Best Lashed Poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A beaver bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
As I walked along the shore
With thoughts that brought an emptiness to a heart
That once beat within the soul of a young sailor
At one with the elements
Without mercy
As though seeking vengeance for an unnamed wrong
And again I felt the chill of another battle looming
In the distance
But a smile lashed out gripping a face
That knew that the taste of victory was mine
Seeing only the beauty
Of the ocean and
Feeling her strength
As my legs carried me toward
The eye of the pending storm.
Thank you Larisa for the inspiration.
Me, my brother Tom and Uncle Pat were on a fishing holiday
three men in a rowing boat way out in Dublin Bay
we anchored up and cast six rods over a sunken wreck
hoping for the catch of our lives to haul onto the deck
hours passed with the floats just bobbing up and down
Tom fell asleep and Pat sat watching with a frown
a ferry passed by and the swell nearly made us capsize
as I held onto the sides Pat stood there with staring eyes
his float had gone and the rod had bent double
I woke Tom up and told him we were in trouble
Pat grabbed the rod and with all the strength he had
he struck the line which went straight down, oh man this was bad
the boat began to list quite far and water was gushing in
we started bailing out, but Pat held firm he stood there with a grin
he had a bite that was pulling hard the line shot under the keel
only one fish had the strength for this, it was a giant conger eel
Tom rummaged through the tackle and handed Pat a knife
we shouted ‘cut the line’ or this fish could take a life
but he heaved and reeled then shouted ‘get the gaff’
we saw his head and great big teeth and said ‘you’re having a laugh’
Tom grabbed an oar and whacked it’s head, the oar it broke in two
Pat’s foot was in the firing line and the eel snapped at his shoe
the eel it thrashed; we kicked and lashed the eel half out the boat
but the eel was having none of it and was going for Pat’s throat
the screams were heard by other boats who came to our rescue
the next we knew the eel was dead killed by god knows who?
a harpoon in it’s head stuck out and we were showered in blood
Pat saw blood gushing from his foot, then fell with a sickening thud
we climbed aboard the other boat, the eel it was their prize
we lost our boat and rods, half a shoe plus two toes, It’s the truth, I tell no lies….
© 21/2/2014
For Caleb's Contest...Now it has been judged I can say it is all true....
Abuses hurled and Alcohol gurgled,
In the vortex of confusion
And blurred vision.
Intoxicated pleasure from surreal leisure.
Fooled senses and numbed conscience.
Wiped existence of love and kindness cuffed.
Lashed at the one he once loved.
Cringed and clung to her faint faith.
She and her cursed fate.
Exploding paroxysm of hate.
Her whipped ivory skin and bleeding lips,
Eyes with teary tinge,
Has the harvest moon singed.
Stillness of the night, pierced
By memories of bitterness-sodden years.
"Hurt me not", she trembled with fear,
"let me live for my girl, dear".
The cries colored skies crimson.
Just one reason--Her little girl.
As her daughter stared
With flaming locks and eyes that flared.
By Angom Amy (15)
The storms were strong with the wind fierce and the waves high
Always trying to stay afloat, to not drown and try to learn to fly
Survival became a way of life, to make it through opposing current
While I spoke the truth, they lashed at me, twisting what I meant
It was cold, so cold, many times in the middle of the dark night
When everything good, seemed to be completely out of sight
Then one day when the sun did rise, he suddenly came along
I could hear the rhythm of a soothing, comforting, distant song
The waters calmed like a mirror of glass, I could see reflections
It had been so long and I didn’t have the usual objections
It was different as the scenery slowly evolved and changed
As I adapted to new things and my thoughts were rearranged
Although without wings, I was flying, but no longer alone
Across the sphere of clear skies, where the wind had blown
Heidi Sands
9/28/17
“Over there,” yelled the Helmsman
“On the Starboard side.”
Though when I looked from left to right
Nothing caught my eye
“Over there,” he yelled again
“On the starboard side.”
