Best Garnering Poems
A teal twilight inks cobalt silhouettes
as distant stars unveil their twinkling lights.
And shadows slink forth, melding with the night,
while a setting Sun feigns a scarlet death.
Pink clouds cluster at the horizon's edge,
garnering shades of cerise and purple.
And daylight shrinks to a amber aura,
reflected in rusty crystals of ice.
Dusk weeps dewdrops, yet grieves to no avail,
while darkness dims the last lingering light.
And brisk breezes whisk heat away in gusts:
eerily chilling both body and soul.
Long skeletal fingers anchor the sky
to a lone tree rooted in ebony.
And a marshmallow moon appears snagged,
in the netting of its velcro branches.
Creatures of the dark stir from sleep's slumber:
in the wake of a slowly sinking Sun.
And silence rules: as sound bends to its will,
all, but a cricket's, haunting, piercing, shrill.
Mister Joe, poet, jangles loose change in his pocket,
Jogging memories and garnering thoughts as he walks.
For Mr. Joe's brain washes, tumbles and dries,
his gems of thoughts in hourly cycles, with riddles, jingles and rhymes.
Each wash-up, extracted, pegged, and hung up to dry,
To taunt and flap jangles for him, his readers and strangers near by.
Mister Joe's charm icons are processed, mulled over, distilled and wrung out for meaning within.
His jangles find meaning in bumps on smooth paper, read as Braille.
His jangles arise from stones skipped over calm smooth waters,
yielding meaning in the creases and ripples created.
His jangles rattle his sleep awake each night, with sky rockets of images and flashes bursting.
His jangles are a empowering, rewarding, revealing, enlightening,
and sometimes troubling and haunting, but can't be undone.
His jangles are his rhyme and reason, his friend and confidant, his mater and aether
His jangles are really what he's all about as a poet,
as a miner and peddler of ideas, and as a prophet and revealer.
Mister Joe's charms jangles the minds of his readers
His words cast nets to trawl up memories and concepts,
lured within the reader's mind with word play and twists.
Seas of dreams and memories are netted, prodded and poked
To yield twinkles, sparkles, hums, grunts, and nods of appreciation and delight.
His jangles finding meaning and echoes with links and associations, never before conceived nor considered.
Mister Joe's catch of memories once jangled, are returned to reader with care
Embellished and enthralled by meaning, relevance, word play and twists.
The reader now has new jangles to add to charm bracelet on wrist, or to jingle with loose change in pocket.
Mister Joe, the poet, and his reader, now walk and dance with jangles, jingling echoes within.
Garnering complete elucidation
within the untrammeled confines
of several exceptional poetic lines
most certainly deserves validation
Does brevity confine poetic thought
not if readers have a vivid imagination
Comprehension is found where sought
Three lines can be a brilliant summation
Poetry is shadows that come to light
The tears trickling down from my eyes
My emotions escaping in sorrowful sighs
Easing burdens and healing scars as I write
It was a magical time. It was youth and exuberance; It was excitement and discovery; it was innocence. It is now just memory, ah, but once it was the reality of sunshine and butterflies. The seeming timelessness of youth is a realistic illusion, when no thought of such days ever ending or even slowing, would enter young minds.
And we were there when …
Whistles of steam locomotives were heard clear ‘cross town as the enormous engines puffed their way along steel ribbons … in the winter months, sled rides, snowball fights, and ice skating … the summers brought sunshine-filled days of bicycle rides, swimming holes, fishing, and sandlot baseball games …
In the fall school started again, and both old and new faces illuminated our days … there were football and basketball games … cheerleaders … after-game dances … and, finally, the garnering of a drivers’ license.
