Best Interspersed Poems
I shore up my doubt, behind a loosely bound hope
Which in turn is propped up without foundation
Cynical of a life, at the mercy of luck
Collateral damage feeds my reservation
I shore up my tomorrow with what I see today
Without conspiracy or investigation
I place trust in all that’s completely unfettered
For fear, I’m left to this present resignation
I shore up my life with whatever came before
Not hindsight or academic education
The oblivion traversed until I was born
Strings along primal echoes of information
I shore up my conscious with bliss and ignorance
Interspersed with indifference on occasion
It’s not I don’t care about suffering and death
Rather, I’m desensitised by their pervasion
I shore up my denial with an open mind
Which is nothing except raw interpretation
This planet spins correctly, even though tilted
Not by wishful thinking, but strange gravitation
I shore up my boredom, trying to fall asleep
When really tired, will attempt hibernation
Anything to forget this human condition
After remembering, I’m long past salvation
I shore up my heaven, by creating a hell
Balance looks more appealing, in an equation
Gaze upon purgatory, and share what I see
Not because I’m kind, it’s more my destination
I shore up this poem by claiming it’s my own
But in truth, it’s an open collaboration
I conspire with the musings of all that’s unclear
They dwell inside me, in flawless aberration
- - - - - - -
(And as the sky darkened I heard these words)
better to face hell alone ~ than bring the whole world along for the ride
said the moon eclipsing the sun ~ who replied son I’m right behind you
I shore up my doubt, behind a loosely bound hope
Which in turn is propped up without foundation
Cynical of a life, at the mercy of luck
Collateral damage feeds my reservation
I shore my up tomorrow with what I see today
Without conspiracy or investigation
I place trust in all that’s completely unfettered
For fear, I’m left to this present resignation
I shore up my life with whatever came before
Not hindsight or academic education
The oblivion traversed until I was born
Strings along primal echoes of information
I shore up my conscious with bliss and ignorance
Interspersed with indifference on occasion
It’s not I don’t care about suffering and death
Rather, I’m desensitised by their pervasion
I shore up my denial with an open mind
Which is nothing except raw interpretation
This planet spins correctly, even though tilted
Not by wishful thinking, but strange gravitation
I shore up my boredom, trying to fall asleep
When really tired, will attempt hibernation
Anything to forget this human condition
After remembering, I’m long past salvation
I shore up my heaven, by creating a hell
Balance looks more appealing, in an equation
Gaze upon purgatory, and share what I see
Not because I’m kind, it’s more my destination
I shore up my poem by claiming it’s my own
But in truth, it’s an open collaboration
I conspire with the musings of all that’s unclear
They dwell inside me, in flawless aberration
- - - - - - -
(And as the sky darkened I heard these words)
better to face hell alone ~ than bring the whole world along for the ride
said the moon eclipsing the sun ~ who replied son I’m right behind you
By
David Kavanagh
Certain weeks I’m busy
And I run around a lot
So I’m either in a tizzy
Or I’m wondering why not.
For when plans are sometimes lacking
You might think I’d just relax
But I sent those calm genes packing
And I’m antsy to the max.
Though, with age in the equation,
Staying home at times appeals
And I don’t need much persuasion
If the cold nips at my heels.
Yet it’s balance I am seeking,
Busy interspersed with not.
Too much either way I’m freaking
(Which I tend to do a lot).
Letting Go
Letting go...sometimes it happens twice,
Eventually, as life does cast its dice.
The little ones we raised flew from the nest,
Though for sure, the time we shared was blessed.
Into our lives there came the second chance;
New little ones to share our lives, enhance
Grandparent's joy to love; lives interspersed.
Gift of second chance soon followed first...
Off they fly, now grown, new paths dispersed.
How quick the years go by when we
find joys we think will never pass.
Although they do, we happily
accept the new ones we amass.
joys of parenthood
relived with young grandchildren;
next joys...their success
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Letting Go - Three Form Style
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 04/13/2016
~10th Place~
Premiere Contest: Your Best Poem From Any of Laura Loo's Contests
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 09/18/2016
Elevated railroad tracks
Abandoned long ago
Have been transformed into a place
Where grass and flowers grow.
With benches made of wood or stone
And artwork interspersed,
The desolation and despair
Have all but been reversed.
If visiting the city
Is a plan that you have made
Then walk upon the High Line
And behold what’s there displayed.
It’s part and parcel of the town
But also quite unique
So stroll the High Line if
A New York feeling’s what you seek.
