Best Likewise Poems
I’m driftwood, and I’m floating out to sea
as sun descends upon my home - the grove
of trees whose fragrance still remains with me.
And likewise, heaven’s work of art, a mauve
surrounding me, now permeates my soul.
Warm water, in the twilight growing cold,
is rocking me. Beneath dark blue, a shoal
moves swiftly; overhead there will unfold
the myriad of stars in semblance of
a giant carousel in dimming sky.
Those stars that glitter for the grove I love
will glitter too for me, where here I lie
alone, enraptured. . . and I think I might
drift evermore, enveloped by this night.
“Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.”
— Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
Close, but close to what, he asks himself
to God, or to the end of things?
the question looms, an icy wind that stings
western sun belies the deathly chill within his bones
summit slain, an unread book upon the shelf
there is this urge that drives a man,
is hard to grasp and harder to expound -
the constant forward press that leaves each
dried, unquenched, though verdant green surrounds,
and yet, to feel within one’s core, the source just out of reach
frozen by fear of somehow missing out, his
carcass now grows cold, a mind adrift, in search
of times of youth and days of old -
a man possessed will rid these thoughts no sooner than a
leopard sheds his spots
No real concern is given to the
one who comes behind, who likewise seeks -
has he a thought of how his end will be
explained? to whom? they either understand or know not
what lies just ahead beyond this snowy peak
the sadness of the unattended field such sown - the
leopard lives and dies alone, but for the joys of spring
was this Creator’s plan for us? i don’t think so -
seeking, He’s found in places pressed and low,
at heights, without, does but exhaustion bring
that one might scale the highs, seek out, explore -
altitude, we find, a perfect metaphor
ASP OF GRIEF
She buries her head upon this asp of grief —
soft with reptilian fangs, hard with poison.
Her covetous husband lies upon the Nile’s reef.
She holds her abdomen in her arms - his son.
with lunar belly...
the shape of her husband’s seed
...a fateful eclipse
The pit with its bone-chilling cold, hisses with hatchlings,
dreaming of spoiled seeds and seas with a vortex,
coiling around ships. A queen’s lips burn red, yearning for her king.
An abandoned wreck will not lay eyes upon his baby’s sex.
insanity’s kiss...
eyes burn with crimson lipstick
...unrepentant flames
She plays with sticks and desire, enticing asps of despair —
gorges with vampiric teeth. She embraces their mock
and likewise teases, beckons and pleads for death so fair.
Like a breeze about her ankles snakes snip her royal purple frock.
entanglement frays...
dyed purple threads unravel
...rigor mortis strikes
His candle ensign in the dark, a resurrected hero of vanity.
The light flickers with feet in the sand, footprints at lover’s leap.
His profile in death’s shadow, his purple passion of insanity —
laughter litters this carnivorous cave where ashes of dust heap.
alluring ashes...
Salome’s serpentine dance
...Cleopatra’s veils
The sound of a knife being sharpened, his sword with venom drawn,
leaps upon his self-righteous chest, a single blade’s deep penetration.
No handsomer lover, thighs of steel, tanned and craven brawn.
He lost his rapturous beauty bright and fleeting, weeds of veneration.
bilious-amber
mixes with his crimson blade
— a suicide pact
4/28/2018
as a child,
I perceived
the wonderment
of Clouds.
and elders
likewise contemplated
the curious celebrity of them
the solemnity of shape-shifting skyships
their charity of rain:
encouraging fruit
greening hills
irrigating joys
keeping
watch
around the earth
in as enviable
a perch
as the risen sun
or mystic moon
that guides tides.
sun runs
apace
moon whisks
its baton away
but Clouds
stay high,
perpetual
imprints
covering Space and Time.
Could
Clouds
be God's eyes?
***
when I was
-abecedarian-
counting from one to three,
I licked my lips
at Clouds
reckoning
I'd catch them
like docile butterflies,
and discern the flavors of miracle floss:
must be rose-white sugar
some barley flour
lamb's fleece and goose feathers
the elders, lofty and wise,
disparaged my foolish games.
