Best Loosed Poems
The staticky-stars climax under intense blanket of Winter glow.
Your spouse can’t see your spirited green eyes that burn slow.
The friction of campfire sticks, the satiny slipperiness of moon.
Flames of blue, orange and red won’t be overcome too soon.
Pert rose petals, that once were goosebumpy and ice cold,
scintillate like fireworks until the grand finale’s loosed, uncontrolled.
Warm breath in a cold Winter’s steamy and a restless beast.
Lips lavish over late night feast, matches singe, sate increased.
Squirming under the leisurely complement of coals, coalescing,
Coolness of a blue lake vaingloriously countering, distressing.
A long midnight’s thrashing, sans pillory; the high beams foray.
Pillow talk, a sensuous squeeze, a high-diving elixir bouquet.
Ah those stars brilliantly glowing on a long Winter’s night!
Those limbs blush, rose petals crush, with unfettered light.
Last night I wandered past your total disregard
And walked forlorn
Stark insecurity amplified
Still I walked , my usual forebearance uncomplied
Upon furthermost the distance between us elongated
The sustenance of forgotten stores inside me generated
I was venerated - nay subjugated
Of these morsels congregated
And fed me through those inkblack nights
In dewfall of the quiet
Inside unheard the rebel riots
As my breath became a billion
As my fears that I embraced
Loosed themselves and fearing fled
Melting in the murky bellows
Did I find my standing there...
Naked but for meekness laced
Forgotten was my fear
I needs you dId not anymore
Nor your disregard this doggone day
Not dejected as before
Only sin has me surrounded
And soon encircled dissappears,decays
Unclothed in limped insignificance
Nothing said ...
So still your body lies
I feel a butterfly inside;
its wings are cramped within my breast.
The weight of flesh, o dull cocoon,
prohibits my free flight. At best
I only soar inside; my wings--
gossamer, light, remain untried.
I wait...I wait...until the day
the barred' cage is flung aside
and airy wings lift toward the skies.
I have felt this graceful creature
flutter faintly deep inside;
then, at times, so ardently,
I think no way will it abide!
It will be loosed! Its wish to fly
will push the bars of flesh aside.
Determined is this butterfly
to show its colors multiplied
and wing its way through azure skies.
The time is drawing near, I'm sure;
the throbbing swells within my heart.
The cumbrous cocoon, filled with life,
is bursting now, falling apart.
The butterfly is breaking free;
no more its wings will tightly furl,
but lightly spread upon the breeze
their filmy webs, gilded and pearled...
and, then, my soul will leave this world.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
Remember the day
Apron strings loosed,untied
as maternal voices faltered and cried
Remember the day
When a soprano voice lost its elan
and a boy became a man
Remember the day
Peer pressure would not hide
and diffidence was replaced with pride
Remember the day
Desire,with warm whispers heard
questions,answered with just three words
Remember the day
Filled with joy and love
a union blessed from above
Remember the day
Holding a first-born,so wee
as two self-absorbed,became three
Remember the day
Trust was born-a-new
a changed life came into view
Remember the day
Genesis as a work of art
with gifts to share and impart
Remember the day
The Poet
We have been around for thousands of years
Reading our words for kings and queens
and a few people who gathered just to hear us talk.
We lived on the copper coins they could afford
and traveled through the lands writing what
we saw, dreams and thoughts.
Our words were put to music and made immortal
Others were acted on the stage making
people laugh and cry.
Some words changed the way people thought
and ended hatred between people who
should not feel hate.
People died because they did not realize what
our words could do
Many times a love bogged in fear was loosed
because of a few words we wrote.
God only knows how many children our words
have brought smiles to and how many starting
thinking because of what we wrote.
Why do we do it?
Not to end wars or hatred
Not for the lovers who found each other because of us
Not even for the copper coins people throw
We do it because we love words
We do it to share our feelings
and we do it so that someday maybe someone will read
our thoughts, dreams and words and they will be
remembered long after we are gone.
Through shoveled loam I glimpse pale light
Hands dare intrude into my burial crypt
Exposing the devastation of my decay
Dignity of this chamber has been stripped
Human eyes stare into my skeletal sockets
I feel the sun's warmth, but cannot spill tears
Lips, long ago stitched from laces of my soul
Loosed were the bindings of stygian spheres
Wormwood case and satin pillow, rotted
Lily's scent lingers, squandered their seed
Awakened without sight or sandals afoot
Penance in supplication for every misdeed
My rueful spirit, once clothed in silk shroud
has dwindled to dust and time brittled bone
I remember pleading in voice of reason
Cover my nakedness and inter me, face prone
*These verses do not reflect my religious
beliefs of life after death.
