Best Examines Poems
Dream schemes play across the screen
And third eye examines them,
Ever so closely; tonight,
Another etheric flight;
Will show me new horizons
And the beings that dwell there;
The archetypes and images.
Scenes play out in colors,
Shadows weave their magic;
I am inundated.
Visiting spirits came,
Just to bid me adieu;
My guides know what I need.
Somewhere the light starts,
To glow; a pinpoint,
Growing as it moves
Toward each scene, shines;
Revealing wisdom.
A dream is an
Education;
Dream and wisdom
Will come to you.
Dreaming mind,
Subconscious,
Library.
Dream long
And deep;
Dream.
Death to the mockingbird with one shot to the heart,
Crushing wings with desperation sings sorrow worlds apart.
Concrete tears from wasted eyes fall on a mossy burial ground,
Taste the regret as it is yet to expel a gasping sound.
And rise oh symphonic sun in my mourning put rest to the moon,
Dehydrate this skin from deep within that I may die at noon.
Searching for stars to blanket this despairs shroud of living,
Pinpricks of celestial poison judgmental eyes are giving.
Blood upon my hands stains jealousy in deep wrinkled crease,
Saliva soiled dirt leaves an after taste that will never cease.
Breaking the joints of folded frozen wings opening like a book,
Laid before the novel ends I search for the heart that I took.
Oh mockingbird you brought this battle a war I inhale victory,
Would the devil rise with golden stained eyes celebrating with me.
With weighted flesh, holding her heart, he examines my deed,
Silently I beg come with me, success demands fulfilling my greed.
The devil he does make his choice, strong cradled hands receive
Welcoming the mockingbird, even in death does she deceive.
Breathing to life from lips I longed to love, the mockingbird awakes,
Flapping wings, resentment it stings, the ground under me shakes.
The mockingbird laughs for she mocks me no longer,
She has taken everything from me, and now she is stronger.
A man examines his portrait in life
The life he leads ennui dulls his desires
A wanton spirit crying through his strife
Pity him not if of this life he tires
His life was short, he careth not its end
He lived it all, he dreams no more or will
No dregs of life to taste no hearts to mend
He longs for sleep no more to drink life’s fill
A battle not fought, a love not lost, why?
No one to share his dreams, his poetry
Until an answer to his unheard cry
Words of love awoke and told a story
Now love gives hope and awaits his firm grasp
True love, a deep love that ever will last.
© 10/1/2014 GG
This happened to me twenty-two years ago. I thank God I am still alive.
I feel the ripple in my life's cycle,
impending risk that could rape my soul.
I look in the mirror, but no tears flow.
A virus cramps my shallow feelings,
an ominous glare that obscures.
The pungent smell of disinfectant
the impersonal looks of nursing aides,
the indifference of certain medics,
the fearful looks of other patients,
the smell of living death.
The surgeon comes,
examines,
prods,
feels
listens.
Like an auctioneer's hammer,
going, going, gone.
The verdict is announced,
a triple by-pass,
serious but operable.
"Don't worry, man!"
I look up at the wall
that surrounds my cell,
and see Him hung
on old worn wood.
Is it so difficult, Lord, to die?
Am I on my own in here?
Will I survive?
A tear trickles slowly down my cheek,
but now my inner self is lit.
I wake up from my stupor.
Life is a pattern,
mapped 'til our death,
but no man walks alone.
I smile,
I receive faith.
A glow illuminates my soul.
Tomorrow I may be dead,
but I am sure, Sweet Jesus,
I will survive, for meekly
I accept Your will.
I go to lovely school
teacher teaches me
only the back I see
He writes on chalkboard
words and figures
only shadows I see
He marks my books
red pen black pen
only crosses I see
And teacher examines me
tests, home work
only excellence I see
If I have the time I’ll clean the kitchen
then tidy round the rest of the house,
I’m due to see the vet with my pet mouse ...
Ted’s lost his fur and he can’t stop itch’in!
