Best Literature Poems
between the plant pots and the trays
the cobwebs had seen better days
and for all the wood and damp and soil
the smell was one of paint and oil
as flies and wasps lying in state
were curled up past their fly-by-date
and nails and screws and metal hooks
shared space on shelves with brewery books
beneath a clock with broken hands
where time stood still amongst the cans
and jam jars full of pip-like seeds
stood next to things that no one needs
and while her tears had stained the glass
that looked out on the unkempt grass
upon the floor amid the mess
..a letter
and her wedding dress.
I feel a sense of déjà vu as I listen
to the cacophony of voices:
dilettantes discussing poetry
under baroque chandeliers. Masquerading
as avant-garde writers or bona fide critics
(black turtlenecks; color is an anomaly and suspicious),
they claim carte blanche to spew
pompous platitudes,
pronounce entire oeuvres as lacking elan
while all they create is endless ennui.
1/22/2018
For contest: Contest: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
Sponsor: Silent One
The lines
Inside my head
Spinning
Swirling, curling
Round my brain
Somehow
Find the path
Come winding
Down my arm into my hand
And pop upon the
Paper, canvas,
Glass…
I let them flow
They flow so fast
Words, images,
Visions
Take me down roads
And paths to where I have
Never been;
Create worlds
Within worlds
These lines release my pain;
Oh, such peace
These lines contain.
Salutations to all the poets
That waters my ink,
Those whose words never
Make my heart shrink,
Of you always i ever will think,
Standing alone, i could sink
So i grasped on your knowledge
That is without stink.
*=~*~=*
Phyllis Babcock is a raining day,
In her Motherhood, no
Hot sun to hinder my play.
Carolyn Devonshire is a rose flower,
Tender Mother and even from afar, her
Lightening Ink draws me closer.
*=~*~=*
Linda Marie, the Sweet heart of P S,
Is the essence of love letters
Her poems are like the good weathers,
Constance La France is indeed a rambling poet,
No wonder,her lines drives me to the point,
Doris Culverhouse won my heart,
She trades literature,
The poet Destroyer kills me
With Ink, a poet by nature.
Dr. Ram Mahta is a poetic chef,
He stirs the soup with delicious thoughts.
*=~*~=*
Heart dedication to all my poetic friends...
For your presence is like fragrance to my breath.
Gari La Buda, an inspiration, Richard Carrie, a melodious pen, Carol Brown, a steady one,
All of you are Lightening Inks.....
When cover of a book teases us to pry
Courted we're by sound of their voices:
Writers, creators, poets, and scholars--
Inviting us to virtues of wisdom inside.
If we can hear the sound of galleries
And the renaissance of cultural history
Wowed by music, sculptures, and paintings
We are attuned to the voices of artists.
When strings strum atop a music box
Cadence that moves us is voice of guitar,
Singer then bends the voice of lyrics
As we respond to the rhythm of music.
Emotions rile in disharmonious voices
Uttered by traffic, streets, and buildings
Contrasting soft tunes of rustling leaves
And whispered voices of whistling winds.
Voices are poems, feelings, and smiles
Tears and fears or trumpets of joy;
Sopranos singing of victories and defeats,
Agents of goodwill or messengers of cries.
December 3, 2018
Placed first in Voices poetry contest by Silent One
Placed first in February 2019, week 3 contest by Brian Strand
writers
p u r s u e
verbosity
~
readers
d e s i r e
brevity
[Brevette form]
The Brevette, created by Emily Romano consists of a subject (noun), verb, and object (noun), in this exact order. The verb should show an ongoing action. This is done by spacing out the letters in the verb. There are only three words in the poem, giving it the title Brevette.
Written 30 Oct 2020
Oh sapience of musings, oh savior of poetic art!
How longingly I seek you out to inspire my ballad
When lassitude of the night envelopes my mind
And grimace of dawn darkens shrouded in fog.
Oh lyrics of melodies, oh harmonies of music!
How eloquently you speak in articulate dreams
When wordless melancholy poignantly echoes
And voice of emptiness confiscates my themes.
Oh redeemer of words, oh language of feelings!
How musically you evoke rhythms of symphony
When broken phrases languish in depleted ink
And haze of confusion subjugates my euphony.
