Best Initially Poems
A Fantasy
There was I, forgotten in the attic.
Mannequin discarded, ready for demolition.
Cracks everywhere with some rags thrown on
Haphazardly over me like a scarecrow.
Suddenly all lights went out, an outage.
Immediately the generators went off but failed.
In the attic, the air went into a trembling atmosphere
Thunder boomed and lightning filled the room.
An electrical power surge lit everywhere.
Suddenly I felt alive and began to walk, rags and all.
There were other mannequins, so completely ruined,
Some in good shape. But one caught my attention
As she walked towards me. The static turned into music.
May the last waltz last forever. I took her in my embrace,
The dance began, not a word was spoken just gestures.
Mentally I counted one, two. three, around the attic.
Occasionally I twirled her around on her toes,
Suddenly the lights went on and we all went back
To where we were initially, rags and all.
Some people came to inspect the attic and said:
We must get rid of these mannequins once and for all.
We see ourselves unimpeded initially
Some are stricken with a view artificially
We are told by others very specifically
There is a ceiling so proceed timidly
We try in vain with no support futilely
As we age blazing the path dizzily
Sometimes we see the results dismally
Eventually we learn to climb skillfully
We began to achieve sufficiently
Eventually finding success brilliantly
Living life with dreams so vividly
Sadly, a haunting voice still speaks flippantly
Reminding us of the ceiling frigidly
We remain in the arena mistily
Each overcautious step taken judicially
We endure the voice shouting viciously
The battle to continue is done willfully
I tried folding a paper crane again the other day
and it didn't turn out right
tracing back my folds,
I knew I missed somewhere
unfolding, re-creasing, refolding
just tracing my fingers back
fingers
feeling the paper
and beyond
A three-minute fold
times 10 now
Even if I needed to do other things,
I paid no mind, determined to fold that crane
I had to get this right.
I had to.
Almost there...
As it turns out,
I only missed one step,
--something to do with its wings, I believe...
Amazing how a single step
could be so important.
Stretching its wings now,
the paper crane
soars proudly on my palm...
So beautiful.
In refolding this paper crane,
I hope I never forget...
Amazing how easily things slip from our minds,
but more amazing
is when our hearts Do remember.
We remember,
and then we Do something...
...I have hundreds of paper cranes yet to fold,
it may be taking me far longer
than what I had initially planned...
but yes, you are in my thoughts,
you are in my prayers...
and I shall continue folding these cranes.
...I revel in the thought, for that moment,
when I can send them flying towards the Sun...
0409/142012131a133/1139p1155
"Broken families beget culprits, and late remorse can never set things right"
~ By Poet.
Scenes reel back casting dark shadows,
Of the fated day I had to leave my home,
Handcuffed and guarded by cops on either side,
Despised by all as one so loathsome.
I had in me, then the heart of stone
All I could think of was my own gain.
Thoroughly swept by the rip - tide of illusion,
I had no regard for another's pain.
‘Drink life to the lees' was my credo,
So, I gambled to make a hoard of money.
Drugs and dopes gave me instant delight.
Initially my days were all too sunny.
But suddenly life derailed from its track
My wallet was like a leaking tank.
All its contents drained out in no time.
Gradually into dejection and despair, I sank.
Eliminated from life by my own misdeeds,
Weary of mind from stress and strife,
Hate grew and hardened within me as a rock.
Once I ripped my rival with a knife.
Convicted and caught red handed,
I ended up in this cheerless cell.
Within these dank forlorn walls,
I shrink like an oyster in its shell.
Everything here is dusty and rusty.
To get some peace as I attempt to sleep,
Marauding thoughts invade my brain.
Like a line of red ants, they listlessly creep.
In my ears fall the sobs of my loving mother,
Now in dumps, orphaned by her drunken husband,
I could never love my father, a true rascal
But I feel heartbroken as I think of my mother so abandoned
I loved our time together late at night
Love's sanctuary in each others arms
Unwinding and unraveling what's tight
Those years I spent succumbing to your charms
Initially, those hills we climbed were rough
Our boundaries were drawn with compromise
That look you gave me when you'd had enough
Approval of my worth in ardent sighs
But now to mem'ries I've become a slave
Each day I live, I pray to be my last
To sleep beside you even in my grave
Reclaiming love that saved me in the past
The love you gave still warms my broken heart
It's lonely picking up the scattered parts.
an original poem by Daniel Turner
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Written: Aug. 13, 2015
Humming Bird
Initially, it appears
Jackson Pollock's interspatial painting
"Ocean - Tribute,"
overtly oversteps the boundaries of abstract art.
