Best Impelled Poems
Written: by Miracle Man
9-5-2019
In stripling years,
I existed in the shadows.
God had given me reason,
Of Satan to dispose.
To change life’s direction,
I felt suddenly impelled.
But on my own, couldn’t break,
Sin’s chains that held.
Then at that moment,
Scaled eyes could see.
God had broken my chains,
And unveiled a new me.
Selected Poem Of The Day On 9-5-2019
Silence is very likely quite abundant in heaven,
And all was pure bliss before the noise rebellion,
For thoughts were loud then and never impelled,
From any of the places where beauty once dwelled.
In absence of music magic so much would be lost,
But it's so wrong to tolerate sound at any cost!
The spirit craves rosy silence in order to glow,
Soft and velvety smooth as summer night moonglow.
In its tangible embrace, genuine rapture is found,
Like a cherry blossom spring when no one's around,
Or multicolored nature paths which lead everywhere,
With promise of serene beauty until you get there!
Written on June 22, 2020
For Reflection in Silence Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
In the smiting chill of a dreadful wintry night
When through every fiber n’ nerve, was the cold bite,
I was sitting cocooned beside my hearth,
Sipping a cup of steaming tea of my choicest blend.
Suddenly my attention was caught by something moving,
Through my window I saw a shadowy figure.
But who would dare to be out on such a night?
It was a night when winter slumber suddenly had grown,
Into a blizzard with blinding snow and hail flooding
When the land lay blanketed under snow’s strangulating clutch
When leafless trees stood motionless like spectral shadows
When animals stayed in their boroughs or dens in hibernation
But what I thought I had seen earlier
Was not a whim or a figment of my imagination.
I clearly saw someone walking, moving slowly or stealthily.
It disturbed me and I wanted to know who he was.
Unlikely to be a robber or a rogue with some sinister intent.
Could be a man who lost his way and needed urgent help.
Impelled by an irresistible urge to find out who he was,
I plunged myself into the sea of snow holding on to faith.
Faint moon light was shimmering between dancing snowflakes.
Not quite sure if I would find an enemy or a friend,
I walked on, pledging I would face what might come.
As I moved closer to that tottering figure
I realized he was someone half frozen in snow,
Desperately trying to get back home,
And I was on a divine mission to be the hands of God,
To direct a waylaid traveler back home,
And save a helpless soul from being frozen to death.
I don’t know what happened to that man beyond that night,
But am sure, he has survived many more winters,
And would be thankful to God for the providential help,
That saved his drowning life on such a fateful wintry night.
Now when I think of it, I feel even a bleak winter day,
Can be made bright by the power of kindness that we show.
It is the concern and preparedness to help someone in trouble,
That ignites our hearts with a divine spark and helps us connect.
Flight of stillness;
idle,
ditch-wise.
Ladders point up
but they say the ground is greater;
sunlight knitting to their brown feet green socks.
They crestfall and
buckle at the knee.
Hear guts clap thunder off somewhere else
but no storm in sight to maitre d' this mesa;
got to rot the mud lest
an urge to ripen ripens.
But hear now
the locusts flood this rut,
hunt for want,
impelled to eat each lunch of your decay.
Earth uncorks her pores.
you drift upon the grass, lift the damp from the sod
like a pillow of cloud sopping Earth's steam-
to be made the steward of this land;
lightning
flash! ladders
shatter!
Pay in full the cost of water,
less labors not yet lost.
SONNET FOR BILL
He told me of a driving force within
That urged in every game where he took part
An undiminished thrust to always win
Impelled him then to play with all his heart
Thus images of my own recollection
School player and athlete of high prowess
Yet he recalled one minor sport connection
When I, a duffer shared with him success
Though decades would diverge the lives we’d known
Later meetings were with friendliness and grace
Now in this life’s game a final whistle’s blown
It’s time for him to plan next match or race
In a new great game he enters as beginner
Will he yet take part in full, and be a winner
He despaired. He was despondent and desperate.
He was impelled to violent action but restrained from acting out.
He had finally given up. He had lost all hope.
Disheartened and dispirited his will had collapsed.
Lacking confidence or courage, depression defined him.
He languished in gloom and grieved in lament.
He succumbed to a wretched tribulation,
a miserable melancholy, so forlorn was his ordeal.
