Best Glassware Poems
Line of inquiry:
“Yes, I affirm, I have seen God
But He appeared and then disappeared
This knowing that transcends mind, left me awed
But until what’s imbibed is assimilated, by fears I’m seared”
Once I felt the power of God
It seeped into me like lightning,
Illumining the track it traversed
It settled somewhere down,
Within the vibrations of light and sound.
In my heart a delectable music swelled.
My life was deluged with song.
His guiding light led me through devious paths.
When was it that I lost connection with that power?
It happened gradually without my knowing
In course of time, it got veiled and eclipsed,
By the darkness of worldly desires.
I was caught in life’s swift current.
Wishing to stay afloat, l drifted,
Into the midst of peripheral comforts,
Like one chasing the deceiving mirage of the desert
My ego bloated like a balloon
I walked on stilts that I forgot the feel of my feet
I felt the stream of love narrowing into a trickle
And then drying out completely.
I was busy making money
In my mad rush after power and pelf,
I threw my values to the wind
Soon storms began raging into my life.
I was befriending gnawing anxieties and strangulating fears.
My dreams shattered like glassware
My world lost its rhythm and I lost my calm.
Life seemed to go on, leaving me behind
Never more I could endure the desolation
That hovered over my me like a dark shroud
Like a mother's despondency at the loss of her child,
An emptiness enveloped my spirit and being.
I knew it was not too late,
To recover all that I lost.
I decided to trace my steps backward,
And travel in reverse gear.
In all earnestness, I turned my downcast eyes heavenward
Soon I started breathing with greater ease
I began getting healed in love’s gentleness
Binding me to God through an unshakable bond
Like sunlight arching through the dark
Once more He came into my life to light my interiors
Now he resides within me, not at the periphery as earlier,
But deep down as a living power, changeless and timeless!
Categories:
glassware, anxiety, character, god,
Form:
Free verse
A beautiful glass vase
Must be handled with care
Made with love,
Without a blemish or tear.
The glazier takes pride.
As he fashions the glass,
He always tries
To make each one
As perfect as the last.
When the glass is complete,
And out of the glazier's hands
It looks like a treat
As it graciously stands,
On an antique table
That stood in the hall
Dusted carefully,
In case it may fall
What has fate in store
For this exquisite glassware
Who could ask for more
Created without a flaw.
Fine glass is very fragile,
It easily breaks
It is a unique commodity
A lot of courage it takes.
To survive.
And keep alive.
Maybe one day in the future
It will come to pass,
That all living creatures
Are as fragile as glass.
Categories:
glassware, 10th grade,
Form:
Rhyme
Her birth was never trumpeted,
Nor caught any media headlines.
Born to Joachim in very ordinary settings,
Virgin Mary, the simplest of the simple,
Was specially chosen to perform a task divine.
As she grew up, she pledged to keep her body and soul,
Free of all blemish and stains of fleshly desires.
But in her teens, she was betrothed to Joseph,
Perhaps, part of a divine plan.
Did dreams come to nab her sleep, no one knows!
She found joy in prayer and absolute surrender to God.
Once when in silent communion with God,
Hearing the flap of wings overhead, she looked up.
Seeing the flash of blinding light in her dim lit room
She stood in dazzled astonishment,
Not knowing what was about to happen.
Before her, appeared a winged seraph.
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness n’ grace
Its hands raised in benediction,
Saluted Mary and said,
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
……………………………………
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to digest what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again, it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee,
And a son shall be born of thee,
Whom you shall call Jesus.”
“How can this be”,
The question lingered but didn’t ask.
In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware?
Or did her virgin womb thrill with new life?
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves?
For a girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out,
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
Without questioning,
She surrendered to the will of God,
Thereafter, never wavered nor bemused,
But readied herself for the great task.
Forever she remains a symbol of mercy and love.
Her immaculate grace is reflected on her radiant face.
Her lovely visage having greater beauty than any flower,
Emits sweet fragrance that perfumes our souls.
Remaining ever so pure with no trace of sin,
She is acclaimed by Christians all over the world,
As a symbol of unassailable purity and godly grace!
Categories:
glassware, celebrity, christian, devotion,
Form:
Free verse
Alphonse Mucha's art was so influential it helped create Art Nouveau.
A flamboyant sensuous style, with softness, swirls, curls and beauty.
