Best Indicate Poems
"Play the flute of felicity! You, yourself, are the melody."
~ Rumi
Play the flute of felicity
Convey the melody of joy
Sway with the rhythm of gaiety
Allay all fears, all doubts destroy
Vibrate the air with your tempo
Create the beat for your flute song
Relate your passion with gusto
Captivate them with cadence strong
Replay this magical moment
Display your finesse that lingers
Portray your symphony intent
Slay them with fast moving fingers
Generate a heart-tugging tune
Indicate your mirth through the flute
Fascinate the crowd with your boon
Radiate ecstasy acute
Form: Double Lento
15th February 2023
For Constance La France's "Writing Challenge - F words" contest
Like fallen warriors,
we collapse side by side,
glistening in the sweaty afterglow.
Limbs still entangled,
too exhausted to sing the other’s praise,
we stare at the blades of the bedroom fan
slowly circling above.
A lone,
satisfying sigh
escapes in between your deep,
cleansing breathes.
Your smile
reflects in the brass, ball base
of the rotating fan.
I smile in return,
unable to rescue my gaze
from the fan
cooling off our steaming bodies.
Slowly,
your right hand moves;
fingers entangle with those on my left.
I still taste you on my lips.
I silently laugh to myself
upon the realization that I still have one sock on;
the other dangling on the end of a fan blade.
The remainder of our clothes
strewn around the room
as if the hamper had exploded.
Your brassiere
ruined when I removed it
with my teeth.
Beads of sweat roll down my thigh
where our legs remain interlocked –
I love the smooth contrast of your skin
against my sun dried legs.
The ever so slight breeze
created by the fan
is starting to dry our exposed skin
as we slowly regain strength.
The circling blades hypnotize.
The subtle,
rhythmic hum
from the fan motor
mixes with the recent memory
of the rhythmic dance
just concluded.
Your hand,
now lightly brushing against me,
is re-energizing my engine.
Slight,
involuntary movements
near your finger tips
indicate our dance may not yet be over.
I blink
to interrupt my transfixed,
mesmerized relationship
with the ceiling fan,
so I can once again
concentrate on you.
Energy restored –
as if pumped back into our souls
by the bedroom fan –
the warriors re-engage
in battle once again.
A battle in which
each warrior wins.
Wordplay Extravaganza
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Bugs bunny was the silliest hare with such a bright future ahead,
he wanted to give Lola something special, but he gave her a carrot instead.
He pondered on a different surprise, and wrote Lola a sweet love letter,
asking her to marry him, because of her his life was much better.
He proof read his proposal and realized he forgot one very special phrase,
so he clicked the caret button to insert a few sentiments then pressed save.
All he had hoped for was that he expressed his love with his honest words,
for he wanted to fill this day with rainbows with sweet songs from Tweety bird.
The day flew by and night time arrived, that silly wabbit was nervous,
he smelled her scent and watched her approach him, boy was he wordless!
“My Lola, from Pensacola, I give you this twenty four karat gold ring,
a three carat princess diamond placed gently above the gold and in between.
Marry me, my sweet, I'll sweep you off your feet, I'd love to play with your hair...."
She said yes, of course...and a few months later there was a family of baby hares.
Homophones used:
1. carrot-A vegetable
2. karat-weight of gold
3. carat-size of diamonds
4. caret-a symbol used to indicate the place in writing material which something
is to be inserted.
1. Hare- a rabbit
2. Hair- a growth of filaments forming a coat over the scalp of a humans head
~Date Written: March 18, 2016~
Perfection's never something,
You can capture oh so well.
But her beauty burned like gazing,
At the fires that burn in Hell.
And people they would beg of her,
"Let me capture you in photograph."
But with beauty that was so obscure,
She'd always turn and laugh.
She woke up every morning,
But this was a different one.
Called an artist that was yearning,
"We can do this just for fun."
She stained her lips with rose.
Painted her cheeks in the fairest rouge.
Slipped ballet flats upon her toes.
And in her sundress she found refuge.
The amateur had no say,
She had planned the perfect spot.
She whispered, "I'll lead the way."
A small price to pay to get the perfect shot.
