Best Frame In Poems
That day by the lake,
tattered jeans and old t-shirts,
my hand in your back pocket as we walked,
your thumb
hooked over the top of my waistband.
It was hot,
...damned hot.
You tilted your hat at a silly angle and laughed,
I looked over and thought
'Hot,
...damned hot'
Smiles exchanged and then a kiss,
I think I melted inside.
We took turns walking backwards
holding both hands
drinking in the sight of each other.
Of course we fell,
you to the floor
and me...
completely in love.
Making a frame with my hands,
a captured moment,
'smile for the camera'
and what a smile it was.
Sitting together in the long grass,
both our hats at silly angles,
you made a frame in front of us,
as I kissed your cheek,
and captured a memory.
Images stored safely in my jeans pocket,
not the one with the hole,
that day by the lake...
it was perfect.
Only now I realise
one camera never worked.
The image of you, still vibrant
as that day,
but the one of us
you made with your hands
faded to barely a whisper.
That day by the lake
we both fell...
but only one fell in love.
There's an old timber, farm gate at the end of a track.
You wouldn't see it driving past unless you looked back.
It's made of roughly hewn wood more than a lifetime ago,
time and weather has worn it down, as the seasons ebb and flow.
A rusty abandoned ute lays near, covered in pine tree nettles.
Where weeds and braken make claim to it as in the earth it forever settles.
Late sunlight filters through the trees, casting shadows through the gate.
Where once cattle on the other side for feed would stand and wait.
Young children used to play on the gate, stand and swing it open wide.
Then climb through the cypress trees for another place to hide.
Atop the rail the magpies perch, warbling away without refrain.
Intently gazing across the fields, the kings of their domain.
The children have all gone now, grown up and moved away.
For many years the gate lay untouched, its frame in disarray.
Who knows? maybe someone will see its worth and fix the old farm gate.
Embed it back into time, for another's memories to recreate.
BUBBLES OF BABBLE
A father sees his small children babbling and
Blowing insignificant bubbles in the wind.
One child's lips blow a lot; another blows only very few.
Yet these few are precious to the father.
The multitudes which peel effortlessly
Off the soap-frame in the hands of another child
Mean little individually - shining spherical pearls before swine,
Blowing randomly in the wind.
And prayers, too, fall sometimes too easily from the holy lips
Of people kneeling in groups each day: and each babbling
Repeated mantra or Hail Mary has individually little significance:
And God is showered with bubbles of babble of all sizes and colours,
Some in clusters inside one another, with bits of extra soap dripping off
Carelessly-formed sloppy glassy balls.
Some of them expire before even reaching his throne,
So little effort was put into them,
So little intention of ever following their path upward.
But a lone figure lost, abandoned, in some black
Perilous sea of troubles who, pitched headlong into a moment
Of last helpless desperation, screams at the top of his soul
To his God, and at that moment is certain
That only the Almighty can right his troubled boat,
That he has exhausted all his own puny powers,
And recognizes the insignificance of his babble -
Such a prayer is a precious gem, perfectly-formed and rising,
Fast-track, directly thronewards, as it should.. . . . .
A pearl of great price.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Everything that's real passes me by
Cause I live on a sheet of paper
I could leave it anytime I want
Convincing myself there's always later
Writing about lives I've never lived
Scares me how I act beyond my age
As I'm fading into the background
Becoming a character on a page
In a fibrous bed
Is where I lay my head
The ink stains my clothes
Watch as I, decompose
I'm too young to think this way
I should live and feel everyday
Always goes back to the pen with me
Real life doesn't phase me and honestly
At times I prefer my paper world
Falling in love with artificial girls
Words can't break your heart, their with you from the start
Ink flows in my veins, to me it's just a game
I'm too young to think this way
Am I far too gone to be saved?
Just one marvelous frame in this world
My beauty is like the autumn leaves
Pretty to see, don't you know I'm dead?
