Best Influx Poems
There's a magic in snowflakes,
yet their majesty is only momentary -
just like you,
just like me...
They fall
so elegantly,
like enchanting
ballet dancers,
shapeshifting
in the air,
floating in a
bitter breeze,
so soft,
so tender,
so fragile,
so
vulnerable.
Gently
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
i
n
g
side
by
side
like
unique
pearls settling
upon empty surfaces
spreading softly
on spotless
emerald
fields
Rain is the
enemy of beauty,
the sun a
jealous confidant.
Drops of mercy
may feed nature,
but their influx
results in a massacre.
Their cunning conduct
is hidden behind
an illusion known
as the rainbow.
Snowflakes do not bleed red,
they discolour into ashen slush,
their remains hardening in death,
frozen, until melting into nothingness.
There is a tragedy
in snowflakes,
which recurs
time
after
time,
yet we keep faith
in our seasons,
just like my life,
just like yours.
Categories:
influx, analogy, life, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
I've been contemplating the tastelessness of the soup being served on site.
The difference between what's sweet and sour is noticeable in every bite.
It's not just the infusion of artificial intelligence that leaves the soup bitter,
but poetry that's been stolen from others that stinks worse than kitty litter.
Months ago it was perceived by many PS poets, that there had been an influx
of so called 'poets' posting 'poetry,' but quite frankly... most of it just sucks.
And then there is the returnee woman who holds contests entering her own
with names who returned with her in a scam that no one should condone.
There remains the do-goodies, who continue to claim they've been victimized
but that story is so old that it is known as garbage and needs to be sterilized.
A butcher, baker and candlestick maker, who burns his candle on both ends,
still hangs around but nothing he says is believed and cannot make amends.
A quill is meant for writing and not for fencing with neither parry nor thrust.
Take care who you accept to be a friend for it's not always one you can trust.
I've turned off commenting or the trolls will be feeding on my every word
those floating in soup's toilet bowl, who should be flushed like a stinking turd.
I'll also post this as a poem in the usual manner of poetry on this flawed site
for those who wisely don't pay attention to blogs where bullies post smite.
The soup kitchen needs a Gordon Ramsay visit to free it from rats and mice
because it's been infested with toxic waste that some have labeled 'spice.'
Categories:
influx, community,
Form:
Rhyme
They came from "farawayland"
to arms held open wide
welcomed without question by the "Man"
The starving and the homeless
can't begin to understand this
how could someone even do this to their clan
We try to feed and clothe them
give health and shelter freely
and we're just talking legal citizens
The influx of the immmigrants
and the millions of illegals
that have crossed our borders who knows even when
There are no jobs to give them
our health care's straining badly
some diseases that they bring could devastate
They try their best to hide here
while staying in the shadows
by scamming us they jeopardize our fate
Bleeding hearts help hide them
treated better than our Veterans
they snicker and they tell us that we're cruel
As our President stands proudly
ensuring he will protect them
America knows he plays us for the fool.....
Categories:
influx, america, conflict, life, political,
Form:
Narrative
I think there is a new vibration, I can feel it right here on my stoop.
Can you smell it in the wind, I’m thinking it might be some poop.
It could be a sudden division, of a burrito that stuck in my bowels.
I’m feeling a little emotional, can someone please hand me some towels.
My eyes are beginning to water, if anyone should even care.
I’m starting to feel quite dizzy, I could use a little fresh air.
I shouldn’t have eaten those beans, they are known as a magical fruit.
They come in so many different colors, but I guess they all still make you toot.
Hurry and get off of my stoop, or you’ll experience a change from within.
When the smell has marginally decreased, then you are welcome to come back in.
I’ve experienced an influx of gas, please forgive me and try not to hate.
Lord help me I love Taco Bell, but that burrito I never should have ate.
Categories:
influx, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
The songbirds are plentiful where I live in the middle of oaks
I had four birdfeeders, but white tail deer slammed into them
Until they broke into bits, for they were plastic and did not survive
As they were being deer-bashed against the trunk of these oaks.
To discourage the deer, I bought new metal bird feeders.
It brings in up to eight cardinals, and a blue jay daily.
Wrens, robins, sparrows, and wood peckers arrive before nine.
Rat-a-tat sound on my oak bark; I enjoy watching their heads bob.
