Best Italic Poems
Take me to the place where the aromatic fragrance
threatens to envelop our obelisks glorifying death;
to the place where the seraphim of old long to steal your breath
only to resurrect you again,
because they adore your shell-shocked epiphany.
The twinkle of wisteria eyes that say star-struck goodbyes to winters long overdue.
Take me to some place new, yet still lingers with the scent of timeless truths.
Can you whisper epigrams in my ears yet still retain your sunflower youth?
And can such a place even exist ...
where I am me and you are you.
Is this dream of ours only a selfish wish?
Where our heart's desires
will never transpire,
but only take cues from Lazarus,
coming into our own like lilac lust.
I am told there is a beautiful gate
that leads to this tomb of ancient bloom.
Will you let me nourish this timid trust
and receive this skeleton key that dreams of wearing skin -
and if not now, of this would-be genesis ... when?
Please don't tease with someday soon,
but let these tumblers unhinge like zealous zephyr.
I know it will be all that you asked.
I know it will be, for my soul spoke so earnestly: give it a chance.
So won't you carve upon this granite heart
that longs for the easy rain of your embrace.
Etch upon these alabaster walls with love's italic hand,
the seven lettered splendor known unabashedly as FREEDOM.
Let it be the only thing
the angels care to dream,
when imagining eternity.
Let none atone
the only thing
set in stone.
Written February 15th, 2016.
Entered in the contest A Tomb of Ancient Bloom hosted by Justin Bordner.
Chosen Poem of the Day on February 17th, 2016
Placed First
Words in italic by Angeline Lim
Words in regular font by Timothy Hicks
Hydrangea blues
blooming in seven colors
versatile at heart
Storm clouds in a tantrum and yet
the rainbow
Gently wipes away a facade
reveals a layer
hidden within
Pretty just like yesterday
red-hot pokers
Playing fireworks
on lovers' palates
scintillating senses
The shared spaghetti noodle
growing shorter
Sunlight fading
into a sweet dream
aromatic Osmanthus
'tween the slits of enclosed fingers
flashes of a firefly
Smolders of passion
unfolding within
Chrysanthemum mysteries
Instead of the bee
her tender touch
Frozen fixture
all the yellow once in the field
now in the moon
Aesthetic display
of a crystallized Rose quartz
The snowy hills
at this time a strange warmth
morning blush
Purplish Crocuses
pop their cheerful heads up kisses blown
Thinking himself
to be King Arthur
startled butterflies
Surprised Tulips
opening lips with an exclamation
August heat!
there goes the evidence
of the snail
Spiraling down a Corkscrew vine
into a time portal
P.S. Haven't been on lately ... hope all is well with everyone :)
A collaborative poem, written in renga format, or "linked-verse", by Timothy Hicks and Jesse Whitehead.
Verses in normal font are by me.
Verses in italic are by Jesse Whitehead.
January jest
drawing mustaches
in the newspaper
coffee to warm the hands
walking the railroad
refusing
to stay put
a child's balloon
spring in her step
red moon overhead
has dusk come already?
the field of tulips
seem to say
unwavering and gentle
strong as stone
mountain peaks
wind through summer meadows
a tender caress
lying there still
a heart-shaped mark
steady rhythm
ebb of the tide
broken shells
spiraling earthward
the last golden leaf
fading in and out
memories sweetly touched
a dancing flame
burning through pages
another x on the calendar
NOTE: This was my first attempt at a Renga poem, written in collaboration, with one of my best friends from Idaho, Jesse Whitehead. He's one of the few friends of mine whom I could discuss writing with. Though he typically writes fiction and stories, rather than poetry, he was willing to give this poetry format a go; and to my knowledge this was his first time writing poetry. It's a fun little challenge that I hope you all will give a try!
the rhythm of old poems,
precision breathing
in and out,
nose and mouth.
reality fogs a window
on a cold winter morning,
clears the congested mind
one wrinkle at a time.
in our misspent youth,
we twist words around the tongue
and take them out of context
without real meaning.
after we learn to stammer
in the italic frame of spoken language,
we speak without real communication,
every word uttered is misunderstood.
the rhythm of old poems,
simple beauty without change.
i always come back to them
pure as the frost
on a window pane.
