Best Immortalizing Poems
scouts stand proud
two spears and shield
immortalizing Kenya's legacy
Name: Teddy Kimathi
Country: Kenya
Shahjahan built the Taj Mahal, a mausoleum
Situated on the bank of the River Yamuna,
In memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz
With whom he fell in love at first sight
Espying her in a fair, enraptured by her charms.
The very sight of The Taj leaves one mesmerized.
The voluptuous curves of domes and arches,
The rhythm of birds in flight, secrets of flowers,
Vibrant colors of Nature never fading,
Like the everlasting love of Shah Jahan,
Immortalizing it as the epitome of undying love,
A lyric carved in luminous marble,
This monument of immeasurable beauty.
The Taj Mahal, one of the Seven Wonders of the World,
The crown palace, of love and romance derives its name
From Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, the immortal lovers.
It’s promise kept to the dying wife in of a child birth.
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Shah Jahan was the emperor of India in 17th Century and Mumtaz Mahal was his third wife.
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Second Placement
Contest: Everyman's Ekphrasis by Brian Strand
The word Taj means crown and Mahal means palace- The Taj Mahal is situated in Agra City of Uttar Pradesh state of India. Year of Construction: 1631-1653
Spread Over: 42 acres.
Yamuna: name of the river
The Writer
Inspired by darkness he writes only at night;
Studying stanzas—seducing spellchecks
With the stroke of a pen he is anyone or anything
His great works are subjected to sabotage—prone to plagiarism
His ideas far exceed his lifespan
He will take them with him so that they remain unforgotten
There are times when he is repulsed by his own thoughts
Ashamed that his open-mindedness is so brave— so brazen
He must be careful with his words
Disguising them to avoid unwanted attention
He masters this skill by the memorizing
His important blueprints: a dictionary and thesaurus
The only two books worthy to his cause
He is a word hunter; silently stalking his prey
Snatching them from songs
Taking them from television
Scavenging from scripts
He fishes them out in an ocean of conversations—inspecting his catch cautiously
Releasing the insignificant
Filleting the essential
He doesn’t waste words by packing them into passages
He displays them attractively on a canvas of possibilities
He raises them from lonely letters to surprising syllables
He rescues them from reckless writers—saving them from abuse
His message is vivid and clear, he refuses to practice the art of confusion
Without writing he is nothing; another drone in a misguided world
With it, he is unstoppable
Creating creative carnage
Amongst freethinkers and immortalizing injustices…in print
He sees he world in rich detail; analyzing the outline of all creation
Nothing is missed— from the tiniest atom to the utmost wonder
His memory is impeccable—photographic and precise
Every element, since childhood, is engraved in his mind
He has a fetish for fountain pens—collecting them like trophies
Never using them, only worshiping their power, it is mightier than any sword
Writing is his purpose
Even though he will never be satisfied
Every draft s a rough one— susceptible to alterations
It is his weakness
He is forever troubled by the idea of revision
Simplicity seduces stunning symmetrically salivating stimuli
Complexity confounds controlled curiosities calculating clarify
Ambiguous ambitions amplify arousing academics admirable
Mellifluous melodies making magical memories memorable
Poetic pendulums pondering pensive promiscuous pleasures
Esthetic echoes encouraging efficacious emulative endeavors
Deceiving diametrical dilemmas distancing dichotic delusions
Receiving rhythmically ratiocinative raging roaring revolutions
Beautiful breaths breathing benevolent boisterous behaving
Irreducible imaginary immortalizing idling iconic interfacing
Harmonic hemispheres hovering Homeric humble hypnotic
Tectonic transitions technical tantalizing theatrics thermotic.
This poem is dedicated to my friend Andrea Dietrich...whose poetry inspires all
In reference to her latest potd "When Poetry is Art"
Just messing with you my friend...love ya...and Happy! Holidays!
...this poem can also be read backward~from right to left...
Dec.17.2019
Your Best New Poem
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
N/A for contest
While out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting potty trained undone
via my tushy ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m*****f****** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with rectal spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now royally flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to the verizon with a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with lamb basted,
and sigh lance warrior whoosh!
Rushing to take a stand for what is right,
Using the gifts from above to strenghen your stance,
Throwing your fist in the air and yelling with all your might,
Caring more for your partner, than the steps in life's dance.
Rebelling against tyrants, at any moment ready to fight.
Immortalizing your names in history, given the chance,
Those are the things I miss in this world, that's so contrite.
The past paved a beautiful road, which we've used to advance.
The nails cut deep into my clenched fist
Blood escapes life to death’s never ending list
My ebony skin has healed from your banishment
My translucent soul weeps an eternal testament
Our way back to heaven is measured and laden
With endless detours and sharp thorns lay hidden
We came too soon like an accidentally detonated bomb
Nine months inside your immortalizing womb
My two hands cannot hold enough water
My wide open mouth evil sin can only utter
Rumor has it one takes pictures of stuff
that one is afraid of losing.
The girl who captures moments with her camera
seeking the company of entangled dwellings
beneath the womb of nightfall
for the city is silent
in this witching hour of her heart;
her misbegotten heart which,
with - step by step - every beating
also grabs, in her own way, fragments of reality.