My forest is full of tweets, peeps, whistles, coos, and caws
There is a huge the influx of crows, which I also welcome
Playful squirrels are fun to watch, but their fingers are too deft
Daily they unscrew the tops of my bird feeders, laughing at me.
Allowing all of the bird feed to land on the ground, in a clump.
Bottoms of feeders roll into driveway, so I have to drive around them.
A plethora of activity, a menagerie of lively animals including rabbits.
Sassy squirrels chastise me when I come out; thinking it is their yard.
Categories:
influx, animal, bird,
Form:
Free verse
Refined by much traffic
Robust those ruts become
Resilient to data's
Rapid influx, just rest..
Remarkably channels
Refined, ready for change
Ruts~ deep within my brain
Categories:
influx, change,
Form:
Pleiades
Despite the climate challenge with traffic congestion on the road,
there’s still a driving urge to go out and celebrate the Eucharist;
it’s a great deal of commitment to God who’s the source of life,
his language connotes an embodiment of love for our salvation.
Braving the difficulties in coping with the details of missionary life,
such as culture, language, climate, food and many others in foreign lands;
our faith gets tested, our humility gets challenged, and our identity revealed
and these comprise the foundation of being a missionary to other people.
In places where we learned to love the people of different cultures,
the need to adopt, acculturate, and realign to the mysteries of being a migrant,
continues to witness the movements and other signs of the times;
a world replete with endless search drawn from different human experiences.
It’s pretty common as a pervading theme across the passages in the bible;
the word migration that has a powerful connotation and rich in literature,
oh, as the holy scriptures say: “you shall not oppress an alien; you well know
how it feels to be an alien, since you were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt.”
The advent of a wide range of issues about the struggles in today’s migration,
with varying reactions characterized by principles, ethnic and religious devotion;
a certain perspective is formed according to Christian beliefs and aspirations
that migrants no matter who they are, deserve respect and societal insertion.
Lured by the promise of work and better opportunities that await somewhere,
people across the globe try their luck and take the risk to cross the land,
it’s viewed with deeper reflections like those of mostly Catholic Irish who came by,
their large influx in this country of America during the height of potato blight.
True to form, this parallels the new waves of Hispanic immigration
along with Asians, Africans, and other migrant groups with their history and cultures
truly, it’s a cycle that brings out the commonality of human quest and ambition;
with assimilation and determination to maintain and improve their life situations.
Categories:
influx, history, hope, life, peace,
Form:
Pastoral
The cliffs were the only place she could go to find the edge of love
the only boundry between up and down, of faith and fate,
a frontier where tears scratch slate with bursts of pearl pain
and blood speaks to the sky for signs of passion's flood,
sea below, blue as sapphire lonely glow
churns the tide of romantic violence
salting silence into a sizzle of desire's uproar,
prehistoric granite a partner in the thunder
of her wet tides and his solid lift of sheer ridges
where vertical and horizontal make love in sharp contrast,
horizon rich in ransom of freedom's sweet space hovers
split by a sad pulse within her tired and pretty body,
night moves into day like a prophecy
born in the indigo of her cool inferno
auguring only one thing, high speeds
of love from comet's entrails,
on the precipice of self diagnosis
a vigil begins, ceremony of naked consciousness,
gathering the raw material of her soul
she lights a fire that burns like liquid crystal
waving into the shy truth
of shadows that no longer stand still,
the cliff dance starts, influx of instinct
imparts an innocent intuition
foretelling with ferocious accuracy
the survival or burial of they're love,
pouring vinegar and wine on each breast
she howls to the heights of His affection
and crawls towards the flames
to feel the sweat of lust in her veins,
the animal in her rises to hunt
through the heat, into passion complete,
life and death move her feet,
the pull of gravity gripping torso
closer to the drop of dreams,
a star breeze lashes and lifts
her hair and limbs calling for ascendance,
in a moment of reckless roundabout
she hears His husky whisper
of love with no doubt
nibbling on inner ear,
her heart won't lay still
when His eyes see her as mystical,
there is only one law of love
that she lives by, kiss or die,
only she knows the next step...
J.A.B.
