Best Gloved Poems
White is the tiny jasmine growing in my garden
The soft snow that falls on my nose
The cumulus that drifts in the blue sky
The heart of a pristine lotus
White is gown I wore for him
And the gloved hand on his arm
The Arabian which ran wild in the desert
As mystical as the first ray of dawn
White is the baby in Mary’s arms
And the lilies in the church
The rice and confetti thrown on the bride
The veil which hides her blushing cheeks
White is the dove which brings peace
And the tiny bell that hangs on its neck
The moon that shines gently at night
The stars that shine in her eyes
3/5/13
Spills of flowers everywhere - elation !
I love to water each petal with joy
Bells and Daisies * Tulips and Carnations
I am a gardener named Helen of Troy
Garland dreams loopy Dahlia ali oops
"love me like I am" says each bud to me
Blooming kisses and rosettes, Tipsy Red
they are my yellows just like bumblebees
Cascades of waterfall blossoms, dot . net
impearled in my heart - adorneth and loved.
Each floralette is like a classical fret
diminished by none, a flare up en-gloved
Whimsical gardens *** florescent tandems
I'm an anthem of glory... a willful mayhem!
When you said to me,
"Climb up here, It's pollution free."
Sacred. Safe.
Your rarefied air.
Calculating, you seemed so free.
Safeguard. Sage.
I said I could breathe...
Underrated your density.
Saintly. Sane.
High-minded insight.
When anticipated terror
denuded me,
cool rarefied air
regulated insanity,
far gone fear.
I will breathe
in your rarefied air.
Let it burn brisk
in brittle, brave lungs.
Gasp and grasp
life's flame, full flare.
Lunge for high notions,
those far-flung schemes.
I will breathe in
High mind's smoke,
hung in air-
that ghostly stroke of genius,
rare token in disguise
Well spoken word flurries
whipping away thin guise.
Floating crown
adrift on high.
I will breathe in
Your rarefied air,
because I listened to you.
"Clamber up, high!
Unfazed view will circle you,
miles on end surround you.
No going around the bend.
Nowhere else to go.
No zig zag escape.
No spike in pressure.
No deep depression.
No bad atmosphere.
No stabbing shove.
No push or pull on edge.
Just your pledge to breathe.
To move in one direction.
Forever. Mentally "together."
Stay in good shape."
I will breathe out.
Your rarefied thoughts
congeal life's force,
slows down blood flow.
Till body gloved heart
faintly, faintly glows...
Concealed fire's torch,
caved embers die down.
Stripped artfully apart,
Your rarefied airs
blanket my mind in snow.
13/10/2018. Purely fiction. On the pros and cons of mentorship. "Higher" education is not necessarily a good thing. Learning lessons are.
( This poem is about the ' Killing Fields' of Cambodia, 1975-79, where as many as 2 million people were murdered by the communist Khmer Rouge. I taught in Phnom-Penh from '73-74, and never met a people I liked more.)
They haunt me still,
the brown children laughing, always laughing,
the women voluptuous, languid,
their movement almost an invitation....
Even the traffic policeman:
crisp, clean, proud in uniform,
moving with ballerina grace
as hordes of cyclos and mopeds
and the occasional automobile
pirouette endlessly about him,
impatient bees made quiescent
by surreal beauty of white-gloved arms
cutting through thick tropical air....
Everywhere was grace, gentleness:
temples incandescent at dawn,
with ant trails of orange-robed monks
cradling their pot-belly begging bowls,
the patient women standing by the road
to lump rice into the begging bowls,
the monks always staring blankly ahead
as the women bowed low in reverence,
grateful their gift of life was taken....
And oh, how wondrous it was:
an accident in the street, yet no anger,
no bile--forgiveness, felt before thought,
thought before uttered....
How could such a people murder?
No, not murder-- slaughter!
Their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles,
teachers, priests, friends and children too.
Change temples of peace into charnel-houses?
Schools of knowledge into abattoirs?
They photographed every butchered lamb,
like the devil's children on holiday,
and decorated the classroom walls,
a show-and-tell of horror and despair.
Why? Why?--
Why such pain on
such a gentle people?
Why did God hide His face
while the world turned its back?
Fifty,
fifty,
fifty
years
and still...
still they haunt me.
