Best Indicating Poems
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
In moments of twilight civility
an exchange of gifts -
darkness for light..
RISING
from beyond the softening silhouette edge
you brighten like a blushing damsel
hazy haloed
unabashed in the pleasure of ripening
daydreamer
...a vivid blur of lemon drop...
veiled by a wispy fanfare of mares’ tails
windswept forth in pinkened pageantry
heralding the maturing marmalade horizon -
arousing a drowsing periwinkle sky
your prosperous glow casts a molten net of gold
slanting low across the ebb and flow
igniting the imagination
- agleam with peachy dreams -
of just-waking waters
while catching fire-tipped riffles;
rubies gathered ride the tide to the coastline
glamorizing the washed still-sleepy seaward sand
saturated in the rose-colored nectar
of your generous nature ~
Susan Ashley
October 13, 2018
*Mare’s tail: a long narrow cirrus cloud whose flowing appearance somewhat resembles a horse’s tail, often indicating high winds in the upper troposphere.*
All people,
Are born with an inner voice.
Those,
Who delight themselves in listening to it,
The voice becomes louder and clearer with
The passing of time
Thus
Indicating the path one should follow in life
For the light of truth to see
While
Those who ignore it,
Or shut their ears to its divine call,
Allowing not heaven's voice to be heard,
They condemn themselves to remain, dwellers,
Of
The human labyrinth of confusion and darkness!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
05 October 2021
Temple of the Gods
Within the realities, unseen deified admits a parallel preen
A shielded smokescreen for their succus is made unclean
In the matriarchal machine a throne tallat for the Queen
A calumnious convene in illusions that dered and demean
The fallen Angels level in their banishing bedaubed bedevil
In ruins ravaging, they revel a tenacious tenet of their temple
For their mendacious meddle we are the reifier of our vessel
We wilfully wrestle and retire in our denned deceived nestle
We are the many among the few evitative as we quietly ensue
For we must rise and renew all sexes seduced within their skew
Time to be trusted and true him or her who sees the veils thru
Constructs that construe dimensional drifts solos in the goo.
A Palindrome is a word or phrase which reads the same backwards as forwards, such as madam
deified – past tense of "to deify", meaning to consider as a god
succus – any of various liquids excreted by animals or plants
tallat--A loft.
dered – past tense of "to dere", an archaic word meaning to harm
level – various common meanings
tenet – a belief or principle
reifier – someone who reifies (considers an abstract concept to be real)
denned – past tense of to den, meaning to live in a den
evitative – a grammatical case indicating fear or aversion.
sexes – plural of sex
sees – third-person present tense of ‘to see’
solos – plural of solo
May.08.2018
Palindromes
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Tired needing to sleep,
Relaxing in the comfort of my protector.
Unusual as it seems, I was
Safe in the knowledge....the
Tiger was my friend.
Indicating to others the need of trust.
No good pretending anymore....my
Guardian is my best stuffed toy.
Contest,: mystic rose - image me a poem
I used image 3
Penned 17 October 2017
The battle between body and spirit
Housed as I am,
in this earthenware vessel
I witness,
the raging between body and spirit.
My mood- sullen and morose,
a telling sign-
a flashing indicator-
pointing to a weakness in my will,
a slow debilitating decline in my convictions-
indicating a buttressing of my resolve-
is urgently needed.
This paroxysm has been a body blow,
and my spirit is reeling.
I am cloistered, incarcerated now these three years,
having served a portion of my sentence.
What is my crime?
These four walls,
such contemptible, wretched creatures-
mock me, taunt me, deride me
as weak and worthless;
but I know better!
I am shackled to the two evil twins-
misery and myalgia-
myrmidons- secret agents of the devil
serving at his pleasure.
Hell-bent they are on a wicked crusade
raping and pillaging the golden storehouses
of my treasured faith and hope.
Sacred vaults protect my integrity,
my zeal is still intact.
As I wrestle with my afflictions
I throw tantrums-like a feral beast
charging towards the drawn sword.
However, I succumb to the inevitable.
I sense the folly of the fight and submit,
although-unwillingly to this intransigent,
auto-immune disease.
How do you fight an enemy who is
entrenched in your marrow?
This enemy is coercing me on this death march
and it is unrelenting in it's insistence.
The gates of Sheol* beckon to me to enter,
I resist the clarion call, although the gravity
draws me ever closer to my sealed fate.
I see visions of paradise, here on earth,
where pain is no more,
and all suffering is a distant memory
until eternity erases it from my mind.
Unfortunately, for me,
looks like I'll be taking the subway,
instead of the train to paradise.
December 17,2018
For Misery contest Edward Ibeh
*Sheol Hebrew for the grave.
