Best Lobes Poems
"I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways" - Rumi
You were there and I was there
no one else to interrupt our silence
Closing my mouth, I inhaled deeply
the scent of your cologne
Intoxication - a sublime surrender of the sense
as I let my fingers trace the path my eyes had blazed
across your face
and you reciprocated, mirroring my touch
as your lips and fingers lighted
reverently on my cheeks, my eyes, my mouth
The thrill of new love
hung deliciously
in beauty’s hush around us
A hundred ways I must have touched your face
as a hundred kisses you were placing
up and down my neck
above and beneath my ear lobes
Silent shivers of anticipation made way at last
for the softness of your sweet mouth
on mine
Young love, so wondrous, so fresh -
you echo - silent still -
in the caverns
of my fondest recollections
I wrote this and posted it 5/8/15. I feel it is one of my best for romantic free verse. The title given us by a contest sponsor really inspired me because this is a true story, and it is exactly how I still feel many years later!
Categories:
lobes, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
Inside such dreams of never lasting days
We traversed such wanting thoughts in emotional astray
On that December night, to our cottage on the hill
Where on many a moonlit walk, we allowed our thoughts to spill
Our footprints of life we took in threaded tread we walked
When one was about to talk, in confusion abound, we baulked
Snowflakes we often talked about, turned to emotional rain
Drowning your wisps of auburn, natures moistness becomes our drain
Such memories of our past, where the rains graced your clover
And I your beloved, once graced your body over
No longer shall I sense your breath so warm against my chest
As you delightfully grace my lobes, my internal heart now stressed
Your kisses I still feel, their once touch of tender brush
Like tumble-weed they now drift, my lips in different crush
On warm white sheets we used to lay, we called them our clouds of heaven
No longer shall crease, not one day out of seven
No longer shall our fingers dance over undulations of we
Or will our torso's mingle, like the ivy graces the tree
The losing of you is massive, our peripheral declares it a shame
Beloved to each other we're not, it's life, no ones to blame.....
Categories:
lobes, lost, relationship,
Form:
Couplet
He came to me with skin like ivory,
although his eyes and hair were dark as night.
He came with one year past his eighteenth year.
I, with one year shy of my adulthood,
was a woman-child with expectations
brimming of romance!
He was my Adonis and I, his virgin Madonna love.
Deep gazes and nibbles on the neck and ear lobes
comprised our innocent foreplay.
The main event of our romantic love
was everything
(yet nothing more than long sweet silken kisses).
Romantic love was chaste,
unsullied by a future for us that never came.
Probably he’d had experience.
I’d never thought to ask,
but he instinctively knew better
than to ask more of me
than in that momet
I was prepared to give.
Nearly half a century since then has passed me by.
I do not know where my Adonis is,
yet here I am now writing poems
about that special night.
Other romances came and went.
Then matrimony bound me to a long-time fidelity.
However, the young Madonna that I was
one beautiful warm September night
appears from time to time inside my poetry
as I reinvent myself as Cinderella
because a chaste romance dwells eternally
in long smooth sweet silken kisses
where ivory perpetual romance prevails.
10/11/18 Inspired by a previous contest I did not get to in time
For Laura Loo's Any New Free Verse Poem Poetry Contest
Categories:
lobes, romantic love,
Form:
Free verse
Oh heavy heart these PR men in power
Yellow waxen masks reciting lies
Discovered by research in college towers
Who watch flashing brains in MRIs
Recording as fear lightens lobes
Word and images recorded and sold by drones
For use by corporate men round the globe
Control both CEOs and worker clones
Yet life's free forces flow in city and town
For through the dark. forces strive to transcend
As ever bruised and bloodied onward bound
Through a jumble of fears passes the path of men
Categories:
lobes, angst, men,
Form:
Sonnet
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
Categories:
lobes, beauty, celebration, leaving, longing,
Form:
Free verse
The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority,
Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment.
Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes,
Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells,
Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus.
Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry.
Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention;
Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads.
But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know.
Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere,
Despite their lack of empirical validity.
Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant.
Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons,
Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles,
Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces,
From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons.
And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands,
As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians.
Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds,
Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause.
Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition.
Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought.
Where worlds were once created in cognition,
They're now created in the lenses of cameras.
When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye,
They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.