Then, quickly it seemed, school, college, military service … that first big-time job … meeting that certain someone … little feet running about the house … another job … another high-school class reunion …
Quite unexpectedly, something triggered the conscious realization: Our youth had slipped away. It was a process of erosion … slow … consciously unnoticed, like the melting of an ice cube …
It was then fond old memories began seeping back into our thoughts … Some of those old memories were shared with the newest members of our families … sometimes they’d demand: “tell me again …” and we’d comply …
The Days of Wine and Roses have given way to the Days of Rhyme and Proses as we read days of retirement away … through a Kindle book.
… and those memories are a beautiful reminder of yesteryear … and encourage more memories yet to be made.
As you peruse through stacks of old photos,
sentimental tears guide your emotions.
Drowning in pools of yesterday's tears, you
serendipitously find Mom's letters.
In your rush to finally leave home, her
advice was met with frustration; and yet
without protest, she swallowed her pride and
applauded every milestone you achieved.
Time takes you back to when you last saw her;
stirring emotions you forgot you had.
For you never told her you loved her; and
questioning your heart, you begin to cry.
Isn't it weird how much you miss her talks now?
Alone, you deal with the hurt you're feeling,
by garnering love from those memories.
(2nd Letter Acrostic spelling “Serendipitously”)
BEING HUMAN
Benevolent but bedeviled by his demons
Eternally yearning for salvation yet
Intrinsically entangled in a web of self-delusion
Neither able to adopt the earth nor earn the heaven
Garnering good deeds and scattering to the winds;
Human with beastly instincts; godly with an evil streak
Universally perceptive but is narcissist in nature,
Man is made in the image of God, resident of the paradise
Above all creatures, meant to walk upright
Neither to be fooled nor foiled yet tethered to moh-maya*.
(*Hedonism)
~"Being Human" Acrostic contest by John Hamilton
Tonight I write this here lullaby
Blissfully a sat watching the setting
sun disappearing over yonder field
Whilst listening to the breeze
lean and creak the whistling tree's
astray
Waving random silhouettes placed
upon the background of the most
beautiful sunset resplendent color hue
Letting me I think into knowing if this is
not the perfect way to spend a day
Then I have had to few
So later on when it finally goes dark
out and the sky is lit up by untold
countless stars
Grab hold of the brightest one and
remember what mother used to say
Wish oh wish to yourself if only
every day could be just like this
Then wouldn't life be perfect not
only for myself but everyone else
as well
And if you find you are indeed one of
the lucky one's who needs not to rely
upon the premise of the star's
To will your dream's come true unlike
so many other's to whom what makes
or defines a perfect day is garnering
and taking pleasure from something
as mother nature intended
Then you above all else should count
and thank your lucky star's as you are
one of the many not the few
Who will never see a shooting star or
shimmering sunset delight
As anything other than something that
is never going anywhere
So why on earth should I even take a single
moment or be bothered to stop less care
And you unfortunately sadly Kayleigh
aren't here because you alone can best
explain what exact secrets the stars
behold and keep
But then again it's not your secret alone to tell
So therefore I wrote this here poem thinking
I was and for you on your behalf
I only hope I did you and it justice I pray
my starry eyed child
What regrets remain to repair,
which requires estranged souls to pair,
that thus so garnering clear sight,
we see all hearts glow in God’s light?
Whence unshackled from our mind tree,
though dwelling in form, soul is free
and as in time, peaks bliss delight,
we see all hearts glow in God’s light.
Transformed by love’s magnetic burn,
soul transmutes in mind-body urn;
when our aura’s hue becomes white,
we see all hearts glow in God’s light.
To reclaim our Self unalloyed,
we choose to plunge into the void,
whereupon from heavenly height,
we see all hearts glow in God’s light.
It is crop time in Beantown.
The people of the City have the seeds to plant.
Their best harvest is the orange that is yellow.
Jake Castle is a great farmer.
His wife, Nefreda Maria, is one of the conservators.
Their yellow orange yields a greater harvest.
The children of Beantown are full of excitement.
They are the ones that florae.
This year is hyperactive because six years have passed.
The yellow orange is now in vegetation.
Once picked, the seeds are replanted
making the next garnering even more fulfilling.
