Best Flurried Poems
Author: Runping Chen
The desk sends forth its particular fragrance
That gladden people’s hearts.
That is the sweet-smelling of the old camphor bodies
And into the impression of my childhood immerses.
The shade extended my fellow villagers’ strolling;
Countless summer nights embraced people’s joyful cooling.
The huge and tabescent trunk held up
The wind and frost for generations’ living.
The refreshing breeze was kissing the head of the tree.
Kindly pulled the old camphor closer
Some strands of cooking smokes
Vaguer and vaguer.
The production teams’ whistles were resounding over the village,
And grownups shouldered the sun and moon
Hurrying to the hills and fields
While the old camphor collected the children’s imaginative yields.
--In its chest
The childhoods would not be lonely and flurried
Counting from the stitches of leaves
Thousands and thousands of suns.
Many rivers of time were flowing around;
With no sense of time, the sadness I’ve known.
Since I was away, many shifts of the sunrise and sunset
I came back home and found the old camphor fallen on the ground.
It’s lying on the ground with no voice and sound,
Being dying and breathing
The merely last fragrance of its life
In front of the horrible carpenters who circled around.
The carpenters held their stainless saws
Ignoring the old camphor’s itches and aches.
On its shoulder was an owl
With the mouth open, and family ruined after all.
Prizing up the mouth for no use of vomiting sadness,
The birds sang no songs any more in the sky
Because they could hardly find back
Houses and household articles among the green leaves.
Children carried in both hands the remains of the old camphor’s bones,
Hating to pile them in the firewood house.
When the setting sun was sliding down the west hill ridges,
I walked back and forth around the old camphor tree.
She bounced right off the inkling
. . . . . . . . . golden rings and tinker bells winking
on tiny toes zzzzzzzzinging
through the galaxies spinning
. . . . . . . . . aglitter aflicker ~ her heart
atwist amidst anticipating ...
on Halley’s comet tail she flew
. . . . . . . . . in the genius of a snowflake parade
in search ... in search
. . . . . of something he once said
to the atmosphere on a cloudy
. . . . . . . . . day
over rooftops flurried in December snow
in a glance of her cosmic smile,
. . . . . . . . . she ... perched on the cusp of an eighth of a moon
sang songs of fields of poppies soon
budding beneath the snow,
. . . . . . . . . and she opened her tiny fists and let go her angel dust
upon the world
and the earth shimmered in many colors
and gave praise
. . . . . . . . . and the angels came and fetched her up ~
and He smiled.
x
I whisper to the winter moon
in dialects of falling snow
the lyrics of my flurried rune.
I whisper to the winter moon
my wish for spring with blossoms strewn
piano and adagio.
I whisper to the winter moon
in dialects of falling snow.
My horse prances.
And she dances,
As she spins around
She looks graceful
And so tasteful
Her hooves hardly touch the ground
Her long eyelashes
She seductively flashes
As she lifts gently in the air
Her thick mane flowing
From a breeze that's blowing
She dances without care.
She is captivating.
Her audience is waiting,
For her to thrill them more.
The horse is tiring
The crowd desiring
For just one more encore,
A moment to ponder,
As away out yonder,
Voices are calling out
They sound worried,
Anxious and flurried,
Then they begin to shout.
"Daisy, where are you?"
We have all been searching,
Since a quarter past two
We need you to come home, old girl,
It's time to be fed.
From the distance
Daisy heard the call.
What a time she had
entertaining one and all.
She curtsied to her audience,
Then she made a bow.
Then she said, "I am sorry folks,
I have to leave you now,
I hope you enjoyed my performance,
I shall be coming back.
I am feeling tired,
I'm going home to hit the sack."
Over the years of enacting roles varied
Daughter, sister, wife, mother flurried
No panacea, this strife
Bout of cancer, rife
And it take
Life!
I did ache
Listen to the fife
Approaching to kill, a knife
Ruthless and scary, I was buried
Over the years of enacting roles varied
© Nadiya(09 Feb '15)
* Placed 1st in the contest 'What life means to me' by Jerry Curtis on 10 March 2015
Placed 10th in the contest 'An invented form' by Andrea Dietrich on 23 Feb 2015
A marauder’s rage and heroic might.
Castle enchanted by savior’s shield,
The peasant looks upon her light.
Emblazoned eyes and flurried delight,
Odds against him, salvation healed.
A marauder’s rage and heroic might.
Soaked ground by bloodied knight,
Standing tall on fallow field,
The peasant looks upon her light.
Soul emboldened and ready for fight,
Dragon’s fire, the enemies kneeled,
A marauder’s rage and heroic might.
The bell tolls and dragons take flight,
With sword in hand, harvest yield,
The peasant looks upon her light.
Enemies scattered amidst their fright,
Soul and heart have thus been peeled,
A marauder’s rage and heroic might.
For the peasant looks upon her light.
Three lying deacons
swim in a handbag -
and a lone, celibate pastor
paces longingly bemused.
Michael, the Arc Angel,
poses silently,
in dusty Gabbana drag,
cursing the lipstick-painted laymen
writhing in rancid attar -
naked
and intentionally
unused.
Four wide-eyed boys
dance on a daydream –
kissing ripped posters
of a white collared rapist.
Saint Peter understands
the jovial jokesters -
the foolishness
when blackened specks darken the void;
the flurried flutter of his eyelids
casts a tainted shadow
upon a fractured sexual ballet.
They continue to kiss
below the waist.
Three lying deacons
and a pacing pastor resides –
five lip-smacking nurses
massaging your head.
Four wide-eyed boys
caress your knuckles
as the well-trimmed priest
pronounces
a poorly
scented infant:
"anally dead."
