Best Laved Poems
a young wing flutters
warmer nights laved in moon beams
spring's new soul takes flight
03/01/2019
Spring Haiku Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchen
2nd. Place
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
Continued in part 2
Sunlit water frolics
over a stone-strewn base.
Chattering waters,
playfully tumbling children
on a high hill, rolling down.
Both translucent and opaque
blues and greens magnified
by reflection, slice-cut by refraction,
laved with a satin-wetness; stones color,
beginning where, ending where;
I am not to know.
High mountain waters
strained of impurities by crystalline sand
gilded purveyors of bountiful imaginings:
leaf boats with twig masts, brilliant red-purple
chiton-backed beetles float, lost sailors.
Sunlit waters dance, smile-seekers,
laughter-breeders; water falls
ever
on.
First Published in Pyrokinections Spring 2013
Trere stands a man who's brave. Had many close shaves, wasn't at all afraid, not even of the grave.
He was a total knave, would always misbehave because he was downright depraved.
He would rant and he would rave like he belonged in a cave. He thought he had it made, not knowing to sin, he was a slave.
Til one day, he had a crave but someone else needed a fav, he couldn't understand why? From his heart he gave
Then he was hit with a shockwave, from that moment he was saved.
Now he's no longer depraved cause he was laved and now his way is paved.
No more to sin, a slave for he know The Lord forgave.
How long to sin will you be a Slave.
Akin, somewhat
to childhood tale of avian maidens
molting downy wings in haste
lest mortal eyes espy them
bathe in waters silvered
by the lunar light,
and having laved would vanish
winging with the night winds,
to the vastness, infinite,
the stars, east of the sun,
west of the midnight moon.
For we,
like them, have shed our fabric
wings to swim in pools of dusty
tungsten light in rooms,
and having loved, would gather
plumage strewn in haste, preen,
part with furtive glances, both
to blend, diverge in traffic din,
the fumes, the dust swirling,
the smog, west of the moon,
east of the setting sun.
HEAVENLY SHOWERS
She was sun-scorched,
Seared and parched,
Aching for heavenly showers!
Delaying, dithering, though, at long last
He relented, bowed.
He laved her with love,
Soaking all her heat
In his own pores.
He caressed the hearth.
The sky kissed the earth.
She was now radiant,
Ravishing…
Reciprocated now she-
A waft of love from her bosom, at long last
Rose up towards him.
Soaring high and high.
The earth kissed the sky.
Will I find my sky?
This is the second half, read part 1 for the first half
July dawned hot, we began to know
That here was something, a warm hot glow
August again, classes to fill
We planned as one, like Jack and Jill
September, my birthday, private you and me
My friend burst in, yet we still were free
October again, I fought through traffic
To meet you Halloween, in your silly Minnie raiment
November your birthday, make love in the club
I held you I pretended to love what you loved
December I planned a perfect getaway
You and me and some others, and kindness you laved
January brought classes, more than before
We bulled on through, now in sync, lovers asoar
February we began to slow falter
Work, school, friends our altar
March you strayed, to my horror my pain
I swore I wouldn't, yet your tears I obeyed
April you gave it your all, you called
I pretended to love, through my pall
May was Florida again, but cracked
We all faked joy, yet twas bittersweet pack't
June was all gone, we began with goodbye
I begged to you now, but you said to fly
Twenty-three stones I laid twenty-three months ago
To guide you to my path my door
You complained of the mud, which stained your shoes
Who knew at the end, what life you would choose
Each stone now grows moss, a film of dust
Each cracks a bit more, with each summer's rust
The stones abraded my skin, took simple cells
Each one a testament to love, to your spell
Your mocking voice suggested a simple path
My eager hands set it down, to dull your wrath
Twenty three stones laid out to the back
Where now I crouch, in loneliness wrap't
I have gazed long at the turbulent
while piled high cloud masses
I have watched the millions of stars at night
the damp fog has come and surrounded me
and the land is silent
the fresh rain has laved my face
while the wind blew warmly.
I receive no message from these for humankind
but hear only their message to me;
for they awaken the wonder that is in me
in addition, the yeaning that is the depth of my soul.
They do not tell me to scatter my words
through the world like seeds
rather, they say, Behold! be of us
and wing out beyond the world forever
and in my soul the deep yearning pleads for the
fulfillment of its' aching desire
to go with the sun, moon and the stars
and seek with them the answer to eternity.
But still the clouds, ebon faced, mass against
the fiery red rays of the setting sun
the stars, far distant, in space, still glitter
brightly in the patterns
the fog, white by day, grey by night
moves yet noiselessly on, giving intimacy
to near things, and strangeness to
those looming on the edge of vision
the rain falls yet too, cleansing and releasing
the perfume of the wet earth.
So I write
letting the words of my unrest
go freely where they would
for each word is deflection
from the longing within me
of all the voices I must heed and may not.
However, I cannot write in the dark
I cannot write as I stand on the hill gazing
yet the yearning is there most of all
therefore! I say aloud, convincingly
"It is only lovely"
to wander on through the night and day
and the years.
