Best Forward Motion Poems
Welcome to the Bijou
Sometimes the creepiest places are old.
There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine
and rancid oil.
The denizens are often as ancient
as the peeling wallpaper.
The plaster cracks mirror
the wrinkles on their faces,
stale faces with
down dropped corners.
Layer upon layer of age
ground in dirt flecked, peppered
perpendicular
boxes and scaffolding
sucked dry by time, tasteless;
their visual appeal long gone
to celluloid.
The walls don’t talk
and few ask the opinions
of the bone sacks
wandering in and out.
The untold and asked for stories
hide like ghosts, shimmering
in the ancient incandescent lights
liver spots on the skin,
fish hooks in the eye floating
suspended
and powerless like flies in amber.
There are those who have always been
mesmerized by age
absorbing filmed content
wallowers in times leftover scraps,
those who bring their own infusion.
They are the catalyst of forward motion
pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity
into the dark corners
for those who follow this path
there is beauty, most certainly,
in the crinkled planes.
Surfing through social media
it's a wave coming atcha in speedia,
forward motion becoming a blur
clickity clack there is no cure
scrolling fast, getting motion sick,
oh look another cute cat pic
it's a cheap click, a blue like
thumbs up like hitch hike
blazing fast again on the highway,
there's some ads flying our way,
like billboards on the roadside,
x them away, they don't hide,
now it's a bumpy ride,
what is up with that chic, no pride,
blindsided by that news story,
click on the link and it's gory,
not what the story was suppose to be
another cheap click got to me.
smiles turn to frowns then laughter
the two cents everyone is after
every emotion in a powerful punch
let's check on that link after lunch
like pacman chomping the bits
youtube video has how many hits
does that make its content true
this looks like something I could do
cooking up a steak on truck hood,
yum yum that meat looks good
seeing a clip from mythbusters busted
guess not ...I got husted,
didnt' work, ain't going to,... why post
a cheap click from an eager host
can't tell truth from fictionary
dang, this internet world is scary
anyone can make up anything you see,
just look at my post, half the words arent in the dictionary
but that is alright cause it's online,
heck ya ain't even know if these words are mine
but i got ya now with a cheap click
keep on clicking cause something will stick
Out at sea, serene and soothing,
on a sheet of lapis lazuli,
a graceful forward motion,
kissing the coast line,
sailing at high speed,
skimming over the salty waters,
the breeze caressing my face,
filling the taut sails with power.
A short distance away
sunlit vistas, rugged rocks,
and white washed villas.
Afar a dolphin jumps out of the water,
above gracious gulls glide
foraging for food, the tasty sardines,
turtles paddle close, a rare sight.
I veer to evade a close companion,
a masterly maneuver,
a sense of elation,
beauty, peace and joy.
Let me live here forever
or at least until summer lasts.
Breathe in deep the sheltered sea
Whose mist holds mystic memory
The stars are falling one by one
Into the rays cast by the sun
To settle now with mornings dew
A memory lost that never grew
Hold them gently within your heart
Remembering love does not depart
Breathe in deep the sunrise hue
Another fine day to start anew
Step by step in forward motion
Memories kept with deep devotion
Debra Squyres
01/08/13
Poet friend, Robert Johnson, inspired this write.
The first 4 lines were taken and adapted from
his words in a comment made on one of my poems.
That's a long way from sighing freely
just one calm brushstroke
wrapped in a sea of tranquility
to suit phantom clustering to occur
soundless groans of despair
permeate deeply below
vacant plenty and lots of depth
holding tanks for trinkets
still swallowing down
to its essence, it's stifling
In the bowels of the abyss
with staggering madness.
a piercing squeak emerged
the darkened horrible torture
emotional feelings swing the gamut
ensuring the gusts of grief are at bay
the brief bouts of peace were helpful
In the hopes of lasting harmony
while maintaining a silent beat
Irresolvable and convoluted
retain your cool and stand firm
the self-aware rule of one's mind
a sharp jolt to one's daydreams
restrained my forward motion
the sleepy origins of the phrase
my heart ached for alteration
according to the distorted sobs
between the quaking anger
plus the carefree merriment
waited in fear of a phantom sighting
we are sincerely moved by to silence
an existentialist perspective
hidden and unyielding; a mystery
It aggressively drops its coat
trauma-induced coldness
the silence was jarring.
still, a swing of the pendulum
tears the mask off the difficulty
capturing the essence of times
time spent in relative stillness.
