Best Furnished Poems
Were I a restaurant proprietor
Al fresco and exclusively for poets
My menu would be cryptic metaphors
Original from memories echoic
Spring rhymes of happy times and brighter days
Fresh summer sonnets mostly bittersweet
Then autumn prose on multicolored trays
Some winter villanelle hor dourves for treats
And if you come your muse can eat for free
Imagination is a welcome guest
There is one rule, no dictionaries please
Yes, thinking caps are furnished on request
Come dine with me until you get your fill
The best part is you'll never get a bill
September 6 2016
You Are The One I think of the most.You know and carry unconditional love.You have experienced the pains of pains.When You're not in My presence to walk with Me;My mind carries You and holds You deep in thought.The pureness that grows from Good devours The Evil...The walls of Your Heart fall down and open into fields No One Else can possible reach,love,know,or roam.The Wisdom of Your Fields develop and rules Valleys.Valleys expand into Vast Kingdoms filled with Knowledge,Power,and Intelligence...Across The Horizon lies The Kingdom of Heaven in boundaries of grey only a Lion Heart can visualize.The Strength of a Castle is built by Your Own two hands held by Fate.Only a Lion Heart has the keys to open the doors and the ability to cross through the rooms furnished with Destiny untold.A candle is lit.You pace the rhythm with a steady beat.Your Heart restores The Eternal Light with-in.Truth becomes factual.The Greenness of Facts unfold into Beautiful Gardens. Among The Gardens indescribable Rays of Hope appear with Faith as Your Spirit.Your Spirit becomes excelled by love.... LOVE Blossoms into The Reality of Freedom. Freedom is enhanced by Courage...The Courage of A Lion Heart that holds Forgiveness for All. With-in Your Heart A Garden of desire is standing firm and grounded...Could it be possible that You have A Lion Heart? Respect,Understanding,Love;that is Everlasting Serenity... I often wonder where this comes from as an Orion of ringing appears undetectable in Ones Ears... The Lion roars and The Angels sing softly with an inner Peace.May Your Gift of Acceptance Shine-On...From A Creator;to an Angel,better yet A Lion Heart.Walk among The Winners just for Today...
By Charlene L. Wilcox 03-24-2014
It was a lovely little house.
Built of white painted timber,
with a gabled roof clad in green tin,
it had never been a rich person's house.
It was her house.
And driving up to park outside it,
each time I went there,
was like the beginning of a new adventure.
I would always enter by the rickety side gate
and walk through that small garden she tended to on weekends,
in the hope that one day it might become beautiful.
The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen where,
sometimes she would be,
baking scones or some other treat for her and me
to have later with some coffee or cheap red wine.
It wasn't a well designed house.
The bathroom and lavatory and laundry
weren't where you might expect.
And most rooms were very small.
But for the living cum dining room.
And her bedroom.
I never counted all the rooms in that house.
I'm not certain I even saw all of them.
But all of those I did see
were furnished and decorated with pieces that she
had shopped for at garage sales
and in second hand shops.
Except for those things that she had made herself.
There were pictures she painted,
and other hand crafted knick-knacks.
And some bottles filled
with interesting vegetable matter
embalmed in colourful oils and such.
It was a small house and a little quaint.
But beautiful.
And warm.
Her bedroom was of a good size
and her bed was large and sumptuous,
with a profusion of richly coloured cushions and pillows.
We'd discovered one another in that large bed,
in that good sized bedroom,
in that warm little house,
that still warms me with it's memories.
For there was nothing inside that house
that she had not chosen.
In the arctic frozen sky of the enchanting land the midnight sun
leans on the horizon briefly in bright summer and again it rises,
I didn’t know when a new day actually would have or had begun.
The frosty sky in winter night burns in flashes of aurora borealis.
The North Sea stretches the long arms through the blue fjords,
the visible heritage of the glacial deep scoop of the Pleistocene,
dissects the corrugated coastline as if sliced by the Viking sword.
I was held captive there for a long time by the magnificent scene.
To unravel the petrified mysteries of the Nordic Caledonian rocks
I crossed many dales and ridges of the geologic arc west of Bergen,
walked for days across the uninhabited islands where eagles flock.
In the cold crystal rains the shelter of the ancient caves I had taken.
On my travel I stayed a number of days in Lyderhorn, a small village
overlooking the tranquil turquoise waters of the narrow Loddefjord.
A gracious lady of the pretty house, Julia Aasen in her advanced age
gave me a furnished room at a rent that at the time I could afford.
She used to invite me for dinner at her place almost every evening,
offered me plate full of peppered boiled potato and hot fiskeboller,
slices of brown bread she baked with thick Jerlsberg cheese topping,
showed fondly the faded pictures of her late husband, a fish seller.
