Best Fog Poems
A coloratura rises
from the suede-edged shape
as the gnarled grande dame
comes to light.. a vision
draped in sweeping evergreen
and a pale cape of kidskin haze -
a beguiling soprano in soft-
focus fools the guileless sunrise
with a diva’s deception --
for in the vaporous golden hour
she can still be breathtaking
the age of change
is beclouded - softened
in gray’s cashmere atmosphere
where blending and bending of
over-ripened perceptions
are smoothed with a dewy smudge..
roughened boughs
and litter-fall is obscured --
unless, you get up close
harsh lines become artfully coy
in the bosom of the pearl mist;
a bedimmed dreamy blur of
Impressionism masks her reality
with the sleight of hand and a mockingbird’s aria
Susan Ashley
March 8, 2020
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand Contest No 1183
Sponsor: Brian Strand
N/A
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 6
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*coloratura: runs, trills, and other florid decorations in vocal music.
A lyric soprano of high range who specializes in such music*
*aria: an elaborate melody sung solo*
There are times you have no choice
To infinite unity, the tide comes as determined
You are part of the earth, the sun, the moon, the wind and the rain
I do not care who you are, I drink of the other fountain
Your jaws tighten your smile gets glued
Leeches bite to suck blood on your skin, by their own greed
// Act like a man of flesh and blood
Your card must be played, an ace or a joker
Ace has a higher value and joker is a substitute,
but this is not poker //
An obsession that wins over common sense
The power of judgment disappears a power higher than yourself
Use your energy to get out of the dark abyss
He stamps his brown paper bag and makes his choice
Open a bottle of vodka, alcohol's embrace
26.09.2017
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Poem of the Day; 28.09.2017
Like milk from blue mountains' swollen breasts, the fog
Intertwines with pungent campfire smoke, a blue mist
Frescoing my quiet river valley's primeval lap.
Twilight tiptoes, surreptitiously, spying on secluded tryst;
Interlaced, grape and honeysuckle canopy overhead,
Noddng blossoms dripping sweet fragrance,
Granting nectared kisses my lips cannot resist.
The blue moon peers through hazy clouds, then turns
Hiding his eyes from lovers unashamed upon the ground;
Emotion rising in his core, he looks again and sadly yearns.
Furtively, he draws foggy blankets o'er us two,
Orchestrating sequestered solitude until
Golden sunlight warms the earth uncov'ring me and you.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, July 5, 2014
“Within the fog the distant mountains strain
Bruised in shades lavender and forest green
Each angle decomposing ~ ~ ~ in the rain”
While dreary dawn, dazed, awakens in pain
Trapping blushed morning in languid ravine
Within the fog the distant mountains strain
Darkened is design sketched on golden plane
Shadowed is rosy grin of once pristine scene
Each angle decomposing ~ ~ ~ in the rain
While crystal skyline drenches in cloudy reign
Blurring scarlet arc decaying in fading sheen
Within the fog the distant mountains strain
Stellar stage is roiled in motifs of graying stain
Splintered are dim-beams upon ashen sateen
Each angle decomposing ~ ~ ~ in the rain
Though hope gleams as winds start to wane
Lifting purpled amethyst zeal, as yet unseen,
Within the fog the distant mountains strain
Each angle decomposing ~ ~ ~ in the rain
May 6, 2021
Placed 1st: Choose your form poetry contest
Stanza chosen : option 1
Sponsor: Joseph May
July Fog
Fog
Slinks in,
Cloaks dawn’s smile
In July gloom
With platinum gauze ~
A foggy summer breath
Glistens on rows of sweet corn,
Kisses the vegetable garden,
As crickets chirp and bumblebees hum
In misty tunes of foghorn rhapsodies.
The fog sits heavy on broken ground,
Snow lays light where the stubble’s browned.
No sun, just hush and hoofbeat slow,
And breath that drifts like chimney smoke.
The cows stand scattered, heads hung low,
Dark shapes caught in a pale gray glow.
I ride out quiet, don’t make a sound...
They know this hat, this horse, this ground.
A calf’s come early, slick and thin,
Laid out cold with his legs tucked in.
I swing a loop with a steady hand,
No sudden moves in this kind of land.
The stubble snaps beneath each step,
And time don’t care how long you’ve kept.
It’s just you, the rope, the breath, the need...
And a life hung tight between frost and feed.
My mare don’t flinch, just shifts her weight,
Knows well the line ‘tween luck and fate.
Ain’t no crowd, no song, no stage...
Just a man and stock and an honest wage.
I rub him down with gloveless skin,
He blinks, then breathes the cold back in.
His mama lows, I step away...
That kind of trust ain’t earned in a day.
I ride on slow through fields gone bare,
With wheat stems pokin’ through thin air.
And I reckon that’s what winter is...
A test of quiet, a trial by whiz.
This life don’t shine, don’t boast, don’t beg...
It’s a coffee pot, a frostbit leg.
