Best Irregularly Poems
The ponderous fog lifted early,
now the widening bounteous blue
makes its presence known,
my feet stay on the ground,
but my eyes climb an upward
journey passing slowly in review
and as big as passion itself.
I'm gently carried to another height,
a caressing contentment and quiet period
where the depths of inspiration
seem limitless among the sculptural
mountains that slope near, then
irregularly lift and fall, and beyond
every heightening, a new heightening waits.
Resting on the mountaintops, one huge
cloud with scalloped edges of mighty
morning shine, and lingering high above
are the smoldering sunbeams, therefore,
ranks of gold in scattered grandeur
are put on view wherever it falls.
A wandering river coursing unhindered,
alongside, verdant fern that's spread out
like green lace, but also sated
pines in their stateliness of movement.
Reaching for mountain peaks so that
serenity stretches out its sensors
to relieve any inner restlessness or
turbulence while steadying my hurried pace.
All for love
All is lost
Lost in time
Lost for ever
Ever hopeful
Ever ready to please
Please forgive me
Please come home
Home is empty
Home is quiet
Quiet no pleasure
Quiet time to think
Think of moments
Think of you
You are my life
You are my heart
Heart broken in two
Heart slowly beats
Beats irregularly
Beats in hope
Hope is painful
Hope I pray
Pray earnestly
Pray quietly
Quietly I walk by
Quietly I sleep
Sleep is restless
Sleep I dream
Dream of good times
Dream of you
You are my life
You are my love
Love to live
Love is the answer
Answer my prayer
Answer my heart
Heart is missing you
Heart is sad
Sad in a mist
Sad and lonely
Lonely I walk
Lonely I cry
Cry for what was
Cry for what I miss
Miss you
Miss and lost
Lost alone
Lost afraid
afraid
alone...
“No Words Spoken: Eyes of a Soul to Eyes of a Soul”
No words. Eyes of a Soul speak to Eyes of a Soul.
No words
can interpret the loss of such beauty, such innocence, such promise.
No words
will ever express the internal evaluation of such another,
young, graceful, innocent soul turning inwards irregularly,
to be pushed so far over the edge to consider and then execute
that premature freedom of choice.
No words
to capture the depth of despair
of yet another invisible falling child -
prayers unheard
speaking to the reflection in an invisible chair.
No words
When the heart is gutted.
Eyes of a Soul speak to Eyes of a Soul.
What is wrong with this damned world?
It has too many words, and no one really listens close enough.
No words.
Tears do no justice at all.
While the world watches on, nothing changes,
its bigots, bullies and trolls carry on.
We see the warning signs,
In this instance, 20 times,
we turn our eyes away from it all,
the windows closing, slowly,
be brave, it will get better,
tomorrow’s another day,
we hear it said,
again and again
We see the warning signs.
We turn our eyes away from it all,
Not my problem, not my world.
The windows closing,
No words.
Eyes of a Soul.
No words spoken at all.
Eyes of a Soul to Eyes of a Soul.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
(Sammy Teusch, 10yrs, Ft Wayne, Indiana)
Demography,
Geography,
Gender.
Age.
Curb,
Obtain,
Courtship.
Parenthood.
The shape of life is staired,
Either irregularly paired,
or regularly squared.
We find shame in familiar places,
Stamp fame over unventured traces.
Bond to fulfill culture.
Pendulum swings affirming the law of nature.
Sowing coincides with reap.
As man toils to control sanity,mortality leaps.
For restricting malevolent norms unleashes explosive neferity.
Asleep or awake this is the in-between reality,
Of capturing the needless,freeing the worthful.
Farm dilemma of the cow or bull?
By M.O.O aka C.E the free prison-worden
climbing in his bath
water rise shows crown's volume
physics traps liar
Brian Johnston
August 23. 2014
Poet's Notes:
Archemedes measures gold purity of an irregularly shaped crown whose volume could
not be easily measured. A true 'Aha' moment. Physics has trapped so many liars in
history, but few are those with ears to hear. Really kind of sad, that so many prefer
deceivers over truth tellers, having things our way the ultimate vanity.