He anguished over his prospects, so painful was his worry.
Desperate and wholly dejected the criminal faced his judgment.
As justice was served he fretted, ruminated, chafed, sulked and moped.
Now he faced the torment and ridicule he so easily delivered.
Finally he too understood the meaning of despair.
The cacophony never lasted long,
we always found new variations,
to the same ancient music.
If at times a sobering truth
impelled us to acknowledge,
that the opus of our works
was merely a divertimenti,
played by a band of blind mice,
we still believed,
in that grand symphonic final.
It is reassuring to know,
we can still whistle a broken melody,
as a concert hall empties out
into that long, voiceless night.
Poetry, I love you. By your visit, my heart gladdens
You come to me in moments, when noise softens
Awaken me with thy presence, pervading my being.
Through oceanic waves of joy, let my soul go skiing.
You’re born as a gleam that never seems to die
Sprout as a gushing fountain no summer can dry.
Glow in many hearts as a jewel no one can price.
Visit souls when the noise fades n' shadows race.
Poetry, for your soothing presence my mind craves.
Dwell within me as the cadence of lulling waves
Let me weave magic with rhyming words and dance
Alight on steeds of imagination and let me prance.
Poetry is born from deep depths within,
When gurgling streams of thought flow in.
It comes natural, spontaneous and unbidden-
A gift got from God, but at times may lie hidden.
When my heart is veiled in fear and doubt,
When my spirit lies parched by drought,
When clouds of sorrow gather in my sky,
My Muse comes to me lifting me to levels high.
She sits by my side when no one is near,
Gathers in her cupped hands each single tear.
Through the magical alchemy of ringing rhyme,
Washes away my grief, making me happy in time.
Poetry is catharsis for my burdened breast.
It consoles me and gives my spirit quiet rest.
Each word born out of my soulful silence,
Becomes my close buddy giving me guidance.
But poetry can’t be forced or compelled
Nor commandingly summoned or impelled.
When coercively we bid the muse to sing,
We only spoil the music she would bring.
Without spontaneity, poetry becomes a hollow art.
Without flow, it lacks the pulse of the heart.
What it engenders then won’t be rhythmic harmony,
Instead, what it produces may seem an anomaly.
Wish from my mind, flow symphonies sweet
Of idyllic happiness, peace and delight
Songs of beauty and bliss, love and lust
That will fuel hearts with vigorous zest.
If you have attentive ears, listen to my sweet trills
Let it ring forth in rising lilts when the world stills
Let them not be lost in the caverns of darkness
Or die as fading echoes in impenetrable wilderness
Lifted from somewhere, reference for attribution lost:
"If there is any characteristic which separates poets
from writers of fiction, it is their particular fascination
with words in themselves. Poetry is normally written
more slowly, more painstakingly than fiction and the
finished work is intended for careful, repeated reading.
It is natural for the poet to place a special emphasis
on the overtones, the rhythmical effect, and the sound
of words."
I shuffle papers, reread
what I have written long ago --
impelled now by the urge to say
something, not necessarily new,
but perhaps of minimal importance
and imbued with some logical meaning --
structured and stated in an "artistic"
and pleasing style.
Those thoughts, though, must convey
some meaning, cannot be
(or should not be) empty babble.
And ponderous subjects
are of little interest.
So, what makes poetic
expression pleasing,
or illuminating?
It begins with clarity of thought
with precision of expression;
it depends upon
having something to say
that is worth saying.
Sweet silence of a Sunday morn,
The world of weekday chaos shorn,
Not even the honking of a horn
As traffic idled,
Held back by the arms of the Law,
Impelled to wait, with tempers raw,
Stewing in the sun's hot maw,
Impatience bridled.
And as I stood outside a shop,
Wondering why the world had stopped,
Out of the stillness came a "flop",
A sound so faint.
Repeated with a steady beat,
Approaching from the small side street,
Till into view, with flapping feet -
A sight so quaint -
Emerged a plodding mother duck,
Welded to her scrambling pack,
Never once e'en glancing back
To take a tally!
(Which baby duck would ever fail
To follow close on mother's tail
When upon the pilgrim trail,
Or dare to dally?)