Time came to leave and say heart-felt ‘tusen tak’ on a freezing day.
She presented me a pair of woolen gloves she had specially knitted.
Years later when I wear these her frail touch they remotely convey,
I feel the warm heart of Julia of Norway although she has departed.
September 28, 2017.
Vintage Retro Period
As for our periods of furniture–
not sure if Vintage Retro's one!
However, since I spanned so many years,
it seems to me this should be done!
My influence can still be seen in homes.
Some people often think it strange,
to cling to my old Vintage Retro look
and never want to make a change.
So pleased my unique period ruled well –
for thirty years I did endure!
My decades had a flavor of their own–
so powerful was my allure!
My special time was dominated by
the colors green, orange, and gold;
Formica, Lucite, vinyl, walnut, chrome –
outstanding – very sleek and bold.
My Vintage Retro period – well-loved
by most – did fade away, its true.
Still Retro-furnished homes are so enjoyed
by visitors who get a view.
My long-remembered items bring a crowd
at Vintage Retro store displays!
The prices paid are unbelievable –
so pleased I'm worth much more these days!
To prove my point, you might take time to see
the photo grouping up above!
My Vintage Retro gems still grace their home
forever more for them to love!
Sandra M. Haight
~First Place~
Contest: Punctuation Personified
Theme: Period Furniture
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 10/06/2015
Note: Vintage Retro means actually made in '50s, '60s or '70s
The term Retro by itself can mean old but also newly made to look like old
Vintage Retro includes: Mid-Century, Mid-Century Modern, and Danish Modern styles
The wind is blowing through my mind
Not gently breezing through.
It ruffles my thoughts and jumbles them
It will take time to file them anew
I like to file my thoughts in order
Of good ones and of bad
Its keeps things on a steady level
And stops one going mad
Happy thoughts are lifted
To the very fore
Memories of when we first met
You were sitting on the floor
The party was a bit of a flop
We left together and walked
And as we got to know each other
We talked and talked and talked
The wind is blowing stronger
The bad times it reminds
We split up for a lifetime
Well it seemed so in our minds
You persevered and asked me out
I decided you were true
My memory of our wedding day
And how happy I was with you
We had a little flat and furnished it with love.
The trouble was we were ground floor
And the water came in from above.
I look back through some memories
All tumbling in the breeze
The hard times the fun and laughter
The winter of the big freeze
We booked a holiday that year
The best time we ever had
I know it scared us half to death because I was so bad.
It’s a pity I missed part of it as to hospital I went
The baby we were having, to be born he seemed hell bent.
The wind is blowing on my head, now I fight with it for real
It’s just ripped off the shed roof, it looks like it’s been peeled
I better shut my memory box and find my hammer and nails
And fight with wind that’s blowing outside and stop my reminiscent gales.
Happy is the family who makes a house a home,
One that holds within its walls, all those special
Moments of love and rich laughter shared with
Everyone who crosses through our opened door.
Sanctuary of comfort that welcomes me home,
Whether I've been away for one day or a year.
Elegantly furnished it may not appear to some
Eyes, but as sweet as honey, it always is to me.
Thankful am I, to have a home to call my own.
Haven of refuge it's been. I pray God keeps me safe
On days of physical, emotional, and spiritual storms.
May I never forget that my home is a blessing that
Enfolds my family beneath the strength of its eaves.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>=
A vestige lingers of my sweet Ginger sharing the treasure of What color is love?
Springtide fell according
Affliction bred
Tending a foundation; no longer perceived
Flailing in an undertow between the realms of fragmented desires while desperately yearning to reunite with what can never be
Convoluted tattoos pierced my being.
Tangled in encompassed departures - aspirations drowned
Wading no more-
Restraining from feverishly Tangoing in a bog-
Thus fluidly dodging the precursors and ancestry of my youth- they are not meant to be disturbed - nor used as weapons; subjectively or furnished by a barb
Incidentally, the capacities of experiences led to my vanguard, emerging through a pool of quicksilver,
accompanied with a tender disposition, united, benign and liberated
In the midst of my sweet childhood days
I came across a gorgeous machine.
It was known by different names
But I called it my time machine.
A big roar, heard in the beginning
When I watchfully switched it to life.
I was in the middle of a battle
Fought around a century ago.
People, people running all around
Fighting without a reason I know.
Roars of victory and screams in fear
I failed to grasp their different tongue.
Back of horses, on the elephants
They fought a battle unlike to me.
Scenes of horror and bloodshed I saw
Closing my eyes I pressed the button.
Quiet different scenes I opened
In a beautiful well-furnished room
Witnessing an intense private scene
The meaning I couldn't comprehend.
It was surely in someone’s bedroom
Possibly a newly wedded one
Doing in light, should be in the dark
I changed the scene pressing the button.
