Best Gyrate Poems
The human skeleton,
is made up of 206 bones
By jove, they are hard,
as if made of stones!
The brain you think with
is in the Skull or Cranium,
the Maxilla and the Mandible
are for chewing bubble gum.
It's atop the spine
which has 33 Vertebrae in all
You're sure gonna break it
if there's a nasty fall.
The 12 pairs of ribs
act just like a big ring,
while 10 fix to the Sternum
the bottom 2 are Floating.
The shoulder blade or the Scapula
is joined with the Clavicle
How they organize the movement
Is another spectacle.
The arms have the Humerus,
the Radius and the Ulna,
The hands' have wrist bones
called Carpals (not made in China).
With Metacarpals and Phalanges
we complete our hand,
don't you forget the lower limbs,
upon which we stand.
The hip bones make the Pelvis
from which the Femur originate
If you gyrate it like elvis
the Patella is sure to break.
Tibia and Fibula
are there in the Shin
The Tarsals and Metatarsals
shape your feet as it's seen.
Our journey ends here
Let me take your leave,
Take good care of your bones
for as long as you live.
The summer sun plays on our emotions
As the fiery orb rises high at noon.
We cast off clothes and apply our lotions
We sun bathe naked near the sea in June.
To swim in the depths of aquatic blue
Immersed in cool waters as the sun sets,
I feel the love of these islands and you,
No matter the costs, we have no regrets.
In mystical rhythms of tropical drums
Our hips gyrate to the pulsating beat.
As we dance close I can feel your heart thrums.
We feel senses rise...caught up in this heat.
Hearts beam with joy in this place we first met
With love's memories we'll never forget.
6-4-20
~Third Place~
Summers heat sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Loitering lonely in a crowd in London
Separate, apart, different from the rest
Because of change of culture and taste
Can’t relate or fit in their world within.
In the whirlpools I gyrate in the middle
Things required to be finished before dates
For the dead and sick sending courtesy calls
Or Greetings for birthdates and weddings.
Sitting depressed or standing in my balcony
On the ground I see the last year’s leaves
The twigs are black and cold is dry & itchy
Think of failures and not of joy or victories.
In between the average sadness and joys
Only thing remains is solitude to enjoy
Of which I don’t see any remedies or cures
Not even bitter pain pills or lenitive lures.
Loneliness wearing away the idle mind
Like a grain of food a hungry ant finds
Hearing the temple-bells I feel to shout
“Hey I am alive, alive in this my lonely rout.
Our birds have flown away for a better lives
We stare at each other no sex drive but survive.
Dt. 10/10/13
===================================
Dr. Ram Mehta
2nd place win
Contest: Faces of Loneliness by Frank H.
Air smelling lavender lily, in splash of wild flowers.
Bowers of rustic rosebuds, first love fragrance hours.
Cloudless skies exalt blue, fuzzed in luscious green.
Daffodils of yellow beams, bloom with night jasmine.
Ephemeral path of blue birds, sync butterflies scarlet,
Fancy rejoice of dalliance, in pink and purple banquet.
Gardens cloister colored valleys , petals in avalanche
Hyacinth perfumed sunshine, glossy blossoms branch.
In transit, cold greets summer, change of fresh attire,
Juvenile mind that's young, feels like flying higher.
Kisses stolen in gentle flirts, flowing streams of nectar,
Love sings joy and dance, in promise of new laughter.
Magical burst of smiling buds, re-sprout hidden hope,
Notes of mirth in dulcet , birds weave nest to cope.
Orange foliage sets fire, as decors of art unveil.
Primrose bedecked palanquins , sway in royal gale,
Queen of nature rides in beauty, crocuses in thicket.
Resurrected winter mist,..in green life, all succulent.
Sonnets, ballads, songs, gallery of dream for ages
Timeless glory of beauty in painter and poet pages
Up from a pastel sky, nymphs walk down filigree paths
Valentine day's just gone, the season of love to last
Wild cherry blossoms of silk, greet in a pink hello
Xylophone notes chant in a stream of music flow.
