Best Flamingoes Poems
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
life,
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
Not Every Day is Perfect
I took my pad to the park today.
I wanted to find an idea for a book.
I was blocked…you know… stuck.
I walked outside, and looked up into the sky.
The clouds threatened rain.
I had no umbrella, but a man in a clown suit presented me one…
immediately.
I took it, and walked on.
Down the brick paved golden street,
and turned just to the right, the bus stop on ahead.
The shuttle to Mars left five minute ago, so I hopped the train to Texas.
We arrived early for lunch with the king.
As I sat with his highness, I whipped out my pad intently...
No!
Still no ideas.
I left from there as the flamingoes were dancing and getting out of hand.
I decided to take a stagecoach to the florist shop as it would help my mood.
The soup was chicken, with small white rice, shapes of animals and crackers.
Still nothing to write about.
The day was getting late. I had to go back home.
A roller skate, a rickshaw and two hot air balloons…
The darkness came early, on my sunshine day,
But I am very happy, as my package arrived.
I have new pencils, from far away.
I will take them for a walk, instead of my pen.
Tomorrow I will try again.
INDIAN PIPE
(The Corpse Plant)
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
Like bagpipes they play, somber tunes of fear,
as doves do weep, as flamingoes bow down.
A ghost plant dirge, doth tremble dusty clouds.
The bells, they ring, intensely sing, slow-deep.
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
Like wax, their silhouettes a frozen mask.
A countenance, thus drained of chlorophyll.
The vampiric cold parasite craves night -
A leech, among the beech, with lovers scars.
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
A cold and clammy touch, doth turn a corpse
an inky black. A translucent pale ghost -
don’t touch, nor handle plant, nor creep too near
its eerie soil, nor step, upon its grave.
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
Original date : 5/11/2017
YOUR CHOICE FLOWER VERSE,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest
Brian Strand: Sponsor 6/23/2019
A place in the sun...bright and shining from early morn.
Ebony tones everywhere..colorful garments
lend an air of festivity....hustle and bustle everywhere.
Streets...bands of steel meander through the city
tall buildings ...cast grotesque shadows along the roads
as trees bow in homage to the new day.
People rushing by...insects trapped in an invisible jar
laughing, singing....white teeth flashing.
Aromatic scents of herbs and spices
emanate from side walk cafes to
tease the senses.
Side walk hawkers...fried fish, fried chicken, fried cassava
tittilate the senses... tempt the taste buds.
Taxis rush at a mad pace oblivious to potholes all the way.
Wildlife a-plenty ....... from lions to giraffes
a colorful scene ....a feast to the eyes.
Flamingoes on the lake.. fiery pink compete with brilliant sunsets,
a world seen behind rose tinted shades.
Even the soil.....red as ochre, black as coal, white as the beaches
a variety of colors throughout the land.
Tea and coffee plantations..a delightful view
in a beautiful land , I once knew
where suffering, hardship, joy and laughter
embrace each other,
reacclimating after the climatic gavel falls
after sunrise and sunset and flamingoes
after wood, Rembrandts and aluminum
after prodigy, prodigal and guitar strings
and chatter. after all what matters
is chroma-splash, illumination and surrender
a soundless cacophony of instruments
and muses deliciously dancing
dripping from a litany of brushes
Y O R
e r e
l a d
l n s
o g
w e
sea blues, teals, whales
swoosh…swoosh
the presence of fame
God is a fave…
time’s talent from only one of his fingers
i figure, in heaven’s palette -
won’t we forever be astonished
7/10/2022
Brian Strand’s Premiere Contest
What if Heaven….
is HELL….
The ultimate
gated
retirement community.
No “crazy” old neighbors
talking to their cats,
feeding their plastic flamingoes
styrofoam packing peanuts.
No music
unless downloaded
from a select play list,
no flags, no bumper stickers,
(unreadable wrinkled tattoos – OK).
No churches
if you’re here
you should know why.
Just forever smiling
angelic faces
aching
to drop a cannonball
into the pool.
John G. Lawless
©4/4/2019
A flamingo on the lawn? Oh, yes!
With its s-shaped head so pretty.
Make fun if you think you must.
Fill yourself with giggles
At your house, not mine.
