Best Heeded Poems
Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?
Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace
More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry
Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage
Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience
Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing
In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby
She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II
Annie received little compensation
This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty
To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home
With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse
Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty
The words that I write
flow from a deep place
The lines I express
mirror the lines on my face
Some lines are joyful
other lines took their toll
Yes the lines on my face
on the page reveal my soul
I love my laugh lines
they are my fast friends
I can be a bit cheeky
or sarcastic, it depends
My love lines are softer
around my eyes they reveal
To the page when transferred
they let you know how I feel
Some lines are more tragic
they are my battle scars
I share lines on pages
instead of drinking in bars
Joyful, sad or happy
each line expressed is true
My expression as a writer
I choose to gift to you
Yes, all the lines scribed
mirror the lines on my face
They help me to navigate
through my mind space
Lines that reveal wisdom
are not pretty that’s true
They should be heeded
please listen to them too
Then choose to reveal
some lines of your own
I’ll see the lines on your face
and know that I’m not alone!
Dawn slowly awakened to supplant the moon
Empty, the canopy where stars had been strewn
In repose, Luna slept after wandering velvet skies
and spider webs shimmered in the flight of sunrise
Dew drops evaporated upon the fragrant tuberose
as a playful breeze billowed my sheer nightclothes
Seagulls swooped and scurried along amber shores
A salty crew grappled with the sea on labored oars
Muscles pulled in rhythmic chorus, as if in lyrical rote
as surging waves rocked the hull of their fishing boat
They surpassed each crest and triumphed over swells
The sun's prisms painted the horizon in muted pastels
Inspired by the milieu of ruffled swirls across the sea
sunlight dappled over its surface in sequenced litany
I sipped a second cup as thoughts were being seeded
Poetry spawned inside of me; a birthing to be heeded
For as driftwood hastens down rapids to a new frontier
I needed to ledger my verses, ere they hie to disappear
August 13, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Note: In 1976, Richard Clayderman (real name Philippe Pagès) received a telephone call from a well-known French record producer, who was looking for a pianist to record a gentle piano ballad. Paul had composed this ballad as a tribute to his newborn second daughter “Adeline”. The 23-year-old Philippe Pagès was auditioned along with 20 other hopefuls and, to his amazement, he got the job.
O sweet Adeline, born eyes open
And a smile on her small lips.
O delicious child I heard her gurgle
As if she had heeded a joke.
A tune raced in his mind and
He knew it was urgent to put it on paper.
The babe made noises of joy
And the music echoed its tune,
At times it was repetitive
At times it sounded soft and sweet.
But soon the babe raised her voice
A repetitive mellifluous melody
Lulling the babe to sleep.
Dream little child, dream on
Would that you have pleasant dreams,
And may the Good God bless you forever.
My muse is a poetic flower garden,
blooming lilacs in barren meadows,
but I still remember
how I heeded haunting heartbeats
in paradise, whilst praying
for your lustrous light,
to descend onto my hazy horizons.
Your eyes like captivating sunsets,
made me dream away,
recalling shells lost in a forgotten
coral reef, castaway upon
an elusive island,
where the paths have no name,
but the oceanic breeze
calls yours so softly.
I was killing time,
scribbling elegies
on distant musical shores,
where spotted eagle rays
and flying fish were my only mentors.
Nocturnal reef sharks unfolded tales
beneath lonesome skies,
illustrating a secretive stairway
that would lead me
to the scintillating stars.
Deep within my heart,
I knew in the darkest
night you are the light
that would illuminate
my breathless sighs
with blazing ballads
rewriting my fate,
reawakening my
need to thrive through these
endless melancholic monsoons;
surfing through vast oceans.
Your cosmic radiance pulled
this chocolate mermaid,
from the bioluminescent
ripples of sorrow,
empathising with
endless streams from
my volcanic mind
and harmonious heart,
which was in dire
need of healing,
from draconian depleted
ideologies imprinted within
a labyrinth of
narcissistic daffodils,
emanating deceptive fragrances
resembling the devil's disciple,
claiming me as nothing,
but a mere self
confessed queen
on a conquest to conquer
the uncontrollable calling
to a land of virtual hypocrisy.
If only they knew
I no longer desired
to rule a kingdom of
tumultuous pretense.
I was waiting for the
return of the butterflies,
tearing apart the fragile
walls of its cocoon.
I knew if Romeo did not die,
I would be living Juliet's desires.
I was a poetess
searching for
a purpose, with no sense
to shelter, watching the
last icicle
of winter melt away.
Truth deserves a narrative
that has no ending,
though I question the universe.
Where do the
lost poets reside?
Is it where the
moon chooses to hide,
disguising dreariness
within dazzling blankets
of dancing moonscapes,
or will this be how
this sleepless soul
seizes its faultless lunar tide?