And again as I looked from left to right
Nothing caught my eye
But I knew when I saw her
For she was not water nor was she beast
That she had come upon us
To rest us all in peace
Her fingers rattled the rigging
As all hands fought to stow the cloth
The helmsman lashed himself to the wheel
We faced the worst of her wrath
Then she brought the main-mast down
The crow’s nest crashed upon the deck
Fear eclipsed all conscious thought
For we floated upon a wreck
Our lives so fully in the hands
Of nature’s primeval fury
We prayed to our mystical gods
For their heavenly mercy
Lo she ignored our desperate pleas
As she drove us beneath the waves
Relaxed and confident she left us
To our watery graves
Then the helmsman free from his shackles
Pulled us with all his might
Dragged us by our sodden collars
Toward the watery moonlight
The helmsman of defiant strength
Pulled us with all his might
Through our aquatic graves
To freedom’s shining moonlight
Perfection's never something,
You can capture oh so well.
But her beauty burned like gazing,
At the fires that burn in Hell.
And people they would beg of her,
"Let me capture you in photograph."
But with beauty that was so obscure,
She'd always turn and laugh.
She woke up every morning,
But this was a different one.
Called an artist that was yearning,
"We can do this just for fun."
She stained her lips with rose.
Painted her cheeks in the fairest rouge.
Slipped ballet flats upon her toes.
And in her sundress she found refuge.
The amateur had no say,
She had planned the perfect spot.
She whispered, "I'll lead the way."
A small price to pay to get the perfect shot.
Her movements were so delicate,
It's as if they were devised.
She used a subtle hand wave to indicate,
That they had finally arrived.
You would think you'd see a castle,
Or maybe a field of green.
But this enviroment was quite the hassle,
Maybe her sense of taste wasn't keen.
She thrusted weeds away,
Steering clear of twigs and rocks.
The warm wind made her sundress sway,
And softly tousled her gold locks.
Upon a bridge she advanced,
The planks began to creak.
The water below her danced,
And sunset began to peak.
She lifted her legs with elegance,
And supported herself with a beam.
The photographer shuttered in benevolence,
But followed along with this dangerous scheme.
It's as if the camera was under a spell;
As beneath the bridge, waves violentally lashed.
She threw her arms out and willingly fell,
As the light grew bright and flashed.
The tides pulled tight around her.
They made her twirl and spin.
And the camera man swore,
she smiled as they tugged her in.
Perfection's not that fluent.
Not something you can capture oh so well.
But now we have a picture here to prove it,
As the waves dragged her to Hell.
.
When we are walking…
and we’re stepping on a spiky ground,
Walk lightly without looking down or turning around;
Ahead of us always awaits the finest sand
where we can lay down and laze in the sun.
When we are climbing…
and we’re going to climb a scree,
Dodge those stones that roll down on us freely;
And if we feel disdain and in vain,
remember that we’re unique, with special knacks and strength.
When we’re swimming…
and we’re swimming on distraught of morass counts,
keep dancing the minuet of life in mellow sounds;
When sable clouds and torrents of rain teem down too,
swim at our best stoke, on those clouds we’ll always float and glow.
When we are loving…
and we’re loving too much from the heart,
It hurts, but Cupid also heals wound with his magic dart;
Keep on loving others, never stifle and give up
Love is a berth of comfort, a precious gift, a great reward.
When we are standing…
and we’re lashed by cataclysm that mangled our heart,
Cling to the Lord, He will restore everything from the start;
He will reshape whatever was deformed
And make us stand straight, a forever cypress amidst the storm.
Dec. 9,2014 10.50pm
©2014Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
-I hope this humble poem of mine can inspire or uplift. God bless! This was not entered in a contest because it’s too late but it’s ok with me.
A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown throne to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of imposter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
Storm clouds gathered in the skies
Swirling angrily and anxious
For the war
Brewing somber colors
Not swept away by the mighty wind.
Finally, holding off no longer,
They exploded in a crash of thunder
As lightning lashed out in pain.