Flamingoes have
Feelings too
Pinkish
Ones
“what inspires you to write
such indiscriminate indiscretions
like that?” he speaks to himself
and thinks
not long
without thinking,
unnaturally he feels,
something, so
he promptly writes
it all down
without a further
doo-diddley-day
there you go
a muse
the muse amused
reads his take on it all
and up her mind goes,
the ride, like a pole
flags, waving
checkered,
black and white,
racing all the way
up and down
down and up
the rollercoaster thrill
of it all
jack was planting seeds
for his bean stalking tour
counting the footsteps
along the imprinting way
she wasn't eating
her curds and whey
you have to be quick
like you know,
nimble
sometimes
she galumphs
naturally
unnaturally
across the page
burlesque,
headlights
turned on, full beam,
delivering the splits
smiling
for laughs,
the laughs,
always splitting the mix
can-can
she thinks,
masked, yet best
in tap dance shoes
nakedly
confronting
fingers tapping
minds pointing
un-a-mused
qué más se puede pedir
Spanish for those untouched
uber tall flaming flamingoes
que puis-je dire
French kissed
all the way
for the les enfants terrible
a - mused
fearlessly venturing
forward
for more
let them go,
the others
waltzing Old Time
away, out the door
'tis better
elemental
she feels
the win-win
can-can
she thinks
and smiles
amused
indiscreetly
not
turning
away
win-win
she smiles
a full-wattage
salute
can-can
She
thinks,
begin
the beguine
indiscreetly
not
turning
away
Candide Diderot. ‘24
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.
On a pale July winter
I danced with the last Princess
In the middle of a sordid one room...
So long after sunset and so far from dawn
The smell of tomorrow burnt and tempting
I warmed my frozen fingers between her thighs
When life gave us more losses than victories
Our veins pumping arrogant blood
A drop in the ocean, a change in the weather
I had the hope her & I would end up together
I prayed we would grow grey together
Like cannibals reciting shrewed poetry
we danced to the rhythm of our conniving hearts
Our shivering skins shedding off of our ripe skeletons
I listened to her soft bones move like wet clay
I loved her more than sharks love innocent blood
Had her caged in the un-democracy of my frigid hands
Her shivering skin whispering dirty talk to mine
Her breath on my breath, taking the carbon from your lungs
Her fingers like syringes sucking oxygen off of my hemoglobin
We danced our sorrows to Ron Pope and Emelli Sande
Sundays we cuddled all day stuck on alphas
Taking steps back and looked at the bigger picture
Bound by no allegiances before the cliques and fake friends
We danced the pain to the curve
There were no distances we couldnt measure
No numbers louder than we could raise our voices
But we danced in geometrical fractions
Our feet uncaged from our ankle sockets
Ignoring the checkerboards in the morality of our peers
Like vampires running through mystical forests
We danced to the echoes of our miserable days
The anthems hummed by our oppressive government
That conspired to make us choose, need or want
My cataracts starred at her soul
Her soul spoke six languages to my heart and
We danced, with our faces like dominoes
Entagled like flamingoes at birth
Each moment became an equation of cosines
Before we lost it all, we danced!!
Washday at the Zoo
Peg out the elephants!
Hang up the hippos!
Let the bison and wildebeest
blow and billow in the wind!
Fluff out your flamingoes
with fabric softeners.
Stick the swans on a pre-wash
and get 'em whiter than white.
Rhinos can go in on 95
and they'll still come out
a disappointing grunge of khaki-grey.
(So much for the blandishments
of the adman).
Do tigers and zebras
on a low cycle
or the stripes will run.
Take care with gerbels,
they're liable to shrink.
Sort out yer primates
and read the labels --
howlers are different from chimps.
Oh! And watch out for snakes!
They tend to slither about
at the bottom of the laundry basket.
One emerald green one
amongst a flock of pastel doves
will cause untold havoc!
Margaret Clerici
pretty flamingoes
reflections of elegance ~
dancing on water
3 / 16 / 2022.
Sponsor Tania Kitchin.
Bird Haiku Poetry Contest.
howmanysyllables.com
What is your temperature?
The doctor asked
During an ordinary visit.
I left the examining room
And walked through
My palace
Skin and hair
Nails and tissue,
75 years of growth.
Ivy wild
as a Venus flytrap
Snaring an insect.
Tendrils curl and cover
Cages of ribs
Prisons of my own making,
Arid and Dry.