My little pet mouse Ted I just adore
I’ve had him since I was a small child,
alas his itchy skin is driving him wild -
he’s shedding fur all over the floor!
I carry Ted in his cage when I visit the vet
and Ted plays happily on his small wheel,
Vet’s hand enters the cage - he emits a squeal
when he gets bitten by my traumatised pet!
I mop up his blood, then hold Ted in my hand
as the vet examines his scaly red skin,
He pokes and prods much to Ted’s chagrin -
if he can be cured it would be so grand!
Vet gives Ted a shot and applies some cream
then presents me with an enormous bill,
the medication works well, Ted’s no longer ill
and his fur’s grown back just like a dream!
If You Have the Time for an Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
12/23/19
As along our long life journey we sail
We all do encounter belied expectations
Feeling of deep hurt results from betrayal
Our shrivelled heart writhing in contractions
The hurt needs healing so we go to a healer
Who examines blotches in our aura field
Looking grave is this wheeler dealer
As his magic wand he does wield
Half who visit healed, the others not
For he simply invokes the placebo effect
Opening up our mind beyond its fearful slots
The faith healer does nothing yet no one suspects
With this comic interlude over with let us examine
The root cause of our pain needing healing
We negate not potency of toxic poison
Simply look at origin of so feeling
The aspect of us hurt is our identity
Plunged into dark gloom owing to its loss
Recognising not that in world of ephemerality
Attachment to fleeting images of pain is the cause
In monk mode detached thus free from pain and sorrow
Lower mind vaporised, we abide in blissful joy
No expectations or desires for the morrow
Mind illumined we recognise ego ploys
Acceptance of others just as they are
Knowing that maya oft causes misalignment
Acts of others be as they may leaves then no scar
We empathise with one and all resting in blissful contentment
We then are our own best faith healer having faith in love divine
Offering no niche within for rancour to anchor onto our being
Knowing that in timeless time with love all souls will align
We nonchalantly breeze through life ever celebrating
29-November-2020
THE WAY HE LOOKED AT ME
The way he looked at me?
No particular expression
Strange dude
Strange only because of surroundings
We’d spoken before
A few words
Can’t recall what about
But now just now
The way he looked at me?
At me but right through me
One of those nebulous stares
Could have meant anything
That look?
Almost collegiate
Certainly with a collegiate air
Well how dare he!
I do recall how he walked about
Rarely a smile
He seemed to fit into the throng as though somehow towering
Somehow aloof
At a time like this one examines self – all the social graces –
Coming up with glaring negative respectabilities
How ridiculous these momentary speculations
Yet?
The way he looked at me?
I would rather have had words
cluck! cluck!! cluck!!
He hammers a nail into the hardwood,
wiping sweat from his brow as the scorching sun prides itself in the middle of the sky.
He examines a curve on the casket he is making,
he is dissatisfied, he grabs a chisel and begins to chisel away carefully.
As every splinter of wood falls to the ground he nods his head in satisfaction,
he stops to wipe more sweat from his brow
he mutters something to himself,
looks up to the sky angrily and curses the heavens for the heat.
But isn't it man who brought the sun closer?
well, that is what the govt official who came to our village told us,
"global warming" he called it.
I wonder why he labours so hard to make this ugly reminder of death look perfect,
the dead do not care about aesthetics,
I do not think they care so much what happens to their bodies here bury it, burn it, they get a new one either way.
Your eyes a dark archipelago
Mysterious then exotic drifting across
my shore;
I perceive their warmth inviting
While those lips blow a tangy flavour-
Irresistible, poised to reach for a kiss
Brewed by the kiln of summer’s
ember…
Carefully, my logic examines the
prospects
Between reason and wantonness,
As the fluid air spins amorously
And the evening grows too blind,
naked--
The waves within my navel dilate,
fluid as current's unknown motion...
I forget what happens next except, I
was
Drunk with the body- rhythm of something
untenably spontaneous;
Coasting on a body outside a bend
ebbing flowing through a belly and
tendon
Of a conniving sea.
