Best Inventiveness Poems
Life is music that drifts in open spaces
sometimes a brash crescendo
that brims with the fullness of now
when stories break from narrow, rigid scripts
stifling random routine
Life is free wheeling inventiveness
peacockish
a feathered tapestry
parading like a wedding dress down the aisle
Sometimes life is a ping pong bounce of sorrow
giant ball
that blurs the sky
that covers our eyes
a fog creeping into ruined places
Life is a tumble of forces
a counterpoint of malice and joy
that goes in an unexpected direction
like the connective chords of love
an airy drift
amplified
in the ringing rush of time
Poem composed: July 2/2022
Pretending can be a bold form of experimentation
and inventiveness. In pretending joy or happiness,
we may discover or enhance our capacity for it.
Harriet Lerner
Lord Leofric: The waging of war is man’s affair
Lady Godiva: Then wage war in your way, M’Lord,
and I’ll wage war in mine
Movie, Lady Godiva of Coventry (1955)
MASQUERADE
Quivers the man traversing the icescape.
Queen dominates the saddle with her eyes.
Size five, bare, narrow feet melt snowy floor.
Masquerade - his wife dreamy in disguise.
Flesh, smooth as ice rink, after zamboni.
Warm hearth behind the seven veils of d’sire.
Godiva tresses descend to her knees.
Bright red lips, parting flames, a flute of fire.
Singes where cherry makes contact...shivers
and moans like Winter Nor’easter through trees.
Memories malleable — tongue to ink.
Lobe, neck, thighs surrender to cold night tease.
Quiet warmth underneath the satin sheets.
His eyes wide open - concedes his defeat.
2/1/2021
Sensual Poetry
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
HMS Line 1 lists icescape as 3 syllables but it is 2
I’ve always loved the name Mom gave to me -
a name she’d heard and wanted to bestow
on her first girl; she got it from a show
on radio. She thought it was so pretty!
While not a name for girls in Italy,
my name has got a version masculine.
From Greece comes “Andrew,” meant for manly men!
The female version, though, means “womanly.”
In Spain, one girl in fourteen has my name.
However, in the USA, the year
that I was born, you’d hardly ever hear
this name which now enjoys a greater fame.
And since my name was not too common when
I came into this world, it helped me grow
to treasure things unique and lovely, so
perhaps for that, I use a poet’s pen!
I also found, in numerology,
the letters of my first name add up to
a thoughtful Seven’s destiny so true -
inventiveness and eccentricity!
I’m glad the name of "Andrea" is mine.
My middle name is even rarer still.
Its likeness to my first name I’ll not reveal,
but all my names together brightly shine!
A little boy and an ant became great friends one day.
But how to live drew them apart, and this is how they ran astray:
In the Ant’s heart was strict authority and constant work to rule the day.
Why wasn’t the boy toting behind someone, collecting for the food array?
The ant would always build everything in exactly the same proven way.
The anthill, underground, protected them perfectly as shown, every day.
Not adding to the hive was a horrible crime, none would ever display.
The ant knew all would be perfect, if everyone did their job, and obeyed.
But the boy wanted to build bridges and trestles, just like his Dad, each day.
All of them out in the open, none of them under ground or hidden away.
Inventiveness came with the notice, of new and exciting things in daily play.
His life was really cool, not boring, as standing in a line would convey.
He’d invent, ponder, and build in exciting, new ways, to fit each new byway.
Quick minded, resilient he’d build, many fascinating and unique causeways.
The boy and the ant eventually went away, not happy with how the other lived.
They thought the other shortsighted and scorned, at what the other could give.
But they went away without realizing, how very similar were their lives.
For each would spend their time endeavoring to help others with their drive.
But understanding is a harder concept than building a bridge or storing food.
It takes a true gift to see the world as others do…
The moral to this story is really quite easy for all to see:
You can’t expect others to live lives, how you want them to be.
Each was adding to their different worlds, only they could see.
One building for a smaller, singular hive, the other the hive of mankind, you see.
Each in their own way: truly cast a long shadow to fill… an important need.
I thumbed my way across the states,
flew over oceans. I lost myself in city crowds,
tried the boundaries of my brain's
inventiveness -- yet I did not outrun Time.
I did the things some young men do,
avoided others. Years shrunk the heights:
my expectations changed. I fell and climbed.
The journey still excites; the roads still wind.
And, still, there is much to see.
That will never become enough for me.
