Best Forsakes Poems
The tears trickle from her eyes
They drip and drip
Without noticing it,
She goes on
So use to crying in silence
So use to being strong
So use to being alone
Unwilling to show weakness
Without warning
The tears trickle from her eyes
They drip and drip
In her tears lies her strength
In her tears lies her healing
Because when no one is around
As she is talking to her Master,
They flow freely
Because He never judge,
He never forsakes
He shelters her,
even when she’s done wrong
And when the tears are gone,
She can face the world again
Because weeping may endure for a night
but joy comes in the morning…
A few hot-orange embers burn low in the fire pit.
Morning has sprung, evident only
In the vague concrete illumination
of an overcast sky.
Scattered twigs and last night's remaining logs
Are tossed upon the coals,
With a few shivering breathes of dank
October air to give life to flames.
Frost has not yet bitten the landscape;
But the huddled mass of human
leans in, over the kindled fire
For all of its warmth.
The Night's drizzled humidity hiss-boils
and streams from the wood grain of a saturated log,
As the twigs roast and burn.
The starving artist stands firm
In the path of smoke, visible clues
To the heats current passage.
One could inadvertently burn
on the simplest furnace,
Steam rising from sweatshirt and pant leg,
And the moist palm of the hand.
Love, or so it seemed to the dreamer by his fire,
Is like this. A kiss of life
Given openly to the heart's flame,
Fanning the hot embers of friendship and affection.
Once stoked, a glance of chance
Or a lover's touch
Warms the body and sacred soul
Against the icy depravity of an outside world.
And though the cold is most apparent
In the smokey moisture of one's own breath
Hanging in the still air away from the hearth,
The sweet melting passion is best experienced
and not explained or seen.
If the world were any colder
The October sky would crack and precipitate,
splintered and crystallized,
To wipe the canvas clear below
And give substance to a feeling of betrayal
That keeps the lover embracing a modest fire,
Whose warmth forsakes all else.
A dented tin coffee pot percolates
Sustenance into the day's beginning.
Outside the ring of charred-crackling logs,
The world rises up with the gyre of smoke
And is lost to the stone gray sky.
But the fire burns on,
And the hungry heart lays nourished
Within a dreamer's chest.
And when it seems, the last of Springs
has blossomed in my garden
A barren wasteland now resides
like sins without a pardon
The emptiness that that floods my heart
seems never to be shaken
A dream that haunts me in the night
from which i can’t awaken
It’s then and only then, I learn
just what it is that makes me
For strength is not dependent on
a whim that just forsakes me
Though gardens whither in our lives
and sorrow grows to follow
It means not that the rest of days
are destined to be hollow
Though giving up is easy when
the best seems far behind me
Determination stays the rain
and soon the sun will find me
Donald Trump won the election
In spite of his true party selection
Not Independent, Democrat or Republican
For he always was and forever will be a Trumpian.
For Clerihew Contest
Sponsored by The Name Forsakes Me
8/02/18
Realizing, Yearning For Lost Youth Had Birthed Poetic Aches
Just past forest green, field of cold and hard stones
there in his youth he oft sat, rejected, sad and alone;
blissful in solitude and mindful of dark world's hurt
poet in deep thought, how best to write and atone.
Creating realms to shatter earth's hardest day
well beyond this world's mass of whirling decay;
in ragged jeans and older brother's torn shirt
searching, searching for life and a better way.
With pen in left hand and an armada of words
scribbling out verses, only to please singing birds;
with heart's pure joy in each word gushing spurt
he deeply scrutinized all his well crafted words.
Years flew by, sanctuary was lost to worldly greed
slowly, ever so slowly he gave way to selfish needs;
his desires, he in prideful arrogance sought to convert
thus raising his own sorrows from lust's thorny seeds.
Racing back, searching for that field lonely dreams
a child again, escaping world's darkest schemes;
found he, truth and joy replaced by life's great hurt
flowing forth in never ending black raging streams.
Then one fine dawn, he remembered that sad, sad place
cold stones that spoke, spoke to him face to face;
regain thy true soul, plant seeds in fresh, fertile dirt
for thy youthful years, no poetic words can replace.
With far greater knowledge, his grief he forsakes
realizing, yearning for youth had birthed poetic aches;
he sat there in new bought jeans and bright shirt
writing new poetic verses, during sweet coffee breaks.
August 2nd, 2017
--------------
For the 'The Poet's Ache' contest - Greg Barden
I gave you my heart
and my infatuation
to ever entwine . . .
I leave you my devotion
at your stone cold tomb, engraved.
________________________
July 9, 2018
Poetry/Tanka/Engraved
Copyright Protected, ID 18-100040-483-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Tanka
sponsor, The Name Forsakes Me
Tenth Place
I watch how your eyes flutter on the brink
of waking; and here, as I think in the moon's reflection, I drink
in the quiet, my confidence shakes while
inviting your touch, and longing your smile
to wrap me in warm arms, embracing my solitude;
yet, I'm lost in the parchment, the pale of the light, as stars in a multitude
comfort me tonight. My lonely heart, confused,
reaching out, seeing you, a face bemused
with careless abandonment. You are deep
in the center of your own universe, asleep
and leave me alone with notion that you willingly go...
far away to your dreams, to places I cannot know:
With each breath, private, and shallow,
I'm left, lost, bereft, and hollow
without you.
This I know....
I envy you, loathe that my slumber forsakes,
so I could be with you, in that distant reverie. I hesitate,
to wake you, I can't help but wonder, do you stream
away on a cloud and with the mistress of your dreams ?
________________________________________
For Suz's Contest:"Let's Be Open" 7/12/13
A world without worries
Where...how come?
