Best Epitome Poems
EPITOME APOTHEOSIS
Glory Glory
Does she answer to us to bring peace in our world?
You know men are now participants of a new recreation.
Gay sex is prone more than smoking marijuana in the sixties (60s).
They call it getting to know themselves through the quality or state of being sexual.
They say the old adage is for human sexuality to overwhelm homosexuals.
This manifests the most through... pro-sports.
The athlete does not mind being... horsed.
Growing up down South crafted her life.
In that the broken tumbleweeds leave the meadow in midair tolerating the wind until tumbleweeds no longer are there,
A Mississippi child’s insight manifests.
Twisting the mind, they want a woman to observe them.
Facial expression is that this is the newfangled way to intensify your sex drive…
Watching me turn him out makes your womanhood come alive.
Why lessen your pleasure by denying what you feel inside?
The exodus to the North found a fool’s game.
The world became a male’s domain.
As heterosexual women desire heterosexual men, they found all were doing other things.
Insight manifests as epitome apotheosis.
A Mississippi child begins to address this.
In that the broken tumbleweeds leave the meadow, the quintessence of accepting is not a bed pillow.
It is a head messed with.
Might it be loss of self-respect and principles?
Does this mean the world is changing the norms of a greater source?
Gay sex is the new recreation in which man states is the true mental sport.
He is not the homosexual only rising his ******** to persuade the experience of sex.
Might he laugh aloud to say… “A woman will include her-self or she will wish she had".
"This is a male’s domain and that is the truth as is”.
_____________________________________________________________
Written August 09, 2016!
I am the epitome of my existence
I do my own thing unlike others and thats what makes me different
If u dont like what u are hearing then close your ears
but if you do then listen
Because i may be spittin something that you are missing.
SOme are waiting to rise
while i have already risen
and i have dealt with the scars from your inflicted incisions
NOw i spit many bars and some say i spit prisons
My regurgitated
words are rated
far worse than curse words are stated
and if you dont like my verse' words then hate it
because my complex verbiage make the mind feel complicated
Complexly rated
Maliciously compensated
now my thoughts have congregated
My knowledge grade A 100% concentrated
Poetry is my sixth sense and that what makes me different
And that is why i am the epitome of my existence!!!
Shahjahan built the Taj Mahal, a mausoleum
Situated on the bank of the River Yamuna,
In memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz
With whom he fell in love at first sight
Espying her in a fair, enraptured by her charms.
The very sight of The Taj leaves one mesmerized.
The voluptuous curves of domes and arches,
The rhythm of birds in flight, secrets of flowers,
Vibrant colors of Nature never fading,
Like the everlasting love of Shah Jahan,
Immortalizing it as the epitome of undying love,
A lyric carved in luminous marble,
This monument of immeasurable beauty.
The Taj Mahal, one of the Seven Wonders of the World,
The crown palace, of love and romance derives its name
From Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, the immortal lovers.
It’s promise kept to the dying wife in of a child birth.
=====================================================
Shah Jahan was the emperor of India in 17th Century and Mumtaz Mahal was his third wife.
====================================================
Second Placement
Contest: Everyman's Ekphrasis by Brian Strand
The word Taj means crown and Mahal means palace- The Taj Mahal is situated in Agra City of Uttar Pradesh state of India. Year of Construction: 1631-1653
Spread Over: 42 acres.
Yamuna: name of the river
A maiden glimmering in an aura of justified bereavement. Shadows lurking amidst
the epitome of existence, a crystalline signet. Is this a search for dreams or death?
This eternally overt void leaves traces, a scar left unseen. Blades dance in a
plethora of pain that envelops cognizance as sanity applauds
The smoky dust screen blows away far into the halcyon horizon,
the flotilla of cotton cloud sails in the concave depth of cobalt.
Bowed down slender blades of cinnamon grass sway
in the crisp air on the lap of meadow that has turned fawn.
Lining the sun-burnt cinnabar garden path paved anew,
the dry trunks of the tawny trees stand on the sepia ground.
The setting sun ignites spectral inferno in seamless satin sky,
makes surreal collage of vermillion embers blazing bright.
