Best Manicured Poems
Once I'm gone
I'll only be remembered a small while
I'm a tiny tick on a large dial
The words I breathe will stretch about a mile
Even those who are in history books
the Kings writers and famous cooks
The gorgeous people with talent and looks
They too in the end fade away
Don't get me wrong it's all okay
We might try to hold on but none of us can stay
All have a bit part
on this watery ball of granite and clay
Some are calm others make waves
One smooth skinned another shaves
She loves him while he's attracted to Dave
They both pretend because they have to behave
Each in their own prison living like a slave
The preacher too plays his part
trying to find people to save
Some couples love from the start till death
She breathes in he exhales her breath
Their children thrive Bobby and Beth
While some mothers go it alone
Daddies leave and are never known
Children left to learn life from a smart phone
Some chase riches when other just want to eat
Walking on pretty shoes while poor men have cracked feet
The music plays so clearly yet we fail to hear the beat
So I wonder what's it all for
This wanting more and more
Is that really God knocking at our door
Yes it is I believe it at my core
So why do we leave it closed
Maybe because we fear our sins will be exposed
a life manicured and posed
could be unfroze
Freedom from each prison chose
Instead why not drink from the garden hose
Wear our humanity
discard these labeled clothes
Count down the future with fingers and toes
Within a momentary breath each spirit goes
As minds open each heart then grows
What happens next only God knows!
Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...
POETRY FOR POETS
(I own this- edition)
Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the **** of life
manure
Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.
Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet
though occasionally
poems require to be forged
beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
accurately placed
ensuring they will be nailed
to their purpose
Pruned
dead words and metaphors
selectively snipped away
stunning display
There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire
Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love
I tried my best
To live between your cruel words
Yet there was no room
I felt less
Smaller than small
So why didn't I fit?
I wonder
Now that you are gone
Who's words had you borrowed?
Did the pain you gave to me come from another's broken heart?
Was it too much to bare?
I now have room at the end of your sentences.
Not forced within the confines of your spaces
Tracing the manicured pearls of your wisdom
You have not had the last word
I am not doomed to your hypothesis
I'm willing to dance on the edge
My cliff is of note
worthy of jumping from
For I am not Icarus
There is no reason to fear the sun
Only your ice will melt from my wings
I do not wish to re-live your convoluted nightmare
The drifting of your mind
Those barriers to my existence
Freedom at last
Yes
Freedom
At the end
Yes
At the end of your sentences.
The lesson I learned is that the only one who can define my being is me.
I also learned that painful words and curses can be passed on from generation to generation unless we put a stop to it. I thank God for the strength He provided me. I have been blessed beyond what I expected as a child.
I'd married at 21 and moved overseas with my husband's work, so it had been many years since I had visited my gran at Rose Cottage. I was taken by surprise when I received a letter from her solicitor informing me of my inheritance. Her cottage had been vacated when she went into a care home, and sadly she passed away a few years later. Gran had been widowed at an early age so I’d never met grandpa. I was her only grandchild and had such fond memories of spending summer holidays with her.
ripe red strawberries
boiling in the copper pan
I label jam jars
When I pulled into the driveway I was shocked to see how dilapidated the cottage was. Green shutters were hanging off their hinges and paint was peeling from the window frames. I recalled the perfectly manicured lawns and cottage garden flowers which were gran’s pride and joy, now a forest of dandelions sprouted from the lawn and brambles snaked their way through the honeysuckle arch way. I picked my way through the vegetation which was covering the moss covered path and turned the key in the lock; the heavy oak door creaked like my arthritic joints. Gran’s cosy cottage had always been spick and span, but now every surface was covered with a layer of thick grey dust and lacy cobwebs hung from the black beams on all the ceilings. As I wandered through the empty rooms my footsteps echoed on the old pine floorboards which were littered with strips of wallpaper falling from the damp walls. My heart sank when I saw how much work was needed to restore and modernise the old stone cottage, but with time and effort and help from my family I’m determined to bring it back to its former glory
neglected cottage
in need of renovation
rambling roses bloom
Fiction poem for Thesaurus - Abandon or Abandoned Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
POEM AWARDED POEM OF THE DAY
06/14/20
When tuscan tunes of twilight,
cascade as clementine confetti,
She searches for secret silhouettes,
swirling to the symphony
of sunflower serenades.
In the midst of faded fields,
marigold memories crawl back,
refraining yesterday’s
tangerine dreams.
Swans glide in
sullen grace,
illustrating a saffron
backdrop from
sweet sighs of
fauna’s concerto.
Harmony of melodies
is the idyllic essence
of dulcet beginnings.