Haiku one of my first poems on soup
rattlesnake
Georgia rattlesnake
venomous dangerous foe
hidden in garden
A Rattlesnake In Georgia
Metamorph Revision
To the herb garden meandered
Some squash needed picking
Gloved hands and a six inch long blade
No thoughts of snake sticking
Rockie our Rat Terrier pet
Jumped 'pon retainer wall
Then back down as fast as lightning
The snake did forward crawl
Putting some herbs in the basket.
Out of corner of eye
Something in a flash moved
'Twas a snake going by
Looked like a rat snake mixed in straw
"Twas a Copperhead then
Sticking him with my blade so hard
He crawled off, coiled just when
I thought I had him conquered_ he
Rattled, raised up, fangs showed
Backing off out of reach, gave thought
When he dropped, my blade goad
He crawled off injured; Hope he died
I didn't want him to strike
At unprepared family member
Enemy still dislike
Inspired by:
Debbie Guzzi
Contest: Metamorph
The form is similar to Quatrain but not exactly.
It is a form used by Emily Dickinson in many of her poems.
It is a type of Poulter's measure.
It is 8,6,8,6 with the six rhyming.
Verse is a stanza of a poem so these are stanzas or I can change it to Quatrain..
Where could God be hiding? Well, he isn’t hiding at all.
He’s here on every corner, and lives just down the hall.
He watched while you were born, and helped to keep you fed.
Most won’t feel his presence until the day they’re dead.
He dwells in every valley, he’s there to help you see.
We never are alone, in our hearts is where he’ll be.
You can feel him in the air, the breath in every lung.
He provides for his whole family, when we are old and when we’re young.
He brings the sun each morning and sets it every night.
This world he just keeps turning, so we’re never without his light.
We are protected from the cold, each one of us is gloved.
You might not know it now, but trust me, we all are loved.
Where could God be hiding, to me it’s no surprise.
He dwells within my heart; this I see without my eyes.
8/22/22
Where Is God Hiding Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
9/22/1983
I drove your shining,Cadillac, Daddy!
The lead car to the cemetery.
A stuffed bear, your Borsalino,
In the August, back window,fino!
You, in the hearse, a few feet behind..
Tears on the, wheel, almost went blind.
Silent pallbearers, waited, white gloved.
Upset was I,.into earth, you'd be shoved.
Priest stands in prayerful solemnity,
Oh,God, take not my Father from me!
Family, friends around the grave stood,
Then, gone, into the silent, earth's hood.
You, who presented me as a debutante.
Beside myself, now, not nonchalant.
You left me to a world,full of want.
For your lost love, I always have sought.
A few days later, I came to sing you, your song.
The one you sang, though many years long!
"Daddy's Little Girl", you sang to me,
When I, was still the star in your tree!
Lyrics
Bobby Burke and Horace Gerlach
1949
" You'e the end of a rainbow, my pot of gold.
You're Daddy's little girl, to have and hold.
A precious gem, is what you are!
You're Mommy's bright and shining star.
You're the Spirit of Christmas, our Star on
the tree.
You're the Easter Bunny to Mommy and me!
You're sugar, you're spice, you are everything nice...
And you're Daddy's little girl!"
"""""""""""""
Song is also on. You Tube
Still love you, Daddy!
Panagiota's First Elegy
Dedicated to you, Dad!
The thorns over grown and tough
Rip the flesh from her aging skin
Difficult as the chore may be
She prunes where others haven't been
Deep in thought as she does the job
Gloved hands remove the shoots
A distant glance shows a good change
Tender young parts buried take root
Some say she's too old for change
Just let the thick thorns remain
Time will tell if she did well
And if the pruning's healed the pain
"Between the Hours"
If I had stopped to search
your page, again…
decoded somehow
what you had written
Between the hours
Surreal a.m.
3.33
I would have lost the time
to write you into my own story
The Dream
Strip searched against that Wall
where transparent
stands a ghost
in blue neon glow
Floats towards you
instructions read
bent over table
extending naked soul
Stretched flat elbows
Green sleeved and
Palms branding
Red Circled
Welcoming errors and
Psalms prayed against
a satin back kissed and sung
all the way down
To legs that won’t run
Whispers velvet gloved
against a sensual criminal
“Is this Lust or Love?”
