Best Ferments Poems
A period of youthful vim ferments
as coruscating golden flecks in eyes
that mesmerise and tantalise, give rise
to secrets in my breast to stir, foment.
The xanthous tresses that cascade torment.
My eager and impressionable sighs
that echo every pirouette and pliés,
a fleeting intercession of lament.
A maverick when it comes to amour
and quintessentially a rakish cad.
Unrequited love longstanding rancour,
but finally become your paramour.
An enigmatic smile ever so sad;
your broken heart I gladly give succour.
As lemonade evaporates in humid haze,
Upbeat, the pollen sway, so sweet the starry buds,
Good times abound for goldenrod with golden locks!
Unwitting sun ferments in glitzy-bitsy blooms,
Seductive nectar, Nature’s bubbly, brews a buzz,
Two tipsy bees in gold-dust slippers tango dance.
I won't pick out one special Poetry Soup poet
None of us are worthy of being a poet Laureate
Choosing just one who has skills shouldn't be a goal
It's like separating a favorite sheep from the foal
Saying its wool has the most beautiful fleece
doesn't seem to be the right way to have peace
There are many poets who write with quality
and if I choose only one, I'd owe an apology
to those I didn't honor by using their name
I don't want to be guilty and won't take the blame
for entering any contest on Poetry Soup
that might hurt someone's feelings in the group
Picking a favorite could cause further division
I don't think alienating any poet is a good decision
Congrats to those who earn it with great writing
No one deserves to be overlooked by slighting
It's my opinion so I have the freedom to say
If peace is to exist in PS, it won't be found this way
Some great poems are written as lyrics to a song
but naming one above the others seems wrong
Tell those you admire by making kind comments
Prevent hurt feelings and ill will before it ferments
Such divisiveness might hurt another poet's heart
It's not pleasant to taste buds, too sour and too tart
Oh! The joy of life when one it seems
wants to climb into a portrait of sentiment,
only then to create a trembling emotion
that completes an insatiable mind,
when one’s image blending with nostalgia
ferments for a moment like a perpetual habit
served up as vintage wine.
To be reconciled with one’s inner self,
the body here now, yet, a mind
locked in another dimension reliving
a fading monochrome print, brought
to life with one’s own vivid anamnesis.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Daughter, neglected by maternity
A button missing were her eye should be
Abused and abundant by paternity
Her limb missing were her leg should be
Expected to know the origins of charity
Love omitted from were her heart should be
Against all odds, to reach her maturity
In reality, adopted by a broken society
Of child and woman abusers, inequality
With each step, she becomes a step-
Daughter, despised by her competing step-
Sisters, losing the will to extend herself
Her education ferments high on a shelf
Absent mentors, no substitution
The sun sets on her bright future
A childhood deprived of true joys
Increasing her desire for real toys
Her reasoning capacity, a silent voice
Indecision a symptom of her poor choice
Her soul searches for a father figure
In a boy met under similar circumstance
Her identity lost to home affairs
His real intentions far from hers
A love child raised by other children
In a no child zone, her new comfort zone
Her Barbie thinned, cries for a meal a day
Granted, no chance to grow and play
12-13-2014
In the orchard of opalescence
magnificent myriads of mellows
fervently flow in fountains
breathing beguile blossoms
a forgotten fable ferments,
in haunting hollows I hear.
My heart is a restless garden
with varying pulses of penumbra
conflicts caressing cuddles
tenacious tattered thorns
singing to sumptuous serenades
where brisking bubbles burst
butterflies spread beautiful wings
bees buzzing like ballerinas
to ballads in pirouettes--
a symphony calms my anxieties
descending from azure skies
but my vineyard wilts in agony.
A bird drops a seed of hope
from a foreign land in my orchard
sprouting to strive in storms
emanating exotic effervescence
ballerinas pause their buzz
butterflies flee in fear
serenades slip in streams
out casting the stranger seed.