Sharpening the cells in cerebrum and cerebellum
Through meditation, arts, knowledge and strategy
With emotion, motion of sad and happy persons
From the history up to date and the moving pages
Writers write, artists art in front of the open universe,
The mysterious nature focuses the light of unknown
In the power of truth beauty in place and time both
Creation, destruction, origin of things and beings
With lots of evidence, imageries similes, legends,
Live examples, pictures, proverbs, experiments
The outputs are literature, history, logics, philosophy,
Geography, various sections of science, knowledge,
Once there was direct reflection of these branches
With the rising spirit in creativity, sensitivity, morality
Like fragrant in rhythmic life spread and surpassed
All that happiness sparkled in all as green as grass
The past disputes, misdeeds sunk in the Dead Sea
Spirituality, celestiality pervaded all hearts to please,
Now wrapped colorfully they are in libraries, shops,
In readers’ showcase, box, broken and left drawers,
Though they are available in educational institutions
Like school, college, departmental board, university
They are read irregularly that only in some occasions
And the readers are seen fruitless, reluctant in study,
In technological, multimedia flourish, worldly progress
Time is passed in over all progress making, fun, mock
Audio, video, radio, internet, face book, twitter, email,
Park, party, cyber, studio, footpath, automobile, mobile,
Drama, movie, gathering, indoor-outdoor multi events,
At lame excuse, cheap emotion Romeo-Juliet flirtation,
Writers, write on– artists, art on– in full swing, spirits
Let the curses of white sheets be dispelled from you
The curses of every written sheet will never grasp you
But you will see no one is out of the curses and tricks.
No romance today.
The cemetery was deserted,
at the far edge of the tiny village,
shrouded in a fine sultry fog.
Large black trees threw darkened shadows
over the deserted gruesome sepulchers.
Few cared to visit, few cared to tend the tombs.
A large hawthorn hedge, irregularly grown,
surrounded its oblique perimeters.
Cursed, the villagers said
for it never flowered red blooms
during any time of the year.
An old hunchback lived there,
he lived all alone, with no one to care
No one fed him, no one was his friend.
No one knew where he came from,
no one knew his name,
but he loved the lonely forsaken place:
he weeded out the desultory paths,
and cleaned the old dreary tombs,
he planted evergreens and white flowers,
to welcome the damned and the doomed.
Only one woman came to visit,
constantly, rain or shine, every blessed day.
The hunchback would give her a white flower.
And she returned the gesture with a dime.
No word was spoken, nor looks exchanged.
She’d go to a small tomb, presided by a tearful angel.
The grave was covered with a cold white marble slab.
There she’d leave the white flower,
stand for a while in silence till she left,
No tears fell down her wrinkled old face.
The cemetery prevailed in gloom.
There will be a test, three questions, my spirit guide told me. I heard the first one upon entering the astral plane. “Who did you love?”
A fuzzy gate was less than ten feet away, gleaming like the brightest white sun ever made, I had to shade my eyes. I could barely see.
Everyone, I thought. I loved everyone. My traitorous heart laughed. It began showing me a series of photos, of everyone I had stopped loving, or given up on, or cast aside. I gasped. Would this mean they would not let me in?
A second question immediately flew into my head. “Who did you help?” My mind went completely blank. My heart began beating loudly and irregularly. I pictured myself in the bowls of hell, and expected to be there in two seconds.
An angel who looked more like Mother Theresa than Mother Theresa walked toward me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and said “Rest”. I felt an immediate almost overwhelming love, an indescribable, absolute all-knowing God-love, and I fell onto a cloud, my eyes shut, safe.
When I awoke I heard the final question, and I knew it was the real one. “How precious is life?” As precious as love, my spirit-soul answered. The only reason we agree to live another earth life, the ONLY REASON we agree to live another human life is so that we can experience the most precious things with our most precious and revered soul-people, who are our “real” precious things.
The gates flew open.
Colors I had forgotten and souls I remembered only in my dreams were standing to greet me and hug me and love me and sooth me.
I was the prodigal daughter, and I was home!
Written 10-08-2018 Contest: How Precious is Life?
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
He’s a strange kinda guy,
even he wouldn’t challenge that assertion
When you see him, you sense
something’s a bit off
But don’t bother asking him,
his appearance will tell you why
Wearing clothes that don’t color coordinate;
his socks are always either Oxford or silk,
and his bow ties are never fully clipped
He likes to arrange his peas and carrots
neatly in a row on his plate
And he feels strongly
that it’s a
necessary thing to discuss personal hygiene
on the first date
Mister Oddity is he ...
Head scratcher as a Mad Hatter can be
Trying to figure him out
will drive you crazy
He likes to mumble important reminders to himself;
he don’t mind taking a tumble,
pumping his cardio up from really getting after a ref
He’s an odd fellow indeed,
he’s a hard one to read
Sometimes his speech may not make sense to you and me,
and often at night he likes to talk to the owls in the tree
Apart from that,
he’s perfectly abnormal, absolutely
Mister Oddity,
lives strange and quite irregularly
But the one thing he loves to boast about the most
is his peculiar longevity:
He says he was born on the thirty third day
of the thirteenth month,
in the year
when Earth's second moon floated away
in the cosmic sea
You are the home to come back to
a prominence of my starry body
enduring there as a warning
to all of that asteroids throbbing at our
affixed paper door
this soul is engraved with
each of your microscopically misformed curve
irregularly modified word
aligned posture
parted attitude and
shards of perception collected in crumpled framework of skeleton
in all those desecrated parts of you lies a thought of me
River of Doom
Sad sight dry river, and twenty years ago it was
three metre deep and had trout. We caught some
with nets and, fried them on a small fire and felt
like cavemen. Delicious fish meat we ate with our
fingers. Every year I have seen the river getting
smaller even in the winter when it rains irregularly,
it is no more than a beck. There is no fish not even
the skeleton of children caught by a wall of water,
when it had been raining upland and into the river.
Their father was arrested it was said he had killed
the children, fed them to the pigs, but for a single
button in the sty they sat him free. Terrible rumors
every summer I see him walking along the dry river,
muttering to himself trying to find his children
Undulating flights from skinny dipping ears of corn is not that noted in spring. But dashing through and over crevasses is just an absolutely amazing sight. It is often performed in ten minutes whilst the moon plays a tune on a wooden harpsichord. How rather clever. And so the push off from the shore is a tree lined avenue of expectations and angst. But only if the tides change their patterns. Rising vertically in mists. Rising and chaining nautical miles of steel framed floaters. Failing flailing falling framing frantically. And still that dove is cooing pleasantly in an ornate garden. Landing politely on an outstretched arm. And smiling as the corn bud is offered. Many many walls. Long time make. Explode not a pineapple in a kitchen. For the sap falls irregularly causing much waste,much mess. Rather take shelter in a biscuit tin or a stand of cakes. Round up round up the donkeys are coming for tea. Great. No ionisation in a testicular vision of many hooves. Ridden and unridden. Baskets and bums on backs. They will need to rest. Fetch water and vegetables and bracken. Nomadically needing nutritional nursing. And a linguistic lounging learning link. Creates a pond in house. Xxxxx no ha. Ho ho. Xxxxx justifications z
Form:
Screaming crow perched atop the flat screen,
messages from the otherside fold in to skin
invisble current
Flowing angrily against grinding teeth
The ruckus awakens deep within us
something terribly holy,
something irregularly pure
pouring
out eyes too awake for a somnambulant world
drowning in prescription whirlpools
Open door, mentholated air,
lungs bleed against the sky falling
Crashing in to anything we beleive
anything we understand
miniscule molecules
explosively disingenuous
and broken
no longer original
no longer transparent
or beloved
Isn't it interstingly humorous
that our bones become hollow
from the words we forge
from weakened states
of being
middle of the night
high on cocaine
cigarette smoking in the ashtray beside me
upset
frustrated
my heart aches
it hurts
it beats irregularly
i can feel the burn in my chest from the stress and anxiety and confusion and pain
she said she was coming home at 2am
it is now 4:30am and she’s at a party
I felt it in my chest before she told me
i knew it
i sensed it
i sensed something was in the works and I guess she felt it needed to be hidden behind the curtain
she could have told me anytime that her plans were changing
i lay my head down at 3:00am expecting her to walk through the door
...nothing
I wait in bed, thinking random thoughts
not being able to relax due to the fact that I am expecting her
she keeps me waiting
my mind continues to race
i feel disrespected when someone states they are doing something
then they do the opposite
why did you say this to me?
why did you keep wondering?
I care so much for you that the pain felt dealt by your actions cuts deeper than beautiful truth
you are beautiful
i know this is true
i just can’t understand why we have this obstacle of trusting one another
our relationship has been broken
the cast we used healed the fracture
but the pain still exists
Form:
Many believe that a troubled soul
is the true muse of the true artist.
That misery and anger brings out
the words, brush strokes, of creation.
I don't know if that's right or not,
e'en though it affects me deep -
but I find it strange that most
don't ask why such may be.
The only answer I can conjure
is actually yet another question.
What do the happy have to create?
What need have they to make, to escape?
In part, I have trouble agreeing,
for I have written wonders
in times of relative ease;
or so I've been told.
I have walked gaily through spring,
and spoke of dewy fields of clover;
arbitrary, aimless, desultory subjects,
irregularly chosen by my mercurial muse.
And yet I can also see it, in part,
for my thieves of one's breath
were in times of onerous strife;
or so I've been told.
I have trudged below naught but clouds,
and spoke of grey days and black thoughts;
distressed, disheartened, dejected prose,
regularly presented to my downcast sight.
I believe emotion, good and ill,
can be victuals for the right muse.
But I concede the point that comparatively,
what have the joyous to escape, through art?