A plethora of
prewritten words
soar as passionate notes,
harvested through
hypnotic crescendos,
emanating amber toned scales,
whilst she sways below
apricot streaked skylines,
adorned in champagne
hued consonants,
synchronizing dandelion
desires,
fluttering beyond
darkness that floats,
as lyrical lines vibrate,
and ascend to
euphonious heights,
where bronze keys of
her mellifluous heart,
evolve from a tapestry
of twinkling tenors.
Her muse mimics
scentless petals.
There’s no wrong interval,
when performing in a world,
where rays of
honeyed glow drift,
veiling the rhythm,
between bleeding
dusk and dawn.
Changing chords remain
oblivious,
to the pulsating pain,
as her perfectly
manicured fingers lift.
The hunter’s moon
too refuses to see,
how her heart no
longer is made of flowers,
but nostalgic ferns
and leafless forests,
that twist and turn—
wilting away to
songs of sorrow.
But there’s a maestro
with a pristine prologue.
He understands her mind
blisters when colors tumble.
How her fragility has
been sleeping on
weathered pansies.
He guides her to
softly press the
porcelain frame of
piano keys,
playing the prelude
to a classical sonata,
lost in the maple waves
of wind-blown whispers.
Her oak leaf twirls and
sows duets
of sanguine tomorrows,
pitching lines within
veins rhymed in vain.
Birds of paradise croon
to orchestrated
hope and love,
while a palette of sounds
piercingly rise to unravel
a synopsis for healing.
In the rundown little house where her family currently lives,
the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy,
nodding her head in quiet compliance
to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening.
Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath,
and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid.
Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve,
feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts:
bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . .
With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval
as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him.
In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in.
His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear.
Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace.
And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her.
“Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door
as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey.
Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers,
“And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.”
The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door
when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then
Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked.
He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house -
the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back -
the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter
await him.
“How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes
as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit.
“Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips,
leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter
comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning.
“Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!”
She twirls with adolescent glee.
The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter
up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.”
“Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait
at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."
L i f e
a prison of pretense
and I still dream of
walking through tempests of chaos
barefoot,
allowing stones and pebbles
to tattoo my languid skin with love in lilac,
as ashes of yesterday
erase the thunder marks
that struck my spine
in ruthless rhythm,
oblivious to the scorching solitude
that swallowed the stars
swaying across the heinous horizon.
Trusting the tormentor,
dancing with the devil,
as I drink from the naive springs,
like a jailed jasmine,
to Stockholm syndrome.
I’ve heard the crickets croon,
I’ve felt the warmth of raining tears,
while w a i t i n g
w i s h i n g
upon pirouetting peridots~
a trick played by Lucifer,
as peace is a lie
fed from the serpentine scent of sunlight
that tastes like mists of malice…
Tonight I kneel
at the chapel of charades,
reminiscing fragmented forests
where I’ve long been
a forbidden lace of Lilith,
cursed by the fickle flames
of the blood moon,
like a tortured sin,
tethered by time…
O divine destiny,
designed with darkness,
see the angst,
veiled amidst contoured clemency
and manicured mercy,
the beginning
of an inevitable end.
I fear not the hereafter~
the realm of redolence and zephyr,
there phrases of regret
shall be a rinsed-away garden,
watered with saffron and amber…
Perhaps
when the last refrain of living
rewinds and repeats,
we’ll reflect
on the circus we performed in sheer naivety…
But would you then~
catch my soul, it’s willing to fly away,
feel my pulse, it emanates freedom,
heed my heart, it sings of love,
seize my ink, it flows with faith,
catch my sigh, it homes compassion,
hold my hand, it seeks kindness…
Hallowed be thy Name
Hallowed be thy Light....
She senses before she sees
The manicured nails - the elegant fingers
Holding out the hundred dollar bills - enticingly - so temptingly
A generous nights takings of busking here
In one proffered hand
She grabs at it petrified it might be an illusion
Evaporating in a puff of smoke
Fingers hold it back, teasingly
Compelling eye contact
She looks up sceptically
Dark eyes meet her aqua blues, sparking a sort of affinity
‘Eyes are the window of one’s soul’- so it is said in all sincerity
But the magnetic dark eyes of her enticer are fathomless in their intensity
His type she has encountered before - money for favours
Well she is no novice - a living after all - a girl has to make
And his generous offer rivals his devilish good looks
But she senses a darkness favouring the energy emanating
A cold shiver runs through her veins like someone just walked on her grave
Fear ripples down her spine akin to a stroking finger chilled in ice
The spell he casts foreboding
The calmness of the night has taken flight
In its haste to set the macabre scene
Mesmerising are the eyes that bore into hers
Projected thoughts furtively slip into her mind
Infiltrating it like a slithery snake
Bringing with it forbidden thoughts of desire
She falls into the inky black abyss
Succumbing to heady dark passionate conceptualization
However the chilling message is coherent
This is not a mere opportunistic one night stand
That he desires
This is more - so much more
This is taboo concupiscence unleashed
This is her life in exchange for what?
