Best Heaps Poems
Many ingredients bake writing inspiration.
This recipe combines a stirring sensation:
Heaps of desires never realized
as marinated in teary sore eyes;
Quantities of wide open spaces
caramelized by nature’s appeal;
Ageless genuine emotional traces
sifted thru heart rendered graces;
Equal parts family and romantic love
as roasted within, without and above;
Measured creamed ideals of peace
with blanched pain and battle grease;
Diced wishes braised with thrill
bearing aromas of tangy heat or chill;
Slices of awe from a glorious tree
breaded with traits strong and free;
I do not forget sour spices of greed
dusted with mankind’s violent seed;
A mix of fears dredged in anxiety
with stress jelled in complexity;
and, lastly, faith garnished spirit
grown in a soul conscious thicket.
If able, I mix love with ingredients above
before sampling my recipe once warmed up.
I enjoy serving it in a poetry cup.
Out there
With her flair for chasing inspiration
She draws you in her reason
Connecting dots and constellations
Tripping
She takes you by the hand
Her world as messy as her mind
You need a guide
And as you wade through her chaff
Her heaps of half thoughts
Her every whim expressed
The only thing you know for sure is
Out there exists
Date: 11.19.2019
Contest Name: Disarray
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Atrocious affliction trembles voices of anguish
Brewing vile horror in death of tomorrow
Fearing for the newborn, women, and children
For yesterday’s massacre killed her husband
And the war-torn town screamed in agony
Wrapped in rags of shattered hopes,
Quivering hearts of disassembled valor
Incapable to assuage a hapless mother’s sorrow.
A lone crow caws atop heaps of rubble
Amplifying appetency for affinity of life,
Abjuring the blood thirsty hiding in disguise
To rob any remnants of civility and pride
From dismantled lives, walking shoeless,
Upon splintered glass littered in broken paths
When pigeons too left the desolate grounds.
Dreams once auspicious acquiesce to nightmares
Within awry silence of a burning dawn
As the allure of a new day inconsolably cries
When her only surviving child dies in her arms.
Divinity won’t absolve them of despicable sins,
That echo from playgrounds, shuttered bakery shops,
And the shrieks of families mingling in market
Where aroma of fresh bread once permeated air
And warmth of hot tea glasses greeted the day.
Wary footsteps march slowly to the other side:
It’s a bit safer there where a wedding is planned--
They don’t yet know, the young groom has died,
In a senseless war lost in poverty of thoughts.
Written: October 15, 2019
Submitted on 1/22/2023 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Placed 1st: Crazy A’s poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Required words in the order included in this poem:
Atrocious, anguish, assuage, appetency, auspicious,
awry, allure, absolve
Placed 3rd: Strand choice poetry contest by Brian Strand
Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
in an enchanting house,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.
for The Enchanted House Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
I write when beauties step into my heart
and when the Muse unveils her very art.
I write when to a wonder, my soul leaps
and when the warmest of bliss is spilled heaps.
I write when Nature reigns and sends her scent
and when allured to my Self give vent.
That’s Euterpe of music and beauty
full, overflowing many a ruby.
And when poetry, a gift that beguiles
drifting, with no anchor, into the wilds.
And when in life, breezes merge with the storms
highest Selves emerge above bonds and norms.
And what is to the heart precious and dear
souls would linger in perpetual fear.
Merry pure hearts in the season of youth
friendly warm Spring, a reverie and sooth.
March 8th, 2019
You’re beautiful my country where mountains gather snow.
Where forest giants of many years are left alone to grow.
Where rivers in your forest still run so crystal clear.
You’re beautiful my country where lyrebird’s carol near.
You’re beautiful my country where lakes are rolled with mist.
Where breaking of your new dawn each leaf with dew is kissed.
When sunrise hems the eastern clouds to silhouette your hills.
You’re beautiful my country when I feel your morning chills.
Your wagon ruts are distant, drifting further back in time.
Through outback and forest, last century scars are hard to find.
Where our pioneer gantry’s stood over mullock heaps laid bare.
Tramlines descended from your bush, campfires filled your open air.
We’ve made grasslands out of forests. Farm where swamp used to be.
From underground raised mountains. Drowned glens for inland sea.
Yet with changing of your face you still refuse to die!
You’re beautiful my country where working hands apply.
Pounding seas and raging storms with shoreline intertwine.
Drought and flood have given strength to balance keenly fine.
When plagues of foreign culture descend upon your soil,
your protection shows no mercy to those prepared to spoil.
You’re beautiful my country when you are touched by spring.
The warming of your weather brings forth your birds to sing,
with every note a feeling, that gives our spirit drive.
You’re beautiful my country when your bush land comes alive.
You’re beautiful my country with vastness of your plains.
In every seed a green-ness ‘til falling of the rains.
When your barren dusty ranges burst into a fragrant high.
You’re beautiful my country beneath our southern sky.
The Sad And Tragic Death Of Emily Hope
That night flew roaring Wind- a mighty gale
over hill and dale through windows left up
Had I then known its fruits, I'd have turned pale
for its destruction was a bitter cup!