Her movements were so delicate,
It's as if they were devised.
She used a subtle hand wave to indicate,
That they had finally arrived.
You would think you'd see a castle,
Or maybe a field of green.
But this enviroment was quite the hassle,
Maybe her sense of taste wasn't keen.
She thrusted weeds away,
Steering clear of twigs and rocks.
The warm wind made her sundress sway,
And softly tousled her gold locks.
Upon a bridge she advanced,
The planks began to creak.
The water below her danced,
And sunset began to peak.
She lifted her legs with elegance,
And supported herself with a beam.
The photographer shuttered in benevolence,
But followed along with this dangerous scheme.
It's as if the camera was under a spell;
As beneath the bridge, waves violentally lashed.
She threw her arms out and willingly fell,
As the light grew bright and flashed.
The tides pulled tight around her.
They made her twirl and spin.
And the camera man swore,
she smiled as they tugged her in.
Perfection's not that fluent.
Not something you can capture oh so well.
But now we have a picture here to prove it,
As the waves dragged her to Hell.
.
I look into the mirror
And who is that I see?
Someone I don't recognise
Is looking back at me
The lines upon the forehead
That are called ‘worry lines'
Are caused by getting stressed
Far too many times
A line next to the right eyebrow
It’s the liver that's to blame
Due to excess alcohol
Or so the doctors claim
The line next to the left eyebrow
Is connected to the spleen
So much for thinking the body
Is like a finely-tuned machine
At the corner of both eyes
Are very deep crow’s feet
These are connected to all organs
As they admit defeat
We used to call them ‘smile lines'
But not much smiling has been done
When you have ill-health
Life is not much fun
Black bags under the eyes
Are signalling poor circulation
Or maybe just a lack of sleep
Nightmares without an explanation
The pancreas could be at fault
If there are ‘laughter lines'
But they could just be caused
By laughing numerous times
Lines above the upper lip
They could be caused by smoking
But they also indicate spleen trouble
Those lines are thought-provoking
Lines upon the neck
Otherwise known as a ‘double-chin’
Can be caused by too much gluten
Putting a thyroid in the spin
In the mirrors reflection
There are so many lines to see
Then I realise the person in the mirror
Yes, it’s me!
(Spock)
Captain, sensors indicate a power surge
Resonating through their ship's body
I'm sure I don't have to remind you
They have their own Scotty
(the questioning me)
But where has faith brought us?
As I look around I see
A species not asking any questions
About the infinite possibilities
(the faith-based me)
But that's why it's called faith
Trusting in what you cannot see
All things can be yours
If you will just........ believe....
(the questioning me)
I hear what you're saying
Catchy slogans always dazzle me
But once people think they're right
Then there's only eternal stagnancy
(Spock)
And Captain don't forget our mission
The beauty of opening new doors
To go to those forbidden places
Where no man has gone before
With the sadness of lost friendship
And as I look into my own eyes
The damage of my faith-based fears
Struggling as I say the word, "Fire"
Photons rip through the hull
Of this Enterprise of faith
And the exaggerated look of horror
Spreads across both of our face
And now I consider the wreckage
Of a species void of curiosity
Silently content to be powerless
And stare mindlessly at a TV
And I wonder if all new awareness
Must first go through this stage
As we learn that asking questions
Is not indicative to faith
Captain's Personal Log,
There is a sadness that comes from destroying the part of me that wants
so desperately to believe in something. Yet I have found this faith always
leads to a limitation of consciousness, a stagnancy of awareness that
leads to a retraction of my identity, and ultimately to the most unbearable
unhappiness. But now I wish to stop looking to what others want me to
believe, and to look to myself. No fear of the judgments I was taught as
a child. No fear of abandoning always what someone else always told
me. The thrill of the stars is calling me, and I want to go where no man........
has gone before...........
"Consistency"
by: Eric L. Boddie
Contemplate, debate hate
Rate state magistrates
Mate great fates
Wait....date late
Deflate straight weight
Emancipate inmate traits
Dissipate irate gates
Indicate! Investigate! Litigate!
Incarcerate? Degradate? Incinerate?
