Best Evidenced Poems
In Dreams, Her Spirit Sallied Forth: with Lin Lane
Through frigid months, she waited for Spring rains
to give relief and ease heartbroken pains,
Nature will award that which Life commands
placing her true love, in its gentle hands.
O'sweet promise of passion's fine delights,
candlelight dinners and intimate nights.
With eager dreams her spirit sallied forth.
Away from winter's chill, in the far North.
Countless, were the eventides spent in dread
Praying he'd stay safe 'fore lying abed
She wished on stars in darkened Winter skies
as tears pooled in her melancholy eyes
Arctic winds blustered; through tall pines they'd blow,
layers of oceans, in white waves of snow
In Wintry dreams, her spirit sallied forth.
Away from winter's chill, of the far North.
Pictures sent from her beau, her Southern man
whose dashing looks, deep blue eyes and bronzed tan,
had her heart remembering their first kiss
Without regret, love said, "Hold onto this!"
To wake with dawn's sweet warmth, upon her face
would ease her sorrow and heartache erase.
In ardent dreams, her spirit sallied forth.
Beyond the frosty chill of the far North.
She brushed her hair, raven tresses fell
Her firelight shadow evidenced the swell
Softly, she hummed, cradling her unborn child
A motherly instinct that brought forth a smile
Having a babe, they had both long revered
That he'd be back in time, she deeply feared.
With anxious dreams, her spirit sallied forth.
Further from winter's chill of the far North.
She was haunted by his voice in a dream
and awoke with the sound of her own scream
Rain, her companion, on an April morn
Pains let her know their child would soon be born
Alone, she prayed that she'd know what to do
In the door strode a man; eyes of deep blue.
No longer a dream, her man had come forth
To deliver their child in the far North.
11-01- 2018
Thank you for writing with me yet again after such a long break my friend. Your invitation to do another collaboration was a great gift and a blessing given to me. I sincerely appreciate such great kindness as well as your great advice given on poetry/editing. As such shows great talent and true poetic heart. You magnificent verses makes this a truly golden poem.
God bless always..
Through frigid months, she waited for Spring rains
to give relief and ease heartbroken pains,
Nature will award that which Life commands
placing her true love, in its gentle hands.
O'sweet promise of passion's fine delights,
candlelight dinners and intimate nights.
With eager dreams her spirit sallied forth.
Away from winter's chill, in the far North.
Countless, were the eventides spent in dread
Praying he'd stay safe 'fore lying abed
She wished on stars in darkened Winter skies
as tears pooled in her melancholy eyes
Arctic winds blustered; through tall pines they'd blow,
layers of oceans, in white waves of snow
In Wintry dreams, her spirit sallied forth.
Away from winter's chill, of the far North.
Pictures sent from her beau, her Southern man
whose dashing looks, deep blue eyes and bronzed tan,
had her heart remembering their first kiss
Without regret, love said, "Hold onto this!"
To wake with dawn's sweet warmth, upon her face
would ease her sorrow and heartache erase.
In ardent dreams, her spirit sallied forth.
Beyond the frosty chill of the far North.
She brushed her hair, raven tresses fell
Her firelight shadow evidenced the swell
Softly, she hummed, cradling her unborn child
A motherly instinct that brought forth a smile
Having a babe, they had both long revered
That he'd be back in time, she deeply feared.
With anxious dreams, her spirit sallied forth.
Further from winter's chill of the far North.
She was haunted by his voice in a dream
and awoke with the sound of her own scream
Rain, her companion, on an April morn
Pains let her know their child would soon be born
Alone, she prayed that she'd know what to do
In the door strode a man; eyes of deep blue.
No longer a dream, her man had come forth
To deliver their child in the far North.
Thank you for opening the door to me for this write, Robert. It began on a cold Winter night, but Spring rains brought with it, a new beginning. Writing with you is like opening a treasure chest of beautiful gemstones.
I want to
I really do
I want to walk the walk
But I have a limp
Hobbled by all the things I think
There seems to be more than one missing link
On the beach of life, I try stepping softly but still I sink
I want to
I really do
I want to talk the talk
But I'm afraid, fifty shades of grey times two
How do I know if what I believe is true?
