Best Fluency Poems
I love the way you melt into my eyes,
And speak to me in fluency unheard,
That says to me your lust is on the rise,
My body and my mind by you quite stirred.
Impassioned arms, we're craving hot embrace,
And right before our yearning lips do kiss,
Ignited heat of heartbeats face to face,
We linger in this moment of pre-bliss.
You take me o'er the moon my shooting star,
To galaxies and realms our Milky Way,
In velvet nights of endless repertoire,
On astral planes besprinkled with risque.
Exotic dance in swirls of ecstasy,
That whirl us to new heights so breathlessly.
Susan Ashley
November 11, 2017
~ Second Place ~
Contest: Any Poem Won in a Contest in November (not from mine)
Sponsor: Laura Loo
~ Fifth Place ~
Premiere Contest: November 2017
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Emerging from sleep dream temerity,
his remote aurora spectral prisms
from which his wakefulness gives legerity,
from which surfaces new burgeoning aphorisms.
Truth’s contours arrayed in fluid fluency,
his morning ataraxia in the still water lake
from where his senses lose their truancy,
from where ideation sheds the opaque.
He finds repose in a moment's seclusion,
his lucid cortex in reflective possibility,
but he learns his real confirmation in inclusion,
and learns our fellowship best protects our fragility.
So quickly we imbrute each other with walls,
he knows how militarization is summoned by anxiety,
he weeps at the endless requiem protocols,
he grieves at history’s long cruel impropriety.
But he detects his promise in human need,
our struggle against forces of dehumanization,
our commission in communitarian creed,
our hope in human family realization.
Awarded second place in Poetrysoup "Grace and Solitude" rhyming poetry contest sponsored by John Hamilton.
Bless me
with the fluency of fury
and the articulate voice of anger.
Spare me though,
of its affliction of aggression.
Let my pen paint
the reflection of my thoughts
like a mirror.
Thus my lines become
clones of my imaginations.
Let creativity be
the stubborn shadow
of my verses
and let not inspiration
fly out of my window.
I love an empty page, pristine and fresh,
Creating life, from its sanitized death,
Gently depress the pen, unto its silky sheet,
Hand rests comfortable, on the surface beneath.
Ink tentatively starts to flow, filling in blank space,
Blood pressure rises slightly, stepping up the pace,
Steady as she goes, the first line appears,
Pausing for a second, sensing evolution here.
Moving along, poem’s nicely taking shape,
Writing looks well, just one little mistake,
Don’t get annoyed, easily fixed, right as rain,
Concentration’s intact, no need to complain.
Getting good vibes, though only halfway down,
Paper’s responding, as my scribe resounds,
Talking back at me, synchronized together,
Losing track of time, moments seem forever.
Engrossed with my work, mind starts to roam,
Must stay focused, for fear I’ll bemoan,
All appears fine, fluency pours from within,
Stanza’s won’t stop coming, hope this ones a win.
Hard to believe, already on the final verse,
Just enough room, to bring it home, I observe,
Finishing with a flourish, hitting the punchline,
Page seems happy, it’s new home is my rhyme.
By
David Kavanagh
I still follow
the blinking spells
of the rose wine sunsets
before surging sandstorms,
believing in the euphoric breeze
floating across the
shivering skyline,
echoing vermilion voices,
lost in the limestone grains,
as questions of change
interrogate the empathy
encrypted within
my inhibited intuition,
like spices of kismet flames,
swirling to the fluid fluency
of sentimental keys
in saxophone tunes…
But in the midst of moving monsoons,
I feel the eagle feathers of Zeus
rain upon the crystalline swing,
crooning songs of tameless time~
wrapped in the crescent cocoon
of silent splendor,
as I rise, dressed in steel and silver.
I hear the bluebird dream
in symphonies of the karmic sea,
streaming with specters
of star-struck ghosts…
O majestic marine jewel,
change is a promised ocean.
It’s sprouting coral blues
from reefs of ambergris embers,
awaiting floods of onyx tears
and jagged thistles,
like a tsunami of smeared streaks
reflecting the smoke
and swollen stains of the red sun.
Tonight, I erase the last mistake;
a scribbled imitation
of my aching past,
for I could not veil the scars,
failing to seize the
splitting clusters of
slate and garnets,
burning between
sleepless lakes,
drenched in midnight terrors,
as satanic waves
blur the turquoise surfing
through the limitless twilight.
Yet, I hear the mermaid moon
call my name in magical refrains,
steering my iridescent silhouette
to an ivory shore
where ebony hints of ink
would home the hermit castles,
where you and I can breathe~
as soulmates destined
to draw neon lifelines from
bioluminescent sparkles…
So let the bluebird drift into an orchid dream
where karma is the poet~
draped in deep violet,
writing elegies
to the eclipsed eyes of the red sun
that stole the silk and sage
of summer sighs…
And change is more than just a mere rhyme,
it is the ultimate essence
to rearrange
whimsical words
woven within wind
from honey and gold
of a
dulcet
dawn.
Justice In America
by Edmund Siejka
Sam, the lawyer
Needed a real job
Short on cash
And unable to find work
He did what he knew best
He sued the government.
The job he wanted
Held promises of security and a steady check
But it required knowledge of government regulations
And fluency in Spanish
Sam had neither.
Much to his dismay
He was not selected for the job
Infuriated
Sam filed a request for a hearing.
Over his strenuous objections
An Administrative Law Judge
Found that Sam did not have the combination of specialized experience
To help him do the job well
And denied his claim.
Brooding over a long, cold winter
Sam decided on a plan
In early Spring
He filed an appeal before the full Commission
Complaining that the Agency’s reason for not selecting him
Was merely a pretext for discrimination.
Sam further argued that he could have easily learned how to perform the job
Because his was an attorney
With credentials clearly superior to the other candidates.
In a rather short three page decision
The Commission
Concluded that Sam’s legal education was not so exceptional
As to undermine the Agency’s decision not to hire him.
Recognizing that discretion was the better part of valor
And realizing that his money was better spent
On the basic necessities of life
Sam left the State of New York
And relocated to Florida
Where he now sells used cars
To elderly widows.
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.
It's been a while.
Creativity grounded.
Dry, arid, sun-scorched,
basking in blistering heat
and too lazy to think.
It's been a while.
Vocabulary one vociferous
now muted, silent, frozen
in salacious space,
and too lazy to write.
It's been a while.
What have I been thinking?
Where do the words go?
The cogs of composition
lack fluency, fluidity -
It's been a while
- but I'm back -
I reduce myself into smaller categories
Speaking languages I don’t really know
Spreading my wings in different places
Multiplying myself in countable numbers
Just to do several things at once
Nothing is really done in the same time
But I do it in the same time of my life
I speak the language of Music, of poetry
Discovering and awakening the Do Re Me and Rhythms of fluency
I speak the language of Friendship and devotion
Spending my time with friends and devoting things I really admire
I speak the language of Disrespect and hatred
Of the many things I did, this I am not proud of
I speak the language of love and loyalty
Converting actions into feelings and feelings into actions
I speak the language of pain and enduring
Suffering the events, enduring the results
I speak the language of Eyes and spirit
Understanding things’ reasons and the connection with the soul
I speak the language of Revenge and right
I fight for what is taken, grabbing my right
I see through God’s sign
I think before I act
I speak the language of life…
She speaks with her nose opened wide
Like that of Queen Elizabeth the none
From the fringe of the nose
She speaks very fluently
Chewing Queen’s language
With her head high up
She must have been an “Americana”
No! Briton, I mean
Chorused the mouth of many.
Yet she was not only born of here
She leaves all her life within
In the dusks . . . thick
Of a town called “Ibara”.
Indeed the other face of “Ibara”
We thought she was of the
Known family in “Ibara”
“Ibara” of the biggest shots
We were hoodwinked again
Its “Ibara” other side
With people of no side or size.
I became popeyed of it the news
That her Father a local referee
I wore it a gown of surprise
Of her fluency even in
Pidgin and Yoruba dictions.
Needing twenty two lies
To support one big heady fabrication.
Does she defeacate or fart ?
Too clean of a skin and look
Selling dubiously nothing but her casing
As many Adams pay for her pretence
Others swayed by her glibness
Skinned naked by her smile . . . comportment
Donate generously to her carcass
Of an empty moving coffin.
Too hollow to be real.
She can’t sleep in darkness
She can’t wash her clothes
Yet she is full of pretence
Too pompous to be genuine.
Enter the knockings of that day
That she will be strip naked
Of her white flying lies
All at the open market square.
Alayande Stephen. T
30th,July, 2006
12.25am
Ola’s very comical story of his
Female friend called Wunmi.
I sit,
forming kisses on memories,
striking them from time, as it whispers away.
Recollecting venomous verbs
cast to empty shadows
Eradicating the spiel.
Adjectives of annihilation, blitzing barren minds,
reflected, returned in silent echoes.
Notches gouged into the family tree,
tearing sons from fathers, mothers from daughters
‘till desolation offers comfort, disconsolately.
Tears, oil my fluency.
Chagrin deliverance to captured celluloid puppets,
hypnotized by neon stars. Concrete castles
raping biblical heavens, falsifiying resurrection.
My scathing peers judge me.
Relationships extirpated.
Sentenced to rejection
in the morass of anonymity,
I bleed sarcasm to arcade mannequins.
Deaf to empty responses,
while they crucify my heart
within the depths of a satin grave.
Abused and still forlorn in the spiral of the cigarette,
I recite musings to shattered coble aisle.
Turn my back on opportunity kicking in my door.
Scanning faceless faces,
in vain hope of another easy conquest
Charon awaits.
Abandoning relics
to my playground of yesterday,
I beg the boatman’s coin.
Seeing my name on the grease stained roll call,
I fade.
It is so lonely
having all time
and only spaciousness
to themselves.
Bored with Other
after so many millennia
planning future events
to finally get even for ungrateful behavior
that pissed them off
when they were even younger
in their co-evolving relationships
as not each Other.
Time lies dead in their competing hands
yet dynamic in their displaced designs
for emerging future climate changes,
great transitions,
spaces and places to regenerate a more cooperative atmosphere
among these co-arising Gods
of Energy and Air,
Water and Soil,
Fire
and Golden AnthroDivine Elixirs.
To drink this beverage of Timeless Gods and Goddesses
is to travel through time Their bilateral Selves
aware of fear as Other godless fear
of Their own Elder divine relationships
transactions
Selecting
Gods of political MonoTheistic Correctness
with Capital-Infested Designs
for self-perpetuating
lost humane development
and wealthy mind
healing EarthBody design
for future multicultural millennia
Future therapeutic chapters
in our collective ReGeneration Story
of Passion/Pleasure
intimate GodNesses.
A lonely lovely story,
from panentheistic perspective
of polyculturally communing gods and goddesses.
All that loving grace of healthy integrity,
yet so few dreams in which to unload
their rich full-octaved color
and inspiraling fluency
of Me/We
humane divines
severed/sacred
double-side divides
EarthGrace
re-stimulating AnthroLovely gratitude;
such steady-state resonant bliss
vexing passionate struggles to erupt outside
inside timeless dramatic elation
without climaxing end
All alone,
hiding monolithic divested blame
without exclusively Self-invested
merely human
shamefully ungodly
dispassionately unpleasant
desecrated lesser Others
ReTexting hate-filled UnTruth scriptures
as if anger/fear bipolar prescriptions
while ting toxins
on His Golden MonoPolistic Throne.
What better name for one who'd analyze
and scrutinize the sources of logomachy,
a philosopher who filters truth from lies,
our building blocks, the seat of etiology.
A thinker's thinker, one who ponders well
the implications of a life-long gleaning,
composed of and comprises, just a single cell
in her journey to examine every meaning.
Though new expressions find their way to dictionaries,
they bastardize, dilute the power of language,
'snuck' instead of 'sneaked,' no real propensities
to offer something better, (tawdry verbiage!)
To communicate with skill, singular fluency
takes savoir faire, a knack for etymology.
********
...meant as a love sonnet to a dear friend.
...to Juvie
What better name for one who'd analyze
and scrutinize the sources of logomachy,
a philosopher who filters truth from lies,
our building blocks, the seat of aetiology.
A thinker's thinker, one who ponders well
the implications of a life-long gleaning,
'composed of' and 'comprises,' just a single cell
in her journey to examine every meaning.
Though new expressions find their way to dictionaries,
they bastardize, dilute the power of language,
'snuck' instead of 'sneaked,' no real propensities
to offer something better, (tawdry verbiage!)
To communicate with skill, singular fluency
takes 'savoir faire,' a knack for etymology!
Don't forget your books with the shiny covers.
Pens filled with glitter and rainbows of hope.
My books used to be wrapped in brown paper bags.
By year's end they'd be frayed and covered in kid graffiti.
Number 2 pencils poked with bite marks.
Most importantly, mind your teachers.
But when they delve into critical hate theory or gender fluency.
You have my blessing to tune them out...
After all, you're only six years old.
In my day we'd recited the pledge.
Had air raid drills garnished with salted sirens.
We'd be ordered to scramble under wooden desks.
To protect ourselves from nuclear fireballs...
The teachers turning into hell hounds.
Barking at us to keep quiet and keep our heads down.
As they goose-stepped up and down the aisles.
They'd look for stray-paper-eyed lambs.
We had to do this because of a red boogie man.
Who couldn't wait to lay our souls inside his nuclear sandbox-
Of course, you kids have your own boogie man to fester about...
So don't forget to run for the gates or shelter in place.
If all else fails, do as they do in Uvalde.
Cover yourself in your best friend's blood and play dead.