Best Flairs Poems
Four legs quiver
like clumsy cabrioles
striking smooth gray rivers
of zig-zag sidewalk barrios
in rhythm with happy shivers
syncopated on a muffled drum
as we talk and stroll
On our way
hand-in-hand
we persuade and pretend
this day away
taunting and cajoling to demand
laughing “hide and seeking”
chasing and skedaddling
poking and peeking
like cuddly pandas
or canoodling otters
splashing and clambering
We roll and meander
impetuously twiddling all the way
atop gregarious green promenades
we pause in slight delay
as we prattle and prance
as we dance to the Crickets singing
nodding to their fiddling
frolicking with all the jiggling
Serendipitous stalks
of snickering flowers pop
to dazzle and razzle our wits
we glide in stripes of candy bits
of rainbows bright
Purple painted paisley
fragrantly flairs in pairs
of scented lavender sweetness
among black-eyed daisies
dusting the woozy air
in a meadow’s billowing bloom
sunflowers sunbathe in costume
We giddily tarry
as we carry
a feast of fancies and treats
artsy bits of charmed delicacies
filled with a peck of upcoming kisses
enticing fantasies that wink
Snuggling shenanigans lead us astray
as we find our rootie-tootie hideaway
hugs as we shy away
from tomfoolery jesting
to lay down and swoon
looking up at the soon to be stars
lingering for the coming of the moon
Murmurs of Starlings
gaggle their harmonies
of chirps
in cheeks and broadened beaks
thrumming tiny melodies.
Swallows sweep and woo
fixated on this unabashed swain
through songbird strains
announcing a shrilling review
broadening in sweet refrains
“I love you…I love you”
Fingerpainting the Monet sky
puffy white cotton words appear
from clouds passing by
while tiny violins spin in the air
piccolos peep
pigeon-toed Doves coo and weep
their contentedness to appease
trailing off the pleasant breeze
I fall upon my knees
My words explode to strew
like a thousand storms set free
“I love you…I love you…I love you”
Reasonings
Too few
Hopefully more
My resentment flairs
My will ebbs
Still looking elsewhere
I won’t just leave
I care too much
My heart is here
Have more to give
Want answers to my whys
Know I’ll never truly know
Doors of opportunity may open
But I still hold hope
Knowing this is my calling
I love to season sense engage.
It clears parts mortality dazed.
When young, summer’s tune range
is firmly, soul-deep engraved.
When grown, human ways hush
man's faith with factual mush.
Summer composed odes grant
faith prose that hopes maintain.
The soft song of a summer breeze
lifts aloft a wonderous spree
of smoothed, spliced rapture
too song silky for feel capture.
Summer’s charming, velvet songs
hold notes of mystical essence
assuring we’re a spiritual presence.
Seasonal airs of sensual flairs
are fluid trilled, space tilled, and
sound honed by summer’s hymn.
Feeling air's first tune blend,
early man named it wind.
He smiles at me.
As though the weight
Of psychedelic visions
Were insubstantial
And inconsequential;
A trivial thing.
Broad-shouldered emotions
Mushroom through
Organic momentum
To greet my pain,
A throbbing haze
That is my post-script.
Narcotic serenity
Wraps around my brain,
Slurring everything
In my tilt-a-whirl scene,
Until the funhouse
Sweeps me away.
I feel myself shrinking
Like Alice In Wonderland,
But I am not afraid
Of the beautiful myriad,
Understanding how addictive
Compulsiveness can be.
Opulent pleasure
Invades my space,
Stinging reality
With a new perspective,
Numbing submission
In a morphine choke-hold.
Sound and color bend,
A sensational delight
Of exotic flairs
And pendulums humming;
It’s unlike anything I’ve known
Except for his smile.
