Best Extolled Poems
Hidden beauty I know can dwell
within a body worn and frail.
I think of one who had been doled
great miseries, so once grown old,
his body seemed a dismal shell. .
Although he’d lived on earth his hell,
grown nearly crippled and unwell,
his inner fortitude was gold -
Hidden beauty!
Life’s many hardships could not quell
his positivity, nor fell
that strength - his fire against the cold -
a virtue that should be extolled!
In knowing him, I well could tell
hidden beauty.
For Skat's the Premiere Contest number 14 Poetry Contest
For holding things, two arms have we -
two arms with hands with which we have been blessed.
Two only – we’ve no need of three.
Two arms to reach with or to cross beneath our chest,
and in two arms of someone special we can be caressed.
Although with our two arms we can reach out,
some things we cannot reach; they are too high!
Our arms perform their functions. But what if we could sprout
wings like angels have, permitting us to fly?
Perfection it would be to touch the sky.
With wings we could do so much more.
As with arms, with two wings we also could enfold
those special people we adore,
yet rudiments of wings (two arms) are to be extolled,
for with two arms, we FEEL the flesh of the ones we hold.
Feb. 25, 2022
Entered March 14, 2022 for A Brian Strand Formed Poetry Contest
Violet, a lovely lady, kin to Purple, can be a contradiction.
Between her fellows Red and Blue (yet more inclined to Blue),
she lies with a calm passion! Unique and unconventional is she!
A symbol of humility, through the ages she has listened to confessions
as she draped the shoulders of Roman Catholic priests.
Yet often in society, she’s been seen as extravagant and vain!
Just for having embellished the rooms and the attire
of monarchs, emperors, and princes,
and just because Violet is flattering to the yellow found in gold,
should she then be punished for her wealth of beauty?
Should her shades with other lovely names such as
Lilac, Lavender, Amethyst, and Mauve
be seen in any other way as simply gorgeous?
Perhaps for her ambiguity as she shifts to deeper reddish hues
then back to cool blue, she is perceived in western culture
as uncertain and ambivalent, for she is not popular with the masses.
Van Gogh, however, understood her,
painting her as irises and showing her in swirls of stars!
And in the oriental world, where she is extolled,
she radiates the sublime harmony of the universe,
as the melding of the yin and yang of red and blue.
Violet, who sometimes spreads herself splendidly
across the twilight skies
and peeks out from rainbows,
is a beauty so rarely seen in nature
that the birds, stones and plants that she enchants
are not even too numerous to name.
Have you seen her purple pearl or coral in the sea?
Have you heard the song of African violet-backed starlings?
But oh! Violet loves flowers. . . Besides her small sweet namesake,
She colors crocuses, petunias, asters, geraniums and pansies.
Not many other things in nature does Violet cling to,
yet she adores the grape and plum,
and with a certain whimsy, she’s charmed purple cabbage,
the turnip, eggplant, and beets!
Rare lady in nature, Violet, my adored, why is it that you are not more loved?
As I cross a field of lavender and breathe you in, the answer to my question
eludes me.
The poet dreams, and with a simple glance
at trees or sky or at a mountain spring,
begins to write, endeavors to enhance
each sight of beauty with imagining.
He paints midsummer as a day of gold,
the song of birds at twilight as the tune
for his beloved, whose aspect is extolled
and likened to the splendor of the moon.
At times, his heart is pained. It seems that doom
pursues him in that chasm where he grieves.
He finds he still must write. . . and there may bloom
sweet wistful roses on his journal’s leaves.
Though meager be his assets, he bequeaths
to us a treasure with the words he breathes.
For "A Poet's Worth" Poetry Contest
in the lonely fields of poems past I roam
and linger on the fragrant flowers sweet
the comments left all decorate this "home"
where all is love, and every post a treat
I read what others had to say to me
how some extolled and others simply teased
I sometimes long for how it used to be
but my nostalgic sighs mean I am pleased
the poems chronicle my life and years
I am, at times, amazed by what I read
My joys are there recorded, and my fears
They will remain and when I'm gone they'll plead
"Oh, come and spend some time in poetry
Though poet is no more, she lives in me."