The angel of my death I chanced to see
while visiting a deep and dusky dream.
And not a reaper grim and dark was she,
but rather, at the tunnel’s end, a gleam!
For in the distance glowed her beam of light
that I could tell was well within my reach.
The nuances that flickered in my sight
I knew instinctively to be her speech.
Each twinkle spoke directly to my heart
and urged me to press on through shadows’ way.
Then finally was loosed my fear to part
from earthly realm where I’d been wont to stay.
And when I touched her light; beheld her face,
surrounding me came utter love’s embrace.
For Brian Strand's ANYWHICHWAY any theme/form
max of 15 lines Poetry Contest
Laughing Atmospheres
It floats in the morning dew
Settles with diamonds
On cobwebs who
Catch dreams on their threads
The sensual quiet of dawn
Imbues
The grass blades are whispering
To the sifted chanting
Of being One
In a glittering pool
The sea
Dances every possibility
Day bright answers to the
Begun
Shafts brilliance of the sun
Calling loud
With its perpetual anthem
Loud call
To the rest of the world
And here it comes
The daybreaks begin
Leaping from my chest
It seems
Rushing to laughing atmospheres
Peaks
On white bathed angels
Wings expand
Sends me out
Higher than the light
In my eyes
Gathering to the quintessence
Point
The beating monument
Of my heart
Single holds on to intense
Shudders delight
Through every sense
I am soaring skies
I see her eyes
I
Left unbound to the anchoring ground
I
Hear the word
The catapult of love
Universal soundings climax
Imparts
Beneath the eyes of God
When we both were created
As one
She holds my cheek
And the ghostly press
Of lips meet
I
Confess my soul
To the indomitable
Flow
Of love
And the orchestral designs of morning
Send this rockets emotive
Burning
Reaching
Powered to pinicles
In a cavalcade chords
Goes racing
Cavorting
Climbing every space
My spirit
Has loosed upon the chase
To its welcome home
For such an exuberant ride
All on its own
Takes it place
At her side
I
It is there
Where I belong
You see
Every atom
And concept of me
Has always been
Since God created us
Both
As one
Morning Fog
This morning
when there is much to do inside,
there is fog outside my window.
The fog I sought two mornings ago
that caused me to dash to the car
in hopes I could grab a coffee
and sit by the lake,
witness to the softening of the world,
treetops indistinct, not yet awakened from their dreams.
By the time I reached the street
rain had dissolved,
captured,
drunk up the tiny molecules
of water playing fog.
I like rain, too, so I stayed on the road,
found myself coffee and a breakfast
by a temperature controlled fireplace.
Despite the rain, the little cafe
quickly became peopled
and I had to move on.
The soft shield of fog
was what I was hungry for,
not the food I left half eaten.
The desire to be
fogged in, alone or companionable,
putting thoughts to paper
or contentedly one
with the downy view,
the lack of detail,
the absence of certainty,
the enveloping moisture
making all things
remember
what it was like to be born.
We are all born
In some kind of moisture --
pushing through the dark damp soil,
or squeezed through a tunnel of flesh,
causing someone pain
for the first of many times.
Or we peck our way through
a fragile/sturdy shell,
wet with possibility,
or we're loosed with a hundred siblings
into a salty waterscape of danger,
calculating our chances.
For all of us,
our first vision must be a little foggy,
our possibility of success unclear.
But
every foggy morning
crawls into my soul
to whisper
what it could be
to be reborn.
Sitting on a bench one day
looking up at an azure sky
I did see red heart balloons
as they slowly drifted by
Crimson kisses among
clouds like cotton candy
Bouncing over green trees
and beaches golden sandy
Dipping down in the wind
they danced atop lilac trees,
then rose again in splendor,
blown by a gentle breeze
What hand had loosed
this treasure into the day
Some lover who wanted
to give his heart away?
I longed to gather them,
return each and every one
they were beyond my reach
as they soared toward the sun
The glass once lucid
now deflects glow differently.
A chuckle clenched in the wind,
blanching and flaming.
Where were we?
