Best Festooned Poems
Of parrots and parakeets, no one knows
now numbering in the thousands
no longer Mexico's bucolic birds
new urbanized citizens migrated
to the suburbs.
If you travel to Los Angeles and county
where hobo avians flock to Pepperdine
hoping to matriculate to paradise..
Pasadenans know the raucous calls from palms
festooned in bright feathers and pheromones.
Should you wish to elicit a response
from a Red-crowned Amazon..
just ask any witch cat which hungers
with an acute accessory olfactory
rife in feline grin and purpose
eye'n the skies cheerfully.
And somewhere Marianne Faithfull warbles
'this little bird who lives on the wind,
this little bird that somebody sends.'
they're listening too, with a coo and squawk
o'er the skies of Silverlake
and Eagle Rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Little Bird sung by Marianne Faithfull - Lyrics by J.D. Loudermilk 1965
sometimes I sing
antique anthems,
of the nights
I was confined
within a bottle
of diamond tears,
wept woefully
from the widest sky
that held kaleidoscopic stars~
amidst festooned fields of
pixie-dust flowers,
hanging like
starburst chandeliers,
when t i m e was never in favor
of designing a
heart-shaped galaxy
to ease the
troubled torrents….
as languid linings
cast by the
sombre umbra
soaked me
in melancholic sprinkles,
of what was left in my strength;
for I knew nothing
beyond the evening clouds
that mirror
marshmallow musings,
stained with
tuscan tones. ..
yet, I remember
seeing your sunflower smile,
as I dreamt of
your mystical melodies,
spoken poetically,
way before I knew you
would become my reality,
though the homely hideaway
to my hopes
now fester amongst
corners of your
dusky eye lashes…
I’ve battled with nothing
but obsidian obstacles
that laid
in the
tiny tunnels
of my
crippled consciousness.
now our souls
seem chained in pearls
and coiled in amethyst anklets
as one, in stellar waves
through a
ceaseless constellation;
cosmic connection
endorsing these fingers
with your
poignant pantoums,
aligning my heart to lay
within your
evergreen embrace,
limited by
the lyrical land
you’ve lavished
my
longing lagoons into.
so here I am, scribbling stories
of our zealous zenith
within your platinum presence~
as confessions disguised
within tangerine tercets
of vanilla villanelles
have now come alive,
amidst a rebirth
of a warrior meant
to b l e e d
vivid verses
eviscerating
nacreous nebulas
into blissful b l u e brines,
that shall stream
through
unfamiliar rivers of dragon roses
till every electrifying element
rests in aesthetic harmony.
I stubbed my toe ...
(I do this a lot since turning fifty-five,
when everything I picked up to read began going to
arm's length in order to be visible,
and "readers" became a permanent style change -
I see things in the lower part of my
vision through wire-rimmed lenses that ride low
on my nose, and the mid-to-upper
views are naked eye, hence my feet are nearer
to objects than they seem,
and my podiatrical digits pay the price)
... and though this particular piggy-pounding
was as intensely painful and bloody as any of the myriad
bashings that preceded it, and while the air around me
reverberated just as rhythmically as it ever had with
streams of well-placed and frustration-relieving profanity,
and though my fists pounded just as relentlessly against
my thighs in anguish as they ever had before, (the purple/
black damage there to be tended to at a later date), and
while my face grew as contorted and red as was humanly
possible, THIS specific stubbing, was entirely different ...
... for when the aforementioned processes had run their
rather ugly (and noisy) courses, THIS time I smiled,
reached for my sublimely-timed Frozen Blue Margarita,
raised it to the direction of the accident itself, offered
a heartfelt blessing to that marvelous twilight air, and
TOASTED the very object I had stubbed it on ... a tree.
But you see, THIS tree was surrounded by cool, white
quartz sand, was near a lagoon that shimmered with the
colors of a peacock, and was festooned quite wonderfully
and perfectly and tropically, with PALMS ...
... battered toes ... be damned! ;-)
Now Christmas in July seems crazy - I’m sure I hear you say
That has got to be plain silly - but this is the Aussie way
Christmas is in December you insist it’s a well-known fact
But in this land way ‘Down Under’ our seasons are ‘out of whack’
July is Aussie winter while in December it's scorching hot
Those Three Wise Men may know the reason but then again maybe not!