`
I have lived and loved and laughed a lot
I have remembered and have forgot
I have worked and found some time to play
I have tried my best most every day
I have stood but often tend to fall
I have heeded every needful call
I have felt my heart split into two
I have met friends who have been my glue
I have seen but still have much to see
I have done all this while being me
9/27/19
Written for the: Story of my life in ten lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
I envy those living as part of the wild
For I too, once heeded its call
A smoldering ember since I was a child
Urge, and belonging all part of the thrall.
I’ve enjoyed the fresh taste of a sparkling stream
Felt the tremble as you push through your fear
Stood high on a peak admiring Gods scheme
Felt both delight and remorse for taking a deer.
I’ve walked for weeks through valleys and trees
Traversed mountains with lush native grass
Felt the warmth and the cold of high country breeze
Navigated tussock, forests and high country pass.
I’ve smelt autumn rain as it mingles with dirt
Enjoyed the isolation of me and my views
Valued crude shelter while nature unleashes its hurt
Watched forest birds doing their best to amuse
But I’m now destined to be one of societies slaves
In a world where worth is measured by cash
Where worry and stress are delivered in waves
Where those without are regarded as trash.
I felt most alive in the middle of nowhere
Now dead when hemmed by city and streets
Nothing compares with fresh mountain air
Living free, no money, bills, or receipts.
Malevolent imploded uncontrollably,
twisting wildly maniacal posies
amid diabolically toasted brainstem,
angst uncompromisingly yanked tresses
purging stinging speech patterned rhymes
amuck iniquitous poetic verses hung
upside down to tormentingly dry,
facing other inimically knotted borders of
antagonistic galleries in deranged snapshots
razing warped poetical tapestries,
tripping on tunes of whiskey rushes' savoy truffles
and greenish tangerines whilst Led Zeppelin's
Sick Again danced upon reflective ceiling tiles,
time written sideways 'round alleged autonomy
hidden furthermost immune masked mirror images,
debauching Greek braille calligraphy's vindication
on walls of graffito scripted physicality
calling out 'tween hysterical compulsions,
naught one heeded the sounds of synapses
about ill-fated half moon's arresting arc,
synthetic doomsday's clocks aptly chimed
quarter to analytical cuckoo's nest repudiation,
still awaiting on serendipity to surrender
furthermost rabbit hole's curiouser rants,
relinquishing unwell-languaged compilations' sabotage - -
circumventing rhythmically subversive escaped detonation
Line of enquiry:
Instrumentalising mind, I rested thought
employing it only when needed
shifting to heart, I became self-taught
gentling touch, voice of conscience heeded.
Intellect and intuition are like a sword and shield.
One cuts through darkness to bring clarity,
the other is an internal compass protecting the lost.
Both are formed polished, vigorous and gallant,
but through the struggles of each battle,
become ineffective when not revived.
My mind plays like a piano
and I am its pianist.
When I sit upon the cliffs of doubt,
it seems to be sleepwalking into a
chaotic jungle of consciousness,
where the symphony ignores the song sheet.
I don't want my words to be forgotten.
There is no reality in this reverie,
so the soul yearns to be free,
like a seagull soaring above stormy seas,
towards a sapphire and ivory skyline.
Sometimes skies can resemble fire,
where flames appear too strong,
so my internal wings seek refuge.
To heal from the noise, I lose myself
in the stillness of solitude.
In my loneliness, ego screams,
so I escape from this echo chamber,
by starving it from unworthy self praise
but if I do not love myself,
who will love me?
When dwelling upon the mountain of overthinking,
my spirit is unable to adapt to the flutes of fate,
but I ignore the provocation of poison.
I listen to the musicality of my heart,
releasing the strings of attachment.
I burn myself to light up the blackness,
composing lyrics from adversity's lessons.
I am a metaphor for a star,
touching the divine horizons,
sparkling, but still learning from the
'see saw' emotions of my heart and mind.
We are all carpenters in life,
with different tools to master our minds,
trying to control the outlook of our emotions.
As rivers of wisdom integrate smoother,
when we build bridges of compassion over them.
In this pestilential year time forgot
behind maskless faces false facts hold sway,
it’s hard to write nice, when our world is not
what should a poet in quarantine say?
Behind maskless faces false facts hold sway,
while plague is loose and climate still warming
what can a poet in quarantine say
no one cares about daffodils charming.
While plague is loose and climate still warming
yet best science alerts go unheeded
no one cares about daffodils charming
at this time transformation is needed.
When best science warnings are not heeded
it’s hard to write nice, when our world is not
for this time transformation is needed
in this pestilential year time forgot.
“instrumentalising mind, I rested thought
employing it only when needed
shifting to heart, I became self-taught
gentling touch, voice of conscience heeded” ~ Unseeking Seeker
When thoughts purge in restlessness,
we pause the frequency of the mind,
allowing the rhapsodies
of the rosemary heart
to compose lyrics of
life in sync with sandalwood serenity…
I am a gossamer ribbon,
drifting across
caliginous cloudscapes,
like a delicate trace
of greying gloaming,
listening to the eerie requiems
ricocheting through the horizon.
But am I to follow the hypnotic lies,
perpetually prompting
my thoughts to ink
crimson confetti of confusion?