Not hell as a burning place of torment
as is commonly taught and believed.
Slow or fast
we think behind a slip stream,
a contrail of the gone;
of what went by a momentary window
long ago.
Asleep under a blacktop,
street-cars roll over my me-mind,
the crunch of old bones
crackles like thin ice.
I am recalling a time
now set in resin.
Desiccated bugs bite through,
gnaw at half-painted pictures.
Lost paths
for the somnambulant dead.
Elephants gather to revisit graveyards.
Alive in a memory,
but let’s not call this 'living,'
double, treble dipping
into the time-worn.
Such old imagining's will eventually
kill every analog clock
with their own internal hammers.
What am I writing now?
Yesterday and tomorrow sway
like old measuring scales.
Should I think like a Greek,
or a Jew,
arise and dance
shaking my head back and forth
as if awakening
to every fleeting pause?
This is what I am writing
upon the underside
of a road...
an odyssey of sorts
one taken by a horde of lemmings.
A talking point
indicating how I got here
recalling this and that,
but then again
nothing is now real forever.
Sheer genius her nudity
It scared the neighbors
Frightened them into their houses
Allowing her to enjoy uninterrupted meditation
Sheer adoration, her garden
Faeries free to show themselves,
Knowing she was the exact right human
At the exact right time
Sheer creativity, her bold strokes,
Her mixed paints, and her wildness in adding
Glitters, and sawdust, and other oddities to her canvases
Sheer wisewoman, revered by her children,
Adored by her grandchildren,
Left alone unless she crooked her finger,
Indicating she wanted company
Sheer genius, her spiritual relationship with
The woodland creatures, and the dragonflies who revered her.
Sheer genius her self-love,
Which allowed her to show herself, on her own terms.
You, my most favorite darling, get my grandfather clock said she.
When I am dead. Unapologetic, diabolical laugh.
You, sweetie pie, get my off-key piano stated easily.
To keep in my tiny efficiency apartment? Is she daft?
And you, honey babe, get my jewelry, she prettily pointed out.
Indicating her only grandchild who does not like jewels.
Grandma was directing everyone bossily. No one dared pout.
Knowing the wrath that comes easy from old related fools.
Also knowing that when she is gone we can trade
Up and down, in and out, no one fully caring.
We will throw all the extra stuff to her loyal maid.
We sisters are all about dividing and sharing.
The world is spinning
and you refuse to fall off.
Yesterday,
you stabbed a crooked finger
into my hidden diary
criticized my Fascist inflections -
debated my scribblings
on Marxism,
noted the notations
indicating Munchausen by Proxy
and then
choked and lamented
upon vague references I made
concerning Virginia Woolf,
Sylvia Plath,
Anne Sexton,
Cruella De Vil
and Hitler.
You literally littered through
my private Pandora’s box
of personal prose and poetry -
with an unbridled
crazed compulsion
and without my
permissible permission.
Pointing to bold typed words,
such as “ebony”
and “vacuous”
and “sociopath”
and the one
you couldn’t evenly pronounce –
“phlegmatic.”
You stomped your hot heavy hooves -
screaming with the dire urgency
of a rape victim:
“What the hell are you talking about?”
It didn’t take very long before
I simply shrugged,
slugged the remaining remains
of my Rolling Rock,
took your index finger
guided it across
your ratted sweater
and placed it
upon your
hopeless,
hapless
heart.
Ravaged Raven
On returning from work, I always pass near the cemetery
And always find no life moving there, almost same scenery.
But today was a different day. I stopped my car at the gate
The cawing began, wind whipped, birds arrived in droves.
Big black birds were landing over the place, on the graves.
It seemed to be like a scene out of the movie “The Birds”
Flapping of the wings indicating a big accident to happen.
It reminded me of many superstitions and scores of myths
That surround the crow and its larger cousin, the ravens.
Ravens are associated with death in many of the cultures
As they are found feeding on animals and human remains,
A soothsayer, an omen of death, as a creator and cleanser.
I saw a lady standing near the tombstones looking at horizon
First I thought her to be a Goddess Morrigan of Irish battle
As both crows and ravens were her allies and companions,
Dressed in white but this woman was in black with a pistol.
Will name her Raven, visiting the tomb of the dear one
Who is dead, but once lived, felt dawn and saw sunset
Loved and was loved and now he lies in this cemetery.
As if she got the inner message from her dead one
“To take up the quarrel with the foe and take the revenge.
And will not sleep in peace if you break faith with me”.
As if she has come with a pistol to console her dear one
With salty tears stinging her face, emotions begin to race
I miss you so, why did you have to go when heart is wary.
I have come to you to touch your name engraved in stone
Trying to be strong and brave, to avenge your enemy
And one day in heaven we will be together happy again.
