Best Festoons Poems
July is the month of monsoon rains in our part of the land when there will be incessant downpour and flooding in coastal areas and low lying lands
In the vast expanse up so high,
In the caliginous July night sky,
A lone star trailed along from Heaven’s arch,
And through hindering clouds it did march.
Its lambent rays dancing in gleeful light,
Making everything luminously bright.
All starlets cowered in shame,
Hiding in corners, fearing blame.
It got stationed above a thatched manger,
Where baby Jesus lay swaddled in rags in rainy weather
Promising the gift of love and joy to mankind
Assuring everyone salvation and peace of mind.
The wind that blows is icy chill
Freezing cold is the water of the rill
Trees stand washed in rain
The sky, in greying clouds remain
Lights from nearby houses shine
Sending out a radiance divine
Christmas trees stand finely decorated
Cribs are colourfully illuminated
Stars and festoons can’t be hung in the open,
As in pouring rain, they may be broken.
July is not a month fit for the king to take birth,
Who has come to bless the world with cheery mirth
Yet, the whole land is vibrant with festivity.
The pouring rain hasn’t doused the gaiety.
Sunshine or rain, no matter the weather,
Friends and family are happy together.
Christmas wraps every heart in cheer,
Though it falls in July, the rainy month of the year!
July.11.2022
Christmas in July or July celebration Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Tania Kitchin
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
Written: November 3rd, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
************
winter roses stand
beauty is not warmth, but will~
to grow in quiet
snow burdens petals
not enough to break the stem~
just enough to coach
wind omits beauty
the rose still remembers, though~
how red riddles white
roots in ground frozen
whisper to the sleepy buds~
"pain is not the end."
sunlight, slim as thread
festoons the thorn with gold lace~
a crown for those brave
rose has no accent
its quiet song is louder~
than a thousand springs
Clinging to sunny Bognors regal
skirts
At his Majesties most royal verges
The readied hand thrusts upon the
lever,
And, shuddering, She forward lurches.
Clanking ominously over diesel fueled
growls,
Expediency, they said, was driven
to ignore:
The raised up objections and anguished
frowns,
And track them under tracked-over
ground.
For by unanimous vote they did smugly
decide,
Albeit tales of backhanders hotly denied,
That poor clymping Parish could no longer
abide
The daily through fare of the popular ride.
So when you next travel upon the new
Bypass
Think of the local residents you no longer
harass;
Dwell on the advantages you formerly
decried,
Whilst ripping through the greenbelt
to the jolly seaside.
Think of their tearooms, and the little
stone bridge,
Think of the old fort just beyond the sharp
ridge;
Think of their gift shops decked out with
festoons,
With bright little trinkets, plates and silver
spoons.
For over and beyond the ancient on-looking
hills
Creeps an old warming wind that carefully
steals:
To gently gather up the wretched mechanical
sounds -
And bear them away above the pale, distant
Downs!
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
Continued in part 2
Come with a smile,
come with a wink.
Come to the land
of pink, pink, pink.
Imagine
yourself
as a pale pink fairy,
wearing an earring
that's a pink clip-on,
and real pastel pink petals
held in your pinkie,
pointing to the pink chink
glow upon the horizon
at dawn.
The garden's dye this July
is floral pink blossoms.
And at times I do
have such pinkish dreams,
where everything is hued
in pink ice-creams.
Where I own a fine
posh pink cadillac,
parked in a pink chateau
festooned
with fallen pink lilac.
That,
overlooking
a pink sea
ebbing on pink pebbles,
where a pink moon
looks like big bubbles.
In pink colors,
if I could customize
'n'
personalize
my world:
so pink cushions all about,
and pink curtains unfurled!
My birthdays always wish
for pink balloons.
Oh, I love to decorate
and celebrate
with pink festoons.
And nature lovers could watch
salmon pink flamingoes
who stand upon one leg,
hiding
half their pink toes.
Or even bunny rabbit eyes
in bright pink glows.
Ah, pink's so feminine.
Think of pink hair pins,
pink lips 'neath two pink
blush cheeks,
right above cute
chinny chins,
or as buds in a rosebush
take pinkish peeks.
I see as well baby pink
frocks
and frilled pink socks,
and pink pom-pom caps
upon golden locks,
their pink sashes behind
them upon the walks.
Ah, I've always believed,
and still I think,
that pinkish is girlish and
girlish is pink.
Absolute Beauty’s Celestial Delineation, Evening’s Festoons , Golden Hues, Inviting Jubilation, Kid’s Laughter, Myriad Nodes Of Picturesque Quietness, Resplendant Swathes, Tufts, Utilitarian Vision Weaving ‘Xtra Youthful Zest.
