Best Looking At Poems
Awestruck in its grandeur, acquiescing to mystic of refulgence up high,
Exalted I feel, lauding designs iridescent, upon sapphire blue sky;
As I listen to birdsongs, reverberating missives of sensuous eventide,
Reminiscing in titillation of love, wishing you were here, by my side.
Rippling currents strum, rhythms of river rushing, burbling nearby,
When flocks of birds glide above, swooping and swirling, as they fly;
Where decaying-day dons amber dye, as it slows the reign of time,
Glinting aureate themes of twilight, blushing reveries of eve sublime.
Cotton clouds on opaline fabric, embellish crown of mountain peak,
As sunbeams waltz, with twirling leaves, playing hide-and-seek;
To music of whispers-soft, emanating from tender melodies of breeze,
In sync with mood of eve-romantic, dancing with the rustling trees.
Vying enlightenment of self-actualization, I lie in quietude, supine,
Harboring instincts of erudite mind, dwelling in teachings divine;
Subjugating thoughts unwise, as fuchsia tinges dot magenta skyline,
Where dream-scapes of you and I, on rosy arc of dusk entwine.
Beckoned by your presence-seductive, beaming an esoteric smile,
Your silhouette in yonder revels, flaunting allure of feelings fertile;
Where together we rejoice realms of stars, blissful under moonlight,
As, Venus, the goddess of love, confers upon us a romantic night.
High in sky the moon drifts by
up above the land.
Warming glow on those below
lovers hand in hand.
Through the years her name appears
written down in time.
Verse by verse the words disperse
in a poet’s rhyme.
We both knew as our love grew
on that day in June;
love so hot we’d tie the knot
looking at the moon.
I never thought I'd turn into a flower,
supine, looking at the sky,
sometimes vibrant, but so fragile -
with an innocent vulnerable rainbow heart.
My eyes gaze at timeless horizons,
resembling fragrant pages of my poetry.
My verses are like a bouquet of emotions,
an abundance of fresh pastels,
which sometimes bleed dark and deep.
I'm well versed in the beauty and ugliness of silence.
Not all is hidden behind metaphors.
It's simple to gaze at stars for our musings.
Yet, in the glowing garden of the poetic gardener,
my bottle of tears cannot save my cursed orchids,
trying to blossom despite unrealistic hopes.
I search the sky for heaven
on days when the sun does not shine.
I wonder if the sombre rain has arrived
to wash away all my sorrows.
I'm afraid of the sky's shades, moods and tantrums.
The weather's black velvety emotions are a reminder,
how the season's of life can massacre my oasis.
What is my life,
but an anthology of dead poets,
empty promises and forgotten dreams,
like a plethora of pale petals.
Who will sit and listen, if I tell my story.
What will the clouds carry with them,
what whispers will the winds keep secret.
A blank page is my destiny with invisible ink -
after all, doesn't everything die?
Except eternal love.
But is it a blessing or a curse.
It's that time of the year again,
when roses wither for winter.
I'll never forget how well I suffered,
despite regretful nostalgic murmurs,
constantly echoing irreparable losses,
when paradise faded away from my grasp.
I'm tired from lying flat,
yearning for my posture to become upright.
As twilight brings darkness
and I can't see the moon,
an aromatherapy of vintage memories,
ignite into a hell of confusion,
especially the lyrics of that song,
where you think it's been written about you,
which is a timely reminder,
there are things in life I need to forget -
to let go and not to fade like a silent petal.
If you hide behind the stars
I will watch you through the mirror, moon
And if you hide in memories and the heart's scars
I will watch you through memories transparent balloon
If you hide in the breeze when its scarce
I will watch you through the pool and expect you soon
Or if you stay blurry in the white snow
I will watch you and let my brain process slow
If you hide in a barrel and let yourself sail
i will watch you through the transparent water, I won't let my sight fail
If you become great and make a no see decree
I will hide and watch you on trees
No matter how you keep yourself from me
I will stay and watch, I won't let the emotions flee
That idiotic and exasperating, disturbing Rosanne Barr,
walking around gaudy and tasteless, acting like a star.
