Best Mimicked Poems
"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."
This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution
I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.
Testament verses
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning
There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders
I was surrounded by shovels
Ransacked
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench
While I
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics
Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…
…
…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath
Simply
Searching
For B-rated serendipity
Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Turning away from windowed afflictions
Ready
To step towards gratitude’s breath
Outside,
No longer looking in
How good it feels.
Yet, I still miss my friends.
©Drake J. Eszes
Where to turn, oh friend I ask
I chose to turn to you,
if you'd be so kind.
Though I try hard to describe the beauty
heard by deaf ears, fall so short..
seen from eyes so blind.
Invited by a melody from the stars,
a concert of music makers enthralled-
Their numbers standing before me
cast down to Earth for you and I,
swath of angelic voices recalled.
Whether human beings or beings from a higher plain
I won't hazard a guess, nor confess, nor grasp..
yet still I ask.
Oh, but..
if you were there,
if only in this life., a trace.
heard from these ears
heart lightened in my chest
tears streaming down my face.
If you still don't understand, I understand
if you're troubled, please try to see
I'm trying in vain, so you must
imagine emotions evoked in music
a limited engagement, mimicked..
by a lone toad from a swamp.
It's me.
Even now try to recount the magic in moments..
turn away, not from beauty nor music, but strife..
hold onto a miracle, a million miraculous moments
in eve of evening..
in life.
Oh, the stress-free, carefree world of children
O' take me back to the lil kids' playpen
When we tried on mom's cosmetics and lipsticks
and built playhouses with plastic blocks and bricks
And had fun with cooking set picnics
Anything could be a toy
and our racket could annoy
We turned everything into play things
We played pretend queens and kings
We then played 'mom and dad'
Oh the squealing fun we had!
Teasing, chasing hens and kittens
climbing the grumpy neighbour's fence.
There was paper airplanes
and frisking in the rains
Paper boats too were made
and hide'n'seek was played
And when that wasn't enough
we played blind man's bluff.
We nimbly climbed the trees
hair flailing in the breeze
But our child's play naturally mimicked the grownups
Lil plastic ones instead of real porcelain cups.
Life was all play and games
in our growing mental frames.
Sand castles and kites
childish fights and frights!
And kind parents just let them frisk and play
for all work and no play makes one a dull boy
as the rosemary rain
soaks
pensive petals,
leaving an aroma
of lovers’ betrayal
the succulent scent
of
his
petrichor skin
caresses the midnight
crevices of this
meticulous mind,
urging my soul to purge
tears and ink
long mimicked
by April’s sunlit rays
synchronizing
a symphony of robins
a rhapsody
of wild blooms
a chorus of dragonflies
a sprinkle
of swirling sakura
painting a panorama
of spring meadows
dancing to
the diamond glows
of stellar streaks...
and without the moon
I am an echo
of rhymeless clichés,
an abandoned prose
breathing amidst
porcelain pages
of mourning metaphors
aching to savor
confessions
of clemency....
for heart feels numb
to the
b u r n
of being forgotten
as storms taste
softer than sunrise~
and in
s i l e n c e,
I rise....
We are facing the sunset, in the afternoon light,
while shadows stretch eastward over the hills.
Music selected from the radio waves
has blinded my senses in reverie's glare.
Wind stirs a memory, that hijacks our car,
sifting through windows to sharpen the air.
Against the orange brilliance, that is stinging my eyes,
someone I remember is saying goodbye.
I thought I'd forgiven, the years and the cost,
of saying farewell, as I watched those days die,
but the ghost of my spirit, had nearly been lost.
Now roads I travel, are smoother than then...
with faded old lines, bleached by the sun,
tall weeds and boulders, lining each shoulder
just as they did when that story began.
Faded with time, and jade are the hills,
surrounding the highway, I remember so well.
Grasses snake down, into rocky dry slopes,
far into horizons where the sun disappears.