Contn'd from Pg 1
So she called out to the stranger and asked for a ride
Snow had fallen heavily and already piled three feet high
When she climbed into the four-wheel truck never giving it another thought
Before he headed down the highway, he went into a crowded bar
Intuition nudged her, ‘get out now, turn back!’ But pride urged her, 'stay'
He returned with a brown bag; appearing harmless as he turned to her
‘Say, you’re trembling!’ He said and flashed a breathless smile
‘Here, have a slug, of this, it’ll warm you up, pretty girl!’
Hesitation loomed for a minute then she accepted the bag from his hand
Young Rachel, was now treading a path beyond thin, cracking ice
As tears stung her beautiful eyes, she'd never had a drink this strong
How her vacant tummy rebelled against the searing burn
Nausea arose from deep within, and she began to have regrets
Registering strong protest, her regurgitation would later accuse her killer
Her faith was sealed as there were no open doors left for escape
And before she realized he had made a reckless wide left turn
Down the snow covered dirt path through tall pines and fir
No longer were there sightings of sparsely lit farm houses
Interspersed along the desolate, picturesque landscape
The four-wheeler tackled with ease, snow drifts of fresh fallen snow
Where the following spring young Rachel's body would be discovered
That night Rachel laid buried under a few feet of snow
She was at rest now to awaken to eternity in sunny fields
Beautiful as daisies growing in heaven, carefree and endlessly in bloom!
~*~
For: Rachel..R.I.P.
I hear the chirruping of birds.
It emerges from vast hidden spaces
from wherever the birds may be.
Their twittering sounds are scattered,
interspersed with cricket sounds
and the intermittent whimpers of a lonely pup
that seems to be a distance not too far away.
The birds refuse to show themselves.
They are like the happy people of my neighborhood
busy with their lives. . . .
The birds and my neighbors elude me.
The crickets keep to their camouflage in the grass.
The little dog's sad cries have now disappeared.
On this ordinary warm June afternoon
I begin to wonder where Robin Redbreast went.
It seems like it was yesterday - a brighter day -
I saw her in my very own front yard.
If she's singing now, I wouldn't know.
I do not know the song of a sparrow from a lark's.
I'd rather “feel” joy, not just hear it.
And I'd rather see with my own eyes
those crickets at their play (I'm just that way).
I'd like to have that little dog with me.
I'd pat his head and stroke his coat and say,
"Robin Redbreast hides from us today.
She may have gone away, but I am here, sweet dog.
I understand. I understand."
For the the 'ALL YOURS (Apr 20)' Poetry Contest of Brian Strand
Form: Infinite Dot Thirteen Verse Is a rare form of poetry, where by the poem is made up of thirteen lines and within the poem has interspersed dots for emphasis on the spoken word. However the total number of dots must add up to 33, and the additions to arrive at this number should or may have significance. Examples would be 16/17 or 10/10/13 or mystical such as 12/12/9 and you can subdivide the 12 say as 7/5 to equal 12. There are no other punctuations used, to place emphasis on the specific pauses.
Life in your thirties
Your getting old in youngsters eyes
Yet what has happened to the years before
I was born ...educated ...loved and lost
Heart ached for the what was and isn't now
Time passed thoughts remain
Where are the friends I made along the way
They dropped .......like stones .....
.....why
Did conversation die
Or fade
.......Regrets
Yes many...when I think of you.
One little sidestep off the beaten track,
Is a colorful garden of dazzling shades,
With blood red geraniums of scintillating hue
Interspersed by those of white and baby pink,
Where beauty sings mysteriously,
Reigning in every theme, a place of bliss
Where silence speaks for itself,
Where bees are the only intruders, I suppose.
A place to feast the eyes and relax,
Reminding one of the Garden of Eden!
At its center is someone, in blossoming beauty.
Not sure if she is sitting on the edge of a boulder,
Or simply crouching on the carpet of grass,
Or is it a statue set up amid the array of flowers?
An angelic form so intent on what she does,
Lost to the world, her face bent,
But eyes moving up and down,
In tandem with the sewing needle in hand.
Is she stitching a frock for her little girl,
Sitting close to her mother’s feet?
A starlet fallen from the night sky,
Or a cherubim dropped down from heaven’s height,
In flowing azure blue frock with golden hair.
She too, like her mother, is so absorbed,
Pouring her soul in to the open book in her lap.
May be a ploy employed by the mother,
Not to disturb her in her work.
Oh, vagrant winds, come not close,
To disturb the tranquility of the two
Wholly sinking into what they are doing.