Written: April 13, 2013
A Brian Strand Premiere No 1208 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
As we walk towards one another
from a long distance of dare
with a stare straight into each other's soul glare
on a plateau of ancient, barren heartache,
the broken, fine diamond ground
love dry and dusty
bemoans our steps as severe moxie,
yet it's faith that motivates
our forward motion into maybe,
the wind waits not for want
as it stirs dreams from the ruins
of passion fallen short,
the ghosts of gothic romance
howl and whirl in the waste of ashen pulses,
ringed by mountains of ageless endurance
with a sky speaking rare fever
We get closer to the crucible of touch,
your scarlet gown and shawl of lip song
whipping wildly,
my mantle of sapphire sackcloth undulating
to match your confident stride,
We're feet away, the rush rises hot,
You extend your unmarried hand
into my palm of fire,
We give each other a smooth smile
because we know the price,
You give me a token of virgin time,
I hand you a blood jewel,
and suddendly the weather explodes
into a storm of burning roses...
A Widow of poetic warfare,
an Apex Princess in a shadow of love's heartbeat,
with a noble yearn
for honest caress,
weeping strongly on a living prayer,
She sends a warm teared whisper to her Love,
long away saying...
Stay with Me...
She expects not a cure or kiss,
Nightfall comes to envelope her
in soft sadness,
late after Midnight she's awoken
to a firm hand waving along her sleeping arm,
He moves her laying hair
as if it were a delicate beauty,
His lips gently touch her ear,
and He tells her...
I've never left You...
My sighs begin to trace Your borderlines
of beauty ablaze in love mania
with a charcoal ivory smoothness
as your body begins to beckon like warm tides
before the storm,
your heartbeat thunders
for a mouth to mouth kiss,
My tip glides lips tender and open,
You begin to foam sweetly,
My sighs reach your thighs,
A masterpiece enters You
with strokes true and deep...
Feel me in my silence
as I ache for your aplomb approval,
I lay alone,
afflicted with love burn,
I need You to cool me,
to handle my heart devotedly,
come up onto me, supple like,
Kiss me from above the pain and stars,
heal the scars and take me far
into your hunger,
deliver me beyond the dream,
teach me what love means -
J.A.B.
Fuchsia-flecked, rhinestone-rimmed cowboy hat
Embroidered boots to match
Silver spurs—slick, sharp, shimmering
Brand new, but battered beneath
Travelled far, walking the jagged beat
Where have I been
Where am I now
Have you seen my mind
Floating in sugary bliss
From the Journey’s Inn—
A haven for friends, old and new
Veterans of domestic arms races
Comparing wounds from the endless chase
For elusive, blood-drenched euclace
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
Where carrion birds gather
At the corpse of joy
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Mr. Depression enters
A silver slash of sorrow
Sick with his own lore
“Fancy meeting you,” he croons—cold
“Looks like you need a bitter brew to hold”
Warm whiskey winds down the throat’s hallowed hall
Rattling the rusted lock on memory’s mausoleum wall
Have you seen me before
You might recall—last week, perhaps
Grumpy, frumpy, meek collapse
My garden of grace paved over with grit
Wilted and wasted in drought’s cruel spit
Crawling through viper pits and dens of bad deeds
I felt relief
Quenching parched desire
With earned fire in a glass
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
Where carrion birds gather
At the corpse of joy
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Two stools to sit upon
Lost boy and riot girl
Pink Lady, Velvet Gentleman
Again and again
Bottoms up
Chin chin
They laugh at the tribute band
Silly show on a slanted stage
Crooked teeth bared
Yellowed with age
Chipped by rage
Filed by fate
Two AM—wobbling down the jagged street
Holding up the night’s loose end
Keeping everyone awake
Lonely bones vibrating
With resonating lust
Urban lamps flicker
Like my wine-coloured iris
And what are dreams
When fiction splits at the seams
Weaving tapestry from fragments
Truth in forward motion
Stitching reality together
Like Casper drifting down wishing wells
Pleading, plundered, pitiful
Unseen by those untouched by sorrow
But tonight
With my fuchsia hat
And bombastic laugh
Overshadowing grief
Once poured on tap
I grab it by the gnarled neck
Shake loose threads of regret
Into useful shapes
In bedrooms with velvet duvets
Oh, the cheap whiskey
Burns brighter
Than dead desire
We stitch our sorrow
Into velvet fire
Bottoms up
Chin chin
Let the velvet gospel begin
Its creation’s simplicity still stands as a difficult puzzle
head is twisted backwards while in a forward motion
still looking behind at the chronicles of some centuries ago
long before the infiltration of Christian missionaries and Arab traders
is the exact factor making its existence seemingly complex.