Categories:
influx, dark, hope, howl, hurt,
Form:
Epic
With a mass influx of background radiation
Strengthens the idea of a cosmic inflation
Ten seconds of magic starting with a bang
Leaves religious hearts with a heavy pang
What before was that of a mysterious bubble
Was to be unwound by the discovery of Hubble
That creation is expanding at the speed of light
Makes the naked eye struggle for a clear sight
To only that of which our minds can observe
Which some do believe is shaped in a curve
Believed before that it was in fact much flatter
For not in parallel lines can keep this dark matter
In this space appears to be no electric charge
Keeping Apollo at bay, and Armstrong at large
What conditions would allow life of intelligent form?
Or withstand heat or the sweep of a galactic storm
Into the mass amount of scientific speculation
The idea of which a metric theory of gravitation
Can imply through discovery of Einstein’s Ring
Even light from a far, will make your eyes sting
So even now we can see those many stars
And some assume we could even have life on Mars
But what about that gaping hole in the Milky Way?
That feeds on the mighty energy and light as its prey
A region of spacetime where nothing can escape
Hidden between the stars in its invisible cape
Through event horizon time ticks more slow
To truly unravel space, that we may never know
Categories:
influx, beautiful, creation, earth, mystery,
Form:
Ballad
28 Cracks In The Ceiling
I take my red-inked dagger in hand
And succinctly spew its secrets for all to see.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
There’s a storm moving out of the west.
I can smell the thunder and
The titillating turbulence of tintinnabulation.
An old lady sits cross-legged and knitting,
Waiting for the sweating sun to sink.
“I was just a girl in 1925… and now…”
The endless strained faces out there
Tell stories of death, disease and depravity.
They know the eternal worm is the other one
In this passion triangle.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Snakes frothing in suburbia.
The megabytes of Zanzibar jettison out naked bone chips.
Later months and trivial dimes.
Smokestack realizations in a tent.
Church buttresses holding up my whining soul.
Green Edsels down in San Pedro.
Michelobs and round sassy broads fingering erect nipples.
With a Susie in each arm
He lights a cigarette in honor of grand appeasement.
Sensuous sinews entwine effervescently.
More loose chicks in short skirts,
Pouting and scamming.
Times are hot in the old town tonight.
Music and misery, wine and wickedness.
Stubborn clocks disarm with water-resistant influx.
I was a princox in petticoats.
We met at a Tastee Freez at twilight.
28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.
Categories:
influx, confusion, old, lost, lost,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
I’m the unchained melody hidden within your
Inner soul, the lustful beating heart that ravishes
The male beneath submission’s wrath, leaving nothing
To remain but ashes of erotic residue behind.
I’m the lunar temptress, illuminating thy forbidden desires
By the moonlights influx, a translucent being shimmering
Between enchantments silken sheets of fantasy.
Wants gypsy rose of paradise, shaking my private tambourine,
For the golden bangles of my mid-night lover,
The highway man who’s stolen my heart’s pleasure,
And has left me aching for more.
The nineties twenties flapper, a dime a dance,
For a whirlwinds romance, your hotsy totsy baby,
Lost in the rhythm of the wild, reckless abandonment
Of music’s seduction beat.
Behold I’m the unsheathed rose thorn exposed,
The flickering of candle light burning at both ends,
The untied ribbons, releasing the loose tresses of
Locks of raven hair, that covers the moon at twilight’s
Hour of passion.
Salvation’s untamed spiritual descendant, casting
My vials of temptation to the winds of desert,
As grains of sand, that turns golden as they land,
At the feet of humanity’s thresholds bed chamber.
A glittering jewel of the Nile, sailing the isles
Of fertility beyond the ages, towards the shores
Of infinity within your arms my beloved pharaoh,
I your Egyptian slave, to be commanded at your
Whim’s wish.
Who am I, you ask in a night’s hushed whisper,
The one whom truly loves thee, just ask me and
I will become your heart’s desire, your woman of
Fantasy,
Why again you ask, simply put the woman
Dearest beloved that loves you without
Reservations control, for you are the puppet
Master of my inner soul, and I love thee
Beyond reasons understanding.