And the eye struggles
to validate its bewildering beauty,
hidden amongst the dribbled droplets of paint!
But then, seemingly spontaneously,
the blobs and dapples of color
intermingle in purpose.
And you see a kaleidoscope of shapes
and forms merge and disperse
into limitless shifting patterns;
as your imagination
gains access to the artist's dream.
Unique to the beholder:
interpretations tap into the imagination,
to abstractly convey cemetery and fluid motion
in the natural cadence of chaos.
Beyond beautiful; it's breathtaking!
Help me save just one
They are so many
I have reason for no gun
I refuse the use of any
Use me to carry him
On my back to safety
It’s now dark, dim
Just one, help me
To what am I assigned
Why am I here, if not for Thee
These men are left behind
Show them mercy, I implore
To what extent, oh dear Lord
Please God, just one more
They are wounded, dying
Hear my plea, just one more
He was a conscientious objector
He would be the first to be awarded the Medal of Honor
He for his actions in Okinawa for his service in World War II
His religious convictions as a Seventh-day Adventist
He refused to carry a weapon
He initially faced opposition, persecution
He would be ridiculed from his fellow soldiers
He ultimately won their admiration by demonstrating courage
He served as a combat medic
He refused to kill an enemy soldier
He chose military service 1942, at Camp Lee, Virginia
He was awarded two Bronze Star Medals with a "V" device
His exceptional valor in aiding wounded soldiers under fire, honored
He saved the lives of 75 wounded infantrymen
He was evacuated on May 21, 1945, aboard the USS Mercy
He was Corporal Desmond Thomas Doss (1919 –2006)
It is a sin
for Gregory to be a miser
even to himself
accumulating infinite fortune
with a half-bedroom to show for it
It is a sin
for miss Zane to gain special gratitude
from her male mates.
Coming late every night
with a different driver,
parading her flashy dividends
as she becomes a model for fashion updates
It is a sin
for Sarah, not taking care of herself
with her body becoming rounder
but still feeds more than an entire Orphanage.
Initially, a very attractive young lady
but now looks like an Old sorcerer.
It is a sin
for Baker to be a clergy
and at the same time a gambler
lavishing in style and losing without remorse
Hell will let loose
if his sponsor is the Church's finance.
Regardless of his anointing,
he's still not beyond the people's wrath.
It is a sin
for Dawson to drive through many open legs
as he jumps from skirt to skirt
and acquainting himself with all forms of underwear,
playing the bad guy who never gets caught.
It is a sin
to stay idle and observe them wrongly
drawing conclusions from every action
without minding their motives or reasons
analyzing closely even while sitting from afar
giving no consideration to the human Nature
which exists in imperfection and faint stains.
It is a sin
castigating the weaknesses of others
while overlooking mine
thereby condemning the crimes I do not commit
which does not make me better either.
As much as they do not know where I faulter
Judging them makes me worst than a sinner.
Sorry, I no more seek your suns
Nor moons
Yes, your suns I loved very much
Your passionate sun
Around which my planets would run
Your cool moons
Shedding long leaves
On my glistening lagoon
I remember
All my swoons
From wine in your spoon
But your nerves
Went for new curves
It happens
Very often
Our rivers do not like the same course
Especially when you endorse
Flames of passion
And we are rivers
You developed a new craze
In a psychedelic haze
In that crazy spree
You started neglecting me
Initially I got lonely
Missed you terribly
My ocean frozen I was in a depression
Of the morbid flower
In pale blue showers
From the two windows
Morose under compulsion
For many a day, month and year
Irritation in the mug of bear
Tearing my spirit
Pulverizing all my lyrics
Landslide in Mirik
But again all rivers are resilient
If you stop its normal course
It gathers unexpected force
The remorse underlie
I grew seasoned without you
I was out of the bottomless blues
Though could not but reflect on the cues
In the morning dew
And sighed too
But I learned to live agile and alert
Brushing aside the frozen heart
Gave up on hashish
Cleaned the debris
Started looking smart
Now I have travelled a long path
No more remorse no wrath
No smokes of the aftermath
Now I understand
The diamonds of life
Love matters much
Especially in the flowers of touch
But when you ignore
It does not matter
I have got my poems of freedom
Your walls can never ruffle them
______________________________
23/11/2016
Note: Mirik is a Himalayan tourist spot in Darjeeling
WHY
Why?