Strolling down the streets of ancient Pompei,
I discovered the tomb of a freed noble man;
unearthed from the volcanic black ashes,
now it blooms surrounded by fragrant lilies
as it appeared in its imperial, glorious days!
Looking closer, I noticed tools itched
on its sides, the trade of a freeman
once enslaved by his wealthy master,
and to prove that he was also of a noble
spirit, he wanted to be remembered
for his achievements and his intellect!
Not all Romans were cruel as History attests,
but had a good heart helping the lower class;
had the Emperor made aware of such generosity,
they would have been killed or thrown to the beasts!
Our greedy society is similar, workers being underpaid;
its an invisible slavery and yet it gives us shivers
for their unhuman condition and horrible abuse:
Rome's mentality of slavery survives to our day!
The proud sons of immigrants will arise to avenge
their fathers rage, they will sit with the prominent ones
sharing the same ideals and status that honor freedom!
Build my marble tomb by the shade of cypresses,
plant jasmines and lilacs around it and let them bloom;
the late image of me on the top with a pen on the right
and a notebook on the left...what a lovely display
of my vocational trade! Will someone discover my grave?
The brief epithet itched in italic letters should read:
" Born a free man and died a free man in a foreign land."
Left over overspills are a typewritten error and a grammatical code of which there is no collision of nouns, verbs or adjectives. Descent described design deriving dug dirt. And a soil no shine. A voided coloured counting ball is many balls on cruises to oil lakes. Found in farm grounds. Sluice then slice slice slice. But thrice times an angle in a wailing tree is nit a crystallized orb nor is it a hyperlink or a cycle of cubic measurement. Mature mo frozen italic of thought to a paper in the mind. And gathering although hazardous is another feat to match the toes of soul. Anatomical wisdom rattle. Shake shake shake. And a smiley snake grimaces at very tight reeds to pass to get the kill. Good. Greedy goblins grabbing gestational genital garments giving going gravitationally. And in addition to this a wide mouthed toad sits on that cake over there. Good. Fake that freezer pop. Z augments Z pathologically Z
Our poetry...
A thousand times been read
Syllables contort tumbling
Under covers
Free verse unfettered
Beneath hot breath
Brail symbolic softens
As soon as alabaster wets
Lips’ reciting merely, what is
Or should be heartfelt said
Our poetry...
Sapidus is to taste
Licking walls
As licorice moisten
Is the dark, chocolate
Bar shadows cast
Through blinds
And legs of sunrise slats
Or perhaps, metaphor
Marinating passion’s hands
Our poetry...
Evermore in verse
Italic are the directions
Of sentimental waves
Strewn linen’s cryptic
Unmetered cursive
And letter lorn lavender
Stylish fashioned lace
Hence forth on and on
Withdrawn from structure punctuates
Our poetry...
Stanza’s line by line alive
Moves the throb muscle and tis’ heart
Further as the ballerina saut-de-chat
Etching out pass sweet
Tip brushed Dominican eyes
The mind is running after what
Shall merely be defined…as
Poetry reiteratively serendipitous
Clever as a serpentine
Pink paper
waiting for a poem
from a poetess
She is alive with inspiration
writing the first line
suddenly
Italic suits her fine,
and the words, so beautiful,
become
They become and become
and supercharge themselves
on pink
Then "Silvie", she signs,
and we see her go away
from scene
4/18/2015
My light dims as it attempts to stay bright while trying to guide for someone,
The truth of the matter is once that light is out everything else is done.
A light can only show the way but only if that person whats to be found,
But if no one ever uses that light then the user will be left alone feeling like a clown.
People have a way of showing when they truly want something or just want out,
They also have a way of letting their fear control their emotions and the creation of doubts.
Yes...you hurt me and I haven't done anything to give you a reason to,
Though we both know I had every right if I chose to.
Loving a person with no catches seems to never be good enough anymore,
And a good man has to be twisted when there's a woman he actually adored.
That is what it seems like so that is what it must be,
Love has become not an act of emotion but an act that requires a fee.
Those who can't handle it will fear and escape by any means,
Fear is only a state of mind but to the untrained it will affect all their genes.
I don't expect everyone to possess the same amount of strength,
But I do expect for people to at least try to their very length.
Open my heart...I did and look where it got me,
In a case and a world full of trouble with a bold, italic, and a capital T.
