Best Frieze Poems
We wander all, in feral dreams
of jagged thoughts and cryptic yearns;
a labyrinth of mirrored turns.
Along a ridge of moon stitched seams,
lie melancholic tapestries,
unfolded in an abstract frieze.
Subconscious angst weaves heart loomed themes
from pain sewn deep, through puerile eyes,
till daybreak’s alabaster guise.
As savage beasts from darkened streams,
complicit servants of the id,
form insights purged at slumber’s bid.
Claw toward light as urging deems;
these taloned gasps of hidden truth,
burst from the depths of shuttered youth.
We wander all, in feral dreams
along a ridge of moon stitched seams.
Subconscious angst weaves heart loomed themes,
as savage beasts from darkened streams,
claw toward light as urging deems.
19 Nov 2019
Solo artist Snow works throughout night,
silently painting rooftops white,
crayons lawns, pencils in trees
a dazzling shade of white
over his great frieze;
his masterpiece
wins acclaim,
then melts -
shame!
Jack Horne for Linda-Marie's contest
When twilight comes,
be morn or eve,
a time when cares
and fears take leave,
when the sun arises,
when the sun does set,
when the trials of the world
have not come yet,
nor will they you beset,
when ferns and flowers
are tender with dew,
when dreams
that you've dreamt
become alive and new,
when the stir of a breeze
and a rustle in the trees
become as music
to the soul
and the landscape all about
is as a heroic Grecian frieze,
when Time knows no time,
when sorrow has no pain,
when grief is lost forever,
when joy is free to reign
when the heart
is filled beyond measure
when Love abounds 'til never
then will you see and feel
things more precious
than all the world's
golden store of treasure.
When trees awaken from their winter sleep
Their silent buds unfold and turn to green
Row upon silent row they gently lift
Bare branches, no longer in winter’s keep
Spring flowers burst from dormant bulbs unseen
A gift
Wearing her royal robe of blossomed trees
Like a mist descending, this forest queen
Blesses the forest paths with leaves adrift
Paints with an ardent brush her verdure frieze.
So swift
Entered in A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
Contest Judged: 4/7/2022 1:12:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
N/A
Submitted to Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Curtal Sonnet (Short version)
A curtal Sonnet has eleven lines with a rhyme scheme of abc abc dcb dc
It has ten syllables in lines 1 through 5 and 7 through 10, however
it has only two (2) syllables in lines 6 and 11, and they rhyme with lines 3, and 8.
Iridescence and subliminal flow has condensed within your fragrant bower,
a scene of isolated beauty that portrays the essence of all splendour and redeeming
power.
You are repose and renewal to my longing soul
which in hunger for such a sight could have stayed unrequited still!
barren and with plighted role unto my desperate ill.
Now seen suffused in the radiant glow of you, like mirrors
are placed surrounding flowers inset in your resting place or in bunches,
frieze like and still, are coloured floral showers.
They experience no passing hour, in lilac clad repose, you gift this domain
with abundant russet locks a’ spray in a cascade of feral purity
shining vibrant gleams, diaphanous and serenity proclaimed.
You exude ephemeral and delicate majesty in coalescence
with this limpid mystic scene, pure spiritual visions profound combine
with siren-like illusion seen.
Desire calls as from traces etched on heavenly walls,
reflected pinions fan-like show through emerald hued illumination
in subtle sweeps below the surface of this inviolable creation.
© Joe Maverick 21-02-2011
Footnote: I have written this piece for the Reflections contest by Constance La
France. This is a fictional write and I ascribe none of the above attributes to the
scene or character names, these same attributes belonging solely to Yahwah, the
one God manifest as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
BIRDS
B reathless each day the winged ones burst and unite into the twilight frieze--
I s there a more delicate touch to the sight than the songbirds as they take to the sky?
R eveling while entwined with the tailwinds-- delighting the indigo breeze,
D ashing on the last rays of sun to nip the laziest mosquito on the fly --
S ong of the satisfied sung—they fade into the welcoming night bosom of the trees.
Victoria Anderson-Throop ©
12-21-12
The bottom is a mottled
healthy brown
A city of roots from
overhanging trees
Minnow flit from light to shade
to shadow
The surface dappled an
intricate faux pas frieze.