Will it be evidenced by the things I do?
Or in the end will I be influenced by you?
Walking and talking
It's just not enough
I need to relinquish all my inner stuff
Allowing myself to be weak instead of tough
For if God works in mysterious ways
Everything leads to the end of days
So instead of walking and talking my hands I'll raise
With voice and heart I will give God praise
If I allow Jesus to love me
He will guide my walk
He will permeate my heart and the way I talk
My inner softness he will surely unlock
His words not mine will become my rock
it's not about doing
It's more about being
His way, is the way of helping and seeing
By letting Him lead, it will be more freeing
The more I witness the more I'll be believing
Walking and talking but more importantly listening!
Inspired by Debbie Guzzi's contest but not for the contest.
My backslidden soul*, you were converted by GOD’s Word
As shown by your divine growth and testimony ’s record,
But you departed away from that great spiritual cord
Broken by worldly financial and material sword.
Turn to God Who rescues by His grace He can afford!
My prodigal soul, you were so blessed greatly
As the Lord provided for you tremendously,
But you neglected sound principles biblically
That caused your moral downfall fatally.
Turn to God Who can restore you fully!
My wayward soul, you were known to be Christ-honoring
As evidenced by your heavenly walk and divine bearing,
But you embraced humanistic doctrines so devouring,
Making you proud, yet continuing in miserable erring.
Turn to God Who can transform you be God-fearing!
My discouraged soul, you were before an example of zealousness
As seen in your conviction for godly standards and uprightness,
But you despised God’s presence and defied His holiness
While taking for granted prayer and Bible’s effectiveness.
Turn to God Who can bring you to His righteousness!
My unfaithful soul, you were then fulfilling the Great Commission
As proven by your mission-minded pursuits, filled with compassion,
But you failed to stay in the ancient landmarks of faith’s action
By compromising with secularism and liberalism’s motion.
Turn to God Who can plant you on His firm foundation!
My wavering soul, you were a guide to them who found real freedom
As told by those who owe to Christ thru you what they’ve become,
But you forgot the real source of genuine authority and wisdom
When you abandoned the only Way to heavenly kingdom. Turn to God Who invites that to Him you humbly come!
My dear soul, you surely need God with His forgiveness and guidance
As He alone can surely lift you up from your critical imbalance,
Beg on Him to uphold you on His church’s scriptural stance
And to behold you with His loving care by His divine glance.
Turn to God Who can pull you for revival’s sustenance!
*Psalm 6:4 Return, O LORD, deliver my soul: oh save me for thy mercies' sake.
May 22, 2018
emptying of the mind into the ether
contained reverberations
sent suddenly skywards
firmly rejected by gravity
bounce back for the haunting
we live on with the fallout
truth ruins the illusion of necessity
spittle ruins the illusion of beauty
you can't rewrite ripples caused by history
only bury the dead on loop
then repeat the mantra of moving on
there is beauty still
in the bright light before nothing
that lingers on the retina
becoming layers
light that needs slivers of insanity
to fill the gaps
but gaps to separate the insanity
nothing is new
as evidenced by what is etched in stone
coffee cup stains
create self made crowns
in those faraway hideouts
the uncut planners
never lose a drop
or burn their tongue
their hum murmurs on
in the perfect world they build
everyone else gives their all
to fulfil whatever dream
they need to be sold
in the inner workings of every dome
rest the chorus of lives that built it
silently watching on
mouths agape
bridges shatter between downcast eyes
everything wriggles
finds its way
once again to a finish line
for a fresh wave
as inevitable as the first
in this thirst for glory
in every direction lay the fallen
leaving spaces
for the glorious mourners
to preach their refrains
eventually no fight or song will be left
only moistened air descending
kissing your cheek
light and sound fade
atop mountains
thoughts of mortality are shushed
legacy leaving its mark
to echo into a final slowed motion silence
Inside a boisterous tavern,
a-light with drunken gaiety
of spilled ribald laughter,
he quietly sits alone ...
