monet’s Japanese garden is open;
with a glance, we leave; we can say that we’ve been?
A dream sought, not found, Normandy’s gem incomplete.
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
Accustomed to beauty, the plump driver’s chagrined;
yet, he’s kept to schedule; we’ve stayed in our seats.
The gate to Monet’s Japanese garden is open,
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
First Published in Allegro Poetry Magazine Fall 2015
Barbarous reason rejoices
and draws strength dispensing death.
Its celebration comes with
cold effigies of blood soaked,
ravaged, masked graves of silence,
leaving any subsequent regret
within the heart of the stonecutter.
The suffocating privacy
of each muddy sepulcher
calls out its loss-but who will listen
through the rumble of the caissons roar?
Fear has no time to mourn.
Only after the flame
leaves its postscript
are the cries of the Widow heard-
then wars agony entreats the soul...
You give me a lift
to those heights I once dreamt of.
You support me in your warm embrace
and the heat comes through the silk and lace.
I cling to you with all my might.
We pass unseen from day to night.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
You ravish my soul
in pleasured ways that you know.
Fingers rouse each dormant fantasy;
your voice entreats me to set them free.
I yield as your lips have their way,
thoughts break free; I’m taken away.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
We lose count of time
as it comes to a standstill.
We can read each other’s thoughts so well
though we dare not talk or break the spell.
Our eyes and cheeks with pleasure glow.
Emotions rise and freely flow.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
We lose conscious thought
as pleasure exerts control.
Our bodies prove the zenith is near
and we arrive in euphoria’s sphere.
We revel in passionate thrill
until every tremor is still.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
--------------------------------------------------------------
For Heather Ober's Duet Contest
3rd December, 2015
Mighty Ocean,
In your shoal I stand, peering over the swells of your surface.
Your gentle waves roll upon the sand, soothing and massaging
my feet with your deft fingers...ebbing and flowing in rhythmic beat.
Would you be so kind to grant me something I cannot do myself?
Trapped upon your shores, I have no way to search for my husband.
He sailed away many months ago seeking riches - a pirate's treasure,
but if my tears were diamonds, we'd be rich beyond all measure.
If in a bottle, I send him a note, would your tide take it on
the morrow? I would seal it well to ensure it would float.
There's no other way I know of to rid me of sorrow and grief.
In my worst fear, he lies entangled in kelp, and if he thinks they're
my arms wrapped around him, he'll drown feeling that it was I,
holding him in his sleep. But if he still lives, he needs a sign of hope
that he will return to me...home with me, where he belongs.
My note will help him hear my voice, cried in mournful song.
My heart entreats you, great stormy sea
carry my bottle on crested waves of blue
Or my treasure trove of hurt will surely be
the cause of my death; the last thing I do.
I love you as I love the sun,
her blinding rays a blessed truth
that blaze o'er hill and meadowland
and sing a song of winsome youth.
Your warmth puts roaring fires to shame,
ignites the flame that inward glows,
it resonates, and sanctifies
my happy heart, the blushing rose.
Your tenderness, so blithe and sweet
entreats, and gently mystifies,
your countenance personifies
the glisten in your soft brown eyes.
May Helios, that wondrous orb,
forever shine, and play her part,
and may compassion ever mark
the fervent beating of your heart.
Every minute, every hour of each day,
my heart entreats you with longing.
I desire your heart trusts what I say
every minute, every hour of each day.
If God exists, I avidly pray
He accords my desire for belonging.
Every minute, every hour of each day
my heart entreats you with longing.
Every minute, every hour of each day,
I desire your heart trusts what I say.
If God exists, I avidly pray
He accords my desire for belonging.
My heart entreats you with longing
accompanied by true love’s prolonging.
(Dedication: This poem is for Linda,
aka "A Poet Destroyer" one of my
many friends at PoetrySoup online.)
---------------------------------------
A curious soul lives in this space:
Moves with a style that shapes good cheer;
Often she gives a boost to trace
More than a smile to works right here;
Entreats our best to word and voice
New muse and sights and sound charades;
Touch brings her zest to sculpt fond choice
Observe the light sparkles she trades.
