Best Intermingling Poems
boy and girl intermingling
blood and veins overlapping
vulnerableness
a violet's caress
lavender kombucha
passion's persona
jasmine's megaphone
harmony's tone
music's movements
sincere sentiments
amethyst's kiss
hot and cold amiss
an artist's loaded brush
a starfish's bluish blush
a fairy dusting
mountain berry ice cream
jelly doughnut filling
ripened grapes distilling
regal drape twine
an eggplant's bloodline
royalty's manners
hung Lutheran banners
a swing-seated spiritual rest
creativity compressed
a poet's potential prose
a rare rose
a nose of lilac blooms
beauty's ballrooms
a pleasurable bruise
love's uncomfortable shoes
a plum's point of view
progeny of red and blue
evening sky's blending
a rainbow's favorite ending
Inspired by Friedrich Von Schiller’s poem,
The birth to a tumultuous...orchestral bliss.
The flicks of his wand was the rhythm he heard,
A call for dramatic attention...an extraordinary passage.
As he pulls...he demands...rejecting the three movements,
A dense prelude to what is to come softly emerges.
The lower strings of the orchestra sadly...grope,
And transcend into a new melody...a higher plateau.
Intermingling yet surprisingly...exploding into full orchestra,
The rhythm leaves his wand...to the choral of ode to joy.
A musical patriot with passionate poise...conducts in silence.
His soul’s final composition permeates from the gestures of his wand.
A deaf body with a mindful soul...fatigued and battered,
Deprived to listen to the thunderous applause...of his life’s magnum opus.
Free Verse
I live not far from humankind the cradle that is of
what and where we are all coming from Johannesburg
so they say and going to one human race of every colour
no need for power domination colonializing margins
The ‘dark continent’ where the ‘savages’ did not abide
by our expectations of what civilized should be and mean
where it was us the other 'othering' cannibalizing our flesh
of freedom dignity compassion lost in money mind and soul
My cradle rocks and sways in the wild gentle winds in
torrents of emotion mood reflection history anticipation
certain of uncertainty of what the intermingling retrospective
past and future web together like a tapestry of life a bricolage
Lost threads there are and double knitted faults and hollows
shallow worn out spins and spiral knots and missing patches
mended winding fabric scars and wounded oscillations
swings and roundabouts cul-de-sacs and four-way stoppage
Is there a pattern to cradling the moment to memories to
fantasies of rooted wings and flapping roots a human kind
of compass joining needles implements of mass construction
subjective individual shining lights and armour idiosyncratic beauty
Are we starving demising suffocating for self-righteousness
loosing the plot and all the marbles thrown high up in the
air with juggled balls we aim to fix the waters rivers flowing
on their own with push and pull of light and lighted gravitation
Just here and now not there and then when sunshine rises
where rainbows glitter melt and wax the wane all of the colours
into violet prisms focussing condensing refracting blinding darkness
understanding knowledge of the shadows and bright clarity
When I write some thoughts on paper on the screen of modern
techniques and ancient art of crafted words and scripted meaning
the cradling of the moment takes its paths of where I’ve started off
and might be going once and only when the moment passes
02nd July 2016 written in Johannesburg and everywhere
He squealed,
Like a pig in heat
Praising God for he believed
He sat, 2 years old
And he looked at the lord
Drew an angels breath
Swatted a toy
A bird that could not fly
Meant for another mans eye
Gramp's died
took a colorado bound plane
in the seat pocket in front
was a small toy ostrich
I shoved it deep into my pocket
I could not say why
When I got home
a sickness ensued
with pink cottage cheese chunks
Filled up the sink
and i withered in pain
He died
It came
on the window pane
it was white like a ghost
did not appear on french toast
it was like a laser etching
awoke to the bird symbol awakening
and i had that toy
same exact size
and this symbol on the window
with every feather perfectly detailed
could be traced from the toy to the window
difference was that the tail was composed many fine, white, smooth flowing, intermingling lines
translucent, and seen best by brightest daylight
I thought it was condensation
that it would fade away
but it remained
©
Rose petals scattered on the floor
Rays of rainbow
Shining in the air of noir
Bouquets of pure white
On the glass table
Set with the flutes of bubbly
Champagne pink
Music booming throughout the night
Laughter intermingling
The sound of happiness in a much simpler time
Hikikomori is the way of survival
As it seems
Don’t be afraid
At least we’re still moving forward
One step closer to the end
through lean years
in this thing called life
i’ve tended to my garden
erected walls with what i could
made a shelter called it mine
i filled each corner
in convoluted ways
with memories and fantasies
along the way weeds got the best of me
my garden looks more like a junkyard
a roadmap of regrets discarded
scruffy trails of abandoned rejects
milestone remnants of betrayals
sometimes i meander
thru the backlanes of my mind
both the garden and the junkyard
intermingling in a unique form of art
it’s messy but i claim it as my own
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~IN THE GARDEN OF MY FANTASY~ 2023
Read on air by invitation ~ January 16, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on October 5, 2019 for contest MY FAVORITE JUNKYARD sponsored by CRAIG CORNISH - RANKED 12TH
Olive Frazier
1854 – 1895
To my many august friends,
Mere survivors under this hungry consuming California sky.
