Best Figure Poems
Only the cold crunching
of the fresh snow bunching,
and the tired leather boots
as I take that first step
Can be heard right here
by no other frozen ear,
for away I rushed off
to find silence instead
And all that is harsh
exists not on this marsh,
where the only prying eyes
belong to birds and deer
The moment I did hesitate
to glide along my skate,
a winter wind whistled
tugging my scarf forward
Been years since I tried
the child in me never died,
and once you learn how
you cannot ever forget
And being scared of a fall
takes the fun from it all,
while on this solemn pond
where all worries flee
Staying sure on these feet
when blade and ice meet,
kept me on my toes as
all went spinning around
Until the colors of sunset
made the trees silhouette,
and brought back to me
a world gone miles away
Leaving not a solitary trace
of my presence at this place,
I untied those tight bindings
and took in a deep breath
A memory etched in my mind
just the figures left behind,
and if the sun erases them
I can always come back....
(January 14th, 2020)
leaves whirl and cling to stout bough and branches -
sigh with tempered lows and highs
verdant spring is vast
a cornucopian nest -
sound of leaves flapping
the weeps, oaks and maples enthrall
father figure - sturdy and tall
rest for the wild ones and the mind
the shelter of shapes - winsome, kind
Figure skating is rhythm, dance, art, and poetry, presented as a visual masterpiece.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Give Me Your Best One-Liner
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 07/17/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: One-Liner 4
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 12/10/2015
Time has come
For me to put paper to pen,
Or is it pen to paper?
If I put paper to pen
Is it on top or down below?
If I put pen to paper
Which direction does it go?
I opt for the one
Where I sit down to write,
Not the one
Where I stand on my head all night.
If I can't figure this out real soon
I fear my poetic days are doomed.
Looks like there's only one way to win
I'll drag out my typewriter
And start over again.
The years have drug on
since you died.
I wish I could still remember
the sounds of your voice,
the memories of that died years ago.
You're "fill in" came into my life
seven years before your abrupt exit.
I'm thankful he's stayed.
I still ask myself why though...
Why you couldn't find the strength to stay?
You made it so hard,
for my younger self,
to live day to day.
So many why's left unanswered.
No closure,
it nearly killed me.
It still makes it difficult, even today.
Not having that closure
in all aspects of life
has really had an affect on me.
I've made it this far without you.
I truly wonder how much worse it could have been
if you still lived.
You made me question everything,
you made me hate myself,
you made me wonder what made you
want to die.
How could you?
Why did you leave me?
I'll never know,
that haunts me
to the point of hating you.
I forgive you,
I truly do.
I had to let you go,
so I could live again
and I've finally done so.
I'm blessed to have a step dad
that gives a d*mn.
He is the father figure
I never had in you, Dad.
He never left me,
he is mom's soulmate,
he is my daddy,
you are the dad that slipped through my fingers
I miss you.
I love you.
I wish more than anything
that suicide wasn't your fate.
Enchanted sequins move with laser precision
Sensationally choreographed pyrometrics dance
Mystifying wingless flight of earthbound spirits
Steadily intensifying blurred colors streak by
Blades defy gravity suspended on breaths
By Robb A. Kopp
He sits there patiently waiting
always apologizing
but never showing
the true feelings he is hiding
he acts like he is one with us
but he couldn't be further away
every day we say hello how are you
but never giving a true answer
we grow into a routine
school work dinner groan sleep repeat
again and again
what has this life become
does he even see me anymore
even now that life's chaotic
we go down the dark hallways
I can't tell who I'm looking at
Is it him or is it a stranger
looking back at me
and saying I love you
Every morning is the same,
Standing staring at my frame,
Looks no different from last night,
Flab is still winning the fight,
Scales hate me, sure they lie,
I only ate a small stir-fry,
Willpower waning every day,
Diet falls into disarray,
The healthier I make my meals,
The emptier my tummy feels,
Salad and a few small snacks,
Hot chocolate to help me relax,
For every hour I ride my bike
My body goes on hunger strike,
But when I'm home and my legs ache,
I comfort eat with chocolate cake,
One week on, the scales astound,
I've finally lost another pound!
Although I'm watching what I eat,
I'm sure that that deserves a treat.
Her figure of speech like an hour glass Shapely and flowing as body of water cascading Merging into one as it runs through it The tingling desert comes alive As the sands of time grow Found within the flow where was I Oh yes her inspiring bodily language Articulate thought provoking and well rounded
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**************************
!
Worst poem
would be
this
the absoulute
is came out
from my earS
did'nt
cram 'as 'alwyas
No holds barred~
ok i'm lying...
good luck
to those who tried
to figure the above poem
jajajajajajaja!!
**for pd's contest :)
---haha I sort of cheated on this one?
used a jejemon translator-- aaAcckKK I never KNEW there even was one O_O!!
but I inserted some more into it jejejejeje (hehehehe)
Jejemon is sort of trend here with some people with regards to texting--
typing in words using symbols & numbers to make them look cuter(?!?),
& using a slew of H's, Z's...
One day
Good day
Young girl
Sweet girl
Who dream
Not scream
To be
And see
Herself
Not shelf
Fulfilled
Not chilled
Tumble
Not fall
Jump high
Aim high
Gyrate
And skate
To learn
Not spurn
Toe loop
Not hoop
Flip jump
Loop jump
To flip
And skip
Upright
Spin right
Then edge
Not wedge
Half turn
Not burn
Biellmann
Spin wan
Lutz jump
Not hump
Lay back
Not sack
Spiral
Tidal
Axel
So well
Twizzle
Dazzle
Camel
Not swell
Salchow
And show
Quick toes
Strong toes
Brave heart
One heart
Skating
Swirling
With pride
Not hide
A dream
That stream
And seen
On screen
Skater
Blazer
Bow...
Wow!
He glides
his skates swishing
in a flurry of ice,
caressing with slow movements; mere
foreplay.
Silence
compels the crowd
disguises excitement
Great expectations fill the air.
All watch.
He stops
at center ring.
Ice gladiator all set
to make a kill gently, with grace.
Grandly.
Then flips.
Perfect landing!
He hears the crowd’s applause~
incense daring him show his skills.
Dazzling.
Teasing
with his body ~
a hypnotic magnet
becoming a blur of colors.
Blending.
Music
goes mad as he
circles with dizzy speed~
a human whirling, spinning top.
Gidddy.
Floating
as in a dream
one cannot get out of.
Now he’s a leaf falling in slow
motion.
Still more
he builds into
a climactic finish~
a tornado that goes in a
frenzy.
He drops,
slips on his foot;
loses balance and dives
his nose flat on the cold ice. All
are stunned.
Are cucumbers cool
As a general rule?
How fresh is a daisy?
Are loons always crazy?
How snug is a bug
When he’s not in a rug?
How gentle are lambs
If not happy as clams?
How clever’s a fox
That’s as dumb as an ox?
How fit is a fiddle
Not clean as a whistle?
Are doornails most dead,
Or are dodos instead?
Is it drier than toast
To say “deaf as a post”?
Such puzzles befuddle and much mystify
Till suddenly you see they’re as easy as pie!
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
I do not feel comfortable
Why does the elevator move so slowly
The light flashes ... the fourth floor
Out in the gloomy hall that appears
My mind is racing with impatient thoughts
In all its decay
a whisper among the other sounds of the night
Mystery casts shadows
The shadows of the past
may have roots far back
Eyes that see things that does not exist
Maybe I should not listen to old stories
I can still turn ... ("chicken")
even though it is madness
The back room - behind reality
A door that leads to nowhere
just a handful of dust under the sky
***
13.09.2020
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
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