Best Lore Poems
Mystical amour of moonlight moth's whimsical lure,
a glowing flame in sensual saffron gold attire;
restless tease with every breeze, gilt-cavorting contour,
pale green fluttering, her wings stirring his breath afire.
Lilting lightness in beaming brightness, her dark eyes shine,
in the night renewed flight, fragile love on agile wings;
aerial display of desire's ache amaranthine,
hungry heartstrings crave what evening's ebony brings.
His illumination sparks her imagination,
heart’s replete, breathless beats, she basks in his halo-heat;
fascination with chance her hot romance, damnation,
flame’s fickle spurn, wistful wings burned, by love bittersweet.
Susan Ashley
October 18, 2017
~ First Place ~
Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Aloft, with keen eyes in sorbet skies’ raspberry half-light
visceral vibrations of vitality does await.
Soaring in a hush, with plumage plush, a silent stealth kite,
he glissades on ghostly winds with mystical wings of fate.
Poised to plummet from his summit of purple sundown spread
with wingspan wide, wreathed gradual glide, hunts a twilight hawk.
Floating form causes flocks to brainstorm on life or death dread,
those flying forlorn, late to roost, are reduced by his stalk.
Aerodynamic, his dramatic dive deals destiny,
raptor raptly pursues passerine through air’s plum-bruised dim.
Whispering wings whisk to live and not die desperately,
over the arborvitaes the future for one is grim.
If it’s true that energy never dies; its cries transform,
then songbird's notes will ascend on hunter's wings in reform.
Susan Ashley
December 3, 2017
~ First Place ~
Contest: Your Best Poem In The Last Year
Sponsor: Silent One
~ Seventh Place ~
Contest: Best Rhyming Poem October - December 2017
Sponsor: John Hamilton
A long time ago when I was a little girl
I heard a story told by my family about
a Cherokee tribe who once believed it
would be better if there never was night.
The great creator heard their mournful plea
and took away the night and now day time
it would forever be. Soon the heat took its
toll and plants from the heat did not want to
grow.
Once again the tribe asked for relief but this time
of the light and spoke out loud to the creator for it
to be always night.
Darkness came upon them and still plants would
not grow. Warmth had disappeared and it was
always cold. Never a warm sunrise to meet and
little by little, nothing left to eat.
Once again the tribe spoke to the creator and asked
for the day and the night to be as it should. The weather
became more pleasant and gardens started to grow. Hunting
was good so there was always food to show.
The tribe thanked the creator for making every thing good
and they forever lived in gratitude for the blessings of this world.
I heard those who passed away during these times of change
the creator placed their souls in a new creation called
the cedar tree. They are now protectors of this tribal family.
So if ever in the forest and you smell a cedar near, know your in
the presence of those who lived long ago here.
The loss of perfection is hard to comprehend until it no longer
brings to one a fruitful end.
Now do I believe that this story is true? Well they say a piece of cedar
tree holds powerful medicine for protection. I still have a small piece
I have carried since I was 11.
Great Spirit whispers on breathing breeze; 'It is time',
puce plume in saffron noon signals hunt's aborning,
ThunderBeasts' harrowing hooves erupt Great Plains grime,
soon will ail, widow's wail like a wild dove's mourning...
Ancient wisdom, ebony eyes, high cheekbones wide,
buffalo, he knows, mystical foes who fight back,
astride, he rides his Spanish horse with native pride,
his soul cleared, spiritual prayers 'fore the attack.
Timeworn trails, bison beaten by shaggy stampedes,
hunting grounds feared and revered, tribesmen o'er the brae,
power potent, cloven cloud, hastened heart proceeds,
ambush laid, panicked herd, embrace the bloody fray.
Casualty's chance, horseback dance, drum lethal hoof beats,
thunderous trample of ample prairie crocus,
Sioux and beasts' sacred throes, their crimson flows 'neath feet,
death has a way of bringing life into focus.
Susan Ashley
October, 24,2017
~ Third Place ~
Contest: Tribute To Native Culture
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
NATIVE AMERICAN LORE
Mother Earth, Sister Moon
Noble nomads of their legend lands
Who praise all life with sacred sands
Oh Mother Earth who they protect
And wilfully warn all of our neglect
They sing and dance with Sister Moon
As the children laugh with great attune
Spirits of the rocks and plants give a listen
While the seeding stars above gladly glisten
Of perpetually profound wisdom they do speak
Our sisters and brothers their love we do seek
The journey of Man will decadently decrease
Until we listen to the Elders of ‘The First Peace’.
Poem between images is a quote from an American Native Elder...
MP3...Cherokee Morning Song-Native American Flute Music, By Mark Akixa
02.10.2017
NATIVE AMERICAN LORE - Contest
Sponsored by: Frank Herrera
LORE OF LACROSSE
he plucks the eagle’s feathers
tucks them in his patient’s hair
cayuga’s legs and arms take flight
his eyes behold the heaven’s bright
a powerful bolt of lightening never rests
tossed to and fro with kindred brothers
seven men honor their thunder gods
serious and strong in their athletic prowess
as the game shines a final kiss, an honor
each man attentive, like an army with spears
they bury beloved cayuga with his game stick
a gifted man will continue play in the underworld
3/4/2017
Frank Herrera’s Native American Lore contest
Before ten thousand moons passed by
reigned Mother Earth and Sacred Sky.