The tension was relieved
While the torrential downpour flowed
Like an avalanche of tears,
And washed the dusty air.
Then, as if by magic,
When the last drop of rain was shed,
The aurora of sun embraced the sky
And kissed it softly with a rainbow
To fade the ashen gloom.
As my tears dissolve our storm
Hug me with your sunshine
Of understanding love
And let the rainbow of our kiss
Paint away the hurt.
February 16, 2015
~1st Place~
Contest: Impact and Metaphors
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Judged: 10/03/2020
Poor little Zena zebra was feeling oh so sad
She was born an albino, which made her look bad
Zena desperately wanted to fit in with the others
And have a stripy body like her sisters and brothers
Zena thought hard and came up with a cunning plan
She would paint some stripes, so she’d have great élan
Zena went shopping in a local hardware store
Bought some black paint for the stripes she’d adore
Her stripes were brushed on by a trusted friend
But quickly the can of paint came to an end
Sadly Zena hadn’t got any more money
Her half painted body looked rather funny
How the other zebra’s laughed at poor Zena
They called her names; they couldn’t be meaner
But good luck was on little Zena’s side that day
The rain lashed down and washed the paint away
For Zena had purchased watercolour paint
Now Zena’s back to white and she has no complaint
She stands out in the crowd because she is unique
Yes she’s different from the others but her look is oh so chic
Zena stands proudly in her white coat which shines so bright
She is delighted to say not everything in life is black and white
Moral of the story it is our differences that make us unique
A delightful Children’s fable Contest Sponsored by Carol Eastman.
Submitted to z contest old or new
Sponsored by Constance La France
07~10~16
Wow is this for real, my boy lollipop,
My best ever destination, da, da da da,
Is a trip to the park
I love it when it gets dark,
Da da da da,
My boy lollipop.
I want to see the big five,
Then adrenaline will pump,
On which I thrive.
I love it, i love it, I love it so,
Da da, da, da, da, da da da,
When i see a star constellation,
And clear skies,
Even the milky way,
I want you to know,
This feeds my always
Active imagination,
Da, da, da da,
My boy lollipop.
I have missed the roar of the lion,
In the early morn,
We get up, shower, that was our alarm,
Am I right my boy lollipop,
And the gentle, long lashed giraffes,
Da da da da,
I long for an elephant’s trumpet,
Da da da da,
My boy lollipop
Hey sweet hubby lollipop,
For you I desire,
Hope we see buffalo in herds,
And a Dung Beetle carrying turd,
Da, da da da,
You always set my heart on fire,
My boy lollipop
The soar of the fish eagle by the river,
A leopard chasing its kill
Hey my boy lollipop,
He carries it up a tree
And eats his fill,
Da, da, da da,
Oh, how I love the Kruger Park,
From my first visit with you
I fell in love
My boy lollipop.
Will we see hyenas or wild dogs,
Da, da, da da
Will it be sunny and hot
Cold nights or not,
Tell me my boy lollipop
Will you be wild with me
We are in the wild so let it be,
My hubby lollipop.
Da da da da.
Wart hogs are so cute
They squeal with delight or fear,
And rhinos, surely
We’ll see lollipop dear,
Once remember, we saw two
Baboons fiercely fighting,
There’s so much more,
Let’s wait and see
Da, da, da da, da da da,
Will you buy be some candy,
If I promise you, clothes
Will be scanty.
Have my silly cap on, tomorrow going to the Kruger Park.
The da da da’s is the background music.
Inspired by the song my boy lollipop sung by Millie Small,
A hit in 1964.
Big five is when you have spotted elephants, lions, rhinos
Leopards and buffalo.
An angel, he appeared one afternoon -
amazing, amorous, and alluring.
Beguiling her with beautiful ballads,
how splendidly he bewitched her!
Long languorous summer days they lazed
in a field of daffodils
as she lay blissfully in his brawny bronzed arms
looking lovingly into his eyes -
those baby blues with long lush lashes.