Before you can reach high to the stars, my friends,
Both feet must firmly be set upon the ground first.
This, in essence, is the lesson of a lifetime.
Here in Clark Cemetery, the soil is rich and fertile.
In my prime years I have walked here
Walked on many an afternoon and many an early evening.
Walked and slowly strolled and ambled
Like a solitary tumbleweed in a restless wind.
Like a knock-kneed crab in a dark watery place
Commiserating with the barnacles.
It was on such a stroll
That I encountered the handsome Mr. Frazier.
Milton by name, bricklayer by trade.
We watched the sunset that evening.
Two hawks in flight high in the blue
Swaying effortlessly in the high breeze.
We found love in the dust
And we found heartbreak in the endless shadowed distances
Of Clark Cemetery.
I left this earth giving birth to my baby.
And now together we peacefully reside in this deep hole.
Together with Milton, my love.
Together now and forever in the dirt and the dust.
Milton, I am sorry I left you alone when I died.
So sorry you had to go on without us.
Often when the clouds above give drink to this dead land,
I think of us
Wondrously and miraculously alive,
Strolling to the east under the canopy of the walnut trees.
Your hand in mine
Your heart and mine intermingling magically.
Thank you my husband.
I was indeed privileged to be your wife.
Colors of the spectrum
Light up my world
Bright rays dancing
Shades enhancing
The kaleidoscope of sound
I can feel it all around
A whisper on the wind
The murmur of the stream
Rustling of leaves
Creaking of the eaves
Roaring of the waves
Cooing of a babe
Birds a chirping
Bees a buzzing
Thunder rumbling
Mountain crumbling
Ringing honking
Beeping thumping
Crashing clanging
Booming bopping
Intermingling all together
In every season, scene or weather
And it echoes in my head
As I lie on heather beds
Such a masterful symphony
Sweetest ever melody,
All the world´s life in harmony.
I look upon a dam today
That nature didn't build
The water wasn't gentle
As the rocks will soon reveal
The danger it is producing
From rain and melted snow
Has caused problems to others
Where the river flows below
The rocks that surround the dam
Have for centuries stood
And gave into the urgings
Of Mother Natures mood
Cracked and crumbling
They do a danger pose
But the man made bridge below it
Allow the mystery to unfold
Their colors and their shapes and size
Were finally brought to light
As the waters and the wind
Pushed the dirt aside
Some of them are red
Some of them are brown
Some of them are green with moss
And some of them are tan
Native foliage in cracks are found
Purple lupin and yellow clover abound
Blue sage brush and mountain dandelions too
Give new life to this awesone view
And as we leave this scene of scenes
The mountain walls do grow
Some rounded intermingling humps
The sharp ones behind could have snow
I look upon the huge red wall
Its remindes me of red clay
The kind I used to play in
Which are now three states away
The white rocks on top this wall
Near match the clouds above
Each rock is different and like the clouds
Change at natures touch
But half way down the red wall
White and blacks stripes come into play
And there on the ground below
Pieces of the stripes do lay
The grassy mountains lucious green
Beckon cattle near
But the forests here are all dead trees
From a fire just last year
Mear words can not discribe
What I really see
No matter how hard I try
It's a small bit of heaven to me
Cile Beer
Life Is Like A Maypole.
In our spring, we are born;
our dance begins as inter-woven events
and experiences build our future.
Blood-red trauma,
wraps itself around our happiest moments…
it never wins.
Always uplifted by orange-joys,
winding ribbons, we heal a bit.
Intermingling emotions are etheric ribbons;
round and round, they twine.
Once we are completely enveloped;
developed by life’s dance;
the grey’s of middle-age decline,
begins to unravel;
reversing our celebration until,
death’s icy grip ads its finishing touch.