Oh oratory of wisdom, oh intellect of vocabulary!
How metaphorically you divulge motifs of imagery
When ineptitude of simile diminish comparability
And wordplay disappoints in misplaced analogies.
Oh allure of meaning, oh enticement of literacy!
How singularly you elevate cadence of my poetry
When decaying thoughts linger forever miserably
And creativity encounters nothingness of drudgery.
October 5, 2020
Placed 1st: When there is no inspiration poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Poets, do not give up
Whatever you write
Whatever you spit out
A genius will be up
To it somewhere. Someone
Will understand the tone
Of your voice, the hieroglyph
Of your thoughts, the myth
Of your vision and the dactyl of your wit
Someone will be up to it. The perennial spirit
Of your global view is astounding
Although few comprehend your writing
And the mechanical process of your brain
No need to call a surrealist surgeon
Everything is absolutely normal
Only the Poets fully comprehend
The intricacies of the supernatural
Being, who is not afraid to make a stand
Poets, do not give up
You see things from top
To bottom and from the wrong-side-up
There’s no need to bring a novel map
An updated or an archaic GPS
Many Poets fully comprehend the methodized mess.
P.S. In the memory of all Poets...
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
I’ll wait for you,
Like Penelope waited for Odysseus,
In the long-lost there was a love she knew,
One that your heart and mine are oblivious to.
Her and I are waiting with great uncertainty,
For a love that maybe will never come,
Cause hers maybe died in the Trojan War,
And mine definitely loved another.
But when Penelope’s husband that she was
Waiting and waiting and waiting for, will come,
I’ll still wait for you,
‘Till Ithaca becomes a city of ruin,
‘Till I’ll become nothing but an old relic.
I’ll wait ‘till you will be my ruination,
And ever after.
I walked into Dad's study and looked around
A wooden bull with ivory tusks stood its ground
a German Bayonet lay before lines of books, and
On the wall was an olde map of the holy land
Behind a schooner with three proud masts,
Lay volumes of worlds, of futures and pasts—
Palestine before the Hebrews, a Rhodesia Guide
Three Deserts, by Jarvis, hard to lift, I tried.
The Golden Bough and The Struggle for Greece
The Revolt of the Masses, The Golden Fleece
The Lost Possessions of England, Leviathan
The Firmament of Time, and Darwin's Descent of Man
Stonehenge, The Heathens, The 30 years war
Each topic a window, each book a door
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, then On Tyranny
The Wealth of Nations, Jewish Confederates, A Goodly Tree,
The Medieval Village, Capitalism and the Jews
Fred Bastiat, Thomas Sowell, Dad had free market views
Texts of Geography, that was his trade
Shelf by shelf, in a proud parade.
I can't put my finger on why, I feel a sad chord
For knowledge should be its own reward
On much of this knowledge the world turned the page—
His room remains—his shrine, his stage.
Coercive Persuasion, On Aggression — much more to the list,
And framed on the wall, the lives that persist:
There's how Mom used to be, full of interests, just like him
I step into those hard streets; the world starts to spin.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
I would dare to channel a master just for you.
I know not if I am up to this lofty task,
but it is to your expectation that I try to rise.
You never asked for anymore than my best
and I love you for never demanding any less.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
If you had not opened a locked door,
the engulfing rays of enlightenment
may never have caressed my yearning face,
or held me tightly in her awakening embrace
releasing the song desperately trapped in my soul.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
You always said I had a great gift.
If that is true, I heap all praise on you.
You have the most wonderful offering of all
for within you rested the ability to recognize
the potential now flowing freely under my pen.
O Teacher! My Teacher!
I will forever hold you in the highest esteem.
I am not certain if mere words could ever express
the appreciation I have long held for your guiding hand.
Undaunted by the impossible task now in front of me,
this student will once again try to impress his teacher.
This piece was inspired and written for Professor Judy Davis who taught at the College of Central Florida until she retired. She was my English Literature and Composition teacher the first time I went to college. Many go into teaching, but the special few, like Judy, are called to the profession. She is now enjoying her retirement, but her old student here still communicates with her occasionally.