But it’s mine, and I’ll ride it true...
Just like this ground remembers you.
Morning Fog
This morning
when there is much to do inside,
there is fog outside my window.
The fog I sought two mornings ago
that caused me to dash to the car
in hopes I could grab a coffee
and sit by the lake,
witness to the softening of the world,
treetops indistinct, not yet awakened from their dreams.
By the time I reached the street
rain had dissolved,
captured,
drunk up the tiny molecules
of water playing fog.
I like rain, too, so I stayed on the road,
found myself coffee and a breakfast
by a temperature controlled fireplace.
Despite the rain, the little cafe
quickly became peopled
and I had to move on.
The soft shield of fog
was what I was hungry for,
not the food I left half eaten.
The desire to be
fogged in, alone or companionable,
putting thoughts to paper
or contentedly one
with the downy view,
the lack of detail,
the absence of certainty,
the enveloping moisture
making all things
remember
what it was like to be born.
We are all born
In some kind of moisture --
pushing through the dark damp soil,
or squeezed through a tunnel of flesh,
causing someone pain
for the first of many times.
Or we peck our way through
a fragile/sturdy shell,
wet with possibility,
or we're loosed with a hundred siblings
into a salty waterscape of danger,
calculating our chances.
For all of us,
our first vision must be a little foggy,
our possibility of success unclear.
But
every foggy morning
crawls into my soul
to whisper
what it could be
to be reborn.
Written: October 06, 2023
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have seen the ample fog, so dense and vast.
It swallowed the world—a look that couldn't last.
I cried and sighed, but there was no sound at all.
In tears, they flowed down, akin to a waterfall.
I've kept my eyes on the skies for a long time.
Praying for unity, a homeland sublime.
But the strong wind blows, carrying my plea.
Akin to the migrants, I feel lost in this banshee.
A cold thing, this land I roam,
The rain falls down, strong and unknown.
I feel the tea at my door, a comforting brew.
Yet everything seems strange; nothing feels true.
A strong fire of succinate burns.
I am apart from him; my heart yearns.
Others hold them close and look astonished.
As I stood in silence, my soul admonished.
I can hear the whispers of love and despair.
They have souls, while I'm left in the air.
I stay standing, lost and confused.
Not knowing where I am, I feel bemused.
Laughing at the devil, who poisons my path,
Teeth of jackals, revealing his wrath.
Yet still, I stay in silence, refusing
To let the tears flow, my emotions are diffusing.
Closing my ears to the cries of pain,
Lost in the fog, my soul seeks to regain
But through this journey, I'll find the way.
In this vast fog, I'll discover the light of a raw day.
Constantly fretting
lost in deep fog of caring
worrying hides faith
I have an overwhelming fog surrounding me.
It envelops me, wraps me in a dark haze to the point where I can't see anything.
It lies to me, saying that THIS is what I need, THIS will make me lovable, THIS will make me feel better. The fog is an old, misleading friend. The first time I met the Fog was in grade 6. It was there for me, wrapping me in a warm blanket, and helped me for some time.
Then it hit.
My life has been filled with things to get rid of the Fog, my personality made of mist.
The Fog is an old, misleading friend of mine, and I meet up with them sometimes still.
Standing before the great water's roll...
Lost within a dream of greatness...
Breathing in slow. . .
Exhales more like whispers..
The burning sun had given way to the calling of night...
The gathering of stones, cool and ancient...
Collecting the sea's sadness...
As the last flicker of light fades until the chiming of tomorrow,
I look to the night sky...
There she is found...
In the shifting shadows of the moon...
A thousand departures created the void...
Releasing the hold on today...
With outstretched arms, I fall into the mist, the fog and the ocean's call.....TAH
fog on the horizon -
the ocean immensity
hidden from view
fog on the horizon -
I anticipate her beauty
when she lifts the veil
fog on the horizon -
the soft prelude leading
to a sunrise suite
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Posted 12th December 2021
foggy
november skies
over poppy fields
posted on April 27, 2019
My spirit is strong, my heart is weak.
The only break I'd get is falling off a ladder.
I smile to ease your heart,
deep down I am without cause.
You are at times my lighthouse,
but often leaving me to drift into the fog.
Through fog, through torrential tears,
Silence soothes my inner being, right
within confines of an upper room, where
skylight strummed melodies of rain.
there I was in converse with the Source;
And though I basked on goose down comfort,
The devil inside a glass pipe lingered;
but on that wintry night of envisioning
And deep soul-searching,
Distance and time were wedded as one, as
My soul traversed the land of my birth,
And I beheld vacation bible school days.
Upon my wakened psyche sat imprints of longings -
Such cravings for a fix of spiritual grub I'd not known
Yes, I spoke as my wobbly soul held hands of hope,
My dreams would whisk me from addiction.
Who knew divine intervention would bring me freedom?
Oh yes! this gift, this gift,
Twenty-two years and beyond,
I must tell someone.
*