It heralded and celebrated new art as a counterpoint
to the dawn of the harsh steel and smoke of the industrial revolution.
Inspiring the unique creations of architect Antoni Gaudí,
Sowing the seeds for another revolution in style - the Art Deco movement.
Mucha's style and grace in posters and art works truly showcased aesthetic vales
a flagrant appreciation of beauty, style and good taste.
It celebrated women, portrayed in flowing robes and curvaceous, poised with lush flowers in their hair.
There were halos, crescents, swirls and lots of flowers in the background.
The Art Nouveau movement embraced all forms of art and design
incorporating the swirls and curves of Mucha's paintings and posters including:
architecture, furniture, glassware, graphic design, jewelry, painting, pottery,
metalwork, textiles, advertisements, even appearing on Czechoslovakia's currency notes.
Alphonse Mucha's art and design are truly beautiful and inspirational.
Categories:
glassware, art,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Memorize the fragrance as roses bloom
Daylight slows to unveil a sweet refrain
Fragile, with no escape from a drafty room
By break of day, buds will be in bloom
In love and art, beauty unveils what is sane
Memorize the fragrance as roses bloom
Lush gardenias in china glassware tombs
Beautiful balance that charms us all fain
Fragile, with no escape from a drafty room
Its fragrant breath like many a French perfume
The flowers all compete, the lilacs never plain
Memorize the fragrance as gardenias bloom
Holland daisies will strive by fanning her plumes
Then, notice the orchids that lives quite vane
Fragile, with no escape from a drafty room
In steamy rocks, the tiny ones bloom
Divine, they all never feel any pain
Memorize the fragrance as roses bloom
Fragile...with no escape from a drafty room
Categories:
glassware, peace,
Form:
Villanelle
O Serenissima,*fabled city
guarding the bluest lagoon, remain
the Queen of the Adriatic Sea;
on a gondola I glide while
the gondolier sings to luminous stars.
Under bridges of moonlight,
mysteries increase by the dozen;
standing on the Bridge Of Sighs,
a fair-haired girl leans forward
blowing kisses to a gorgeous boy
who stops and smiles back tenderly.
On the topmast he awaits early daylight,
unfurled sails excite his spirit never
fraught. He looks back for a last time,
surroundings whet his curiosity;
behind him stand buildings of break
and stone that have endured time's fury.
The eastern sun comes up slowly,
he rubs his moist eyes and sighs;
his tall ship is ready to depart
for lands rich of exotic spices;
they will be traded for linen
textiles and beautiful glassware.
Months will pass, probably years,
a wrinkle or two will appear
on his sun-tanned forehead
beneath his fluttering red velvet hat;
he will think of Venice before sleep-
the sublime dream of a wealthy merchant.
* Serenissima: The most serene
Categories:
glassware, blue, city, dream, history,
Form:
Free verse
I sit at my table - I sip onion soup
It's good for my cough - bad case of the croup
I could do with a meal and something to sup
But the bar is now closed - the buffet locked up
The dry glass of flowers long started to wither
I yell for the waiter to make him run hither
The air con is broken I tell the garçon
It needs a regas - kindly put the fan on
Feeling light headed - the air closely stifles
I open my backpack and check on my rifle
I take out my weapon - look into the muzzle
The waiter just hoofs it - he answers this puzzle
He returns with a bottle and drinking glassware
A plate of moule-frites with some haricot vert
A slice of French brie in a fresh French baguette
And a royal dessert - an ice cream coronet
I pick up my glass of cool German hock
With fake deference I fake tug my forelock
He takes from his apron some pen and some paper
He's taking a poll - so how was your waiter?
I've gone four lines over - the limit I'm hitting
But hang on a second - this might not be fitting
And where are the horses in this French venue?
With snails and frog leggies - they're on the menu
Uses (sort of) the following words (in bold): muzzle, forelock, fetlock, hock, withers, stifle, poll, croup, gaskin, frog, hoof and coronet.
What on Earth inspired me
In life when I have to compete
I'm sometimes a little offbeat
This time I split words
Used meanings absurd
And wrote about menued horse meat
Reposting date: November 6th 2016
This contest: Take the dagger from my heart please - 3
Original contest: Horses
Original contest finalised: October 30th 2016
Categories:
glassware, funny, horse, humor, humorous,
Form:
Verse
They ride the good dragon-cloud towards warm light
While wistful wind was a wrongdoer on the hollow hill
Wrapped woven from the wounds and wrath`s night,
The wood will wear white woolly witness of the windmill.