Their spirits whispered on the breeze,
from mountain streams to deepest seas.
Nomadic souls rode ne’er to die
before ten thousand moons passed by
hunting bison, both proud and strong,
with lips chanting ancestral songs.
Each blessing rained from clouds of truth
of spirits taught in gleaming youth.
Before ten thousand moons passed by,
in native tongue, soared elder’s cry.
Across the plains, they chased a dream,
like wild horses in warm sun beams.
Their restless souls praised earth and sky
before ten thousand moons passed by.
written 2/12/17
My pocket friends,
I think of them,
Most every day.
They move me
With their energy.
They send me on my way.
Wanting rhymes,
And often times,
I find the harmony.
I'll jot it down,
Dance to the sound,
Searching endlessly.
Across the floor,
The land of lore
Says, "come to me."
Unfinished friends,
It never ends.
They tip-toe through my soul.
Then whispering,
A song to sing.
Their presence takes it's toll.
A work of art,
Close to my heart,
My pen will give them life.
They call for lines
At awkward times,
Embarrassing my wife.
She says to friends,
"He's gone again,"
As I stare into space.
I hear a voice.
There is no choice,
Their love I must embrace.
"Excuse me please,"
I'll say, and leave.
My thoughts will then immerse.
With pen in hand,
Another strand
Is woven into verse.
Across the floor,
The land of lore
Can sometimes be a curse.
red sunset predicts
welcome weather tomorrow
red sunrise beware
We are the weavers of our words
We weave the blanket that covers us
Gives warmth to our bodies
And peace to our souls
We weave the picture of us,
The hawk, the fish, the deer,
The stream, the snow, the winds that blow
The sun that rises and the stars that lead us
They are the spirits of earth and the heavens
We weave from the spirit in the wool
With words from the legends of our ghosts
Our hands are the storytellers
Teaching the hearts of our children
For we weave to tell them the story
So they will not forget the words
Our words are like the breath of who we are
We breathe in to take in the life we need
We breathe out to give back to our world
All that we are and have created
We speak our words of joy and peace,
Of the drum of war and the thunder of our gods
Listen to the crying of our people chanting
Of the life that was before they divided us
The threads we weave are bound with the blood
That flows from the rivers of our circle
Known as UNALAYEE
The gathering place in our heart
The sacred seed of our people
So gather now in friendship, love and peace
And warm your spirit with all the stories
Set upon the weave of our blanket
And know how your life is given
March 3, 2023
Strand Pemiere No 1194 Poetry Contest
In my garden I so heard, so
thought I saw a humming bird
Garnet wings flashed so divine
while flitting round a trumpet vine
Very much to my surprise
a mystic creature graced my eyes
Monkey faced fairy, very tiny
wings a flutter, gloriously shiny
Gossamer wings put on a show
fiery skin was all aglow
From ancient times and ancient lore
not a stitch of clothes she wore
A magic pouch she did bestow
love's potion makes your garden grow
Very much to my surprise
became an orchid before my eyes
The smoke from
Gandalf's pipe
formed colored rings
which rested over
the wizard's head
making him look
like a true sorcerer
in the evening shadow
Yet the use of this weed
was no creation of wizards
It was actually
Tobold Hornblower
a renowned hobbit
who discovered
the weed
The hobbits of Bree
were the first
to put it in a pipe
The men of Gondor
esteemed the plant
for its marvelous fragrance
Oh yes,
and there was one medieval scholar
who was known
to enjoy a pipeful
along with his companions
and discuss tales and
legends
over a glass of ale
around a bright
fireside
Jump
rope
verses-
skipping down
the gnerations.
To the roof of the world… the mighty eagle flies
Silently watching the Earth down below
Flying mile after mile, day after day
Their solemn spirits soaring in Heavenly skies
From all the forests, from all of the plains
From all the mountains high above
Discarding sacred bones beneath the dust
They see many people leave their Earthly stains
We stand steadfast and strong to let people know
As we walk the trails of many tears
From deep within, our sacred fires burn
Always remembering what our Shamans foretold
Built in stony cliffs and hills beneath Earthly skies
The modern world cannot foretell
All the thousands of legends left untold
In desolate ruins many enshrined mysteries lie
Immortal, sacred images inscribed in stone were cast
Held firm by rocks and boulders- left alone
Proclaiming years of hallowed history
Their Spirit messages and figures from out of the past
One day soon, the roar of drum beats will soon be heard
The four winds will lend their mighty ears
While the winged-ones rejoice and soar above
Remembering the past… and the hardships endured
There and then...
Lies the dawn of light - the mysteries revealed
On the page - of this lore
painted verdant by - the rod of God
a word traveler - unveils
A song, - its charm
perhaps, sounding - on the mystic
blue - sea
Amidst the echoes - of peripheral visions
his thoughts are - dancing wildly with the
orphic - wind
Like - the twists
of leaves - in early Autumn
that innocently - falling in passion,
seeking a home, - to entertain the souls
He sighs through… - the remnants-of dreams
and finds himself - a proverbial comfort
In the breath of - this blossoming page is
a verdant lore, - the scents of my life
---
The cleave is three poems in one and was created
by Dr. Phuoc Tan Diep, poet and artist. To learn
more about this poetic form, visit the link below
http://cleavepoetry.wordpress.com/