Eileen Manassian
The gath'ring dusk draws this fall day to term.
October crowned with warmth and radiant light.
The sun in arc across the sky confirms
that these fall days be passionate and bright.
Heroic are the colors autumn wears,
yet soon their rich-hued robe will fade away.
Then comes the sting of winter's icy airs.
We wish that frozen season could delay.
The gleanings of these golden days are rich.
A cache of gifts held in our hearts, sublime.
Nostalgia is the providence with which,
we warm our spirit during winter-time.
Hold fast, through dormant seasons, keen and cold.
Soon warmth will grace spring light to be extolled.
October's Crown
10-15-15
*When with closed eyes, in autumn’s eves of gold,
I lie back on soft grass and feel the sky's
remaining warmth that emanates from sun,
I think of all the beauty to unfold.
I open up my eyes. The sun has rolled
down in the sky. Now streaks of pink appear
which darken to a deep and purple hue,
for Mother Nature now is growing bold!
There is so much of glory to behold!
The mountains glow, but soon they will grow black.
No matter, at the end of autumn’s days,
God’s gifts by Mother Nature are extolled.
And yes, it won’t be long - it will grow cold,
but in December I will close my eyes
recalling this. . . and I will be consoled.
March 20, 2020
* My line 1 is the 4th quote given as an option to use in a contest
sponsored by Joseph May
Now used May 21 for John Hamilton's 'Your best poem 2020' Poetry Contest
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing
While she ascended to see faith’s work-surprising…
Triumphantly awaiting her was a great blessing
Indeed, an answered prayer, worthy of praising!
“With God, nothing is impossible,”* she shouted
“Dad’s cured from ailment with which he’s been afflicted.”
Miraculously, her father’s wish was granted:
To witness his daughter’s wedding he then waited!
From here the City churches pierced the mist
Announcing festive celebrations from their list
Revealing that the Sovereign Lord does exist
Thus, to seek and trust and Him, man should not resist.
Father and daughter extolled God’s wonders of care
How they worshiped Him for safeguarding their welfare
The father checked his “Trust God” notebook with awed stare
He closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square.
Midst joy, He offered thanksgiving for their grand state
Saying, “You’re good, Oh, God, and great. You’re never late!”
He’s well to bring his daughter to her altar date.
*Luke 1:37 For with God nothing shall be impossible.
May 11, 2018
7th Place, "One Nine and Sixteen Upgrade Version" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley; judged on 6/20/2018.
In the days of yore, our hearts bore
the burdens of that heavy laden heart
Now, for His love, our hearts are joyful all the day
It making merriment with play because of "Jesus"
He whom had that old, "heart of stone" rolled away
Declaring this forever, the “Lord Jesus,” that had His angels to
move that "heavy stone" at the tomb so we all can view of that
event at the end of the third day. That being the brightest of all
Sundays For this we ever say, “Holy, Hallelujah, Hurray”
Past and present renewed, the future is fully realized
and time now is no more:
The Bible scriptures has extolled and foretold:
of a future with glorious beautiful heavenly abodes
Yes, Past and present shinny renewed, the future is fully realized
and time is now no more:
The Bible scriptures are extolled and foretold:
This of a future with His glorious light and beautiful heavenly
abodes
“Jesus,” the Blessed hope; this to all His disciples; as He said,
written and scribed on scrolls and told
The Life of the Mind is extolled by Professors
Though when they think, they just guess or
perhaps idly chatter
There are some who won't use their brawn
And 'brainiacs' who won't mow the lawn
Others say 'they'll work with their Hands'
as if hands are not directed by the Mind of Man
All this, so far's neither here nor there
Here's what I assure you
Presuming you care
Reality is WHAT you perceive it to be
Perception's HOW you see it, subjectively
Life's In the Mind
'Tis the Mind makes it live
That is the Truth
Which Experience Gives
Truly life is a song, if we sing along,
irrespective of fate as it may unfold,
choosing right over wrong, resolute and strong,
our vibrant innocence both playful and bold,
abides in the heart, for that’s where we belong,
aura glowing with light, in scriptures extolled.