I vow to never give up but for now I shall give in,
Give in only to remain alone at the moment while I try to succeed in this life of sin.
The key that opened my heart will always be cherished within,
I pray one day that key will return to open and recreate my light once again but for
now...fin (French for end)
When They Pushed
Poem was pathetic and ended up rotten
When received wished you hadn't gotten
Grammar was mixed up in a big mess
How horrible things were have to confess.
Should have seen usage of each italic
Looked like symbol similar to a phallic
Being awkwardly stuck up in the air
And do it again, you wouldn't dare.
We finally came to the realization
Never knew nothing about punctuation
Thought to capitalize was a capital crime
So she avoided using it all of the time.
She even thought sentence diagraming
Were atomic charts and used in spamming
Entire English Department we did chastise
When recommending poem for Pulitzer Prize.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantationm
Bolivia, NC
Leaning against a story books light post, upon the corner of 44th and Broadway
Taking one last drag while gazing at the billboard ahead; quiet became this frame
Ushering the muted techni-colour crowds; cast amid a breeze as swirling about
Chasing trails of smoke emitted these embers; italic in jet blue to hail times cab
Marquee's melting into neon's dust and what was ? Blurred, the rear views mirror....
********************************************************************
...."Calling All Angel's" *
Mystic magnetic fascination
is a shared enthrall;
kin to emancipation,
it is wired in us all.
A connection internal
serves as our one true voice
and stirs emotions supernal -
in this we have no choice.
Nature is unparalleled in
gifting divine intel
for it provokes intoxication
in each soul’s swell.
We spiritually dwell as
we feel deeply compelled
to exalt admiration with
grateful declarations.
... CayCay
July 26, 2019
For contest FINE TUNE THIS COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier
(Title) AFFINITY WITH NATURE / Line’s lines (poem shows them in Italic):
Magnetic fascination
Kin to emancipation
A connection internal
Stirs emotions supernal
Nature is unparalleled
Provokes intoxication
As we feel deeply compelled
To exalt admiration
Waiting for a thought, an image or something; anything....
To jump start this heart; dead on arrival ? Sounds so familier
As sorting through life's dumpster a rag doll, baby hope; discarded
While time unwinds it's same old songs; composed of dispair her mother
Children themselves seeking dreams beyound these tears; another cold case
Text in abstract art ? Wearing rose coloured glasses be his conqueror worm; gray
Spectacle requiems mounting summits to embed their dire; dividing the spoils..
Gifts these gods; obscure, burning pages torn from pyres ? Historic's, white sheets
Draped an oblong box; adorned of black italic lines; criss cross, her corpse this state ?
Flesh bone as blood waiting for a thought, his rag dolls; cankerous sores blue lips; broken.
Sculpted perfectly to fit in his hands, becoming familiar with his grasp.
From the first chord strung with his bow on amateur steel strings.
Italic F echoing melodies, Steel skipping beats
Tuning her with every stroke.
Losing her pegs, replacing metal with sheep skin.
She is his violin UNSUPPORTED CODE
Anticipating his complex masterpiece generating sine wave to imitate vowels first.
Soprano notes scaling across sheets, he plays her A…A…A5.
Only consonant reflect in her G…G…G4 score.
His violin— no longer coos for others, her sound meant for his ears, setting the atmosphere.
Neighbors become the spectators, listening to lust-filled arrangements
Conducting until she spills notes across sheets.
His slipping bow never skips a beat
Her violinist has a passion for her sounds
He takes control of her
She relishes in this embrace
Tuned just for him
Standing ovation for encores
She awaits his next instrumental
He is her violinist
She loves being his violin.
Signs here, Signs there, Signs everywhere.
Square, Octagon, Triangle, even Rhombus.
Rectangle or Circle. I saw a Pentagon.
Colorful, Neon, Plain or Elaborate.
Wooden, Paper, Metallic, or Glass.
Italic, Roman, Gothic, or Arial.
To Sell, For Sale, or Sold.
To Buy, To Rent, or Free.
Discounts, Bargains, or Markdowns.
Moving, Moved, or Out of business.
Signs are to enlighten, motivate not misconceive.
Signs are to enhance, to assist not misgovern.
Signs are to share, make aware not misinform.
Signs are to guide, show the way not misdirect.