I tugged
on the edge of their mountainous faces:
wispy chins
transient strands
billowy beards
closest clouds
I'd seen
Proximal nimbi
and their dust trail
of ginger, onion, and clove
pulled pork, frizzled cod, light ashtray
lingered...
I caught
those crazy hairs
so hard
candy-coated
raindrops
fell!
The eye refracts the light and then is born
An image, and ideas are likewise shown
When Poet tilts each ray of thought to form
Reflections set to sonnets’ rhythm own.
A river glistening in the sun does flow,
And so a sonnet moves and shimmers rhyme.
This stream of words with not so far to go
May ripple in the soul with glow sublime.
A diamond that is cut to form exact
By craftsman's hands, a brilliance will impart.
The sonneteer must chisel to extract
From rough a clarity which is his art.
The sonnet's beauty shines through history
In prisms of precision's poetry.
July 17, 2020
My dearly beloved Sister in the Lord,
You surely are a great blessing to me and to others...
May this poem of tribute to and for you reverberate beyond our memories
Vanquishing oblivion that lurks to prevail.
Blessed by God with eternal life’s certainty
Redeemed, enjoying the Saviour’s assured security
Imparted with divine nature toward great spirituality
Guided thru the Holy Spirit’s wisdom and authority
Instructed to live by faith, trusting Christ’s immutability
Driven forward to pursue the Lord’s will with sincerity:
A victor in the Master’s ministry; we salute you for your godly integrity!
Moved by God’s love in serving with grace
Empowered with His strength to win in the Christian race
Nourished fully with His Word along prayer-brace
Directed for stewardship’s faithfulness all her days
Optimizing the Almighty’s offered opportunities of no delays
Zoomed toward heavenly goals midst hindrances’ trace…
A servant* of God in His church; we thank the Lord for you and Him we praise!
This is a Birthday poem for this Sister's 59th birthday on November 13, 2018, with these notes: "Ma’am Edgie, A blessed birthday to you.
Your life, spent for the Lord, is really a great blessing!"
I posted this on November 26, 2018 (Monday here in the Philippines).
It was November 28, 2018 Poetry Soup's Poem of the Day.
I was elated to learn about it...
Then, after I had my class in the Bible College, I was informed that Ma'am Edgie was called by God to be with Him in heaven on November 28, 2018, at 11:30 A.M. (Philippine time). I bowed to God for His wisdom. Indeed, He makes no mistake. As for this beloved Sister, she will be missed... for her love to the Lord, to His work, and to the brethren.
*1Corinthians 7:22 For he that is called in the Lord, being a servant, is the Lord's freeman: likewise also he that is called, being free, is Christ's servant.
November 26, 2018
2nd place, "Last Letter to my Beloved" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 12/16/2018.
Ten-year Randi Clay
Just moved into town -
The town of Fear Street,
Where horror pulls you down.
Enormous, gigantic calendars
She sees, hung on her street
On October 10th is marked
In red - ‘The Birth of Pete.’
She makes new friends at school,
And likewise - enemies too,
Who seemed to keep on saying,
‘Beware – He’ll get you! ’
Whenever asked “Who’s Pete?”
The children turned too pale,
But at last, quite surprisingly,
They began to tell the tale:-
"There was a boy called Pete,
A normal 12 – year old,
Until one day he fell so ill,
And caught a horrid cold.
Alas! One day he died,
And was buried in his grave,
They thought it was the end of Pete,
Grumpy, dull, but brave.
But right from that very year,
Pete gets up on the tenth,
And enters into other kids,
For using up their strength.
It is now an annual tradition
Of playing Hide and Shriek -
Whoever Pete makes ‘IT’
Is the new one from that week.
Randi, the risk for you is
Too real - Heaven forbid.
