Best Infusing Poems
I'm an ashen dove,
fading in zephyr
of wine valleys,
saturating in fog
upon enchanting hills,
draped in
grape-green silk,
where fantasies of forest,
sprout cynthia moon
of a bygone
medieval saga,
amidst heavenly
eventides,
and wailing weeds
prick my shadow,
infusing iced intentions
of the puppet's paradise~
floating in islets
of shackled bones.
My wings are
made of violet wool,
fluffed with
blueberry cotton
and stitched
with the fabric of
amethyst satin,
but as soon as
my tiptoeing feet
touch the
seafoam grass,
it stings my silent
glacial flight,
making me bleed
in chloroform-
dipped letters.
If love was a
rosy matte comet,
I would carve
pastel orchid smiles
amidst kismet-coated
cherry blossoms,
with frozen floral paints
and forgive
beige betrayals
of aqua sirens,
to which the
scents of evermore,
sweetly succumbed.
But maybe,
jasper tinted
jasmine petals,
are sewn with
poisoned thistles
whilst being
dispersed upon
the chambers of
midnight raindrops,
and those
soulful stars
in your eyes are
a mere mirage,
flourishing
false silhouettes of
a perfumed
saudade in
nocturnal negligence.
So, pardon these
bleeding metaphors
that echo sombre
sun's soliloquy in the
hazy kiss of gloom
and follow me
to the teal towers,
where this
fluorescent flesh
slumbers in enfolded
spruce leaves of
sequoia sonnets.
For, when the last petal
falls as poetry,
my soul would be
alive in wistful runes,
mourning in a
doleful decanter,
whilst eyes
would frown
in fragile promises,
wiping diplomatic
dust of dolent delusions
and knitting mists of
manipulations,
carelessly sinking~
to soil of feathered
dandelions.
Where nurtured seeds
of jade reflections,
still haven't ruptured
every pixie dust of hope,
in their life's
dormant decession,
reminisce me
as an ivory moonrise,
fluttering beyond,
dahlia chains of sunshine.
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
In my portrait of life the
palette began in pigments
of blue, red and yellow,
but with each stroke,
my horizons slowly dissolved into
mustard, muddy brown
and burnt orange.
Not everything you portray
upon a canvas is mutually accepted,
so my soul remained subjective
and my heart abstract.
As I collect dust upon my shoulders,
I wish I was a painting never painted.
Visibility has turned into a veil,
resulting in stubborn invisibility,
so everything is an illusion
lingering in a black hole absorbing
the conspicuous.
I know I will regret not expressing one day
but bitter roots remain rooted deep into the earth.
I don't want to hide
but protect what breeds inside.
I'm afraid someone may look deeper
into this façade where time forgets the truth.
My hands resemble a box of nothingness,
as hues fade from indigo into charcoal,
with pastels infusing with the darkness.
My heart is an ocean
beneath a motionless surface.
Not everyone can view the world
like Van Gogh's eyes,
where the longer you stare
the more you become aware.
In blind visions a 'driftwood' mind wanders
between mental blankness and
the angst of actuality,
all that survives is blackness.
If fate was fair
then we would all view and be viewed
in soft pastels of peach,
sapphire and lilac.
The harder I attempt to find myself,
I lose more than I thought I would gain.
At the end upon the edge
in the last exhale all that is left
will be the silence after an echo.
"Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more, in the leafless root there is no less" - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I'm a sunflower,
dipped in honey of
bittersweet bronze smiles,
admiring its soulmate
strolling around the sun,
in sombre shine of
eclipsed dawn, whilst
these faes lure poisoned
pollens with flaming
ruby red ocean foams,
And I see a peculiar
patchwork on knitted
canopies, which are
sprouting clayey hearts
out of crimson crooned
willow branches.
Crumbling to pixies,
falling lifeless like fragile
leaflets in autumnal carols,
I believe, twin flame
telepathy is a souvenir
of roses and thorns,
which emerges as wanton
wildfire on the brim of
ocean's moon-song
in mellifluous mystery,
outlining turmoil in
turquoise land of trolls.
For, magnetised feathers
on matte lips always get
soaked in ashey sighs
of regret, whenever
bewitching conspiracy
of his amethyst eyes,
befalls in dialects of
forest's echoes and the
brittle skin of basilisk
slithers with a deadly gaze
upon my mulberry heart.
Chasing seasonal winds,
I became the fading mist
that succumbs to the
sheath of amber rays,
infusing in my lungs,
and suffocating my love for life;
Amidst these broken skies,
you left shadows of
pencil-sketched debris,
that float like wisps
of faulty daffodils,
distorting my dreams
and twisting thy truths,
in hellfire horizon that
sets our graves apart,
beyond million miles of
satanic soliloquies.
