Best Escorting Poems
Her name was Regret, with a rocket step
She was chestnut flashing, released lightning
In a century past, an age of side saddles and corsets
She was feminism set free, blazing down racetracks
She matched the undefeated wind
Besting the boys, again and again
Her arduous suitors, fools for the chase
Fell, one by one, under her pace
And, left to shade of golden wings flown
Had to settle for escorting her home
She was the first queen to display the red
Of Kentucky Derby roses around her head
Her exploits so adroit, she won her peers
And named American Horse of the Year
Her place in racing legacy, set
Not bad for a filly named Regret.
(in 1915, Regret was the first filly to win the Kentucky Derby)
10/14/21
A Notable Horse Premiere contest
Sponsor: Robert James Liguor
Placed 10th
Poem of the Day
10/15/21
The golden hope
Of brighter tomorrow
Slides into the salty ocean
No steam or bubbles
Just the crimson joy of the clouds
Escorting
With their shifting ochre tones
While fiery orange irradiates
The grateful atmosphere
Until slowly
Ever so slowly
Into the ripples of the horizon's haze
The queen of the daylight
Slinks
Then is gone
Her wispy train of colour
Vanishing
As the blue king of the night
Claims his place
And sits in the throne room
Of the speckled sky
Sometimes In silence
I question citrine stars~
what streams beneath
murky waters,
Is hope still flowing
through rusty ripples,
why do we live
in an orb
of sheer blindness,
would the wind
ever seize tunnels
behind the black hole,
or are we destined
to narrate novels
too narrow and unseen
for the naked eyes.
Whilst the earth
lies dreaming,
manifesting milky-ways
quilted on magical mats,
wishing, hoping, praying
that pastel colored patience
and crystal clear compassion
would vaguely sway
like glowing fireflies
amongst the darkest
edges of innermost core.
Transmitting seraphic
breezes upon
tender branches
of silk cotton trees.
But amidst the
destructive defacing
of turquoise heart
within evergreen forests,
sun and the
moon still flicker
streaks of poetry
along the linings
of tattered
tweaks and wilted weed.
Yet worldly impulses
fail to remember
that mother nature
is in need of kindness,
as she’s been
fed poisonous petals
dipped in a quagmire
of ignorance.
Escorting her
golden spirits into an
inexorable grievance,
as ghastly greediness
left no rosy seasoning,
of soils we strolled,
paths unnamed and
undiscovered halt,
questioning toils
of intrinsic creation~
the earth lies
in solitary slumber,
for in delicate dreams
we sing songs
of tranquility,
more mellifluous
than the burning
fumes we
inhale mindlessly.
It sat there—not as metal, not as memory,
but as something half-asleep and listening.
A quiet creature of keys and shadows,
its body dulled by dust, its spirit still humming
beneath the years.
It had known the weight of a man
who believed words could bend the world~
a man whose hands were rough with labor
yet gentle with letters, as if each keystroke
were a small salvation.
I remember the music of it~
that click-clack cadence like rain on a tin roof,
like a heartbeat learning to speak.
I was a child then, cross-legged under his desk,
catching the syllables like fireflies,
not knowing they were seeds, not knowing they were mine.
When Granddad passed, I carried the machine upward
as though escorting a relic to its resting place~
a silent procession through the narrow throat of the attic.
It waited there—through summers that smelt of cedar and heat,
through winters that whispered of things forgotten, it waited~
a sentinel of stories I was too afraid to write.
Years later, the attic groaned under my return,
as if recognizing the footsteps of someone
who had once believed in beginnings.
The machine was still there, its silhouette steady,
its longing patient. It had survived because some things endure
even when we abandon them~
faith, memory, and the quiet insistence of a dream
we pretend we outgrew.
When I touched it, the dust rose like breath.
The first key resisted-a refusal,
a reminder of all the years I’d resisted myself.
But then, a single letter, dark and certain,
punched through the page like a pulse returning.
By the third paragraph, I understood:
I had not resurrected the machine. It had resurrected me.
And somewhere between the rafters and the rising words,
I realized this truth: I was never the one writing the story.
I was the story finally finding its way back to the page.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
I took a brand new girlfriend to see ''The taming of the shrew''
She was a little apprehensive as we joined the queue
but I sensed that her humour, If anything was dry
and very soon her laughter, brought tears to her eyes.
If I be waspish, Best beware my sting
There's small choice in rotten apples, Were just her sort of thing
I'll not budge an inch and thereby hangs a tale
The bitter tongue of Katherine, How could such humour fail?
Petruchio I thank you, I whisper as we left the stalls
Escorting my date to the bathroom, To answer natures call.
Delighted when my date told me, Tonight had been a huge success
A useful thing for a man to know, When he's trying to impress.