gently cradling his mead darkly
Brooding thoughts of past paid coverings
buzzes inside his head
Talking flies having the faces of the dead
“Have mercy, please”
This haunting cry, they all pled ...
except the halo head ones
“I forgive you”
This they all compassionately say
in time dispersed unison
The self-muted giant rubs his eyes,
still in somber inner disquietude,
at this troubling sight he has seen several times
Witnessing a bright, shining glow,
which radiates all around the tops of those
who call themselves Christian disciples —
before descends the sharp, quieting blow
It is by his liege, Caesar’s command,
to eradicate the scattering vermin radicals,
that he daily swings the severing blade
The duty-bound Herodian executioner
must always stay masked
when the murdering performance ensues
This is by privileged decree:
the entertainment requirement rules
A black cloth covering,
sprinkled with scarlet droplets,
is the terror mask his masters has him use
Rabid crown sycophants love their crucifixions,
the Roman preferred method of capital punishment
But, his under-lord, Herod, still adheres
to the ancient Molech ways —
Death by the beheading blade
Sighing, the brooding giant gazes about the riotous inn
with roaring, unspoken disdain
Even without the ritual Deimos mask on,
all within the tavern knows his occupation,
evidenced by his massive frame
They yield a fearful wide berth to him,
no one sits in the seats around his hulking presence
Looking down at his Pilate-cursed hands,
he sees the blood of the guilty and the innocent
Bloody hands that can’t be washed clean ... never
As long as he raises his arms,
and lets the body-separating blade swing
Hope my friend is found within
and faces tomorrow
Grasping promises given.
Faith you see is hope evidenced today
through how I'm actin' and livin',
And Love is seen in yesterday,
where faith and hope bloomed true,
And through that demonstration of love
Hope is born anew.
Poetry, look!
A free worm* crawls on you hand!
The French always tended to invent
all sorts of nasty things:
freedom, equality, fraternity,
French fries, free verse.
When I was a small and ardent poet,
I worshipped rhymes
and denied a free verse the right to be called
poetry.
With time I grew up and cooled down,
as evidenced by the lack of rhymes herein.
Don't swat! Let it crawl.
Give the worm a chance to turn into
a butterfly.
* “Free verse” is derived from the French “vers libre” which can be translated as “free worm”, (fr.) ver – worm.
14.11.2019
Free Verse Vs Structured Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
You waited
with no ideas of your own,
no vision, plan, or blueprint
for the future.
Empty, awaiting guidance,
you longed only for the right words.
In anticipation,
your blank face held no expression,
your every fiber
begging for my gentle touch,
your very essence
crying out your need for fulfillment.
One word,
and each subsequent one, delighted you.
You reveled
in the sharing of my thoughts.
You became alive
as you drank of my deepest passions.
My touch brought untold ecstasy
as every pore of your being
felt the power
of our common commitment.
Your acceptance the quintessence of trust
as evidenced by the sweet flow of our giving
You rested
complete, fulfilled and satisfied
that you had shared
the intimacy of our total surrender.
For, in becoming one,
our affair gave birth to sweet verse.
Hello Friends... I suffer from Severe Bi-Polar Disorder and this submission was inspired by
actual events that occured during one of my especially critical manic episodes. Be sure and
read Part 2 to complete the poem and leave your comments on the Part 2 submission. Thank
you for allowing me to share my pain for pain shared is pain diminished
Me, Myself, and I...
