Best Fitfully Poems
As spring showers soaked through to my soft skin,
In hapless home in youthful age akin,
Through stabbing sorrow's sleeplessness I knew,
I grappled grief as fantom fears came true.
He was gone, greener pastures caused his leave.
My haunted heart was left bereft to grieve.
For seven yearning years his loss for me
Caused suffering in mindful misery.
Those years that passed helped heal my hurting heart.
He returned, contritely claimed a new start.
My longing love fraught fitfully with cares....
God had answered this mourning mother's prayers.
3-19-22
*Note: when my son was 14 and a half his biological father stole him, taking him 2,300 miles away with promises of greener pastures. It was the worst regret of his young life. After seven years at the age of 21 he returned home. We remained very close until his recent death at 44.
~First Place~
My Lost and Found Love Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: JCB Brul
Are you thinking of me tonight?
I sit on the warm carpet
in this mountain hut,
in front of a blazing fireplace,
where flames flicker fitfully
and logs crackle in delight.
Outside it's chilly cold,
snow softly cover the land,
owls seek shelter and warmth,
while windowpanes
are covered with frost
that looks like a lover's lace.
And you? Do you feel cold or warm?
Are you thinking of me tonight?
Outside of my inner self
I feel the fire's comfort.
Inside I'm as cold as the snow.
Of what use are the burning embers?
I prefer the welcoming warmth
of your endearing arms.
Give me your hot breath
on my cold neck.
Let me imbibe your fragrance
even for one instant.
You are so far away.
When will you be back from work?
You said in about half an hour or so,
We will be together in the warmth.
But are you thinking of me tonight?
The family was poor
and on Christmas Eve
he went to bed still hungry
after his meagre evening meal.
He slept fitfully and dreamt
he had to work on Christmas Day,
distributing flyers to the people in town.
Hear, hear, read the news,
Today a Holy Child is born.
He ran from church to church,
from avenue to avenue,
from restaurant to restaurant,
spreading the good and holy news.
”Baby Jesus is born, Jesus is born!”
Soon he was tired for lack of food.
But though the job was badly paid,
he persisted for he believed
one day Jesus would bless him too.
So he went on, giving his flyers
proclaiming the holy news
until a strange light attracted him.
Slowly he approached and saw
a small Child in a manger
smiling softly at him.
“Come near my friend, come hear.
Look there are better flyers
beneath my cosy manger.
Go and distribute these.”
The newspaper boy obeyed.
He read the flyer and jumped with joy.
Quickly he returned to the centre
and with renewed energy he shouted:
“Hear, hear, read the news,
Heaven is full of repentant sinners,
come one, come all,
Heaven is there for you,
that's why He was born this day,
come hear the good news.
It is for you.
Merry Christmas.”
“The sounds of Earth is the music of my soul”
I remember the valley rolled with thunder
A section of tenors echoed from above
The sky was shredded, by forked lightning
Somehow that moment transcended love
Static electric rose up through the cloisters
The organist played like a demon inspired
Rooftop gargoyles overflowed with water
And eyes welled up, as if nature conspired
Rivers were swollen, the lake was heavy
A boy soprano, almost pierced the dome
Landslides rumbled away in the distance
High on ambivalence, I thought about Rome
The conductor was whipped into a frenzy
Fitfully pointing his wand in the air
As the tempest outside reached crescendo
Defiant altos, sang a hymnal prayer
Beyond the west window, storms fell silent
Shafts of light, shone through from space
Together the choir reached out in emotion
As they swayed stoically, to Amazing Grace
Originally penned 08/10/22
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
09/13/22
Charles Green was eight years old, and his father was a great teacher.
Yet, Charlie preferred playing to school; because he was a daydreamer.
The Greens lived in the town of Ivoria, where dahlias nodded greeting;
And Charlie frolicked with Sam and Scarlett, until sun came, bleeding.
Samuel and Scarlett were his siblings. Both got good grades in school;
Like gardens dyed in burgundy, red, orange, and gold, lovely as jewels.