A soul is born; in growing,
learns and passes into another existence…
re-incarnating for another dance.
Entered contest: Life Is Like A Maypole
Sponsored by: Seren Roberts
1-19-15
Moon Spoons
We dive into each other with love from highest peaks of the mountain
quench our thirst with no parachute needed as we drink from the fountain
in free fall we enter the kingdom and queendom of passionate devotion
no hidden agenda self-righteousness gone just poetry and poets in motion
In words and all touch of the senses we scribe on intermingling tapestry
we dangle in suspense and fulfilment like chocolate milky stars in a galaxy
of kindness compassion held by emotion’s gravity solar powered and moon
when we met you promised to fetch it if you possibly could with a spoon
I replied that we would knit and harvest scoop up our journey together
catch dreams rainbows reality strong like a castle and light as a feather
two butterflies mating our soul mind body stellar constellation narration
scribing our infinite story of fairy tale attraction love smith’s pollination
Joined at hippy hips mind feeling flowering bodies and soul’s contemplation
we float further and further like purposive driftwood in tidal association
are all always and all ways reciprocate cupid’s arrows and fluttering hearts
sift through sediments previous losses chart thunder and light for a new start
Your rhyme and your rhythm convulses gently with my meter muse lute
the soft touches of skin on sugar coated layers of consciousness funnels flute
crevice and harbour safe havens hot lover’s lava fired in loving embraces
cuddle share solace transcend into tender time peaked pinnacle’s places
Words alone can never by a mile explain what it means to have you by my side
my lover soul mate best friend and pleasure’s companion day and all night
when we were in our darkest torrents devastation and it felt like a monsoon
we simply fell into love with each other full spoons ahead and into the moon
20th September 2016
Put Her Clothes On
Gave illustrious example of intermingling
As to how it will compare with singling
Someone out from a huge, big crowd
Being exuberant and sexually endowed.
(Who Trump said Hillary isn't.)
Why would you do a thing like that before
To someone you loved and did adore
Then around whole world had to scower
See good looking girl like her in the shower.
To all of the things there has to be a rub
She actually looks better in a bathtub
While in nude seeing each shiny tooth
Would be exposed to in a kissing booth.
Of all what seemed to be biggest surprise
When you looked into her adorable eyes
They always somehow gave you a hint
Horrible husband is running for President.
After being prepared to make mad dash
And with her in bathtub taking a splash
Lovely thing probably has left and gone
Into next room to put clothes back on.
Sure you know who I am talking about
See her having hotdogs with Sauerkraut
Not being able to meet your demands
With weird shaped mouth and little hands.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Gingko’s golden leaves
Intermingling maple red
Glorious carpet
Strolling through autumn’s return
Mesmerized and delighted.
Chrysanthemum blooms
Vine maple dotting hillsides
Lingering roses
Color, color everywhere
Last call to outdoor dining
Pilfering raccoons
Raiding cornfields and orchards
Laughing at farmers
Indian summer picnicking
Last hurrah before winter
For Amy Green's contest "Enchantment of Fall Tanka Moment"
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch
(King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table have been reported as ghostly hunters, near Devon, around Halloween.)
Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:
Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.
They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.
They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.
Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, hunting, Halloween, England, London, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales , romance, romantic, myth, mythology, legend, legends, night, sky
The winter and the spring are intermingling;
some days warmth and sun; some cold and rain,
and the flora that is needing reconditioning
swell their buds, and start greening once again,
and on the clothesline wire,
or dead branch on a briar,
soon become the occupier
of my backyard where begins a season reign.
A pair of eastern spinebills have concluded,
that the fork in a ti-tree is just right,
for they seem to think it’s fairly well secluded
to raise a family from, an egg until flight;
bottlebrush and fuschia,
emu bush and correa,
heath and grevillea,
provide the nectar their blooming does invite;
but every predator, they’re seeking prey,
for their makeup is depending on protein;
secrecy is a must, to keep hunters at bay,
and diversion tactics do provide a screen,
from a hawk and cat,
butcherbird and rat,
a cunning raven that
enjoys young tender chicks in their cuisine;
but day by day the brood keeps growing bigger,
with mum and dad kept busy on the wing,
and within two weeks the chicks are full of vigor,
so leave the nest to face what futures bring;
what a pleasant scene -
see them perch and preen,
two replicas yet to wean,
and truly a celebration in the spring.