Best Gather In Poems
Life is but a fleeting whisper echoing through time,
never dying, always being- magnificent and sublime.
The body's a receptacle, a superficial shell,
but in it dwells the gift of Soul; eternity knows it well.
The Soul contains the truths of life,
to all that's ever been;
to all things now, and yet to come,
but guards them deep within.
The mind has hidden doors to Soul; we long to find the key,
unleash the vision waiting there, that lives eternally.
And so mind seeks to open wide, grasp firm the light of Soul.
and at that moment when it does, we know we will be whole.
So when we penetrate the shield
that stands between these two,
we will perceive with inner sight-
our Soul, complete and new.
If in this life, we cannot grasp this bond of Soul and mind,
we'll be reborn to live again, till total self we find.
We've been before, so many times; we've known many a past.
We'll be again- an echo in time, till mind and Soul are fast.
And when that final day does come,
at last to lift our Soul,
for Him to gather in His arms-
our perfect self- now whole.
May 19, 2016
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Imagine A Freedom Beyond Imagination
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Judged: 02/25/2021
Some religions, like Hinduism, believe in reincarnation which refines the soul by it living many lifetimes, and after it is perfected, goes back to God. My poem is based on that belief. So many people, including myself, have inner feelings or momentary flashbacks like they have lived before in another life.
With a sigh summer citrine sky turned green
spontaneously into existence.
Autumn's palette adds changes and are seen
to its systematic experience.
Stars shiver in fear on the coldest night.
Voices in the darkness look for refuge;
heaven bound birds gather in distant flight
sailing through winds dusty powdered steel rouge.
The long day is dead; voices won't let me sleep.
Hush. Hush. The voices echo in emptiness.
Whiff of sandalwood lost in shadows deep.
The voices know my loneliness, the nothingness.
Amber encroaches the dawning of morning fight
through window curtains the whitest lace of light.
I gather in the scarred
and broken forms,
the lipped imperfections
that score the wind
to give voice to an evening.
I see through the lesions
that open to a stillness
into which the universe
whispers its unfolding.
I feel the awe,
the sheer enormity
that confronts the senses
as all that is
opens into endlessness,
the mind wilting
at its door,
leaving only these hands
to shape offerings which,
like shells held to an ear,
echo only the faint murmurs
of what cannot
be contained.
Another Sunday evening at the street-corner
next to the coffee parlour, overlooking the ocean
The solo pianist with desert-lime eyes
sits once-again on the piano chair.
His hair,a Honeysuckle-brown
with a salt and pepper tint
sways in the summer breeze
under the old wrought iron street-lamp.
Passers-by gather in a crowd
and listen to symphonic sounds.
Like on those many yesterdays
when She sat down on the old oak wooden bench
to listen to his baritone voice and melodic tune
Close enough, to capture the glow upon his face
through the soft embrace of a cradle-moon.
His fatigued- hands wear early youth
which match the embers of his heart
His fingers bleed between the keys
of black and white, as crimson red
wakes up the passion-rose inside.
Before each note, within each pause
Its there He thinks of her ..
The one who turned his every page
The brown -eyed ,sun-kissed island girl.
All vibrant colours fill up his mind
Her somber soul He seeks to find
Her shadow still craves to belong
wrapped in his arms and every song.
Thank you for this bounty, God
that you give to me
for grain that grows within the field
and fruit upon the tree
Thank you for the little seeds
that in the spring are sown
and with your gifts of sun and rain
have through the summer grown
Thank you for the farmers, Lord
and bless them for their toil
as now they gather in the fall
this bounty from your soil
This was inspired by Brian Strands' Harvest Hymn Contest, which I unfortunately missed
but I wanted to share it with you today and dedicate it to Brian for the inspiration and
support he gives to us here at the Soup. RG
Leave you my tears?
I think you already own them . . .
They sparkle in dew on the grasses,
on your windows they cling to look in;
They see you with someone else laughing
And wonder if the joke is on them?
Days past they would have been with you,
Laughter's jewels alive in my eyes,
But tonight they beat on your windows;
Instead of bright smiles, they weep sighs.
Leave you my tears?
In the rain they pour down from heaven,
They run down your walls to the ground.
They gather in rivers about you;
Don't you sense me when you are storm bound?
How you step on my heart when you walk out
With somebody else on your arm,
Playful like kids in spring showers,
Unaware of the heart you have harmed.
Leave you my tears?
If I could wrap them up in a present,
give them all to you at one time,
My tears would make you an ocean,
Sink your ship on the sea of your crimes
My tears . . . to me they are holy,
They tell of the heartbreak I've known;
You never knew how to treasure
The love that bowed at your throne.
I leave you my tears . . .
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, September 5, 2014
I the ocean
watch sailing ships
in the salty air
pass over me
I hold mystery from
the cusp of the moon
an endless view
for all to see
Where laughing gulls
sit on driftwood,
my crashing waves deliver
to shore
Where Great Blue Heron
stalk the beach
Where the tide pools
gather in the rocks
Sandpipers dodge
the under toe
as wind collides my waves
with land
Leaving sea shells broken
in scattered pieces
of color in the sand
Lonely in winter time
on barren sand dunes,
my starfish lie
as if fallen from the sky
I am vast enough
for the moon to see
as it moves me
through the seasons
Heidi Sands
Written - 1990's
And as the hills yonder
Turned red from sunset rays
As darkness engulfed the valley
And the sweet sounds of birds
Rent the cool evening air
Our cows and sheep and goats
Hurried down the footpath
As though they were late
To a gathering of clans
Or to one of their own
And we the happy herds' boys
Turned our ravenous thoughts
To bananas yams and milk
And all available munch-able stuff
To calm our restless tummies
And as the evening metamorphosed into night
And the stars of the sky reclaimed their might
We the famished children of the valleys
Approached the fireside with widening eyes
As the roughshod soldiers laid claim to all
And shot in the air to frighten us all.