Hoarfrost hitch-hikes and hoists with hoarse hood,
Drumming beat of hobble of the army`s fatal feet,
Far away from the glow-worms of their childhood;
Friends fumble the glassware where they might meet.
Falteringly frogs of fancy jump towards the lake’s glass;
Orphan souls sit on the steps of hope in winter`s time
They scrutinize the frozen sky of hope to find the rhyme
Of the verse from the other side they want to happily pass.
Categories:
glassware, allegory, childhood, death, dream,
Form:
Imagism
Shall I relay a sidesplitting hoot from my “care-free” on campus fun phase?
It entails a laboratory session involving three mystic world colossal oafs.
One had an unerring penchant for Laurel and Hardy mishaps, the other this beautiful dreamer whose attention span rambled for miles.
a meandering focal point tourist with no yen for one spot or one task.
As for me the fault-prone narrator I had comic book deficits too.
Pulitzer Prize petty fog pinpoint, fastidious fat head by gum!
At the hearth of this tale is a chemistry prep that was doomed from an innocent outset.
It was aptly enough “Anodyne,” this soon to be splitting head bushfire.
From uproarious weighing scale howlers, to starter material gaffes, to say nothing of sequential missteps, Mount Everest blunders galore.
Our ill-fitting glassware threw tantrums, miscellaneous beaker’s burst dams, reactants rose up, a calamitous farce, they shed buckets of organic stuff down the sink.
For all my precision I seemed a right goof with this risible maximum brownie point fetish.
My beautiful dreamer close comrade who by turns Walter Mitty pale stand-in now immune to chaotic abandon at large.
That accident-prone other pal
would be every insurer’s worst nightmare.
Nearby class mates could barely restrain widespread glee at us laughing stock hapless quaint bunch.
The poor teacher in charge had a seizure, quite gormless, green faced and gobsmacked.
“I wonder what next can go wrong.”
“Quite frankly I shudder to think as you merry buffoons soldier on.”
This thunderstruck teacher was known as the “doyen of do it right down to the dottiest detail.”
After a humorous pause his eyeballs rotate in jocular mode then made a ginormous grand gesture.
“Put this jinx ridden self-destruct day in some tuck away memory file.”
“Write a one page report, say the gremlins prevailed and I’ll give you an average mark.”
“For goodness sakes don’t blow this offer like you’ve nearly blown
up my whole group.”
On an ironic note “doyen do it right” gave a brief safety course start of term.
It seemingly fell on deaf ears.
I’ll be blowed as my parents once said when life took a damned awful turn.
We three “Einsteins” in technical garb almost were, blowed that is!
Posted ; 11th January 2022
Categories:
glassware, art, character, color, confusion,
Form:
Prose Poetry
You were born in December
And you wear your trouble like a rough petrifying plum and carry the sadness of 1000 unsung voices
That's about as much as I know about you
Where are the poems about the sorrows of ordinary people?
You are 23
And gazing upon skyscrapers
You breathed in the air of a new America
And searched for your mother's eyes across the canvas of solemn Church ladies
To deal with your depression, you bought a new air fryer, a CD player and unused glassware that still lingers in the depth of our kitchen cabinets
You won't let us touch it
You are 25
And endure the searing of knuckles into skin
Like pillars of stone
A tightening grip around your neck,
hot breath from lips of silk and honey
You are 31
And your hands can heal broken bones
Ready to intrude upon unsuspecting colds, unsuspecting falls and unsuspecting men
Elegant in their form and function,
they create beauty out of nothing
and hold the bronze black skin of my face with calloused fingertips and so much love summer blooms from my cheeks
Black mother's hands are unyielding
You are 37
You bathe the boys
and groan at the sound of me
You are 38
and sorrow follows you into every room like a dark silhouette
You are 45
and have cut yourself in half
Your body ages
and your anger burns into a seam
Your CD player has broken
It is easy to become a praying woman
“Do you still love me?”
