Best Matte Poems
I'm an ashen dove,
fading in zephyr
of wine valleys,
saturating in fog
upon enchanting hills,
draped in
grape-green silk,
where fantasies of forest,
sprout cynthia moon
of a bygone
medieval saga,
amidst heavenly
eventides,
and wailing weeds
prick my shadow,
infusing iced intentions
of the puppet's paradise~
floating in islets
of shackled bones.
My wings are
made of violet wool,
fluffed with
blueberry cotton
and stitched
with the fabric of
amethyst satin,
but as soon as
my tiptoeing feet
touch the
seafoam grass,
it stings my silent
glacial flight,
making me bleed
in chloroform-
dipped letters.
If love was a
rosy matte comet,
I would carve
pastel orchid smiles
amidst kismet-coated
cherry blossoms,
with frozen floral paints
and forgive
beige betrayals
of aqua sirens,
to which the
scents of evermore,
sweetly succumbed.
But maybe,
jasper tinted
jasmine petals,
are sewn with
poisoned thistles
whilst being
dispersed upon
the chambers of
midnight raindrops,
and those
soulful stars
in your eyes are
a mere mirage,
flourishing
false silhouettes of
a perfumed
saudade in
nocturnal negligence.
So, pardon these
bleeding metaphors
that echo sombre
sun's soliloquy in the
hazy kiss of gloom
and follow me
to the teal towers,
where this
fluorescent flesh
slumbers in enfolded
spruce leaves of
sequoia sonnets.
For, when the last petal
falls as poetry,
my soul would be
alive in wistful runes,
mourning in a
doleful decanter,
whilst eyes
would frown
in fragile promises,
wiping diplomatic
dust of dolent delusions
and knitting mists of
manipulations,
carelessly sinking~
to soil of feathered
dandelions.
Where nurtured seeds
of jade reflections,
still haven't ruptured
every pixie dust of hope,
in their life's
dormant decession,
reminisce me
as an ivory moonrise,
fluttering beyond,
dahlia chains of sunshine.
"Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more, in the leafless root there is no less" - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I'm a sunflower,
dipped in honey of
bittersweet bronze smiles,
admiring its soulmate
strolling around the sun,
in sombre shine of
eclipsed dawn, whilst
these faes lure poisoned
pollens with flaming
ruby red ocean foams,
And I see a peculiar
patchwork on knitted
canopies, which are
sprouting clayey hearts
out of crimson crooned
willow branches.
Crumbling to pixies,
falling lifeless like fragile
leaflets in autumnal carols,
I believe, twin flame
telepathy is a souvenir
of roses and thorns,
which emerges as wanton
wildfire on the brim of
ocean's moon-song
in mellifluous mystery,
outlining turmoil in
turquoise land of trolls.
For, magnetised feathers
on matte lips always get
soaked in ashey sighs
of regret, whenever
bewitching conspiracy
of his amethyst eyes,
befalls in dialects of
forest's echoes and the
brittle skin of basilisk
slithers with a deadly gaze
upon my mulberry heart.
Chasing seasonal winds,
I became the fading mist
that succumbs to the
sheath of amber rays,
infusing in my lungs,
and suffocating my love for life;
Amidst these broken skies,
you left shadows of
pencil-sketched debris,
that float like wisps
of faulty daffodils,
distorting my dreams
and twisting thy truths,
in hellfire horizon that
sets our graves apart,
beyond million miles of
satanic soliloquies.
On another impoverished evening
so strangely bleak, the moon weeps
for more burning her soul must retain,
And she clings like a stem to the tree of life
that frozen eyes grasp coiled branches,
weighing down on howls of raven’s play.
Just now … crisscrossed sky lanterns
fog the walls of a withering foliage,
like hushed matte from dusk’s greenery
Pouring balm on a requiem in need of shade,
while in her veins drip… a constant gush
as meshed twigs still interlace on leafy ribs
Immersed in the ardor of their moments,
one fragrant orchid and musky trunk…inseparable,
bound together by affectionate, yet lost stars.
With slight acceptance this rooted love will always
meld despite tree of life faintly drooping;
...in clinched angle, she lays on his buried grass
until dim twilight shuts off.
For Broken Wing’s Entwined Contest
2/12/2016
A life moves on
The empty space
A vacancy
The smile missed face
The heartfelt ache
The hopeful joy
Of knowing birds
Must wings deploy
The silent cloak
Of no-one there
Is draped on shoulders
Poised to bear
A voice, a note
Would lift the heart
Small gesture to
The soul impart
Some comfort
In the knowing that
The gloss of memory
Not turned to matte
For vibrant is
The emptiness
Highlighting your
Full presence, yes
And more
Despite the heartache burn
It waits with Love
For your return
Sea Glass 7-11-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sea Glass
On strands and shoals, waves of rolling tides,
Neither pro nor biased,
Tumble castoff vessels, emptied of purpose,
Into scattered shards of sharp amber remnants
Piercing tender soles.
Bits of blue and green edges,
Rub up against mica’s pearls,
Refined by fool’s gold -
Brokenness in metamorphosis
By stoic tidal pulses
And lurching tide’s undulations.