She writes some words 'pon the paper
Examines them
Then she writes one more word
Tears run down her cheeks
She crumples the paper
Letting it drop to the floor
With it the pen falls, ink spilling mixed with tears
Staining the paper upon the floor
NATURE OF HEART
Dual curved carved
crystalline
earth pointed plasmic
Oneness
quantum wave
particled
allows Heart to heave
Heal with white light
eagles
on Tibetan height nights
continuously crafted
through storm eyes
looping solace
sighs
whorling whispering
Rain tears feed
its sizzling stamens
pistillate androgyny
crying
crumbling
simultaneously graniting
granting access
piously
Soft supple sublime
in rhythmic dance
twirls across seaspun song
sealed
bends baritone bones
gliding through skulls
of ancestral
sacrament
Heart curiously examines
coral swimming coloured
through sockets
smiling
Silent sacred still
holds no longings or
exalted expectations
observes
its own arising gyrations
destructions
cannot label
nor muse
or impress empress
governors or lover
fathoms no fools
Only presents
primal
lingering longings
for its own beatings
irrepressible expressions
lavic lush luminosic
explosions of expirations
split open
exposing slivered voluptuous
vulnerability
breathing
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2024
The First Round
You are a pothole that I swerve not to hit.
But you follow my trail endlessly and the sniffing.
When I am cornered I lash and teeth bare menacingly.
We circle each other looking for an opening and claw.
The words make me bleed but ignoring the pain.
The Second Round
Hurling insults and curses the fight searches our past.
I am knocked down from a memory and slowly gain my feet.
I throw a cross at your fears and you stagger with pain.
The referee gives you a standing eight count and the bell sounds.
We sit in our corners and take water and advice.
The Third Round
The crowd roars as we touch gloves and you give me a hook to the body.
I am cut and its deep but the doctor examines me and says I can go on.
The hook brings deep shame and I can't breath and holding the ropes.
My corner knows I can't go on so a white towel comes.
The referee stops the fight and we pay him when we leave.
The next couple are in the lobby sitting waiting for the doctor.
She's often seen on dark and stormy nights according to local lore,
Gliding among the ancient stones standing in that fearsome moor.
Mists wafting about the burial ground add to this spectral scene,
And circling above, a sinister murder of ravens is usually seen!
'Tis said that this hapless wraith seems to be on an endless quest,
Searching, ever searching as if for her own eternal rest.
Or does Raven seek a specific grave upon which to wreak revenge,
Whose occupant for some wrong she is determined to avenge?
She kneels at each stone and peers at the name etched thereon,
Is heard softly sobbing, then slowly rising, she moves on.
As she makes her ghostly bourne, heard is her plaintive moan,
As with vengeful eyes she examines each lichen-covered stone.
Is it a lover she searches for who left her bereft and forlorn,
Who broke her heart and filled her soul with eternal scorn?
Or could it be with malice in her heart she seeks reprise,
For the brutal murder that caused her untimely demise.
The thunder roars and lightning flashes as she glides to and fro.
The troubles that distress this restless soul we shall never know.
This fabled phantom presses on wearily, wearily lurching,
Determined to complete her quest, searching, ever searching!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 6 in Constance's "Among The Dead" Contest - February 2011
Most think of this as a weed and don’t consider it a flower,
But I watched my young son gather dandelions for an hour.
“They are so pretty and yellow, I am picking them just for her.
Mommy will love them so because they’re her favorite color.”
He squats and he picks each one near the bottom of the stem,
Then stares and examines it; they each look different to him.
He sniffs in wonderment, carrying each gift over to hand to me,
And adds it to the pile of glory he will present to his Mommy.
The dandelions are everywhere, scattered throughout the park;
He could continue to pick each one until the skies all grow dark.
Most people would say the grounds were terribly cared for,
But to my son, a more fantastic garden he’d never seen before.
The time came for us to go, though he didn’t want to stop;
We gathered up his beautiful flowers, over twenty in the lot.
So happy and yet so sad he walked up to his Mommy proud and brave,
And laid down his gift of love; his bouquet upon her grave.