Only man without feet
Feels not the torrid earth
Or child without nostril
Breathe not the toxic air.
The world...a war
Between the needy and needs
In the cage ring of life
The mad fight-a thought
Arming the hoe with stone
Against drought
The battle is lost!
A world of words
Porridge of hopeful phrases
In several dishes of religion
Their sweetness cures no hunger
Only an after-earth nutrient
Forsakes us in a world of famine.
The dew drops from morning's eve
becomes the brunch beneath our feet
fore no leaf lunches prior
till the cloud amongst them all's a crier.
Waft in silhouette pro wall
the shadows reflection grows tall
the one whose permanent hide go seek
becomes the widow's peak
of society's awe.
Happiness is in the past
contentment's in the present
hopefulness comes from tomorrow
as tears stain iridescent.
Sorrow locks it's horn anew
forgotten wills and dreams
every sigh and hollowed scream
becomes reality.
That is sorrow's dream.
A dream from which no one will wake,
till the dreamer's body's heart forsakes.
Listing A Personal View Of What Poetry Is
1. Poetry is a stone,turned to expose to searching winds once hidden earth.
Robert J. Lindley
2. Poetry is art, mind painted, heart colored and fire risen.
Robert J. Lindley
3. Poetry is a fruit, hanging on a bountiful tree, begging to fall.
Robert J. Lindley
4. Poetry is an ever expanding ocean, begging ever more creatures to swim in its swirling depths.
Robert J. Lindley
5. Poetry is cake on a golden platter, eaten with fork, spoon, butter knife or greedy hands.
Robert J. Lindley
6. Poetry is cherry blossoms, crying for the soft, cool winds to wave their beauty to the awaiting sun and the gasping skies.
Robert J. Lindley
7. Poetry is glistening dewdrops falling upon virgin ground to gift dawn's hope and night's desire to match brilliance of falling moonbeams.
Robert J. Lindley
8. Poetry is man's heart and soul uniting to bless others, while temporarily shielding searching souls against this dark world's poison tipped arrows.
Robert J. Lindley
9. Poetry is brightly sent musical notes that heart sees, mind colors and spirit longs to record.
Robert J. Lindley
10. Poetry is ink blotted, soul driven splashes that cry to be read, beg to be understood and unabashedly sings to give to its readers.
Robert J. Lindley
11.Poetry is a colorful bird, in heavenly flight to a paradise that awaits man's sincere pleading heart and desirous spirit.
Robert J. Lindley
12. Poetry is a child happily playing, a mother joyfully singing and a father blessed to have and so very dearly appreciate loving both.
Robert J. Lindley
Robert J. Lindley, 7-17-2018
Subject, ( What Poetry Is)
Note- This was inspired by reading, The Name Forsakes Me's blog this morn.
Which lists 50 famous quotes on what poetry is.
I sit here all alone
It has been years since anyone cared
There has no one here to yell
No one to scream obscenities
Just me and a TV
Today even that forsakes me
Two hundred channels
There is not a damn thing on
Except a man of God
He talks of paradise
An afterlife of bliss
Never needing, never wanting
All I have to do is die
It would be so easy
The blade in the bathroom
A nice shiny edge looks so good
It feels so sharp
So good in my fingers
Who would know?
There would be no one to say stop
It would be over in a few minutes
I would just be there
Lifeless and worthless
Would it be worth it?
It is hard to think as I feel a pinch
Blood flows from my arm
Leaving a growing crimson puddle
I look down and watch
The last thing I see is that even in death
I will always be all alone
Donald Trump
would get the hump
if the dead ferret fell from his head,
and voters wanted that as president instead.
for the name forsakes me Trump clerihew contest
Emotional rush when quite hearts tear
leaving a void onerous to repair.
Unloving compassion torments me so
drowns benevolent heart to overflow.
Hiding in shadows with a want to kill
forsakes a doubtful soul to grasp this thrill.
Understanding cannot be understood
when selfish being declines to do good.
Tears stain soft cheeks on a cold hard pillow
flow out of control like stormy billow.
A bruised heart shatters when a killer takes
one or multitude my heart still aches.
Copyright © 2012 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Written: 7/24/12
Second Place Winner ~ "One Silver Tear” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lisa Cooper
July 27, 2012
Most people are afraid to die
A fatal blow it seems , death does
If a corpse came back to life they'd cry
Please tell us how it was
A pillow as soft as downy silks
A night as long as souls can stand
A blacken overlay of quilts
An escape rout from the fate of man
Thus is the consequence of death
A restful sleep; a silent hush
Until we kick the covers away
And the shadow of death forsakes us.
RETA PRUITT
August 19, 2016
The fans are wild and crazy -
It’s the name of the game…
The game that’s most watched on the planet!
No, not American football -
Why it’s the soccer match of course – what else!
You’re simply an outsider if you’re not a fan –
Everyone covets that annual Ballon d’Or
And if you don’t, you’re so very odd!
Every country is represented -
Soccer is the Olympics of sports.
One eye on the dreaded penalty box…
While watching for the bend, that feat of magic,
For the screamer to see why it’s called a screamer,
Loving that howler as long as it’s not by your team,
And when your team has fallen behind,
Is there a better goal than the equaliser ?!
Praying for a brace or better yet a hat trick
Aiming for the GOAT
Hello…! the ‘greatest of all time’!!
Where have you been ?!!
And when that final whistle blows…
The whole world will take notice
And rise for the winner of FIFA !
AP: 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on July 17, 2018 for contest PIECE DE RESISTANCE sponsored by THE NAME FORSAKES ME
and June 18, 2018 for contest 2018 WORLD CUP sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 1ST