Best Glean Poems
Sonnet I
In realms of emerald hush where sunlight strains.
Through veils of green. A silent throng takes root.
A clovered congregation on the plains
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
No melodies from throats unseen they sing.
No pleas for mortal ken their silence breaks.
Yet in their rooted quietude they bring
A symphony for Nature's gentle stakes.
From dust they rise, by unseen hands embraced
To greet the dawn's first kiss, a deep-green dream.
Unfurling fronds that grasp the sun's warm face...
A silent pact with life's sidereal stream.
No eyes behold the light their essence drinks
No lips confess the air for which it thinks.
Sonnet II
Through fragrant whispers secretly softly pass
On unseen currents borne a cryptic lore
A web of messages that dance like grass.
A wisdom! newly sworn on Nature's floor -
No clash of arms? no battles fought in vain.
Yet messages they send on silent wings...
A language dovetailed deep, a copious chain,
A bond that knows no end, the green world sings.
With patient strength... they pierce the earth's cold hold.
A testament to will unyielding. Strong!
Unmoved by tempests' raging fury bold,
Their roots like anchors grip where they belong.
A silent war against the storm's harsh might.
A battle fought unseen, in verdant light.
Corona
A quiet war in bright green
A song for animals and plants
Listen to people in every green leaf.
No songs from hidden throats they sing.
Through fragrant, sotto voce... secrets softly pass
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
Couplet
A lesson composed in green, a truth to glean.
Where verdant nature creates and wisdom sings.
The poems I never wrote are small fish -
sardines that roam the ocean of my mind.
Swift thoughts are they, and like a fleeting wish,
each flits away, and never can I find
those lines that had intrigued me as they passed
beneath my consciousness into my dreams.
How many poems would I have amassed
if I had caught them all? Alas, it seems
a few matured, for herrings I have seen
in poetry that isn’t even mine,
and from that one phenomenon, I glean
that thoughts among us poets intertwine,
so poems I never wrote might well be
in other poets’ minds of shining sea.
October 8, 2022 - NA
Submitted Oct. 17, 2022
for A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
No litter, no rules, no society scent,
just peninsula pure soul content, ideally lent.
Awed and wowed with arms stretched wide,
I stand on Key’s narrow road, on narrow land,
surrounded by two sea gems and their sand.
This dream road sea-drowns, down south’s horizon
and thrills my innocence without even trying.
Western growth is dense and a fence in Gulf’s yard.
Her wave’s sirens are blue-salt diamonds
and I am mesmerized by their titan climbing.
East unfolds turquoise enchantments unmarred –
The playful, poetic Atlantic off guard,
bewitching and hypnotic in regard.
Dazzled, I sit in the sea, shoulders deep.
Powder soft ocean floor thrones me nicely.
I could sit the day in this sea so sultry.
Flirty, allusive, emerald joys leap
as languid, luscious wet meets sun’s glee,
sending my senses high where memories keep.
These expressive ocean blues and greens
are of patterns and ways, I have never seen.
Sensual and graceful, each sea touch is delight –
as soothing in feel as pleasure in my sight.
Before me spreads endless bounty of ocean glean.
Under Florida-kissed skies, I sit wet and serene.
Oh lovely lady of the poetic stream
Such beautiful verses we have seen
Your flowers more vibrant than heavens tone
Your mountains more majestic than ever known
Your pen full ways are filled with grace
As you take us to a wondrous place
When you dip inside your wishing well
We are transfixed from your magic spell
Oh Lovely lady of the shimmering stream
Enchant us now so we may dream
A volcanic resonance within your soul
Gushes out versus that make us whole
I stand yonder as I look and glean
Toward the lovely lady of the poetic stream.
March.03.2016 ^WW^
The seasons vary as they come and go,
and each, a lovely lady, loves to dance.
Fair Winter glistens in a gown of snow
she wears whenever she can get the chance.
She often glides through night beneath the glow
of midnight’s moon. Each sequence of her gown
falls beautifully when she is waltzing slow,
and stillness is the sound as she drifts down.
Her sister, Spring, is eager to dance, too,
but takes her time; she needs to feel the sun
upon her rosebud cheeks and feel sweet dew
beneath her feet. She waits till Winter’s done.
Spring dances with the breeze when she sashays
across a bluer sky with Winter gone.
Her pretty gown is fashioned from sun’s rays
to sparkle with the colors of the dawn.
She sobs sometimes when sunshine goes away,
but it is good! Her tears become rain showers.
With springing steps, she greets the next warm day
and swings her skirt, revealing bright new flowers.
Her sister, Summer, is not far behind.
The blossoms in Spring’s wake last but a while,
for Summer’s hot! With sun, she‘s intertwined,
and different blooms prefer her sultry style!
Too hot for her own good, this lass can be.
She gyrates slowly; if, by chance, she cries,
her tears revive her so that passionately
she pairs with Thunder, flashing stormy eyes!
The beauty known as Autumn waits her turn.
She does the paso doble with finesse,
and often her appearance makes us yearn
for youth because she wears nostalgia’s dress.
She tangos with the wind and leaves. A rush
of ardor overtakes her in her dance.
Some leaves turn crimson, for she makes them blush
while sweeping earth with brilliant elegance.
One day arrives first snowfall, and you’ll glean
the ladies have again begun their round.
A season’s dance is always to be seen
because their ball room is from sky to ground!
An oldie for Brian Strand's All Yours (May 9) Poetry Contest
A sword of the heavens did glean
From railings and arbors
of dead thorn and bramble,
where ghostly reminders remain
Fall droplets of blood ‘pon
a crimson embroider
left carelessly out in the rain
Our story begins
in a deep mountain valley,
a village so peaceful and free
When one day the darkness
did unsheathe its horror
with metal and death you will see
The army of Satan,
a wicked battalion,
Hell’s fire their sabers were forged
Dark Skeletal visions
in leather and armor
the depths of the earth had been gorged
With razor sharp weapons,
they slashed and delivered
such pain which had never been found
Through echoes of pleading
and lives quickly ending
in puddles, thick red on the ground
While women and children
were herded like cattle
in mass to the edge of the square
With onyx eyes leering,
midst snickers and cackles,
their captors insanely did stare
When on the horizon
a light brightly shining,
engulfing this nightmarish scene
A porcelain stallion,
its rider a shadow,
a sword of the heavens did glean
From steel hard as granite,
angelic depictions,
a handle of pure solid gold
Once heard in a fable,
when wizards were roaming
such power, the stories foretold
As swift as an arrow
he entered the village,
his steed all at one with the game
With blade silver glistened,
like lightning bolts flashing,
igniting a righteous born flame
Spinning and thrusting
as if a tornado,
a blur now incensed of the glow
With whirlwind fury
and dust clouded thunder,
he dealt them a terrible blow
The evil fueled army,
beheaded and fallen,
the villagers shouted and cheered
When to their amazement,
this heroic savior
as quick as he’d come, disappeared
So there is the story,
a sword made in heaven
is now part of history’s reign
Along with the rider
who wielded its honor,
and hopes he will come back again
9/13/18
Written for the UNSHEATH YOUR SWORD Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
POW confined in a cage
Through Viet Cong jungles bullets raged
No sweat from his pores in unrelenting sun
Dehydration, famine, yet his needs were none
A tepid river so foul with blood’s scent
But the outcome of torture was not as meant
He tasted cool ice as his spirit soared
Freedom came fast once the war was ignored
Hovering o’er killing fields his soul’s eyes
Saw not the wounded, heard not their cries
Though his weak body lay crumpled below
Pain free he reveled on clouds, heaven’s snow
Through astral projection he’d been set free
Each day he survived, taking this journey
When rescued at last many months gone by
The US militia did not know why
GI Joe felt no hate, seemed so serene
And not one of his rescuers could glean
Why this soldier survived, what kept him sane
For they’d not escaped inside this man’s brain
The awareness he’d achieved spared his life
So he could return to his son and wife
Who’d prayed everyday that he would come home
Only to say they’d never been alone
Their spirits communed on another plane
And life as they’d known it would never be the same
*Entry for Caties Out-of-Body Experience Contest.
The Warp and The Weft
The warp and the weft are different but both thread
Choose any colour you like, through the blues to the red
The warp goes away from you stretching out tight
The weft goes across, from the left to the right,
The shuttle bobs from left to right and back
Weaving some cloth on this intricate rack.
Entwining the threads with colours of desire
From plain coloured cloth to colours like fire
The shuttle passing through leaving a thread called the weft
Intertwining warps, moving to the right and the left
We can learn to be like this wonderful machine
Learn from it’s weaving for life we can glean.
If one goes one way, it is not the end
We can try go the other without having to bend
We can cross over each other but still hold on tight
Like wonderful cloth woven for our delight
.
Two different ways and colours there may be
But woven to make stronger for all to see
We can be useful and strong and woven together
But beautiful and practical seemingly lasting forever.
How different was the world of long ago
when writing was a special skill to hone,
and masters of this art were so well known
with names like Wordsworth, Shelley, Frost or Poe.
The realm of poetry began to grow
exceedingly as newer forms were sown
though now there are so few of world renown
while poetry itself sees endless flow!
The techno world allows us to be seen
on countless websites and we all can claim
to be a poet, but the irony
is that there barely is a thing to glean
from this, for often just to show one's name,
the poet pays the publisher a fee!
(A Miltonic Sonnet - I hope!) Written 4/30/14
Sometimes, I cannot help but sigh
and wonder--
wonder deep inside of me
whether I could ever be like you.
I riffle through the pages of my soul
and find a lot of them empty
Unlike yours, which seem to be bursting, blinding,
bursting, and still continuing to burst with brilliance...
So much so,
that your soul's light
has spread far and wide,
very much like sunlight's fingers
opening the morning sky curtains,
touching and warming
those who need it.
Tanglaw
Each step that you take,
each breath that you exhale,
each prayer that you whisper,
each beat of your heart
Tanglaw
I receive a smile,
and chat
with that man
who you've helped change...
Because of you,
the silent man now speaks, smiles.
You sit down to rest,
I see you talking to someone,
and I am almost fooled,
since you seem like old friends.
Because of you,
the lonely strangers become kindred.
It mystifies me sometimes,
of how you never seem to get tired.
It seems like I am the one who gets tired for you,
who gets worried for your own strength...
Then I see that glow from all around,
and I am reminded how you glean from this glow.
I see you as this beautiful ball of energy--
Never static,
bouncing from soul to soul,
illuminating parts of themselves
that even they never knew existed.
It is so amazing seeing this at work,
since the next thing I know,
the place is lit up,
Alive.
...and it is all because of you.
It makes me feel unworthy at times,
but oh how it also makes me feel so proud,
that I am a part of you,
and you are a part of me.
I have a lot of catching up to do,
since it seems I am lightyears from where you are
But I will try.
I will catch the tail end of your light,
clutch to it with my life, winding it around me,
let it embrace me--tight, so tight.
And I will never let it go. Never.
Until I also begin to glow.
Until I too, become that ball of light.
Hopefully when someone
riffles through the pages of my soul,
they will not find it blank,
but filled with gilt pages of light.
Just like yours.
Bursting and brilliant just like yours.
Tanglaw is pronounced "tang-lao"
Where I live, mothers are said to be the "light of the home"...
My wild Irish heart - what could it do
that March when into my sweet girlhood blew
euphoria to make my heart careen?
Oh, heart as fresh as clover - kelly green -
when zephyr brought its scent of something new.
The breeze caressed me; all was made askew,
for what it had been carrying was you!
Beneath my tender breast there throbbed, unseen,
my wild Irish heart.
You bridled it and then you pierced it through.
Yet wilder than before and tough it grew.
For in your aftermath, I was to glean
the lessons that my youth had not foreseen -
and evermore would pulse in me - now blue -
my wild Irish heart!