Blatantly obvious no sane person should be employing,
such an earsplitting voice, so obnoxious and annoying!
CLERIHEW CONTEST Poetry Contest
The Name Foresakes Me
July 21, 2018
Supine, looking at the sky
I’m on a hill, where daisies with the breeze
are dancing. I see birds and wish to fly -
to soar with them with joy and great ease.
Supine, with my heart in flight,
I’m flirting with the clouds surrounding me.
My spirit’s wings reach a lofty height.
Now higher than the birds, I soar free.
Supine, dreamily I glide.
The sun is sliding down, and I am one
with hues rose-red and tangerine, I ride
a radiant ray of the setting sun.
Supine, I’m falling to sleep.
I dream I am a goddess, and her name
is Luna. Underneath me shadows creep.
My reign of star-filled night I now reclaim.
Beautiful berry bushes have grown renegade all over our yard.
Garden catalogs call them this, it is not a name I made up. They are beautiful, but also strangling.
They have strangled three crepe myrtles, and a couple of lilac bushes, forcing them to die.
One has wound himself around my apple tree,
The apple has given up. She produced less than five apples this year.
Another is climbing precariously close to my largest oak tree.
These beautiful berry bushes are bullies, and I will have to do something about them.
Bully berry bushes, I think, renaming them, to give myself a bit of power.
Beautiful at first, but after they ingratiate themselves, fooling you completely with their prettiness
They strangle all other vegetation in their path, killing bushes and trees, and not caring a whit.
Sort of like a beautiful woman without a conscious, who ingratiates herself into a family,
Strangling it and killing it with her lack of integrity. A beautiful man can do it too, it is not always a woman.
Beautiful berry bushes, not unlike charismatic beautiful people with no conscious feelings for others.
I am looking for my chainsaw now. Best to cut the head off the snake, right?
Looking at love alone
All I see in this darkness are the fires burning in the distance;
Dreams disappear with the smoke formed from former wishes.
Life is a cartoon and we are animals of circumstance;
What have I become without a real romance?
Long live the death of love;
Leave me to grieve alone, to rot and to rust.
Please take me far faraway from lust;
I have no empathy for a feeling I can no longer trust.
You saw me looking at love alone;
You saw me weeping and decided I was the one.
A joke to tell me, a conversation we had never had;
I wonder how you knew how I felt,
When I had never told you about that.
Somehow I know that you are always near;
When I come home you are always here.
But not tonight, the lights are turned off;
Now I weep into a wine glass, as the misery reappears.
These things we do,
These things we say,
Bring us forever closer to drifting away.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Midgets always do
Looking strangely at the stars
Counting bigger ones
Small and big dippers
Emit freedom a distance
Expressing oneness
At times in old days
Longing to look at more stars
Achieve apogee.
You, looking at me
Come and let me look closely
To see what's behind those
Eloquent eyes, restlessly dancing
Bleeding ruby-red
With indecipherable meanings
Are you happy, sad, or in-between?
Do your eyes reveal wholeheartedly
Your inner turmoil and untold secrets?
Your virtues, vices and cardinal sins?
Your scars and demons? Will they explain
The answer behind the answer of you?
Come closer and let me peek
Longingly into the window of your soul
What stories do your eyes tell?
Do they speak of love and understanding?
Perhaps pain and sadness?
Care or cold indifference?
Will your eyes pierce through
My heart like a Cupid's bayonet
And wrap my soul in plenary bliss
Like a pleased dog wagging its tail?
Will they make my soul sing
When you lovingly gaze into my eyes?
Date written: 05/12/2018
Eight (NEW) ways of looking at a blackbird
Inspired by the poem, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, by Wallace Stevens
I.
The blackbird tilted its head
and lakes froze in anticipation
II.
The blackbird is self aware
I know this
The blackbird knows I know
III.
The blackbird shifted its wing
and the sky shivered
IV.
The blackbird can only dream if it fly’s
the blackbird can only fly if it dreams
V.