Soothing rain
Falls from mouth and nose
With nowhere to go,
Pores clogged
With regret.
Breath shallow
In and out
In and out.
No escape.
Chest
Rising and falling,
Rising and falling.
Dry air moving
Dry air moving
Over parted lips.
Teeth clenching
Unclenching
Teeth clenching
Unclenching.
“Temperature is normal.”
I respond.
I return the next day
Where is your pain?
The doctor asks.
I reenter my
Pulsing, beating, breathing
Palace.
A child moves further
Away on the bed
From an adult’s
Meandering hand.
The hand disappears.
The touch remains.
Blood pressure rises
Breathing becomes shallow.
Fatigued,
I relax
By aqua blue
pools of bliss.
75 years of blessings
Fill once arid spaces.
Adventures daringly dreamed
by a South Chicago kid,
Raised by parents
of the Second World War
“Roosevelt knew the
Japs were coming.”
He did nothing
To stop it.”
A ticky tacky house
By the tracks
Is our Gardens of Babylon.
I say good-night
To the whistling roar
Of a mighty steam engine
Ever so lightly
Shaking my foundation.
I return the next day.
Cheered by
Yesterday’s excavation.
I meet Seven Brides
Carrying oil lamps.
Their light
brightens once-dark corners.
Castle-like ventricles
Arch into stairways
Leading to
Magnificent towers.
Pink, baby skin
Warms a Mother’s heart.
Three children grown,
Now parents.
Six grandchildren,
Hardly children.
I look closer.
The pain evaporates.
Geysers of Gratitude,
Mist fills deserts.
Orchids of pink
Violet and gold.
Bright Pink Flamingoes circle
Capture and close.
Childhood scars,
Covered by mossy
Sponges, soak up old anger,
Vacuuming the shame
Of innocence.
I know now
Why the ivy
Meanders, clings and binds
To new cells
And old bones.
Its tendrils give
Eternal life.
Evergreen,
It breathes
Forgiveness
Fidelity and constancy.
Blinded by greed, we can no longer see,
The parched lake, and the withered tree,
Their eternal friendship meets a miserable end,
A painful saga of two best friends.
The story began eons ago,
Through heat, storms, rains and snow,
Stirred with care and compassion,
Immersed in kindness and passion.
The tree would admire itself in the crystal waters,
Inhabited by joyful flamingos, and playful otters,
The lake would excitedly chatter for long hours,
While splashing the tree and the sunflowers.
Graciously, the bountiful lake fed the tree,
Whilst the tree was a home to the swamp of bees,
Calmly, the lake slept under the tree’s shadow,
And, the winds rendered a lullaby with a blow.
The lake’s beauty amplified by moonlight,
And, the resplendent green tree shines so bright,
Wearing the blanket of water, the fishes play hide and seek,
And, the parrot on the tree carries twigs in its beak.
With no inkling that their paradise would crush,
Their existence erased with a stroke of a brush,
Along came a human with an axe in his hand,
To create ravage in their heavenly land.
He chopped down the tree, and polluted the lake,
Hunted the fishes, and cooked a steak,
The morbid animals began to flee,
Leaving alone the lake and the tree.
Their towering friendship came toppling down,
Buried in the grounds of the beautiful town.
The Desolated Greatness
ABAB
The brooding copse of archaic place,
where many stories lived and died,
rapturous and dismal both interlace,
to charm all, as in thousand hearts it resides.
Where peacock fawn, to win the mate,
and nightingale sing surmised
and where brown-recluse spider wait,
and search its life disguised.
The echoed heaven, with multitude
of songs and cries,
of birds in solitude
or in group as they flies.
The squirrels jump and pop around,
and enjoy the april scene,
as all of them ecstatic found,
with all hearts eager, all eyes keen.
The fragrance was in the air
of full blown flowers and old
which drops here and there
cries, hopes and become cold.
The winnowing winds of adjacent field,
ruffles the hairs of indolent calves
which nothing now can yield,
but deplete the fodder to halves.
Pinkish flamingoes grace the lake
which dips and uplifts
its beak in serene water, and take
the required and drifts.
The trodden path midst this greatness
reminds us of its splendid past
and also of nature's creativeness,
which is only left at last.
-:AKASH SANGWAN