Seven cardinal sins
slip and divide
into 3 venial ratios.
"Hi, Sonny"...
Greed, lust and vanity
are mortal crimes;
Father Fragrantly Fresh...
quietly proclaims:
"snuggle a bit closer and
sniff a hint of Genesis."
Say I’m to blame
and cause-count the afflictions –
smaller undetected lumps
hump the jaded addictions
brain dead and haughty –
the zombies
circle and laugh!
I wasn't born in a dark discarded
Parisian tunnel but -
can you Roman Polanski me,
please?
Kill the poet...
and make him pay -
below the waist.
Crushed words embody
a forgotten loner’s
epitaph!
(force him to stutter stupidly)
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
GOD...
"the string-strangled
puppet
conventionally chokes -
and quietly succumbs
(to a textured landscape)
of a youthful
silenced dying...
...swaddled
and swallowed
in a heavenly -
haloed chosen
death..."
a blizzard
flurried fractured flakes
blinded blows
Wild grains of ice
blow, swirl,
wave
form flurried frosty fantastic clouds,
evaporating as space floats up
to form a soft steel sky,
bleak backdrop behind
swaying naked trees conducting
dancing
singing
winter's full-blowing opera.
Some approach
briefly sway
bowing
bouncing isolative moments,
absorbed into white water wind,
incarnate grace of laced exquisite space.
Bands and billows
tornado up
sweep down blanket roofs
around and past,
greet this eternally dramatic day,
then move on
coincidental adventive play,
compassion mating heaven's breath
with blood-rhythm's heated beats.
(literary nonsense)
the winter was so long ago, burying the world in snow
rabbits hop where rabbits go, here i sit to-night
and the day i hath long dreaded which hath left me much beheaded
worn my sanity unthreaded as i sought the sun's warm light
said the rabbit, hopping past, to my thoughtless face aghast, "lanterns are a great delight."
but my mind hath never shown me, nor my pinched, weak thoughts have grown me
anything which should beknown me: that a rabbit never talks
of a lantern, never falters in his steps to break the halters of the sacrifice on alter (of the wolf who nightly stalks)
just to speak to one who sulks under skies my soul doth mock
have you ever seen a rabbit come to break his daily habit and commence to speak as if it mother nature's natural norm?
and if by chance he mentions 'lantern' just to break your flurried pattern just to knock you off your rocker whilst you dream away a storm
does it leave you cold or warm to have a rabbit which informs?
if you haven't it is likely that you would not see me brightly
but you'd find me quite unsightly as most men find the plain insane
if you have i think you'd find it quite amusing for behind it
there's a joke that doesn't mind it, for jokes minding is inane
still i laugh at my poor brain for losing every bit of sane (to see a rabbit speak is strange)
and if i could see it logically; if possible biologically, i might function neurologically, but remember, brain twas dead
and the sky was growing longer, growing longer, ever grayer, and my mind was never stronger for i lacked a bit of bread
and the rabbit's words he said, hopping circles in my head
still it was that long i pondered, of a rabbit, yes i wondered, speaking to me while he wandered of a lantern bringing joy
and so to a barn i stumbled while the distant thunder rumbled and i felt so very humbled, being, a moment,a rabbit's toy
and i, my words, employed, to ask a lantern from a boy
it was kind of him to light it, and i journeyed back, excited, to the place where i was seated, seated in the dark of night
and there, i sat and waited with my trembling breath bated, and my mind was still sedated with the numbing lack of light
there i sat waiting in the night to catch the rabbit in my sight
fragile dawn
summer bravado cracks
splits the sky
duck flats freeze
flurried white fills footsteps
frail adieu
fragile dusk
ready kindling stacked strong
storm rages
V Anderson-Throop 2014
Valdez, Alaska
The mountains surround me, all shades of green
The sun shines upon them, as beauty moves, I’ve seen
--- Shadows dancing on the hillside ---
--- Holding so many places to hide ---
There is solitude there, away from the busy streets
Where traffic is flurried, or backed up where it meets
The mountain scenes, bring peaceful pleasure to view
Every season, from greens, multi-colors, white, to blue
Heidi Sands
9/2/17
A beauty danced beneath pale moonlight,
While hypnotic song flurried on the breeze,
Distant, the voices tell of magic’s flight,
A heart is caught with such apparent ease,
And leads the self into its deathly plight.
A soul lies dying within grasping flame,
Confusion’s white heat burning at nerve tips,
Invisible fires bring the pain just the same,
The murderous hold a vice like grip,
And jealousy is her invidious name.
Form: Sicilian Quintains
For days without end my light was dim
Left battle-scarred by war within
Left heavy by this heart of sin
Left broken by the days begin
Though the warmth of sun kissed my face
I chose to wander in the darkest space
Watching the world in a flurried pace
As what was left all fell from grace
Held between palm and hand
I watch it fall like grains of sand
One by one without command
Until the dark in me could understand
The pieces left could scatter light
From every angle of every plight
No matter how the dark would fight
Each piece reflected hues so bright
I gathered all the shards to see
The beauty made from my debris
Yes the dark still stirs and calls to me
But the light within shall break me free
The frost has etched the green grass white.
Lavender clouds chased a red rimmed moon.
The maples branches writhe with fright
and I'm alone in a cold, cold room.
A light snow lifts the nascent gloom.
Moon caste blue shadows sparkle, now dance,
as twigs skitter across the flurried lawn.
They seem to twirl on point, they prance.
I watch through the pane to the dance drawn.
The bleakness of night is now redrawn.
A symphony of woodwinds flute,
reeds whistle and brush a rousing beat,
deep in my heart a delight roots;
I'm warmed now by a scene so sweet,
snow for Christmas what could compete?