Enshrouded by a blanket of make belief
Instead of trains I played with pencils
Literature in my box of toys
At 6 I held my books in wonder
Desire to intrigue, though I'm just a boy
I tire of real things
Pen holds my puppet strings
I have had enough
Poetry is my love
I'm too young to think this way
I should live and feel everyday
Always goes back to the pen with me
It's where I go to breathe and honestly
At times I prefer my paper world
Falling in love with artificial girls
Words can't break your heart, their with you from the start
Ink flows in my veins, to me it's just a game
I'm too young to think this way
Am I far too gone to be saved?
With enormous zeal
I burn oil by the desk
Drifting, fading, I
Become a child less and less
It's how I escape
This cold and earthly shell
Is it really me
You're talking to, can you tell?
Would you remember me like a good book?
At times I wish you would
See me as a work of art, a wondrous look
I really don't think you could
Instead of a box beneath the ground
I'm a mere mortal striving to astound
Put me on a shelf and put me in your head
Bits and pieces of me to look at when I'm dead
Would you remember me like a good book?
At times I wish you would...
Entered into the contest
"How Poetry Has become You"
Hosted by Michael J. Falotico
Written: December 02, 2023
Quote "Without birth and death, and without the perpetual transmutation of all the forms of life, the world would be static, rhythm-less, undancing, mummified." Alan Watts
________________________________________
“we woke up early one morn, ego shorn
it felt as though we were in form reborn
nodes within stirred, boundaries blurred
our head and heart, with love concurred”
I deploy discursive divine depiction as a guide.
A gateway to Genesis, where it takes its side.
Unbridled and untamed, my voice may rise.
I pursued knowledge out of pure surprise.
Low-frequency vibes induce a shift in shape.
Scarcity leads to transmutation, of spare scape.
Alchemists transmute leads to sacred gold.
Metal sheds its genius luster in the kiln hold.
I waltz freely with doom in the gloom.
I inhale oxygen to marvel at life's bloom.
I endure steps yet disappear in the dream.
Structure is unaffected by the skill stream.
Love is my soul—my reason for existence.
Living in lavish love is a lifelong vow of diligence.
A mind, weaved with such insight, was so warm.
I flaunt my firm frame in this fabulous form.
When you are feeling opulent and egotistical.
Those who are dominant were miscible.
Departure might induce an unfillable hole.
Descry a suitable way to purify your soul.
There are ecstatic and tragic days, love and hate.
No matter how tough we strive, this will be our fate.
Note how sporadic and fleeting life is; spot the stride.
Our days of tribulation bruised our noble pride!
Rather than succumbing to hatred and rage.
Turning negative into a rising trend of assuage
Let trust and troth tackle tricks and malicious
Such a restrained demeanor is truly auspicious.
Within, most consensus spans are wide.
It's all whim; scatter love and watch it glide.
Trust your scintilla—trek to the boundless sea.
We may all profit from sowing wisdom trees.
Conquered the most-dubbed landmass on Earth.
And yearning to discover raw levels of worth!
Death, then delirious with deceit, drove his life.
A wicked beast embedded himself in strife!
A susurrus sparkle to the shimmering love.
Enhances adieu strut below the moon above.
Breeze says, "Love on, my dear, and dance."
Across the trees, a gentle man's glance.
I was wrong about spring,
for all those months I painted the blame on winter’s dark face.
Wave after wave of cold cloudy, darkening days,
saturated my damaged point of view. By the way
I am sure I will die on a winter day, blaming the solstice,
waiting for the capricious spring to finally arrive.
But my heart will be frozen, and perhaps not even alive.
God how I love the way you make the sun shine.
I was wrong about my fate,
I filled the frame in haste, too busy to wait. I didn’t listen.
I ate my own eyes, and blamed the skies,
I chased the horizon and wrapped it in lies.
Oh spring day, it is never too late,
to fill me with mercy and grace as I wait.
My first that loved me in new ways.
From an A-frame in Arters Mill’s country,
To parties on a Charm City’s river.
Stoned in the rush and hope of our youth,
As memories were cured in crimson and gold,
Certain songs started playing on your radio.
