Best Gorgeously Poems
SPELLING TEST (there are over 30 words contained within this poem that are often
misspelt by the common man)
We all do on occasion temporarily misspell.
Amateur or connoisseur of language,who can tell?
Conscientiously piece together,peculiar bits of rhyme.
Manoeuvre letters gorgeously for others to refine.
Discipline and experience,all apparent to you and me.
Pronunciation not enough to spell linguistically.
Skilful realignment of the letters needs addressed.
Paralytic implications quintessentially expressed.
A ricochet of rhythm,sabotaged in a queue of verse.
Cacophony of tone with their spellings unrehearsed.
Is your spelling kamikaze,a haemorrhaging of ink.
A karaoke nightmare,communication on the brink.
So literary geniuses,i am all apologetic.
If my utterance is rabbled and my spelling is pathetic.
You see,many words i utilize in this poem i create.
Have been misspelt for centuries,the most common is
separate
THE BRIDE
The day is finally here
The groom has arrived
Here comes the bride gorgeously dressed
Her beauty shines like the harmattan sun
Her smiles are bright like the full moon
Little do you know she is sad in her heart
But i ask WHY?
She begins to cry for the day has come
She leaves her beloved mother
She leaves her wonderful father.
A day she forget being Aunty mi
A day she end calling daddy for everything
A day she end bothering mommy on what to eat
A day she stops spinster life
An entry into a mixed journey of a new future
A day she take up a "Mrs"
Oh! Here comes our bride
Sobbing on exit from singlhood
Again I ask, for WHERE
But to a place she has to start building a family again
In tears she hugged her beloved mother and she said cry not my daughter
In tears she kneeled before her wonderful father and he wiped her tears
Finally they both said, make us PROUD
On some bleak airfield on some Cambridge fen
(that awful winter – 'forty-seven, I think)
my mother, novice servicewoman then,
crossed parade-ground like a skating rink
to see the Christmas concert on the camp.
Inside, the nissen hut was black as ink
till airmen lit a feeble spirit lamp.
The snow was driving against one outer wall:
she calls to mind a smell of tents and damp
and stinging fingers, fresh from snowballs,
and gouts of steam, blown out in cloudy spurts
as people laughed. Then lights dimmed in the hall.
She now recalls a curious stab of hurt
to see the Italian janitor of the base
revealed onstage in P.O.W. shirt
when curtains opened. What had been a place
of uproar, now – faced by this threadbare clown –
had undergone some dreadful loss of face.
In dubbin make-up, N.A.A.F.I. dressing-gown,
as solemn as a high priest at the altar,
this patched-up Pagliacci, ear-flaps down,
sang ludicrously well. The keyboard faltered,
and stopped. The singer, weeping now, kept on,
quite heedless, as his clown's nose dripped tear-water.
There's something sacred in the humblest song
(with wretchedness wrought into lasting good
through alchemy of art) and, all along,
the watchers, to their horror, understood.
He sang so gorgeously of going home
because he knew full well he never would.
I tried to walk a mile in her shoes,
fit my toes harder to feel her pride.
I wasn't ready for what I've found.
A wounded soul, a bleeding heart.
I tried to walk gorgeously in her shoes.
And feel ashamed to witness those bruises.
She concealed underneath her clothes,
A misery of being abused and used.
Along the road she speaks softly,
Then her tears started to fall.
A courage she used to grasp,
to tell a story never been told.
At the end of our journey I came to know,
this pair of shoes I tried to own,
was broken once in empty room.
No hands to care, no one gives hope.
I gave my best to polish once more,
give it a glance like 'twas before.
Although it's hard and takes some time.
Soon each piece will be formed.
Now, I see an image of a woman.
Standing glamorously in her shoes.
With pride and honor she firmly holds,
A new beginning, miles to walk.
I love a lovely maid—a Flower
of the sun-baked land of Brazil;
ageless, she by clock's every hour
makes the time be perfectly still.
Though fair and gorgeously pretty,
she longs to be known and adored
for her heart and inward beauty,
where love is felt and richly stored.
She's queenly and wears a lush crown,
a regent who sits on her throne;
a Rose, she's praised and of renown,
and prized for her rare grace alone.
Too selfless and giving and kind
to disappoint, she lives to care
and gives alms to the lame and blind,
and for me always says a prayer.
My Famous Favorite Poet,
One day, I'll write like you own it.
Your gorgeously written sonnet,
Mines are like bees in my bonnet.