Different images flashes in front
Again fallen to a battle field
Alien I was and alien it is
People around and the way they fight.
It was in a different planet
Rounding around a bright little star.
They are different and their weapons
Even the light different from us.
Then I decided to check the options
Of this marvelous magic machine.
It can crop centuries to an hour
And can extend an hour to a year.
It takes you to places in a blink
Even to somewhere outside the earth
To the new cities, towns or villages
And the deepest forest or the sea.
While I was admiring the machine
A clear loud rumble came from my back.
Not from the machine sitting in front
It was from the real world where I live.
‘Switch of the TV, go to your room
To complete the homework, remaining’
My father is strict and to be obeyed
But I will come back, dear time machine!
Honorable Mention in STRAND SPECIAL 7 ,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
From bottom to top,
my house was decayed.
Through thousands of years
of commands disobeyed.
I girdled my loins
to rebuild my home.
I re-laid the foundation
stone by stone.
Brick by brick
I rebuilt the walls.
House was renewed with
many victories small.
I painted the house
with colors of new zeal.
I furnished it with
virtues that heal.
I planted the garden
with flowers of love.
I installed the fountains
with waters from above.
I sat in the garden
admiring my creation.
At last, to God
I offered adoration.
Something in this life
Does not accommodate us
Knowing
A purpose beyond mere living
Does not encourage us
To linger long in our inch of life
Above the paltry start of dust
Above the cancerous bleed
Of common pain
And I shall not celebrate this
Nor let go of the string of bliss
Though it slips and slides
And tear into my veins
I know I am better than
The clay
From which our life began
Because of something more
That faith alone can clutch
And hope alone can know
So when others ask
The reason for the ritual task
Of life from day to day
I in a deeper wisdom bask
A confidence
Of one who willing prays
A sense primeval
Of a corrupt upheaval
Veiling my belonging
In the wealth of who I am
For I can feel the fingers still
On the outline of my dust
The knee beside the little hill
Of space, his face bowed upon my crust
The mouth my throbbing lips embrace
The kiss of life upon my breath
The abnegation of void
The vacancy of death
And then to see
To know the first behold
The glory of who I am
The mirror murmuring with gold
The sheep above the lamb
And I will not relinquish
What grace has furnished
For me to see
Beyond the mess and mesh of flesh
Beyond the iniquity of a wretch.
I've always loved Aspen's leaves of gold
Even though winter's what they foretold.
And maples' gold among the crisp red,
once fallen make the lovliest bed.
The green was nice and furnished us shade.
Beneath it, young lovers' vows were made.
It matched the green-swept, rolling hills.
holding its own, without golden frills.
Poets say golden leaves never last.
Trees try to capture, but gold flees fast.
We catch its glint for a moment or two,
before fairies steal with morning's dew.
There's something special about the gold.
Perhaps elusiveness is its control.
Its story told with a painter's brush,
poet's thoughts adding finishing touch.
Life- Aye
My cherished one
set against
a sordid world
My lanes are coerced
just as my feet are formed
My life is a platter
furnished on a plaza
dicing my thoughts
stewing my ordeal
rendering my life
a treasure meal
set before a soulless world
From the bay of blue hills in “restless stillness”
at the edge of the “unsteady placid” plateau,
embraced by the “calmly turbulent” clouds
making twilight filigree with the spent sun’s rays,
the sparkling stream flows with “gentle ferocity”,
exuding the “humble grandeur” of “quiet ebullience”,
cascading in the emerald forest
with tuned “thunderous whisper” of “timeless moments”.
It meanders in the serrated swathe of the furnished ferns,
sprinkles in “perfectly imperfect” manner fluid pearls
that sing water song with the drizzle of “deafening silence”,
wafting in the “soundless echo” of the rippling air’s sigh.
Flying with “patient urgency” over crystalline “icy warm” water
the returning robins chirp the springtime song.
As the autumn’s wilted leaves in the tree boughs
rustle with the mesmeric melody of “sweet sorrow”
beguiled butterflies flitter around
the blushing buds in “chaotic harmony”.
The sapphire night sky shimmering above
the “blinding darkness” of the forest canopy,
wears the bejeweled stellar crown of the twinkling stars.
Silver sequins trickle with “graceful frenzy”
through the diaphanous moonshine film.
In a trance, I’m enthralled by nature’s "disparate symmetry"
of the “fragile vigor” of oxymoronic splendor.
(Oxymorons are within quotation)
We have been coaxed by honeyed words,
Deranged by colonized thoughts, my sons.
Our sinews have furnished their bans
While we are submerged in poverty’s fangs.
You hold to each others’ throat
Nourished with daggers from intruders’ moats.
Is this how you want My bloodline to end?