This year Jake has a plan.
He will visit Giant’s land to plant the yellow orange to grow afar.
He desires the experience of a different crop.
He knows the rich soil of Giantvillism will bring forth a larger fruitage.
This is an ultimate gain to a more endowed yield.
Therein, the next six years will culminate in both places.
Once the harvesting was completed in Beantown,
Jake journeys to Giant’s sphere of influence.
His bag of seeds was his gift to the Land of the Big People.
Giant of the Big People embrace Jake
while Maddy shouted “A hearty hello to Jake.”
Tomorrow they will scatter the seeds of the yellow orange.
Six years later…
Beantown sings as the yellow orange gleams
in the photosynthesis of the sun.
Every family harvested their fruit and
people from other realms travel to purchase the fruition.
Beantown economy flourishes.
In Giantvillism, Giant harvest was grandiose.
The yellow orange fruition was up to
twice the size of Beantown’s fruitage.
Jake and Nefreda along with their three children journeyed afar
bringing back seeds of Giant’s yellow orange to grow in Beantown.
The next six years will make all very proud.
But for now, Beantown wealth is the show stopper.
All over talks about how those people of little means
henceforth a world of meaning.
______________________________________|
Penned on December 30, 2014!
A pretty face that wears a smile or giggles on the phone
When sunlight glances through an open door
A robin that will sit and talk when I am on my own
Or getting lost in stories I adore
Some apple-pie and custard or a welcome cup of tea
Or just a word from one I love, to say that she loves me
A deep red rose that smells divine or sparrows having fun
An ice cold tarn high on a Lakeland fell
Outrageous rhyme by Ogden Nash and toast that's quite well done
A bakery that spreads the fresh baked smell
My Mother's home-made gingernuts, another cup of tea
A message from the girl I love that sends her love to me
A cover drive from Ali Brown that makes the bowler glare
A leg break spinning past the outside edge
A buzzard by the motorway that plunges through the air
Or walking on a tiny mountain ledge
Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and maybe another tea
While hearing from the one I love that she's in love with me
A snowflake in the winter and autumnal golden leaves
A crocus that says Spring is on the way
The beach when all the ladies have been met by clothing thieves
Or flying kites on any windy day
Some chocolate cake, a nice big slice, then wash it down with tea
Another for the one I love who says that she loves me
I smile for all these little things I smile for so much more
For happiness is all we really need
I count up everything I love and marvel at the score
Is garnering such blessings really greed?
A bag of jelly bellies and a nice hot cup of tea
A dream about the girl I love, and when she dreams of me!
(prior to tha ode dee us political stink sans hillary rodham clinton, i scrawled out this poem. her likelihood to grasp to political mantle than considerably greater than fourteen months when another official will help keep america safe and sound from cares and concerns of an uncertain future).
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Bill leave me
Hugh will cause a beloved howel
From him – the divine necromancer with magic dowel
If ambition stirs thee to make presidential bid for we Chelsea
Reverberating throughout terrestrial bowel
Analogous to former reigning supreme ringleader Muhammad Ali!
As an obedient student who crossed his t’s and affixed every “I” with a dot
Although high letter grades this older papa never got
(Undiagnosed anxiety inducing pressure cooker symptoms made me hot)
I recognize brilliance, and thus would immediately cast my lot
From the current secretary of state whose political skills right on spot!
One year hence, this democrat will cast his vote
Without doubt maintaining his party line
No matter campaigners with republican huzzahs will tote
Unable to change opinion of mine
Praying that economic maelstrom she can brazenly smote
If necessary seeking oracle of Delphi for a positive sign
Or devising my own catchy slogan to quote
Common as this generic human dust mote
Whose esprit de corps would to the stratosphere float
Like some over inflated helium filled ballooning goat
Kidding nobody that view from on high depicts sinking American boat!
Please take to heart
From this fellow (among ship of fools)
Who decries special interest groups sway to sabotage and up-end donkey cart
With extreme elephantiasis haunting white house with ghouls
With penchant to undermine sacred constitution with graffiti art!