Words hum dimly and don't brighten,
Yours float high, and they enlighten.
All my poems acquire honey,
They buzz about sounding funny.
Each of your sonnets shines like gold,
With words that glow, so all behold.
My poems hid inside a beehive,
While yours outside gets a high five.
I hope to write like your sonnet,
Honeyed butter like Bluebonnet.
grand garden at Giverny
are gems gorgeously
nestling near a warm abode
where golden path lies beneath
in thick impasto and rugged strokes
transforming terrestrial moment
into amaranthine beatitude
baggy brush movement
of varied greens~
transposing from soft geneva
to gecko and genoa
interlacing with periwinkle petals
blended with amethyst and magenta
unfurling paradisaical artist's milieu
teeming trees reflect
dappled sunshine
in exuberant flora
resembling your eyes
exuding ethereal joy~
every time you look at me
30 April 2021
For "All Yours (April 30) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Notes:The Artist's Garden at Giverny (French:Le Jardin de l'artiste à Giverny) is an oil on canvas painting by Claude Monet done in 1900 now the Musée d'Orsay, Paris.
It is one of many works by the artist of his garden at Giverny over the last thirty years of his life. ( Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
Written: October 31, 2023
______________________________________
I walked by fallen limbs and bare trees.
Without the birds, without the breeze
Summer's final rays of warmth wane.
My sadness spreads further away to explain.
I trod amid broken limbs and rotten grass.
Sapphire skies shone as crystal and glass.
How can I remember you without sighing?
Whilst others, as October twigs, are lying?
What you find, dear, falls and fails to mend.
The spirit knows that death is not the end.
The wind carries the sound of my voice.
I thrill with rhyming clarity and rejoice!
Your words enliven a desolate landscape.
Just as in paradise, no one wants to escape.
They're gorgeously drenched in dew.
The natural world is sighing in awe of you!
Just akin to a stunning bird in the azure sky.
I will never forget your grace and sway.
While you peacefully snooze away the time.
Your eternal presence whispers in sublime
In the forest hush, I trek in time and space.
The bare limbs and trees softly saw my face.
No birds chirping, no wind, just a fall whisper.
The warm heat vanishes, and we feel winter.
Amid fading glow, your words shine as night sky.
Such insightful lines tell of how life's glories stay.
Your prose illustrates that dying won't be final.
Your calm lyrics are carried by the wind spiral.
The beauty of aging for a woman or man, Is to gaze back over the sparkling, valley of decades with such joy and achievement, no youth ever can.
Oh, to be sure, many will have trophies and medals for winning sports games.
But they have not raised and stood by families who were taught integrity and how to win at life's game.
In this society, that drools with glee at Emojis, texts and technology,
You had your children in good schools learning English, the Bible and
honoring God on their knees.
So when you see an elder with a cane trying to open a door,
Or an elderly in a wheelchair struggling to go up a ramp.
Don't smirk nor feel better than they, for that may, indeed,
be you one day!
They live quiet lives and do not seek glory.
That's for the young busily showcasing their own life's story.
Many arrogant, in love with themselves.
With or with no family, just in adoration of themselves.
We, poets, have a chance to make this world a better place.
This is no place to stab each other in a glory race!
We have the blessed freedom to write on any subject we choose.
May we be blessed to inspire and encourage all with beauty,
and with honor and courage to infuse.
February 28, 2020
3:00pm PST
She had the utmost prettiest of pretty things
Ruby bracelets, broaches of garnets, diamond rings
Some looked up to her because of her fancy clothes.
Who these thinkers were providence only knows.
I waited for her to make her move, not yet impressed.
She was all of that, beautiful, and gorgeously dressed.
I suspected she would be vile, selfish, insanely mean.
But instead she had kindness such as I had never seen.
\
My biggest influence was Van Gogh, after he cut off his ear.
For being lopsided and askew is what I don’t fear.
His uneven brush strokes and off-balanced yellow sky
Makes his art intriguing, he simply is the real guy.
I am a cartoonist, a poet, a writer, a painter too.
Like Van Gogh, I am off-centered, slanted, and slightly askew.
My fingers are crooked, my haircut is gorgeously uneven for sure.
I squint when I see you, my artistic prowess is childlike and pure.
Like Van Gogh, my art is not appreciated, yet, I am fast and I’m quick.
I love stirring up paints into mixtures furiously colorful and thick.
My biggest influence is Van Gogh, after he cut off his annoying ear.
