Best Figures Poems
I have the rhythm of a winding road
how do I consign myself to being confined...
rows of poplar pillars prop
the rendezvous canopy beneath we meet
—I self-cajole on ooh-la-la afternoon
yellow eyes; daffodils watching
lean into gossip groups nodding
a prodding breeze instigating deep-freeze—
I am a sweet weed in this place of sway and betray
with a stranger I stroll my arranged betrothed
height of his black top hat challenges trees
much like Corinthian columns
guards of an aisle I must walk —dear God! must walk
trepidation trips down my bridal spinal column
tiger eyes; lilies watching wish they were me
dare they dream they could uproot their roots like me
wish they could wedding waltz like I must —like I must
but their envy-leaves remain embrace-less
—I envy lilies’ empty arms of yet unmet love
daffodils; empty-headed —laugh
they try to read my mind to fill their own
what do I care their curdled thoughts lemon tart
and orange lilies’ brocade brimstone
what do I fear of fire-breathers burn of words
undergrowth feels square heels of my lace-up boots
post impression grows more expressive than first—
beware French tongues of sundew and burdock burr
marriage-carriage rolls in ruts to Versailles
where my coerced corset of hooks and ties lie
rhythm of a winding road dies in minuet strangle-hold
after the painting by Vincent Van Gogh
Does she even exist? Doubting her own reality,
seeing herself vanishing in undulating undergrowth,
fading and merging into summer-scorched scenery.
But cold lurks there beneath shafts of sunlight, phallic trees...
He wears the night underneath, a fabric of dark and unease,
his hand heavy upon her arm, silver-tongued charm
smooth as the silver-limbed leafless trees,
disappearing now on a twisting breeze...
Sinuous stems suffocate, writhing and thrashing;
convulsions of shuddering green and yellow.
Enticed ever deeper into flailing flowers,
evanescing into foam of frothing flora...
Did she ever truly exist? It's doubtful.
The flower-frail faceless and nameless
will always be lured and laid, invisible,
dissolving, under bare, phallic trees.
brushed by the blushing Fontainebleau,
blooming with rainless foliage,
like a poem kissed by the green…
I sigh as thoughts wander
in saffron silence,
in the echoing warmth
of your breathing silhouette...
we are beyond wraiths of wildflowers,
waltzing through the wilderness,
sipping honeyed drops of sunlight,
whilst specks of citrine
soar above olives~
merging in mystical mists of magnetic gold,
oblivious to the spectral leaves
thriving within inner forests,
veiling the vindictive vines
painted with ice-corpse colors of life.
O time, cloaked in cryptic clouds~
in a world that cares not for the forgotten,
let the fields of fervent petals
dress the untouched trees
with butterfly-blue blurs,
as peace is more than a mere noun,
nestled between framed figs…
and to heal is to heed the harmonized~
hymns mirroring soft springs of Eden,
where l o v e is an aesthetic array
ribboned with amorous emeralds~
scattered across meadows
lost in redolent reveries.
I speak to the breeze,
cradling the balmy boulevard
in hushed tones~
to unfreeze the wintry thistles,
to untangle complex chords of woes
piercing the pained canvas
aching within my mind..
for in the layered heart
of external pleasures,
there I’ve found the palette~
that homes not regrets and troubles
but elevates the m a g i c
of sketched solace…
the verdant of swirling hope
fine-tuned strokes of sage~
sun-soaked distraction,
a memory of soulmates
tied
to the timeless roots
infused with trust ...
The rush that occurs with Van Gogh’s brush.
Deep in the undergrowth, drawn to two figures.
The dappled landscape, lemon, lime and vanilla.
The close couple strolls amidst rows of trees.
The ebonic widower walks with his spectral wife.
Trees, like stick figures, reminiscent of cemetery stones.
This dreamy scene, romantic and haunting. Momentary
pause, as if for a quick snapshot. The forest, seemingly,
goes on forever. The lovely lady dressed in pastoral green.
Although the lovers pause, you still hear the rustle of her gown,
and their forward swoosh through tall grass and wildflowers.
Completely entranced, in their edenic setting, and with each other,
they blend with the tall trunks, relaxed and content.
Robust in recollection, riveted by exotic bird calls, earthy scent,
mixing with her light-lavender, temporal-lingering on the canvas.
Contrast with eternal life, where our imagination flourishes, alive,
with healing in the leaves, loving, forever and a day, in paradise.
The rush that occurs with our Creator’s brush.
Long ago at twilight we pledged our sweet
love amid trees stretching stark and bare
Yet at our rendezvous the very next night
I was alone in my despair
Now in the sunset of my days, again
In the pastoral Eden I stand with you
In a bliss beyond love, our souls
coalesce as we begin our lives anew
faeries found freelance forest
matched up verbs and adjectives
married them fine and dandy
the nouns were so mad
Dismal tale of men and women in the dirty rail compartment
No conception of the charm being knitted by the movement
Of the necklace of gentle light in the pants shirts and blouses
All is too occupied in their struggle to notice the kind crescent
As they are returning home from their respective workplaces
Piteous story of apathy and woe all of them are absorbed in
An old lady chewing parched rice taking it from a rusted tin
In a dark corner is seated a youth with shirt all bloodstained
Suffering from tuberculosis and looking very fragile and thin
A worthless life of empty existence still wretchedly retained
Though no threshold he will come across leading him to a
Plate of rice and curry as at least one square meal a day
A hawker of playthings approaches them in a smiling face
A second vendor selling some human figures made of clay
A gloomy motion picture of life running in an unfair race
10/07/2017
Rhyme Time with 5 Poetry Contest sponsored by Laura Loo
Using the five words viz Piteous Bloodstained Threshold
Conception and Dismal
Our unnoticed actions,
condemned love
The hallucinatory countryside,
complicated
Strong petals,
a song of freedom
Born to poverty
without blame for their fate
Accept me as I am,
don't judge
Captures hope,
in deep undertones
of colorful vegetation
Among tall trees
towering as gates
Walks in beauty
and truthful love
An unpopulated place where
poplars grow
Unseen canopies expose
tree trunks in a row
Wildflowers swoon over
undergrowth below
As back to front figures
watch the panoramic show
Lush vegetation evokes a
spellbinding hue
With violet bark
to engrain their view
Don’t flee this forest
reality will go askew
Stay forever
they may just pull through
Lost in the emerald
is a world of their own
Do they seek solace
have seeds been sown?