The blackbird broke the silence
all things are now possible
VI.
The morning glories bloom
In late autumn
In my throat is the song of
the blackbird
VII.
Frozen pine cones,
falling in slow, cold motion
into endless white
the blackbird watches,
amused
VIII.
A thin horizon halves the earth
one of woman, one of man
both dwell under a watchful eye
of the blackbird
PB/JPN
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones,
like yesteryear’s
fading souvenirs,
I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.
Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers,
packed tightly here
despite once repellent hate?
Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.
These arms and hands, they once were so delicate!
How articulately
they moved! Ah me!
What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?
Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls!
Deprived of graves,
forced here like slaves
to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!
Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained?
Except for me;
reader, hear my plea:
I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!
Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir
here, where I stand
in this alien land
surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!
Even in this cold,
in this dust and mould
I am startled by an a strange, ancient reverie, …
as if this shrine to death could quicken me!
One shape out of the past keeps calling me
with its mystery!
Still retaining its former angelic grace!
And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...
Swept by that current to where immortals race.
O secret vessel, you
gave Life its truth.
It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.
I turn away, abashed here by what I see:
this mould was worth
more than all the earth.
Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!
What is there better in this dark Life than he
who gives us a sense of man’s divinity,
of his place in the universe?
A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse!
To The Muse
by Friedrich Schiller
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I do not know what I would be,
without you, gentle Muse!,
but I’m sick at heart to see
those who disabuse.
Keywords/Tags: Goethe, Schiller, German, Germany, translation, skull, bones, body, charnel, house, grave, best friend, friendship love, funeral, souls, soulmate, ghosts, spirit, flesh, dead, death, shrine, divinity, universe
Another repetitious dream – 3
The outsider look in, from within / looking at
Dreams come alive during the morning hours,
long after most of the world – on this side of the sun –
has risen from the fading light of moons glow and dreams.
My dreams ride the steps of escalators from deep down,
where – from the darkened cracks of the subconscious –
voices speak – in riddles and rhymes – to the conscious
mind, during those sleepy hours where depression takes hold
and binds, ties one down - in the light of day - to their bed.
My dreams are telling me - as I see myself – I am involved
in what is portrayed upon the screens that lay on the backside
of my, closed, eye lids that hide from the outside world
a true view of my soul and all that is whispered in secret.
Phrases depicting – as I, in states of lucidity – watch the play
unfold – from my balcony chair – as I become the actor,
and in this, a one man play, I am all the parts of all the characters
that have danced, strutted, pranced, crawled before these eyes.
Eyes that catch the essence of the story but not the subplots,
nor the beginning, the middle, the end, or what lies between
the lines set within the heart of all the prose, poetry and rhymes.
And so, as the outsider looking in, looking at the insider
looking out, comes from within, is the script writer, the actor,
preforming all the parts, with all the nuances projected,
that awake, never comes to light, except in small flakes,
specks and flecks upon the mirror he hold, reflecting
the images of the child, the boy, the youth, the man, the aged.
The strange world of dreams !!!
B. J. “A ” 2
June 19th 2005
“Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.”
? Dr. Seuss
Looking At Life Through Rose Colored Glass and Daydreams
I gaze up towards the sky watching all the birds’ flyby
Whoosh, with outstretched wings they fly so high
Soaring into the horizon
Amongst the crayoned clouds and autumn sun
~
Wishing I could fly, escaping into the sky
Saying goodbye losing myself in the serenity of the bluish sky
Fading away unseen into blissful fantasy dreams
Another way of looking at life through rose colored glass it seems
~
To relish the sparkling beauty of the sky
And circle round and round over tree tops up high
Soaring into the horizon
Amongst the crayoned clouds and autumn sun
~
Oh... in anguish knowing I couldn't fly
I cried and cried until the tears ran dry
Shhh...I ran away into blissful fantasy dreams
Looking at life through rose colored glasses and daydreams
© Eve Roper 8/12/2015
Contest Name: Dr. Seuss Quote Prompt
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
Standing on a limb
Rainforest lizard smiles
Awaiting a response