You’re new to Town Fear Street -
AND PETE DOES LIKE A NEW KID."
---------------------------------------------------------
Based off the idea from an R.L Stine book
Gifts of stuffed toys make my special child
delight vibrantly in freedom bliss
as he cuddles them joyously
to create magical time of beautiful wonders
transforming his bed into marvelous haven.
Awesome bonding moments
grasp him around fellowship with his friends:
soft monkey, furry ape, smooth dog,
huggable bear, silky dinosaur
bringing sheer laughter of amazement-joy.
With sign language and gestures of care
he attends to them in his relaxation time
midst roll-call they understand
as he lines them up in his organized manner
expecting for their presence.
In his mirth-filled grin
he picks them up one by one
conscious of their responses
heartfully warming him therapeutically
never defying his touches and embraces.
As he prays and gives thanks to God
my special child asks blessings for his stuffed toys
midst utterances they all comprehend
expressing his affection toward them
like how his Mom loves him so dearly.
Before he drifts to sleep
he covers them with his own blanket
assuring their safety around his protection
while he allows my hands to extend toward them
since for him, "we are a family."
Yes, his stuffed toys understand his quirks
as they play with him with their flexible compliance
keeping him company of significant worth
enabling his individuality to exude compassion-manners
while enhancing his kindness-deeds.
More than soft toys, they are my special boy's treasures...
...gifts from people who love him --- whom he values likewise
as both recipients and benefactors of care, comfort, and cheer
... since they exemplify God's grace, goodness and generosity
while radiating hope, peace, and triumph for their functionality
though, of course, they can never and must not be....
... substitutes for a loving home.*
*Psalm 127:1 Except the LORD build the house, they labour in vain that build it.
September 16, 2025
1st place, "More Than A Soft Toy" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg; judged on 9/26/2025.
10th place, "2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 20" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney; judged on 10/8/2025
Line of inquiry: track where lies the fulcrum of the fragrance of a rose, then likewise find within, your soul. By Unseeking Seeker
From whence comes the fragrance of a flower?
At its fulcrum, the floral organs
attach to the stalk, which has poked
up out of the earth to sprout
the beautiful petals -
that sweet-scented face
which I adore
in the form
of the
rose.
My
soul is
like the rose.
I am planted
on this earth, but I
need proper nourishment
to fulfill my roles. Heaven,
please let your sun reign down on me.
My soul, like that of a rose, provides
no sweet fragrance without enlightenment.
Today I feel iambic! I would say
of all the meters, I like it the best.
An iamb starts with some soft sound to say
then ev'ry second syllable is stressed.
Trochees likewise, alternate their stresses;
even-numbered syllables are muted.
Nowhere near as popular (my guess is) -
Trochee fans, though, fervently dispute it.
Feet are the units of meter - such fun!
Dactyls have syllables STRESSED/, un-/, and un-.
"T'was the Night Before Christmas" is in Anapest:
that's a foot with three syllables: un-/, un-/, and
STRESSED.
The meter is the pattern of the beats within a line
"Iambic" and "Heptameter" describe this line just fine.
Anapestic Tetrameter: four anapests;
and the best part of THIS lecture series? No tests!
Trimeter has three feet
Tetrameter has just four feet
Pentameter adds one foot, making five
Hexameter adds one: six feet in this beehive
Heptameter has seven feet, but now it's getting late;
and so I'll close with this (you may have guessed):
Octameter has eight!
written 1 July 2023
the saltiness of love
a riveting fall
unlike other tears
this solitary shed
like a drip of life-blood
the lance of each freckle
an almost feckless drive over the sallow cheek
finally landing on the lump of her throat
the last tear stains her pillow
tasted by encompassing family
a lovely bouquet
the aroma of memories
likewise a splash of a storm
lashing against the window pain
softly moaning wind
as she exhales one more breath
like the shake of a baby’s rattle
as the sun shines
a doe with a sparkling eye
and her fawn
through the window pane
her family exhales
and holds the snapshot
of her death
2/4/2019
Silent One’s One Last Tear Contest
Stretched out on wing of weariness,
The total collapse of the flesh.