Footprints echo, retreat, advance
sagging floor, missing nails.
Not long enough--
like a wheeze folding in and out,
a beam of light held in a still moment.
Sagging floor, nails missing,
steps forth, then retreat.
Where were we,
blanching and flaming,
a chuckle loosed in the wind—
now the glass, no longer lucid,
deflects the glow differently.
A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
Her face was a constellation of perfections
She was ravishing; beautiful beyond condemnation.
Her voice was like many water
Yet, it's coo whenever she sputtered.
Her gait was just so alluring
No wonder men couldn't help but kept gazing.
She trod on her pathway like a goddess -
This woman I saw was priceless.
Even her dance step sent signals to heavenly bodies
The immortals were mesmerized - she was more than a novice.
The flexibility of her body was as a swift wind
It moved so fast, it could not be filmed.
When she sang, it was like that of an angel
Kingdoms let loosed: heaven, earth and hell
In her eyes, you'd see paradise
In her world, great men and women did arise
There was ample concinnity in her kingdom
Everything was cloudless, no entrenchment of freedom
She also spoke with authority and with great audacity
Owning to her greatness, she created a brawny fraternity
Loosed men and women longed to have her by their side
'Sorry, I'm not your type' she did chide
They tried to restrain, but they were so much in love
Her being angry at them only waxed their hearts together in her glove
Men of great status came to have her
They were with their luxuries - they came from afar
The splendour of her beauty got them sprawling to the floor
The radiance of her look made their visions blur
In her, greatness was defined
There are so many traits of hers which can't be outlined
She kept her statute; she was a woman of virtue
Her works were known, they reached their plateau
Of a truth, this woman is a goddess
And this makes me remember the game of chess
At the end, the king and queen are brought to rear
So also is this woman I saw. Her name is Nigeria.
My mother’s hair hung thick and to her waist.
But seldom did she wear it in that way,
for always in a bun she had it placed
til it was loosed and on her pillow lay.
She sometimes tells me how I'd kidded her.
When I was small, I said, “Your hair is pink!”
From how she tells this story, I infer
I must have caused her tender heart to sink.
She aged, yet grey was sparse upon her head.
We said, “An older woman cuts her hair.”
Mom acquiesced and lost those locks rare red
she’d humbly worn for years when young and fair.
She’s nearly eighty now, bobbed hair turned brown,
And how I miss her once “pink” glory crown.
By Andrea Dietrich
He baptized my heart with Holy water,
Rivers pure and clean.
He has set my feet upon the rock,
With a measure of faith in things unseen.
Like the hands of moses lifted high,
I will call upon him, he will hear my cry.
If I should stumble, he will break the fall,
his arms are stretched to reach us all.
I love you Jesus from my heart,
because you loved me first.
You meet my every need,
and quench my every thirst!
Hold fast my heart to the one
who gave his life for me,
Rejoice because he has loosed the chains,
and set this captive free!
I told him we were broken, the way
horses can be, and he galloped through
the sentence like a cowboy, less a
heart. I loosed the biggest word I could
think of – so enormous I felt everything
in me squeeze back as it passed by
and nearly choked as it pushed
its way into the outer world -
and he brushed it aside like
errant dandelion snow.
By then, there were at least
four voices within me, ranting,
and the image of myself throwing
buckets of paint against a wall
was blinking repeatedly in my head.
And still he was talking –
with his hands gesturing, gesturing -
talking about places he’d been
talking about what he thinks himself
passionate about
talking about what he learned
in counseling
and talking
talking,
talking
about
nothing.
When he got to Italy, I stopped him
at Michelangelo, thinking, “here! –
here finally is a scaffold we can
throw ourselves off of”. Thinking
if Einstein’s wardrobe wasn’t enough,
if a scrawny white boy singing
the blues wasn’t either and if the
most interesting thing I said that night
was that I never ever set a clock
to an uneven time (and I hadn’t even
said that yet)… maybe the image of
an artist suspended in air with
his heart pointed to heaven
and the myriad of thoughts
that must have run
like a river through him as he
stood there, arm outstretched,
might trigger something.
But, he had no idea that
Buonarroti was a poet
or that he honestly expected
Moses to speak
to him once freed
from the confines
of stone and of
artist himself,
he said
nothing.
Apparently, he was more
Moses than Michelangelo, and
it was all I could do
not to take
a hammer
to his
knee.