Seventeen were they. Their first love it was -
a lovely flirtatious and fabulous first love.
Suddenly, it all just stopped.
Sent away to serve in war,
her sweetheart sadly disappeared with barely a Sayonara.
Several seasons swept away
like brown leaves in September’s breezes.
Studying at school, sometimes she recalled
with longing - the love of her young life
and the boyish glee in his bright blue long-lashed eyes.
Unbeknownst to her, her lost boyfriend
was back from his lonesome barracks
and the bloody battlefields of an awful World War.
Back was he, though limping from a bullet to his leg
and looking for the love of HIS young life.
Seventy-seven years later,
see them sauntering together
in a field of daffodils
situated by a house he built for her -
two lone centenarians
with grown twin sons and seven grand-kids.
Their lasting love was lost but only for a blink
of their long lifetime -
a lifetime of lovely marital bliss
that envelopes them still with bountiful blessings.
March 31, 2022
for My Lost And Found Love Poetry Contest
Sponsor: JCB Brul
Hot August, 1974, I was back for my second year at college,
having just settled into a new place at Anita Apartments,
right next to the guys’ apartment complex called Tanner’s.
My first night, we answered a knock at our door.
Steve Dietrich, a friend of my roommate, entered our apartment,
but my eyes went immediately to the younger man with him.
That would be his brother Joel, there for his first year at BYU.
My first thought was this: How shy he is, so reserved. . . but so adorable.
He was tall and thin and cute as the dickens.
They stayed for just a while, and by the time they left,
I’d formulated my big plan:
to get to know this boy Joel (who everyone just called Joe).
There was to be a parking lot dance that weekend,
and so I waited expectantly, hoping all week
to catch a glimpse of this boy I’d found so attractive,
but no matter how often I strolled past his apartment,
my opportunity for a “chance encounter” never occurred.
The night of the dance arrived and I was right there,
all decked out in my colorful tight top with bellbottoms,
long luscious lashes curled and pink frost lipstick applied.
When I caught sight of Joel, he was slow dancing with some girl.
A blonde with glasses, she was rather plain and smaller than me.
I was not pleased to see her with Joe, and I thought to myself:
Hmmmm, who does she think she is? I saw him first,
and he is NOT going to stay with her tonight.
As they danced, I fixed my eyes on him,
my beautiful, long-lashed, sultry green eyes.
He looked up and saw me then. I must have taken him by surprise
because I did not lower my gaze.
I wanted him to know that he was going to be mine,
so I willed him with my gaze to break away from that blonde
and come to me.
And so he did. . the rest is history.
Beside me at this moment, lying on our bed, watching TV,
is the man who today bears little resemblance to that
very young man I met 35 years ago.
I turn to him and ask, “Do you remember the VERY first time you saw me?”
He replies, “I don’t know; a parking lot dance?”
Well, at least he came close. . .
For Frank Herrera's Contest: Love Story
far from here and never worn.
“It’s red” I mused.
She giggled or anticipated.
They were words, not words
as they can be words
said to break the ice.
“Yes, it is” with a broad smile
then hid her lower lip
behind her upper teeth
and lashed down expectantly
waiting for my mouth
would say no more
words more than icebreakers.
And it was a song,
and I saw
she hadn’t known
as I hadn’t.
Only dreamt.
Of an island.
Or a better
Amish world
on a Vangelis
tune promising
creativity.
Those are words of course
as they are words and no more.
She also knew to do the dishes;
not to wet me she pushed with her pulses.
Hey, I saw you smile in the uncommon mirror
when I kissed the curve between your neck and shoulder.
I’ll paint you in despair because I cannot as you are,
although I think I know a lot as you do and cannot
hold me in your words, only in the no-words
between the lines where none can find
me or you in my hemp abstracts.
A negligee is easier and says a lot
which is why I said it’s also red
and can be seen and caught in that word
so openly pregnant of many no-words.
She doesn’t iron, she folds. That’s a secret
not unknown under women.
Or men.
04/08/09