Up ahead the stream winds
slowly out of sight
A magic portal to a time of
boyhood pleasures
A gentle curve inviting me
come explore
To lose my shoes and search
for pirate treasure
It must have looked strange to
traffic
Me standing on an old wooden
bridge
Transfixed and staring at
nothing
I hope they believe in live and
let live
City of Trees
1
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees,
It’s the world’s largest urban arboretum.
Streets in summer lie beneath green canopies.
2
From sidewalks their branches meet with ease
And soon, very soon, each street’s a shady sanctum.
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees.
3
If only we humans could jump up and fly like bees,
We would look down on something awesome,
Streets in summer lie beneath green canopies.
4
Seasons change - the leafy cover changes colour
Leaves sprout and fall ad infinitum.
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees.
5
October! Now there is a purple frieze,
Yes, it's the jacarandas in full blossom.
Streets in summer lie beneath green canopies.
6
But then winter brings a different freeze;
Each leaf fades, then flits, like a phantom.
Johannesburg, home to ten million trees,
Streets in winter lie beneath bare canopies.
I look at a pile of books bringing the memories of my past libraries
as a child only comics from the kid next door
that I will cut and paste to make my own adventures
the paste made of flour and water strong enough to fly a kite on windy days
the schtroumph preserved in a school book for me to see
in later years by his mother
never read a story by my mom she will sing to me as I watched her knit
removed on a farm in later times I opened an armoire
to open a book and discover the pleasure of words
and begged my uncle on a visit to buy me more
going to the village next to the hamlet I chose my first book
la guerre du feu
and so it goes back in the projects of Paris the serie noir of my mother
bringing me to crimes murder and deceptions was a lot of fun
as my sister trash magazines will nourish me with lush
exile to America with no english i was back to the comics
on Bleeker street the freak brothers a dream with the frieze at the bottom
telling the story of opening a bathroom door for the critter to disappear
and a first joint
putting my hands on short stories I read them all and went for more
my biggest library is making our noises hiding behind the lions
as we put our bicycle at rest at the bottom of the stairs on a dark night
and the rest is my own to tell as words become nonsense
as the manes have nothing to do with books
but the lions roar if you learn nothing
Every step forward brings an
energised momentum. Leading
me toward a portal which leads
me to the Styx ferryman
I am confronted with this resoundingly
unique shape, the emblem of its industry.
His coffin puts out its tentacle seeking my
name
Past aisles filled with '***-ash' Lils and lipstick
smothered whore's, I walk inexorably
on. Past the row of walking stick,
benefits claiming, blue badge carrying,
hand-me-downs.
And those 'mutter-under-the-Breath' blue
veined brigade, always ready to Judge the
dress you've chosen for such a solemn occasion.
Well, today I didn't let them down!
When I get there, what I see is a pseudo-realistic
pantomime. A Frieze of alibaster-marbeled
features, a mask of barely recognisable
'What used to be'
I'm confused. Am I supposed to love
this empty form of you? Should I kiss
your brow? And taste the loss of you
on my lips.
Or enter into a pact of believing that
you lie there, waiting to kiss me back.
What I want is to be guaranteed this
will never happen to me again.
I want to be able to give my love to
someone and not have it thrown back
when their 'use by date' has expired
I want the time, before time stopped,
to start again. I want the muscles in my
neck to become unknotted and my wine
bill to become averagely normal again.
Oh, and I want his wife to know I
was the other woman
Flowers are the music of the ground, from earth’s lips spoken without sound. ~ Edwin Cerran
Lupines are in the meadow,
speaking poetry of nature;
the breeze directing purple allegretto
for every forest neighbor.
My love shall we go walking
in golden warmth of summer,
with the flowers softly talking
in notes of every color?
Shall we then lay down and slumber
in the sweet grass and the flower,
where cares do not encumber
and dreams become our bower?
There we will surrender to the breeze
and drift on lupine's purple frieze.
Raindrops, God's tears for His creation,
When frozen, His jewels for decoration.
The hoare frost bedecks the trees,
A wonderland set in a frieze.
Driving out on wintry nights,
Sparkling jewels caught in headlights.
A spiders web is on display,
White with frost that passed that way.
A watery sunrise fails to melt away,
The winter wonderland that is today.
© Dave Timperley 16 January 2015.
I worked for Boeing when I first met Fred
Liked him the instant he called me “brain dead”
We were both part of the same office mob
Both engineers fairly new on the job
I was single then, but didn’t last long
Got married and then my Corvette was gone
Being married soon my budget was tight
When Fred said, “Let’s car pool”; I said, “Alright”
Fred drove first on our initial commute
The car he was in, was tiny and cute
“It’s a Vespa”, he said, “easy on gas”
I’m thinking, “In a wreck, I’ll lose my ass!”