Rejuvenate! Captivate! Demonstrate!
Innovate! Motivate! Fascinate!
Anticipate! Dedicate! Articulate!
Communicate....congratulate....exonerate
Infiltrate....penetrate....interrogate
Implicate! Detonate! Annihilate!
Separate? Segregate? Disintegrate!
My mind sighs blackberries
and a moonstruck melody
plays along my spine
as I soak up the fruited juice
of I love you coloring your lips.
The cherry blush of breathless,
And a smile amid the wash
Of blueberry eyes, should indicate
My intended reply.
Times Are More
By Franklin Price
10/7/2016
We met at a great celebration,
Of a graduation, from a Texas High School.
Although he was dressed as a farmer,
I knew he was far from a fool.
He was sitting and watching the people,
Was leaning against an old tree.
As I walked past he caught my attention,
And here's what he said to me:
“Times are more like they are right now
Than they ever have been before”,
Quoted this wise old gentleman;
So apparent, that he knew the score.
He grinned at the end of the statement,
Of these meaningless words that he said.
To indicate it was humor he spouted,
In my confusion, I was more than just glad.
Has been many years since that meeting.
Still remember those words that I quote.
Were they humorous gibberish I heard then,
Or were they great wise words of note?
For the times in which we are living,
Are not the same as they have been before.
Maybe that old man I met then,
In humor, quoted what was in store.
I have to admit I’ve got a confession
About my unhealthy obsession
Other kids love pop stars with all their heart
For me it’s the Bristol Stool chart
There’s seven different types of poo
With pictures that give me a clue
to how long the poo’s been in my bowel
Poos that’s both fresh and some that’s foul
Each morning once I get out of bed
For breakfast I’ll have brown bread
The chart is a handy tool
To identify your type of stool
Now I’ve decided to tell
You about the different poos that smell
Cos it’s clear that the Bristol stool chart
Can also indicate your type of fart
Type 1 is as hard as a nut
And stays longest in the gut
Type 2 is a sausagy lump
That’s hard to squeeze out your rump
Then there’s types 3 and type 4
These are the poos I adore
These are the poos I prefer to make
A cracked sausage or smooth like a snake
Types 5 and 6 are easier to pass
Blobby or fluffy ones from your ass
Type 7 is the worst of all
It gushes like a waterfall
So now you’ve got all the scoop
On all the different types of poop
I love identifying my poo and type of fart
The Bristol Stool chart fills my heart
“Mother Earth Speaks”
From the east she awakens
Her nightly slumber aroused
Splashing her face
With thundering waves
Her eyes open to
Snow covered peaks
Valleys rich with green
Forests filled with feathered melodies
And deserts for castaways
Pondering her motherly thoughts
Rivulets of tears
Flow down her cheeks
She speaks
I’ve given you life
I’ve given you bread
The wind to cool you
The sun to warm you
The rain so you may not thirst
You have taken my soil
Rubbed it over your naked body
Made love in my meadows
Bathed in my rain
Danced in my darkness
You no longer
Touch me as a lover
Tracing lines down my spine
You no longer
Lie beside me
Flesh to flesh
Lost in my perfume
Can you not see?
Cast your eyes around
My body is heating
My glaciers are calving
My oceans are rising
My forests are burning
The wind no longer sails
Through my valleys
It Hisses
It Screams
It Thrashes
It Scars
Must I tell you more?
You are sucking my breasts dry
There is little milk to give
You have thrown me against
The wall of time
You have kicked me in
My birthing place
My heart bleeds
You are no longer my lover
You who do not know me
Do not love me
Your denial reeks
Your children will
Never know me
Dear Father Time
Treat them kindly
Spare them your Wrath
“Nota Bene”
Lon 4/12/2016
"Nota Bene" A Latin phrase (or its abbreviation) used to indicate that special attention should be paid to something
BLING IS THE THING!
A gold looking briefcase that glitters
And glows,
A shimmery sequin diary that likes to
Know that it shows,
Crayons of every, and any colour that
one may desire,
Small yet things that indicate that of life
I will never tire!
Adult colouring books and cartoons that
I sketch,
Continually inspire and evolve and
Fantasies fetch.