Yet I, pen in busy hand onward wrote
verses quite dear, to my romantic love
Thus in writing fever, I took no note
of great black wrath descending from above!
Alas! How could I, her sad Fate have known
how dark winds, her dearest life with Fate sealed
Foul and wicked Wind's evil had thus blown
tragic death, no prayer could have repealed!
Her home blown into badly broken heaps
her fragile body under massive weight
My soul cried out, in greatest depths sad weeps
for evil often works with Hand Of Fate!
Then destroyed, my once so happy belief
in love's magic and promised paradise
From this darkened world, I found no relief
just enough bread and water to suffice!
Once thinking of death by gun or short rope
in love-lost grief life, nothing came around
Then I recalled, hope, her last name was Hope
in that word, my recovery was found!
Robert J. Lindley, 1-18-2017
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 240
Total # Words: 186
Note- A sad one , because life with its joys , often brings in tragic and sad events..
We that survive such must learn to live with it and always have hope in future happiness and love of family...
Part Three of the Sixth poet honored
(Emily Dickinson) in famous poets dedication series
(3.)
From Weeping Tears, No Longer Shall Joy Find In Heart Anything
Creeping thick fog has dimmed my view of morn's resplendent lake
so dreary is life's sorrows, more than this sad soul can take
yet tomorrow promises mysteries that leap from the dark
tho' my life's worries have wrinkled my skin like Sycamore bark.
Night shall come, with its agonies crying to be unbound
as its bellowing howls screech out, horrendous gasping sounds
very soon midnight moon will swallow up my despondent soul
spitting it out as fragmented black-stained pieces of the whole!
God forbid! That from this nightmare I never dare to wake
to that of Life, dear sweet Love, I never again partake
and from morbid sunken state, my heart crumble and be no more
fallen into heaps of crushed bones, spilled blood and ghastly gore!
Woe! The epic pains such broken-heart images dare'st tonight bring
From weeping tears, no longer shall joy find in heart anything.
Robert J. Lindley, 2- 12-2019
Sonnet, ( The Sad Depths Of Sorrow's Deep Epic Pains)
dedicated to Emily Dickinson, poets dedication series..
(4.)
There's More To The Old Forest Than Its Ancient Trees
As years are peeled back, this gladden heart now truth sees
there's more to the old forest than its ancient trees
mystery in places, savagery in its nights
more than just imagination, it hides from sight!
Yet such does not negate its most beautiful gifts
its Autumn colors, songbirds notes that so uplifts
bounty of its harvests, peace it oft can instill
calm that one may find there, treasures that oft so thrill.
Tho' darkness lurks there deep and hides its evil ways
one can visit its truth, find self most any day
walk along its well worn trails and about life muse
all of its many wonders, in this dark world use!
As years are peeled back, this gladden heart now truth sees.
There's more to the old forest than its ancient trees.
Robert J. Lindley, 1- 18-2019
Sonnet, ( Amazing That This Dark World, Has Such Beauty In Its Forests)
dedicated to Emily Dickinson, in poet dedication series
Note:
(1.)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
(2.)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/emily-dickinson
With September’s tenure over, October takes charge.
Leaves turn yellow, red, and ochre in colourful surge.
As autumn breeze strongly veers round and blows,
Leaves fall and lie in heaps, rows upon rows.
They go into the making of autumn’s mosaic quilt.
Before they, under our feet, mournfully wilt,
Autumn leaves float and fly like flowers,
Twirling and whirling in the air on breezy hours.
As the air grows crisp and cold day by day,
Autumn is all set to have its powerful sway.
Birds by the riverside one by one will fly away,
Fearing the golden autumn days will never stay.
With so much of beauty and variety in the trees
And an endearing whisper in the blowing breeze,
Autumn is the one season I wholeheartedly hail,
And wish to breathe its air as my last inhale.
From The Saddest Depths Of Bitter Despair
Within this heart love born
once beloved now scorn
fills each little crevice
life seems out of service
bitter cold turns the wind
dark sets its pains to send
Alas! Loneliness reaps
broken shards into heaps
while moonlight will not shine
on these blues I now dine
and the aches seem endless
here, I am now friendless
dark on this soul assails
nobody hears my wails
In this chasm I soft weep
So, so cold, dark and deep
Within this heart love born.
Once beloved, now scorn.
R.J. Lindley,
Dark rhyme
( From, In for a penny, in for a pound )
Welcome, dear children of light...We are star seeds from the Galactic Federation of Planets...many of us are from different worlds, galaxies, universes and dimensions...working together for the harmonious existence of all life...and have been here for much millennia...to help with your ascension to higher states of consciousness and universality...
We have given permission to the earth vehicle of whom you call Winged Warrior...to enlighten you briefly of things to come...