I ask searching, for an answer,
Trying not to beg
Categories:
glassware, 10th grade, abuse, anger,
Form:
Free verse
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Categories:
glassware, depression, hope,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said i had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Categories:
glassware, depression, hope, lonely,
Form:
Free verse
I sit at my table - I sip onion soup
It's good for my cough - bad case of the croup
I could do with a meal and something to sup
But the bar is now closed - the buffet locked up
The dry glass of flowers long started to wither
I yell for the waiter to make him run hither
The air con is broken I tell the garçon
It needs a regas - kindly put the fan on
Feeling light headed - the air closely stifles
I open my backpack and check on my rifle
I take out my weapon - look into the muzzle
The waiter just hoofs it - he answers this puzzle
He returns with a bottle and drinking glassware
A plate of moule-frites with some haricot vert
A slice of French brie in a fresh French baguette
And a royal dessert - an ice cream coronet
I pick up my glass of cool German hock
With fake deference I fake tug my forelock
He takes from his apron some pen and some paper
He's taking a poll - so how was your waiter?
I've gone four lines over - the limit I'm hitting
But hang on a second - this might not be fitting
And where are the horses in this French venue?
With snails and frog leggies - they're on the menu
18th October 2016 - entry for "horses" contest
Uses (sort of) the following words (in bold): muzzle, forelock, fetlock, hock, withers, stifle, poll, croup, gaskin, frog, hoof and coronet.
Categories:
glassware, food, funny, humor, humorous,
Form:
Verse
I looked in the file cabinet but I could not find it there.
It obviously had not been filed; I began to look elsewhere.
I looked on the lamp table beside the green armchair.
Only to find my poem was gone, but I did not despair.
I looked in drawers in every room; frustration did forbear.
Exactly where I put my work, I was not aware.
I looked beneath my knitwear, my neck-wear, and nightwear.
My poem, lost in a nightmare, had vanished in thin air.
I began to search the kitchen, aggravation in full glare.
I looked behind the china, the stoneware, and glassware.
I looked between the pots and pans, beneath the new cookware.
All too soon, my family knew my recall required repair.
So, I retraced my every move as fear began to blare.
There was nothing else to do but eat a chocolate éclair.
(But I was on a diet; so, instead…yea, right…I ate a pear.)
And all of this I did before my heart felt great despair.
“My Dear” came to help me, for I could find the poem nowhere.
At times like this, when things are lost, life seems so unfair.
The devil cast his fiery net, but my soul he did not ensnare.
I calmed myself, my hope was bare, and then, I said a prayer.
It was soon discovered, after I cried, but did not swear.
That it was in the computer room, not stolen by some corsair.
A plastic drawer behind my chair had become my poetry lair.
Forgotten works, unfinished thoughts, old poems were nestled there.
Relief, now sighed, I caressed the page, new verse written with care.
And it was not long after this dreadful affair that I became aware.
Each poem that flows from a poet's heart is written with personal flare.
Uniquely styled, with passionate views, shared insights, loved and rare.
Whether upon the computer or on paper a poet's poems find air.
Each published thought from soul to man must be carefully stored somewhere.
So, when upon a summer's steam you write your thoughts so fair.
Put them in a most safe place, consistently, and you will find them there.
© July 12, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Categories:
glassware, on writing and wordsheart,
Form:
Monorhyme
"a dagger of pain, a tear of grief" ~ by Constance La France
Only once I looked into her pale, weak face.
In white hospital sheets, she lay motionless,
A bag of bones! Her chest heaving high and low
In her eyes, a well of unarticulated pain
How could I pacify her or quell her fears
When both of us knew it would be
Perhaps our last meeting ever!
Longed to wipe away her aches with a caress
But my weak hands didn’t budge an inch
Knew my heartbeats rising into a frenetic pitch
And an opaqueness shrouding my eyes
Did I hear the thud of glassware,
Cracking into a hundred shards?
I tried to camouflage my emotions
But a sudden surge of sorrow welled within
Before I could restrain, a tear tumbled down.
How hard I tried to control the deluge of sorrow.
Finding it in vain, I turned my face away.
After moments, gaining composure
Once again I turned to her
This time our glances intertwined
And her thin lips curved into a smile
I knew it was her effort to console me
Or in that split second
Did a lifetime of our companionship
Fleet across her feeble mind
I could hearken to the murmur of her heart
“Don’t worry! In the Kingdom of Light
I shall soon find a nest where I’ll wait!”
Her whispered words built a dam across my grief
But could break anytime with the slightest shock!
May. 16.2023
~ Placed First~
Writing Challenge 'A' Quotes Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
Categories:
glassware, farewell, friend, pain,
Form:
Free verse