“There are things that concern us,”
Consensed my “Selves” in earnest
““We” fear that “I” have succumbed to delusion”
“And after careful deliberation
It is with much hesitation
That we choose to delineate upon this confusion”
“Fact is your intuition
Is riddled with superstition
And your judgment leaves much to be desired”
“So you leave us no recourse
Don’t push us to use force”
It is then that the “I” was summarily fired
I exclaimed “By whose authority?” Response, “Rule of majority”
“The “Myself” and the “Me,” (forthwith the “We”), are experts in our field”
“And with much technique and time
And some forays into the sublime
The nature of your malady will be revealed”
“So to keep yourself from having a fit
Step back and just calm down a bit”
“We,” they said, “certainly have this under control”
“We swear this won’t hurt at all”
Then I felt my inhibitions fall
Still I said a prayer to God that He keep my soul
You know, fact is I do feel off axis
As evidenced by such parapraxis
As this prose that I, (or is it “Us”), seek to pen
And with my mind feeling numb
I finally chose to succumb
And allow the “Me” and the “Myself” to begin
And then came questions in a flurry
Answer, answer and please do hurry
Not one moment of respite did they give
They pushed and they prodded
With every “T” crossed and “I” dotted
My mind felt like it had gone through a sieve
And all this psycho-analysis
Is causing my mind paralysis
The questions, can you stop with the questions please
“Yes, oh yes indeed
I do believe we have what we need
To make an attempt to identify your unknown neuroses”
Westernmost in its regional placement and traditional identity,
rare but indigenous is its Arabian flavour,
and a significant bridge of peace
between its brothers and their common enemy.
Displays an open tradition, appreciative of diabolism
as witches are integral part of its cultural settlements.
Typical of its nucleus is a combination of minarets structured worship centers,
Bazaars, sections called medinas and lasbali fortresses.
Its riches in wood stored up through the Atlas mountains
has milked its way from the dashboards of the Rolls Royce brand
and its possession of the “mother of all flowers”
has given the French creative experts a reason to fancy the world.
Public bath are greatly preferred to private ones
to flatter socialization in shrines of ritual purification.
Its rare ideology in liver displacing the heart in love’s symbolism
gives a perceived cosmic effect of its cute uniqueness.
The “assembly of the dead” and the Tomb of John the Baptist
are hugely important in its global historic relevance.
Just the way Aid al-kebir is held highly
so also is handling of food with the right hand
and as well in the acceptance of offered meat.
The glory of such a symbolic geography never stay silent
because the constant whispers of its honour,
despite not a continental union member
is evidenced by its official friendship to the world power
which is the first ever, among hundreds of many more.
In an era long since passed, an Oriental carpet adorning the
floor from far off lands seems to object to the
leopard skin beneath a fair maiden’s feet, yet this English lass
seems oblivious as she stares blankly at the floor
in deep contemplation of her sweetheart and suitor
standing a respectable distance from her
with his top hat humbly held in his hand.
His countenance is one of uncertainty, quite ready to
plead his veracity and intention should her father care
to honor his sincerity with an understanding ear.
He feels a bit consumed and cold standing near
the grandeur of the unlit hearth.
He is attired in his finest to court his fair maiden though
little notice is taken from her stern yet loving father who only
wants to see his daughter marry into a dignified and wealthy
family that will elevate his own standing in the community.
The young maiden’s mother is trying to sway her husband’s
judgment in favor of the young man to appease
her daughter’s romantic affections.
The young maiden’s mother, dressed in an exquisite expensive
pale pink ensemble makes a stunning statement of breeding
and manners as she softly coaxes the kinder side of her husband
to appear by placing both hands lovingly upon his breast.
Her father’s clenched fist reveals his determination not to give in.
The lovely maiden spent hours readying herself for this special
occasion, the day in which her young man would come to ask
her father for her hand in marriage. She had been trying to calm
herself by embroidering his initials on a dresser scarf until
her young man arrived, as evidenced by her sewing container opened
partly as she hurriedly placed the scarf back in when he arrived.
Now listening to her father’s words of rejection she holds little hope
of a future with her beloved and contemplates her life without him.
Yet as her mother pleads her case for them to be together she knows
there is very little her mother asks of him he can say no to.
I love this nasty game of a combination of
leisure and life where the trouble maker becomes the victim
and the product of that crafty pencil of our imaginations
is translated into a true life story told by the welcomes
of roses, gloriosas and saffron crocuses.
silk so tight on a flesh so mild
can sexualize a nearby stone
and with the first half of your luscious castle,
the throne definitely stays beneath its delicate walls,
strongly preserved for the exotic union of my everlasting presence.