Why, oh my soul, you perpetually
Are yearning to:
See the unseen
Hear the unheard
Feel the unfelt
Touch the untouchable
Attain the unattainable
Believe the unbelievable
Think the unthinkable
Conceive the inconceivable
Know the unknowable
Appreciate the unappreciable
Express the inexpressible
When, no heart of Man, ever able will be
To understand the purity of your language,
Its honesty and grandeur
Unless
Totally it is submerged
To
Poetry’s divine depths?
© Demetrios Trifiatis
25 AUGUST 2013
(This is inspired by Eileen’s Ghali poem “Behind the Words” and was initially intended as a comment)
To fly free is what a poet wants to do
It’s possible that it is different
Probably not to the taste of a few
Quite different and many may dissent.
But the poet should continue his ascent.
But the battle should be won by the poet
People may expect this road to arrive at
But his guts and his muse find his own road
Flight is freedom in its pure form to poets
May dance with clouds and storm, it is his mode
*********
Dr. Ram Mehta
For the Contest: Metrical Verse by Giorgio Veneto
8th Place win
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***Dizain is Ten lines rhymed a b a b b c c d c d poem; usually (though not by definition) iambic pentameter. This is a Dizain chain. This is originally a French form and initially would have been made up of eight syllablelines, but later ten syllable lines were also used.****
When an angel would flow into our breath
That golden moment seldom we can know
Whenever that sublime sunrise occurs
A happiness glow builds its nest on our face
The police sergeant was controlling traffic
In spite of green signal he suddenly stopped all cars
Grin surfaced on the initially annoyed drivers
The sergeant walked an old man across the road
The teacher loved his pupil's mother
Her husband asked her to sleep with him
Looking into her eyes in question he said
The cancer patient is on the verge of death
A couple of days back I lost my purse
With two debit cards along with PIN record
I lost my balance of mind in a trauma
All advised me to report it to the police station
I was about to drive for the station house
A domestic aid appeared like an angel
With the purse in hand and smile on his face
I had dropped it when alighting from the car
Rain clouds lodge in certain souls' DNA
At the slightest heat and dust of exigency
Pearl like drops of pink and green empathy
Moisten their heart towards a rose garden
Out of the blue sometimes a golden hand
Warmly holds your anxious palm in sweat
Reassured you look with green gratefulness
Like a full moon a random help has walked in
________________________________________________
09/02/2017
You left glitter in my shadow
This treason was over apples, initially.
Don't give me that doleful look.
Stars are born with your every breathe.
Your sadness mocks the lilies.
No, I am not a conqueror.
I borrowed this armor.
It was a typical moonlit passage.
Hopping kingdoms for bronze weasels (you know the drill).
My sense of time is backwards.
My heart does not beat (it turns).
Rotating in the grass
I send you coded messages.
Initially, Lady adopted just the gray One for love and fun.
A pal gifted another, a kitten who needed a Mother.
Though spayed, One let Two nurse and her milk did disburse,
said a Vet whose face crunched, bemused and confused.
For One and Two days passed with Lady’s love steadfast.
Cat Three showed in winter’s cold, wanting warmth’s hold.
At first, Three was snubbed by grown One and growing Two.
Eventually their curiosity was peaked by things Three did do,
strange things Cat One and Cat Two could not reason thru.
Three stole garments from the basket of Lady’s dirty clothes,
dragged them into corner places that she carefully chose,
and then she, Cat Three, exposed all to odd licking throes.
Appalled, One and Two would withdraw and prissily pose,
until pride turned trite when Lady raced a laser, red light.
Four showed one Spring day, when Lady saw a gray tail sway
belonging to a striped, cat-baby who had no home or safety.
Lady immediately, eagerly, telephoned her brother, Clark,
and asked if Four would officially make her a Crazy Cat Lady.
He spoke, but she could not quite hear the words from Clark,
not over his ten dogs harmonizing a united, piercing bark.