Arms and legs, limp and pitiless.
The world’s escarpments hurt..enmesh.
Come to me, says the one buried…
Who rose from the grave. Likewise grim,
With heaviness, her soul carried
To the foot of the cross…to Him.
The death bed’s a feather, so white.
Her guardian angel plucked from
her largesse…quintessence takes flight.
To heavy hearted, He says Come.
Decomposing in shallow grave,
But not so the soul…it is brave.
Summertime heats the birds and bonny boughs.
Wings lighthearted and flapping with the breeze.
Likewise, the scent of honeysuckles arouse
A ring - the wedding bells of buzzing bees.
Yet, the downpour of sweat, the pavement roast,
Burnt on both sides. Oh never mind… The sun
Resounds the flute, and cheers with champagne toast,
The budding lips of two becoming one.
See! Doesn’t matter! The roses, all in bloom.
White cocklebells a gushing veil of June.
The butterfly dispels the Winter’s gloom.
Lights up bride’s eyes and cricket’s honey moon.
Fireflies, amidst the dancing guests, in flight.
Fireworks light up the countenance of night.
To seek a twist that turns a soul, toward two open hands,
A street wise urchin scours the lanes, where likewise understands,
And so the circle quickly spins, back to the gutter place,
Where there’s no need of feeling, or chance of saving face.
This wandering a dreary trail, soon drags the body down
For these folks with daily lives, who’ve never known renown.
Where wayside stop agenda’s, offer nil but one day hope,
And little chance of learning, or a vision how to cope.
Of course the word of ‘open house’, is known and known so well
Amongst the fiery feel let down, whose marching’s been to hell.
So now the wish of life has changed, from down beat getting by.
Some choose to find a Christian peace. Then for God here am I.
Talking straight and being fair, through lessons soon decide,
The pendulum won’t always swing, to seek the other side,
So method swings to meet the mood. Find tracks thought overgrown.
Trust begins to grow in strength, and friendship seeds are sown.
Put to the mind are simple tasks, that most don’t even dream,
Like having faith in human kind, or be part of a team,
So not surprised the answer, from a simple questionnaire,
Would you rather have my wisdom, or be a millionaire?
Of course the answers simple, money buys the world for you,
And like you were in days gone by, do what you want to do.
But tell me were you happy, with what you did without this gold!
I’m sure you’ll find my wisdom, gave warmth to stimulate your cold.
I’ve watched your feeling’s change, for the betterment no doubt.
To see you itching for the world, and wanting to get out
To face the challenge’s on offer, with your heart set on tradition,
And honesty within your soul, for a lifetime of ambition.
Faith the timeless healer, once again has conquered all.
Where once a ceaseless tempest grew, is now a minute squall.
I know there will be tempting times, I’ve seen this all before
In the glow of being proud, there’s a knock upon the door.
No better child stands near me now, although the worse for wear.
‘Tis I that holds the privilege when, I’m offering my care.
It hurt’s to see old spirit broke; I must build on this chance,
For there are no bad children. Just bad circumstance.
The snowflakes, white and pure, they ballet in
Like newborn thoughts that surface from within,
we would be wise to treat them tenderly -
just one harsh influence, they cease to be.
And we know not what will become of them.
They wander, yet inside their havens stay
Some find their way and rest upon firm ground,
misled, a few by winds are blown away.
The boots of fate come trampling in on that
which envy, fear and hate already taint.
They fragment those whose flawless structured mat
has glazed itself in nature’s silver paint.
Exagoni, pristine, stay free of fear
though their impending fate remains unclear.
Likewise true thoughts prevail, preserved inside,
though they may be witness to Evil’s tide.
———————————————
—————————————————