Best Flecked Poems
Golden-flecked bliss
of enraptured blown-kiss
stardust bestrewn
beguiling skies
bespangled sequin eyes
shimmer in swoon
in midnight hours
from celestial bowers
lift blest voices
balmy hymns calm
serenity’s sweet psalm
saints’ rejoices
O, motherly
heartfelt heavenly night
lullaby my lustrous twilight
Love - swaddle me
in starlit cocoon’s blue
singing silk songs till dawn’s debut
ambrosial dreams
showered in jasmine streams
angels’ water
immerse in sleep
your virtuous well deep
baptized daughter
melodic sky
divinity’s stars sigh
spiritual
nirvana floats
seraphs’ musical notes
air's lyrical
O, motherly
heartfelt heavenly night
lullaby my lustrous twilight
Love - swaddle me
in starlit cocoon’s blue
singing silk songs till dawn’s debut
I'm named a willow tree and live in grace,
the whole of me distinctive in its shape.
My elegance well suits this lush landscape
of hillocks flung across the field I face. . .
and gentle rills meander through this place.
In spring I don a long virescent cape
comprised of many supple arms that drape
to earth and, with Eve’s shadows, interlace.
Oh, countless times Sun’s flecked my every leaf
and Sky distilled her stars as night would creep.
Young lovers, though, have fled, their time so brief.
They used to spread a cloth to eat; then sleep
beneath me in my shade. They knew no grief. . .
Not privy to their destiny, I weep.
a charcoal canvas
flecked with the glitter drops of a painter’s brush
looms above the endless Midwest plains
white-gold illumination
devours my eyes as I gaze upwards. . .
God is an impressionist artist
6/26/14
For the 'Bite Size Poem no.8' Poetry Contest of Line Gauthier
I woke trembling on the threshold of dawn
as dappled sunlight through my window shone
Upon my primed canvas there had been drawn
a masculine image with finely chiseled cheekbones
What virile fantasy had I born while in flight
for my hand to have created such a dashing face
In stippled darkness of my dream-filled night,
a handsome fantasy did I dare fondly embrace
His eyes stared in wonder; tantamount to my own
No angle shielded me from their deep penetration
I held my breath, then released a soft guttural moan
as his strong hand guided mine without hesitation
Warm colors defined muscular features I painted
His dark eyes were flecked with dustings of gold
Flushed with desire, in a warm blush I was tainted
when he faintly whispered, "To have and to hold"
My palette was awash in shades of crimson. Soiled
with streaks of scarlet were my hands and gown
My brush strokes lingered on his full lips as I toiled
imagining passion's kiss, in whose depth I would drown
I could not bear the thought of tearing myself away
On and on I painted where his gentle hands led
until finally wearied from hunger, upon my bed I lay
Unsated was a craving within me, a desire to be fed
With eyes closed, I hoped to dream of him once more,
of this man who had completely captivated my heart
Come, handsome stranger. Find me as you did before
I cannot endure life if we must live it in dreams apart
One winter’s day we walked in snow
as twilight kissed the sky.
And though it was so long ago
I still try not to cry.
I think about the way that you looked;
that image of you I hold
inside my mind until this day -
Those brown eyes flecked with gold. . .
Your brown eyes flecked with gold
so warmed my heart
I never could have thought
we’d ever part.
How I pray that you
still think of me
anywhere that you,
my love, might be.
Upon your face I wish
once more to gaze -
To see your eyes that shine
like summer days!
I’ll recall when times grow cold
how I felt that day we strolled,
and I never can forget
your brown eyes flecked with gold.