Foreign politics and faiths both adopted,
have tied it with the ropes of inferiority
systematically indoctrinated to condemn
its history, personality and civilization,
while grabbing other languages and cultures so dearly
to the point of blindly pushed into Anarchy.
The modern world is on a high speed,
excuses of the west’s exploitations to build their civilizations
are noisy complaints and already cliched.
Small islands with no natural resources as Singapore;
the awe of the miracle of the Han River portrayed by south Korea
and the magical performance of India in information technology
are evidences of old colonies
beating their colonizers in some phases of development.
From Abuja to Addis Ababa, Khartounm to Kigali,
no Caucasian is seen, staying in charge of its state houses
but to give reasons to its mediocrity and indifference,
conspiracy theories and neo-imperialism twaddle are coined.
All these, just complications of a chronic low self esteem
but unfortunately manifesting at a time it should be confident
in the chaotic universe
of western imperialism, Christian materialism and Arab expansionism.
A GUMMY FISHERMAN
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The sheltered bay disguised what was to come
Around the headland we hit it head on
Four to five meter waves and breaking on top
And a wind that was building making lots of spray
A man takes many risks for a crayfish on his plate
For the pots needed to be pulled from the deep reef
Then baited with a fresh lot of stinking fish bait
Hoping to lure the wily crayfish into the pot
With the sea boiling the boat cut through the waves
Sending water and spray every which way
The fisherman holding on to keep their feet on deck
As the motors strain to keep a forward motion
The fishermen search for the buoys in the white water
As the rolling sea tosses them about like a cork in a bottle
The buoys know sighted make ready to haul the pots up
Hoping that they contain a few crayfish for their effort
There is no color in the first three pots, they are baited
Then tossed back into the rough and deep water
The last pot pulled and on the deck contains one small cray
Not a keeper, what a bummer, throw him back to grow bigger
With head down low kneeling on the deck
The rotten bait smells so ghastly get up my nose
Dry reaching, pale and feeling quite sick
I heave it up and let it flow over the side
Boy oh boy did I let the sickness flow
Breakfast, dinner and tea all in one go
I heaved it up my false teeth went with it
Over the side and into the boiling sea
Feeling miserable and quite ill, we headed back
To the bay and much calmer water
I thought about my teeth now in the water
Maybe a Gummy shark ate them up?
So now I fish the bay with a toothless mouth
And I target the Gummy Shark, hoping in vain
That one day whilst fishing, I will be lucky
And catch the Gummy that has a toothy smile
Jazz Horn
Now put your left foot forward.
Next put your right foot ahead.
See how that works?
See how the workings of these two appendages
Facilitates the outcome
Of one continuous forward motion
To where you’re going … in this world?
Welcome, my friend,
To this deliciously dark dish of desperate cravings!
Look all around you as we walk this stalking street.
See all the dark places.
Where countless lost souls huddle in bare survival,
And share the hot knob over a weak fire.
I can hear a jazz horn, way off in the distance there.
It’s surely there, and it reassures me I’m still living, here.
Maybe some words by Langston Hughes might be nice right now.
Please, my friend, do me the honor.
Oh, I see. You don’t have your poetry anthology.
And it’s dark too.
Let us then visit the old pawnbroker
Mr. Tattoo Neck knows the price for our private fears.
Piss puddles and crushed beer cans.
And an old used tire hanging hopelessly
By the cracked front window.
I see the world is one inch closer to doom since last we talked.
May we rest in peace, my friend.
Any murders lately on the street?
I hear the blond dish in Shire Apartments has moved out.
Black sooty smashed gum and litter of coupons and girlie guides.
Only one killing this week, my friend.
The butcher from 27th street; the guy who never talked to anyone.
His bowling ball is in the window.
Life is hard. It knocks you on the head when you least expect it.
I hope I make it.
I don’t know if some ******* will come in here and shoot me in the face!
I live my whole freaking life scared!
It’s ridiculous that we all have to be hostages to these evil people.
The city grows darker at night.
I have noticed it because I live mostly with the night.
The night is my secret lover, and there is no other.
The city is as dark as nothing in the middle of nowhere.
Something bigger than a final sunset is needed.
You know what I mean, my friend?
Here, I will buy you that jazz horn there.
You can sweetly serenade me,
And lovely night naked,
As we make love here
In the calming mad darkness.
