Best Graven Poems
And say unto Tyrus, O thou that art
situate at the entry of the sea, which
art a merchant of the people for many
isles, Thus saith the Lord GOD; O Tyrus,
thou hast said, I am of perfect beauty
— Ezek. 27:3
Libertas,
she who is of perfect beauty
Roman goddess,
situated at the entry of the sea
You hold a torch
that burns a cold flame
From the South Pole to the North,
everyone on Earth knows your name
America,
America
She reincarnated your ancient fame
America,
America
Her prideful beauty became her shame
Libertas,
the fame of your beauty everyone wanted to see
In the presence of a goddess,
all people from every nation worldwide wanted to be
You hold the dovetail tablet
that inscribes the progress of liberty
From the North Pole to the South,
they flock to the land that stands in the midst of the seas
All hoping to reach your shores, dreaming to be free
America,
America
You now reject those who seek haven within your buxom border
America,
America
The Holy Scriptures thus declare: Set your divided house in order
Libertas,
graven goddess greeting poor souls
seeking the bond of assimilation with one another
America,
merchant queen selling plastic rainbows,
you look just like Tyrus, your ancient twin brother
Your picture perfect beauty
is rapidly fading away
You always took pride in your nudity,
now an ugly portrait resembling an aging Dorian Gray
For my satire group, and for Will; a fairy tale
To a fanfare of horns
The young knight returned
With a tale of slain dragons to tell
The princesses blushed
And the old queen flushed
And the gay knights were happy as well
He had cast down his cross
From the height of his hoss
And left the thing there where it fell
For the great and the good
Were in need of the wood
To stoke up the fires of hell
He’d only been back for a moment before
He was begging a poke with a pardon
And a giggle, and “Push!”
From a quivering bush
Could be heard from the end of the garden
No need for a graven memorial stone
Or the ring of a funeral bell
The young knight was back
And well up for the crack
And all in the kingdom was well
© Gail Foster 2016
Then, he knew why he must hew
old memories from marble-
emotions quarried from heart's slew-
Oblique fight with his faith's garble
Cut block unfolds Christ, enthroned
on mother's lap- death sleep supine...
Sculptor's concepts cast in stone,
art wrestles with thoughts divine.
And sorrow, stilled in her young face,
speaks truth of words kept in her heart-
mother, son, distilled in saving grace,
sacred words saved in graven art.
A pity, the piety
so few true onlookers saw...
Revealed in society-
few look on In devoted awe.
II
Now she knows why she must express
emotions whittled away, and smoothed
from quarried heart's deep distress-
The process leaves her soothed...
Such feelings are not cast in stone-
Warmly carved in reflective marble, maybe,
as he wrestled with tempestuous thoughts
burning, guiding hands that draped
unmoving drapes over motionless shapes,
shaping faith that cannot be bought.
And the tenderness on her gentle face
belies the hurt of curse's sword driven
straight through her mother heart...all trace
of ancient prophecy hidden.
Till truth, preserved, be told.
Had he not told them many times
he would return, come back to life?
And that word was kept, unfailing.
And the stone was moved, revealing...
Posted: 22nd April 2019.
Note: I am totally in awe of the stupendous sculptures produced over the centuries.
Miraculous as they are, I believe in greater miracles, the resurrection of Christ being just that.
I am also a mother of two grown up sons.
My little miracles...<3 <3
Luke 2:25-35. Luke 24:1-8
she was amorphous,
shapeless and humble-
no ethereal sky could
release her self-assurance
her lassitude ran wild-
for she was weary since birth,
sacrificing what was never hers
for the chase of redemption
ceasing who she was to become
as i stacked sandbags against
the river of her sorrow-
created a dam to make sure
she would stay safe and dry
i wear propinquity like
a silk blanket as i start to
reminisce on all the opulence
she longed for
her insouciance was
a blithe nonchalant notion-
verses of fear prevail in
subtle solitude,
and
i am left without breath,
alone without the ability
to release what used to
be mine…
~for it’s always been her~
wrapped up in a floppy
cardboard box tightly
wound with a dull ruby ribbon-
there was no way out,
lost in a lopsided labyrinth
laden in a tomb too coarse
to decay,
she awaited the day disarray
went adrift-
craving a heavenly haven,
abandoned and graven;
she weeps in woe –
seraphs begin to pray...
for death is none but a moment away
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1.) amorphous
2.) lassitude
3.) propinquity
4.) opulence
5.) insouciance
date - 1.29.20
Exalted Words Poetry Contest
Chantelle Anne Cooke
I chose these words because I thought they would fit well
with my theme of loneliness and sorrow about the sad life
my sister led before taking her life. I struggle daily, still,
after almost 10 years. Each word uses the imagery of the
emotions she felt dealing with depression and anxiety.