Discarded gypsies from bonfire’s passions
Laughter, nostalgia and desolate strolls
Gestating in a matte chrysalis,
Life’s thesaurus honed into shapeless dregs
By gritty fingers rising
From the cold fire of the abyssal plains.
Written: February 13, 2023
____________________________________________
An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
No twilight concerto to sway not yet
as zigzag street lights pound upon
heavy fog clutching iced flakes on rooftops
like hushed matte from night's gale
pouring bitter ovules to a past in need of relief.
While in her vein is a constant downpour
of Bach's untenable requiem
as hands pound on ivory keys,
immersing in the fever of the moment
until fingers carve a solemn journey
into wiry trails of insolent rain.
How she summons the goddess of morn
to cure thistles of wait and pang,
sifting each beat, each note without interludes
until this child- woman shifts her face against breezes,
tasting madness rawness on lapping winds…
In disheveled lingering she cuddles
unspoken words, her own song
on panels of cut-glass-------with acceptance
the world could still breathe despite a torment:
just then...in a twirl of air's cadence
the night shuts off.
.............
1/18/2016
Jamie Pan's How Long Can A Poetry Go
This poetic attempt is a cross between existential expression
and stream of consciousness technique. The former highlights
contemporary man's response to anguish, isolation,uncertainty
of life in the midst of change.Thus, this poet explores
the outpouring born from inner annihilation-- being
absent from the self- YET allowing space to exhale for a new
awareness to surface.
Dovetailing this language of despair to the stream-of consciousness
technique allows the spontaneous, raw float of thoughts without
the pleasure of edit, like journaling and ' writing down the bones.'
I feel that literary devices ( from metaphors, enjambment to alliteration)
come into play , well, quite instinctively.
In my creative writing class as a college professor, I ask my students
to write with their less dominant hand to discover the 'heart of the matter.'
Then again, that's beside the point. This author will leave this piece to assault your senses, and then, softly break all defenses. Thanks!
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
A delusory pleasure bristled the solitary abator
And the dusky night rides down the sky
An ethereal beauty demoed with her au naturel demeanor
The solitary abator bumps with illusions, thus far realisms high.
Elated with red-hot mysticisms the abator closed his eyes
And mildly felt the zephyr over the mum wispy time
She reposed in her bareness beside his devout envies
The abator fluffed up ca-cacing his limbs to ease with spirit and bine.
An awaited soul perked up with flavour of lust and zeal
And the midnight silence prolonged to be livening with insidiousness
She abreast herself over his frvid spirit of unreal
The abator matte-up bosoming her with barmy tenderness.
The ravenous abator intimated himself in the same state of bareness
And the dark moonless night beamed with perfect ecstacy and elan
She ooohed legalizing the demon-ridden enduringness
The abator held himself with an abrupt spasmodic movement of his organ.
The wonky estrus abator coaxed himself with the pleasure of onanism
And the gentle breeze was felt to soothe the pragmatism
Slowly her au naturel beauty faded, idling the eroticism
Bequeathing the abator's midnight oneirism.
Ah, we ladies never have enough!
Foundations in all shades.
Forever~ in new forms.
Cleansers that promise us youth.
Softeners that hide wrinkles.
Lipsticks, a source of confusion.
Creamy, matte, or gloss?
For me, it is all delusion.
A rainbow of colors for my eyelids.
Is it really me I present?
Or a manufacturers's disguise.
4/21/2021
Countless generations lapsed since height of Greco-Roman mythology conceived, birthed and populated vast canopy of sky and expanse of terrestrial firmament, whereat obeisant propinquity quintessentially remains stalwart this day and age as guise dolls dote demonstrably come Valentine’s Day, when Cupid plucked from the quiver, notched in bowstring and launched Eros tinged arrow induces love struck swain to swoon upon a lassie fair, whence fecund female feast proliferates progeny.
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bona fide hormonal hankering didst since Adam and Eve a wake
aromatic, balmy, and captivating as effect from drinking sassafras
kin powerful pulsations viz diving rod erect phallus
creating con fusion pro bono er to enter lips engorged mass
Pussy swathed qua tangle of coiled, kinked, and thatched course grass
Willy wonka with vestal virgin hair line gonadal zone **** embarrass
twig and berries rutting, rusticating, routing and romancing intent
to deflower re: piercing hymen
with nary immune to perdition or déclassé
hello kitty edenic tropic of cancer coital compass
emitting pheromones culling asper a bong
clapping banging brass
intractable supremacy reproductive sport
waging whore with contemporary take
verboten fruit sexual pang thrust forward
omnipotent magnetic thirst to slake
unstoppable passions flared unfazed as annals
depict how hot coals feet did rake
despite hollow religious strictures obloquy,
the serum filled genitals did quake
infiltrate historical manifestations, naked humans
prey zing clear or opaque
deities of yesteryear demonstrable
bas relief showers copulation doth make
primal urges imbued *****sapiens
e’er since first man saw lady of the lake
triggering libidinal longing inducing salivation sans love struck drake
multi-tiered mouth watering orgasmic gastronomic carnal cake
Aphrodite spellbinding storied sport thrives inducing heart break
imbuing human guys gals feverish enthralled dizzy catnip behoove ache.