I touch the seed with curiosity
blissfully in my meadow
melancholy melts to melodies
auspicious aurora allures
tender bud in lavender hues
drenching my dulcet dreams
in showers of chrysanthemum whispers
draping my fears at dusk
embrace my weariness with love
Is this what I'd been awaiting
a stranger I've always known
Aphrodite in lilac curtains
blushes to unfurl the petals
my fingers touch her musings
her fragrance blooms my orchard
ensnaring my sapphire senses
sparkling in emerald dew drops
I plant her beside my window
she's my fable of felicity
vineyard reviving to life
as tendrils ascend to witness
her velvet lullabies
"Sleep my love
another garden awaits me"
July 30, 2020
Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies! Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
~Winner: 1st Place
Mindless the mission with visions unseen;
Open to wonder that transcends the pure;
Rest beyond tension the friction that weans;
Embrace the thunder that creates allure.
Time after time we hurl unsure wild complaints;
Reach within a whole that stumbles to show;
Urge ferments bold twirl in funny restrain;
Entice playful soul to dance swirling free flow.
Give zest sure blooming in growing grooming;
Rise to tact's venture that conspires within;
Invoke calm knowing in showing feeling;
Touch flavours texture as act puzzles win.
Bring your fond loving to lively motives;
Empower sure living with timely festive.
Leon Enriquez
24 Apr 2014
Singapore
(Note: This poem is an Acrostic Sonnet.)
Plagued by incandescent ferments I grapple zealously,
with tower blocks of titan topsoil myriads,
and melange of eccentric foibles,
considered by some to be a minus,
but without this composite what is my real nature?
reflection on a manifest mettlesome being,
leaden skewed traffic jam’s tailback of relative prospect,
normalcy a supernatural synonym,
apperception fringed by lambent twinkling,
that tantalising twirl of clustered countless spirits,
quirk-some inklings seem a weakness,
whilst chasing galaxy of plus point,
self-ostracised by atypical apparently conflicting plethora,
grave as in shadow id, tombstone stark exit but salutary motto,
etched eerily by one staunch depiction,
on catalytic other form of self,
unresolved human traits in multiples,
indicative of lack, lack of bearing?
me that nutrient rich plot that has,
this wondrous green blade potential compass,
me as sumptuous summer gust freshener,
of inner coastal home philosopher’s dwelling,
me an endless random version,
of charcoal midnight gleeful ghost,
blithely skimming chimney tops on deep quest,
yet nascent dawn usher lurks within,
augurs well for that sound ultimate coexistence,
despite an underbelly of niggling doubt
Hopefully I’m kind
at heart but rare traits might just
scupper thoughtful aim
HARVEST TIME
There are no roots to see, not with our eyes,
that stretch from earth, umbilically below;
not even to the sun, to realize,
but there must be a chord we do not know;
Are we not on a fruit, still ripening?
Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree,
Awaiting harvest time's great siphoning
When all are ripened; it's our time to be.
And we will be plucked from the path we're on
Around the sun, into a vat and pressed;
The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn,
Revealing vast unknowns, we've never guessed.
Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought,
Ferments into the past, already bought.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
She thinks in exotic colours
that drip off her tongue
like sharp shining jewels
formed somewhere deep
in the permafrost of her,
the grey matter thrives
in the lava somewhere
rising inside the
lux velvet crimson
pulsing at the core of her,
and births diamonds
that drip off her tongue
like icicles
that could pierce and shatter
a heart or could melt them
just the same
He is like a rhesus monkey
quite short in mind,
small in sound, oh,
but never sound,
the expression on his face,
wanting, eternally perplexed,
the value of his thoughts jumbled,
his darting hirsute mind
running zealous riots around
invisible conquests in
neverending schizoid circles,
rattling the bars of his cage
just for attention,
his words form strangely
for a species trapped
in his own dark age,
each day hardly speaking
but his mind screaming,
passing his hand through
his thinning hair
he is time poor
holding a cup
out for love
to the monkey grinder
all seems lost in poetic translation
yet, it ferments in the daily conditioning,
the small ritualistic routines
regularly delivered in bed before sleep
and upon waking
for one cannot survive without the other;
it’s in the feeding, not in the taking
Candide Diderot. ‘24
HARVEST TIME
There are no roots to see, not with our eyes,
that stretch from earth, umbilically below;
not even to the sun, to realize,
but there must be a chord we do not know;
Are we not on a fruit, still ripening?
Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree,
Awaiting harvest time's great siphoning
When all are ripened; it's our time to be.
And we will be plucked from the path we're on
Around the sun, into a vat and pressed;
The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn,
Revealing vast unknowns, we've never guessed.
Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought,
Ferments into the past, already bought.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Cabbage is pickled in a glass jar with plenty of red pepper.
Buried underground, it lies undisturbed as it ferments away.
It takes several months of aging before what we have is Korean “kim-chee“.
Today wasn’t a good morning at all for Hassan,
a victual merchant in Baghdad
Thirty four customers got killed by a suicide bomb
A jihadist Arab wearing an explosive vest,
proclaiming to be fighting against the west,
ended up only murdering his own people
The sun rising on the eastern horizon
cast a bloody pale
Screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Ambulance sirens blaring ... death is a hard item to sell
Innocent people shopping for meat, dairy, nuts and fruit,
in a tragic transaction bought the farm
The sign outside the market said half-off,
it didn’t mean exiting with half a leg or one arm
Somehow, Hassan in dust-covered anger survived
He was one of the fortunate few to make it out alive
with every body part intact, except his calm Iraqi mind;
it keeps expanding and contracting
in violent, kinetic convulsions a million times
from such a vile, humanitarian crime
Anxiety fruit flies hover over unsold crates of apricots,
seething vengeance
ferments the not bought bottles of apple vinegar
Mass killing is always bad for business —
a lot of potential repeat customers will only
come to the open air stalls one time
Nobody wants to buy ripe pomegranates, fresh goat milk
and vintage premature dying
Terrorism is bad for consumerism,
fanatical death wish ain’t good for the merchant gift registry
Not when buying a bouquet of flowers becomes a morgue delivery
Suicidal shrapnel kisses don’t welcome tourism,
foreigners eschew dying on vacation ... death ain’t an easy item to sell
Prayer vigil purchases of screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Hassan says business has been bad
ever since that fatal, holiday dawn mourn
Only rueful disaffection comes
with the bagging of the cabbage and corn
I write about the things I know,
The things that give me pleasure.
I write about the things I love,
About the things I treasure.
I write about what bothers me,
Which trouble and annoy.
I write about the things I hate,
Which rob life of it's joy.
It helps me to examine life,
To listen, look and learn.
It teaches me to deal with things,
Situations of concern.
It's good for our mental health.
It helps us to relax.
It relieves the built up tension,
When we express the things that tax.
Often things that bother us,
Never get expressed,
Because of certain protocol,
They must be repressed.
There's no place we can vent our rage.
No one wants to hear,
The mental and the physical,
Anguish of their peers;
So we hide it all inside,
Where it builds, ferments,
Because we have no outlet,
No place where we can vent.
Writing helps us vent our rage,
Our pent up fears and anger.
It enables us to speak our minds,
Release the prison of our languor.
It helps us see the beauty,
That surrounds us every day.
It helps us to appreciate,
And value work and play.
It teaches us to value,
The simple things of life.
The lovliness of nature,
The unworthiness of strife.
It teaches us to concentrate,
On that which pleases us.
To count our blessings every day,
Not that which stresses us.
It's not just an outlet,
That helps us to vent.
Writing also teaches us,
How to be content.
With each step that ferments in the aeons,
the fruits of a hard day’s work will converge,
on our awesome past written in rainbow crayons,
as past hurt and love, melt, galvanise and merge,
each step, each one of us, fruit, tree of life,
unbeknown to the masses, heroes fingers in dirt,
achievement in time, house, children, wife,
unhappy souls, trudge in noose and shirt,
praise that hero, only causes the world pain,
condemn those who believe in the sublime,
individual killed, collective soul slain,
admire human mortality, exist only in time,
each droplet of water, makes up ocean and river,
where individuality and morality die. Shiver.