Freya was not quite sure whether she dreamt or floated in a bubble of hope
Her anchor cut loose the compass’ needle bent and stuck in past of beyond
A mouldy flare with no flair a life vest punctured and riddled with sea weed
She felt like a discarded cork from an old bottle but where was the message
Bobbing up and down more submerged than afloat Freya drifted away
Was she jetsam intentionally thrown overboard or flotsam lost by chance
Not that it mattered much she felt rather weightless in the swirl of the sea
The harbour drifted away and the lighthouse got smaller in the fog of her soul
Freya rode the crest of wild waters and had no charts for the journey ahead
No sails and no steam only the pure energy of the white wash of the waves
She flowed past buoys ship wrecks and cutters on the far-fetched horizon
Seemed to make no progress no island of respite no land for her shores
Seagulls got fewer and fewer but she came upon a dolphin leading the way
A single jellyfish with glowing tentacles brushes the bracelet on her ankle
While the sharks were not hungry she regained an appetite for her life
Salt parched her skin but the sun had dried all tears that had torn her apart
The festering boils that had boiled her inside healed from purulent ooze
‘I am naked my hair is entangled my mind and my bosom closer to home’
Anger and sorrow laved and cleansed her wounds of scarred scared sadness
When light dawned after another long night of waiting for imminent rescue
She opened her eyes and looked at webs on her hands and lush fins on her toes
‘I am a mermaid a maiden of the ocean and if this is a dream I’ll follow its call’
01st March 2019
A GYPSY'S LIFE
A gypsy am I, as I rove on the downy dale;
Aside from the taverns, the fields are my only vale.
I drink from my carafe a fairy-fermented brew,
And I dream of fair love, beneath a radiant sky of blue.
I carry within my satchel a book of romantic rhyme;
I wield it when I may, and write as I did of old: -
Of a sable-haired girl, whose gaze is of a raven-gold.
Her dress is white and long, and her hair is of an elysian clime.
I am struck by visions beside the lane,
On starry October nights, laved by the autumn rain,
And I sleep beneath the myrtles, musing on her kiss.
I have searched for her in ethereal bliss.
I have seen her face in dreams, wandering on the shore,
And the specter of her beauty, passing on the moor.
John Lars Zwerenz
Monsoon sunshine!
The first rain this
monsoon
Was sunshine
To me.
For It awakened
In me
A goal!
Washing the
Muddle:
The tussle
Of Being.
After the
Clear sky laved in
Silver drops,
The scent of
Earth remains.
And my slate smells
Clean and fresh
To learn
The newest
Lesson!
The Front Window Cogitation
By Sy Roth
Observed the others drowning in their tears.
A pasty rain inks the front window
Sad remnants of a broken sky in Kandinsky splashes
Marked on an ancient, bubble-blown glass.
Outside cars distorted,
People amble in sodden abandonment,
Shuffling along with the meanderings of their misshapen dogs
dragging their owners, who
clutch white-plastic bags filled with their
tick-tocking seconds off their tick-tock lives.
A mushroom cloud of moon splashes the sky white,
As they galumph slowly by,
These sloths in inches of time,
Their microseconds stretching to breaking.
Inundated by an invasion of seconds,
Gestating in a mitosis of time
Set to implode—
Or explode in a parade of Krakatoa rains—
A burst breaks the sky in half
Remnants of rain drip off bent grasses.
Along the slippery, bubble-blown glass
Smudged to icy, crystalline imprecision,
Thoughts melt into a frothy latte foam
Consternation of the other on the inside.
Looking out.
Brief quiescence returns, when
The bleating window screams of malformed ideas
Converted into dormant, spent lovers.
The quislings wither,
Mesmerized by the swinging bags of ,
Overflowing in a Mauna Loa of lava laved
And the inside begins to die in the fog.
Between plowing through the day's mania
and ingesting mouthfuls of splendor;
you Lady Monarch, an avid adventurer,
on a brief sojourn tempt with your
phenomenal beauty and finesse in motion.
You fondle only a few of its white
ambrosial blooms while waltzing
with the mellow wind, which laved
the air and spirit with only
a slight scent of jasmine.
Your poise and allure,
earnestly begs me; your spectator,
to the leisurely, winsome movement
in gentle rhythms; pushing back my pointless
irritations in order to furnish untroubled reflections.
Yet never enough time--
now you must depart,
but I am sharply fixed upon your
physical grace as you take off;
I'm wonderfully touched...
O, why did I fall for you, O' sun,
When my soul is nestled in the deeps?
Agape and afraid, my eyne mosey deeper still; they run,
Yet on the colder current your warmth invitingly sleeps.
The distance that defies the divine betwixt us
Somehow is no occlusion for you to reach me,
But gods 'gainst me guarding your gates, and hope's quietus,
Make my valentines reaching you an impossibility.
Somehow still, suffocated in these sorrowful seas,
I seem to mishear the rhythm of your limpid light
As a melody yearning to find the lost keys
To my manacles and enrapture me with your sight.
When finally I undo these tethers for you,
The cosmos Herself derides my dolorous deeps
Laved in a longing that over millennia grew,
And shrouds your smile with a prejudiced eclipse.
But I see you clad carnally in that cerecloth--
Why?--stoking the gypsy in me with your misconstrued call.
Why did you build that stairway of light and masquerading troth,
That I so eagerly took, thus perishing in a fall?
Pale daughters
don't follow their familial duties
or wash behind their ears
laved in white light,
they sport a smile, when necessary,
compelled by an accidental mischief
pencilled in exclusion,
rendered in the shade
we wouldn't go dancing on the almost air.