It has been the slow and steady race of life
To emulate the tortoise and not the hare
Using failures as stepping stones to success
Not success but happiness key to success.
That happiest day was 5th of August, 2005
Not begging but earning the award of Litt.D.
From the World Congress of poets (Unesco).
First time enjoyed the world casinos of Lass Vegas
Met a love not with lust but of the platonic kind.
Glimpses of the Hollywood’s glimmer and glitter
Of love, life, literature, a brief lust of the loveliness.
Sheer joy of controlled passions with peers and poets
Conceived of 70 years delivered in a single day.
+++
September 18, 2014
Form : Free Verse
Fifth Place win
What a slap in the face!
It’s an international disgrace!
(Descriptive distraction)
and (subversion in action)
It’s now commonly used in parlance by judiciary
while in literature this prevalent (lie) I see.
With a bland, enough face?
or is there the hint of a trace?
Could there be in its origin, a.. motive? or motion
created to infiltrate a nations notion?
A.. (sort of sufferance)
involved with its utterance!
So (abused & misused) is the category
I must zero in all my batteries,
Now I am clearing my decks,
here I go, what the heck!
For I have admiration for a Francophile
would converse with a Russophile
I so enjoy your work Faberge
and appreciate the charm of the Gallic sway
But for me there is no third way!
(now) without any doubt I am coming about
And stoking all my fires
for full ahead’s my desire.
On the literary beach
I see a very (rotten peach)!
And it was ‘hidden’ in full view
Hmm.. let’s see what some firepower can do
For the doting parents who pray
keep our kids safe today.
Hardworking moms & dads who care,
find time that is to spare
From extra help with early reading
to painting nursery room ceilings
Some working 14-hour days
it makes me angry I say.
Aunts & uncles, grandparent, teachers
of calm nature and reason
With motives pure and in step
with life’s seasons
And the name of the paedophile should by rights be theirs,
its been hijacked, does anyone care?
It’s too good a description, just not the depiction
to be bandied about, LISTEN
AS I SHOUT WITH TRUE INDIGNATION
CHANGE THIS DECEPTION OF NATIONS
© Joe Maverick 25-04-2011
For every step my father took,
my short legs took three.
“Daddy, please,” I called to him,
“you walk too fast for me.”
My sister took a husband;
my brother went to sea.
Our father sighed, “Our family time
has been too brief for me.”
As my teen years ended
and college lay before me,
Dad shook his head in sadness,
“It’s all too fast for me.”
When Mama died, we reminisced
their forty-seven years.
The passing time, the life they shared
were captured in our tears.
And as computers came of age,
Dad watched me surf the net.
“I’d like to learn,” he said to me,
“But I’m not ready yet.”
Then as Dad lay dying, carrying years
that numbered ninety-three,
I could not help but say aloud,
“They went too fast for me.”
* I wrote this poem on the way to my father’s funeral. I wanted to read it aloud as a tribute, but my sister said the rhyme made it sound too amateurish. She has her PhD in Literature, so I didn’t argue. I should have.
among you and I and among us all
remains a feeling of shallow intoxication
that seems to play on and on and on in our respective heads
as everyone important to us has gone on to some beautiful destiny
I sit here amongst the caucasion sleeves of paper on the floor of my chamber
the numbness of the so called "art" on the radio
mommy, I have done it
as the winter approaches, we batten down ourselves for the impending darkness
snow ensconces the dull tundra of all the acres
understandably blundered by the wings of burden and shame
I toil with the literature of my past and the science of my future
I thought I found you at least a dozen times, but you weren't you
daddy, throw another log on the fire
is there mercy in this chaos and this uncertainty?
will I ever retain escape velocity and leave this earth?
I must leave this place and find sanctity elsewhere
no doctor revive me, no professional conversationalists, please.
mommy, daddy, take me home.
the shoreline thunders, with the red clay -- imitating dover
I stare down at the mercurial wash of the crushing tides
special sequins rain down into the fundy sea below
I shall wake the wight inside of me
and destroy the pain inside of thee.
mommy, daddy -- rape the teeth from within my head
to paint a better picture of the son you thought you knew
brother, I miss you and your insolent charm.
but little monster, I think I will stay for you.