In scarlet sunset my heart is swathed by twilight’s tinsel drizzle,
suffused by its sparkle I see the stars sprout in pellucid autumn night.
For the freezing times of gloom in the winter of discontent I retain
the endearing warmth of the embrace of autumn’s remnant afterglow.
I see then the argentine aura of the mesmeric moon envelope you,
where I float on the waves of stardust surge of your charisma.
My vision is enmeshed with the lilting lattice of dreams,
weaved by the enticing strands of your hued longing.
The diadem of the diamond dew bejewels your dulcet dawn,
the blades of malachite grass adorn your emerald meadow,
where my yearning saunters sanguine to reach you,
following the new turquoise trail you trace only for me.
The true essence of love I then perceive enthralled,
configured with the glint of your sequins streaming within me.
The enchanting luster of your alluring shine I absorb
in my heart’s horizon to radiate forever as your afterglow.
Children do ask us if Santa Claus exists
Most of us do reply, “yes, Certainly,dear”
Folklore have turned Santa into a toy
Who mans a sleigh led by eight reindeers.
How dreary our world would be if no Santa.
Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance
Can pull aside that curtain, view and
Picture the superb beauty and glory behind.
Is it real? and the answer is, it is real.
Nothing else is real and abiding in the world.
A real person, the Bishop of Myra in Turkey
After the death,canonized as patron saint of kids
Santa is love, magic, hope and happiness.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Date: 12-25-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place win
Contest: Christmas joy by P.D
The illuminate , ineffable
Spring walks triumphantly
It's imbued with valiant,
unwavering steps.
It's bedecked with the boundless,
unfailing Love and Truth
Peaceful, euphoric butterflies
radiate from the rainbow ,
towering hills.
The fated spring of the hillock
dwells in the realm of abiding Beauty,
Loving begins with a
lover,a dishonarable
person cannot love. Like
hunting which cannot be
done by just any
hunter,loving requires
ability,Like fruit for the
fruit seeker,loving begins
with a lover! So give the
lover another option to
love! Love requires
intellect just like success
requires intellect! Love
with passion and not
with illussion. When you
love,guide your heart
with deligience so that
you won't be
heartbroken. The hearts
of many have been
broken by love but the
hearts of some have been
made whole by love.Love
me not to break my
heart,but love me to build
my heart. When you
love,don't just love but
love with care,love with
love and love with faith;
that your love be not
abased.
** Degas Dancers **
Painted or drawn,
Degas arrested time.
Truly
His dancers
— even those standing,
watching the others —
Are caught in motion,
In poised postures such
That we think we can feel them
Breathing, alerting
Their limbs
To prepare for performance;
(On stage or in the studio) with
That tension,that anticipation, or
Waiting primed in stage wings
— The blue dancers,
The green ballerinas —
Always observing,
Always envisioning
What is to come,
Ever mindful
Of the goals:
To become the music,
Leaving self for the movements,
Hoping to realize that epitome:
To paint their bodies with grace
Into such danced, linked, perfectly
Sweeping lines, curves, and angles that
The music itself
Will gasp…
The music, sounds fulfilled
Into flowing sights
As the dancers live
The choreographed
Combinations.
Then curtsies are
Done and flowers thrown.
In the endings, dancers become
Themselves again, like
Degas drew them: sitting
Slumped, tired, side by side on benches
With their tutus flared and
Colorful; their pointe
Shoes off with ribbons strewn;
The music fading from thought…
But, the ballet remains,
The very meaning of
Their lives, in all
Dreams and imaginings,
Blessed to them
First to last
Every motion
Becoming a
Joy in
Being.
————————————————————————————-
(c) Art & poem sally young eslinger
2/22/22
The hours tick by before my eyes,
As I lay tucked up, in my bed.
Even Bo peeps sheep have now returned,
And still the lack of Zzz’s.
Pounding seconds tick away,
Seem to echo in my brain.
Back and forth and back and forth,
Reminiscent to coaches on a train.
Oh, what I hear myself reply,
As the shock begins to bite.
With blood shot eyes that settle down,
As the room now fills with light.
As a foot now stumbles on the floor,
Now lurching from my bed.
