Best Glass In Poems
It was magic beans you placed in my hand as we held
Ones you nurtured, embedded deep within your love
I know because it tormented me with euphoria planted
Stalked me earnestly with your charming advances
You know I climbed walls 'til next you stood at my side
When you occupied me and I began to grow, the eclipse
Was gigantic, extraordinary, a wanting wildness sublime
You were my mystical hen, the one who laid Golden Eggs
You made our home a majestic castle suited for royalty
It was magic beans you infused in my hand as we held
Made me spin searching for a long pole to slide down
Escape with you my loving wife from the Giant Ogre
Inside me, I who feared commitment, a long time alone
But now you are the only enchantress I need or crave
And when it is my turn to die, take with me to the grave
The feel of you deeply rooted beyond my meager frame
From the soil above my coffin will grow beyond the sky
The largest plant with leaves shaped in awe of our lives
Steps beyond the clouds you'll find me playing my harp
An angelic music and song that will herald our union
Speak of our story in fable for children's open ears
Adapted to capture their imaginations, inspire them
Lift a glass in cheer to magic beans entrenched in you
01~12~2015
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: Magic Beans
there’s always a man
who walks into the room
like he owns the ceiling
and the dust in the corners
and the breath in your lungs.
he talks about strength
the way a drunk talks about love—
loud,
with broken glass in his mouth.
the country splits itself open
arguing at kitchen tables,
in parking lots,
in the thin blue glow of televisions
that never sleep.
flags flap like nervous birds.
everybody’s got a war now—
a war on neighbors,
a war on strangers,
a war on ghosts they swear are real.
overseas
bombs bloom like bad flowers
in deserts that have seen too many empires
come and go
like bad bar tabs.
the men in suits smile,
shake hands polished with sanitizer and ambition.
they speak of security,
of destiny,
of greatness measured in contracts
and applause.
meanwhile,
back home,
rent is late,
tempers are shorter than cigarettes,
and the truth limps down the alley
with a busted lip.
power attracts its own kind—
loyal faces in expensive jackets,
men who nod too quickly,
who laugh a beat too loud
and some women.
the room fills with yes
yes
yes
until it sounds like a swarm.
and somewhere
a waitress wipes down a counter
and says,
“they’re all the same.”
maybe she’s wrong.
maybe she’s right.
history has a long memory
and a short fuse.
in the end
no one conquers everything.
the wars abroad fade into footnotes,
the wars at home scar the children,
and the man who wanted it all
learns that the ceiling
never belonged to him.
it was just
borrowed
like the rest of it.
POTD 6 Mar 2020
Oh, where are those waves
of bygone days
that caressed and rocked
on hearing you cry?
‘Sleep little ship’ I'd murmur low
while ocean crooned her soft lullaby
Turbulent change wrought by tempestuous winds
Fresh cravings to taste the salted breeze
In foam and spray twixt the now lashing waves
Illusions waft to tempt and tease
Resounding thunder heralds a storm
Streaks of lightning split the skies
Your torch burning bright to take the helm
for selfish reasons my love denies
Indecisions vacillate crucial visions
cavernous chasms far withdrawn
The deeper I think the lower I sink
The wind howls forth a cry forlorn
No delusion with love ~ high the price
In this icy realm my resistance will take
a solicitous change of a Mother’s heart
Look not the shattered glass in your wake
The impulses of the over protective mother and keeping her child sheltered in a bubble away from the real world is just not feasible anymore. The ‘Breaking Point’ is, when she must weigh up her own feelings - either relinquishing her relationship with her offspring by forcing it to stay, or breaking her heart if she lets it go.
Ultimately, as in the ‘Story of Life’…. Love conquers all.
~Happy International Women's Day to those celebrating on Sunday 8th ~
POTD 6 Mar 2020
Atop The Table
'an empty verse'
and empty hands
~understand~
The glass in hand
can drown out ten-
thousand and ten;
Hearts,
~emptiness~
' '
looking for
?
a
f
l
o
w
e
r
''
''
'
' '
"
"
,
',
',
(Oh, Holy Nights)
on bend-ed knee
enlightened to see,
Ten Drops from the Glass
Love you,
Merry Christmas! :)
Lucinda
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
She looks down her nose
At the locals in the town square
As she sips tea from her fine china cup
Pinky in the air
Criticising and complaining
Judging one and all
Negativity runs through her veins
Only she matters….all others insignificant and small
In the evening in the seclusion of her mansion
She sits by the fire wine glass in hand
Surrounded by her riches
Alone in her own wealthy land
In her empty home
With her empty soul
She sits alone in silence
As her tears overflow
"The Great In-Between"
Oh jolle
vision green
shining
black feather-framed
emeralds
spilling over
the mask’s rim
walls fall while
Jericho doors close
lockdown
unravels
like a mind ribbon
travels
through words
swimming in
an ocean like
tadpoles
growing
tales
evolving
through
the singing hooks
in the mouths
of whispering
phantom poets
listening
with the
eyes
and
mind
fingerprinting
tomes
glowing
embers
pages along the path
with a legion
of tall poppies
marching strident
and barefoot
over broken glass
like the leaves
falling
from
tall stories
still standing
stalwart trees
basking with
winged warriors
strange angels
all forest creatures
in Blue Sky’s Light
sometime soon seen
In the Great In-Between
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2021)
"Looking through the looking glass
All that seems won't ever last
Broken glass in every tree
Natural I never see
Slipping through my fingertips, like sand
Slipping through my fingertips, like sand"
The gems on October trees are dying.