A time for relaxing with family and friends spreading the good cheer
Sip a glass of Lilly Pilli wine or toast with a VB beer
Frosty Christmas in December - for some it seems so right
Tinsel and baubles festooned - Oh what a delightful sight
Presents around the Christmas tree decked with lights and holly
Cheery little Santa’s look so happy and so jolly
In December air-cons turned cold mimicking our winter in July
When Santa rode his sleigh down south to Oz coming from the land up high
With a Ho Ho Ho he now powers his jet ski - riding mighty waves
He coasts straight onto our golden sands joining parting people and raves
Remember my friends it is a time filled with Peace and Joy
To commemorate the Special Birth of a Baby Boy
Worry not friends we don’t miss out on all that wintry good cheer
For you see folks here in OZ - Christmas always comes twice a year
Author’s Note:
'Christmas in July', which is also known as Yulefest or Yuletide in Australia. July is generally the coldest month of winter, so celebrations emulate the atmosphere of the northern hemisphere winter. So that means hearty food like roasts, and warm drinks in front of fireplaces and bonfires. Don’t be alarmed folks! – Just for the record, here in Oz we have a second helping and do celebrate Christmas on 25th December with the rest of the world.
~‘out of whack’ - An Aussie term for ‘Out of Sync’~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Synopsis from the composer of the song and clip -
"The Aussie Christmas Song" by Batesy. Published on Dec 18, 2012
‘One Christmas eve I was singing carols about dashing through the snow & a white Christmas and thought "Aussies don't have snow at Christmas" and it was also 30 degrees outside, so The Aussie Christmas Song was born, it's about sun, sand, backyard cricket, pavlova, and a cold beer - Ah!! - Sing along!!!’
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn, whose beauty never alters,
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawn’s altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid.
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! Surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitudes that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range, yawns its last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Men’s ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known to visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephant’s wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
Collaboration with njeri hunjeri who is a wonderful poet
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi
Upon my quest for quintessence.
I was an amorist,
positive in poetic philosophies.
Elysian and empyrean effigies,
enlightened in an ephemeral existence.
Life a fragile garland
festooned with a frangipani fragrance,
meandered in meadows of melodies,
a mouthpiece to a frivolous flute
but gone are lucent lusory lullabies.
I turned to the ballad of birds.
Dulcet desires dreamed of diamond drops,
dulcifluous, dulciloquent and diaphanous.
Delusions led to an interpretation of illicit illusions.
I became a metaphor for afflicted adjectives.
Mimesis mind became brittle and barren,
aphonic and amort - a crestfallen conscious.
A wild wallflower in an orchard of opal orchids,
slowly decomposing - in silent semblance
clocks won't stop for sojourners of the soul..
I searched for footprints left behind,
upon porcelain seraphic shores,
but knavish kismet lay lamenting,
disconsolate upon a distant island,
manifesting murmurations of a
maleficent maelstrom monsoon.
My life was once a
razzmatazz of reflections
gold, ivory and bronze,
but now silver sighs slither,
releasing a soft susurrus,
as once sapphire sylphlike skies are
now vermillion and violet visions.
Haematic horizons close the gates to heaven,
yet in my ruins, I know there is fortune,
as I polish my mirror of misfortune,
hoping it glows in canorous colours.
A Sonnet On It
It comes and goes on idle vagrant winds
hitching rides in briar like dependence
under pressure its aimless trek will bend
for it is not concerned with making sense.
So does it guard its anonymity
its preference - stay lost amid the stir
sought after for its ambiguity
as evil lout or ever faithful cur.
However, it may change with careful groom
take on an aura larger then its self
become the centerpiece of crowded room
festooned with all the trappings of its wealth.
Coyly fan itself beneath its bonnet
listening as others read its sonnet.
5/18/2016
submitted to – Pen A Sonnet On It – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Janis Thompson
A Gods Eye View of The World
Every form blends and fades
Persistent though
And meaningful
Below from top to bottom slides
Encompassed by
Itself
Describes a purpose
To shift from one to another
And never made less
Than the original
Veins and circulars entwined
Each led to destiny
Between crags and breezes
The formation
Forces of opposition
And tendrils equate
The indefatigable line of being
A mingled sea of light
Transposes through shadow
Arch and rock
Air indivisible
A vibrant salute continues
In a heraldry of birth
Festooned upon the relinquished
A sleeping crown
All appears dancing
A choreography of miniatures
And magnitude beyond thinking
Swift sent of consciousness
Awakened in a tide
Of gesture
And slow somnambulant time
Picks blades or petal
From hair or eye
Thus is its passing
A present unending momentum
Between the washing colour
Of an unseen spectrum
A fluid solidity of dust
On which inscribed imaginations
Pallet of brilliance
Careless even reckless
In its precision of chaos
The full monument of awareness
And spoken singular
Undivided
Unsullied
Stands between feet and sky
Between earth and star
An infinitesimal populace
Of essence and core
Scattered seeds individually planted
To witness
The realms of awe
( Thank you for this poem ).