For the heart is the window
to the crown chakra,
awaiting the alignment of seven stars,
where the mind remains a mystery,
unreliable and capricious,
like the wind carrying
the sound of raging rain tonight.
O celestial maestro
of the cosmos and beyond,
let fears dissolve into ambient waves,
rippling with rejuvenating radiance,
reflecting seraphic light
from the crooning currents beneath~
tempestuous tides,
while I unchain the confined
chambers of my persona,
to unravel the alchemist within,
that knows not the
dying colors of dusk and dawn,
and reveals emerald auroras
in hibiscus harmony,
amidst the moonless
serenades of the sky~
in sync with my stained consciousness.
So let the dancing dreams
and the divine spirit
manifest through bleeding intuition,
as I open my arms to the sun
singing within his euphoric siesta,
there lakes of lotus ebb and flow in
ethereal themes,
transforming jinxed juniper lilies
into joyous jasmines,
and my voice shall mirror
pristine peonies,
scented with mystical musk,
where the fickleness of existence
is liquidated with lavender scriptures,
for my heart is the
empyrean haven for northern gems,
guiding the glass kayak of survival,
refusing darkness to mask
the kundalini mantras within
the alluring aura of life,
rehearsing self-fulfilling prophecies,
to illuminate silhouettes of
the galaxies in crystalline clarity.
In 1890, cowboy Bob Womack found gold at the base of lofty Pikes Peak!
In short order a ramshackle town was founded called Cripple Creek.
Hordes of gamblers, 'soiled doves' and prospectors hopin' to make a buck,
Heeded the call of 'Pikes Peak Or Bust' and fled west to try their luck!
This 'peaked' the interest of a young Hoosier feller named Oliver Pence,
Who ordered a shovel from the Sears Roebuck Catalog for eighty-seven cents.
(He called Cripple Creek, Cripple 'Crick' since that's how Hoosiers speak!)
He strapped the shovel to Fred his mule and headed west his fortune to seek!
Oliver staked his claims and his shovel left many a diggin' 'long the way.
His shafts and holes in the hills and vales can be seen to this very day!
He'd found a few nuggets and a bit of dust but didn't 'mount to much.
What he did find he'd blowed on gamblin', whiskey, wimmen and such!
Often, he'd lean on his trusty shovel and muse 'bout his fate.
He talked to the shovel, sayin, "We ain't had much luck as of late.
We'll winter in the cabin and come spring we'll continue our quest;
I'll strap you on old Fred and we'll head fer them hills to the west!"
Seasons came and went and Oliver wasn't seen 'bout town much anymore.
On a cold and dreary day, friends found him stiff dead on the hovel floor!
They dug his grave with the shovel and buried him outside the cabin door.
Six feet down the old shovel struck gold - the lode he'd been a-lookin' for!
Line of inquiry by contest sponsor:
"instrumentalising mind, I rested thought
employing it only when needed
shifting to heart, I became self-taught
gentling touch, voice of conscience heeded"
Oh, restless mind. Why can’t you sleep?
A reel of film, you roll on and on
sometimes all night and into early dawn.
Were I a willow, would I always weep?
Oh, rattling voice inside my mind,
please pause so I may enjoy peace.
My consciousness I need to release.
Tranquility I wish to find.
Willow – in silence – is able to dwell
though she trembles when strong winds blow.
Of unwanted thoughts I need to let go.
They are tempests that I must quell.
My mind must become as a calm breeze
breathing soft words of a love
that sweetly whispers from above
caressing willow with gentle ease.
In God’s light I wish to abide.
With beauty born of listening to the voice
that teaches mindfulness is the wise choice.
Then love’s shelter, as a willow, I might provide.
Woman of God
Woman of God
You are very speical you are
Woman of God
And you are the very essense of love
And you are speical to God
He’s made you wonderful
And wonderful you are…
---------------Beautiful woman of God
Woman of God
You are very loving and
Woman of God
And you, you are the very presents of love
And most of all you have heeded the call
You are, you are wonderful…
-------------- Woman of God
And you are very speical to me
And you are the most important thing next to God and Jesus
And you are worth mentioning
I pray for you always and over and over and over and over again
Ahh! I love you so spiriturally and naturally so…
---------Beautiful Woman of God
7/01/18
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Oh why oh why don't you clean your room
I wish I had heeded my mother’s words
For I’m sure many a mother has said this to their child
But fate intervened and the dust still hasn’t settled -
In fact I’ve not spoken to my mother for over a week
Last weekend I met the man of my dreams – James
Tall, dark and oh so handsome, like a young George Clooney
His number was etched in the thick layer of dust on the dresser
My mother took matters into her own hands
She decided to dust and tidy my room
HOW COULD SHE DO THIS TO ME!
His number is erased forever -
I have no way of contacting him
Guess I have learned a VERY valuable lesson
NEXT time I meet someone …
I will write his number in my diary!
25th February 2015
Fictional write for the Gathering Dust’ Contest - John Lawless