Just as stained glass in evening fades, we know
Fallen leaves are no reason for crying.
Though their blazing colors leave us sighing;
In the frail season they soon lose their glow.
The gems on October trees are dying.
Heaving their last, the leaves are sent flying,
Grieving on their way, to decay they go.
But, fallen leaves are no reason for crying.
Those with blind eyes, their senses are vying
To understand, where in resting you flow
As the gems on October trees are dying.
Lamentable fate; there’s no defying
That your blaze in the light will end in woe.
Yet, fallen leaves are no reason for crying.
You, my lovely tree, keep on supplying
Good earths needs for forest anew to grow.
The gems on October trees are dying,
But, fallen leaves are no reason for crying.
“Well,” She asked; her eyes wide. Beads of hot sweat glistening on her brow like miniature
crystal suns. Her angst was palpable. “What is it!”
The air was still. There were no words. Just the sound of bodies breathing in – and
holding.
“Congratulations.” He held out his arms, handing the mother, her baby, “You have a son.”
The moment shone like glass in the center of the heavens – pure and eternal.
It was redemption from every wrong thing she’d ever done.
It was the shining eyes of God smiling onto her exhausted face; lighting it with hope.
It was the only place there was – the only time, the only space.
It was the only feeling that existed.
They were the only two incarnate souls in the room; on the planet, and in the universe.
This was her child –
her son.
And she was his mother.
(there are no words for such things. suddenly, I feel like an intruder. there are too many
eyes, words and moments here. so it is here, I take my leave; leaving this mother and the
only soul in her universe to their perfect moment. they will have many more moments in this
lifetime; but none as sacred, as human, or as eternal as the first look from life to life;
mother to child; heaven to earth, as the very first. None.)
“It’s a boy.” she whispered. Her throat a crumbling tunnel; stunned, but not really. Like
she’d known it all along. “My baby boy…” She smiled into his ancient, brand-new face;
tracing his delicate cheek with the back of her finger. “He’s perfect.”
She ran her palm along the bottom of his soft, miraculous foot, and laughed. “Look at
your feet – they’re huge!”
And as she wiped the tears with the heel of her shaking hand – smearing what was left of
her mascara - she looked in to his, as close to heaven as one can get, eyes, and said, “Hi.
I’m your mama.” He smiled at her. He knew. He’d known it all along. “And I’ll love you
forever…”
The world closed its shades then. Leaving the sacred to its history; the moment to
eternity; and their universe to its quiet, little room.
*Inspired by Deborah's, You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby, contest; and every mother
who has graced this sacred room.
Relaxing on the porch as darkness fell,
I sipped iced tea, reflecting on my day.
There was breathtaking beauty all around,
the perfect lawn, a pleasure to survey.
I'd had a scrumptious meal with fine red wine
and watched a Lifetime romance on TV.
I'd waltzed around the den as CD's played
the tunes I love the best by Kenny G.
Then came my thirty-minute bubble bath,
so warm and soothing. While still damp, I lay,
just briefly, on the comfy bed. I dressed
and used a lightly-scented body spray.
That's when I got the tea and came outside
to relish what would be the best of nights.
Euphoria was at a height--AND THEN
IT STOPPED! I saw two brightly glaring lights.
The Johnsons, owners of the house, were back
two days before they were supposed to be!
I tossed the tea glass in a well-pruned shrub
and fled before they got a glimpse of me.
The Blakes' weeklong vacation will begin
tomorrow. Like the Johnsons, they will hide
their house key in a fake rock near the door.
Man, I can hardly wait to get inside!
John Lawless's And Then it Stopped Contest,
placed third of eight July 2017
August 3, 2017, entered in Brian Strand's August Standard Contest
January 18, 2021
entered in Brian Strand's Completely Your Choice (44) Contest
Placed 5th
I, too, dislike poems.
I’ve tried runes (and rampikes)
but that’s affected
rather than merely effete.
So I call them
figments.
When people query
What do you write?
at a barbecue or birthday party
I say soliloquies,
fractals,
fragments.