+++
September 26, 2014
Form: Free Verse
Second Place win
Contest: Raven by Kelly Deschler
Watch the sun appear
On this Solstice clear
Over Stonehenge monoliths.
Sing the sacred song
Honoring the throng
Of the ancient spirit’s gifts.
Let the sun stand still
As we feel the thrill
Of Midsummer’s energy.
Summer has begun
Now our hearts are one
As we mark in harmony
Power of the sun
That our Solstice's spun,
We gather to celebrate.
Let us be aware
Of the love we share
Where still Druids congregate.
7th place in Rob Carmack's Screwed XIV Contest.
June 4, 2016 It was awarded an N/A : )
Summer Solstice Contest
Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
*Alouette Form: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/alouette.html
The Solstice is a time when the Sun is at the highest (Summer) and the lowest (Winter) yearly altitude as measured from the equator in the Northern Hemisphere. The word “solstice” comes from two Latin words—“sol” (Sun) and “sistere” (standstill) -- indicating that the Sun comes to a stop before reversing its direction. Along with the Spring and Fall Equinoxes, Solstices have been considered in many world’s traditions as the most spiritually powerful days in a calendar year. While it marks the astronomical beginning of Summer, in ancient traditions this time period was known as Midsummer and is celebrated throughout the world in very similar ways even today.
In the Northern Hemisphere, the Summer Solstice occurs on the 21st of June, as the Sun leaves the astrological sign of Gemini and enters into Cancer. This longest day of the year is the day for celebrating the life-giving powers of the Sun, giving gratitude to the joys of life, love and manifesting dreams into reality.
Watermelons
Dull, thick, green rind with a creamy yellow behind,
From where on the ground, it sat waiting to ripen.
Round the gourd, the melon matured, bursting the gird;
With juicy, sweet liquid, and fresh succulent meat
(Ninety per cent water and six percent sugars)
Ready for consumption in the hot summer weather.
Carefully pick the vegetable from the bin;
Choosing the size, weight, and colour of the pepo.
And feel for firmness, then cradle, knock, and listen;
(Duller the thud the better) indicating ripeness,
Or employ other quirks to determine freshness.
Then wash, slice, and serve the delectable berry,
With bright red flesh, seed or seedless variety.
Etiquette is discarded when eating the melon,
As my teeth sink into Citrullus Lanatus
(Like a hot knife cutting into frozen butter)
As juices spurt out and run down the sides of my mouth,
While I guiltily look, as I piggishly eat
And slurp away, smiling, and spitting out the seeds;
This August 3rd on National Watermelon Day.
19 December 2010
Christmas Wreath
C ircle band of lights indicating halo
H alo of hope to continue the whole year round
R ound in shape flows youthful spirit to ingest
I ngesting a strong hold to never separate
S eparation comes when leaves fall and lights were taken
T aken from ancestors to mundify
M undify a sagging spirit in a genial abask
A bask we get skylight kindling satisfaction
S atisfaction to be God’s creation in this world
W orld as a whole is the people in a raceme
R aceme with flowers on stalks that entwine
E ntwine fresh wounds to heal and feel amorous
A morous display in every life’s threshold
T hreshold for welcoming visitors every hour
H ours countdown soon will be Christmas and New Year to share with everyone
Merry Christmas to all.
By Edmund Siejka
A high school English teacher
Issues a challenge
Her class
Is to write a poem.
Reading a student’s poem
Her experienced eye
Searches for
Imagery
Metaphor
Tone
Point of view
Ultimately the student’s poem
Is graded a gentleman’s C.
Somewhat surprised
The student admits his shortcomings
Indicating that poetry is a lot like writing
Disappointed
The teacher
Doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Coming home that night on a crowded train
The teacher passes up a seat
Letting an exhausted looking woman
Sit down
Thankful
For this simple courtesy
Brief smiles are exchanged
Strangers from two different worlds.
The teacher notices the smell of disinfectant
Hovering over the woman
Thick fingers holding tightly to her purse
The woman
Begins an animated conversation
With two other women
Broken English
Graceful hand movements
Words interrupted with laughter.
From what the teacher hears
She believes the women
Are cleaning ladies
The little people who clean the bathrooms
Vacuum carpeted hallways
Empty the trash
From windowed offices
High above the New York skyline.
The words ‘poetry is a lot like writing’
Linger in the teacher’s memory
One thing she is sure of
The ladies know of life
After years of
Hard work for little pay
Hungry children
Angry husbands
Absentee landlords.
The train stops
Momentarily the ladies collect
In a small group
On the empty train platform
Suddenly there is no more talking
In the awkward silence
Each of the ladies turn
Toward the direction
Of a place they call home.