Best Geoffrey Poems
EPITAPH - A LETHAL WIND
Here lies George, the sad deceased
Victim of flatulence released
The result: he would expire
Stood before an open fire
Geoffrey Brewer
15 Sept 2018
A LIFE CYCLE
Ejected
Dislocated
Passive
Activated
investigative
Never stop
Driven
T’ward the top
Content
Paternal
Fulfilment
Feel eternal
Perceive mortality
Free
Just a memory
Geoffrey Brewer
September 2018
Through the Mist
It feels like a lifetime has passed since my beloved I last saw,
Bedecked in shining armor, my brave Geoffrey did gallantly gallop,
Riding his silver steed, through a soft silky blue morning mist
That like a tender lover enveloped and amorously embraced him.
Now overtaken by dark despair, silently willing my love to reappear,
Despondently I peer through this most mystifying mist, realizing that
On this fateful day twenty years before, he had unwittingly succumbed
To its seductive allure because man and mist had merged becoming one.
08-21-2014
P S IT’S POETRY WRITE ON WRITE ON CONGRATS TO MY FELLOW POETRY SOUPERS PART 9
Many thanks to you selected poets; Of sharing your whispers from God, tho you didn’t know it; Each letters and each word; Reads so very dear and well; Joys of your souls cheers; Covenants of choice, reading your voice; Blessing peace be still; Please keep writing your skills; Rhyming verses blessings of course it’s… P.S. Congrats and thank-U my fellow Soupers
• Gary Radice 170, 253, 260
• Gary Smith 167, 419
• Geoffrey Brewer 132, 340, 98
• George Schaefer 310
• George William Clever 446, 140
• Georgette Johnson 292
• Georgia Kereopa 117, 134
• Gerald Tanjang 456
• Giti Tyagi 346
• Gloria Shell Mitchell 447
• Gordon S. Wolf 17, 21, 237
• Graham Alexander Devenish 410
• Graham John Howes 332
• Greg Evans 321
• Greg Gaul 176, 311
• Gregory Joseph Firlotte 395, 447
• Gry W Christensen 170
• Hannington Mumo 386
• Hans-Christian AleXander Melschau 182, 228
• Hariom Sharma 272
• Harry Biosah 411
• Hara Chaudhary 347
• Heather Green 356
• Heather Rodwell 453
• Heidi Sands 150, 156 36
12/13/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Warning, this poem is dark. It is inspired by the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer.
Gather around and hear of the strange day,
When three total strangers met on that plane.
Three unlikely females eager to tell,
Of their journey through the clutches of hell.
My hands are weak but I'll try with my might,
To give you facts and get this story right.
Come along on their unexpected quest,
Learn the reasons why these females lack rest.
The first is grey-eyed, skinny, and a blonde,
And due to her boredom, she slowly yawns.
Fair of skin, but vain and vapid of heart,
She makes her profit acting in the arts.
Lacking in brains, but her beauty stands out.
She looks perfect from her stance to her pout.
Successful and severely ambitious,
Cross her, she turns rigorously viscous.
“Holly Star” people adoringly shout,
Their praises erase all her feeble doubts.
Remaining awake for days at a time,
Easing pressure with the help of a line.
She loves her job more than anything else,
But Holly feels like a doll on a shelf.
The second is plain but kind as can be,
Lacking a husband, a mother of three.
Prominent red hair, blue eyes that are lost,
Freckles dot her face, her temper a wasp.
Three screaming children are taking their toll,
Their father's absence turned their hearts to coal.
Months of a mom struggling to make ends meet,
Make her closer to admitting defeat.
Her choice of work is not quite ideal
Pleasuring men for a family meal.
Disgust, self-loathing, and hatred are there,
Under the surface, with no love to spare.
Her life is foggy and covered in rain,
She wants to put a bullet in her brain.
The last woman is always on her guard,
From an accident that left her scarred.
Twelve unbearable years have all but passed,
Since the scars on her body were then cast.
Long charcoal black hair and brilliant green eyes,
Her profession centers solely on lies.
Her absence extends weeks at a time,
To find those willing to spend on a dime.
She hides all that dope in crevices not seen,
Storing it in baggies to keep it clean.
Deceitful, perceptive, a broken saint.
Her hobby makes the whole idea quaint.