The hips’ salvation matches your lips temptation
thereby constructing a pix exaggeration
to inflict a fixed subordination on me,
making it count at six erections already
as I’m lost in a mixed contemplation.
Oceans gushing out of the sun and trees standing on the clouds
are perfections of a world only known by the census of two.
Our citizenry well enforced by this mighty affection
and bodies well protected
by the magnitude of such penetrating jealousy
strongly fighting against any threat of liquefying its refined honey
and adulterating its rare tasty wine
put the art of intimate knowledge into re-evaluation
and the strength of the art of sex
very close to the question mark of moral bliss.
Such wealthy lavishness with all positive alteration
to any kind of belonging is evidenced
by my accepted foolishness so honourable.
Words alone are unworthy because the probability
of using all existing letters is not sufficient enough
to mold a brick out of a thousand many
in building my bridge to your heart.
I've lamented my own existence for years
Evidenced by my tears and fears
I gave a damn too much what other people thought
Wondering in me what they might have ever sought
I lost myself in the wicked ways of this life
Sealing the chains and feeding my own strife
But I'm tired of all the games and the blame
I've lost years of my life to lame shame
Allow me to articulate that I am a man with flaws
But that doesn't mean I deserve life's cold jaws
I've got a lot to offer this world both inside and out
So I'm tired of living in a cloud of doubt
This new veil has been lifted like a lifelong curse
As I spill my soul to write a brand new verse
No more crying and debating and hating my fortunes
I'll create my own luck as I sing happy tunes
In rhyme I feel in time a shy guy's heart can shine
Just scrub the stains and you'll find something divine
I've got a golden heart that's been sullied too long
And I'll be damned if I don't take a stand and say I belong
Just give me a chance to show I haven't lost a step in this dance
Because with confidence I'm ready to look for romance
And I'm sure I'll fall aplenty even with this new guise
But guys all I can say is my eyes are locked on the skies
And as I wind down this last spoken word write
My hands are trembling but I'm ready to fight
My eyes are filled with tears but I'm filled with might
I've lamented my own existence for years
Evidenced by my tears and fears
But I'm here to say that a shy guy can't just survive
In this cold world he will also thrive
We The One Who Die
There you have it, something marvelous that is nigh impossible to achieve…
A small country hamlet that has completely banned smoking, you better believe…
Somewhere in an offbeat location in Indonesia, people there achieve an impossible feat …
There, in a small country hamlet, or kampong by local slang, everybody has smoking beat…
The people that live in this unique hamlet or kampong exhibit remarkable self restraints…
How else can you explain this impossible feat of successfully achieving a No Smoking ban…
Of course there are visible signs from the local authorities declaring this smoking ban…
There, at the very entrance to this unique settlement of country folks living simple lives,…
A simple sign reads “Thank You For Not Smoking, Say No To Cigarettes” for every visitor…
Another says “You The One Who Smoke, We The One Who Die”, what a grim reminder..
Tobacco related economic s are stymied here in this hamlet of simple country living…
Unlike in the rest of Indonesia where as high as 30% of adults are hooked on smoking..
For a country with 200,000 smoking related deaths a year, this hamlet is setting the lead….
Nearby kampungs, villages and communities are working hard in trying to emulate…
The seductive lure of the tobacco related economy and monies are insignificant factors…
When the individual, and the community, are resolute and determined to prosper…
For the monetary savings from not smoking daily are very significant to better spending…
As evidenced from the comments gathered from those who have stopped smoking…
This little piece of writing is my salutations for the people who are residents in that area..
Where fresh country air is free of tobacco particulates and life couldn’t be any better…
I could imagine in my mind the simple lifestyle there on offer, a simple country hamlet…
Off the beaten route, away from the din and bustle of modern high paced hassles….
Bravo to the residents of this rustic Indonesian village called Kampung Bone Bone ….
Bravo for their collective success of promoting and prospering health to each home…
http://www.star2.com/health/wellness/2016/03/18/this-tiny-kampung-did-what-authorities-couldnt-ban-smoking-completely/