But I'll never outrun Time.
change, poetess, poetry, poets, word play, write, writing,
Brain ‘Fly By’ Writer/Righter©
I need a fresh 'brain-poet’ tongue twist
My editing with ‘guess work’ is on the fly
And makes me become one sour 'baked sugar pie’
But, I am fifty percent correct with Spell Check here
It takes just one flick of the wrist, to be brought on hand
Best invention since the ‘worded’ dictionary in Poet-land!
Editing tools cannot be bought, bribed or 'dreamt' just learned
All works abutted into bad grammatical writs do become burned
And won’t ‘rise’ into full creativity level and will be marked
I need a computerized (edited) grammatical ‘checking tool, please
This would make #2 ‘inventiveness’ since Poetry 101 the schooled way!!!
creation, inspiration, philosophy, spoken word,
INVENTIVENESS ©
Philosophical prophecies do go down---
But lose ground recruitment when congested….
And curtail some ‘guilds’ to inventiveness!
Guidelines ‘stagnate’, if borne not for quest beyond---
Who in the ‘know-how’ understates these new interpretations?
What, why, where, when ‘next is it to be said again and again?
And just ‘who’ is to invent the here and now, and the next?
Alluring juridical ‘redoes’ of various pantomimed brands---
Begets and do offer, for limited ‘life’ sake a' shelf' date...
Inspirational ‘rides’ on diversified musical ‘merry-go-rounds’!
“METROPOLIS BLUES”
The elemental wind
curls in from the north east,
sublime salon creations in
disarray, in grimy profusion
inventiveness subsides.
The town clock strikes out,
within ear shot, a bench seat plays
host to a cast of thousands.
Soon! succulent rotting form to be
replaced by concrete.
“A dental job needed
for those poor little mites?”
Corrugated iron
picturesque in shades of autumn,
rattling in regimental disorder,
a haunting requisition
for regeneration.
Rogue waves spill over the
quay, reducing feathered messengers
to squatters alms.
Honking horn for the many that
miss “Cross now.” Hot profanity
escapes in sheer frustration,
diamond studded ladies,
gents in pin stripe suits
reduced to gutter sniping,
intellectual street wise gnomes
aroused by verbal definition.
Skywards, elevated glass menageries, a
product of inner city germination casts out
buoyant clouds, plays
yo-yo with minute window cleaners,
perched precarious in prefabricated
isolation.
One does get lost in
Duty Free! Polyglots
strutting between glass cabinets,
exemplification of
exaggerated personification!
No English! Here, yet many tongues
in resonant sounds, reverberating
throughout the confused clamour.
Idiot in pearly white
“BMW” Snookered
in “Victoria Street”
came in “Off the black” Seven
points away, no consolation for
the hot “Mini Cooper”
all concerned carried away
under flashing lights.
“Cardless head banger” In
aggressive mood, his
four numbered digits he
had forgot, so the machine
decided to take the lot!
Shades of the fifties roll on
by, silver wheels impeccable
against an opaque sky.
“Boom boom ‘John Lee Hooker’”
drifts into contention
a competitive participant
within the metropolis;
as aren’t we all!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
A little boy and an ant became great friends one day.
But how to live drew them apart, and this is how they ran astray:
In the Ant’s heart was strict authority and constant work each day.
Why wasn’t the boy following someone, collecting for the food array?
The ant would always build everything in exactly the same proven way.
The anthill was underground and protected them perfectly every day.
Not adding to the hive was a crime, no one would ever think to display.
He knew every thing would be perfect, if everyone did their job and obeyed.
But the boy wanted to build bridges and trestles, just like his Dad, each day.
All of them out in the open, none of them under ground or hidden away.
And inventiveness came with the notice, of new and exciting things in daily play.
His life was really cool, not boring, as standing in a line would convey.
He’d invent, and ponder, and build in exciting, new ways, to fit each new byway.
Quick minded, and resilient he’d build, many fascinating and unique causeways.
The boy and the ant eventually went away, not happy with how the other lived.
They thought the other shortsighted and scorned, at what the other could give.
But they went away without realizing, how very similar were their lives.
For each would spend their time endeavoring to help others with their drive.
But understanding is a harder concept than building a bridge or storing food.
It takes a true gift to see the world as others do…
The moral to this story is really quite easy for all to see…
You can’t expect others to live their lives the way you want them to be.
Here, each was adding to their different world, only they could see.
While one was building for a smaller, singular hive…
The other was building for the hive of mankind.