She was so sad and troubled, though the most beautiful
woman I ever met.
(thank you for this contest, it was healing)
OBSESSION OF SOAPS
obsessed with the daylight hours
specifically the graven-image afternoon
like high place dungeon towers
calgon’s commercial didn’t “take me away”
but a clever string of soaps did the trick
yes ~ for three “wholesome” hours every day
like following a clever treasure map
i lived for “all my children”
Such lovely drivel and maple sap
for health’s sake visited “general hospital”
after all, i have only “one life to live”
where i delved into the incredible and impossible:
clever tales, like candles in tunnels
where danger lurks, and romance,
with abundant pleasures, funnels
stories old as time itself ~
they were my sweet craving
on a lovely built in shelf
kept me sane until they drove me insane
a drip drip of sand through an hourglass
i envisioned myself with false teeth and a cane
only when my husband and kids
began to refer to them as “my soaps”
did i realize my life on the skids,
and like a potion i’d been pedaled
did i remove the suds from my eyes
in my lightbulb-brain, it was settled!
who wants to see a gravestone:
“HERE LIES MY SPOUSE WHO LIVED FOR HER SOAPS”
7/21/2017
Contest - Obsession
*True so many years ago. I don’t watch them anymore :)
There are places that connect us to our past
Points of anchor which once linked us to known havens
Those forms, reflections printed on our hearts
Evoke forgotten times as icons graven
And flag an instant signal, when we roam,
That we are nearing, once again, our home
There’s one such image ever in my mind
That long chalk ridge, a back-cloth to my youth
Like table, bare, where ancestors once dined
The shape with a simplicity of truth
It’s presence - a sensation visceral
Revealed in every upward glance peripheral
I will, time to time revisit loved location
The noble downland poised o’er fertile vale
To know again that sense of exultation
Well remembered image tells familiar tale
Then one day some time hence I’ll rise thereon
And stay ‘til winds scatter dust, and I move on.
American Nero,
showering utter disdain —
Denigration downpour on pleb citizens
begging for pandemic crumbs
As the pestilent fire rages around
your virally tainted kingdom
Ghastly gladly,
you keep on fiddling
acid text madly
Dripping hateful words that burn
deep into the bipolar soul
of a divided nation
An enamel disrobed toga ethos
reveal naked desires
Sparking flames of cold pathos
American Nero,
a contemptible paper reign
is exit poll falling
Whilst the fire of pox chaos
contagiously spread
with spittle accelerant ease
This scorching hoax
raze any flagging, publican hope
Truth unmasked
do singe that gallows rumor rope
Fiery breath fiddler
kindling fear,
high up on that Ivory Tower roof
Tearfully playing the ill-fated fool madly,
as graven torch idolatry
lay fallow ‘neath ash liberty truth
A wind, sharp and cold
Leaves the trees shaven,
Of such colors bold
Yet, in my mind are graven
Come November days
Less sunlight remains,
Where it stayed and plays
Filtering, as it drains
Through amber waves
Leaving my heart warm,
In my memory saves
Before the first snowstorm
Be it white by morning
No more gold and red,
Be it winter's warning
That autumn is almost dead
Come November nights
Stiffened by the chill,
The dappled sunlights
Cling to my soul still.
the ravens rest upon the graven cross,
for it is time to guard death with their wings-
they prey on souls who endure love and loss,
as a demon weeps and an angel sings;
barren branches wither to ash and bone…
one ebon raven longs to perch alone
I chose #2 (black ravens on a cross in a graveyard)
Make IT Six Poetry Contest
Joseph May
October 1, 2019
Perfection, is an evil lord
demanding ever greater tribute,
it wields a sharp and heavy sword
that pierces deep to persecute
I fear this liege, this graven image
there's no resistance to his wants;
no will, nor the amount of courage
can protect me from his evil taunts
Forgiveness, I may grant to all,
no act's too grave or sin's too much
and yet, no matter however small,
I dare not grant myself as such
Idealized, I must not fail
this thought's so manifestly flawed;
and yet, it does but so assail
my heart, my mind... my God
by Michaelw1two
Poetic writes speak volumes too,
this profound nature of humanity;
expression’s glyph or determination’s rift,
each soothing rhyme or base profanity;
provoke of consciousness that drift,
so casually or with rude insanity;
furiously incite or simultaneously delight,
set straight a thought or induce banality;
unconscious rubric struggles forth,
within the cleave of line, phrase and meter;
guides a casual readership towards,
all present trends hidden in a bard’s demeanor;
exposing just who seems ubiquitous, who is ingenuous,
or just simply stubbornly ridiculous;
one’s sensuality splayed, our generosity bade,
your critical natures shown meticulous;
senses not semantics, rule of roles revised,
lines of life’s romantic, cleverly devised;
discovering our thoughts on everything,
exposing our minds to Id and ideals contrived;
methods breached lift conclusion’s reach,
an ill-advised tome reaps the thought’s divine;
nurtured reasoning replaced by jest,
releases the distain hidden within a mind’s set plein;
within this relief be it muse or beast,
rests an orators mirth, or an epic myth’s imply;
poetic license freed, such a thing indeed,
that “cat’s meow” bests a graven image’s belie;
metaphors and idioms when used correct,
add intrigue and delight to a word works vamp;
bathos taps one’s inner laugh, hyperboles,
release a poem’s waft, jape and poet’s stamp;
pleonasms reinforce, oxymora juxtapose,
litotes understate, analogies delineate… cognition;
and irony, an express of verbal, dramatic,
cosmic or Socratic, lead to a write’s ideal fruition;
understanding each of these parts implores,
partnership between, these particles and that of yours;
expressing the limits of personal tastes and so much more,
you, your dreams, schemes, hates, fears, tears and rapport;
binding together all of US, and create the bonds that thus sustain,
poetry to living life, to easing strife, within the poet’s world domain.