Earlier you had mentioned a key
as you slipped your hand in mine
brought me in closer fingers entwined
hip to hip knee to knee
Heat emanating from your
body pressed tight up against me
You whispered that secret in my ear
and shaking your head, grinning you said,
"You know
you are
a real
tease..."
Down my neck you drew a soft line
with your lips and you said,
“It all begins now,
It all begins with this”
and I said
as I moved forward
into the warmth of you
and passed the key on my tongue
sliding warm and wet the words
I tattooed on you with my lips
unlocking you like a well oiled loaded gun,
with a cherry ripe wet smile whipped
“Here take this”
I slid the key from my tongue to yours
“Words,” I said, lips smiling against yours
“are the real shizz”
You laughed and pulled me in tighter
“Come closer to me, Special Agent
you are the real biz”
Words, strip searched
I'm
His
The seduction
slow moving
sensual
electric
(LadyLabyrinth/2020)
"In these days
I'm breathing stone, crying stone
I'll win this race
I'll leave alone, arrive alone
Love this place
The lights...
Under this face, so dry..."
"Stripped to the bone
I did no wrong
Truth is my name..."
Irene....My Mother and I.
I cannot believe I am her daughter!
She always dressed in the very best taste.
Very little jewelry, conservative
dresses, no slacks, are you kidding?
A white-gloved perfect lady,she.
Hats she wore yes, exquisite ones.
Never a babushka on her coiffure.
Boots,too, my Mother loathed,
In those years, verily homely were they.
However,in platformed heels, she was
true beauty in motion.
Panagiota, her daughter, the dreamer,
Thinks everyday day is Carnival in Rio!
And would wear a Samba outfit
Right this day, if only she could!
Be a true Sambanista, bringing the joys
of Brazil to your neighborhood.
Loves humongous earrings and necklaces.
People stare at her with strange faces.
And she is insane over shoes metallic.
With colorful gems upon them or
flowers, totally exotic.
Her dreams to be a Rockette, alas, if
only she could.
Quite the woman~ a legend in her own
mind!
Writing poetry, in an imaginary land
of her own making.
In her magenta robe, sparkling adornments
in her hair and gold MaryJane shoes, as dainty as flowers!
Writing her soul poems by the hours.
Cannot forget her paramours!
Listening to the music of Antonio Carlos
Jobim, total heaven!
Enjoying her freedom and ever so blessed!
A Princess~ ruling in a land all her own
smiling with flowers.
Her hand, with the giant moonstone
ring from Peru,
Her passion for all things turquoise,
jade or Santorini blue
Her head, never stuck in things practical.
Just flies in all directions,never pedantic.
Purely, romantic or totally magical.
Thus~ is her setting for writing poetry,
She cherishes your comments in this
land of the free!
We roaming souls connecting by things so
ecstatic~
This is so very joyous and totally
far from all things tragic.
Panagiota Romios
3/24/2019
a garden is a work of art
conceived with gloved, wrinkled hands
a home for fragrant specimens
for mists, for rain, for brilliant sun
yet when the weather turns, so do blooms
from rich perfumes to withered tombs
so clasp tight my hand, retreat indoors
to dream of sun-splashed greener shores
The odor of turnips,
of seasoned cabbage water - borscht
flushed through musing kidneys.
Listening to Zhukovsky, Vysotsky, Tyutchev,
not comprehending a word of it.
Working my way backward
through an alphabet that echoes
proto-Slavic roots and chugs.
Muses that are a gloved slap of love,
an aching tooth,
a fondness for black-ice
words that gnaw wet socks and fingertips.
Suspicions wriggle like long dead Popes –
the smell of tobacco and damp sheets.
A dusting of earth shaken from chilled rhizomes.
Words simmer like sleeping Cossacks.
Whiffs of green water, grain, and potato,
the anguish of bruised beets.
A poetry that peels onion,
a crop used
in the pickling of cucumbers,
and other forever preserved romances.