Flowing gently in mode embrace and release,
blissful presence has no demons to appease.
A beacon of fire set in our sky
sends its rays our way
Warmth for our bodies, light for our souls
autumn’s wardrobe extolled
“The heaventree of stars” (in Ulysses as said Joyce)
“hung with humid nightblue fruit” (ah that Bloomian voice)
could evoke a masterpiece the world has come to know,
The Starry Night, so treasured now, by Vincent van Gogh…
In Vincent’s time that painting left even him bemused,
since a ‘failure’ he proclaimed it— that’s the term he used.
He thought he’d reached for stars too big, at too great a height,
but had gone astray; thus he fell short in his own sight.
When he died, no golden eulogistic bells were rung.
His grand galactic genius went utterly unsung.
Oh ill-starred Vincent lunatic asylumed costly fraught distraught instead of bought untold unsold back then yet now extolled far-famed with pricey precious adoration legacied in legend lionized er ionized and glorified chronologized hymned lauded honored canonized enskied aye aye exalted to the skies near-sainted hallowed round the clock as fickle ironies of fate can mock…
Yes, van Gogh was so star-crossed in so many senses.
Gazing at the skies he saw whithers, whys, and whences…
Comparing stars to dotted map led him to ponder
that as one takes a train to destinations yonder
here on earth, perhaps we would ‘take death to reach a star’
or afterlife dimension in hemisphere afar.
The Whirlpool Galaxy his imagination fired
with spiral arms of lanes of stars that indeed inspired
and starburst regions interspersed with dust, in display
of luminescent light not unlike the Milky Way
if it were to overturn and shower forth its jars
in a madly whirling swirling twirling stream of stars.
Anyhow in one way Vincent’s vision was dead right.
Long lives his stellar afterlife in The Starry Night!
To end these astro-reveries with celestial quote
on brighter note, “Hope is in the stars,” the artist wrote.
Van Gogh could see eternity in the heavens’ dome,
in the cycling cosmic courses— there his dreams found home.
~ Harley White
What unforeseen force determines our course
On journeys throughout our days?
What drives the notions to cross deep oceans
That for some, become early graves?
What causes our dreams that move us it seems
To continually seek higher ground?
To discover new worlds in deep space that swirls
Like windmills ‘round and ‘round?
What made DaVinci a Renaissance Man
And Shakespeare a writer extolled?
How did Einstein think out there on the brink
Relative to light, young or old?
What ran through the veins of Mahatma Gandhi
Or Martin Luther King?
And what magic arose when Beethoven composed
Or Sinatra learned how to sing?
I duly confess, I’ve detoured no less
Than countless times through the years;
But like an arrow flying I keep on trying
To hit bulls eye, nice and clear.
Though Robert Frost I’ll never be
Ansel Adams or Henry Ford;
Still I keep striving like each of them
For something deeper inside to explore.
The growing dusk draws this fall day to term.
October crowned in warmth and brilliant light.
The sun across it arc shines to confirm,
that these fall days be passionate and bright.
Heroic are the colors autumn wears.
Yet, soon its rich-hued robe will fade away,
to know the sting of winter's icy airs.
We wish our coldest season would delay.
The gleanings of these golden days are rich.
We hold such gifts within our hearts, sublime.
Nostalgia is the providence from which
we warm our souls the span of winter-time.
Stand firm through dormant seasons, sharp and cold.
Soon warmth will grace spring's light to be extolled.
10-25-14