Categories:
lobes, addiction, social, society,
Form:
Free verse
A noble Black Oak tree stands tall and tranquil
Wearing brown, old and dried crumpled leaves
Withstanding all autumn and winter storms
Without any distress or any grief
Golden fall is long gone, cold, wet season is also concluding
Spring is poking its head up with colorful bulbs blooming
Some of her allies have Cherry blossoms in flourish
Some show progression of luscious new emerald leaves
Mother earth knows unique behavior of her child
With assurance, she lets her be herself while watching over with smile
Tree wants to hold on to longstanding and withered for a while long
Not ready yet to let go of dear presence of that warmth
April comes along to cheer her up
Tree beams, perks up
Ridding her old dry appearance, starts dressing up
Growing yellowish handsome clusters of dangling male catkins,
Gorgeous reddish female flowers in short striking javelins,
Velvety foliage of sharp zigzag tips in red tinge,
With pointed seven to nine lobes with bristles exquisitely unique
Summer grows them into profound shade of shiny green
Rust colored acorns with top halves enclosed in caps start appearing
Showing her wisdom in her towering strength and stability,
With canopy of branches widespread and mighty,
Tree gets ready once more for visitors of ecosystem to offer plenty…
Categories:
lobes, april, creation, earth day,
Form:
Prose Poetry
WHEN WISDOM WALKS
Lies,
shams,
they cloud
the truth's eyes.
They seed buds of sin
which unfolds to depravity,
as they... can smother hope or stroke all lobes of the mind
but if we let honesty spearheads our deeds then there we permitted wisdom to walk...
______________________________________________
Sponsor Rob Carmack
Contest Name Fibonacci
==Placed 1st==
O.E. Guillermo
12:32 pm, March 14, 2015
Categories:
lobes, character, christian, feelings, growing
Form:
Fibonacci
Along this foggy daybreak stroll,
I tread along the intersection
between Mabini Street and EDSA boulevard,
crossing number 25 Ortigas Road.
I breathe in the same grain
of Manila pollen and dust itching
my throat ; an acrid mound of city garbage
gathered by rain’s aftermath,
as if to beckon another tropical deluge;
and the loud chatter of headlines
from the newspaper stand pierces
the lobes with a burning jolt… a bundle
of political scoops and trade rumors
grating an otherwise neutral hour.
Few distances away, a flea market stand
vibrates with energy; pedestrians milling
around to check buko pies, plum bits,
and homemade guava jams… the exotic aromas
mixing with smoky flavor of dried bamboo leaves
on top of abaca wares; all these catering
to small pleasures of the low-middle working class.
Curving through Francis Square, a deluge
of movement initiates the 7 30 am rush…
buses, cars, and taxi- stands unload
a giant hive of wayfarers coming from
different points of the map; dragging
their skeletal frames like ticks of a clock.
Amidst a Friday hub, I stop to glance at the
towering statue of Mother Mary as a
cart-pusher slowly wanders by; his warm
smile bearing a contrast in a region
where the rat race of man is typical.
Surrounded by a collage of fragrant
eucalypti and mango trees, I breath in
a sense of delight likened to my
yard’s garden, this time, with heady scent.
The plump oaks at the front lobby
of Pharmo Industries are shedding
foliage, while a painted splash
of native robins cruises from laced twigs,
far beyond the clutter of newspaper stands,
market place, and taxi-stands.
My gaze casts inward to balance my thoughts,
as I begin my protracted stay at work.
Stand Contest of Debbie Guzzi
and Nathan's One of Your Best
by nette onclaud
Categories:
lobes, introspection, life,
Form:
Free verse
The tiniest of silver labrets amid the corner of her beautiful elixic lips, so full ~
With a small diamond shining and glittering, upon her perfectly poised nose
These dangling rubies waltzing from beneath her precious meridian lobes, with
A pendant lavaliere; sapient sapphire, wrapped within the finest of gold
Wearing a white silk dress, cut low, to bare her feeding and full tanned breast
Bronzed reflections of paradise, her soft summers skin
Gently brushing, upon my wanting and very own ~
While as barefoot we dance, atop the radiant golden sands
Slowly, beckoned beneath the swaying shimmering stars
As into each others eyes we then fall; into the essence of it all
This beauty, while as the waves they so gently play, Beethovens
Overtures of serenities warm embrace; two hearts and two souls, entwined
Deeply within the mirrors rapturous notes of, a compositions love song ~
Taking one anothers hands gently; fingers interlaced amid this light
Making our way towards the stairs their rising, beyond the whispering shore
Candles, burning and joyfully waiting, for consecrations breath of life
Consummations rose petals of fragrance, atop this brilliant feathered bed of bright
As slowly I lie her back, to capture forever the pulsing of these beating hearts
Two souls, melting and melding amid loves destined moment; cherished
Honey dripping its sweetened nectars; impassioned cries of resoundings
Within this, utopias, everlasting kiss ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath, these faraway stars....