Kindly veer in another direction
And don’t interrupt their solitude!
April.22. 2023
A Brian Strand Premiere . No1210 Poetry Contest
This is based on Claude Monet's famous painting- Madame- Monet-and-child, where he has pictured his wife Camille and child in his garden.
Dinosaurs just loved to take the floor and dance
On tippy toes the size of garden sheds
And when they did they’d sashay strut and prance
Harmonic beats would shake Jurassic beds
They tripped the light fantastic verging heavy
Their favourite moves were known as the galumphs
You’d find them all way down upon the levee
In tutus and industrial grade pumps
Brontosauri would impress with pirouettes
Making small tornados interspersed with gales
But the T Rex topped it all doing entrechats
Causing seismic action gauged on Richter scale
Their performances gave them renowned distinction
Although some say that it led to their extinction
6/20/2019
I wander through my journey, interspersed with joy and pain, always grateful
Though not by choice, some days are somber; yet others follow with abundant joy
In my solitude, memories come alive with the recall of some old song from another time
When life was carefree in everyway! No worries and not one care!
First heard as a child; the title now lost to me, so I’ll call it "Mama’s Song"
It’d start off soft and slow; its rhythm smooth, graceful, incredibly beautiful!
Then lingering on my mind, gently reviving memories lost somewhere in yesterday
It’d calm my spirit, take me away- away from countless, mundane tasks
All necessary things, but they arrest my days, imposing, threatening, vying for attention
There’s a constant battle that rages within, and I often ask, “Should I lay down this burden
of joyless pursuits which hinder valid expressions from my heart? Should I?
And to what profit? Surely monetary gain is a necessity, but at what cost to my spirit??
Were I guardian only to myself, I’d simply choose to live lean somewhere by the sea
I would cast my net for food, and barter for grain and herbs. However, the compass is set
So, I escape in the melodies, with my eyes closed, and fly high, above this terrain
Sailing on the massive wings of a Condor, unafraid; over rugged pathways and
Jagged edges of mountains that rise above the seas, far away from this place of constant
weariness, on my way to a place more tranquil, somewhere in yesterday
I hover over rivers that give life to green valleys below, quite an amazing view to see!
Like black velvet ribbons they meander through the changing landscape
At an angle they shimmer like fine crystal in the afternoon sun, and in one breath,
I am there! At Mama’s feet, studying her as she sews dresses for my sisters and me
I watch, I listen to her, softly singing; feel her contentment and peace through the song
Never complaining, never too tired to go beyond the call, to love and care for family
Teaching by example, using less words, her quiet spirit, ever steadfast, strong
Those times when I feel I can not go on, when afraid I'll falter, I still hear the the melody
and "Mama's Song"!
Note: For Mama - Thank you for putting us first! For the many lessons learned which we nowteach our children. RIP w/Papa!!
I never thought I’d keep a record of my pain
or happiness
like candles lighting the entire soft lace
of the air
around the full length of your hair/a shower
organized by God
in brown and auburn
undulations luminous like particles
of flame
But now I do
retrieve an afternoon of apricots
and water interspersed with cigarettes
and sand and rocks
we walked across:
How easily you held
my hand
beside the low tide
of the world
Now I do
relive an evening of retreat
a bridge I left behind
where all the solid heat
of lust and tender trembling
lay as cruel and as kind
as passion spins its infinite
tergiversations in between the bitter
and the sweet
Alone and longing for you
now I do
If you only shout,
And are full of doubt,
On how to carry on,
When you turn the radio on,
Or no longer turn the tv on,
As fake is the new norm,
Interspersed with news of a new storm.
It may be time to take a walk by the river,
Even if the morning frost makes you shiver.
Find a quiet spot,
To observe the river's lot,
And you will be left in no doubt,
That peace of mind can be found,
In the comfort of a river that in life abounds,
With the warmth of the rising sun,
Giving it a sparkle that is fun,
And leaving you in no doubt,
Of what life is all about,
As you find energy enough to carry on,
And meet your own series of rapids head on.
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
And now the season has begun
the darkened skies have covered the sun
the sound of thunder is interspersed
by lightning striking on the earth
the winds increase in motion swift
they sway and bend the limbs of trees
and then there is a gentle breeze
a torrent of rain cascades
on mountain crests then rests
into a shallow ford a chord
of music of wind and rain
mingling into a Wagnerian fugue
the rain subsides into lakes and ravines
the sun reappears to a vivid scene
Nature’s fascination has taken form
All is well with God after the storm
June 28, 2014