Originally For Sandy Ivy's Go Green - what green means to you? (new or old poem)Poetry Contest and now for Linda's Get your GREEN on!!! (Get into the spirit and Go Green) Happy March17 (old/new poems)Poetry Contest
Springtime, camped between the mountain valleys.
Air filled with tickled laughter ventured through
canopy of leaves bathed a golden hue;
labyrinth fields sun's freedom to rally.
An owl rides the air stream, into darkness
against the fading moonlight to confront
joy of flying in silence of the hunt,
while crickets sing loudly in the stillness.
Rumbling sounds reach deep sleep from twice its breadth,
barely glean the worth turning into dreams
grasping the state of mind lapsed into deep,
a twilight world that knows not its own depth.
Waking up in the light of morning beams,
cooing sounds of mourning doves in nature's keep.
3/22/2018
Italian/Petrarchan Sonnet first 8 lines) abba abba (next 6 lines) cdecde
Invite of the trendy crowd,
yearning for acclaim,
a common braggart read aloud,
to glean synthetic fame.
The fellow even took a bow
when some had stood and clapped
The rest of them were in the know;
so mostly they just napped.
Elsewhere in a lonely hut,
near death’s parting knell,
doors and windows firmly shut,
a poet bids farewell.
Painfully she starts to write,
and pens a lovely score,
her phantom fans in sheer delight,
erupt in silent roar.
2nd Place, Put Your Best Rhyme Forward, Just That Archaic Poet
Anne Murray did have quite the flurry, voice as a brook without crooks
Canadian born, songs of forlorn, beautiful vibes, I subscribed
Such singing as a bird, the world has never heard, she splurged
“O Little Snow Bird”, in the words I heard, calming of Vietnam
O spread your wings and fly away, words of God’s love I heard
Mind level love, forever untrue, so what’s new, `Tis festering spew
O but little snow bird, an alpine of cleansing snow, God’s Love
Spread your wings that brings, renewing, from festered spewing
Providing for me a way to go, by a cleansing snow
Innocence, a purity, of life’s promising security
Some leaders said only fate, this atrocity of hate
Maimed, lamed and defamed they came, to claim their bitter fame
State side they now abide, holding inside, Our leaders lied
Leaving the lamb of their souls in Nam, for uncle Sam
Atrocities, of hate, never abate, mind’s sickening fate
The Vietnam of late, laid at the mind’s creation of hell’s gate
O beauty of little snow birds, spread your wings, fly back this way
Cleans again, the glean of mind’s sin called fate, lain at heart’s gate
Like an alpine of purity, Love from Anne’s heart was sung
Maybe only to ease her own pain, but her timing was plain
The answer is blowing in the wings, of even a little snow bird
The such of which the mind of itself has never learn or heard
All humanity will not learn, but precious few will return
By their trust in Love, the snow white Dove, spewed forth from above
Anne Murray sang away I know, some of my own heart’s pain
Honoring all Vietnam veterans, be you not in fretters
From your hearts of security your love is your surety
Let your Alpine of pure snow bird, be Love’s word you’ve heard
Dane I am sure you’ve at least heard this song that this poem is about.
It somehow caused me to think of you, as I was writing it. Therefore
I dedicate it to you and all veterans for your service to our country.
Sincerely, Love, Moses
12-19-09 [email protected]
Turning and dipping in graceful, acrobatic flight,
my spirit soars against a sky brilliantly blue;
from these heights, I view life in its completeness,
its complex boundaries and limitations sharply defined.
I maintain my composure, calm and unruffled by the storms . . .
I sail above the strife where the sun spreads warmth upon my wings.
From this lofty perspective, I watch over my dearest ones.
This clear air provides treasures of wisdom, beauties like the facets of precious jewels,
sparkling with the vibrance that makes joy complete;
I glean and feed them to my little ones, giving them nutrients to enrich their minds.
Home is my central focus.
I learn and implement all that I can to make my nest comfortable and complete,
a rich environment for growth.
Do not intrude; I protect what is mine.
© May 11, 2015, Faye Lanham Gibson