Best Lacquer Poems
Snowdrop gleams brightly in the light
On autumn's nape that hangs on iced trees;
Its shine endures and fills the night
With a lacquer from nature's alchemy.
Each shape is unique than the rest
Wondrously strung as mist of worth
Rare flurry ones; its chapter's best,
Designed by frost to enchant our earth
Woven tight flashing through chilled air
To warm nips of November's spell
Oval or round, these gems declare
The sparkling white made to excel.
Lovely the flake in endless streams
Bestowed to winter...nature's dream!
Super Sonnet Premium Contest For John Hamilton
Re-post: 12/14/2018
Originally Written 7/23/2018
Alone atop a hill,
an ornamental willow
dances in the breeze.
Long limbs form a lovely gown
that gracefully sweeps the ground.
Adored by the sun,
the willow is not weeping.
She blooms rosily!
April’s first shower has passed;
for the sun alone, she shines.
The Solo Dancing Ornamental Tree (new title for the sonnet version)
An ornamental tree with willow leaves
upon a promontory stands alone.
In April’s breeze, each limb, cascading, weaves
with fragrance. She is dancing on her own.
I wonder how she came to be at all.
Her roots lie in a solitary place
where few traverse to spy her - lithe and small -
there moving in rain’s aftermath with glee.
In small degrees, the sun has climbed the sky.
No longer pallid, he is smiling down
upon the swaying willow. By and by,
Her graceful limbs shine like a lacquer gown.
Her lovely blooms have opened to expose
The splendid blush of buds with hue light rose.
*YOSHA AND KINTSUGI
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the Japanese vase, once whole, now cracked, a testament
to careless hands, a moment's rage—the shattering of our relationship.
we stare at the shards on the floor, their sharp edges glinting,
reflecting back the anger, fear, and broken trust.
do we clutch the fragments, nurse the wounds,
let resentment and bitterness bloom?
do we quickly sweep away the pieces,
pretending the argument never happened?
or do we gather, with trembling fingers,
the remnants of what was with a slow, deliberate grace?
the dust settled, and there it was~
unbidden, unwanted, perhaps—but undeniably present.
YOSHA…
...flickered in the lamplight~
an untranslatable grace, the space between exhale and release.
…a yielding, perhaps, a reluctant clemency offered
to one another, to oneself.
…not forgiveness, not yet, not quite~
but the letting go of the clenched fist, the unfurling of a tight bud.
KINTSUGI…
…binding together the shattered pieces of our relationship,
not with cold glue, but with lacquer of molten gold.
…gold seeping into our imperfections, brightens the jagged edges,
transforming our brokenness into a vessel of resilience.
…not perfection, but a tribute to the enduring power
of yosha, of mending, of becoming a masterpiece born of breakages.
yosha, kintsugi for the soul.
3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Flat,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
Pacifiers included
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
…
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
(SMASH!)
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
to sneak outside,
into the gentle beauty of evening
when all others are asleep,
except for nocturnal hawks like me,
I wander along the river's shore,
in the twirling, dappled
prism of waves, pebbles and buds,
thrown across the grass
by the skyline flickering through
wind-tossed crowns of trees--
a rare sensation as though I were walking
on a gossamer mantle of water : it's true,
i love the taste of nightbreak
softly caressing the glossy lacquer of summer tide--
a fragrant pewter, compared to the coppery
sting of blistering daytime,
that when my eyes inhale the grace
offered by peeping clouds, is to be filled
with a song of moonlight
waltzing with the sea-breeze in a dance fest.
Oh, sneaking outside
in the near dusk hours has been a rite
of mine since i was a child...
and till now it beholds me,
this magical pageant that began at age eight
when from nowhere ,
a relay of stars and a new moon carried me
out the gate and beyond this world--
if only to bestow upon me a mystical tour
connecting heaven's light with waters blue.
Water And Sky Contest of Gregory R. Barden
Re-posted 1/5/2018
No,
not I,
I see clearly through
the rotten wedding veil,
clogged by cake turning stale,
framed by arachnid pageboys;
I see cracks on pale pink lacquer,
on the mannequin face below,
eyes mad and staring, aglow,
the sick dead holes of eyeless toys.
No,
not I,
my dear,
I see the madwoman in the attic,
frozen in her rocking chair,
cobwebs floating in her hair,
gibbering to her inner void;
I see the child she used to be,
alone beneath opiate skies,
pulling wings off butterflies,
things of beauty she destroyed.
No,
sorry,
no trace of me at all,
no reflection cast of me,
I am not real, don’t you see?
but, of course, that doesn’t do;
I watch the self-delusions form,
your mechanisms justify,
projecting blame on passers by,
when all there really is,
is
you.
Kintsugi — means “join with gold” — is the Japanese art of repairing broken objects, often ceramic pottery or glass. Traditionally, gold lacquer is used to piece shards together again, creating a more beautiful object through the acts of breaking and repair.
____________________________________________________
my shattered heart
fractal art sewed~
smart Kintsugi
They walk alone together down the bright white line, their
Voices garble against the humming hordes as the
Tautness of the moment lays out like lacquer in the dustlight
Of our dreams, life feeding moisture under cleated white grass.