Just when you think, a wound is forgotten,
you're facing the sunset, of a new summer solstice.
You remember the dust and a place we pulled over,
where we looked up the hill, through a break in the trees
Where we mimicked the sun with enormous goodbyes
The radio plays many songs of regret
and rejection still stings, with the same blinding pain.
Burning bright on the rise, of so many farewells,
where the haze of the sunset, was never the same.
Light rolls around, to the place it is from
unreeling those things, which can't be undone.
Now I reach for the hand, of the one that I will love
who was there, in the shadows for our life to begin
I have never forgotten, but forgiveness will come
It will follow the asphalt, slowly into the sun
---------------------------------------------------------------
For Contest: "Sunset"
Sponsor: Skat
You were always happy, always on the move
with a great zest for life and a heart full of love.
We loved you too and checked to see if you’d get mad
if we mimicked your habits, but you laughed instead.
When we were in school together, you often horsed around;
I ribbed you about eye trouble, eyes too close to the ground.
You lived life with gusto, knowing your time was short;
playing hard, working harder, often with a jolly retort.
Honest to a fault, you saw the positive side of things;
kept things in order, solid rock with no mood swings.
Cut off jeans, gray tee shirt, tinted glasses, baseball hat;
great big grin, teasing quip, a big hello, a friendly chat.
You were the best teacher any student ever had;
I could call on you to help as though you were my dad.
You drove my school bus on many a winter morn;
dressed in brown coveralls, bottom legs frayed and worn.
You were there in summer, helping coach baseball games;
at football with your camera or turning cartwheels in the gym.
You taught us how to care, how to study, how to play;
how to work on the computer and make the most of every day.
So determined to learn, spending hours at a throw;
self-teaching all the things a teacher needed to know.
You are the poem of my life, who you were tells the tale;
your poem will last forever, healing memories never pale.
You wrote the words of this poem, pages of my life tell the story;
you will read them back to me, when we meet again in glory.
Dancing with delusions, sparks of hellfire
Course through my lugubrious quill pen.
Distorted words igniting fear,
Anxiety fills crevices,
Encircling, silencing,
Asphyxiating.
Walls closing in,
Compressing.
Hope fades,
Doom.
Dread
Runs cold.
Veins poisoned,
Sanity slips
Unmercifully.
The angels are mimicked.
Light dimming, darkness descends
As demons mingle with the dead.
Apocalyptic skies crack open
To wash away all that you held sacred.
(continued from part 1)
What is innocence
that little boy
whose pulling his toy
with it’s broken wheel
Do you think he doesn’t know that the price of that crack needle
Could buy him a meal?
Do you think he doesn’t, know
that that beer bottle
Is why he bares the bruises on his skin
Is it why he has to force himself to grin?
Is that little girl sitting with her perfectly coifed dolls
Singing to herself so she doesn’t hear the screams
Doesn’t she scream in terror
as her father bursts into her dreams.
And shoves her mom crashing into her little table.
Does she have to dream, to live her fable
And even then,
is she able?
Do you wonder what she is thinking
as she struggles to push the head back on her doll
or is it a way for her to merely, ignore it all
Are you watching with 20 million other viewers
A drone in your living room, a slave to a box
A fly in a web of airwaves
Do you think your government is doing the same
Or are they filling up
Graves
is there an agenda being played
as our minds are swayed
Is this distraction as innocent as it seems?
And that epidemic….An epidemic of having too much food
Begging someone please!
stop us from eating I cant see,
my knees
like it’s the bubonic plague
like we’re dropping like flies
An epidemic!
Could we build a memorial and carve on its stone
5 million died this year
from an this epidemic alone
we could… if we replaced obesity with
starvation
Is it ironic that the fat kids stomach looks just as big
as the starving ones.
