Best Folders Poems
A poem based on relationship…”A girl in her own dreams”
wrote by Mrs.Madhavi :)
DREAMS - An Iota of HOPE
“Waked up 7 :00 am in the morning..
saw my beauteous dreams transforming..
ohh yeah..with a drowsiness yawning..
Suddenly I found myself refreshing.
Excitedly Gone near by emblazoned window..
Fearfully Viewed a gloomy shadow..
Suddenly he smiled at me through haze of smoke..
Like a fantastic sizzling coke..
Soothing music on its full swing ..
Like a glittering diamond in the ring..
He ought to give me red rose..
On his bended knees he bows..
He tickled on my pierced nose..
With which I got glaciatedly froze..
Like a tempting dark fantasy chocolate melting in the mouth..
We strongly decided and took a royalistic oath..
He Embraced his hand on my shoulders..
Which Got intact like file and folders…
Like the moon shines in the sparkling night..
Enduringly felt to hug him so tight..
Dazzling Eyes immersed in each other..
Tuned together like a romantic lover..
Every nerve of us conjoined together..
Because the love lasted forever..forever…
Suddenly a glimpse of sun came and shattered all my zestful dreams..
“”Ohhhh.. ohhhh No..Not again. Not again. No more illustrations. No one can dwell my heart like you. Please come back. No more dreams please..””
.
Yep this feeling arised at once and will be still till our last breathe. Lasting forever. Just forever..
We trapped in each other’s heart and now no one dare to break our love-life’s part.. Apart..
Love is the essence of life and it is measured not by the count of breathe we take..but by the moments we share together till our last breathe..
By,
Madhavi
A Renga:
A Single Blossom
Santa Cruz Harbor,
The sound of barking seals
In the morning fog
Summer heat pushes people
To the California coast
Watching the sunset,
Newlyweds are holding hands
On the balcony
A power outage has occurred,
But nobody seems to mind
The moon is rising
Over the distant mountains
In the cool fall air
She adjusts the thermostat
To a much lower setting
"We should concentrate.
We are blowing our budget.
Where is it going?"
He puts the folders away
And gazes out the window
Relentless winds blow,
Whistling through the power lines
Past the frozen pond
A diner prepares coffee
In the early morning light
The hawthorn blossoms,
White, with a tinge of yellow,
Bright against the leaves
She plucks a single blossom
And places it in her hair
for George
"You always said you had little invisible friends,"
He wrote in a Christmas card one year, and Yes,
funny he would remember that. I called them Shovel,
Hoe, and BicaBacaBoca, all of indeterminate gender,
like Arial in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," beautiful
like that, and mysterious. Like the Bard, I now
consign them to the page. Reborn again.
My Navy hero, he sent us letters in brown V-
Mail folders, wartime paper and postage efficient,
and in one for our pianist stepmom, the lyrics
and music to "Lili Marlene." As for pin-ups,
he never owned up to Betty Grable's fabled legs,
her teasing over-the-shoulder glance, aimed toward
GI's everywhere, though there was the obligatory
tattoo he could never erase after sailor days, bluing
like Popeye's down the inside of his right arm.
Pacific time brought reward, some misfortune:
a bout with tuberculosis in Bizarte, Tunisia:
a year of recovery in a Naval hospital at home,
painting by the numbers, waiting out the time.
But, there was a hero's commendation from his
commanding officer for "aid in evacuation
of the wounded, and bringing the vessel into
port after torpedoing."
The ship, LST-3, earned two battle stars
for World War II service. Decommissioned
and struck from the Naval Register, it was sold
for scrapping, 10 September, 1947 - the year
I graduated from high school.
He was not sold for scrap metal, nor sustained
any. He came home to his sweetheart, and his kid
sister -- you know the one. That's her in a middle
row of the Ritz movie house, the one crying
while "Anchors Aweigh" plays after the War Bonds
trailer to the image of a warship, plunging
valiantly on a faraway sea
Piles upon piles of dust and mold
Gather in a large closet up in the attic,
Where junk of memorabilia resides
Untouched for years as I scan the heap
Of treasures accumulated: a prom's corsage
At 17, shelves of dresses, high-heels that
Tell me now I have grown four sizes larger!