Talking angularly and stepping away from the parabola now they
Stop to admire the scoreboard like field generals
In the infinite march of Time's conquest.
They turn back into the red zone and ennoble their strides and
Emblazon their courage against the dizzying starscape.
Little Girl Manicure
Pink enamel
bitten to
remnants of lacquer
not quite chipped
away.
Kathryn McL. Collins
September 29, 2013
Night falls and the mirror moon illumes the
heavenly starry skies with gleaming ivory beams.
Shiny and mellow, a splendrous silver orb,
the delight of the night sky!
It is the evening of the 15th, and the cool air is fair,
filled with chirping crickets and reason for revelry.
Kinfolk gather to rejoice within the warmth of their hearth,
toasting with mulled wine ; munching moon cakes!
But today is also sacred and solemn, and offerings
must be made to Heaven and Earth. Thus, scented
sandalwood incense are lit ; apricots and pomelos are placed
upon lacquer plates before the plaques of divine gods,
and dear ancestors.
Away from laughter and lanterns, besides a quiet lake,
and under a lofty peak, sits a sagacious couple. She smiles
and plays the guqin, sending with each skillful stroke,
soft and serene sounds that grace the ethereal night's air.
As for him, he stands pleased under the pavilion, inhaling
the sweet scents of blooming peach blossoms, and admiring
the moon as it rose and the beauty of his wife before the
bright shimmer of moonlight.
Content, he recites a poem:
“The moon is luminous,
Heaven is harmonious,
Autumn has come,
And Summer is gone,
I toast my cassia wine,
To a harvest most fine!”
All rights released into Public Domain
BELINA
Belina was a lithe ballet dancer
She met a handsome young man Guy Prancer
The ballet stage there was lacquer
The evening of The Nutcracker
Toe cracked she found Guy a necromancer
Beautiful Black Girl
Beautiful black girl your shade is divine, your silky lacquer skin looks so rich against mine. You are so beautiful, in time you will know it, you will be refined.
I lived so long with the shame of being so dark. I did everything I could, I scrubbed as if my skin were the bark of a tree that could hopefully be relieved.
Each day I would wake hoping today is the day, I just know I’m going to be lighter and great because of all the skin lightner I used the night before. I slowly raised my eyes, hoping for my surprise, only to my demise. I was still that deep, dark, black little girl. My heart took a whirl!
No I wouldn’t get any whiter so my heart got even flightier because I’ve already been enlightened that this world had no room for anyone that wasn’t lighter than me.
A little black girl that does not know her worth. You’ve been told everything but the truth about the brilliance and beauty that lies within you. This did not bring you happiness and mirth you’ve felt this rejection and sadness from birth.
People laughed at your skins lovely tone, you even hid and often moaned because you didn’t know you were the silky black gold you owned. Your shame is not just your own you loaned it to all the other little silky black girls that did not know their worth.
Then the world saw the stunning electricity of Anok, and the beautiful, talented qualities of Lupita strut their stuff with their silky black flowing rich radiant skin.
They can not help but see the stunning beauty outside and also within. After all of these shameful years, the prizes they win.
Now there’s a wave of the future for little black girls. No more insults will stick that may be hurled at those dark little girls. Instead they will flow uninhibited through this life dazzling and spirited as a beautiful black girl, like a butterfly should.
Inspired by the life of Lupita Nyong’o
Peruse the literary discourse; illusion from reality divorce
Objective criticism with conscientious rigor your tour de force
Educate yourself on each antiquated style and archaic source
Train your enterprising eyes, every truism endorse and apt allegory reinforce
Recon the lexicon for cultural anomalies and idiosyncratic expressions
Your probity use to underscore trite confessions and trivial regressions
Peel away each banal artifice; to the arrogant that hauteur grant no concessions
Audit the amateur-shadow poets, showering disapproval on their indiscretions
Lacquer and emboss the verses that with creativity and innovation bridge the generational divide
Attentively nourish the nuances and imbibe the endearing witicisms that will abide
Careen through the light poems; cavort through each limerick; caress every soliloquy in stride
Enshrine the masterpieces with laudatory epilogues; let their inspiration your literary path forever guide
The lacquer, the tease, the crimp, of the hair
as we go out in style, mesh tops with flair
the motley choices of fashion pronounced
by the neon signs on our t-shirts no doubt.
Bobby socks and crop tops, spangled and bright,
all bangles and pearls to represent a Mardi Gras night.
The girls they did flock to the taverns in pairs,
to listen to the synthesised tunes that filled the air.
The boys, tight jeaned, and permed like a rock stars,
would enter in packs as though they were the masters,
sauntering through the ladies of lace,
one gloved with the charisma, yet held no grace.
The eighties were deemed a time out of place,
where anything goes, a retro space.
Defined by the music, the look now seems displaced,
yet there was fun and freedom when the eighties took place.
25/10/2018
You are a bird in a piano
Atonal with broken wings,
panic flight of triplets
That hammer both lacquer and bass
Lieder of a bloodied beak
and shocked, artless eyes;
All the notes you play
Are glued with flightlessness
the tone of air stolen
the sky closed and dark