For: John Freeman's contest
By: S.Jagathsimhan Nair, 29 OCT 11
The season’s fest imbues a bliss
As the grove blooms in morning’s kiss;
Where dainty festoons are aglow
Through springtime’s reign, young couples flow
Along bright paths, they reminisce.
The wind blows with scent of flowers
A lyre's music thrilling the hours
When gents kindle bold courtship's fire,
And lilies flaunt their gold attire
To charm pairs dancing in wonder.
Sweet talk and laughter fill the air
Oh gaiety rises everywhere,
Heady as tulips and wreaths unfurl
While ladies tiptoe like bough's curl;
On the first day of May’s affair.
Dusk slowly wafts to end the sighs
From misty lanes, dewdrops arise;
Hands on petals begin to rest
Enshrining time’s grace at its behest,
Till morrow comes for a new surprise!
Revelling in the rain
That goes tapping on my back.
I twirl, 'am in no haste;
With a weedy leafy dirndle
Wrapped around my waist.
I swing and I sway,
Drifting about in gay;
Pirouetting with the posies,
Floating in the pristine air.
I dance with no refrain,
Foot taps whispering with the rain.
The entire world stood,
As in a clearing in the wood;
With festoons of flowers and foliage,
Them all ornating my stage.
Till I dance into the dawn,
And a grey and cloudy morn;
Rain capering with me,
Accompanying me for a song.
``
For Charlotte Puddifoot's Contest : "First Poem On Soup"
When night casts shadows on the ground
The robin, distant, croons
Avian tones, enthralled by dreams
While stars glaze like festoons.
Ringlets of clouds, like puffs on flight
The silhouette of trees,
Nocturnal sighs and murmurings
Are caught up in the breeze.
Then, the new moon appears above
Her white face shyly peeps,
Light breaks so softly, glows the wings
As nest of duskfall sleeps.
Yet birdland rustles through the leaves
Jays trill on bush and thorn;
Where cardinal's imprints pass
Across the dappled lawn.
Soon these plumed wonders of the dark
Close down for daytime's rest,
To gather strength for next eve's rites
Unfolding at their best.
For The Birds Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
11/2/2015
Moonlight oft softens the summer night,
but comforts are few, in the deep of night
when winter arrives with its vicious bite,
and we shiver to see our world turned white.
Winter is cold, starkly black and white:
be it at the noon of day or deepest night.
Sounds ricochet, echoing far and wide,
inducing the timid to shelter and hide.
Glittering crystals - nature’s icy festoons,
serenade winter with wind driven tunes.
Snow squalls in plenty, allow no respite,
seasonal conditions of a January night!
Tinkling sounds, wild mid-winter chimes:
musical serenade of the northern climes.
Clouds scurrying by, set free their loads
traffic snarls badly, on snow bound roads.
Winds echo eerily through forest trees,
like tortured cries of entrapped banshees.
Red Fox scents a prey, prepares to swoop,
but alerted cotton tail chooses to scoot.
Deer seek comfort in the forest of the pine,
unlike domestic cattle that warmly recline
sheltered in a barn, with food close at hand,
ignoring coyote marauders - a passing band.
A Snowy Owl - silent night prospector,
scours open pastures, sector after sector,
listens for mice tunnelling under the snow
sharp is its hearing, for all sounds below.
Temperatures edge higher: a new arctic low
invading our region, presages more snow.
Deep skies sparkle with a myriad of stars:
plainly seen are planets: Jupiter and Mars.
Awestruck we marvel for hours to gaze
at comets streaking by, in suicidal blaze.
Northern Lights dance across rural skies,
but over the city, their pulsing radiance dies.
Such is the beauty seen on a winter night,
when nature enhances the smallest light
from a galactic display or little known star,
whilst faint sounds seldom heard, travel far.
Standing outside, well wrapped and warm,
studying the heavens and their unique form,
we may marvel on the allure of a winter night,
and enjoy moments, that award great delight.
Rhymer. January 2nd, 2018.
I did see the buoyant bubbles of bliss
fizzing out of my charming muse's smile.
A bubbly butterfly that she is,
was fluttering and whirling around me with verve.
She was so excited to explore the beauty of nature
and capture some thrilling moments as remembrance
for me to string those rosy memories
into pretty festoons of verses and rhymes.
But alas, she went and came back with an ashen face
and harsh rock-hard facts; when hit by those...
causes insufferable pain.
With angst, I deliver this grievous message
about the horrors of extinction inflicted upon Mother Earth
by the very superlative breed of hers with ravenous greed
they feed on everything to suffice their need to succeed.
An empire of dreams they want to build
on grave of ailing nature.
Enchanting hues of dawn and dusk are overshadowed
by hazy clouds of smoke that smothers each breath.
Economic growth thriving on combustion of fossil fuels.
Always caring to reap more than they sow,
countless trees are brutally chopped and their trace effaced
in the name of luxurious development.