Refrain:
You shimmering waves on the ocean blue
Dance not again, he cannot dance with you
You weeping forests where the winds wail too
Let your bright tears fall in the pool of dew
The world of pop will never be the same again
The king is dead, and life is a dream so vain.
O day most callous like the callous world, how
Did you come about? By whose love designed,
Whose genius bore him, gave him life? O now
Do tell us of his human coming, since maligned
It's oft forgotten that he was somebody's child
Context in a world where his skin was reviled:
And yet some marveled that he parted from it
To build a world different from base to summit.
Genius is a gift and not a choice, and he was all
A moment's glimpse of earth's troubled paradise
For Michael was not mere mortal he was our tall
Selves transformed to art, so nuanced to the wise
That understood how his dance moves were silk
Syllables of protest and regret, a symbol cocooned
In loneliness, a man pining for the rare social milk
Of happiness against a material breast, festooned
With a race unhappiness. He was more than we
Saw with naked eye, Michael was an artist true
Context in all our history. And yet his mortality
Was not less not vulnerable due to fame, a blue
Note then sing for him, remember this day's despair
How the fickle fans in fragile praise came again
Away from the media's maddening glare to share
This moment of dark our universal deluge of pain.
O Indiana, this is your son, O America this here
Is your native child, weep here ye poets, weep
For him, the poet of the broken soul, Let no tear
Leave a eye that's dry for the lullaby of his sleep
Come ye world that felt his charity, beg angels
Hear us and welcome him; Michael, forever we
Will keep our hearts beating for you, in citadels
Of shining peace when your songs bring memory.
It was the best of tines; it was the worst of tines.
It lay, distraught, in silence on the road.
He came around the curve, saw it too late to swerve;
the puncture caused his front tire to explode.
A silver-plated fork, her lineage was perhaps York;
a heritage of which she’d long lost track.
Her dreams as ballerina, faded like her patina;
now, pits and scars festooned her neck and back.
Her mind played back her fall, the horror of it all;
despairing life, she hoped it would end soon.
At first, upon a dare, burlesque with the flatware,
to end in shame, pimped by a plastic spoon.
Not wanting to be saved, she’d crawled out on the paved,
and waited for the crush when all went flat.
But in that car’s careening, her life took on new meaning;
an unexpected blowout saw to that.
For there, just up ahead, a kitten, surely dead,
was spared as the man slammed upon the brake.
Once stopped, he now could see her mewling pitifully;
he gently scooped her up to calm her shake.
Then, trying not to swear, he wrestled with the spare
and stowed the blown-out tire in the boot.
That’s when he saw her, mangled, her tines all at odd angles,
a fork that placed them all upon this route.
And so with certain care, he also placed her there
beside the kitten, on the padded seat.
Now straightened out and polished, she watches York demolish
the breakfast that her tines scooped out to eat.
—————
for the Metrical Tale Poetry Contest
sponsored by Hilo Poet
written on 01/03/2022
She opened her eyes and she stretched in her bed, then she rose up just like a skylark
and her eyes still glowed softly ,for she had spent dreams just dancing in the dark,
immersed in the beauty of what she had dreamed, she drifted just like an illusion
that somehow had risen from dreamland with her, in magical dancing confusion,
lace curtained light lit her soft elfin face, then lifted her eyes from the evening gloom
that brought her arising from yesterday’s arms, a cameo Princess alone in her room,
she wove herself onto the loom of the day like a tapestry waiting for rainbows to glow
then she wandered alone through a greenwood lit walk, where kiss soft breezes blow.