Fantastic, flaming nights were not far, and gusts fitfully tossed flowers;
As good friends flattered the family with visits, like silver glazed hours.
Funny family rode for miles, to laugh jokes, or olden days, out of focus,
When fruitful summer was finally full-grown, and jade frogs visited lotus.
Charlie lived in the house of enlightenment, like a saffron sun, forever;
Where lilac breezes brought on awareness, in emerald days of whatever.
Soaring ravens owned the satin nights, when navy twilight was missed,
On Charlie's street of songbird serenade, and big moon, still sun kissed.
Formality was never necessary with neighbors, when they came calling;
In a pretty nation of nearsighted novelty, where aged time was crawling.
The touch of jazzy 'jade vines,' adored June, and monkey tail cacti leapt;
As 'jungle velvet dottie' posed pretty, and 'little baby dwarf kowha' wept.
'Alien egg succulents' waited an eternity, only for pleasure of being born;
And 'blue shrimp' plants swam sadly, like snows, as weather turns warm.
On his way to school, Charlie began to dawdle. Frogs were so much fun!
Like honey sunshine on the first rose, back when scents were first begun.
Charlie's lateness was fun for a time, as neither of his parents knew of it;
Then his teacher made him realize, that with learning, the sky's the limit!
She finished her talk with the following words, that haunted him forever;
And made him a better pupil and person, like all honest, fruitful endeavor:
'A diller, a dollar,
A ten o'clock scholar,
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o'clock,
And now you come at noon.'
her place smells like lavender
or violets
i've slept here many times before
but never well
never fitfully
alien atmosphere i suppose
the bare bulbs in the bathroom
kill my shadow
i'm a stranger in the kitchen
smoking weed on the couch
pissing in the tiolet
and screwing her in the shower
intimately removed
she wants me to move in
i miss her already
eyes, suddenly open
in the night (mine)
misty (they)
panting, sweating (me)
I bleed some words onto a page
how do they feel?
(these words)
what are they trying
to say? (to you)
what do they want?
(from me)
I sleep again
fitfully
words…pages…books…writing
flashing through my
thoughts
maybe these thoughts are
dreams
is a dream a wish?
a thought an action?
I must have slept
for it is morning now
and I am calm
the page looks at me
(expectantly)
I ignore it
it wants too much of me
always demanding
but don’t they know that
I love them?
(these words)
I sweat over them
nurture them
I want them to be quiet
(tranquil)
I want them to grow up
(be whole)
I can ignore the screams
no longer
I carry the page
to my desk
and consume its patterns
is it happy?
(this page)
does it need feeding
some more
or is it replete?
another word drips unbidden
to the page
to fall among its
siblings
is it happy with where
I put it?
has the page
accepted it?
it seems so, because
the weight and shape
seem
balanced
the page has stopped
its incessant noise
and the words have
settled
comfortably
but when I read it
does it say
what I wanted?
(to you, to me)
SURVIVOR
She was smaller, slower, weaker
easily unseen
as she slipped away
seeking the warmth
of an exhaust grate.
Innocence lost
she slept
fitfully muttering
lost words
……………………………….forbidden words.
She awoke
to an empty station
a trembling silence
muting the sound
of a distant train.
She raised a numbered hand
waving goodbye.
She had missed
the last train
………………………………..to Auschwitz.
©4/12/2021
Last Train To Auschwitz Poetry Contest
Kai Michael Neumann sponsor
Take two and a half peach, one blue round three elongated white.
My eyes are blurry; I cannot see any longer. My right hand is asleep.
Now my left hand is asleep.
I climb back into bed
Wait. This is only part of the morning dose?
The only one I know for sure is Benadryl.
It is bright pink.
Taking pills upon pills.
I smell medicine when I take a whiff of myself.
Fitfully wondering ….would I be well if I stopped
taking all of this stuff cold turkey?
Dare I?
I believe I do.
Eleven titles plucked from the exquisite poetry of Christina Rossetti
For my sweet child, petite Maude Clare,
Before The Paling of The Stars, I grieve
for my infant with head of flaxen curls.