With this kind of guardian angel, I have less than nothing to fear.
Wormholes winding wackily in space-time
Time twists and turns endlessly in space -time
Pulsars pirouetting with perfection in space-time
Singularities sitting silently waiting in space-time
Nascent nebula nestling together in space-time
Galaxies gorgeously gleaming spinning in space-time
Asteroids appearing aimless moving in space-time
Comets creating chaos as they travel in space-time
Divine deity’s design or quantum chance space-time
Universe unfurling unabated creating space-time
Bejewelled beauty begotten of space-time
Only a poet can promise perfection to match that which we dwell in.
Never could I have imagined where I would find love
In my wildest dreams I'd roam to seek this Angel Dove
Never could I have imagined from where this love would bloom
She just appeared to me one day, surprised, in my bedroom
Never could I have imagined poetic words capturing I
Then reading by whom has written, my eyes soon espied
Never could I have imagined that words could turn to hearts
That such a beautiful woman could repair a world blown apart
Never could I have imagined writing a poem about Lake Taal
Next thing I know I'm flying many miles to meet this poetic gal
Never could I have imagined the wonderful country of her birth
That I'd share with such a beauty, my journey blessings worth
Never could I have imagined how we shaped East and West
Our poetry blending collaborations groomed our writing zest
Never could I have imagined my heart being totally thawed
Meeting this poetic girl for real, I'm gorgeously left in awe
Never could I have imagined in my bedroom that July afternoon
That in just a couple of weeks, it's the continuance of our bloom
To 32
What a way to appear on screen
With cascadic hair open umpteen
Wishing me on the festival of lights
Giving me extreme delights
Oozing with passion from looks I say
Glittering with fervour come what may
As name means the gracious one
Let me wish thee in ton
My joy multiplies due to greetings thine
Out of blue I verse just fine
After a huge hiatus we are together
Let’s save the bond ever after
This being the festive month
Has also seen thee taking birth..!!
To vt
Last night missed thy profile pic in yellow
Had I shot it, it’d have been a delight lo..!
At least today you install it
I look at the portrait so sweet
Wishing you the happiest festival of lights
Thy eyes itself are twin delights
The way you decorated thy porch
It seems you’re an angel arch
Blessed with looks of divinity
You excel in all chores pretty
Interior design or can control
None can ever match thy role
A Brahmin belle with Telangana twang
I devote thee this poetic song..!!
To subhashini
In pink attire ethnically adorned
Lamps lit by angel epitomized
With effervescent grin by graceful
Blesses me in a way lavish full
Glaring presence in my life sweet
Gloriously gleam in her grin glint
Falling short of words apt
To extoll this ‘sweet speaker’ intact
With plate full of lamps luminant
The belle in pink blue is valiant
As if my Lord Goddess has come down
To bless me this dynamic dawn
Accept my prostrations o divine belle
Want to be under thy charming spell..!!
To sjt
Looking gorgeously graceful
Jaw dropping is thy skill full
Creamlike colour adores thy neck
Thou are my Goddess I beck
Let me drive my poem home
Up to second I verse alone
Thy every shed is my subject
Surely makes you do reflect
Classic charm belongs to thee
And it just makes me verse spree
Motherly aura suffuses everywhere
When you give grin superior
Fortunate I’m extremely Deep
As you light the lamps in heap..!!
To mum3
Want to verse on thee
Trust me so immensely
Being my Lord Goddess
You’re ruling me I assess
I’m in thy charm to to
Seeing you as IAS is my motto
Through verses I can show
You thy real power so
Never underestimate I request
For you deserve the best..!!
“Tomorrow, a World Away”
what whence did I stray
from the gullibility
of wanton poetry
a sign above
smallness
wired
to the largesse
of it
all
insanity
buries its head
in my bosom
heart cries,
tomorrow!
what do you know?
it’s a world away...
(LadyLabyrinth/2022)
"The Bardo"/ Laurie Anderson
https://youtu.be/pA9q6uwcBio
“Utopia” / Goldfrapp
https://youtu.be/QUB7e3BtnvU
I am all for cremation.
Love it (the idea of it all)…
cremation it is!
ashes released to a breeze
(not interred into some cavity of a wall,
like a nagging, painful, loose filling);
ashes
released
into a breeze,
balmy,
or freezing full of life,
that carries it
into the nostrils
and bodies
of the gorgeously unsuspecting,
eventually infecting their minds
in ways they are totally unaware of,
yet magic still remains.