Reminding me of a choice I didn’t want,
And the only thing I couldn’t give you.
Your virtue denied me other excuses,
Leaving me alone fighting the truth.
I kept stalling for change or the right time,
Taking twelve rounds to realize, neither was coming
To save me from hurting you.
Twenty five years later,
And it still feels like a sin.
A Proverb’s woman far above the rubies,
Breaking and keeping those parts of me wishing,
That I had loved you.
-------------------------------
Contest: I love Rock n Roll
Inspired by the song:
‘A Man I’ll Never Be’
by Boston
"A Perfect Murder Scene"
underneath the gun metal clouds
two bodies imprinted
splayed bookmarked at the waterline
uncannily close
distance would never separate that twin set
the ocean of tears washing over them lachrymose
the day was extraordinarily ordinary
yet the unanticipated came rushing in surprising
two lives captured, seemingly drowned
carried away on the rip, ripped apart, far from shore
thrown for the risk of running
away from it all
eventually like double dice
the Ocean like a roiling bitter life
spits them both back out, not wanting them,
they are the gamble
rolled back in on the wake, washed clean
like a scene wound backwards
scratched and mottled, 8mm frame
slow motion the prostrate dead they rise like ghosts
wound up, holding hands walking backwards
up the sand dunes
not a care in the world
the guns in the clouds all gone
the sun now shining
reversing down the path, hand in hand,
an old movie to who knows where
smiles wide and laughing, hand in hand
the woman and child
out of frame, in the margin unseen,
the murderer plays his shot
all over again, he loves his bad dream
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Because it was regular film, it was Light sensitive. You had to be very careful when loading and unloading the cartridge.”
scene.
seen.
Hot lead is cool no matter what gun fires the load
Sig sauer makes an accurate twenty two pistol
If you have had a jam problem keep them in mind
The light polimer frame in hot pink or purple etc.
Makes the gun a blast of excitement on the range
All the guys were drooling and smiling like a champ
Hitting the bulls eye is the target of the sport....
Super handling....super accurate!!
They call it the mosquito!
reads like an add don't it?! lol
If I’d picked up a snooker cue, when I picked up a pen;
and then gone on to build a break of eight or nine or ten.
If I had only listened more to those who understand;
who told me not to play the game by using just one hand.
If I’d just watched Big Break much more, instead of writing
rhyme;
and studied Foulds and Knowles instead of Byron all the time.
If I’d just gone and bought more chalk, and even used a tip,
upon my cue, then thought perhaps to practice just a bit.
If I had researched Virgo’s words instead of Wilfred Owen;
and written many papers on ‘Where’s The cue ball going?’
If I had only listened more to whispering Ted Lowe
instead of sometimes listening to Pam Ayres in full flow.
If I had studied Parrot’s wit and Alex Higgins flair.
instead of Larkin, Betjeman, Wordsworth or John Clare.
If only I’d heard Snooker Loopy played a little more,
instead of writing verses that sometimes never rhyme!
If I had just stayed up all night to watch the grinder ‘Cliff’,
and not penned many rewrites of Kipling’s poem ‘If!’
If I’d just seen the final frame in Nineteen Eighty Five,
and had a longer tape cassette which didn’t then rewind.
If I’d thought of a funky name like Jimmy ‘Whirlwind’
White,
or ‘Scarface’ or ‘The Rocket’, one which would excite.
If I had done these things I’ve said, then yes I’m sure, I
know it.
I would have been a snooker star, and not an unknown
poet!
