Best Fashioning Poems
Squabbling with words; spats in opposition
can bring about discord and suspicion
Christians should be able to live in harmony
or their accord and union will atrophy
What kind of world must humans think to mold
in bringing warmth and not a chilling cold
fashioning traits with kind words of diction
not spawning hurtful thoughts, causing friction
Antagonism unfolds to reveal hostility
ruining mutual trust and tranquility
With staunch optimism, I faithfully pray
that no chasm of rancor will whorl my way
For as long as the risen sun casts mornings in glory
we will not bind our souls with fear and worry
Each night a profusion of stars shine from above
I pray one day we will all share brotherly love.
Riding off into the Ivory Palace sunset,
in a pitch-black limousine, no less
Hear the heavy metallic chariot roar,
leaving exacerbated fumes echo deplored
Aural palette, enamel pestilent pain
on burnt crimson background grain
Scorching prairie brush fire
was the cruel comfort desire
It’s aghast portrait in pandemic grief,
pyramid scheme exit of paucity relief
The curtain call, pulmonary rating king
is a modern-day Nero
His favorite numbers (violin strumming)
are the printed zeroes
Fashioning a Fourth Reich,
naked emperor be blew Lenin unsound
Ballot dropping the psych,
bosom burning the divided house down
With a teary grift posturing diddle,
Amerikan Nero is playing the fiddle
Rearview rolling one last Rublecon riddle,
carny Fahrenheit was the plucking piddle
Crumbling democracy
was brimstone seen through the smoke
Ash trail of hypocrisy
left an urn nation crematorium stoked
12-29-20
When starlings were swimming in the azure lake,
When bats and owls began their nocturnal ride,
When all the Earth under a dark blanket lay,
And man and beast into sweet repose retired,
My Muse, like a sweet temptress, came to me
To set this captive free, to give free rein to my fancy.
She sang into my ears the lovely strains
Of a placid melody, bathing me in sheer delight
Creating in me a passion too intense
To articulate my disjointed thoughts
Into vibrant melodies of beauty and love.
Soon fireflies of thoughts came flitting,
Like bees around a looted honey comb.
In a butterfly net, I trapped them all.
They clustered together in a clumsy heap,
Making my darkened zone bright
With little arcs of shimmering light.
I placed them carefully in an ordered strain,
Word after word, in meaningful sequence,
Fashioning them into a beautiful symphony,
Arousing in me mystical spells of joy.
When your Muse comes knocking at your door,
Delay her not, but let her in
And go for a merry ride with her
Into some sleepy glades where silence resides.
There, let her magic wand kiss and caress you
From head to foot and all over,
Awakening your fancy from deep slumber,
Parading before you, scenes of beauty and wonder,
That, songs of passion are born from you
Gushing forth in streams of honeyed dew.
So, write on....!
As darkness descended on our valley -
deleting purple and violet from the sky -
my beloved and I lay upon a blanket
soon gazing at myriads of twinkling stars
that pulsed their pearlescent shine as if to music.
Goddess Luna showed herself full-faced -
lovely, round and luminescent.
Immersing us in summer’s nocturnal sounds,
a chorus of katydids and crickets
were singing to their mates with chirps and trills.
My love declared that nature was crooning
a melody just for me!
Then playfully he said he wished
to snatch some stars down from the sky.
He’d string them together,
fashioning them into a pretty necklace
that would sparkle against my alabaster skin.
He looked up at the moon then,
teasing me again with his sweet words -
that if he could, he’d capture moonbeams
and press them into a stone
that shone as brightly as
my eyes were glowing that precious night.
That gem he would set inside a silver ring.
Serenading me, he’d place it on my hand.
I would be the Goddess Luna, and forever
we would radiate our love for each other -
resplendent like the shining moonstone on my finger,
and together we would reign
with me beside him as his gleaming queen.
Ashen was the sky
That rejected hand of sunrise
Sullen was the heart
That stumbled in affection,
Incapable of lauding
Ruby blush of budding rose
And pink passions on horizon
Defying darkened woes.
In midst of a vibrant spring
Her garden blooms curled up
Amid hostile dry weather,
Teared-up, she sat alone
In pathos of indignation
Refusing to surrender
To demands of mendacity.
Crepuscular obscurity
Betrayed her evening
Fashioning night’s reverie
In trickery of nightmares,
As rancor of disillusionment
In ambivalent outrage
Recognized your stygian echoes.
Dead are her feelings now
Stilled in darkened cemetery
In graveyard of misdeeds,
Where spent emotions
Lamenting shattered love
Inscribe finality on tombstone
In epitaph of silent screams
Expounding your infidelity.
Oh, harbingers of cold hands,
Architects of pale shelter,
Glittering shiny metals
Disguising as genuine jewels,
Fear the cry of her angst
Howling soul forsaken
For she holds you in contempt
Of ancient Agape love
And monument to beloved--
The wondrous Taj Mahal.