LARRY LaVELLE
i call myself the man
it is not a pick-me-upper
it ain't no do-re-me
it is just the way i feel about myself
i call myself the man
one woman still loves me after 30 years of experience in narcissism philosophy
she just shakes her head and smacks me in the back of mine
then she asks me if i want my eggs scrambled with cheese
i just laugh at her and say 'yes mam'
she smiles bashfully as i check her out like we're 16 again
oh she knows it like her favorite classic movie
i will find out how much she knows it later on tonight
the moral of this poem is....i call myself the man....
STUTTERSTEP STEVENSON
i call myself Bountifully Blessed
i was a bully's dream all through school
from the pulling of my permanaps to the sock stolen from my feet....my story was etched in autobiographical filing
my growth became stunted....until you picked me up and dusted me off
through your smile, i was inspired to grow stronger
from there....i was introduced to a New World through your eyes
as a result, i, stutterstep stevenson, was able to find my niche
look at us now....thirteen years of marriage later....you are still causing me to trip all over myself
it still make you giggle in the very same way
even since then, i left the right avenue of stressed
the moral of this poem is....i call myself Bountifully Blessed
POETIC LEFTY
i call myself unconditionally loved
papa strange had a firm hold on me
put blinders on my self esteem yes he did
unbeknownst to me, my usual appearance in constant continuum was looked at as defiance
i can't be me if i can't be myself
how the hell could i exist trying to be like someone else
it has always been comfortable on my street
every now and then some taggers came along and tried to redecorate
however all surfaced on this block was self-cleaning
the same smile was worn on my face when i greeted the roadblock rambler hello
somewhere down the line papa strange moved on to one more vulnerable and gullible
i prayed for that next victim to the Wonderful God Above
though it may not show in my solo forward motion, i am indeed consumed by unconditional love....
Third Rails
by Odin Roark
One’s temptable 20's say “flirt with it.”
40's say “not on my watch.”
60's say “made it across the tracks.”
Home free’s reality.
Off the full-retiree goes.
Golf course by day.
Country club by night.
Home free for some.
Off the semi-retiree goes.
Part time work at home by day.
TV at night for armchair ventures.
Most arrive there.
Some realize more choice.
Third rail respect
sees no difference
from 20 to 60 years and beyond.
Accepts ubiquitous warnings.
Never flirts.
Never assumes immunity.
Never considers chancing too far.
Third rail addiction
knows not retirement,
remaining ready to wander through unlocked doors,
strolls through parks at night,
views chance-taking as senility-deterrent.
Most forget…
Consciousness can wane,
and like a a subway schedule,
mobility coming along less often after sundown,
often with fewer start and stop choices.
Still
With anxious rush hours easily avoided
more leisure movement thrives,
car to car,
platform to platform,
late nights,
early mornings,
yesterday’s have-tos left to others.
For a choice few…
A venturesome life learned early
remains an option,
an awareness,
a forever reminder
that forward motion never advances by itself.
Those same few…
Understand Time's playful third rail,
the click and clack,
of sparks and fire for mischievous die-hards.
https://m.soundcloud.com/user-921599710/beneath-the-sea
Through the journey, life arrives
Underwater – start their lives
Stable neither hot nor cold
Soft tiny eggs there to behold
Of such a time, lay vulnerable
For many eggs is tactical
Protection of the animal
Camouflaged with gravel
Frogs and toad, amphibian class
Eggs that float in jelly mass
From tadpole to a metamorph
The stages of which to transform
The brooding pouch of the seahorse
Protection from an outside force
Hatch of species, tiny fry
Plankton their to multiply
Yolk sac feed, young fish growing
Strengthened muscles for swimming
Insect eggs and prawn relish
Hunting groups for bigger fish
Gliding through in forward motion
Darker depths of the ocean
Water wonders plentiful
Such vertebrates are wonderful
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Under the mind blowing lights
Forceful men embrace in tights
Gigantic spectator enjoyment delights
O' Super Bowl Sabbath show
Everybody in Land of Liberty know
Time for the pivotal moment glow
Everyone's yearning for their gang to win
Tis' all that folks are sayin'
Here, poetry in forward motion begin 'n spin
Open you hands to receive life's gifts.
Open your eyes to see life's opportunities.
Open your heart to receive life's love.
Let your energy flow freely
to circulate positivity and newness.
Open your channels to relieve
stagnation and stasis.
Keep the flow constant ...
Regulate your thermostat...
Constant energy -
Constant stream -
Constancy -
Steady flow -
Grow in fluidity
Tidal development.
No pools of sludge or slurry.
Clear waters of constant, perpetual
forward motion....emotion ....
Freeflow...freefall....freedom...
The momentum of moment
leading to magnitude of existence
and safe arrival at serenity.