Sweat drips from little dust covered faces in the grim back-alley factories
No time for rites of passage other than fingers nimble enough to spin and
Balance wheel spool spin and stitch regulator to their master’s instruction
Anyana is not unique but one of the ‘fortunate’ ones
Gloved hands mop up droplets of perspiration from a lace veil and seduce
A myriad of lovers before she even enters an intricate parquet dance floor
Takes a cue from the orchestra and whirls on stilettos and rhapsodic flair
Chantelle did not purchase her dress at the charity shop
Their stories unite as neo-liberal gangsters spin a yard on wheels of fortune
While their procession fails to trickle down moderate glimpses of hope
Some stride on the cat walk of privilege and others are scavengers in rags
Exposed nipples are rather dissimilar but follow a different path
Anyana gathers her virtues and sends love across the boundary of despair
Her shoes bear no fairy tale stories when midnight strikes at the fashion
Of stolen passion from sweat shops for garments scented with perfume
Cause and effect cannot moderate nor gloss over amoral fabric
03rd November 2019
I like to think that Daddy's gold watch chain,
and the way it came about,
was the true story of "The Magi",
that O. Henry had mixed it up a little and changed it,
as sometimes happens.
I remember it, his beautiful chain,
heavy and each link engraved with dainty leaves.
Each of us had played with it,
pulling from his pocket, the heavy, silver-plated watch it guarded,
just to hear it tick.
I didn't know it then of course,
it was the gold chain that Daddy prided,
not the watch..
He could have bought a dozen of those at any store,
but never another chain so fine.
I wish I had asked, I don't know how it came about
that Mama turned her linked, gold bracelet
into a chain for Daddy.
See it there, draping her gloved hand
in their wedding picture?
Somehow, they never told us private things,
so busy making a good life for all of us.
We were his treasures the seven of us
and Mama and her auburn hair.
Then came the beloved chain.
I like to think it was that first sweet Christmas,
when they were still alone,
that she loved him enough to have
her treasured bracelet altered and
surprised him with her gift.
He wore a leather thong to
hold his watch on weekdays.
Only on Sundays or other times
when he put on his suit, he proudly
added the prized chain.
That's how it happened that the chain was
on the dresser in their bedroom
when the fire started.
Daddy was still on the farm and Mama and we younger ones
had moved to town for the winter
It was so cold, the fire engines couldn't come.
Daddy came by sled in time
to carry the loved library table out.
It was too late and the flames too hot,
to save much else.
I have that table now, my precious heirloom.
Daddy searched the ashes of our home
as soon as they had cooled.
I saw the tears when he told Mama,
"The gold watch chain is gone."
Written 9/11/10
Entered in contest Old Jewelry,
or Just Old Things,
or Old, Old, Poetry.
The Aged Man
Authored by Chuck Keys
There is a sadness inside of him,
Draped by layers of heartaches and disappointments,
Insulated with his long beard, thickly white eye brows,
Unkempt brushy long dense white hair,
Dry peeling cracked lips, slightly ajar,
Showing his smoke stained chipped teeth,
Wearing a dark, soiled, bulky long scruffy ankle length coat,
Two buttons were missing,
With a 2" uneven tear at the bottom of its left side stained pocket,
A dirty powder-blue weathered wool and leather hat, with ear flaps down,
It was a long cold night, in mid-January, the month of his birth.
He moves like a man covered with fear and age, and maybe hunger too.
Mornings and evenings are but doorways
In and out of his leftover forgotten soul,
To the long endless days and nights, forlorn and grey.
He meanders about with a slow cautious gait, head down often times,
Eyes more closed than open, squinting even in the dark unlit night,
Torn gloved hands (with a large irregular frayed hole in the palm of the left),
Each hand fisted tightly for warmth,
Arms tightly at his side, stationary, not swaying,
Protectively wrapping himself inside,
Or just holding himself, maybe for warmth or some unexplained reason.
His life is full, the years buried deep inside.
The pounding aches inside, remembers his early years,
Ages ago, wrapped and protected inside his large family,
But never a part of it, not inside,
Always outside searching, for what can't be found, ever.
His own family that slowly left him was remembered,
Material children today, groundless at best,
That have no memory of what was,
Only what is or what will be.
Grandchildren that lacked life inside his hug.
The pounding aches inside; smirks, sometimes,
Knowing time and space, loving and giving, peace,
Remedy for all that ails.
He knows only what he knows,
He loved, loves and will always love.
Even alone, he is in joy, at peace.
The old man walked into his last mile, a short while ago,
His slow cautious gait, one small step after another, and another,
As the gates opened, he turned and looked behind,
Frowned and smiled,
With nothing left to say.