November 15, 2019
Placed 1st: Pale shelter contest; Sponsor: John Hamilton
Placed 2nd: Strand special 11 by Brian Strand
Moments in God’s Cosmic Time
A fleeting, finite time space one now may define;
A flash of seconds for poets to see and find rhyme.
Fashioning a human understanding of God’s Time,
Gives us a hint continuant, complex too—yet Divine!
Einstein’s E = mc2 gives us all a most gifted treasure,
With “c” as light’s constant nature for us to measure.
These moments can concatenate continuously as one,
Or may be revealed in time by mere eye-blinks for fun.
By teasing our thoughts, God infuses our spirits now bold,
With life’s knowledge over time, worth more than all gold!
Being of God’s self-image defines who we each are in life;
It’s for each of us to master our destiny before earthly strife.
Teasing our thoughts with heavenly images of eidetic clarity,
God speaks to us all subliminally over time—never as a rarity!
God's the only true divine mystic when it comes to Cosmic Time,
And the master for setting the Universe in perfect Cosmic Rhyme!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
December 12, 2015 (Couplet)
“Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.” — Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When starlings were swimming in the azure lake
When bats and owls began their nocturnal ride
When all the Earth under a dark blanket lay
My Muse, like a sweet temptress, came to me
To set this captive free, to give free rein to my fancy
She sang into my ears the lovely strains of a placid melody,
Bathing me in sheer delight, creating in me a passion too intense
To articulate my disjointed thoughts into vibrant melodies of beauty
Soon fireflies of thoughts came flitting like bees around a looted honeycomb
In a butterfly net, I trapped them all clustering together in a clumsy heap
Making my darkened zone bright with little arcs of shimmering light
I placed them carefully in an ordered strain, word after word,
In meaningful sequence, fashioning them into a beautiful symphony
When your Muse comes knocking at your door
Delay her not, but let her in and go for a merry ride with her
There, let her magic wand kiss and caress you
From head to foot and all over awakening your fancy
From deep slumber, that songs of passion are born from you,
Gushing forth in streams of honeyed dew,
For poetry is a life cherishing force!
Nov. 23.2022
~Placed Third~
Poetry is a Life Cherishing Force Contest
Sponsor – Sotto Poet
Re submitted for Brian Strand Contest. No.1170
transmogrify
once upon a time
one knew how to begin
the state of the day dream,
by removing the mind,
shedding the every day
paraphernalia, then escaping
into a realm just
above the physical
wishes were formed
refined into possibilities.
great words were put together
fashioning unforgettable thoughts
ideas. solve the world,
feed the hungry, succour the afflicted
find lasting love
with someone who understands.
that was once upon time
when youth invaded every corner
of life with depth of
time. now it has shrunk
crept away unnoticed into
the place of things forgotten.
reverie of age has become,
into this wandering mind-time
now the escape does
not require active initiation.
it flows without boundaries
between here, now, and then.
the shape has changed from
slightly tenuous but graspable
to muzzy melted cotton candy
clouds sweet but impossible
to construct. depth is lost
with the passage of time
the betrayer of all day dreams.
presently lay down,
surrounded by personnel myths
slowly, gently transmogrify
into whom you have always been.
No one in particular (in the wake of our dreams)
We don’t look like they do,
graphic replicas of a life in tatters,
drifting on lonesome clouds
Dove’s wing spread
capturing the wind,
waving goodbye to an existence
that dreams in black and white,
fashioning commercials
like chip and salsa dispensers
Camouflaged by sadness,
greens and browns woven in corduroy overalls
Contemplating the loss
before the beginning creates a title
and words have only meaning
for others who chose to read
and believe that each day
is a jewel in the crown of the month
Floating on seas of discontent
even though heart shaped sails
reflect on horizons
much closer than they appear
but still so far away
that silhouettes resemble unmentionables
as others keep a watchful eye
for anything that even seems
like a tide fueled rumor,
just because they can
Still, we don’t look like they do,
maybe because our visions come through
a brilliant sunrise and we realize
we do need somebody
and we won’t hesitate to cherish,
quietly of course,
those who come to touch us
in the wake of our dreams,
hiding in plain sight,
disguised as no one
in particular
Darling, will you love me still if I weren't a poet?
Will you hold my hand if I hypothetically happened
to pause my pen from poesy?
If I didn't use alluring alliterations to express my emotions?
If my soul stayed silent with no more stimulating similes?
Will you respect me if I refrain from rhyming ruminations?
Will you really care for me if I didn't use
imaginary imagism in our intimate interactions?
Will you share my worries if I were to withhold myself from writing?
Will you miss me manufacturing meticulous metaphors?
Will you caress and comfort me
if I cease to construct colourful canticles?
My handsome hero, will you accept me if I were a normal girl,
And not your special sweetheart with spectacular songs?
Will you tolerate my tantrums if my tongue terminated those tugging tunes?
Will you hold and hug me if I were to halt my hand
from creating clever, catchy compositions?
Will you value me verily if my verses vanish and vaporise?
If my muse turned morose and mum, will you still stay by my side?