She meandered so gently, lost in her song, her whole world seemed just like a stage
her melody soared she felt sorrows depart, then she slowly turned over life’s page,
as she sighed to the sea, the sea whispered back of everything one day would bring
she thought of a time that was festooned in rhyme painted reasons that held her again
although all she had known after being alone gave her no thought of happiness yet
she dreamed in the sunrise of beginnings again, and smiled to the dying sunset,
to the transit of Venus she raised up her heart as she felt her dream nearing her door
she had given so much to so many in pain, and yet she still deserved so much more.
Then under her gazebo she sat by her fish pond and watched all the whirlygigs dance
and her heart skipped a beat as she pondered again upon such an endearing romance,
then she felt a soft kiss blown from so far away touch her cheek and bejewel her eyes
she knew as he neared she’d replace all her fears with such a deep loving sunrise,
Then she drifted away on a year and a day to that place where lovers often do
she was sure of their love and the good times to come, before their lives were through,
So many moments she’d spent all alone, before all she had wished for came true
But no longer she thought there would be just a me, but now both a me and a you…
Carnelian and crimsons orchestrate eye music
Ornate as orange oboes that blare a fiery woo
Loud in the hills, flaring flutes of maroon thrill,
Oscillating in burgundy trills of a breezy banjo
Red rises in volumes that the silent trees hear,
For they farewell warmth, in sun-setting relief,
Undulating in vermillion wavelengths an adieu,
Lingering long in mellowing yellows, autumnal
Free leaves wind-whorl a gold saxophone-puff
As apples blush in whistles of a taupe wisteria
Looping branches bare-brown in tuned annual
Love-fest festooned in earthen melody eternal
(9/14/18)
Written: May 2nd, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Seth Pina
Based on the Poem: The Artist
5th place contest winner
******************
It begins as a breath, barely born—
a lucent little longing that should have stayed liminal,
Yet it irrupts, unabated,
threading itself through the chiaroscuro of my thoughts.
I tell myself it is otiose,
a passing flicker, a quixotic quirk of the mind—
but it grows tensile, treacle-thick,
a rumbustious rhapsody refusing to evanesce.
Your name—your very sobriquet—
becomes a mellifluous mantra,
an epizeuxis echoing in the marrow,
a chant I never meant to memorize.
I wander through hours like a wayward opsimath,
learning too late how fixation forms its own theology—
how a single presence can become
a sacrosanct symbiosis of ache and awe.
Every thought is festooned with your outline,
every silence redolent with your imagined breath;
even the air feels janiform,
half mine, half yours,
as if the world itself has chosen sides.
I try to exculpate myself
from this inchoate imbroglio,
but obsession is a sagacious sherpa—
It knows the steepest path
and drags me up it anyway.
And still—
beneath the nadir of night,
in the hush where hubris dissolves—
I feel the truth unfurl:
That obsession is not hunger,
nor hubris,
nor hecatomb of reason—
but the amaranthine ache
of wanting to witness beauty
so completely
that it finally
witnesses you back.
Savvy silver vanity set howls
on the edge of an antique dresser;
The ballerina’s festooned curls
aglow in the mirror’s reflection;
On the edge of an antique dresser
an eidolon sits pointe shoes laced;
Aglow in the mirror’s reflection,
left foot lies slightly unnatural;
An eidolon sits pointe shoes laced,
wailing her toes swell ever larger;
Left foot lies slightly unnatural,
bent and broken into reddish blue;
Wailing her toes swell ever larger,
‘Relinquish the pain so I can dance!’
Bent and broken into reddish blue
bloom into spiderwebs that splinter;
‘Relinquish the pain so I can dance!’
The ballerina’s festooned curls
bloom into spiderwebs that splinter;
Savvy silver vanity set howls.
Let it be recorded
my wish to live
where I can sleep
in good weather or bad
on a beach festooned
in the bric-a-brac
of the ages.
Perhaps a vanishing glow
far to the south
all that is left
of that common pestilence
known intimately
as a lifetime
of earthly dues
Now I am leaning with shoulders leeward
still eyeing the reef submerged
a ship's pilot
steering his vessel
beyond the shoals
victorious
to the open sea
From breath to breath
I exhale the plague
once tyrannical
against every stemming cell
once dominant
over every
pulsing heartbeat.
The sea now
lives inside my cells
where time itself
tunnels the sun
through woven matrixes
a surface below
tethered skin
I can only hope
as I fall into sleep
that I soon be awakened
to sea birds squawking
at something of interest
in the tumbling
surf