Where once they stood with their crowns held high in the sky
and welcoming arms extended for shelter and shade
to so many birds and animals, are now replaced by
concrete towers and skyscrapers.
Bravo, such a triumph for axes, chainsaws and bulldozers!
Succulent fruits and vegetables sweetened with saccharin
and their skin rubbed with wax for sheen.
Plumper they are because of hormone injections.
Soil fertilized by corporate compost
and irrigated with water that is not crystal anymore.
Every drop is infused with wasted toxic chemicals
and surges the stench of disposed garbage
that begets monstrous diseases.
Even the depths of the oceans are not safe
as marine creatures are dying and lying on the shoreline.
Cheers to the sewage that adds to the quality of water!
A paradise that provided us life is pleading for mercy,
to be saved from the hellfire that we are stoking.
Do we really wish to be the curse for such a blessing?
Date: 06/28/2017
as turf wars go
here
the weapons concealed
before agendas revealed
and courtyard orders sealed
inside wetzel gooey goodness
grand central its not
maybe from the outside
but inside the buzz is low
the reverb high
lingering as smoke choking
on its own asthma
void of cache
or any semblance
of the character
chiseled into posts,
ceiling festoons
and the ethnic parades
chanting in uniform grunts,
silence and glares
required vitals from
their lost or stolen IDs
it isnt Union Station for nothing
a primal yack, spit and grin
flowing from the cakes of
baked commuters
forsaked souls
and a neighborhood watch
that drools in adoration
point a to point b (or c)
never had an intermission like this
then again
here
every director is the drama
they wish they could
coddle into love.
(10/30/13)
Black velvet sky festoons solemnly my brooding words,
Exudes gloom from my mindly nib, drowned in woes two thirds.
Sharp shrillness of many of my lingering thought,
Shatter silence of stillness that dusk had on to me brought.
Grief laden clouds quiver with culpable guilt,
Blue starry skies shiver around the moon’s curves laden with forlorn silt.
Tonight I write about my past in melancholy laced lines,
About my ceaseless love for her and her conditional love for me at times….
Solitary nights like the one tonight,
Has stored within itself, deep memories like flashing lights.
Nostalgia sewn within its brimming self,
Of holding her in my arms, my warm embrace her body engulfs.
Her conditional love for me and my ceaseless love for her at all times,
Lure the emotions out tonight, to write the melancholy stewed lines.
As I sit here all senses alive to listen to the great black night,
Sans her beside me, tears trickle down filling the beady grass beds and dull my sight.
The shattered silence of the night all dark,
Resonates in my head no more, but my heart leaves a deep bruised scar and a mark.
A quaint sound of lament I faintly hear,
From a distance it seems like an echo of my bleeding heart all unclear.
My soul curses me as never before,
As its mate it has lost and has only me to deplore….
Places I go glare at my searching eyes with fervor,
Look out for her as though I wish to go to her.
And my heart too joins the fray,
And both of them conspire for me to seek her any which way.
But now as I no longer love her,
That’s a truth that my mind and my heart must concur.
As I sit and speak to myself, the dew drips on to the leaves,
Tell tales in the silence as the wind touching my voice as it grieves.
like my kisses of before, she is now another’s,
Her dreamy eyes, her warm weatish body, her heart, her joyous smile,
Her sweet body scent, her warm breath that spreads a mile
Are now not for me but for another…………….
I love her no more but maybe I yearn for her love,
But unknown to myself I seek her love somehow!!!
Filled with nostalgic emotions of our sweet oneness
I can barely raise my eyebrows to see us together in my mind’s eye.
I hope this is the last dart cupid has shot at me,
And this is the last verse I pen for her to see
...Have occasioned
I think to have been decor-
rating The Tree, it's
piney quills & tines
dressing in glassy festoons
weightless baubles of
tins-led Christmas-candy
colors, like porcelain
fragile-fine, hooked canes
& dangled barber-pole-paean
peppermint-stick Memories
of savored hangon
trinkets & heirlooms
looming like a twinkling
tapestry 'round
wreaths of snowy popped-corn
dangling - "No, darlings, that's not
for eating..." Yes, I
have occasioned the
rows of bubbling light-tubes
like glowing chains of
warm caterpillars
inching-on toward the Manger's
Star of a chrysalis
Christmas Joy to Light-
Up the World! Oh Yes, I have
occasioned The Tree
Breathing in Ecstasy...
And the Wonder, of this from
a Guy whose Imprimatur
might have been
"Tannenbaum!"
H.e.m.
12.8.MMvi.
Noel.
"And so, as Tiny Tim observed, G-D bless Us, Every One!"
(" A Christmas Carol"). And...
A "...Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!"
(Clement Clarke Moore, "Twas The Night Before Christmas").
Amen.