Now its time for dinner, She is fancying Chinese
So I find that fancy restaurant , A gentleman trying to please
Then outside to the dance floor, Where we share the slowest dance
I hold her close as we move in tune, This is a fine night for romance .
The silver moon is shining accompanied by shimmering stars
We shared a kiss so tender in the front seat of my car .
I walked her to her front door and bade her a sweet goodnight
Being the perfect gentleman, Well mannered and polite .
She is now married to a friend of mine, They are happy and content
but she still remembers Shakespeare and the magic night we spent
So if you are looking for inspiration, Why not try a Shakespeare play
and like couples through the ages, You'll find he's just as magical today.
September brings cheers, Mother Nature’s woven tapestry of earth tone colours and first day of school of learning new things. By_Poet
Warm, cornflower blue September skies,
Chase away end of summer
Escorting in the beginning of
Unruffled, cool, wet, autumn
Shortening the days.
Days of exhausting work
From dusk until dawn
Bring a successful abundant harvest
As summer closes.
Touch of living gaze and jump into
An intricate maze of crescendo color,
Flickering in a tangled blaze
Of whispering filigreed leaves.
Mother Nature's natural unspoiled
Watercolor weft tapestry.
The air creeps along
Filled with tickled laughter
Bring shedding leaves down
Onto the ground cover.
Rainy, and sunny filled days
Raise a gentle favouring breeze
Journey under gray and orange skies.
Nature's essence,
Of harmony and rhythm
A soul of perfection beneath
Shadowed shade and sigh
The flow of rapture proceeds in joy.
Children go back to school
On the big yellow bus
Driving the bus driver crazy.
8/29/2019
''T'' Contest, New Or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Original title: September
Hazel Happiness, her eyes were;
Pools of brown, green, and blue;
So enticing and inviting and warm.
Hazel Happiness, her aura was;
Bright, caring, and promising;
So intelligent and powerful and valiant.
Hazel Happiness, her presence brought;
Escorting smiles, laughter, and beams;
So uplifting and supportive and embracing.
The God Reset
All Hail the mega-Temple brokers!
The Heavenly stock sellers
Chomping at the bit
Who parade in their Gucci suits
Escorting you comfortably
(like Kings)
Into “the Kingdom”come.
Beware:
Its a counterfeit kingdom
Not the real deal.
(Love money, much?
(Oh, but we won’t really actually tell you if we don't think you'd be a good “asset” in “our" Kingdom--)
They seem like they know something
You don’t know-- their words seem so godly,
Their knowledge of spiritual things so impressive-but then you hear them prognosticate:
“And did you know,
A ‘powerful message’ can be yours if you only throw
a few shekels our way today?”
(of course, they don’t exactly say it that way)
Coming straight from GD!
And advocate for a Kingdom that runs on cash.
They’ll happily seat you in
The First row,
Sell you a religious show,
Put the God mirror out in front
Of your sorry old face and sell
Repentance.
And then, when you repent, (properly and self-consciously)
they’ll grab you by the shoulders,
Hug you, and then ask you if you
Want to join the church...
“Looks like a Winner”, they silently intone, as you
Reach for your wallet.
Now they’ve sold you a
False Christ.
And you weren’t even in on the deal!
You thought you were sincere!
You didn’t sign up for a
Dead-end religion that would steal your
Joy, and maybe even your new-found love for GD-
You signed up for a
New Life.
Beware of the status-quo christians,
The little”c” christians
The walking dead,
Frozen Chosen
Lack of real emotion,
Preaching a gospel
Of “Cultural Churchianity”.
It’s not the real
thing-- the Christ-centered gospel that
Calls for a clean heart, and a
Clear conscience--
A gospel that has nothing to do with
The brand of your clothes, the number
Of dollars in your Bank Account,
The car in your garage, or the paid-off mortgage!
Wake up,
Heaven Brokers!
Your “stock” is rapidly falling,
And Christ is getting tired of calling
Cuz you hung up your gD- phone long ago,
When you let greed and fame
Consume your soul.
When I first enter my heavenly promise land,
Jesus Christ will be willing escorting me
into his promise land. He will be helping me
understand just how wonderfully
grand life will be there.
When I first enter my heavenly promise land,
Jesus Christ will be willing telling me. How much
much he honestly cared for me. And all of my
redeemed friends and family.
When I first enter my heavenly promise land,
heavenly angels will be willing escorting me. Satan
will no longer tempt me, and the devil will no longer
be able to defeat me. and I will be finally free at last!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
January 20,2020
The soft humming sound of the cooling fan seeps through the crevices in her head, escorting a maze runner within her. She wishes to put an end to it. Both the fan and the maze runner. Yet, she requires both, much like oxygen, to sleep in this Indian summer night. Instead, she rises from bed and ribbons the drapes to the sides of the window, the moon rays' reflections cutting through the capiz shells of the shutter like a blade, leaving her skin singing the blues. She opens the shutter, and her bed is flooded with music and light akin to a spotlighted opera stage. She then lay down for the night, bathing in the woody amber scented moonlight.
