Best Mélange Poems
Soft autumn rain ...
cascading over brightly colored cherry blossoms,
releasing a sweet scent of aromatic aphrodisiac
A fragrance of springtime love blowing in the gentle autumn wind
Our two hearts made a vow that day
We promised to fall in love anew
each day all over again
Fall madly in love a thousand times
every twenty-four hour spin
As the light, misty rain came down,
it meet our joyous laughter rising up to the clouds
Two lovebirds being purified,
two souls now joined together
as husband and wife
It rained gently that beautiful day
The maple and evergreen trees
greeted us with a mélange of bright promise,
of an ever evolving love that would last a lifetime
We beheld the colors of change all around us,
holding hands as our lives were changing as well
Upon the lifting of her white veil,
our eyes kissed and our lips looked
for no more words than two
I do
After a pregnant pause, we added another ...
I love you
Then we ran outside,
and frolicked like two little children
Me tugging at her beautiful, African zakiya dress,
she tossing aside my African kente vest
And when we pressed our cheeks together,
the soft autumn rain began to fall ... and we too were falling
more in love
I remember so well,
how it rained that day
How gently the autumn rain fell
A poet enters a private sanctuary,
A sacred place where the imagination
Dwells with a mélange of emotions
Conceived by aesthetic beauty,
Often divine and esoteric in nature;
That comprehensive longing to
Express through common language
That which is so vitally uncommon.
Words that seek to form a bridge
Between intellectual abstract thought
And the world of the inarticulate.
A way to express the depth of sorrow
While having it become a cathartic
Release, thereby relating to others
In commiseration and heartfelt empathy.
Poetry has the ability to help, to heal.
To reach souls enduring that same pain
May be a blessed gift poetry genuinely
Offers in a nonintrusive manner, helping
Lonely souls know they are not alone.
No-one escapes the loving light poetry sheds.
It dwells inside each of us, realized or not.
It teaches with simplicity, expands the mind,
Ingratiates itself without any effort when
Expressed with forethought and integrity.
It may stir emotions from the most stoic.
Speech itself, lives and breathes, and is poetic.
Acquiesce to that silent voice inside which
prevails upon the heart to be released in verse.
Poetry may elevate our spirit with such intensity
To generate a feeling akin to euphoric bliss.
Poets, honored in past glory with the status of Kings,
Now dwell in a world often misunderstood by the
Masses too busy to take the time to regard its worth.
How fortunate for the insightful who appreciate and
Embrace the ageless, immortal soul poetry provides.
They are blessed and will give birth to future poets.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Midsummer Breeze
How may I extol a midsummer breeze?
As soft as rose petals in cooling wind
That flutters leaves upon the verdant trees,
And endeavors to make the blossoms blend
From blooming boughs whose wistful petals drift
In a mélange of hues that blankets grounds
In vivid masterpiece of summer's gift,
Sharing red rose’s splendor that abounds.
Ten summers have passed since we said good-bye.
The son you never knew still causes tears
As evening shadows fill this twilight sky,
Through him I've loved you more all of these years.
Soon all is hushed in shadow's silhouette
When moonrise turns blue skies to violet
7-29-18
Not Just Any Old Rose Poetry Contest. ~Poem of the Day Jul 31, 2018~
Sponsor: Mark Massey ~7th placement premier contest~
Staying on a promontory, I watch,
The wobbling mass of water below.
Before my eyes,
The sea stretches far;
An infinite scroll of chiffon,
Rolling and unrolling
In shades of green and sapphire.
In its sedate hours of brooding silence,
A calm expanse with feeble waves,
As if seized by an uncanny lassitude,
Lying in majesty,
Swirling in ecstasy.
Within this mammoth silver submarine,
How many mysterious live forms thrive!
What curious shaped corals, what all sea urchins!
What wealth of fish, what gigantic mammals!
Between the blue sky above
And the blue sea below
I see seagulls fly,
The long beaked pelicans prey,
Grampuses heaving their huge form,
Above the calm surface,
And the milky spray tossing shiny pearls,
Upon the stretching naked strands.
I can see a distant sail,
And the hull of a ship,
Gliding over undulating waves,
Leaving a frothy trail of foam behind,
With water churning and spiraling around,
Where sharks and seals and dolphins swim.
Piles of silver clouds move above
And the golden sands stretch below,
With periwinkles, crabs and shells,
Scattered by the receding waves.
Splashing tides, dancing weeds
Rising crescendo, falling rhythm
Oh! What a splendid scene,
In the rosy gleam of this evening!
What delectable mélange
Of tinkling sensory delights!
MOONLIGHT SHEETS
after watching
circus clowns
downtown
his light jacket - covered goosebumps
her clogs - they shoveled snow
they settled in each other’s arms
between a mélange of moonlight sheets
amoretto’s bow
scores
poetic words
a neophyte-entry
subconscious-scrawl
he kisses her snowflake-lashes
so warm and cold
she sips her steamy cup of joe
reminiscing
her pen pierces twilight
an arrow remains on the target
with lingering expertise
10/25/2017
Moon Spoon Contest
A
path to
harmony
is one adorned
with vermilion hues.
