Best Evocative Poems
A promise should never remain silent.
In pursuit of our principal pledge -
I ponder her secret garden,
within the province of our paradise.
For her love is
an Utopian secret supernova,
shining celestially -
through a canopy of olive leaves.
Where I hope to stand motionless,
lost in her redolent radiance
so my soul searches
for the path of plum slate and
golden stepping stones, leading to her
idyllic untouched flower garden.
Admiring evocative vibrant petals,
wishing to float like a million butterflies,
breathing blissful blessings -
upon balmy bewitching blossoms
I shall surround myself in her artistry,
enchanted with her ethereal tranquility.
Love remains secure within her elusive oyster.
My ink will emulate a million subtle reflections,
until reunited with my precious opulent pearl.
Simple Musing
Silent One
31 May 2020
Adorable, enticing as beauteous glance,
Engaging, evocative as a ballet dance
Luring passions flaunting moody stance;
Poetry is music strumming from heart,
Lyrics of life emblazoned in poetic art.
It’s a smile of Venus on moonless night,
Ruby rose abloom midst wintry plight;
Verses of harmony embossed in rhyme
Of wisdom, witty words, eternal as time,
Expressions of mind streaming sublime.
Poetry is nourishment to vacuous soul,
Meaningful words inner voices extoll,
Metaphors, simile, elusive moods cajole;
Musings inimitable~ we cannot clone,
Neither can we cage, nor can we own.
Endearing, amiable~ it’s ballad of love,
Pure, passionate, as cooing of a dove;
A lighthouse guiding ships through dark,
On vacant thoughts, enlightened spark,
Charming dismal morn, a song of lark.
O glorious Autumn of melancholic
Gold -
All abouts the brightly lit
Woodlands
Your wonderful artistry behold!
Tinted bronzes,
Darting between awkward firs
Of sobering Evergreen,
Loiter inside mauve havens
Splashed with palest yellows -
And dappled with many differing
Limes
Throughout this variegated Theme;
A myriad of rustling contentment,
Sweetest contrasting charms,
Complimentary...
Softly whispering leafy hues...
Hushed...most elegantly serene.
Bursting into the swelling copses
And invading between the
Dwindling fields:
Auburn, primrose and lilac views -
Abundant with seasons
Celebrations
That so magnificently infuse!
Glowering in simmering sunset,
And spluttering in misty dawn:
Afire with all the orbs oozing
Revelry,
That upon barkened furniture,
To thus gild - and resplendently
Adorn!
Now is the time
That dry tinkling leaves
Give musical resonance
To a breath exhaled from
A breeze...
Fanning the boughs roaring flames
That each out-stretched branch
does eagerly seize,
Fired from the eternal torch
That immortal Ceridwen tirelessly
Sought;
Whilst I hang upon evocative
Memories
That this arresting moment briefly
Caught.
Blazing with a consummate passion
Ignited from a poets grappling
Thoughts:
The Muses to this joyous splendour
Were summarily summoned
And brought;
But as elusive as the enchanting
Notes
From the intoxicating pipes of
Evasive Pan...
So as elusive the words of the
Unwritten verse
That so evade this singular man.
So burn! You gaily painted colours,
Within abandoned restrain,
Your dizzying carousel
A whirling kaleidoscope
Upon an artists ever changing frame.
Soft ochres and dappled browns
Mixed with vivid orange and crimson
Red...
Applied lavishly from the palette
Of Artemis
Over which the vibrant pastes
Are thinly spread.
A riot of pastel shades
All exploding forth -
With the raging power of a
Supernova
Of an immense, dazzling force!
All hail to the almighty:
From the devout to the Divine...
And all hail to the Grandeur
And Majesty -
Of his awe-inspiring design!
That pensive look on her sweet face
Just like a child of mine.
Her eyes seem to follow you with
Dominion that's divine.
Northwest light on soft blush hued cheeks
Her grey-green eyes lay bare
Perhaps a secret rendezvous
In enigmatic stare.
Wet lips stained as if with cherries
Delft blue scarf hides her hair...
In penchant blossom of her youth
Portrait of beauty rare.
From her left ear hangs gracefully
One solitary pearl.
Melancholy hints, she may be
A woman, yet a girl.
May 3, 2017
Note:
Johannes Vermeer's 'Girl with a pearl earring'
c.1665 Mauritius Museum, The Hague.
The Dutch artist was born in Delft in 1632-1675.
One of the key paintings in Vermeer's oeuvre,
this portrait resists all attempts at the precise
identification of the sitter. It's charm, perhaps,
lies in the fact that it is an evocative expression
of timeless female beauty. I viewed this masterpiece
in 2009. She has the entire wall to herself.
Devotion floats in the
silence of heartbeats -
only lovers savor and devour.
I crawled to her
like a caterpillar.
Cradling in her cocoon -
her vision transformed
me into a butterfly.
She is a love -
for whom
I've left behind
a trail of petals -
to roam within her
eternal evergreen Eden.