Through the Horsehead Nebula and Pillars of Hercules, we pass the cosmic gates
For the Star Seeds of dimensional drift, their message of universal love awaits
From wormholes to black holes and earth's science theory of Super Strings
We learn about galactic giants and the existence of everlasting minute things
Super-celestial skies, time travel at our door with a quadrillion quantum leaps
And unravel the colossal cosmic codes of the hierarchic hyperdimensional heaps
We shall observe the ancient alliances, Christ consciousness the Christos Beings
Who provide for the Nibiruan Council, the planetary school of earth teachings
Spatial subatomic particles that form the wave-particle duality is a beginning
With electromagnetic fields, light quanta, photons set the universes ringing
For man, matter, and mind are evolving as we reach the cosmic shores
As we become Prime Creators passing through the esoteric enigma doors.
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Aug.31.2016
TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO POET HAS GONE BEFORE - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: The Seeker
Let winter come
And freeze the sky
No more will shadows cast
Let showers turn to heaps of snow
With gardens hidden deep
Let working cease
Migration fly
Let herds to safety dash
Farmers idle, fires glow
No fields left to reap
My picket fence
Blockaded high
No perfect cobbled path
Let winter come, and snowstorms blow
I need some time to sleep
By: Kyle Ezra Kriticos
When I was about sixteen I bought my first car a '37 Ford.
I thought I was hot stuff as about the town I roared!
It had straight pipes and a radio from which the music blared,
But for some reason my feckless youth the cops never shared!
Nowadays, kids with their noisy heaps drive me up the wall!
Their vexatious boom boxes and roaring pipes I can't tolerate at all!
They pull up beside me, flex their middle finger and with a silly grin,
Roar away leaving me in a cloud of dust much to my chagrin!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Entry for Sara Hendrick's "Two Lenses" Contest
Have you ever met those kind of blokes who get upon your nerve,
when they quote continual references that most think should deserve
a threatening confrontation that if they make that quote again,
then the punishment that’s handed out will give them heaps of pain.
A gang of us were working down along the Main Drain stream,
clearing blackberries and willows on a governmental scheme,
and as usual on a Monday morn, weekend glitches are highlighted,
that are full of doom and gloom, and mostly are ‘beer blighted.’
For Clancy, Joe and me, we sort of blessed the doom and gloom,
as it transgressed into humour, and so there wasn’t any room,
for the likes of workmate Charlie who only saw a brighter side,
when there wasn’t any bright side; just a great gloomy divide.
Charlie is the eternal optimist with no matter what is said
in the ghastliest of circumstance even if someone was dead,
and Charlie only had one quote that we’re sure he did rehearse,
and so we heard it every time ‘It could have been much worse.’
So after work one evening in the pub we had some beers,
with ‘it could have been much worse,’ still ringing loudly in our ears,
and with Charlie being absent we devised a cunning plan,
to rid him of that bloody quote and then praying that we can.
We thought that as a perfect subject we would use our good mate Ted,
in a steamy sordid untrue yarn to get inside of Charlie’s head,
and have him shaking in his bootstraps, plus gulping in his throat,
to avoid us hearing one more time, his annoying bloody quote.
And so ‘it could have been much worse’ is about to get the chop,
as we cut and piled the prickly canes, of a large blackberry crop,
so when the time was ready, with Charlie well within ear shot,
Joe babbled out the sordid tale that was really ‘Tommyrot.’
“Did you hear about our old mate Ted, and what went on last night?
He caught his wife with Jimmy Hale, and there was a shocking fight;
he shot ‘em both and then himself!” But Charlie stayed quite calm but terse,
as he rolled a smoke and muttered out, “It could have been much worse.”
“Much worse!” We squawked as one... “How can it be worse than that?”
And the answer Charlie gave us… well it really knocked us flat,
after dragging on his cigarette, he sniffed and quietly said,
“If it had have been the night before, it’s me who would be dead.”
Zany and free spirited, Mr. Bungo is a one man show
Yodeling any song you like, doing the "old soft shoe"
Xenial to one and all, he can always charm the crowd
Wild and crazy is he, in a world of his own fantasy
Verily, a man of many talents, with his skits and tricks
Under a bright red canopy, he performs amazing feats
Tickling our fancy with imaginative tales of wonder
Somersaulting through hoops, landing on heaps of feathers
Rides around the ring on a wild, high strung ostrich
Quickly, Mr. Bungo jumps up onto tall stilts and
Parades through the crowd, while playing a kazoo
Odd and quirky, his clothes are colorful, bright and loud
No telling what Mr. Bungo might say or do next, he can
Mimic voices, impersonating a host of sounds and noises
Laughing, he loves to hear the audience roar and cheer
Kind, he tries to hide it, but has a soft spot for little kids
Just watch his face beam as he gives them animal balloons
I can spot tears forming behind his sad, blue eyes
He has a soft heart, but doesn't want to show it, so he
Grabs his tall, silly hat, and springs back into action
Flinging himself into a rocket contraption, we watch
Eager to see what Mr. Bungo will do next, now sparks blast
Daring and brave, he rockets up into the air so high
Careful, Mr. Bungo, we don't want you to crash and die!
Barely, he escapes a tragic collision, he finally lands
And then Mr. Bungo bows, leaps up and does a hand stand.