By the barrage of flies, bald John can tell how
Safe his meal is for feasting. The spotted
fawn yet battered breathes.
Clean blood is poison, he knows,
So before he drinks, he waits for the devil
To pee in the stream.
Then he shovels tissue down to the marrow,
As the odor barbers him balder.
Bare-bodied ravens beguiled him
To become a fiend thus famished. He
Perches patiently over the repast,
Pin-talons dull from scraping bone,
Wings worn from hauling carrion upwind.
He bates them at the first sign,
And targets the fawn’s fattest artery.
But he himself is sick on the verge:
Of a wavering branch, of a mortal dusk,
Of that decay which wove twig to build his nest,
That which buoyed flight when he was weak.
With twilight nigh, he trembles in withdrawal;
Grey feathers fall as he
Walks in falter to the tawny fawn;
Toward Life, or Death,
Or their bastard unclaimed.
Each inch is priced a silver plume. He sheds,
Till over swoons his avian frame, lonesome
Lying nude and three-fourths-dead,
Broken beak ajar, tongue longing
For the opiate thrill of red
Flowed from the hollows of that mirroring fawn;
He drools for the non-anointed oil dripping thence.
It renews his plumage,
Though makes matte the luster of his eye.
Resurrects him that he may wean on death,
As prey to his vice—prey to his own heart,
While nature begs his piety, but sin sustains his being.
“Evil begets Evil”
I read upon the derelict arch,
Engraved in the stone: a warning to all
Who to these ruins would march.
“Evil begets Evil”
“Evil begets Evil”
Even the welcome mat
Reeks of waste, not welcoming at all.
Just cracks with invading moss matte
The Evil regrets of Evil
Evil besets Good
When a family nest/bed
Through greed and hate after inheritance
Deep to murder instincts is infested
Evil arrests Good.
“Good begets Good”
The cracked frame read
Lying in the rubble like a forgotten fossil
Covered with dust and shoe tread
“Good be-” *crack* “gets” *crack* “Good”
The words nobody heeded
Till Evil bore only more Evil.
I Do Not Know The Secret...,
Asper Art Of Writing Acclaimed Poem...
Not purposeful intent,
when tasking self (Das Scribe)
a nondescript member of
*****sapiens village people tribe
metaphorical spear in hand ready
to unbridal strong arm as vibe
resoundingly resonates, sans
(crackles, snaps, and pops)
optimal instant to expunge bribe
bing fountainhead of creativity
oft times screed or futile diatribe
no matter smug satisfaction appeased
as mental delectation on par with eclair
for taste buds, a reward dare,
I acknowledge mine appealing talent
(undoubtedly a slightly biased opinion)
with fast break for game of Solitaire,
or sink concentration matte tear
real awaiting with bated breath
comments, feedback, input...usually fair
to middling acceptable,
though frequent occasions blare
ring liberal dollop of adulation,
warms hearty cockles of this hermit
comfortably numb in his lair
which decency, humility, modesty...
of mine to avoid trumpeting pomposity
as if yours truly snooty billionaire
keeps in check (ma mate)
cognitive firmae tubby beware
boot up pawn occasion, the errant knight
within me finds ego expanding square
lee out beyond outer limits
of the twilight zone, where
entire cerebral cranium
shatters temple mount scare
ring eureka temporarily
finding me unaware,
viz blinding, deafening, and
obliterating brainstorm spate bare
lee delivering tummy any appreciable,
pronounceable, noticeable... impact
relishing this devil may care
state of being if only...threadbare
tenuous consciousness endured
sustaining oblivious blissfulness
absentmindedness forever delivering cheer
full countenance of mine finding me
unafraid of Virginia Woolf, a bugbear,
and/or he who dons most powerful paw
he can render complex edifice
of democracy to disappear
thus...after shaking wordy playwear
an early plug to vote November 2020
due to here
about nine months and one year.
Night is my time
When light dissipates
Into matte darkness
Of endless dusk
My psyche awakens
And starts roaming
Barren landscape of
The dark side of the moon
Staring at the horizon of milky way
Spread over the sky
Searching for mysteries
That are hidden away
In woven ethereal patterns
Repeating itself like ripples
In the living water circles
Touched by invisible hand
Of lonely creator
I follow my insatiable drive
To catch the escaping edge
Of Ariadne's thread
That becomes visible
Only at night
In full moons’ shine
And disappears in days’ light
I escape the prison every night
Of my earthly existence
Locked in the limits of day
With light that makes things
Look flat and plain
When high noon hits the sky
Only at night I feel
That the illusion of clarity
Of bright sunny day
Locks my sight in delusion
That I am whole and safe
Only at night the depth
Of multi-dimensional world
Spinning feverishly around
Opens in front of my eyes
And I stare in dreamy daze
Overwhelmed by fear
Into the center of the universe
Attracted like a moth to light
To the darkness of night