Her life for immortality?
Surely not!
Yet his eyes eloquently convey it all
The hunger so unconcealed - so transparently flagrant
To yield to darkness
Satisfying his appetite for
Death of a different nature?
Obliteration of life as she knows it to be
Tenebrous Immortality in exchange for her blood
A prelude to his finale of taking her soul
And then a metamorphosis
From Prey to Predator
Video clip -
Like a Vampire- Catrien Maxwell
In the manicured meadow
of woeful weeds,
where hope sprouts amidst
forlorn fragrance of frozen seeds,
I dance to the hypnotic breeze,
hanging on saintly strings with
cosmic eyes, unraveling the
emerald iris of sacred skies,
orchestrating songs
of sonorous seasons,
searching for rhythmic revelations,
as spring-butterflies
flicker peacock promises,
gliding above rippling
star-jeweled visions,
like prominent parachutes,
symbolizing pearlescent presence~
of sanguine scriptures,
shimmering as ethereal radiance,
within this enlightened heart.
I refuse to let egoistic entities
enter my perennial sanctuary
blossoming with
halcyon hibiscus hymns.
For within lunar-glazed lentils
magical magnolias hibernate
in mere mindfulness~
unfolding a voiceless
poetic gallery
of chromatic colors,
bursting with incandescent flares
of iceless moonstones,
resting between merciful tremors
of unwavering faith,
counting tears that fall like
golden streaks on the
roof of charismatic creations,
eagerly adorning the horizon,
as pristine prayers ricochet,
to the impotent tunes
of immaterial repentance.
So tonight, I’ll allow
graceful galaxies to
sprinkle blissful-beams,
laced in lotus love,
perfumed with patience,
as my pen perseveres,
with persistent passion,
to sincerely seek
righteous refrains,
of divine magnetism,
letting ego perish,
when heat of worldly lies
suffocate the soft skin I wear,
yet they remain
unaware of inked henna herbs
of violet devotion~
I’ve designed in kismet zest,
through linear lines floating,
with vermilion verses,
in charming cadence,
to the alluring anthems of
an unbreakable dawn,
while silhouette
of my psyche swirls,
spellbound by the
enthralling influence of
celestial zephyr.
Through thickening haze,
I hear your voice call my name,
encouraging me, words beating
with my heart, guiding me home
as I stumble and crawl…
lost in a winding maze,
blinded by a smokescreen haze.
My life falls off-course; a sudden struggle,
I am suffocated by my own thoughts,
by perfectly manicured hedges,
by a world of betrayal…a world of deceit.
Yet, I live every moment with hope –
I see filtered rays of light,
feel their warmth on my skin,
a reminder of Heaven when I shiver within.
As I climb my leafy-green, prison walls,
my courage creates new heightened paths.
Like English Ivy weaving
through a garden lattice,
I grow taller, plan my escape,
hear your unwavering voice
drape over me with love and strength…
Your hand, outstretched,
seems just within my reach.
I focus on a life without walls,
a place I can learn and teach,
an open field of tomorrows…
vibrant, full, free.
Every singular cell, every breath I draw,
every soulful feeling…all of me,
with all of my flaws,
reaches out to all of you.
With a touch, I am saved…
I am found.
A new dawn breaks just within my reach.
Feeling the desolation, of smothering air
Hemmed in by crowds; the obliqueness of fear
Throng of the city and no sight of the sun
Incessant noise and the desire to just run.
And I drive.
Arterial routes clogged by metal and wheels
Schizophrenic drivers living others ideals
Neon and lights sizzling the sides of the streets
Marketing signage, greed’s consumer receipts.
And I drive.
White picket fences, roses, and manicured lawns
Ridiculous box housing, erected for ludicrous pawns
Playgrounds, big supermarkets, cafes and parks
Sprawling suburbia with its pools built by sharks.
And I drive
Warehouses dispensing the needs of the hordes
Industrious factories like cash castles of lords.
Sawmills busily feeding more desecration of land
Refuse collection sites completely sterile and bland.
And I drive.
Ten-acre barons on frivolous bundles of dirt
Escaping urbanity in the unproductive outskirts.
Postage stamp fields supporting ponies and kids
While toffee nose parents sit in ultra posh digs.
And I drive
Paddocks of cattle dispersed through productive farmland
Shiny new tractors with men toughened and tanned
Marshmallow hay bales pimple the face of the ground
Irrigators urinate on earth until drowned.
And I drive.