First posted 4/20/16
For John Hamilton's Write a love song Poetry Contest
Based on the song "The Shadow of Your Smile"
LYrics (as sung by Tony Bennet:
One day we walked along the sand
One day in early spring
You held a piper in your hand
To mend its broken wing
Now I'll remember many a day
And many a lonely mile
The echo of a piper's song
The shadow of a smile
The shadow of your smile
When you are gone
Will color all my dreams
And light the dawn
Look into my eyes
My love and see
All the lovely things
You are to me
Our wistful little star
Was far too high
A teardrop kissed your lips
And so did I
Now when I remember spring
All the joy that love can bring
I will be remembering
The shadow of your smile
It started with a sniffle one March morn’
When on my car that telltale film appeared
And I knew well this coat it had not worn
For overnight the gleam had disappeared
The grasses and the grains had sprung to life
A tease from leprechauns I do suspect
So thick this film I’d need a carving knife
To find that pristine wax now olive flecked
The wheezing, sneezing found its way to me
As in spring air the pollen count raged strong
Though I’d professed to be allergy free
Friends had predicted this might come along
A strong immune will carry just so far
For late in life hay fever can be born
And not again will I wax my white car
Till fall’s first frost has kissed summer’s last corn
The mica-flecked granite outcroppings loom,
releasing bits of themselves randomly
sparkling, as they fall, in felted-light they bloom.
Blasted cliffs, yet brazen, they rise without decree,
unconcerned with the maples, and the birch,
releasing bits of themselves randomly.
An ashen, sulking, sky hides the eagle's perch
and softens all the jagged edges of the scene
unconcerned with the maples, and the birch.
A collage of layers blends all color in between
each angle decomposing in the rain,
and softens all the jagged edges of the scene.
Within the fog the distant mountain's strain
bruised in shades of lavender and forest green,
each angle decomposing in the rain.
A watercolor tableau where, unforeseen,
the mica-flecked granite outcroppings loom,
bruised in shades of lavender and forest green
sparkling as they fall, in felted-light they bloom.
1/4/15
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
Welcome to the Bijou
Sometimes the creepiest places are old.
There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine
and rancid oil.
The denizens are often as ancient
as the peeling wallpaper.
The plaster cracks mirror
the wrinkles on their faces,
stale faces with
down dropped corners.
Layer upon layer of age
ground in dirt flecked, peppered
perpendicular
boxes and scaffolding
sucked dry by time, tasteless;
their visual appeal long gone
to celluloid.
The walls don’t talk
and few ask the opinions
of the bone sacks
wandering in and out.
The untold and asked for stories
hide like ghosts, shimmering
in the ancient incandescent lights
liver spots on the skin,
fish hooks in the eye floating
suspended
and powerless like flies in amber.
There are those who have always been
mesmerized by age
absorbing filmed content
wallowers in times leftover scraps,
those who bring their own infusion.
They are the catalyst of forward motion
pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity
into the dark corners
for those who follow this path
there is beauty, most certainly,
in the crinkled planes.
Splendor of soft shoulders
caressed by sinking sun
Out my window the western slope
of the thick coated Rocky Mountains
Once upon a clear cold Colorado Chrstmas
purple brushed horizon flecked with gold
filled my picture window
Mesmerized I stood staring
at this huge canvas hung in the Louver
God's and goddesses swirling about
in a swath of psychedelic clouds
refracting the colors of slow dimming light
Mt. Olympus in my living room
I was seventeen living in a dream
high up in the sandstone cliffs
carved out by the west's Mississippi
Nature, sweet mother of mine, purging
my childhood nightmare with sunsets
mountains, rivers and springs
On the banks of that fat river below
I listened to nothing but hope
Even in the echo of crackling ice
Even when she froze everything still
she made life beautiful
Never ever did she
punish my anger
but kissed it away with her love
with forests, flowers, birds and trees
She gentled my soul when I held her hand
and took me back from the jails and hospitals
every time I ran
Seventeen, fresh from my last disaster
Christmas Eve eight hundred miles
from expulsion and friends I missed
my dreaded return to the last place I left
There she was…
… arms spread clear across the valley
to hug me… her renegade child
My mother, bless her heart--
--wasn't happy to see her headache return
But my "other" mother was.. yeah
I took refuge in the painted cliffs and canyons that surrounded me
and when I came down to the valley floor
I would stop before the bridge
and walk down to listen to the big water's mighty roar…
It never stopped rolling and never ran dry
despite all obstacles
and neither did I
My savior doesn't have a birthday
but I will celebrate my hope in "His"
Just that warm sun
slinking like a coyote
over the western horizon
that Christmas Eve
is all the hope I'll ever need
another typical day, with feet on the ground
ordering the hedge to meet my image of trim
many measured bits fall before the cutting edge
casual thoughts detach, is there anybody in ?