In a bleary haze that follows,
From that workman in my head.
A vow to become teetotal,
For at least that what was said.
From the dark roast coffee granules,
To raise me from the dead.
What a happy sounding chappie,
From the airway’s morning show.
Why should he be feeling cheerful?
With five days of drudge to go.
Now boldly going forward,
As through the door I trek.
Filled by last night’s antimatter,
From a star ship what the heck.
© N Windle 2020.
EPITOME OF CHILDHOOD
Why hide in a dark cave, underneath,
when you can be running the playground?
10/15/2017
down
the desiccated spine
of
the sepia valley
scouring
the serrated slopes
of the jagged rocks
you disappeared
like a swan
serenading
on the last lap
of
furtive flight
with winsome wings
of
raptured rhythm
harmonized
with
the summer breeze
rippling
through the still shadow
of silence
sequestered
in the thicket
mid-summer rains
poured
from cloudburst sky
flowed
in the vivacious valley
with the current
of charismatic torrent
cascading dulcet
down
the sculpted face
of
the rock cliff
reclined
forming a lively lattice
of animated
waterfall
of designed figure
where
in an imagery
ingrained
in fantasy
I saw you return
an angel
of fluid flair
framed
as epitome
of elegance
ethereal
There is nothing lovelier, to me,
Than the verdant beauty of a tree
Dressed in spring and summer's finery.
Her charms grow languid and more lush
When fall's caresses make her blush.
And still I find her passing fair
When cruel winter frosts the air,
Winds his wanton fingers through her hair
And strips her leaves and leaves her bare.
She feels no shame or hides her face
And needs no poet to plead her case.
It's Nature's plan she must embrace
And wait for spring with dignity and grace.
And so remains the tree, to me,
Of beauty the epitome.
the titular touch
of
sunburst dawn
chromatic
and
moon masked night
argentine
builds
the bud
layer on layer
the blooming design
of
destined motif
opens the petals
painted
to perfection
while
the floral essence
of enticement
unfurls
transient beauty
of life’s elegance
esoteric
until the flower withers
in vacuity
the wilting flower
doesn’t even know
when the call
ordained
would come
with the slashing silence
of
the freezing night
from the abyss
of the gloomy ground
where
it would fall
to disappear
drifting
to obscurity
in the tempest of time
tormenting
I walk weary
in life’s senile path
broken
with trudging moments
depleted
wafting
like desiccated dust
away
from the steps
I trace
in the last mile
meandering
to disappear
at the vanishing point
indeterminate
yet
embedded in
amorphous reality
inexorable
the spectrum
of the setting sun
tinges
the fading fringe
of time
in the twilight zone
turning into
eternity specks
enclosed within
the sated soul
where
I float
in timeless waves
in the bay of bliss
boundless
wandering
to the yonder shore
configured
as the epitome
of emptiness
embracing
The splendor of blossoming flower lies
in the petals of the unfurling buds,
as the shower of spring’s spectrum of colors
saturates the latticed wings of butterflies.
Their charm surrounds the appealing frame,
inventing the captivating magnetism of woman.
The sensuous forces of enthralling attraction
carry her time-transcending pristine beauty,
epitomizing the pragmatic perception
that nothing lies between the elegance of Eve and her.
The sparkle of indigo lagoon reflects dormant dreams,
portrayed in the entranced visage of ebullient eyes.
The lustrous lotus petals of the luscious lips,
bloom in the gorgeous garden of fervent female face,
carved intrinsically with narcissistic contours of pride.
The winter spider of the setting sun weaves
the spreading serrated webs of weary time
within the facial furrows of fading charm.
The listless lips of wilted pallid petals hold
the patina of passion, enticing till the end.
The smoky glazed eyes gaze into forlorn nothingness
from the desiccated valley of sensual vacuity
to the empty horizon of the twilight zone.
The picture with the instilled aura of stilled time
doesn’t enclose the anguish of loss,
for it symbolizes the novel notion -
what is a face if not a metaphor
for the panorama of feminine penchant,
the enduring snapshot of mesmeric moments,
captured within the eternal elegant frame
of untarnished concealed perennial charisma.