What is innocence
Is a boy who just wants to spend time with his grandpa
He doesn’t understand
As his grandpa takes him by the, hand
And leads into the bathroom
To show him the darker side of man
That in that moment he’ll have to grow up
Faster then he planned
Faster then he can
What is innocence
Does it exist in this land
From the time were born
We stripped down, bought and torn
From violence to ****
We’re watched and mimicked
Our lives just a gimmick
To get in our little kids heads
Where innocence treads
To take away their bliss
The only thing that they were born, with
What is innocence
Does it exist anymore
Or in this day and age
Have we closed that door
Forever more?
He mimicked all who entered the darkened room,
felt the fear in their eyes when watched with zeal.
He was a performer and his sidekick Sid seemed real.
Was that really him or was he wearing a costume?
He was just entertaining, they all did assume.
His mouth closed yet voices heard with reverberation,
the microphone shrieked when laughter was heard.
A comedian on stage though he said not one word
giving the excited audience an amusing sensation.
When he was through they clapped in celebration.
The curtain closes, and he cries; tears fall like rain,
he longs to be the laughter he gives while performing,
yet deep inside he knows that he is just mourning.
All the acting and engaging never erases the pain,
the show must go on, his humor must remain.
A ventriloquist who suffered from sadness so intense,
just a man who is applauded when feeling self-pity.
For he is a clown on stage, the king of Second City,
but his anguish too much, his torment too immense.
He was always so happy, this didn’t make any sense.
This man grew old and kept his sidekick Sid near,
he kept it in a locked in a drawer by the staircase.
It was available to open up and take out just in case
he wanted to restart his overshadowed and lost career.
He died suddenly, and Sid went directly to the auctioneer.
Sid was sold for a measly ten dollars; no less no more.
A mother bought him for her son to play with his dad,
but suddenly the son began to act strange and sad.
Sid was nothing but a dummy who brought abhor,
a lifeless evil fiend that hated being kept in a drawer.
Years passed, and Sid never found a true mate,
filled with rage he never let go of his hate.
The Ventriloquist Contest
June 21, 2018
Colors in the Dark
When I was younger I’d get scared too easily,
my mother was patience pushing back the monsters in the closet with a simple wave of her hand
as i grew my mother didn’t have enough patience to coat my form; her patience and my size were no longer proportionate.
When I hit 5’1 she looked at me eye to eye an unwanted staring contest with the underlying battle of wills
she said find the beauty in the dark
beauty in the dark
beauty in the dark
I didn’t understand what she wanted but the bags under her eyes weighed my chest down
i nodded but i didn't understand, it was a sort of forced nod where my head and brain moved on two separate courses
night//
i laid in bed staring at vague outlines searching for beauty
beauty in the dark
i only found terror in dark corners
hours fall past me like seconds on a clock
the incessant count down to my doom
hours of searching in dark corners
looking for something that wasn’t there,
looking for beauty in the dark
how do I find something
that isn’t there
desperation lead my eyes to the window
wind had cracked open my blinds
she twisted and pulled them as she danced
her cool crisp breeze beckoned me to look up
and there
I found it
the sky is never black
there is always color
tuesday indigo
wednesday hints of pink
thursday violet
colors in the dark
colors in the dark
show tuesday tree’s desperate aching limbs reaching out to join the elusive wind in her dance of flurries
but tree was rooted
stuck
wednesday wind was free
wind was wild
tree imitated
curling her limbs into shapes you had to squint at to find meaning
wind teased twirling through tree’s gnarled branches
thursday clouds cried for tree their tears dropping and drowning earth
“cloud is free” tree screamed “wind is free”
“my roots run deep my branches reach high but I am not free”
I cried for tree
my eyes unintentionally mimicked cloud
drowning myself
Tuesday//
I run outside to hug tree
I break off a branch and take it inside with me
cradling it like a newborn baby
I vowed to gray monday sky I would take it everywhere with me
with me part of tree would be free
night//
there were no screams of tuesday trees nor laughs of wednesday winds
just beauty
and colors in the dark
BUDGIE
I have a little budgie, his colour is white and blue,
I am teaching him to talk, so far his words are few.