Pumpkin leaves, remnants of
summer’s verdant colors now
drifting through the woodland splendor
through argentine skies, unified, a mélange
of the magnificence autumn bestows.
©2011 Connie Marcum Wong
We are merely montages, a mélange of endless stardust - -
Finessing poetry 'round melodic sentiments,
nuances manifested 'neath fractured mosaics of entities'
indwelling harmoniousness amidst surrendered
yesteryear's spellbinding prospective endeavors,
we are but astral whispers on winds of prismatic illusions
upon transcendence midway fractals' furthermost macrocosms
A life that happened when we were not looking
Captured arriving as a digital image
A string of thoughts riding a bicycle
Pictured free-wheeling through a sunny day
Yet beneath the skin of a later vision
Rain tumbling from dark clouds
Caught even then
By a lens that was seeing for us
Signs of life dawdle between shuttering instances
There are visible gestalts – shadow dances
Of day-dreams passing-by
A mélange of cursory detachments
We mistook for a life
Bundles of lost moments
Left on the side of the road
As a life drove hastily on
Cat in a circle sleeps
A mélange of black, white, orange and cream
Body rises and falls~ feline ripples and dreams
June 4, 2019
7pm PST
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Staff Meeting
At my desk each morning,
over my first cup off coffee,
I call the staff meeting to order,
a gathering together
of my various bits and parts
that scattered in the night,
each to its own devices,
be they terror,
notes on that yellow legal pad,
erotic fantasy,
unrepeatable indecencies
uttered in an unfamiliar patois,
a mélange of whirs and clicks,
whooshing breaths,
mah jong tiles scattered in patterns
I don’t understand.
On mornings that don’t hurt
they settle gently
into orderly arrangements,
designs and lines of poems,
the fabric of my day.
Other mornings,
the more ordinary ones,
they reject my need,
become ash
that I scoop into the urn
of yet another
lost
day.
The dark muddy puddles on road, by rain
can’t bring, I thought, the times bygone again.
My latest home in town’s posh colony
has well buried my past travails and pain.
The days I whined and ran with agony;
the days I starved and craved for small money;
no more exist in memory. I laid
a lid on that dramatic irony.
For great windfall I gained of late, I bade
good bye to mates, for me, who cried and prayed.
Forgot the days I drank rice-soup in grange
with friends and pools in which we splashed and played.
Better were days of need than these deranged,
in binge, in spite of piled fancy mélange.
My food tastes sour; and bitter my Champaign.
I got riches; from me but sleep estranged.
Breathe in the scent of cool autumn air
Watch it softly wafting Pele’s hair.
Hues adorn leaves in bright vivid shades
Drinking in water as fresh rain cascades.
The wind, waltzing leaves . . . swirling around.
A mélange of colors quilting the ground.
A ready harvest of fruit bearing trees
Provides sweet honey, adored by the bees.
A field of ripe pumpkins ready to pick.
Halloween candy on fingers to lick.
Children in costumes for trick or treat fun
Can’t wait ‘till darkness over takes the sun.
To sit near a fire, cozy and warm,
Reading poetry, no matter the form.
These are the delights that autumn will bring.
These are the things that will make my heart sing.
© 2013 Connie Marcum Wong
idealism of youth
mélange of
dreams and prayers—
disparate yet intertwined—
assembled in their thunderous ranks
to echo past myriad
gleaming colonnades that
buttress evermore eternity
self-betrayal and realization
stolid mind shattered
by coruscant might,
and one's irreverent yearn
in shards was rent asunder,
bereft of merit but who
transformed amid the filth—
banality dismissed
sorrow and reconciliation
grieving stream of years
torn from Chronos’
pavilions tattered—
first estranged but then
with fairness stemmed
life's passing entourage—
muted those who would upbraid
apotheosis
were you there
you might have seen
time begging after destiny,
which turned aside
what once had been—
transcendent he continued then
past worlds without an end
Click on 'About This Poem' above for additional comments.
I imagine Nature as a token of love;
A warm blanket wrapped 'round me, a gift from above.
I am lifted with the sunrise in dawn's mauve light,
And soar with the eagle in his morning flight.
I imagine bright flowers that I've never seen
Spread out over mountains in a mélange of green.
The voice of thunder clapping in a cloudy sky,
Quenches thirsty flowers with rainclouds passing by.
I flow along with tradewinds out to salty seas,
Creating currents, as I pass beyond the trees.
My body has no bounds and I'm lighter than air,
Ensconced in such beauty, I can fly anywhere.
I am nearing the forest of tall redwood trees,
And swaying at their tops overlooking canopies.
Bird songs are my music as I sing along in tune,
'Till daytime vanishes and I'm charmed by the moon.
Stars surround this lady who sheds her silver light,
Lending stealthy vision to creatures of the night.
I like to imagine if gifted with the choice,
I CAN compose a poem to share my poetic voice.
1-30-2016