Paperbacks circa 1980, eaten by bugs
from a Literature nerd in grade school...
Journals theater souvenirs looking like
Fossilized antiques from medieval ages,
Along with broken Parker pens and oil
Tubes defying a frustrated artist,
With drawers of lace, beads, threads
As glue guns ( in yellow) stick on interior- design
Folders: then to reach out for music records;
Dollars saved in a jar as a novice in advertising:
Oh the thongs , underwear kept in cedar boxes--
A vision of dates with sleek metro princes,
Discoing on till they turn into wimpy frogs...
How chlorine scent jams my nostrils as I clear
The unwanted pile-- mounds of pile that
Stain my dingy face my hair a rocker's mop.
Die as I flood you with ammonia !
Not the keepsakes...but those stinking fungi!
3/2/2017
Unwanted Guest Contest
Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
I must be -- me
to be not, would be
contradictions more foul than those in D.C.
irrelevant, you chastise
make your feelings relate
to be a poet
but is not the message
created by my pen
poetically fulfilling for me?
if my precepts
offer no memorable revelation
for you
you may not understand
now
or ever
never having viewed the Alps
illustrated travel folders
generate no sighs
yet pen in hand
drawing in a deep breath of truth
feelings
your mind
camera candidly clicking
world exposed in free style
awaken
meter petered out with cursed verse
confined rhyme
precept message
a goal sought
sometimes conveyed
spare the structure; paint the picture
sharp strokes of emotion
live through the Creator
*For John Freeman’s “Your Free Verse Precept” Contest
Barcelona looked like a church
as I walked down La Rambla
in search of a vacant room
on that warm morning.
The balconies of the flanking
high-rise apartments were pews
festooned with holy day
football flags and bedsheets.
The white haired flower seller
sat silently with his serrated scissors
and buckets of sugar water
as if listening to a confession.
People who passed me
on that righteous path
became parishioners
with detailed back stories.
The mustachioed man walking
his dog near the grass
was a lapsed Catholic
and Spanish novelist
taking a break from
the tapping of the typewriter.
The chubby middle-aged lady
in high heels and a skirt,
who carried folders and puffed
on a quick thin cigarette,
was a museum secretary
with the curator's copies
and a mother who cooked up
fish and paella for her children
every Friday during Lent.
The invisible clouds that
wafted from the restaurants
smelling of grilled seafood
and lemons and garlic
were like the prayers that a
priest's incense personified.
I later spent a humble evening
in a small rented room
washing my socks and
shorts in the white sink
and reading the boxscores
and baseball epistles
from a day old New York Times.
I studied batting averages
as my underclothes slowly dried
on the back of a wooden chair
with the help of an electric fan.
Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.
partial regression of the thin vertabrae,
slumping in a vampire support group.
cheap folding chairs reapolstered
in victorian velvet.
styrofoam cups held in a languid grasp
stained with revlon crimson lip gloss.
morbid pathologies in the carpet.
i taste the ugly pattern..
blue hexagons with gray squares.
im tired of returning to this place staring at the
carpet and drinking folders dry roast coffee.
turn the events .. strange..
sick again of the avenue that brought me here..
floor-light-escent-bulbs.. in the hallway bleed pale arteries.
My Quirk
A thing that bothers me the most,
the quirk that nags at me each day,
my study desktop capped with stuff -
its cluttered surface on display.
Poetry books, card-making drafts,
some poem lines on scribbled notes;
variety of pencils, pens,
and spaces filled with filing totes.
Perhaps an empty coffee cup
and crumbs from lunch or tiny snack.
A cell phone charging, tablet too,
and sheets from folders not put back.
Computer, printer, stacks of poems;
scattered photos, mail not read.
Some bills to pay, and some to file;
this vision messes up my head!
It drives me crazy! But, I smile
and disregard my mind's complaints.
My picture-perfect desktop dream?
Perhaps in heaven with the saints!
Outside my study, rooms are neat;
most things in place and looking fine.
But in this wild space, I create!
My freedom to compose, design!