Who has she fooled? Can I even name one?
Not her daughter, but possibly her son.
"Pluto’s Dark Abode"
they say you can feel her
walking through you
it only happens when
the frost and mist is about
where hidden wild things
watch but make
themselves heard
in the half light
they sum you up
they are found
in darkness
they say if you stop
to listen to the brook
speaking its beseeching
babble, you can hear
your name, as if
summoning you, so
you make your way
and kneel at the edge,
as if in solemn worship
what you see
in the glimmering
reflection, is not you,
you suspected this
all along, that what
calls you forward
into lost glades
such as this, are strange
haunted creatures
phantoms from
your abyss
seeking unwelcome
conference
and exchange
of currents
electric
not completely
foreign, this one
she smiles
in darkness
eyes like magnets
she pulls you in
they say you can feel her
walking through you
it only happens when
the mist is about
and wild things
watch but make
themselves heard
in the half light
you are found
in darkness
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“A Hidden Glade” / Mindgarden Rework / Jarp Music
https://youtu.be/oKhUS4TnWG8
“High on a stag the Goddess held her seat,
And there were little hounds about her feet;
Below her feet there was a sickle moon,
Waxing it seemed, but would be waning soon.
Her statue bore a mantle of bright green,
Her hand a bow with arrows cased and keen;
Her eyes were lowered, gazing as she rode
Down to where Pluto has his dark abode.”
(Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales)
A plumber called Geoffrey Golightly
Enjoyed making love almost nightly
But he got such a clout
When his wife caught him out
Now he’s holding his toolbox quite tightly
Geoffrey gave me an exquisite book
For Christmas.
It is a showcase of the work of
Hundert Wasser - the great Viennese artist,
Architect and visionary.
The jewel colours, the gracious curves -
No straight lines here to sicken
Humankind.
The environmentalist obeying
Natural Law to create spaces
That nurture - not the 'bleeding houses'
Made of rectangles
The insult of the straight line -
Alien to organic forms -
Transmitting alarm signals to the brain.
The blues, reds and oranges combined with yellow greens
Soothe the soul and stimulate the senses.
They jump out at me
Invigorate and excite me -
Inspire a rebelliousness against angles
Harsh lines and grey.
Freudiana
Famous poet Barclay Cruse
curent toast of New York salons
wears tinted glasses and Italian shoes
and composes doggerel for subway johns.
Acclaimed a purist by his colleagues
hard-edge painter Geoffrey Pyle
earned during Summers spent at Antibes
covert commissions from Armstrong Tile.
Junk sculptor Cranston Bold
collects mufflers and I'm told
often edits his creations
to fix his Chevy station wagon.
Cordell composes way-out music
quartets for flute and flushing toilets.
His father was a music critic
and caned him with his clarinet.
Written: January 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
Quote by Geoffrey Chaucer "Time and tide wait for no man,"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time, a poltergeist whisper
slipping through the cracks
Moments shimmer
akin to Petunia petals aloft,
a hypnotic dance —
ephemeral yet priceless.
Time waits for no one;
haven't you felt its rush?
Time waits for no one —
It simply drifts away.
With each tick, clocks transform
into the fabric of history—
you seize fleeting seconds
as if they could stretch forever.
Wilted Orchids echo
forgotten dreams,
pulled by unseen forces
upon a canvas of memories.
Each speck of time,
a mason's chipped work.
Harmonic motions dim
in the palms of eternity;
calming breezes frown
upon autumn’s sunlit glow.
No one halts time—it surges on!
It speeds faster than a blink.
Nostalgia weaves itself
around crystal vessels,
while moonflower garlands
bloom amid hazy dreams.
Tattletale smiles escape
into hollow nights—
a foggy embrace
filled with haunting whispers and grins.
Tulips muted bluish—gray
etch their tale in time’s shore.
Embrace winter’s trudge
and find solace unvexed:
surf through waves of magic
knowing love beams bright.
Galumph through life
daring despite harsh fates:
vagabond dreams vaudeville
within flummoxed hearts;
a rainbow palette spreads
beneath a hammock sky.
No matter what, it lies ahead.
After passing, it's futile to cling on.
Desolation puckers beneath
the glistening dew decline,
an abyss where bleeding
wrists are fodder for worms.