He sits upon my finger, and lets me stroke his chest,
While telling him he’s a pretty boy, and he is best.
One day when he was playing, with a little toy,
I clearly heard him say “pretty boy, pretty boy”.
His vocabulary increased quite dramatically,
Picking up many words when he listened to TV.
“Prices are down, prices are down”, mimicked ads all day,
At times he’d drive me crazy, was tempted to give him away.
Perhaps another budgie was needed with him to sit,
To help quieten him down, but he nearly had a fit!
“Buy one, buy one, then get the second one free”,
On and on he went all day, was very annoying to me
I covered his cage at night, to stop all his loud chatter.
But he kept going on and on, the darkness didn’t matter.
Now I'm glad I kept him, and would like to tell you why,
Because he's passed an audition, for TV ads to try.
He’s become a TV star, which means my days are free,
Others can hear him daily,which really pleases me.
But I've come to realize television was not a good choice.
Being a star's worn him out and he's almost lost his voice
He's become much quieter, doesn't talk as he did before,
I miss his happy chatter, and wont be complaining anymore.
I tell him he's a pretty boy while gently stroking his chest
His days of stardom are over, but he's still the very best.
Now we are great friends, my pretty budgie and me,
And never again will he ever, be appearing on TV.
Copyright © Vivien Wade 2013
once an old dog named percy
licked a farmer quite slurply
then a homeless cow
with mimicked bowwow
licked them both without mercy.
20 July 2010
At The Other Side
Into the other side of the world, July is cold
Southern hemisphere relinquish magical winter time
Beautiful polar lights display in the sky as manifold
Of a dancing spirits doing a mime
An early desire to feel good tidings of great joy
To believe that Saint Nicholas will visit ahead of time
Excited to embellish the house with a ploy
Christmas decors to ingest sharing as of prime
A time to celebrate a mimicked Christmas
From December been moved for this month
Announcing Christmas sale, we go shopping with an adrenaline rush
A peak season also for skiing on snow field’s slant
Serve enticing foods in the table
Welcoming orange and marmalade roast
A honey and mustard glazed ham so palatable
A champagne and canapés proposing a toast
7th place to "CHRISTMAS" in July" (FOR MEN ONLY) Contest
Contest Date: 7/26/2010
Sponsored by: Sweetheart of Poetry Soup
I heard them come long before they came,
Repetitious stomps heard from far away.
Their steady beat mimicked my heart,
As dread conceived to pull me apart.
This wasn't the first, but one of many
Parades of soldiers attentive and ready.
They come for no good from what I can tell,
Combing the city like a wave of Hell.
They tear apart families and wave their big guns,
Their cold eyes flash hate as they break into a run.
Some soldiers I know,
They march with my Dad.
Mom says it's for the best and not to be sad.
He calls himself a Nazi, whatever that means.
It doesn't sound cruel enough for the things I've seen.
I can't help but wonder how God could stand by,
Seeing His people with tears in their eyes.
Shaken figures of distress,
With nowhere to rest.
I want to yell stop!
But a peep I would be,
The young voice of his child of the man who leads these fiends.
STOPPING BY BOATS ON A BLOWY EVENING
Whose boat this is I think I know
But still I want to sail it so
He will not see me jumping in
To take it out there for a row
The mountains think the theft’s a sin
The hills watch me with eerie grin
As I make circles in the moonlight -
Splash and dip, pull out , push in
The water here is clear and bright
It holds the promise of the night
The prow leaps o’er the lake-glass vast
As now I pull with all my might
The boat is lovely, small and fast
With raking oars and folded mast -
The promise which it makes will last
Long after waves and wake are past
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Two favorite poets are saluted in this parody. Robert Frost is the author of STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING, and its rubaiyat form and broad story are mimicked here. William Wordsworth was the inspiration behind the STOLEN BOAT exerpt from the PRELUDE, and the ideas of the boat story are also woven in to the rubaiyat.