I can see a sunny day
The air is crisp and clear and warm
It permeates my skin
Infusing every single pore
with lavender of light
Every wing of every bird
glides in feathered harmony
Every flower beckons
and honey glistens every hive
as busy bee’s parade
It’s not just in my memory
this day of golden shine
Through silver beaded drops of rain
and clouds of shadowed fate
I see it up ahead
I feel that sunny day
and with its keen embrace
I’ll hold onto its ever present kiss
To not look back and not regret
and linger in the dawn
Written: January 20, 2024
___________________________________
Weary of heartfelt kindness,
on rugged slopes,
Charming and brilliant,
will fall back into darkness.
Yet they suit rose and oak,
I survive,
Mates and minds meet on Earth,
Mingle with subdued dust,
Few opinions or facts,
Slurries, or rules, are vestiges,
yet the finest has vanished,
An aversion to caring hearts,
Amidst rugged scenery,
Charming and well-versed
Shall revert to oblivion,
Dot with ivy and blooms
I endure unblemished
Soar into space, mates, and sages,
Mortar and grime
Low empathy or moral venture,
yet the finest has faded away.
Beneath a veil of dense foliage,
I'm back to my ethereal abode
peaceful midst of rustling woods
My worldly life is over,
The cacophony drove me
loudness, delight, and pain,
faded into timeless quiet
I am at ease
Dancing across your mind and heart,
infusing your soul with tender views
Grief will lessen in-depth agony,
At sunset, daylight will wane
I'm here.
I can be felt as you cross this place,
Feel the soft breeze on your skin
sun-dappled woodland floor,
high-up branches whisper,
I'm everywhere
I've returned home,
My clay-creating plug-ins
Earth blessed me with an idyllic life,
has brought me back in,
To adore her radiance,
Under my leafy shade
It is my place of peace,
I'm home.
An amethyst sunset
splashed across the sky,
a rainbow after a storm;
majestic mountains
crowned with snow,
and a pristine lake
of cobalt blue.
A crimson cardinal
hopping across the lawn,
the purring of a cat
curled up in my lap, its fur
soft against my fingers;
wisteria hanging
in grape-like clusters,
infusing the air with its
intoxicating perfume,
and azaleas in full bloom.
The soft sigh
of a baby's breath
against my cheek, and
the innocent laughter
of children at play.
A hug from a friend,
my true love's kiss,
the arms of my grandchild
wrapped tightly
around my neck.
In all these things,
and so much more,
God's quiet voice
whispers,
"I love you."
11/12/15
For Brian Strand's All Yours (March 28) contest
Taking a long ink dip in a desert pond,
rejected drake words
ripple echoes in the wilderness: Tread with care!
Dreadnought thoughts silicate crystalized,
glass menagerie opens to a darkening sky
Wing-tipped metal muse raised to the foreboding air,
infusing liquid lightning to the bard birds
Watching intently as the anti-gravity atoms abscond,
executive electrocution is on a delay timer
Prose avian sentries see
Splitting anti-social charges
seep into the hate-soaked, polluted atmosphere
These momentous crisis changes,
poets of a new dawn articulate so very clear
Tho’ labeled by a scornful society
as being conscientious ugly ducklings,
the fear factor in the swirling wind
keeps increasing it’s whirl war buffeting
Incoming V-formation of ionized mallard birds
dropping kinetic malevolent words
Stork deliver radiation babies —
Blackhawk moving targets that glow
with surgical stealth Caesarian precision
Whilst the designated survivors
be the fleeing flock having open duck ears
Poets of a new dawn
continually pen agitate
strong current ripples in the desert pond
Letting their U2 ugly quill mirage liquidity
dose infect the minds of those
who syringe swan dive in beautiful disbelief
“This is love: to fly toward a secret Sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life.
Finally, to take a step without feet.” ~ Rumi
Life can be a pilgrimage through rainless moors
and solemn seascapes draped
in mists of soundless mayhem,
where bleeding butterflies reflect
the fading stars etched with broken promises~
that time has abandoned.
I am a corpse of a firefly suspended
in a maroon mirage,
chained with petunias and pearls,
while my heart seeks a celestial chorus
to recite a harmonious hymn.
I yearn to write a compassionate chord,
ricocheting with empathetic embers,
silencing the fiendish
drumbeats of the devious leeches,
searing the fragile curves
of my cinnamon skin,
as I’ve long been a victim
of the vindictive voices of Satan
and his spellbound followers.
Yet nestled between temptation and torment,
a garden of miracles blooms
with lavender lakeshores,
its sweet scents of honey-rose petals
infusing the aching air,
unveiling a sky adorned with lily wings
and sapphire serenity.
O how I long to be the
silhouette of moon fairies
revising and rearranging
kismet melodies shaped in sorcery~
for I draw salt-kissed sunsets
in acrylic eloquence,
to eliminate black magic violations
still running beneath my trembling toes.
I will dance to the alliterative rhythm of
adjectives and assonance,
flowing in sync with the viking violin
within my soul.
So listen to the unlocked
tunes of restricted rhymes;
you’ll hear my name unchained from
the maleficent mantras~
weaving metaphors
screaming between resilient lines of
highlighted healing,
rephrasing the art of letting go
tattooed in raven jewels,
flipping porcelain pages of hope,
flowing within
the anthology of sprouting orchids.