A sycophantic squire crafts
kismet kernels stripped—
flesh ripped by careless slips,
losing grip on whispers;
breaths juggle surly skies,
sharp as bleak thorns.
From cradle to grave,
We've learned —
that time is wealth
we must cherish.
Darkness veils endless roads,
plummeting in twilight throes.
tangled fears mimic
Dionysus amphetamine highs—
brimstone offers esoteric solace
that straddles the magnetic edge.
Whispers eviscerate as they swirl,
amber kisses across fallen stars.
Crocuses bloom in purple
while goldfinch trill
yellow celandine riddles.
Employ your edge before it fades.
Everyone longs for plenty of time.
You can't carry time with you
money cannot reclaim lost time.
NAME DROPPER
One day I had lunch with the Queen
We ate fresh garden peas round and green
One of mine rolled toward her
Sent back in short order
“No thanks, One don’t know where it’s been”
On that day I dined with the Queen
We had soup from a large tureen
In my nervous state
I knocked over her plate
Now I eat looking on Tower Green
I once asked my friend Francis Crick
With the double helix your shtick
Does your DNA
Ever get in the way
He said Geoffrey, don’t be such a pr**k
I asked Einstein what had his brain creaking
He said when your velocity’s peaking
If you near speed of light
It’s possible you might
Meet yourself coming back, relatively speaking
When it comes to name dropping, my lord!
You can’t go much higher than Gawd
Though I have to say
We don’t speak every day
He calls me when He’s feeling bored
Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.
We have good cause to rejoice, not to scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Whoso List to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe? Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow. I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out, I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
"Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame."
Brut
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD, an excerpt
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.
If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …
He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Chaucer, rondel, roundel, welcome, summer, sun, winter, weather, frost, songbirds, song, love, night, nights, ice, icy, heaven, heavens, sky, Wyatt, hunt, busker, thanes, Anglo-Saxon, Beowulf
Miracle, thanks,Steve.
My door to the world!
Conjoining of such dear hearts!
Beloved albums of friends, family.
Portable PC for me.
Joy for we!
Dedicated in Memoriam, Steve Jobs
1/24/2023
Form…….SEPTET (see below}
Line 1~3 syllables
Line 2~5 Syllables
Line 3~7 Syllables
Line 4~9 Sylabbles
Line 5~5 Syllables
Line 6~3 Syllables
Pioneer of the Septet was Geoffrey Chaucer!
He is considered the Father of English Literature.
Best known for The Canterbury Tales.
And his epic poem: “Troilus and Cresessida.”
Your yen two wol slee me sodenly
Surrounded by warm sand
Black pools deep as the
Cold in your face
Your hand
With emollient grace
Will cut the wire
Carved then polished
Hair that twists as
In a Spring flood
Your two eyes will slay me suddenly
At age twenty I had made it to Earls Court.
The rented room was seedily solid
having been for decades
filled with wine and cheap sunlight.
Until then I had not read a thing
apart from: ‘The Ship’ by C.S. Forester
and ‘Arms and the Man’, by G. B. Shaw
both part of a school curriculum.
I liked Shaw for his wit and intelligence
No one told me then that he was, in fact,
a fascist of the worst kind,
I thought he was an erudite old Irishman
like my uncle Sean.
A pink girl with huge eye-glasses, moved in.
She was studying Geoffrey Chaucer
in the original middle-english.
I hadn't a clue.
I bought a book of poems by D.H. Lawrence.
I forget why, but I liked his name
and my uncle Sean often talked about his poetry.
Turns out Lawrence had written a pile of books also,
but back then I was just into his poems.
I read ‘Grapes’, and I read ‘Figs’.
I read ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’, I read ‘Peach’,
I read ‘Cypresses’.
Back then I don't think I had ever seen a cypress,
a ‘medlar’ or a ‘sorb apple.’
I read: Snake,
Baby Tortoise,
Turkey-Cock,
Kangaroo and many others.
A few years later I found out
that the poets that were considered
to be good poets, and the critics
who were thought to be good critics
didn't think much of his poems.
I tried reading the poems of the good poets,
but after a while I felt nauseous.
Then I discovered Dylan Thomas.
The pink girl did not understand his poetry,
neither did I much,
but I ate up his words like a starving man.
Turns out Dylan Thomas was a drunk
and a mean bastard,
just like my uncle Sean.