If my moods metamorphosed into melancholic mysteries,
will you be mad at me or motivate me?
Will you still find me mesmerizing if making melodies escape my memory?
If I discontinued my ditties, will you discard me or defend me?
Will you be fond of me if I freeze my fingers from fashioning your fanciful fantasies?
Dearly beloved, will you still lavish me with love forever
if I were not a person to present my poetic preparations?
If I were to discontinue my direct declarations, will you still delight in me?
Oh! Will you appreciate me anyway if I abandoned my artistic abilities?
Tell me, my dear and I will stop my stuttering soul and muttering mind...
Will you prohibit my passion for poems...
or accept me as I am?
projecting our wanting love self
we imagine who we want
seeing our forever soul partner
fashioning them out of smoke
sagely ignoring reflective honesty mirrors
throwing ideas that do not fit
into a hot fiery furnace
ignoring the cries of reality
turning our backside to ashes
crucifying truths that don’t fit
projecting our wanting love needs
we envision an ideal life
with scoundrels who hurt us
expecting a revelation to turn
them into our prince charming
throwing away family and feelings
into wide crevices and ditches
turning our backs on screams
inside our heart that die
with unseen truths in mirrors
Barbie’s precision, stiff, lounging in glamorous style,
Plastic pink body asleep in a brand new cardboard box.
Barbie, eyes still open, abused by many of Ken's wiles,
She was once truly human, her daughter opens the lock.
The key is that her daughter Tara, is now forty or more,
Barbie's truly brutal life has never been known before.
There is a real woman who modeled for Barbie, it’s true,
But the life of her daughter, no one ever really knew.
The real Barbie drank in dark tombs of sharp yellow scotch,
Daily she was drunk and passed out on the wooden floors,
Sleeping with numerous young men the names she forgot.
Bold and hansom men came in droves but never to adore.
While drunk, Tara was raped by one of Barbie’s drunken lovers.
Drafts of therapists came, yet, she never really recovered.
A mere child she was left with problems that shattered her dreams,
Mattel Toys and Barbie were not really what they seemed.
Mattel was owned and run by Barbie's real parents,
fashioning the doll after how the real Barbie would look and act.
Some said Barbie Doll was a fine model for young women, this made little sense,
But Barbie lost Tara's respect in reality and that continues as a fact.
Knowing this story I’d never buy that drunken toy, hoping
Tara grows strong and finds her life, after she's finished coping.
Fashioning the favourable foul,
Cutting the caustic cordial,
Rearing a rabid recall.
Pardon the potion
When blind and blundering
We fathom the favourable foul.
String along the slug
When casually and crazed
We concede the caustic cordial.
Split the sauce
When tardily and turbulently
We receive the rabid recall.
Behold the botheration of the booze!
Jilt the jitters of the jug,
Surrender the stress of the spirits.
Do this in the name
Of the bright, the blue
And the holy camera eye.
Amen.
© 2016 Margo Cami [www.margocami.com]
A is for anchovies,salty little fishes.
B is for blueberries in muffins and sweet dishes.
C is for cabbage,so good for making slaw.
D is for dragonfruit,you can eat it raw.
E is for eggplant,as parmegan delights.
F is for fritters,deep fried apple bites.
G is for gazpacho,chilled soup from Spain.
H is for honey,so good for throat pain.
I is for Indian foods like spicy curry.
J is for jello,simple desserts in a hurry.
K is for kiwi from the land of the sleeping dragon.
L is for lemon to keep digestive juices from lagging.
M is for mushrooms,shitake and morels.
N is for noodles such as macaroni shells.
O is for onions,yellow and sweet white.
P is for peppers,an Italian delight.
Q is for Quiche,an egg dish so mellow.
R is for raspberries,often used in jello.
S is for shrimp,darlings of the sea.
T is for tomato, a fruit it would be.
U is for Uglifruit,sweeter than it's name.
V is for vinegar,pungent not tame.
W is for waffles,a breakfast treat.
X is for xouba sardines found near Crete.
Y is for yogurt, it's all Greek to me.
Z is for zucchini that will make rattatouille.
Versatility and imagination go a long way.
But the right ingredients keep hunger at bay.
for Cyndi's ABC couplet contest
I just happen to love all these ingredients and have at some or other used or eaten almost all of them! I have a talent for fashioning a grand meal out of only a couple of ingredients...I am a good cook...my boyfriend says I am trying to fatten him up!(nobody ever told him to take seconds and thirds!!)
The veil woven lightly, square in delicate lines
precisely, shaping the black web softly covering
her lovely neck. A gaunt, perfectly sculpted face,
draped with the veil under her black wool hat. The
hat held the veil strictly in place as it inflamed the
emblem embroidered in gold, surrounding the topaz
gemstone centered on the hat. Growing tired she
held her cheeks with her hand just underneath
the veil, like an after-thought, or an odd moment
of insecurity. It wasn't just a hat and veil anymore,
it had become the perfect mask fashioning the
stranger whose hands she was so
unfamiliar with.