Strips of filmy white hanging
From the crook of a limb
Catch the eye
At first mistaken for
The milky web
Of a tent worm
Closer inspection
Of bended bough
Reveals a small
Round empty nest
Woven out of sticks
And strips of plastic
Dangling down
Initially delighted and awed
By the inventiveness
Of nature’s winged wonders
To build a home for their young
From any and all accessible
Material on hand
Then shocked -
As realization sets in -
By the insidious
Pervasiveness of
Perpetual polymer
In the natural world
Left wondering
If the empty
Plastic nest
Portends a deeper
Persistent loss
Yet to come.
You expand
one's perceptions of love
with an intensely profound awareness
separating romanticized lust
from
the essence of true loves
limitless sensations
Perceiving
that which lies beneath the skin...
Glimpsing the aesthetics of
a courageous heart...
Observing the inventiveness
of an intellectual mind...
Discerning the artistry
of a compassionate soul...
Responsiveness
is aroused by true love...
Elimimating the obstacles
which thwart enlightenment...
Embracing
a genuine awakening of empathy...
Enfolding two egos
into one cohesive understanding...
Hails upon stormier tempestuous
sea surges, ascending, mountainous
waves crashing, splattering, appallingly
Strikes against lighthouse's sentinelling
Beam glowing, rebuffing, unremitting
High tidal's signature magnificence
To prevent maritime catastrophes
Whence before radar-scope inventiveness
Contest name: The Lighthouse
Theresa Stephens
Date posted: 9/22/14
A quick and easy (makeshift, albeit very temporary)
Cheap Trick would suffice in the interim
(which might entail many generations)
to rock a Super Tramp off The Farm.
Lo and behold a panacea arrived
in form of Jethro Tull. Beastie Boys
(more or less marauding hooligan gangs
comprised of Arctic Monkeys)
possessed an uncanny verve zeroing
in on the challenge to enable Crowd
source sing. They designed, hand
crafted, and linkedin all known know
ledge about mathematics and physics. One
contrivance edged out other equally
farcical gizmo. Via some lack of clarification
Badfinger referred both to the longer
of two needles pointers plus included
the entire mechanism. Individuals
would no longer find themselves
in Dire Straits getting someplace
with markedly greater accuracy.
Sooner or later a confluence of
beginners dumb luck witnessed
a Motley Crue, whereat brainstorm
(of course in tandem with consciousness
expanding material) yielded a great
burst of inventiveness within The
Human League, though after end
less modifications credit for
the handy dandy blues clues
pocket watch allotted
to a plethora of anonymous minds.
My palette is my imagination.
I paint pictures with my words.
Swirling colours of composition.
Mixing metaphors - agitating them
with the paintbrush in my mind.
My vocabulary is my keyboard.
Trilling notes of expression.
Crescendo of composition...
tumbling, falling....allegro, or
andante, and harmonised in my creativity.
My glossary is my tapestry.
Fixed firmly to the frame of verbal
inventiveness. Stitched in synchronacity.
Cross stitched sometimes - or
tacked in draft for later publication.
I cannot sing to you in thrilling arias.
I cannot paint for you on colourful canvas.
I cannot play for you in perfected pitch.
I cannot hang my works of art,
but I can write what's in my heart -
and, maybe, I'll touch yours?
How can I change what has already been changed?
Everything has been tried over a thousands ways,
and there my perplexing question lays...
without a persuasive answer connecting the flow of words
to a revelation that necessity has invoked!
What else can I write when every subject
has already been written about by those illustrious writers?
But there's never a shortage of inventiveness...
that's found in the intellectual cleverness
that's only found in their depth!
How can I possibly replace the gentle pen which flows,
from an imagination so genuine and free?
I'll complete my sentences that wouldn't be an object of envy
of those written in the dreadful eras of restricted liberty;
one must bring more realism to questionable stories!
What new thoughts will be expressed by this mind,
not to imitate or infringe upon those writers' works lauded by society;
and give them proper credentials for their creativity...
one can't help being inspired and transformed by their originality,
great writers or composers wouldn't excel without the precedent!
How can I speak of fairness, if I don't practice it myself?
My human side should be compassionate;
take on that unprejudiced and forgiving look...
I,too, I'm subject to faults and replete with regret;
when my conscience isn't reminded of death!
What can I create from those eight notes
that await the awakening of inspiration from me?
For hours and hours my fingers will pound tirelessly...
on this piano, to write that unforgettable melody
that somebody will hear and play many times!
How can I change what has already been changed?
I'll risk it all by revealing my unfortunate events...
contesting their wills and connoting their faults!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci