Best Mildewed Poems
The scent of your soul
a caramalized breeze of fruit odours
reverbrating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back
Your name resonates gently with my spirit
as thoughts of you dwell in my mind
Carrying me back to the shade
of purple grape orchids in evergreen woods
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind
Such revoked moments of unknown danger and defiant fun
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights,sunrise and life
I can still recall the days,months,and years
till our footprints marked seperate paths
Ah,those days,those last hours,How can I forget?
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice-cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the colour of every new dream which haunts me
llike an alluring glance of almond-shaped eyes
This afternoon,like other afternoons I walk to the library
which knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own
That fragrance 's gone now,all that is left is the fading perfume
of forgotten petals between old books and dust
No one here except my silence ,and a rotten sliced apple
vacuum packed,lacking its cinnamon and even its spice.
Back home the mildewed strings of a guitar
await my fingertips to play once more
upon the worn out chords of my vacant heart
What will I play,what will I sing,a song which isn't ours?
Fermented wine I poured into a glass
Yearning to taste its purple grape for what it was
before all it was turned out bitter,acidic and sour
I wondered about where you might be,distant or not as far
Listening to my voice on once upon a record player
Or Wishing on a star ?
A repost (written : 10/15/2014
The scent of your soul
a caramelized breeze of fruit odours
reverberating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back into ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back
Your name resonates gently with my spirit
as thoughts of you dwell in my mind
Carrying me back to the shade
of purple grape orchids in evergreen woods
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind
Such revoked moments of unknown danger and defiant fun
Other moments,of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights,sunrise and life
I can still recall the days,months,and years
till our footprints marked separate paths
Ah,those days,those last hours,How can I forget?
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the colour of your soul, which haunts me
like an alluring glance of almond-shaped eyes
This afternoon , like other afternoons I walk to the library
which knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own
That fragrance 's gone now.All that is left is the fading perfume
of forgotten petals between old books and dust
No one here except my silence,and a rotten sliced apple
vacuum packed ,lacking its cinnamon and even its spice.
Back home,the mildewed strings of a guitar
await my fingertips to play once more
upon the worn out chords of my heart
What will I play,what will I sing ,a song which isn't ours ?
Fermented wine I poured into my glass
Yearning to taste its purple grape for what it was
before all it was turned bitter,acidic and sour
I wondered about where you might be ,distant or not as far
Listening to my voice on once upon a record player
Wishing on a star ?
Not for the contest
But thanks for the inspiration
Contest name-The Scent Of Your Soul
The scent of your soul
A caramelised breeze of fruit odours
reverberating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back.
Thoughts of you dwell in my mind
and your name resonates gently with my spirit
carrying me back to the shade
of purple orchids in evergreen woods.
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee-beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind.
Such revoked moments of unknown danger
Of fearless dreams , and defiant fun.
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights ,sunrise and life.
I can still recall those weeks ,months ,years
till footprints marked separate paths
and our shared candles became the past.
Ah those lazy siestas, those days...those nights...
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice -cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the linen of your shirt which haunts me
like an alluring glance of almond - shaped eyes.
This afternoon, like other afternoons, I walk to the library
that knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own.
That fragrance 's gone now . All that is left is a fading perfume
of forgotten petals, between old books and dusty shelves.
Nobody here, except my silence and a rotten sliced apple ,
Vacuum- packed ,lacking both cinnamon and spice.
Back home, the mildewed strings of a guitar await my fingertips
to play once more ,upon the worn out chords of my heart
What willI play , What will I sing , a song that isn't ours ?
Fermented wine I pour into an empty glass
Yearning to taste the grape for what it was
before all it was turned bitter, acidic and sour.
Alone , I wonder where you might be
So far or not so distant ,listening to the mood in my voice
on once upon a record player, Wishing on a star ?
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
In a house where a maiden's dreams were crushed
An open seam forever left impaled
Discolored remnants of a wedding veil
Beneath a stitch in time that came too late
A silver needle sewed her final fate
A blushing bride she never was to be
A spinster was to be her destiny
The war years seemed like only yesterday'
As I gazed on the ruins and disarray
A mildewed wedding dress that stood in wait
Beneath layers of soggy tattered lace
Then beneath the leaking roof and fallen beams
I heard the humming of that old machine
As she tried to mend the dream that fell apart
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Wind-gathered winter leaves hide the worn
Inscription; the birth, the death the epitaph
On show for all who take this path
To know Sir John is buried here
Beneath his coat of arms.
This baronet, the eigth in line,
Esteemed to serve his king or queen,
A gentleman of East India's refined
Who sojourned and often richly dined
At home in Berkley Square
Now companion to the chafer, the cadys,
And the countless creeping crawling things,
While passers by have come and gone
Without admiring glances
Since eighteen thirty one.
To line the row beside sir John
Writ great and good in Portland stone
The largest slabs bear names long gone:
A Thomas and a William, an Elizabeth
And a James.
The births, the deaths and all the
Dear belovedness, now mossed
And mildewed, chafed by morning frost,
And slimed by creeping slugs across
Each cold grave table top.
But there by winter's Flowering Cherry
Near Purple Hazel and Norway's Maple
Beside the yew with scarlet berry,
Stands a smaller upright stone,
Beloved daughter to John and Mary.
Eliza Rose, just fourteen years of age:
'Early bright and transient,
Chaste as morning dew, she sparkled,
Was exhal'd and went her way to heaven',
To the saviour that she knew.
The sun has long receded from the sky,
Pallid gloom invades the wintry air,
Morbid silence hangs over him,
Memory sleeps like hibernating toads.
Trees stand bare with no leaves to array,
The Earth lies shielded in its icy crust,
There is stillness, the stillness of the grave,
Breaking it, a fox is heard howling afar.
Feeling utterly down, discouraged, and weak,
How he longs to overcome the emptiness he feels
Even nature looks dull and devoid of life.
Depression takes hold over him and his soul sighs.
Despondent lies he, in his battered shack,
With a run-out lantern throwing pale light,
It burns sending spouts of fume,
Like the last breath of the dying soul.
Tormented beyond endurance,
In excruciating pain, he writhed.
The tears that flowed from his eyes
Could easily make a swelling sea.
Once mirages of hope danced before his eyes
But he is now devoured by dark clouds of solitude,
Behind a wall of emptiness, he now gropes.
He is in the throes of utter dereliction.
Hungry for affection in a desolate arena
He once fought like a losing gladiator.
Every passing day was like a decade.
Everything was damp, life was mildewed.
Now he seeks redemption from all torments.
Lying in the darkness that has become his life,
He stares into empty nothingness.
He longs for death to come on swift wings.
Deserted by everyone, he awaits the dark space,
To lie unattended six feet underneath.
He wishes to be devoured by the Grim Reaper
Who is no longer his enemy, but a bosom friend.
He listens intently for advancing steps,
Of his long-awaited companion, sure to come,
To deliver him of his baneful state,
To row him away across the frozen seas.
Chose a Title; Naïve Faith, Sponsor – Edward Ibeh – 8-27-25
Naïve synonyms: callow, guileless, innocent, pure, genuine, honest, simple, sincere
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Naïve Faith
Callow faith walks with wide eyes
In playgrounds littered with stark cunning
When adorned innocence
Seeks to soar where angels fly
Not blinded by fool’s gold
Nor looted by evil’s glittery tinsel
Or minds darkened by drugs of ebony
That plagiarizes honesty
With rationalized temptations
In ravished glamour.
Artless faith, clothed by incorruptible purity,
Shivers when simplicity senses
A wrinkle in infinity -
Guileless belief skirts gullible’s traps
Clothed in a gift of sight.
When beastly motives
Try to sideswipe honesty
With glitz and jewels of paste
Dangling shiny promises with dark underbellies
Naive faith, clothed in discernment,
Sees with candid clarity.
The rose still blooms despite attacks
By mold or mildewed rust
The sun still wakes the dawn
Even when eclipsed
Crowned by a faultless corona
As stars refuse to enter black holes
Faith embraces the innocent.
Viola Fuller
1879 – 1909
For it is written in solemn Chinese ideography,
That two women under one roof spells trouble.
For indeed my life found trouble
And death quite early due to influenza.
I spent my leisure hours in China Town
16 miles to the west in old Los Angeles.
Spent hours in the mildewed shops and the seedy cafes.
Finding culture, romance and ruin in the moody moonlight!
Finding spontaneous spasms in the back musty rooms.
It is true Roscoe Settle found my inner source.
He probed for the truth of my deep hidden springs.
Riveting moist springs of passion and sexual majesty.
Together, as like intertwining tied ribbons,
We embraced the spectral fireworks of a multitude of shooting stars!
Embraced the soaring glissandos of life and love!
But in the end
I decided to kill him dead.
I could not bear for one more minute, the other woman,
That other thing named Lottie Gordon.
But it all backfired on me.
For instead, I killed his father,
One Marcus Settle: late of Whittier Town.
Forgive me Providence, for I have sinned.
But in my sin,
I have found eternal rest from my nagging jealousies.
Found eternal peace from the tortuous kisses
Of one Roscoe Settle!
The Bomber knifes right through your guard
You duck and weave, a bobbing loon
Contentious crashing, bodies scarred
His lightning fists cradle your doom
Twelve timeless rounds against the champ
His blinding hook you never saw
The mildewed taste of canvas damp
Burnt failure sticking in your craw
Faint echoed cheers resounding deep
Thick sweat and blood now sting your eyes
Concealing bitter tears you weep
To throw the towel in or rise
Surrender is the only shame
You stand and square with woozy smile
There’s naught to lose now in life’s game
Better the taste of blood than bile
6/19/16
©Thomas W. Quigley
Mostly iambic tetrameter
she was a salamander of the sun
an enraptured reptile of the stars
dancing with the other campfire lizards
in the asphalt murrain
in the technomarshes
in the hookah parking lots
and mildewed shopping malls
on the internet
amongst the programmer punks
and hacker geeks
the tweeting tools
the facebook fools
sashaying through cyberspace
and in all the common places
where human hearts are liquid nitrogen
her belly is sparidged and maplemarvelous
the taut black knit tubetop
stretched acrylic over tantalum breasts
the cerise cutoffs born
broadbelted and blithely
clenching her pomegranate cheeks
piebald with sweet sweat
appaloosan with her own sweet waters
because a culture summer is coming
in
in Coddles Harbour and Port Hilford
in Manchester and Fox Island
a magnetic renaissance
coming in ike a lion
like a lizard loaded indigo
and heat desperate
and as he stood
and watched
"all states, all princes I."
and as she moved and sang he spoke
"Love.
There is no 'love'."
"It is true. It is true."
I cannot clutch the tongue
of bones commonwealth any more
nor catch any human kingdom here
any tenderness no longer
moats between us
it is occupied
shocked
by the ordinary
the commonplace
by the electrical
but
still
I am mad ensieged
with her
SNOW DANCER
I am amazed at switch the goods
Before so apostolic
And now so different
To one’s mind.
Are you, my milk tooth
A passion-flower nun
Or an old maid
Married with god
With might & main?
Are you making use of decoy
“Snow Dancer”
As an appropriated graphic
Without mincing words
As other persons do?
Show Dancer
You’re a Sweet Nothing
A Cold Nothing
As the Mildewed Show
But pretty when the Earth
Is in White¡
I remember that when snowing
It was to the liking
of You Girlfriend & Me
To piss on the Snow
And to do cartoons, ha, ha.
You draped with my Dick
And me with Your Tongue-lips.
And we together singing
laughing
Dancing, singing
All around:
“Snow Dancer
Is the same to say
“Peace is a Piss””.
Do you know
Do You see:
I like Women too much, Mimosa
More than another Cheeky-Monkey
Of our Specie.
Yr wasp’ nest
Make me to take flowers
And have one’s fling.
I taste Your female ******
Melting into snowing tears.
To kiss the Angel’ s Lips
Is my Eucharistic
Made to measure.
But now, oh¡ oh dear¡ poor me¡
My touched-balls
Doctor Uric
Says that for the blame of age
I have to do
An operation for prostate
And just in due curse
I’ll don’t be able
To bring to light
My brilliant point
Measured one’s length:
It will break
The liquorice root
The sweet breads.
But yet, still
Being so ****ed
I’ll see how well
You dance in the snow
My Snow Dancer.
Horizontal trying to manufacture soothing snowflakes
Inside this deserts globe the coolness, in their touch...
An escape from realities pangful dust; walking away from
These venues a breath and somewhat fresh air; generic
Fourth of July independence day time square banners
A collective shout their cup of tea turning the ignition untying
Wild mules five minutes gone by yet all be lost; the thrill
Past do it again, they scream popping pills as cutting
Dreams atop golden rust in mildewed editing floors making time
Forming lines, endless here you are another jolt joe, then off you go.
POINTS OF VIEW
Took kids for fresh air to zoo and laughed - are we or they behind bars?
Monkeys studying a parade of human specimens for their amusement:
Point of view was a novelty for kids -
Their cage locks were welded tight.
Stone walls and iron bars do a prison make
If our minds are the rigid stone and bars.
Can monkeys fly? Do fish walk?
Perhaps, I said. The kids laughed and then took photos
Everyone laughed and denied their own photo - That’s not me!
Of course it’s not. A two-dimension static image of a three-dimension dynamic person.
The camera makes monkeys out of us.
Cameras always lie...as a quoted scripture exerpt mayseem toprove anything.
You can’t expect to understand a stream from a single stone pebble;
You’ve got to see the whole flow and ebb for a truer picture.
Let go of expectations. Expect nothing. But always hope for everything.
We stopped at the ice-cream vendor.
An optimistic realist expects nothing and is never disappointed -
Expect nothing. Not even the unexpected.
Your mind full of stones will always bar progress of spirit.
Be empty of preconceived notions. New viewpoints are essential.
With no fresh air, no winged ideas, no wind of change, comes
Mildewed destruction of your spirit’s health. Poison to your system.
Be the deep-flowing fresh stream, washing limitless pebbles :
And if you get out of your depth, kids, then
Don’t fail to come crying to me.
...............................................................................................................
Written 1 July 2013 for Debbie Guzzi’s contest REFERENTIAL
Exerpts used are from CLOSER by Chris Aechtner
“caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,....on wings of letting go..”
A back flipping coconut is very very amusing at a ball but ball pits are moving around so one must surely wear wellingtons or a pair of anglers' waders when jumping across such multicoloured curves. Harp no more sang to a lute at a castle. For harp was too busy restringing and replacing for often strands should be sitting in a neat formation so never whirl around whilst sewing, knitting or braiding a horse's tail. Especially not in a typhoon for a typhoon is often a tycoon and tycoons are really toucans in very smart hats. Now audiences singing to nova scotia are often in great voice. But voicemail from a silky seagull is neither rushed, accented or delivered at the correct time. Drink no cup of mildewed coffee omitting from the horns of a bull. Horns of bull should only be shown on humpback whale variety shows. But not in showers of rain. Trains taking turns tinkling tantrums. And a wide variety of beaks, snouts, and hooves meet with many paws but not in a zoo or a circus for these places are now closed due to a booooom from a book. State no stench and stick no stink. It is the mass availability of a wire that moves the grid into a pineapple formation. Wow. Legs arms and torsos make fairytales in a large luxury room but the rhombic pentameter is waiting in the wings in the theatre to perform a dance. 656 eagles plus 800, 000, 000, bison arriving with a horse, a rhinoceros and a little pickled gherkin in a suit. Fascia fashions fantastic fake frogs. But a pill on a hill is not a pillow nor a pillowcase nor is it a ten thousand kilometre pillar. Rather great to watch the auras of apples spinning over the grass being chased by the caterpillars and huge crowd of pigs. Erogenous earwigs eating everything. Haha pile the plates and dance. Haha silicon tango opera. Hahaha left wing tight wing flap flap flap. Cluck. And a click in a clock is a clock tower chatting. Xxxxx institutionalism Z Z Z Z
In her palace by the sea
Queen Belafree
Is reigning from a tarnished throne,
Where mosses, algae, climb her walls
Where mildewed, frescoed halls
Peel through plaster to old stone;
And seagulls scree, waves moan.
Yet she holds a lively court,
Where clowns cavort,
And troubadours sing lilting-sad…
And jugglers toss where acrobats
Spin cartwheels till they lose their hats,
Snatching up the coins she throws…
Outside, the waterline just rose!
Belafree ignores the tide
So high outside,
Instead she smiles and starts to speak:
“Now dance! The show must never stop!”
Heedless that the ceilings creak,
As floors commence to sag and leak…