Michael WalkerJohn
I immerse ...
nigh naked
in your keen and carnal insight ...
the rags of my inhibitions
strewn at my feet …
are my thoughts still my own
care and coil
or have you plucked those from my boughs
made ripe
the fodder for your dire divination?
peel the fruit, fresh
and slice it to your taste -
there is a neoteric bounty for your appetites
seasoned to sate
the desires of a goddess ...
laid bare
offerings for a graven image, pure
and devoured
as love's absolute oblation ...
thine.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Mid-Summer Premiere Poetry Contest", Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Death instills the final emotion, defining the rhythm of life,
While understanding its passage is left to a wiser man;
The simplicity of a moment lays deep within, and is limited to the meaning
withheld’
But we may all be gone in a moment, condemned to the changing time …
Yet when I die just dig a hole and throw in my mangy bones
Death mocks us in the starlight, and beckons on the suns rebirth,
Silent thoughts are thus imposed, when loud a church bell sounds,
In melodic rhyme the rhythm of time, came out over a graven mist,
And how bitter the solitude foretold, when morn led on to day …
But when I die just dig a hole and throw in my mangy bones
Death remains an enigma once held to a passing thought,
When lines of an ancient mariner are lost forever more;
Structured words are what our mind recalled, and are played to the rhythm of
life
And intent we are to things unseen when sunrise turns to day…
Yet when I die just dig a hole and throw in my mangy bones
THANKSGIVING
This altar of grace, rough-hewn by gratitude,
Brazen heart to flame in enduring worship,
Fall and yield to Your providences of beatitude,
The Earth and its fullness proclaim Your Lordship.
Purged unto brokenness by blessings of seasons,
Render true blue folded palms of throb and breath,
To say, 'Thank You' through love and for all reasons,
Never to alter the altar, faithful in life and death.
It’s the cry of joy of all alive in blithe rebirth,
Resounding cacophony of praise in vibrant revival,
Prostrate in total surrender to the One of Worth,
Blade, then head, then full grain forever loyal.
Here we are, here I am, all of us, all of me,
In that Eternal graven thanksgiving: "Bow to Thee."
Your honor I wish to state, with utmost rhapsody before the crescent azure, that my client is as white as a Lilly
was it fare that he died, a tender soul twenty one phases of the harvest moon
buried at the bloom of owls, bats to grace the occasion, ghosts to usher the procession, dogs to disguise as chief moaners
is it justified that the noble lad had to endure the disgrace of his anatomy, twenty strokes to the count to fulfill an accursed ritual
was it justified that my friend, left behind a park of wives sobbing behind the stench abounded streams, unleashing life to the ruins he called home
was my client an astrology to manipulate his destiny that drew him closer to the trigger, son of a gun he had no choice
did the cops drew in their hands, utmost monopoly on his life to pin him as easily as tapping a fly, the books of records think otherwise
am not a Marxist but truth be said that poverty and affluence unify in boxing duels, my friend was just but a soul, caught in the line of capitalism dynamism
was my friend born in the antiquities of an emperor, Shakespeare would tremble before the letters of his epitaph
was my client marooned in the lavishness of the middle class,Vincent van Gogh would dance before the master piece of his graven image
I don't believe in the tune of reincarnation but my client would obligingly accept, a second chance in whatever form, your grace shall offer
make him go back the statue of liberty, to enlighten mankind of the powers of democracy
allow him to return as the cutest kitten, to offer warmth to a broken heart
I have stated, I have mourned, not in desperation but in love, not to win but to exude the jury with truth, of the realities beyond these pearly gates, the day in life of a mere mortal,
my case rests,