Some days you're thrown an I just don't know
Other days it's all right there
A glimmer of hope in which to cope
A fresh breath of poetic air
A constant loop as the dial slowly moves
In its never ending search for the truth
Some days you write the poem
Some days the poem writes you
From the ups and downs to the toss arounds
All grate on a soul in time
But what's growing there inside your despair
Can pour forth in the perfect rhyme
Some days you find the inner light
Others you have no clue
Some days you write the poem
Some days the poem writes you
You can be more or less inspirationaless
Then your pen flairs with the finest finesse
The point that you make either blows them away
Or what you have to say is anyone's guess
Holding onto the theme of your color scheme
Being the brightest of hues
Some days you write the poem
Some days the poem writes you
In the middle of the night a door slams
The awful scent of cigarettes floats upward penetrates my nostrils
Insomnia keeps him up and restless
Lying here I hear, smell and know that the worst is yet to come
Huntington's Disease slowly destroys brain cells
Mutant form of huntingtin aggregrates within the brain
It touches the connectors and interfers with the synaps
Extra dopamine causes his need for instant gratification
I taste the tears as they spill tumbling down
Feel the his fear, his terror of what lies ahead
I can hear his hurtful words as his temper flairs
Thankful for his hugs when he is calm
I am glad that he is able to work for inability lies ahead
Unless some researcher somewhere finds a treatment
If not only downhill slide is inevidible
Destruction of the brain will leave him unable to even swallow
Let my tears spill down, overflow touch upon my face
Taste the salt as they touch my lips
Let me face the daylight hours with courage and strength
Today he might stumble and fall into the horrors of the disease
Contest: In A Relationship With Disabled Person
Sponsor: W. Thomas Markham
One famous person with Huntington's Disease was Woody Gutherie
If you care to you can type in Woody Gutherie on YouTube and hear him..
Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.
She paints a perfect picture
As she trawls the rocky strand
A muscle here a barnacle there
Enough to fill both hands
.
Two odd socks for one at least
will decorate her cast
Her hair tied up as best dad can
Which probably won't last
.
Bent double as she picks seashells
Her pants tag proudly showing
Her bag of shells light up her face
And leave her innocence glowing
.
She takes a moment to herself
To fix her favourite pose
She sips her drinka frown-filled thought
Her poem to compose
.
She spies a group of ducklings
Braving every wave
Excitement flairs as help she does
Each little one to save
.
Her gentle hands embrace each one
The highlight of her day
Her wondrous sight at each ones plight
As she helps them on their way
A day at the strand with Aoibha ...oh and the Ducks
The flairs ‘n radiances
Elegances beyond my senses
The charms ‘n serenities
Beauties endless marvelous
Beauties, valhallain marvelous
Allurs, colors charms
Soft, fragile ‘n tender
Gentle, gentle so gentler
Longings, cravings ‘n fondness
My heart my fondness
Aaah beauties endless marvelous
Your charms your serenities
The glow, the auras
Splendid endless, timeless
Flairs, charms ‘n purity
Oooh my serenade,
My piety my soul...
In a job where time and motion had an impact that was nil,
I was introduced to modern trends that mentioned soon I will,
but I could buck the system if I chose, by opening up me ‘gob’
although it meant that very soon I wouldn’t have a job.
It was a man of time and motion with a smooth and silver tongue,
who delivered his impression on how workers should be stung,
and then mentioned data figures that would see his work implode,
when he waved a note to caution these techniques at our abode.
This puzzled all us union folk who had listened to him sprout,
and we whispered all amongst us what this buggers on about,
then he mentioned of his married life and with a gentle notion,
he said there’s times that can be duds within his time and motion.
So with murmuring and whispers from us listeners in our chairs,
we tried to fathom proper answers from this question as it flairs,
and we pushed a proposition for an answer to his grave concern.
That’s when our tutor curtly answered on a lesson we should learn.
In a tone that had a scary trait with quite a warning he did say,
he watched his wife at breakfast with her routine every day,
and by working time and motion there were signs that un-fulfils,
so he thought he’d help a little bringing home his working skills.
He noted she made extra trips between a table and the stove
From cupboards to the benches back to the fridge she’d often rove,
carrying one single item, which time and motion couldn’t stand,
therefore time that she was wasting sort of brought forth a demand.
So one morning he was forthright with a plan to ease her plight,
and he mentioned a suggestion on his way to make things right.
Instead of going willy-nilly with her routine filled with waste,
he placed a ban upon discretion and a plot to gain her haste.