(Based on Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘If’)
I AM YOURS AND YOU ARE MINE
On the journey of a thousand miles
What keeps me going are your thoughts
My heart is very fond of you
Told me its difficult to live without you
Together we built blocks of compassion above the sky
Painted the world with the colour of your smile
The night became homely and bright
My dreams came to stay hence forth that night
Love, they say its dispensable
But love is the reason the world is beautiful
Why the sun and moon is alive, and the stars
For I could see them through your eyes
If the frame in my heart get broken into a million pieces
Each will carry but treasurable memories
Of all the moment's spent with you
For life would be meaningless without you
© Akan Udofia 2016
https://akanudofia.blogspot.com.ng/2018/01/i-am-yours-and-you-are-mine.html
Saturday, January 27, 2018
Sometimes I wish that Butch and the Kid Had never left the old neighborhood Or if they did, they got clean away you know As if the banks in Bolivia were really made of gold And that final hail of bullets was only raindrops Falling on their heads I wish that you and I could just fade away Like Paul Newman and Robert Redford Next to that last frame in the final scene Leaving someone behind us like your mother or Catherine Ross Who would never cry Then years later, we could come back and do it all again Only better the next time
I'm A Happy Whale
I am a whale
keeper of the sea
so mighty and huge
I swim to great lengths
from the arctic sea
to Hawaii in the winter
... I put on a show
The greatest show on earth
that's not man choreographed
as tourist flock for a peek
from tour boats and land
cameras in hand, no doubt
to take keepsakes
and treasures
of me, of me
to take back to their love ones
or to frame in their memories,
in albums and on walls
of me, of me
I don't want to disappoint
I don't want to disappoint
first I pay homage, though
to the land
the koolau mountains
flanking in the distance
and to white sand beaches
nestled with palm trees
as a cool island wind
breezes over the glistening blue and white
I blink, I blink
at paradise, at paradise
and at a seagull circling above
blinking back at me
I get ready, I see my cue,
in the distance, I see hundreds of tourist
most of which are clad in Aloha print waving at me
the stage is set
I dive to the deepest depths of the sea,
along with my pod
gathering up speed, like a submarine
then breaching the surface
slapping the water with our fins and tails
dancing, dancing in winter sun
I blink, I blink
at the many tourist smiling
cameras in hand
no doubt, taking word of mouth to spread
I pause, I pause
I let out a bigger spout of water from my blow hole
I see more smiles, especially of the babies
this is paradise, from the smiles, to land and sea
I am happy whale
connie pachecho
2/2/17
I don’t know how I should speak of you.
Love of my life, my soul’s companion soul,
A breath and heartbeat indispensable as mine,
Yin to my yang and, too, contrariwise,
Keystone to my arch, and cornerstone--
Because I cannot look into your eyes,
Love, you cannot see me keen, and pine,
And ache deep down, sheer to the bone.
(Such is the chronic, chafing toll
Your absence wreaks in me.) I’d screw
Me up to chide you, but that would not avail;
I’d rail against my lot and pound my breast
If that would bring you here to me at last,
Or seek you like some almost-holy grail.
But since I cannot feel you next to me,
Or softly sense your soul through clasping hands,
How can I frame in words the buried deeps
You plumb? My very quarks crave yours, so strong
And fundamental my desire’s become.
And so no matter what or how I say
I love you, all inadequate and tongue-
Tied, the words are merely stereotypes
As timeworn as the Sphinx in shifting sands,
And just as cryptic. Oh, come home;
For then my eyes will redirect my voice,
Inspiring by your nearness all those words
Eluding me till now. Let loose the cords
That keep you from me, and confer your grace.
The sun hovers on the horizon and
shimmers its rays across the sea.
In this snatched moment life is balanced -
as I breathe in its peace and tranquility.
A life's quest for contentment encapsulated
in this serene instant...... suspended ......
mentally photographed for posterity.
Glimpsed - then gone - as the journey continues.
Now, today, in this time frame, in this instant,
I am happy: I have found it; the elusive
rare butterfly; the slippery eel caught - held -
then gasped for as it slips from my grasp.
When I look back on this time, this place.
I know it will be remembered fondly.
I will handle it gently, removing it from
the cerebral tissue paper which preserves it....
carefully unwrapping, piece by piece.....
trying to recapture the clarity; the colours,
the mood, but not quite as my memory
becomes ravaged by the blurring of time.
I recall when the sun hovered on the horizon
and shimmered its rays across the sea.
In that snatched moment, already gone,
I found perfect contentment and peaceful symmetry.