In florescent fragility
of her femininity.
I'm an introvert in
her extroverted flower garden.
Her sunflower smile, highlights her
delightful dahlia dimples.
Sensations of her satin skin are
smoother than vanilla orchids.
Aromatic aura unfurls like honeysuckle,
wrapping around my emotions.
Her ethereal jasmine scent,
seduces me speechless.
Lost in her evocative lobelia eyes,
desire drinks from the cup of lust,
flowing like a fountain towards the
lusciousness of her red lily lips -
would they be sinful to kiss?
I am a drop of rain,
resting upon her petal.
Craving to be a bee
suckling nectar from pink
blossoms of her bosoms.
May the quill of my pen,
forever dip in the juices of her ink.
So, I can cultivate within
her flourishing fields -
forever.
Silent One
11 July 2020
This poem was partly inspired by Vijay Pandit's poem
called Garden of Beauty. Thanks for the inspiration!
Gatherings from my heart
fervid thoughts as they seep
from its depths they are churning
my love runs fathoms deep
Flowing from pointed nib of pen
evocative words alight
I envision you reading them
in your dreams tonight
Do I fulfill your masculine cravings
your most erotic desires
Have I kindled flames of passion
until they are blazing fires
I've tasted your moistened lips
as they whispered low moans in plea
and felt your body tremble
with its alluring need of me
Are you engulfed by tumultuous waves
of yearning when I draw near
Do you ache, needing my touch
when my voice you hear
If you are impatient for the eclipse
of our joining as sun and moon
Then I'll know you feel as I do
and love is equally in attune
I sense and feel mystique of its appeal
In vibrant, verdant, blossoming spring,
Splendorous prairies undulating breeze,
Resplendent falling of autumnal leaves,
Glacial winds bemoaning a frozen sigh,
A cerulean terpsichore of ocean tides~
I sense and feel, yet can’t cage its wings.
Purposeful, evocative, musings unwind
When elixir of missives invigorates mind
In tears of joy glittering mother’s eyes,
Holding hand of father, an innocent smile,
Hungry bawls tearing impoverished lands,
Cheers echoing hopes of clapping hands,
Grievous calls unleashed by fate unkind,
An uneventful existence berating its grind.
Though I pretend to reign world of words
And impute resonance to songs of birds
And conjure kisses from lovelorn woes
And dare personifying feelings of stone,
I struggle in thoughts to stage my show
Striving to rhyme verses stubbornly prose
Dawdling daydreams of poetic meadows
Attributing forms to shapeless shadows
Clueless of the exit from wordless throes.
Ah! dear reader, the poet in you knows,
Much alike an eagle boundless in freedom
Flight of artistry I’m unable to control,
Passions of its symphony, I do not own,
Depth of its ocean shall remain unknown.
August 12, 2021
The trees are still there every morning
Angry or sad
The sun beats down through your pores
Day after day after day.
And the moon will never stop.
And the spirit to which God has granted you
Walks with you
Penniless or pocketless.
"Something was dropped along the way,"
You feel.
"Well it's true we shed ourselves over the years,
Pieces of ourselves everywhere,"
says the sliding Voice.
Identity is really only something
We think other people need.
So we pretend like we're separate from each other.
The word "firelight," is evocative.
The bloom of spirit and desire and
The ever-crackling of wild entanglement
Our lives like firelight
On the darkened beach
from the young and warm light
to the blazing chaos and wonder
to the toking and smoting and dimming
And the burial, and the cold.
I am as sad as the bottom of a well.
I have left something along the way.
A small appendage, maybe, I had meant to use at some point.
The Right Hand of God I was too distracted to keep hold of.
I am all other centerless beings
Dropping things here and there
A pen. A thought. A conviction.
And to keep hold,
to press on staring redemptively
At the circling Hands
To live in this way is to gain wisdom
And with wisdom there is always
the healing of sadness.
Senseless though, I know, like all else
And the evering was and the here we sit
Our eyes blinking tears from the bottom of a well.
Tearing from our core for
The love and need for others
And their hands.
Each day as she gazes early morning sky
with sips of coffee and memories gone by,
horizon blushes like staring in lover's eyes,
just as she remembers when he sat next to her
in embrace of winds and rising orange glow
as birds flew over the shining meadows.
How hard it must be to conjure up such emotions
when today is not much different than yesterday
and sun kisses horizon just the same every day.
Yet, she aspires to behold sentiments long gone
hoping for renewal of evocative romance
sitting on her deck reminiscing ardent past.
One day she ventures out in drenching rain
as darker horizon manifests her stark loneliness
and sun hides in clouds, devoid of its charm.
In pouring rain she stays sodden in reflection
when tears join discourse of bleak emptiness
as remnants of fervor and passion wash away.
First Place
October 25, 2017
Standard Contest No. 45
Sponsor: Brian Strands
Written: December 05, 2023
__________________________________________
Earth's mysteries—swirling in the sky.
Heaven is comely with lemon meringue.
Vaporizing clouds are dulcet and colored.