Meet a sure soul who knows the way:
Open your heart to speak in verse;
Mind your sure goal in new wordplay;
Explore bold art in brisk converse;
Now craft your lines to deposit;
Thrill words aligned with a visit!
Leon Enriquez
24 June 2014
Singapore
for Juvie, with all my love...
I love you as I love the sun,
her blinding rays a blessed truth
that blaze o'er hill and meadowland
and sing a song of winsome youth.
Your warmth puts roaring fires to shame,
ignites the flame that inward glows,
it resonates, and sanctifies
my happy heart, the blushing rose.
Your tenderness, so blithe and sweet
entreats, and gently mystifies,
your countenance personifies
the glisten in your soft brown eyes.
May Helios, that wondrous orb,
forever shine, and play her part,
and may compassion ever mark
the fervent beating of your heart.
The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd -
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.
While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”
With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.
The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches afterwhile”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.
The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
with crossing signs and bloody wines and consecrated yeast,
“The last are first, the rich are cursed.” (The leached remain the least.)
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and board and bows to Eden East;
he doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.
The sinking sun is now undone, the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.
Continued
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
You give me a lift
to those heights I once dreamt of.
You support me in your warm embrace
and the heat comes through the silk and lace.
I cling to you with all my might.
We pass unseen from day to night.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
You ravish my soul
in pleasured ways that you know.
Fingers rouse each dormant fantasy;
your voice entreats me to set them free.
I yield as your lips have their way,
thoughts break free; I’m taken away.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
We lose count of time
as it comes to a standstill.
We can read each other’s thoughts so well
though we dare not talk or break the spell.
Our eyes and cheeks with pleasure glow.
Emotions rise and freely flow.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
We lose conscious thought
as pleasure exerts control.
Our bodies prove the zenith is near
and we arrive in euphoria’s sphere.
We revel in passionate thrill
until every tremor is still.
There’s no care to prey on both our minds.
Scarlet sky lies wrapped in bliss.
Gentle breeze bestows a kiss.
It feels good to be so close, real close to you.
Floating, floating over land and sea.
Floating, floating, floating endlessly.
For the Duet Contest of Heather Ober
December 3, 2015
After Agnes Krampe
Upon a lone palm,
they build their communal
nest —determinedly— but pause
to study the berry-hued
cinder blocks of the hillside
shanty town, short lives
stacked on short lives.
One bird watches
the woman plucking laundry
from a fraying washline
as if shirts were passion fruit
on a vine, as if the vibrant reds
could placate hunger.
Another bird eyes
several threads unraveling,
temptingly soft, so close,
but the woman looks up
stays the flight as she entreats,
will you not sing me a new song,
will you never fly me home?
I stand upon this aging wooden bridge
peering into depths of the swollen stream
a fingerling flowing to waters of the sea
grief is rhythmic like the beat of my heart
tears ebbing in rise with the morning tide
each breath escapes in a murmured sigh
Three months gone by since my love left
bereft am I since there's been no word
no news of his vessel, now long overdue
a great storm cast its eye on his ship's course
If prayers were diamonds I'd have great wealth
currency in which I could never take pleasure
In my worst nightmare he lies tangled in kelp
without help to free him he surely will drown
a torturous fate that nearly drives me insane
Here, on the bridge, amid my sighs and cries
I beg that somehow he finds his way home
escaping the wrath of an unmerciful sea
Day after day, when dawn has barely broken
I stand on the bridge, sealed bottle in my hand
inside is a note in which my sad heart entreats,
"Poseidon, please send my love back to me
before loneliness becomes the cause of my death."
To the current my plea tossed. Hope, not yet lost
June 21, 2017
He bade him well and caressed the sea
Their lips deplored and pined prithee
As hearts had quelled and tidings lorn
As romance sailed towards love's newborn
Once a dream had therein seen
Entreats that time which charm's convene
My soul entreats and whispers why
And the waters take my once forby
For towards night's nigh
Where
wind's winter gales
For which dance's die
As passing passion sails