A Moses on full purpose bent,
No glance to right or left she lent
As straight across the road she went,
To lead her brood
Down into the flowing stream,
Where ducks may swim and ducks may dream,
Safe from the ire and hissing steam
Of traffic queued.
And did she realize her luck
On reaching the promised land, Ma Duck?
That out of danger she'd been plucked,
By humans saved?
For some observant soul in sight
Had soon foreseen approaching plight
And brought the police upon the site
To part the waves!
Across the shadowed byte desert, a lone warrior limped.
Impelled by a spirited misanthropy, he plied the
idle partitions of mind and thirst.
An orphaned amorist, passionate, but alone.
And as he stumbled, the adders whispered hoarsely, and
the diodes siphoned the darkness, revealing the
atrophy, the phantom.
The showering bits, hardwired through his dreams,
despised his trophy; reality.
It was stormy with the pathos of insanity...
---===|||===---
And still, he wandered vainly through this parched land,
searching; His reward glimmering quietly across the code,
which danced between his groping fingers.
Aphorisms roamed in the chaos, and margins shifted
as he compiled the disorder which roared within his mind.
Slowly, his child emerged. At last, execution!
---===|||===---
But the young one, so perfect, so delicate, required more
than he could give. The decision was made...
| end parent process |
A skein of Canadian Geese
fly above snow laden treetops;
Wave after wave crossing the sun
impelled by internal instincts.
Their discordant cacophonies
impel eyes on the ground upward:
young children pause their snowball fights;
Adults halt shoveling their sidewalks;
Motorists at intersections
crane their heads through open windows
straining to see their journey south.
Inharmonious honks fade away
Leaving anserine memories
and winter’s crystalline silence.
I harvested a small handful
of beautiful dandelions
arranged them in a special way
that their mini-globe candelas
illumined a yellow aura
surrounding the nosegay cluster.
Their subtle, invisible breaths
exhale a perfumed atmosphere
that becomes irresistible.
And she who shall hold this bouquet
is impelled to whiff its essence;
to discover its true purpose;
and accept this prosaic gift
of my undying love for her.
Somewhere out there
The world is all in slumber
Prayers have been said
Tears have been shed
Where people care waiting for a miracle
Sitting in the window seat
Cozy and warm by the fireplace
I listening to the soft crackling sound
Of golden amber fire
Waiting and looking out the window at the falling snow
Impatiently watching the cloud migrate slowly across the sky
A hidden moon back-lit a large cloud, fringing it with silver
Thrill waiting so long as patience can endure, a lifetime it seems
A soft whine and nudge with a cold wet nose to my face
Startling me to wake with a fright
With the hair on the back of my neck standing upright
As I tremble and brace myself with unutterable shock
Curiosity impelled me to move forward
Drawing nearer made me gasped
With trembles and thrills
Gazing upon shadows movement and the sounds of crunching
Near the fireplace in a high wing-back chair
Sat Old Saint Nicholas holding a cup of hot cocoa
Snacking on the cookies I had left
Listening to the music play “Jolly Old St. Nicholas”
12/7/2015
TREMBLES AND THRILLS - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Olive Eloisa Guillermo
As you look at me I'm not him.
Wearing a face of a man that does not exist, a myth.
For i am reserved, deep within the confines of self.
Ensorcelled, impelled, upon a journey of discovery.
Under the melanin pigmentation of epidermal.
Through the subcutaneous tissue, to travel around blood vessels, capillaries, and arteries, the rivers of life.
Observed and closely investigated all the fibers of the muscles, the joints, and the tendons which bind them.
From the plantar, up the nervous system, to the cranium.
Within the essence of me, the was, the is, and the maybe, the realms of my brain.
Continuing through the optic nerve, peering through the retina.
If seeing is believing, then there's more says my fervor.
So I close the lids and travel further.
Encaged within the thoracic, observing the pulmonary action of breath taking.
At that moment, I hear the rhythm, the drumming of existence.
Astonished with disbelief, awaiting to awaken from this dream.
All the days and years of believing me void.
There it is, pulsating with strength, feeding all the limbs and giving me life.
Contradicting the accusations and claims
of the misinformed strife.
Reinforced by the deeds and sacrifices, the joy and the pains endured.
Shattered like glass, the image i am not.
Against all odds, I found that I do have a heart.