Young lovers gyrate... in a romantic love affair
Zephyr wind throws a hug,...Spring is in the air.
15th March 2019
"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry."
— Mary Oliver
Sacred geometry and love's rhythm divine
exerts upon poets, a magnetic pull,
where once with music of our soul we align,
creative instincts rise like a raging bull,
yearning to express in words, what we do pine,
opening the floodgates, until heart feels full.
In time dissolved silence, poets pen their verse,
tuning in to whispers, of the universe.
God's plans for the soul requires us to create
emotes of gentle soul on a canvas blank,
conjuring cadence to which heart may gyrate,
that love in love with love may profusely thank
Him for inspirations that never abate;
thus upon God's boundless grace, all poets bank.
Poetry in motion, splash in the ocean,
creating as ordained, love's magic potion.
18-November-2022
Poetry is a life-cherishing force Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
The differences betwen us
are less than is commonly imagined
We all need food, family, and love
Meeting people from differnet cultures
has emphasized this to me
The true capitol of the world
is in the depths of the heart
Dancers on an earthly stage
We gyrate to weather, politics, and culture
In the end we share more than we don't share
By letting our eyes and souls meet
we can find common ground
War is something that can be overcome
We should build bridges, not bombs
Teach love, not war
Let the old and the young join hands
Feel the earth beneath our feet
Realize that in the end
We are all stewards of this blue orb
Crazy Mick the Irishman, with trademark bike and overcoat,
wheeling his way back into town, classed as a tarnished silly goat.
His hair was long and curly; spoken words barely understood.
His manner gave impression he's up to no flamin’ good.
Shopkeepers grew an extra eye toward their advertised outside,
watching Mick out on the street as up and down he'd ride.
This man was on outcast; different to the folks they know,
a little dirty; is a vagrant, and he acts a little slow.
Mick’s first stop the butchers shop; bargained for a ‘snag’ or two.
The butcher he felt pity, so threw in an extra few.
This pleased Mick no end as he left the butchers door.
His feast was quick and final; ate the meat been given raw.
The pub through past experience had little time for Mick,
for beer became his nemesis; urged forward his fighting trick.
Too many times Mick’s antics had forced him to the street,
with bloodied nose, blackened eye; always getting beat.
Compromising was the bottle sale - take half a dozen and then go.
Sit over by the railway line and then drink them nice and slow.
Young kids without feelings teased Mick in his toxic state,
laughing as he chased them, for he'd stagger and gyrate.
When Mick disappeared, our town wondered where he went.
Had he found a home! Had he died! Where has his time been spent!
It seems in potato season when the pickers were required,
Mick was slogging in the paddocks where potato tops had died.
The 'swampy' people honoured Mick, for he had no fear of sweat.
He'd bend his back the furthest; earnt the spud farmer’s respect.
They saw a different person than the townie’s man un-trusted.
Hard working in the hot sun; not the drunk so often busted.
Mick perished one cold winter, alone inside a pickers shack.
Long after picking season ended, so what had brought him back?
He must have known his life was ebbing; left for where he felt no shame.
Spud farmers heads bowed 'round his grave - but not one townie came.
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!
She stood there and stopped
Then she turned her head
That look in her eye
No words were said
She relayed her thoughts
As i absorbed from her mind
The wants of our bodies
To sexually grind
Her long dark hair
Cascade of flow
As i stand there looking
A part of me grows
Under the gentle rain
We move real close
On this clammy night
Our adrenalin flows
Our movement together
Orchestral in sound
As our bodies gyrate
On natures moist ground
As our hands grip
Our pleasure's erupt
Internal lava
Explosion abrupt
We spill on the earth
Our heavenly spoils
Our scent of scents
Gracing natures soils
As we rise from her grounds
My hand in her hand
And cherish the day
We lay on the land
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love2.php
Gloaming gone, gloom begins;
gabbling ghouls gyrate on
gargoyles, gawping with their
grim glaucous eyes, scaring
gravid girls, gormless boys;
goatish hooves gigue upon
gibbets, grave corpses jig.