Self-similarities,
singularities,
sculptures (scriptures), geometric shapes and series,
three dimensional triangles, spheres
and differential equations,
fractured fairy tales,
Rocky and Bullwinkle,
rectal impactions.
On the other hand,
bits, bots, bytes
remnants, scrap, earth
gobs of phlegm in grains of sand,
shards of glass in a slice of hell,
hunks and clumps, curds and whey, sleet and pain, slap in the face
sub-atomic particles, cell organelles,
chunks of energy, cookie crumbs,
rusty trucks stuck in mud, dustings for ghosts,
just plain dumb luck, rocks, concrete, but not tweets.
our lady of Guadalupe stands alight in corner air
her gown emerald, cerise, gold
Don Pedro stands afore
glass to glass in an amber glow
Lowry’s beaked bird of uva descent
shadows flicker here, there
on the morrow lies the tropical carnage
the insect floor, the frogs call all night
offshore the everlasting beacon of an occultist light
humanities illusion of delusion, forevermore
calling ships to a harbor where i have none
the rain praters, the storm roars, the poet walks the floor
she stirs, i am not there, panther pillow rising
Morrison's Spanish caravans
once more the earth pulls as Don Pedro and i kneel
the carnal carnival between her naps
is when my desk finds the lines
while waiting for the sun
Abilene 6/18
“How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?”
? Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
for those of you who have attended an Arts and Madness conference know the story. Edna St. Vincent Millay, master of the sonnet, the rage of her age now collects dust in the library and no longer studied at the university. her life of addiction and the cost in the wake of self-induced destruction surrounding her. the stupor of Elizabeth Bishop cost her the chance of a happy marriage. i could go on but what is important to me is that 28 years ago i walked away from the madness and kept the art.
It's three in the morning
And I was awakened by
An extreme thirst. In the night
It's hard to tell just how thirsty
You really are. It's not so easy
To sneak downstairs to get a drink.
Tiptoeing past my parents bedroom I think
About how angry he'll be when he finds
Me awake in the dead of the night.
It's now somewhere around maybe 3:03,
I've made it to the stairs and suddenly, creeeaaak!
I freeze and listen for father's fleeting footsteps
But, he does not come. I take a deep breath
And walk down the stairs. Oh god the dogs.
I didn't think of the dogs. They leap up high like frogs
Off their Lilly pads and jump onto me.
"Get off." I mouth the words silently
And push the dogs off. I grab myself a tall drink
And chug the thing down, put my glass in the sink.
Coming back up the stairs, it's a quarter past.
I skip the creaky stair that made my heart blast
Almost burst straight out of my ribcage.
Damn. I wanted a drink but I don't think I'm brave
Enough to venture too far past my bedroom.
My bedroom? Here I am! I've made it! I'm safe!
I did not wake my father from his sleep.
I'm in. Shut the door, and now I can breathe.
It's 3:18 now and I lay down in bed.
But, of course I can't sleep. I'm awake in my head.
Poetry, oh yes. This was poetry! A ballad!
Get my computer and I'll type my story to validate
And express just how it felt to be thirsty at three.
Then, they'll understand how it feels with a small victory
I'm the protagonist, the knight, trying my best to find
The elixir, guarded by Cerberus. Sneaking from behind
The sleeping dragon's cave. I don't want to wake
Him and so, I'm quiet and agile. A true hero.
3:38. My poem is written. It's time to try
To get into bed and rest. So reader, until next time.
Goodnight.
Mother Nature takes care of her kin;
plants, animals, this ancient sylvan;
with gentle compassionate caress,
and old Sol’s help bestows fluoresce.
Tree leaves sway in the suttle breeze,
knowing their dance will Mother please.
Lovely doves to her warmth will flock,
to florals adorning Mother’s pastel locks.
She gives solace and loving care,
seeing all have enough to share.
Such a benign and devoted spirit,
should be admired for her merits.
Benevolent and unfeigned host,
to you I raise a glass in toast.
Ammmazing how many blithering idiots
sip silently while from their
purpled tongue
horrors regurgitate...
a ripe bachus regurgitation
soured by the tilt
of goblet and the howling
incessant banter of
bartender
Blithering idiots who the hell
what the heck
geez my glass in almost empty
HERE maitre DEE
fancy BOY!
MerrrrrrrrrrLOW pllllllleeease!
get the damn ice away from me
that’s real cheesy
You know NO FOOL puts
ice in red wine
Yeah yeah…git a bottle
gimmee that cork I wantta
sniff it
YOU
BOY!!!
Clink? Clink where? WHAT?
oh fork YOU
Buddy whatzit mean
when ya drop a fork?
Bill HERE!
Pen? pen WHAT?
I don't need no damn pen
can't ya see
I'm writting
wid one?