Magnificent mountains covered in beckoning trees
Clear running streams and whispering breeze
Wild flowers gently waving as robins flit all around
Radiant true colours and smoothing calm sounds.
And yes I am home.
My cousin Tallie
was a real-life
award winning
beauty queen
from age six to eighteen
The kind who seems
a cardboard cut-out
Southern stereotype
all big hair and hype
manicured nails and
well arranged...
assets
but in reality
there was much more to Tallie
Her favorite movie
was Fried Green Tomatoes
and as far as movies go
it was good
but I never understood
until much later
why she loved it so
At first I thought
she was obsessed with the dish
she just 'had to try' fried green tomatoes
with fried catfish...
But it was actually
more about “Towanda!”
the primal, female battle-cry
And there was something electrifying
heartbreaking and mystifying
in the way she had the nerve to
let loose
a hullabaloo
screaming “Towanda!”
without reserve
fully, freely
like a woman
on the very edge
with nothing left to lose
and that was true
Tallie'd been abused
but somehow
nobody chose to see that part
that she actually had
had a heart
that someone had torn apart
Now Tallie's a badass
with blue-green hair
and a hard edged manner
devil-may-care
she has a tattoo
for each person she held dear
far and near
dead and gone
and no one knows why
she's evasive, withdrawn
as they spew out their judgments
in-between their
slow Southern
matter-of-fact yawns
With all the details noticed
while picking her to pieces
how did they miss the moment
her innocence was taken
faith in mankind shaken
How the barefoot, crazy-haired Tallie
running free, suddenly
stopped entirely, sparkle gone
certain sadness in dark eyes
and full-grown
this woman appeared
world-wise
And while they wonder
who the father of her
latest offspring could be
I wonder where the
adorably incorrigible
little Tallie is-
that used to be
No matter what you have gone through,
No matter what you have accomplished,
No matter what you have manifested to the world,
No matter what difference you have made,
they just speak about HOW YOU LOOK
Yes, How You Look.
You must have got Gold to the country
You must have shouldered the wings of responsibility
You must have touched many lives
You must have stood by people in their strives
Still, they just care about HOW YOU LOOK.
Yes, How You Look.
I showed the photograph of a foreign affairs minister
In a thought that he would talk about her caliber
Thwarting my expectations, he said, "How short she is!"
Whoever you are, whatever you do, their eye falls on HOW YOU LOOK.
Yes, How You Look.
Met her after a long way in time,
The words she first spoke can't be forgotten in my lifetime.
No 'Hi' and no 'How are you?'
All that she said was, "Jesus. Your face. What is wrong with you?''
It does not matter if you are happy and healthy.
All that matters on the first go is HOW YOU LOOK.
Yes, How You Look.
Cotton on to the fact that
a warm smile is beautiful than rosy lips,
a helping hand is beautiful and not a manicured one,
a loving heart is beautiful than the lustering skin,
a powerful mind is beautiful than pedicured feet.
Your strength defines who you are, not your shape.
Your boldness drives you forth, not your beauty
Look not the skin but notice what's beneath it
Because, when you're in need, it is people not their pomp that comes to your rescue indeed.
I Might Be a Tree
In twenty years I pray I won't be gone
placed six feet beneath a manicured lawn
I'd much prefer to give old death the slip
To guzzle life instead of just a sip
Mind and spirit together playing song
I'll rest a bit but not for very long
You see, there is so much I wish to do
Yes many years can feel like just a few
The company of those I truly love
will lift my spirits like a flying dove
The flowers that I plant will be in bloom
Beauty will surround me in every room
The ground might open up and swallow me
Don't worry I'll reach up and be a tree!
For Brenda's "You 20 Years from now" contest.
.
This desk with its scattered papers,
blotted ink and unsealed envelopes…
passages penned and tossed
in the confusion that lives and breathes in my mind…my heart
Distance frames the walls of
the addressed…since canceled
Splintered dreams on the edges are worn,
time has shaved the moments…the places
on broken calendars swinging freely
of lost dates scratched within the numbered boxes
Sorrow carved in the fine oak grain
by an empty pen with dulling point…dented
Poetry sits meaningless
with rhyming phrases of hope…wishes…love
begging for but a brief visit,
only to be discarded between reams of teardrop leaflets
Verses formed deep within a vacant heart,
a lonely space, emptied by the loss
I write in an absolute mist,
fog induced renditions of another’s touch,
formulating in the same words…always the same words,
repeating in the darkness that sighs in rhythm of a flickering candle flame
Over and over,
echoing the halls of this barren heart
Shadows drain the breath
of hopeless desires…built on manicured dreams
within a world collapsing in shredded
prose, and fractured fingers, still writing
I am lost
without her…
10/14/16
The Poet's Ache
Greg Barden