then some mental inner disturbance jangles
with corresponding jig, nerves rip in deeper
following the run of a stalk, the hang of a sprig
so prune the untidy and unwelcome creeper
a movement to the side of my eye is caught
something is scared, behind dense vegetation
the fast beating breast of a baby brown bird
a frantic flutter and then much aggravation
descends to the pavement in fear driven escape
panic ruptures in flood, under a half sliced-off wing
chest partly open, feathers flecked red with blood
cupped warm in my hand, young life does cling
grim realisation, fledgling with no hope
pressure leaking, ebbing from a dying heart
but then our eyes meet, answers it is seeking
'where's my mum, when can my flying lessons start?'
the deed is now done, the light that shone has gone out
just the salt of my tears at this horrible juncture
the killing of one hundred and fifty million years
and this clumsy ape's evolutionary puncture
undiluted guilt, too much concentration to bear
to forgive and assuage, soothing rational thought
replacement anger and even more depressing rage
bombs target children when careless wars are fought
imagine that child, in screaming terrified terror
in mortal trouble, reduced to core instinct base
an external world has turned your home into rubble
'where's my mum, why can't I see her familiar face?'
Watching old newsreels sadness washes over me
Highstepping horses, gentle eyes transformed in fear
valiantly charging under men that could not yield
Amid the noise of cannons, over the death-filled battle-field ,
sides flecked with foam, so far from home,
somehow they know how desperate is this final charge
hoofbeats pounding, hearts bursting, falling in their stride
Now the faded image shows a glory past and gone
Yet we must remember them and how their courage shone
Lest we forget the horses, or the majesty of them
In solemn re-enactment we must remember them
And grant a special place in paradise where they can roam.
Written for the Australian war horses that went overseas
and never returned
Some Paradise Where Horses Go Poetry Contest
Michelle Faulkner
Placed 4th.
The black ones I got from my mother,
The glamourpuss Welsh princess;
The red ones came from my dad,
The freckled Irish redbeard;
The blonde ones were mine as a baby,
Ringlets that bounced when I ran;
As a child I turned to a light brunette,
Thick and fine, flecked with my ancestry.
But the grey ones are all my own doing:
I made them, I earned them, I deserve them,
I worried them into my life,
I worked and partied, I pushed myself for them,
Those late nights are there to be seen,
And all the hair dye in the world
Can't cover up who I've been.
When the time arrives for me to depart
from the sunlit harbors of the living.
Take me aboard a navy fighting ship
and carry me back again to the sea.
Order the boatswain to construct a skid
made of wood and painted with fresh white paint.
Build it to hold a gray weighted coffin
draped by Old Glory with her stars and stripes.
Cruise the coast of my beloved home Whidbey
until full abreast with Ebey’s Landing.
Muster the funeral party astern
Play taps and slide me into the blue drink.
Let the storm-flecked waves of the rolling sea
take this old sailor to his final peace.
Similar sounds and letter alliteration are literally leaping and precipitously punctuating the
perforated pages of my mired, muddled mind..
Making mental maps for future fun in meditation mired muse, meticulously masks the
real reasons I rise from my favorite fluffy floral flecked futon.
It seems somehow strange but my favorite finely fitted floral flecked futon is infested full
of flippin’ fleas. I feel flabbergasted!
It could be the culprits causing this consternation are cats coming into the corridor
constantly carrying the creepy critters in. Crap!
We’ll have to hurriedly heave the whole heaping kit and caboodle of carnivorous cats into
a crate and fumigate the frolicking fun loving finicky felines. Fine!
Fortunately, I’m finished..…….finally.