Instead of carting items one by one; he suggested two or more,
then his conversation’s interrupted from a bloke upon the floor.
“Did this save time with breakfast?” And it’s replied “No worries mate.
It used to take her twenty minutes - now I cook it in eight!”
Written 27/12/2013
White
And she sighs
In serenity
White
Years shroud
Like lace
Protecting porcelain
Face
Shrugs off she
White
Within purity
Casts aside
Shawl
Of homemade grace
White
Which haunts me
Darkness in night
White she flairs
Shimmers like sun
Flair
Sparkle like sheen
Upon water
She
White
So bright
Blinds my
Eyes
Cannot see
White
Kills inside
Worry
White
Haunts for every
Moment
A better light
I could
Have been
White
For the innocence
That stings
Promise of
A better life
White
For I sacrifice
Life
So yet she can
Sing
-------
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It’s called, ’excessive fork to mouth disease’.
Overeating too much of what we please.
Sitting excessively on our derrière?
Watching TV, or writing poetry with magical flairs?
Lockdowns were absolutely no excuse.
Blaming it on “Climate Change…”a bad joke and so incredibly obtuse.
Get off our buttoxes and exercise at home.
It’s OK, to leave your great, altar of the internet, alone!
We lovely women, lose weight slower than charming men.
But there’s no magic pill on which neither can depend!
If I made it from a size sixteen to a size seven,
You can do it, too, it’s simply like being in heaven.
Beers, breads and booze are out of the question.
Wines, pizza, chips just few more to mention!
The key is to not listen, to those who failed.
Else, you be imprisoned in an adipose jail!
Live very long and prosper!
Panagiota
8/20/2022
~3 ~
Sanmati, my source, is completely mine
As she never missed going to shrine.
Nor does she move slowly like a bovine.
Much was done to munch through byline
Against me or her to bypass or to confine.
Thanks to expedition that made her whine
Inner talents, flairs, bents and gifts fine.
Jain are we: active is she; before deadline
All her work is complete – quality divine.
Illegitimacy! Come thou and pour wine
Near those who still soar for heavenly design.
They came for the Gypsies,
The time tribe Romana's grand Gypsy trust
To manifest in feasts of fear, horrific best,
The Crucifixtion as a culture test
Is sycophanted phallic prophecies;
Mixing spells where river's dwell
And will reveal third eye infusions
That dillute foregone conclusions!
The starkest of illusion will confer
The dead of deadest property, I'm sure!
Pillaged by proud Nazi's reeling
Who have not a friendly feeling
One God-Fearing German village
Saddles soaked in sorrow
Silently seduced bone marrow
Or from sweeter water billage
With Genetic trace
In hemolytic face;
A truth no German yearns to borrow!
Where fallen angels care
And Gypsyfied the wounds
With age-old Gypsy healing rare;
Where tinker-tapping dusters dance
A dance to Gypsy tunes
On pointed pins appointed special flavor;
As pointed pins do point and prance
Well-pointed pins provide a good and precious savor.
Hemolytics is genetics with inscription
Inscribed inscription's indecision.
If Gypsy wounds could fill the forest
With this Gypsy dance so true
Then everything I thought I liked
I think I still would like in you;
In fact, the things I know I liked
I soon would love.
Genetic indescription must be fact
As power angels grab a power pact
The fallen angels with their power prayers
Heal Gypsy wounds nocturnal during flairs!
Fluoresence fills the forest
Where tinker-tapping dusters dance
As pure and naked dilettantes appointed
Point of every perfect pin's romance.
In the spring, the crows sit in the tall pines
Capitalizing on the field of newly planted corn.
Farmer dreams of corn on the cob which he will dine
Caw, caw the lookout calls to his mates to forewarn
As crows go down rows, gleaning the kernels
Dreaming their only competition is from the farmer
But up high is a nest of pesky, frisky squirrels
On the ground also those armadillos with armour
As the farmer sees his profits go into the crows,
His temper flairs to beyond recovery.
Farmer sits in garden reading aloud prose
Bored to tears, the crows a great book discovery
"Selected Poems" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
With it drove farmer away in chorus sang, "Yea"..
Sonnet:Sort of