The night sky asks the moon.
Down there, is someone thinking
Of you tonight.
The moon smiles.
The stars giggle.
-maria
11.9.15
GUTS and GAIN
When only hymns of old memoirs and faith starred,
as I lift my eyes, black! Blue is the sun and moon,
will shadows be my frown and sins my ground?
(Gone are the days of pleasure and days of sleep...)
Anxiety escalates clogging the wise thoughts flow,
light saving courage, bravery where are you?
Let your whispers hiss amidst these dreary earth,
stillness the loyal choir escorting my shuddering nerves,
strum! Strum of strength and speed on two heartstrings
nudge like that of a dove, pure to drop: dash of love.
Spin and turn, crash and burn tests a true heart
though no medals, no points there to earn.
Ah! Mercy... within dreich woes is a distinct voice
handing a probable answer blowing mists of confused
An instinct. An impulse, should I believe or not?
I … listened but only a true love call casts our viscera to churn
sensing the tunes, steps ain't easy but I patiently learn
to taste the essence, I let my lips sway in liftless dance.
Please lie still yet moan on strums~ strums of my tips,
"Maiden, forbid me to go..." Trembles, trembles run echo:
one tenor, one alto, various pitch for evanescent tones
with a passion drenched within warmth of sheer ecstasy
the blend of love will spark, heating eternal flames
and if the world brushes darker shades of light--
consent our tomorrows to paint a canvass of life...
________________________________________________________
James A. Fraser and Olive Eloisa Guillermo
9:21 pm, July 04, 2015
Bike to Work day: escorting the funeral of Marine Albrak Omar
Loch David Crane
Patriot Guard Riders
September 2009
No more classes now that I've been fired!
Patriotism is my job: I’m retired.
The Patriot Guard rides almost every day
to bring a flapping flag line on display.
We ride to work with combustion and chrome
to bring the bodies of our brave troops home.
In a strange twist for love of our country
This Arab Albrak was a volunteer
who gave America his youthful years
to make Iraqui people finally free.
He gave his life: I give my afternoon
remembering our heroes at high noon.
Packed in ice, he came home to his Mom;
his body was prepared by an Imam.
A child's beauty contest I watched in such awe;
young girl in a wheelchair to her father, his all.
Escorting her on stage with such grace and pride;
each so blessed to be at the others' side.
A fragile princess in a purple pageant dress;
twirling her first in her chair then lifting her to his chest.
Their dance so inspiring; such an enchanting sight;
so gently he lifted her high up to the sky.
Sparkling, bright eyes and the most beautiful smile;
none deserving of a crown more than this precious child.
An imperfect body, viewed as a gift from above;
her beauty matched only by a father's boundless love.
Beauty in my eyes is not found in perfection;
but in acceptance, uniqueness, love and dedication.
June 29, 2014
Contest: Encore-anonymous positive new sonnet
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
INDEPENDENCE-NEO-COLONIZATION
(WHAT ABOUT US)
Physically free, but most of us are still mentally incapacitated
We all cheer on 21 March
No chains on our arms – no shackles on our ankles
Independence a pre-conceived idea of freedom
To fight for the true cause-for the causers are the true enemies
Physically free, but now questioning the mental status and spiritual levels
Never mind, let us all cheer and shout – freedom!!!
What about us!
Time to look back and merry collectively
Yet success and awards are individual
Only boobs will sit idly and blame the government
Desensitizing, Demolition Dependent mind sets
Cause Communion with slave masters lead to neo-colonization
Failure to conceive this hidden agenda, it will cause a man to stubble
What about us!
The born free nothing is for free
Doomed condemned juveniles
Demanding privileges for their pre-requisite failure
Excuses escorting many country and women to their graves
Blood dripping like a virgin giving up her innocence for the man she loves
So that you and me could enjoy the fruit of his/her blood-freedom
Self-sacrifice was and still is the price for freedom
Forefathers and mothers blood was shade for freedom
What about us!
We are the people; we are the government – time to take reasonability
What about us!
Anthony Ngabwe
(Tony The Poet@2014)
After days of fog
Moths eat away the slip of winter
Pieces of the New Year
Drift as ash into spring
Eyes waiting abhorrently
While midnight clasps the last remnants
Tomorrow becomes the butler
Escorting the sun
Rays peel open the solstice
Tattered wings flutter towards
The lamppost of February
Sealed in pocket mirrors…