The engine inside was like a lawnmower
A small two stoker, but still was a goer
It wasn’t long before carpooling died
Fred could drive so cheap, all I did was ride
What Fred charged was ridiculously small
And on every commute we had a ball
Other commuters would stare at the car
Till finally I said, “This has gone too far”
If someone stared, we’d talk about their car
Really loud, so they’d hear something bazaar
It was always a put down of some kind
We got really good at it over time
Every trip to work and back, we had fun
Except an earthquake hit while on one run
Seeing telephone poles sway to and fro
Just wasn’t my bag, I want you to know
From his house to mine, wasn’t very far
I played the uke and Fred played guitar
We’d get together; play and sing a song
Our friendship today is still very strong
Just as we are close friends, so are our wives
We’ll be that way for the rest of our lives
Space between triglyphs in a Doric frieze?
If you see Fred, ask for an answer please!
(I’d sooner Lipton!)
A hint of helping this wholesome Harris son
can across thru the air
Hence this poetic expression
of gratitude Matthew Scott wants to blare
And communicate my genuine
appreciation crystal clear
Toward one whose existence
more valuable to me and dear
As thee doth become older
with natural diminishment with eyes and ear
But lo…tis unproductive to fear
The diminishing sands
of mortal time as cognitive gear
Doth get clogged as well as one
or the other organ allowing ye to hear
The sound of silence echoing
memories of the past – now a blur
Akin to a warm fuzzy feeling
soft as moss or lichen – precious as a coat of fur
Which tomorrows speed faster
becoming yesterday’s lore
Mixed with trials and tribulations less or more
Thickening as starch and ever more difficult to pour
From the egged on noggin blended
into one glob kept in secret store
Perhaps comprising partially healed wounds
at your heart tore
As if a drafted soldier once
in tiptop shape now to the bone years wore
Away whet dreams housed
within myths indistinguishable from truths of yore
Though I too sometimes fret
as tempus fugit slinks away
Where methinks how the years spin
at a quicker pace each day
Inculcating me to savor each moment,
whether weather sunny or gray
Taking stock of self of natural world
as one named John Jay
Audubon, who captured pristine lands
of America as a frieze zing May
Whereby bounteous creatures
large and small at play
Until…the inundation
of settlers did slash, burn and slay
Indiscriminately - setting precedent
for Earth in a precarious balance oye vay
Whence Mother Nature
will win this global Olympic match – yet
By which time, both thyself
and ye will be long turned to ash
Descendants will be dust off
faded photos of me self
before senescence did dash
Totally unaware that me papa Boyce Brandon
with clenched and teeth did gnash
When I fought tooth and nail
and without a word did lash
Back as protestations against behavior
of mine ye disliked and found rash
With frustration spilling forth
like acidic froth that did splash
Slash and burn within,
yet kept mum no matter
from within did thrash.
I LOVE YOU TOO DAD
NO MATTER BACK IN THE DAY YE GOT MAD
YET NOW, AS A FATHER TWAS FRUSTRATION
PERHAPS FUSED WITH BEING SAD
AT MY LIFE & HARD TIMES WHEREIN
TURMOIL ROILED MORE THAN A TAD!
This epidemic re: murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling and providing terrifying
trappings, whence Pandora out the lid
anger loosed by gun toting recorded by hid
dee us aide de camp per grim reaper
milling crowd, each bewildered person stunned viz satanic grid
loosed bullets ensnare coterie upping ante bid
daring pernicious fare thee well odiously off loaded
per incendiary fiery maelstrom to mega death count added.
Suicide bombardier slakes thirst aims at billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray painting human innards
congregated engaged groupon people), with egregious pay
ment for exaggerated slight mowing down, a slew - nay
soon to be lifeless victims unaware - delivering may
hem to anonymous hunter a cannibal as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows, which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.
Death be not proud, nor ought airtime be allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring family affair sport doth please
manifesting prize pride killing machine owners
posed as stonewall Jackson frieze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses incite epidemic violence as disease.
Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie or goo
goo dolls in tandem with foo
fighting beastie boys pay homilies whence homage grew
to grateful dead nobody knew
fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and mew
sic cull doobie brothers of their simian species with no sorrow to rue.