Bright coloured cushions that contrast
Yet match,
I am now in a world of daydreams,
My very own safety valve patch!
Fond memories, imagination, wishes and
Illusion,
This is the only way of keeping away
Lingering delusion,
African ornaments and trinkets I collect,
And a big bright blue evil eye to protect,
Myself and my family from evil or envy
Even a stuffed monkey wearing the colours
Of the rainbow carelessly hangs on my mothers
Coat rack, she gave it to me, it reminds
Me of her as tears roll down my face,
For this is my sanctuary, my own poetry space!
This is where I find my inspiration,
As fond memories I recall with vivid imagination!
This life may only be afforded to some
They are the ones that collect every bit of life,
Every crumb,
This is the glitz
Of life which brings out the blitz
And bling, which may sound to some, absurd,
To live life in such a colourful, imaginative world,
Almost like Peter Pan or Alice in wonderland,
These people have retained a lot of the heart
Of the child in them – My husband loves me even
More for this,
As he enters my poetry space I give him a big
Hug and kiss.
I believe what I do and how I do it, has de stressed,
My body, mind and soul,
Making sure I take in my stride stressed times, when
They call, and that threaten to take their toll!
Chasing stray dreams down the street
I poked my head behind a sheet
It hung there splashing shadows on
The polished cobbles at my feet
I'd learned ago, it was a sign
To indicate the goodies, fine
That lay behind its hidden edge
A market, grand and clandestine
There was no arrow to indicate
No neon flash or spinning gate
Just that blank white tapestry
Known only to the fortunate
You see, I'd been there thrice before
For treasure, and was back for more
The irony was, it always changed
In ways that one could not ignore
So, then ...
Thru the sheet to market stream
To shops with golden goods, agleam
But then my wife's voice from behind ...
"Sweetheart - you're having another dream!"
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "A Hidden Market" Poetry Contest, Julia Ward, Sponsor.
Standing in the ankle high emerald green grass of my
great-aunts property barefoot, hearing the creak of wood
on steel.
My daughter and husband are in the house napping, dreaming tenderly about sweet things.
Creak, crick, creak, crick goes the wood crying against
the steel. The porch swing was in use, the steady motions
a lullaby of calmness that washes over me along with a
whippoorwills cry upon the gentle breeze. It's an enticing symphony begging for a jig and dance.
Watching the waist high golden wheat sway to and fro taking my mind to simpler times. I inhale deeply enjoying the intoxicating scent that has no name as I shut my eyes.
The smells meeting my nose were of pinto beans and ham hocks simmering away on the stove. The scent of freshly baked cornbread resting on a wicker pot holder placed upon the table. The sizzle of pork chops frying, the bite of pickling spices and brine indicate to me dinner is almost ready.
Peals of muffled laughter and chatter let me know that
the rest of the family is here. The sun has started its
descent to bring twilight o'er the land, o'er the crops and
various garden vegetables that have grown here for as long as I can remember.
Crick, creak, crick, creak...
I opened my eyes hearing someone call my name. The yard vanishes, the smells dissipate, sirens pierce the silence of the room. My heart aches. For a place that is no longer.
For a familial experience like that again.
My heart aches for home. And as my husband and daughter are my home. I yearn for the home I had, wanting to show them that it can be.
Sunday suppers. Sitting around playing cards.
My heart aches for a legend long forgotten....
Fear can cripple, but indicate danger
Courage can lead to miraculous things
Comfort and love, reside in the Manger
Fear does exist, look at lessons it brings
So, learn, challenge it, then rest in your peace
Courage can lead to miraculous things
To give into Fear, can make it increase
Courage lifts us above the enemy
So learn, challenge it, then rest in your peace
If you look at it head on, then you will see
Yes, it will lead you to change the despair
Courage lifts us above the enemy
Be kind to yourself, safety you can share
Courage will guide you to what you deserve
Yes, it will lead you to change the despair
Expect the road ahead to have its curve
Fear can cripple, but indicate danger
Courage will guide you to what you deserve
Comfort and love reside in the Manger
Heidi Sands
9/30/23
10 Syllables