February 10, 2018
Premiere Contest: Quirks
Sponsor: Madison Demetros
I got lost again
in childlike wonder
Looked for seashells
while listening to thunder
The rain it came
soaked me to the core
I paid it no mind
while exploring the shore
I removed my clothes
too wet to wear
Laughed and skipped
danced without a care
The troubles of the world
slipped from my shoulders
My adult responsibilities
and mountain of folders
On a secluded beach
with childlike glee
I discovered the essence
of who I used to be.
I found an old notepad file
tucked away deep within
an archive of untitled folders.
It was labeled
'her'
Oh, lord.
I double clicked it.
"Oh, I miss my friend
She is the bringer of smiles and warmth
She is as sweet as Honey
She is the beautiful figure that populates dreams
Engulfed in a simmering girlish beauty
I remember her late in the evening, in the midst of sleep
How long will I have to wait to speak to her again?
I wonder this.
In my dreams she clasps my body as we embrace.
Our forms drawn together as one, lips melding into each other, I realize:
I was in love with her.
She is gone, but in my mind she lives on
As long as my memory sustains these images."
Close. Right click. Delete.
Recycle bin. Empty.
Phew.
A Weight Upon My Shoulders
Sometimes the world feels heavy
Its weight upon my shoulders
As I seek to find some order
And sort things in mental folders.
There are things I know important
Things that shan’t be missed
But it’s hard to remember all
With daily additions to my list.
It’s tiring and stressful
But also quite rewarding
Knowing it is my loved one
I help cross the streams he’s fording.
I know it can’t be easy
Each day as he does wake
But he puts forth the effort
Knowing what’s at stake.
Our priorities are different
As are the places we can go
But it’s the steps we take together
In this new world we grow.
Yes, we both are tired
Our view of things have changed
Ever since his stroke
And our life was rearranged.
A copy of the poem " A Drawer of a Decent Soul" that she practices
A copy of the poem " A Drawer of a Decent Man" that she utulizes
A stapler to hold together things with all her power and strength
One remote control to a robot with three hands since two is not enough
One tube of muscle cream for her back for carrying many extra loads
Three folders filled with creative ideas to help provide for the family
One alarm clock set in intervals to make sure her tasks are complete
Tall, with long legs, a straight back, and long neck,
Hair falling over both of her shoulders,
Emerald eyes, as attention holders,
Instantly able to put you in check!
Nicely shaped lips, that would welcome a peck,
Forcing your arms to react like folders
And open completely, just to hold her,
Taking a feel of it just for the heck.
Unique is the word that describes her smile,
Aligned with teeth perfectly in a row;
Teasers and pleasers that define her style,
In a way that allows her face to glow.
On most days, I stare at her for a while,
Never In a way that would let her know.
I’m not an athlete although I love tennis,
I’ve flirted with fitness for most of my life,
Found rewards of a life that’s quite active are
Counterproductive to quality midlife.
The first problem is you’ve an imbecile’s view,
Little chance that you know the real consequence
Actions may have or the risks you are taking,
With doubt that your motives have logic or sense.
You should think of your body as delicate -
Injuries cured, still scars carried a lifetime,
While trophies you won are just yesterday’s news,
This is battle that needs shift of paradigm.
Bodies aren’t cars and spare parts aren’t de rigueur
And obvious thinking can still be untrue.
Though a high flying seed seems so beckoning
Don’t be seduced by dreams never thought through.
Approaching old age brought some bad health resolves
When I thought of new muscle as healthy points,
Simple decisions, to not run on pavement,
To swim in the future, thus saving my joints.
These half-truths cost me dearly as “fitness” led
Me by the nose, wrecking both aging shoulders,
With six months of quite painful rehab for each.
Is this something you want in your health folders?
Caution is frequently thrown to the wind when
We place too much faith in our most naive view,
I felt certain that swimming was gentle but
Life may have truths that we all undervalue.
Success is addictive and that did me in,
There is joy when your choice seems a blest affair,
Joints of a senior are not what my youth had
And rotator cuffs soon cried out for repair.
Moderation I guess is the sense shared here,
Foolish to count on the smile of just pure luck
For pride sets the stage for the mighty to fall
Unless you’re flattened first by a circus truck!
Long Tooth
June 12, 2016