CONTEST HOTSY TOTSY
02-18-2015
Categories:
influx, adventure, beauty, desire, dream,
Form:
Free verse
Hands of the piety
Phalanges of work and charity
Driven to spearhead not stoop
Enliven and share not droop
Fingers we dip on stoupe
Churches of the holy in troop
Our faith we lathe with pride
Strongly we hold not stride
Images we fond and draw
Murals we touch like straw
Gentleness in open hands we pave
Roughness in helping hands we stave
Our works and thoughts are one
Over thorns and bouts of man
Skins and colors of faith
Fins and winged colors of the laith
You are a work of art
Embellished with paints of heart
Filled with a well of hope
Influx of worth in the hull of rope
Ropes are extensions of hope that purport
Strengthened by faith and hands of support
Categories:
influx, environment, faith, giving, heart,
Form:
Pastoral
The Oil and the Water are talking to each other...
Oil, so bold displaying her prowess.
Silky and suave, saying...
"I am the greatest.
No liquid can withstand me!"
Water heard it loud
as the Soil on the ground listens.
"I am simple, but balanced.
I am plain and clean."
The Oil boasting...
"I can make everything slip through me,
glide and slide with my power "
The Oil is inside a jar, sitting on the dry ground very close to the river where Water stays all the time.
The Oil continued, "Look at you, don't you get tired with the air currents?... You are always moving, flowing in this river like crazy."
The Water was silent for a while, but the Wind heard what the Oil was saying to the Water.
The Water replied, "Many things depend on me that's why I keep on moving and running all the time."
The Oil bragging again, "Look at me... more people wanted me than you!
Even animals and birds want more of me than you."
The Wind said to the Oil, "We don't have control of everything around us. We should be glad that everything around us make good use of us. "
A man coming from nowhere, walking naked and barefooted, picked the jar of oil and placed it on top of a big rock on the side of the river. The man left the jar open as the skies begin to rumble...
The Wind tried to cover the Oil inside the jar to protect it from overflowing, but the rain already started. More raindrops caused the influx of the Oil from the jar as the Oil cried for help. The Oil dropped freely on the river asking for the Wind and Water's help.
The Oil traveled so far away until it reached a river bed. The Oil stayed in the river bed for a long time and the water there is now contaminated. Until it dried and turned into a swamp.
Categories:
influx, conflict, environment, pride, river,
Form:
Prose
Lagoon of life, lake of man
Bitterness in life, salt of man.
Sourness or sweetness, salt of the tongue
Harvest of the young, actions of man
Sourness of tongue, sweetness of the stung
Sweetness of the unsung, sourness of the dung.
Bitterness of man, life's crucifix
Burden of follies, puff of the lung
Burden of life, crux of crucifix
Flux of follies, marks of cicatrix.
Innocence of man, lake of salted life
Influx of mother's womb, gift of Matrix.
Categories:
influx, destiny, life, words, work,
Form:
Rubai
January twelfth two thousand and ten
witnessed near annihilation and destruction
of the Haitian nation
whereby countless/ nameless individuals
e’en the strongest Herculean type men
crushed by humungous slabs of building facades
practically demolishing every creation
since this island settled, which indigenous tribes
sought safety in any geologic den
seeking solace and salvation from wrath of nature
by paying obeisance via oblation
perhaps giving credence to clear water
in tandem with rooster and hen
that laid a golden egg,
especially as encroaching savages affected violation
particularly when Europeans foisted
forfeiture of land with primitive implement like pen
no matter that travesty, trickery, mockery,
et cetera wrought humiliation
pleading invaders to forsake such actions
that rent asunder culture beseeched god when
these brutish, nasty and (shortish) simians to cease desecration
yet the peoples of this dominion rose
from the ashes like the phoenix like bird
no mattered genetic pool
underwent white washing from scouring influx
from western thumping proselytizers,
which alien beliefs hard to swallow like curd
and basically bribery (with lustrous trinkets)
and those coveted legal tender bucks
foisted/ forced the unpleasant alternative
(wanton slaughter) to be clearly heard
yet within the very fiber of tropical man grove persons
patiently lined up their ducks
and declared as the first African American peoples
INDEPENDENCE to be the word
whence adulation, elation, inspiration akin to the sound winged fowl clucks
until the advent of the major earthquake
composed by this aging hippy type nerd
whereat remote control san voodoo affect every bloody word!
Categories:
influx, abuse, anger, black african
Form:
Elegiac Lyric