So, she wanders through the whisper-lighted streets
by taking pictures and immortalizing shapes,
searching for a dead-end for finding a living door,
a door, which she may be able to preserve,
to his sorrow-sealed soul.
resounding echoes in
caves of timelessness
my hands caressing walls of rock
never kissed by daylight
walls that speak loudly
of proud ancestors
immortalizing their
essence and
existence
painting
dwelling
hunting
sleeping
making tools
raising families
communicating
telling stories
leaving messages
their legacy
much like us
in many ways
yet so very different
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on July 30, 2018 for contest END OF JULY 2018 STANDARD sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
1
Behold! that human angel hovering
not in bright skies but on far-distant land
a siren voice, hypnotic, echoing –
desperate singing, sundry songs without demand –
Till comes that calming gentle rest.
Unfettered wings whose feather tips remain
too still until in cauldron stirs the beast
found’ring gales ablast from vicious East
near off rip her appendages with his disdain –
Till comes that zephyr from the West
resounding with his promises, his prayer
that joined would be they both in aether air.
2
But, lo! Across that mighty depth of sea
where stands that noble knight in disarray
his hand a pen to wield in poetry
an arm to hold a shield from harm to her delay –
Till comes for her he on his steed –
The mighty dragon spewing searing flame
to burn her tender flesh with hateful scorn
repelled she with her wits not words foresworn
an oath to not repeat nor say his hated name –
Till comes the time they both agreed –
resounding with his promises, his prayer
that joined they may be one eternal pair.
3.
At length their spirits crossed the massive span
that ocean looming far too wide and deep
one lady waiting long,
long waiting longing for her patient man –
her promises, the oath she vowed to keep
for him in loving song.
At last their spirits met in fond embrace
and bodies twisted as a knotted rope
in love together found,
though sight unseen, he never saw her face,
nor did she his except with faith and hope
their love at last be crowned.
4
The gods looked down upon two distant lands
upon what kept two loves apart
and joined the knight’s and his fair lady’s hands
into one soul, one beating heart
exhaling into each as one communal breath
immortalizing them without eternal death.
Till now, no eyes have seen with certain sight
these loves that burn in morn and evening light.
Devious and mischievous illusions
Run through my tired mind.
Happily ever after will never be.
Longing for forevers is a farce.
A few spared whispers,
A few poems relishing our love.
Complex lines forever immortalizing what?
Distance causing love to wear thing.
Your spouse a denied taboo of conversation.
Relishing in the here and now.
Knowing tomorrow will never be.
Speaking as if miles do not separate us.
Speaking as if no ring on your finger.
Wondering my heart belongs to who?
Knowing your touch will sooth.
Wanting your lips to linger.
Anticipation causing heightened senses.
Leading to a thunderous climax.
Releasing pent up passion.
Releasing our frustration at this.
Physical attraction a horrible pull why?
Longing to knock on your door.
Begging to know your world.
Your wife an annoying obstacle.
A gnat needing extermination.
Shall I take you away as mine.
Shall I take what I know is mine.
Major world shake up on the horizon, but when?
Butterflies don’t die,
instead they become Frankenstein
electric shocked and back to life;
Hot and cold heart,
hopelessly frozen yet fiercely beating;
Stomach just short of regurgitating,
butterflies are alive;
So blue you want them to decay
instead they flutter endlessly;
Electric shocked and back to life,
possessing traits of a zombie;
Butterflies won’t die;
There is no cocoon to hide in,
you’re stuck within your own skin,
and it just crawls;
Like a butterfly landing delicately
on your wrist;
Now you’re caught,
electric shocked and back to life;
Butterflies never die
instead becoming ink
immortalizing bloody tears;
Forever weeping
within a fly poetic tattoo.
Walking',
that barely-Summer beat;
the wind with butterfly kisses
flushing my cheeks
So much potential
packed into the thickness,
dreams undressed
in the eyes of a lamp post
a billboard of stars
illuminating nights stage,
with a brilliant luster
electric, energy's humming
caught in the rhythm
immortalizing a verse
to be sung for all time
street lights adventure
This is my pencil.
There are many like it,
but this one is mine.
With this pencil I can create.
I can write about hatred and mistrust,
unrequited love and hardship.
With this pencil I can destroy;
I can erase immortalizing words,
emotions that elicit a response,
I can.
I will sharpen my pencil true.
Anyone that tries to take my pencil from me
shall in turn suffer the same fate.
With each sentence I can offend;
I can denounce an entire religion.
I can favour one style of writing over another.
With this pencil I can turn the chaotic
into the well ordered.
Without this pencil I am nothing.
Without me this pencil is nothing.
There is no room for any other poet,
to hold this pencil is my right.
As long as there will be literature,
there can be no peace.
As long as I am writing,
there can be no order.
As long as I shall live
I swear this creed.
In a rather egotistical
and pathetic attempt
to immortalize myself,
in something I lost,
everything.
And now that I’ve burned
all of my bridges and I’m drowning,
the only thing I have left
to do is work.
And it's not working.
And the only ones
praising my work
are little kids,
the same age I was
when I broke everything.
Lucky me.
I watch them do
the same foolish things,
reaching for pointless dreams,
immortalizing themselves
for no one and nothing.
What I wouldn’t do
to have something,
and what I wouldn’t give
for something
worth saying.
Empty words
look prettier
when they’re
written in blood.
And trust me,
it’s dripping
straight out of
my pen tip
and into my lungs.
I wish that
instead of pneumonia
I had amnesia.
Maybe then,
I could forget about
all of this.