In his last minutes of life, he closed his eyes
where shadows appeared like blackbirds
beneath the moonlight of lost thoughts
above the misty graveyard of his soul
Ghostly apparitions of sadness haunt an old mind
Past illusions of love
Whose faces are etched in the fractured glass of the heart
and lay among the cobblestones of despair
leading to the ancient gate of tombstones
that stand in the overgrown twisted weeds of yesterday
Where memories were painted on his heart
with a soft colored brush of expectations
captured in the imagination of tomorrow
and dwelled in the sanctuary of coupling and understanding
that disappeared from life's turmoils, turning an empty husk
that decayed in time as they passed through...as visitors
who met along the way
Yet stay as an image in the mind's eye from long ago
These are the shadows of lost loves
Whose breath raptured a poet's contentment
with precious passions, infusing the heart with glorious wonder
buried now in the sacred ground with a soul's reflection
Where nothing enters but solitude
as he waits for the moment of timeless dark that falls
upon the last second of breath
10/19/19
The Magic of Christmas Divine
Christmas cometh only once in each year,
Infusing us with moments so divine,
Giving us God’s love in His cosmic rhyme,
As mankind basks now true in hope and cheer!
God brings us His Son’s love precious and near,
In a mystic rhythm of iambic rhyme,
Whilst we seek Christ’s holy embrace in kind,
Praising Him with our love true and sincere!
Christ’s passion gives us His true love replete,
As we bathe in Heaven’s light ever bright,
Sharing His endless love on Christmas night!
Christmas magic touches our souls complete,
As we celebrate Christ’s love here on Earth,
Praising His transcendence from mortal birth!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
December 16, 2016 (Petrarchan Sonnet)
Author’s Notes:
Meter: Iambic Pentameter
Octave: abbaabba | Sestet: cddcee
As winter's icy talons release their grip,
Leaving behind a landscape barren brown,
Spring waltzes in and proceeds to strip,
Winter of her tattered, lifeless gown,
Replacing it with green and floral crown.
Golden sunlight thaws the frigid earth,
Flora of a thousand kind burst into bloom.
Nature comes alive in glorious rebirth,
Extinguishing winter's boorish gloom,
And infusing the air with sweet perfume.
Butterflies take flight from their cocoons,
Spreading wings of red, blue and gold.
Warbling birds let loose a merry tune,
While building nests, their eggs to hold.
How marvelous to watch new life unfold!
What joy it is to be alive,
To feel spring's sunshine on your face,
To live, to love, to dream, to thrive,
As spring assumes her proper place,
Wrapping us in her warm embrace.
Lincoln never imagined
today’s white victim zeitgeist,
pouting persecuted supremacists,
their clenched jaws and fists.
Civil war rages in limbic memory.
Encoded somewhere,
the panic attacks and mirages.
Nobody is qualified because everybody is responsible.
So many whites have graduated from the struggle,
showcasing their diploma from the mill.
Lincoln never imagined
modern virtual vitriol,
merciless memes lashing out at specters,
infusing, inciting depravity among the sleep deprived.
These words are battleships aimed at the reviled.
The unshielded summon civility.
They beckon familiar principles.
But rabid cougars wait in hiding, eager to pounce.
All the feeble markets for platitudes have failed,
as subliminal cavities endure each generation.
Mental lynch mobs, rebel flags, supremacy’s utopia.
Lincoln never imagined
a 21st century cartoon president,
a white nationalist clicking social network epithets,
a whining overgrown tormenter
with a cult of Stalinist believers.
Where are the intelligible?
How is all this animated fury converted?
What is the lesson plan?
Who will bury the code?
How long this agonizing journey into normality?
Lincoln never imagined.
Published Tuck Magazine 04/ 2019
Women in my family
Of all, I owe most to my mom and my younger sister
Who have brazenly stolen a chunk of my heart!
Mom, you were always our pillar of support
And a vast repository of values and inspirational love
We have always seen you as a Powerhouse of strength
Kissing away our tears and infusing hope in us.
The intimacy I share with my younger sister
Surpasses all other ties and is too deep for words
Ever and anon, through smiles and giggles,
Through every twist and turn of life,
We were (are) together as a pair of twins,
Prodding each other to move ahead
This garland of words with much love
I hang on the portrait of my mom
______________________________
June. 23.2022
~Placed First~
Women in My Family Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sotto Poet
Come October, I feel a nip in the air,
frosting my breath like contrails of smoke;
while gilded leaves start tumbling from the trees.
Overhead, a gaggle of honking geese
are fleeing Winter's approach:
joining the songbirds that have migrated south.
The Fall leaves are painted with bold strokes
of yellow, scarlet, fuchsia, gold, and orange:
inked by Jack Frost,
and sprinkled on the ground like confetti.
Amber and vermilion drip from the trees;
pooling into a crunchy sea
of colorful leaves: that the wind weaves,
into shifting swirls of abstract art.
One of Nature's boldest paintings,
Autumn steals one's breath away, instilling awe;
infusing Summer's death with Winter's birth:
a truly magical transformation to behold.