In this vibrant thicket
where trees have grown
Have they just come together?
or come back to atone
Perfect is a dream
without fear or dread
One that only ends,
when we go to bed?
The artist knew well,
his final words bled
“Sadness will last forever”
>yet brilliance he spread<
a statement in their freedom of expression
the verdant undergrowth –
a green carpet, indispersed with yellow, white and rose flowers –
leaning away from the regimental lines of the centre lane of poplars
the tree trunks, a whimsical hue of lilac
a profound blend of renewal, early love, and spiritual wisdom
in the overall aesthetics
a contrast in colour on Newton’s colour wheel
the female figure fuses with the shades of the undergrowth
whereas the male figure mimics the upright form of the poplars
the rushed brushstrokes
a hurried comment on
echoes of social construct
then and
now
By his hand was grown a forest
trees aligned as fence posts
trunks accentuated lavender and blue,
but not as a spruce
and purple strokes, not disguised as prose
in a woodland cut short in proportion
somewhat a distortion of towering height
over wildflowers it stood,
sans a canopy of leaves
for the profusion of those umbrellas
would've barred sunlight from the copse.
Botanicals, merely painted as smears
A scene filling my senses
with thoughts of Spring... except
to mourn for branchless trees
barren to give motherly birth
and nurture buds as their worth.
Reflections on canvas of golden blossoms,
topaz gems and white faceted diamonds
windswept by Mariah's winds
blowing North and South
then, changing her mind... East and West
temperament is what she does best.
An undergrowth of green but
I don't find it serene
as side by side two plod
through stems and grasses
feet tangled in masses of vines
Was that a wise decision?
With derision, I wonder...
if the brush strokes had a purpose
a plan for the man to be more relevant,
standing tall, garbed in black, high-top hat
while barely visible, the fem
camouflaged in Van Gogh's jungle.
Whether facing front to back,
one coming or the other going
there's no starry night to be found
That would be profound
even to an eye that's unappreciative of art
when part of the scene
has no semblance of a sky.
I am black and I say to kindred flames...
Never assert nor cry "things are the same".
It is the height of dishonor to our fathers,
Our hidden figures of the past, and our martyrs.
We no longer must hide. No need for underground trains.
Do not keep blaming injustice. It's a crooked cane.
Wait for the hand of the oppressor? That is madness!
Why would the oppressed ask the slave owner for access?
Let's take it upon our lettered selves to advance.
So, do not say "things are the same". Now is our chance!
If one hidden figure can succeed, there are no excuses.
If one hidden figure has engineered, where are the nooses?
It is a disgrace to our history to assert "things are the same".
It is a dishonor to our hidden figures...a noose and a chain.
Figures of immense reputation and popularity they were
Attracting public attention and admiration in the pursuit of their great works
Leaving behind them a legacy of some kind
But going with them their unique characters.
Wasn’t the explosion of Christianity the work of Jesus of Nazareth?
And the burst of Islam not the work of Muhammed of Mecca?
Neither will the admirable leadership of Julius Caesar;
Nor the conquests of the unlearned Charlemane,
And the military successes of Alexander the great,
Be forgotten in History.
If the British can forget Napoleon’s continental system
Jews then, would forget Hitler’s concentration camps
And history would entirely cease recalling his mentor Mussolini.
What if Carl Marx did not propound radical socialism?
Lenin then, would not have smashed the bourgeoisie and ruled Russia
Neither would the principles of Marxism-Leninism be sustained by Stalin
Nor would Churchill seal the border between the East and the West with an iron curtain.
A grave mistake it would be to forget Martin Luther King Jr.
For if he be forgotten, Mahatma Ghandi then would also be
And the entire movement of nonviolence
Will stop covering many pages of modern history books.
Had it not for Kwame Nkruma and Hastings Banda to cut the rope of colonialism
The ambitious Cecil Rhodes then,
Would have drained the whole continent of all its economic wealth.
The ascendancy of Nelson Mandela from the horizon of apartheid
Was not the beginning of Maximillien Robespierre’s reign of terror;
Characterized by avenges and reprisals
But the emergence of Abraham Lincoln’s true democracy.
What if Caesar were not butchered?
William Shakespeare then, would not have been the greatest playwright
Causing Charles Dickens and Chinua Achebe not to appear.
For the existence of a Jewish state, David Ben Gulion fought
But for the reemergence of a Palestinian state, Yasser Arafat strives.
Many a Bible
make use of
the figure of speech
it's a fascinating tool
used to teach!
FIGURES OF MY LOVE
No one recognises when love begins
But we know when it ends
A flower cannot blossom without a sunshine
And men cannot live without love
So in the nouns of my heart I love you
Through the verb of my love I cherish you
But the adverb of my love will multiply audibly
In the adjective of my wisdown I beautify you amicably
Prepositioned the thought of my heart for good
In the conjuction between love and hatred
Through the pronoun of two beings
We will fly higher so that they exclaimed
What love is to those in the dark side
On that day of our love, beautiful virgins will faints
On seeing the colourful love English we've made.