This Joe schmoe of a lame duck nada so soup per poet
(who idolizes billy eve able applications of a cigar re: monica lewinsky)
would be in awe
And inwardly hee-haw
If this poem affected your name to be on ballot garnering cheers from this paw
And knows that in those random polls made of straw
The former forty second first lady gaga to engender revolutionary thaw!
“The New York Times” was this group’s original name.
Within two years, they were garnering fame.
Two women and three men sang in wonderful harmony
in clubs around Baltimore and Washington, DC.
Mama Cass Elliott was noted for their discovery.
She often joined them in a Mamas and Papas medley.
As their popularity continued to grow,
this group changed its name to “The Peppermint Rainbow”.
They were signed to the record label known as “Decca”.
Their first and only album was produced by Paul Leka.
The group’s one big hit was penned by Al Kasha.
The title to this 1968 hit was “Will You Be Staying After Sunday”.
This song went high up the charts in its day.
Although this gang is no longer around,
we can still hear their sunshine pop sound.
Thanks to wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and all music.com for information I obtained to write this poem.
Families sacrifice savings, every petty frill
Praying a lucrative grade to mill
Seeking a bartered shill
Greedy coffers to fill
Hopes and dreams to rill
Nuggets of fine gold to spill
On Porcupine creek's nettled till
Hearty crew of six sated to drill
Though sorely lacking experience. skill
Shoddy equipment of patchwork steel
Surrendering to elements with whimper, squeal
Black sand, gritty rocks pass through grill
Garnering thin wispy flakes; will not pay the bill
Note: A diatribe on the Discovery TV show Gold Rush
I am reminded of his legacy,
Through the media events.
Where he opened doors
In a professional sport,
among many malcontents.
While learning about his struggles,
I became certainly more impressed.
As he surpassed in my mind,
Images of Bo and Deion . . .
He was truly blessed.
I don't know of any other, that
Could skillfully perform in so many ways.
While a collegian, with Football, Basketball,
Baseball and Track & Field . . .
I mean Jesus, there's only so many days!
As an athlete, receiving the
Accolades, while garnering the
Endless, admiring looks.
He must have mastered the
Space-Time continuum, if he
Was ever to hit the books.
This is why #42, has moved up
The list, as the GOAT to number one.
Since he was responsible for so much
More, than his ability to outrun.
There is no ‘you’ or ‘I’
Except that you choose
to call the fat clouds a name
and make them feel like overlords upon the others.
And, there is neither ‘you’ nor ‘I’
when we collect in droplets into rain
and percolate the crevices between rocks and questions.
The free flowing water you rinse your feet in
Collects the geography of the places you’ve been to
That the same water you now wash your hands with, is what
You once called ‘dirty’ and fed to the gutters of nevermore.
There is no ‘you’ or ‘I’, save ‘we’
We, driblets of water
Garnering into puddles,
Some, redeemed in pots of human bellies.
And, there is neither ‘you’ nor ‘I’
Little dribs charged with pain, break out
As saline rain, bouncing off troubled eyes,
A cesspool of wails in the offing.
And some others, not ‘you’, not ‘I’
Distraught to meet this uncertain world
Are lagged in rocks, trapped prisoners.
We are all waters, variously hued
To boil in teapots and warm the mien of takers
And a few, crystallized into heart-shaped cubes,
Are nursed between the parched tongues of lovers.
Loin waters all! Congealed over time
Sneaked into places like shy rivers
Collecting genetic snapshots of their bearers
Then those ones frozen by fear, iceberg-solid
Make the routes of our ideas unpassable
A few, like calm ponds
Unperturbed by gravity and noise
Undress before the caress of the setting sun
We all are waters,
Not you, not I, but we; streaming
In endless pursuit on the surface
While selfsame dispatch, gather like roots undersea.
**previously published in Sentinel Quarterly Review