I pray, Lord, save this tiny Daughter of Eve.
Tears fill my red and swollen eyes when
her Daddy, asks, "Is It Well With The Child?"
God, protect one of Your Holy Innocents.
As her fever climbs, my racing heart runs wild.
From Sunset To Star Rise, I hold her near.
Her hand clasps one of my trembling fingers
while she clings to The Thread of Life.
Sleeping At Last, but the fever lingers.
She fitfully stirs in the crook of my arm.
My voice in lullaby, tearfully sings.
I press a kiss to her warm pink cheek,
her eyelids quiver, like little Fluttered Wings.
By morning, In The Willow Shade, we rest.
Fever broken and Maude is in Dream Land.
At my breast, she sleeps and all is well.
Thank You, dear God, for holding out Your hand.
February 10, 2017
The Poets Pluck
contest of Mystic Rose
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
The day was of spring,
Very warm and damp
The sun shone fitfully
A day that harbors with it brightness
It was a night that carries no signal
Owl was not in sight
Neither was its voice heard
But it was a night of the owl
It speaks ominous dialect
Utterly different from the day’s language
Its parlance we could not understand
It was a night of bully.
Alayande Stephen T.
August 3rd, 2008
11.38pm
At the Kitchen Republic,
NYSC Camp, Yikpata, Kwara State.
frisky flowers fly
feet foxtrot fitfully
fun fuchsia frolics
Day dawns.
Dark clouds gather on the skyline
Looming over the roofs of traffic
Passing on the bridge.
Houseboats lay moored silently
On the still waters of the Thames,
Surrounded by stark buildings;
Houses once so grand,
Inhabited by the select,
Now fallen from grace.
The air is crisp and cool,
Typically October,
Everywhere touched
By the golden hand of autumn
Scattering her dress wantonly;
Leaves skip and dance
Along the pavement,
Swirl around the feet of passers-by
And scurry into the road
Playing catch-me-if-you-can
With the passing cars.
Streets bustle and teem with city folk
Going to and from their destination
Mingling among them
Visitors taking in the sights,
Every now and then stopping
To capture a moment in time....
Dusk creeps down.
The roads now packed
With the hum of angry motorists
Trying to flee from the insanity
Of noise and confusion,
Comforted only by thoughts of
Cosy warmth,
Glowing fires
And the welcoming smell of hot food.
Night falls;
With an expectant buzz,
The city preparing for revellers
Drawn to its bright lights-
Seeking desires of the flesh
(And maybe wants of the heart)
So they eat,drink and be merry,
Then stagger out
Into the darkness
Filled with the nights memories,
Some with tinges of regret.
Eventually a hush descends,
The city sleeps
Comfortable and warm
In Its beds
Fitfully resting
In readiness for morning......
Except for those tucked away;
In some forgotten corner,
Who as winter nights draw in
Face a certainty of struggling
Against biting winds
With just the protection
Of cardboard and paper,
And only the promise of maybe
For the coming tomorrow.
I remember fitfully,
Those verdant fields their
Yellow brushed cotton tips,
Gyrating, swirled to beauty,
sighing, undulating minute blades
infintesable allure wafted
on those white wattle nights,
even drained of sustenance
it still motioned to flower
as I am drawn to nigh.
Jaundiced paddocks replace
the suppleness of earth, where,
once green strands laid
like laurels on the dawn
Rich red particles of death
now pepper the ether,
unwonted limbs litter lanes
original ground now fallow
Trans morphed unholy Gaia
sits cackling next to Azimuth,
sons of the fathers, follow
the false prophets online
As their hands are filled
with knowledge of the world,
their heads are lackluster
gazing today after tomorrow
Good intentions are twisted
in a government mainframe,
planet earth screams succour
and only God is left to hear
but I'll ever remember,
viridescent pastures
millions of miles long,
breathlessly beautiful
before the tech triumph
life's last gasp of gorgeous