in seeming silence heart yet stirs
expressions of life pulse innate
bliss bubbles never do abate
thus hum of silence always purrs
to which vibrant presence concurs
nonchalant to outcomes of fate
as long as nodes within gyrate
joyous as soul star chakra whirs
we would take a consciousness leap
flowing with ease as does the breeze
becoming a flicker free flame
to which end we swim in the deep
each heartbeat embrace and release
whence God Himself fulfils our aim
Elvis Presley was on stage with his hips swinging
His movements kept women from hearing his singing
He could make so much money without moving his lips
All he had to do was go on stage and gyrate those hips
For Battle of the Clerihew # 2 contest of P.D.
Written by: Carol Brown on 01/27/2012
3rd Place Winner
Now for Nathan's Clerihew contest
5th Place Winner
Unsung on the world stage
Heroes of the African continent
Diverse lingo, diverse souls
Capture minds capture hearts
Most unappreciated
Their rhythm echoes
Their wisdom ancient
Music unconventional
Yet heavily intoxicating
From Papa Wemba "show me the way"
I gyrate to Kofi to Fela Gola "vita imana"
I don't have to understand
My hips do as I sway
You can go the whole night dancing to "malaika" by fadhili Williams
But don't drink too much "umqombothi"
You still have time to remember
From the shores of jazz to the apex of jazz
Hugh Masekela always eponymous
For when those hips are exhausted
a break to the sound Bembeya Jazz National "Ballake" always soothes
And the list never disappoints
There is a bite for every saccharine moment
A melody for every savory memory
A satisfactory note
Your ancients called it "engoma"
Rhythmic drums whose sounds traveled
From the eastern tip to the jungle
Now Kingoma is the apex of swahili rhythm
Your "engoma" carried across the shores
Upon many a downtrodden slaves stole
And your rhythm salve for the souls
During periods of darkness and plight
In slavery and apartheid
Through many of your children's plight
Only pleading for their rights
Sam Cooke "A change is gonna come" such delight
But you liberating spirit of "engoma"
Not confined, Cesaria Evora the barefoot diva
Dared break the bounds of boundaries
Trailblazer for your brothers and sisters
No longer a confined orphan
But a shimmering star
And now you fuse a new generation
Always so creative psquare "personally"
To Wes "Alane" to Yossur N'dor
To D'Banj to Akon, shimering stars of the continent
Your children were called the passionate ones
I agree
The night reveals the beauty of your love,
As senses fall, one by one, it’s you I see,
I am below and you – you are above,
A goddess taking all her want from me.
In your embrace you set my passions free,
Yet captive in the power of your eyes,
You hold me here, the place I yearn to be
Where my silent voice can ignite your sighs
Release your soul to fly the cosmic skies,
You gyrate round demanding even more,
As hunger calls clear as the eagle cries,
I know I’ve reached that sweetest, molten core
O love, sweet love, as you now take your need,
My vampyric hunger on you shall feed.
Form: Spenserian Sonnet
Parameters:
Structure: Written over 3 quatrains and a closing couplet
Meter: Consistent iambic pentameter or decasyllabic lines
Rhyme schema: abab bcbc cdcd ee
As the tempo lifts unto a spotlight
releasing a pulsed dangle where limbs,
arms, and hips gyrate on flamed waves
of a lambent dance: skirts mounting
through Chicago musical’s tones…
and like splashed paint, each raced jiggle
turns vaudeville into fireworks of air-brushed strokes
illuminating the arena with raw movement
as every tap enters a kinesthetic pore;
while I, between suctioned gasps,
quiver inside my belly…intoxicated!
For Contest No 227: Brian Strand