Cinnamon light was shed on my shoulders.
Peering onto the horizon of a waning sun.
Beethoven and Mozart split into the ether.
Ruby tangos fuchsia in an outburst of ecstasy.
Fetching hues of elixir flash and flare.
Obsidian clouds yield a rumble of thunder.
Cumulus clouds coal-colored clusters.
In erratic black seas, akin to rogue boats.
Thunderclaps imbue a shiny sheen.
A cyan-blue sky casts her limbs outward.
Soaring saffron butterflies and kites.
A cloud of endorphins shrouds the world.
Amid raucous mirth and glamor lullabies.
The sky's evocative color palette.
sparked by the effervescent moonlight.
delightful days laced with zeal and zest
amid a kaleidoscope hallucination.
This long awaited date -
a hoedown it’s to be
shy smiles as we head in
we touch hands nervously
We allemande left and do-si-do
Then both head ladies chain
and breathlessly we meet
in each other’s arms again
We swirl in sawdust on the floor
to the tune sweet Bye and Bye
Evocative is the patter
as the gold moon rises high
An anticipated moment
as the fiddle fades away
Your denim and my lace
soon lie buried in the hay
Sweet echoes of the evening
fill passion in the soul
Upon the amber straw
we both have lost control
written October 27, 2014 by Rick Parise and Andrea Dietrich
For Shadow Hamilton's Cowboy Hoe Down Contest
OH VINCENT
Oh Vincent, can we ever know what torments plagued you;
what demons fought you; what images raped your senses?
It was no accident that you sent blinding blasts of brightness
swirling, like hurled saucers to splatter upon your night sky canvases.
There you found your voice feathered
with mixed hues of unrelenting colors
swished in among tired out bristles.
Unconstrained, they brought to life
the frenzied haunting façade of your crazed visions.
Oh Vincent, you have tried to paint pictures of God,
broken frames holding thoughts alive within a broken soul,
You felt other’s deep sorrows and you placed
your mournful tears upon empty spaces,
and rendered images of a faceted life,
conceived from a passionate heart.
Oh Vincent, you created holy existences
upon folios of painted scenes
the glory of dreams carefully uncovered
and laid bare to once again transcend life
as permanent shapes and shadows.
Evocative images were lured into sensory miracles
of what you wanted to offer, and of all you had to offer
You told your stories in ways only you could express.
But, oh Vincent, I ask you, was it really ever enough?
CAK 2-20-2014
Spray your love in the masochistic mist,
shapely satisfying the illicit itch...
With handcuffs upon the wicked wrist,
narcotic nectars that will bewitch…
Salacious secretions that must assist,
appeasing appetites that shall enrich...
Salivating on parts hardly ever kissed,
exploring erotica within its niche…
Licentious desires amidst negligent night,
engulfing erections are craving...
Passionate pistils partake in their plight,
tender thoughts are misbehaving…
Bodies in motion divulge in delight,
as animalistic aphrodisiacs are raving...
Concupiscence convulsions do bite;
willing wanton wizards are waving…
Hold me tight as we twist and twitch,
upon luscious landscapes yearning...
Libidinousness lactations in their stitch,
beauteous breasts are burning…
Carnal covetousness stings their pitch,
for evocative emulations returning...
Leaving humble humanity in the ditch,
lacrimal lewdness upon learning.
Oct.15.2019
Itch, witch, glitch or twitch
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
Background Music...Sade
"No Ordinary Love"
With Female Virtual Voice
N/A for contest
It did not cost a fortune
and gave her so much joy
I sent a book
to a lovely friend
‘twas second hand
though good as new
I love the odour
I love the look
I love to hold
a second hand book
Reminds me of a film I saw
about a man named Frank
he ran a second hand bookshop
at 84 Charing Cross Road
A labour of love for many years
a commemorative plaque now marks the spot
True tale I’m told
of a New York gal
Helene Hanff her name
Over twenty years
she wrote to Frank
requesting books so rare
He found for her the
books she yearned
the words she loved
deep friendship theirs
as each and every book he wrapped
with tenderness and loving care
But sad to say they never met...
Frank died in ‘68
a bond was made
by books she craved
their story in this film was made
But I digress and must impress
these words I need to say
Please never throw a book away
when at the end give to a friend
It will truly make their day…
Written 5th August 2020
84 Charing Cross Road, by Helene Hanff, is an entertaining, evocative and moving collection of letters sent by the author, from her home in New York, to the staff at an antiquarian bookshop in London. Their correspondence spanned twenty years and resulted in a valued friendship. 84, Charing Cross Road is about love of books and words, and friendship. .... Such was their fate that Helene Hanff and Frank Doel never met. Frank died in December 1968 from peritonitis from a burst appendix, and the bookshop eventually closed. Helen Hanff did visit London in 1971 when she met Frank’s widow.
Contest Strand Completely New (17)
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
So
slowly
in my mind-
Satie's silence
stays
Inspired by Satie's evocative piano piece-Gymnopedies