And so we watched with pangs of hunger
Training our wrath and rancor and dismay
To other sons and daughters of Africa
Who for reasons best known to them
Or known only to their heartless handlers
Proclaimed themselves ‘defenders of our freedom.’
Voila! Children of the valleys of Africa
And of the cities and slums of Africa
You who gather in the evening breeze
After torrid days in the fields and streets
Only to return to a darkening sky
Sans food sans wear sans light. Voila!
Spring Whimsy
winter packs his trunk
full of icy fleece and flakes ~
going south for spring
spring unpacks her bags
rolls out green hills with poppies ~
mustard carpets glens
vernal daylight sighs
sheds a winter overcoat ~
nature somersaults
sassy daffodils
troubadours of the season ~
in the midst of snow
snowdrops and tulips
mingle with playful raindrops ~
hummingbirds return
spring teases tree buds
tickles robins and the wrens ~
jokes in cheeky fun
loons and larks arrive
mistral songs fill flaxen fields ~
forests swing and sway
coy clouds gather in
flirt with flashing thunderbolts ~
birds watch from warm nests
rain tumbles through skies
plays hide and seek with thunder ~
feisty blue bells stand
waxing springtime moon
paints rose petals platinum ~
neon night aglow
impish morning sun
winks at fields of red clover ~
spring born of whimsy
3-30-22
Contest: A Brian Strand Premiere Choice
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
Mist feathery drifts
last night’s breath loosening
above basalt slopes of Huatung
Pacific swallows trace morning brushwork
over Fuli’s rice paddies
new green scented with rain.
Xiuguluan River flows jade mountain-born
among ancestral stones
white willows in Ruisui weep
dew-kissed
cycad fronds catching first sunlight
Leaf pearls gather on my thatched sandals
Walami earth holds stories in its coolness.
Bihe Pond rests hidden in Wanrong’s stillness
waters reflecting the tribe’s quiet prayers
Bamboo leaves in green and gold
crested mynas gather in quiet repose
wind moves with the chime of a temple bell.
Ancestral path wanders into the Central Range
oolong tea clouds drift
above Qilai’s blue ridges
A white egret lifts over Guangfu’s terraces
air clear as poured Longjing.
A bulbul calls
blue magpie glides
the slow unlayering of day
Huatung Calligrapher’s span warm to newborn light
time unspools—
bright
unmeasured.
Light widens
dawn follows Yu Shan’s shadowed valleys
the world in quiet promise
soft light
drifting into morning.
It is quiet now
the sun moves up the ridge
honey crisp scent of freedom
hovers, engulfing all the air
pangs of pleasure peal
primrose bows her head
yellow paints the morning
the fields are all aglow
dew dresses up the hackles
glisten comes to call
enlighten paints the picture
leaves begin to fall
recall enters to the garden
tiny footfalls traced in awe
nothing goes unnoticed
gaze, then gather in it all
Fear The Walking Dead
Moaning groaning growling too
they stumble in the night.
Looking for someone like you
so they can grab a bite.
Bumping up against the door
and peeking through the crack.
They no longer know the time
but want a midnight snack.
Heed the warnings that I give
listen to the words I said.
Lock your windows and your doors
and fear the walking dead.
Wearing clothes for every day
like night gowns ties or blazers.
Eyes are glowing in the night
and teeth as sharp as razors.
Scratching clawing at the glass
their back broken in two.
Just another day undead
they want a taste of you.
Running gunning fear inside
they gather in a bunch.
Today you're guest of honor
and they're having you for lunch.
Not safe in a school or church
not safe beneath your bed.
Lock your windows and your doors
and fear the walking dead
Edwin C Hofert
When winter enters the heart,
snowflakes gather in rosy chambers.
Like ghosts of crows-every breath throbbing.
Sluggish songs of longing and loneliness.
Over time the crows pile on,
my, my, how they live to pile on.
Like frost on the bones
bones of long-ago loves...
Suffocating songs, leaving an avalanched refrain.
While the soul is still flowing and howling.
Like an early winter stream-nobody dares to cross...
Those icy blue-eyed thinning veins.
There is a flock of warmth in every winter heart.
Buried beneath the dead songs of crow and time.
They just need a pinch of flint and pine.
To release the warmth from the glowing.
My, how they beat to release rose-budded songs...
from a million springs ago.
At the joyful sunrise service on Easter morn
On the sands of Daytona Beach no lines are drawn
Worshipers from each Christian denomination
Gather in unison as one congregation
Protestants, Mormons and Catholics in pre-dawn haze
Chorus of voices offering hymns of great praise
As the sun rises here, just as God’s son rose then
For a moment in time, many faiths are brethren
When the first rays of light streak across the ocean
‘Neath glowing pink light, we celebrate Christ risen
Surely God smiles down as all believers embrace,
Celebrate the Resurrection, bask in His grace
Good will is conveyed as heartfelt pledges are made
That the love displayed on Easter will never fade
All are soulidified and take this vow seriously
Knowing Christ’s sacrifice heals all humanity