Categories:
lobes, love, passion, romance,
Form:
When Meaning Is Meaningless
The value of life is delicious debris
When meaning is meaningless
The victims search bread crumbs in the bounteous stale loaf
The light of nude night blinks blindness
What does meaning mean for life at the edge?
for ant’s feasting in farmished frocks
I find flames from the bottomless fire of life
If you seek meanings on this ploughed lanes
You sing museless songs of leprous crochets
When meaning is meaningless
Those who saw off meaning say:
‘See this sense with little sense and
keep this lunacy living in the silent hut’
The dire strait of sense- less bigots
Stifle the lobes of logic-quotient that can midwife meaning
What meaning is in our meaning?
Around the carnary class of misfiring mermaids
What meaning do we allot a life laden in scars
From fiery vaults and heart brakes from many lovers.
We shall find the missing syllables and symphonies
And sing songfuls in the sweet seraphdom
Categories:
lobes, vanity,
Form:
Lyric
The clearest blue became mottled with age,
and I only recently began to notice.
Time-soaked eyes, foggy mirror to my own,
reflecting a frail wire, just out of reach.
Leading to a skull-shaped cellar,
therein lay the contents, shadows,
wavering in small glimmers of truth.
Reserved but yearning, they call to me.
Whispers carress my lobes;
they are phantoms you have carried.
They ride on waves of joy and anguish,
snapshots of my tiny feet trodding down halls,
chasing cats with remote-control race cars.
Then I tumbled over a carpeted ledge
and bent your office-drawer key.
Maybe you'd suspected those young paws
were much stronger than they looked.
As time sped all around me, your atmosphere grew thin,
and labored breathing stole the spark from your limbs.
When cells began to replicate like narcissists in the West,
your hovel became a war zone, and I, a refugee.
You never caught your breath in the wreckage,
and when a second bout of war came, your lungs gave out.
I watched it happen, at a loss.
I remember your mouth agape, eyes glazed, wide,
as, in your final breath, you ran towards something I could not see.
Now, the battleground you once crawled through
has been cleared of every trace, every tuft of dog hair,
and all the shining documentation to prove you were an artist.
And how you were an artist, having sculpted so much of my
lanky willow limbs, my dense, ferocious heart.
I have a case of survivor's guilt.
I am writing every day a mystery, wading through
my own metaphysical mess, only faintly aware of yours,
the stuff that lingers like shadow people,
darting in and out of my peripheral vision.
I only wish they'd speak to me and
divulge what last you saw, or that I could
re-activate your smart phone and read
the very last text message you sent.
Categories:
lobes, absence, age, bereavement, dad,
Form:
Free verse
Close up you can see the colossal amounts of energy
it took to grow this plant from a seed
An even closer look through the microscope,
inside lies the complete genetic information
Images of texture I can almost feel
Spikes that pop up prickly come alive
I have no limits to magnification
I can see vibrant stars dead center
Elements of sunshine tan and green
Sediments of gill filaments in V-shapes
Arrows in grooves with silver linings
Natures details to resemble filigree
Mucus glowing its sickle-shaped petal lobes
Milky sap growing within, aligning
milk vines and perfect pinwheels
Nature’s own flower arrangements
Under a microscope
Categories:
lobes, analogy, science,
Form:
Free verse
I had an argument inside my head
Between the right lobe and the left
It started getting loud in there
They needed a boxing ref
The id and the libido
Were spectators on the side
The heart couldn’t bear to watch
So it ducked behind the lung to hide
The left lobe, controlling my right hand
Decided to punch me in the face
Hoping the right lobe would give up the fight
Feeling totally disgraced
But the right lobe, controlling my left hand
Instead poked me in the eye
Knowing the left lobe was the right lobe
That controls the need to cry
When the right leg started kicking
The left one tried to respond in kind
Which only made me fall to the floor
They had totally lost my mind
My nervous system got nervous
I started twitching all about
My bladder was getting madder
And let all the contents out
Internal organs started taking sides
Not even aware of what started the fight
When I was pounced upon by three big men
Tying me up in a coat of white
The needles they poked into me
Put my whole body in a numbing sleep
Electronic shock shot through both lobes
Hoping to keep them both at peace
It didn't work
Categories:
lobes, angst, me, me,
Form:
Rhyme
I stand here beneath a beautiful fig tree, all filled with it's tiny flower blooms. I am looking for it's luscious fruit, the delicious pear-shaped fruit upon her branches. Ready to pick makes my mouth water, I cannot wait to eat. I love her figs cooked with meat, jam on warm toast is just a treat. Fig honey, is truly heavenly. Now for it's large leaves with three to five lobes, I want to make a fig dress for me to wear.
Date Written:3/28/2022
Categories:
lobes, clothes, food, heaven, sweet,
Form:
Free verse