Best Mimicking Poems
Two hearts bleached by the sun
A Poem's - fallen wish
The Love
Of A Life Time
Majestic beams fall from heaven meadow
Two hearts stitched by the constellation
Under the moon's glow
You and I
Gazing up into the Starry Sky
This night we sit under the dazzling diamond dust
Our eyes feel and meet tonight
Stars twinkle a poem of each paired heart
Listen......While......The God's Whisper!
What Is Love?
They asked
A wish so gently by the stars
Greeting young couples' heart
Poor but, in love
Mimicking an old shadow
Light embrace this Auspicious moment
-Aster Flares-
Intrigued by a sad lover's tale
Two souls forever rich-
Sharing eternity through celestial bliss
Gravitating in the world owned by the stars
A most unfortunate turn of events,
Romeo & Juliet
Collapsing stars rising with a hymn
From the moment they fell
Only to reveal how beautiful--
-- the stars in the dark
Ever so wealthy, around Orion's Belt
Reading notes on every rhyme, every heartbeat
Stars fall every eve entering the atmosphere
Seeping through the soul, making love a part of a light
Permanent illusion
Fireflies Flaring up
A passion that lasts longer than a moment
Each zodiac unfolds
The stars tell you, who you are
Gaze upon eternity
Follow the Northern star
Beneath your peaceful splendor
They will bow
Sunset and the evening star,
"My Star Of Love"
Like glitter dust upon a timeless shore
Never will the memory of love be gone
Look up at the stars tonight,
For somewhere out there
I read about YOU in a poem.
In the landscape
of melancholy,
where arctic
heartbeats linger,
I long for withered
willows to blossom
like speckled
diamond petals,
while your crystalline
silhouette strolls
through tangled tunnels
of my weathered mind.
And I question
the highest choir
orchestrating
ethereal anthems:
What if there’s no right key
to harmonize this
undying yearning?
What if love had a voice?
Would it be an
echo of melting snow—
thawing glacier hearts
to stream upon
silver lakes,
mirroring drifting
clouds of memories
that drizzle
rose-tinted flakes?
There, the crisp
air whispers
magical tales
chauffeured in
cashmere cadence.
But, like the golden
tendrils of
winter jasmine,
my fingers
stretch beyond
fogs of frozen rainbows,
sketching
sweet-scented dreams
across skies
in porcelain pigments,
as your voice
glimmers and
glows amidst
poetic pearls
resting on
your lyrical lips,
shifting through
colors of the
seasonal breeze,
serenading
symphonies
for soulmates.
So let me
undress the
wintry wisps of vanilla,
cloaking the
citrine threads
of sunrise in your eyes,
listening to
the song of the
wind that shrouds
our unsung sonatas
when we were undone.
For you and I,
we are like
jewels in the azure,
ruminating in rhymes,
quilted in a
secluded igloo,
as chickadees
of the night
chirp in sync
with the moon,
mimicking hymns
from the
hypnotic lyre of Orpheus,
to which Eurydice waltzed,
even the waning stars
would unravel
a sequined staircase
to the gardens
above the highest spheres.
For I would die
a million
deaths to
rewind and replay
the dulcet chorus
of this
immortal romance.
When life parades a fine line
between alienation and rationality,
internal intruders of the soul shroud spotlights.
In my dreams
I'm playing charades with the grim reaper.
surrounded by selfish acts from satanic spirits.
Featherless angels of twilight need tender pearls,
as gifts from the elusive self-centred sun,
when a jealous mercenary moon manipulates murkiness.
Sometimes,
all I have is my shadow and me,
but it abandons me in times of darkness,
leaving me at the mercy of nature's invisible imitations.
Behind forgotten frozen gates of winter,
static stars have shunned black hearted skies,
refusing to flicker in their metallic beams.
I've become a nemesis
to the empathy of the elements,
personifying mimicking,
miming onyx coated raindrops,
sprinkling dust storms
with freckled shades of crimson.
Destiny drifts in wayward winds
towards contrasting crossroads,
hoping for soothing golden arms of dawn to uncloak
defrosting hearts with rainbow rays of gleaming light.
If the universe reversed its selfless role,
would some still be lost chasing clusters
within silhouettes of a waning crescent,
graphically illustrating illusions whilst crystal gazing?
Beyond where our fingers can sketch reality.
ignorance is consumed in our own
bubbles filled with hollowness,
reluctant to see the weariness
of the grey winged nebula.
Symphony of seasons are temporary like emotions.
Harmony harbours in harvesting heirloom roses,
among gossamer meadows of compassionate butterflies.
Colours of Earth's fabric never falter in a cocoon mind
resembling an eclipse's ebony and ivory tones.
A spectacular show enlightens heavens above
In ephemeral musings of burning meteoroids
Mimicking likeness of falling ornamental stars--
Beaming streaks of rainbow-colors earthbound,
When earth crosses trajectory of comet's path
Encountering in its way pebbles of cosmic rock
Colliding, illuminating in orbital trespass,
Elements of iron, copper, magnesium, silicone
Glittering within spectra of kaleidoscopic astral art;
Streaming down rockets of blazing stars--
Tinted meteor-showers flaunting nature's panorama
Fixating sights upward where constellations are,
In idyllic August venue gazing ashen sky
Exhilarated witnessing magical phenomenon;
Mesmerizing predawn with seductive stagecraft
Premiering its play slyly when moon's hiding out
And sun's yet to commence ascending golden arc.
August 15, 2019
Placed 2nd: Shooting stars poetry contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Placed 3rd: Strand select N contest by Brian Strand
Love,
where do you bloom, unseen?
Have you become absorbed
in a world, where I do not belong.
Once, when I sat upon your shores,
lost in the depth of infatuation,
I held you tightly in
the palms of my hands,
hoping promises of 'forever'
would not only be words
but you evaporated like a
cloud in the darkest night,
abandoning me within the
realms of recycled emotions.
I had read about you in poetry,
so I wrote a few verses to honour you,
portrayed your grace through artistry,
so I could gaze at your soft pastels,
yet, here I remain
devoid of your devotion.
Now I ponder,
from all the beloveds and
all the versions of love -
which one is for me?
Must I,
search for you among mountains,
or sandcastles upon abandoned islands.
Is there path I must seek,
is there a guide that I can follow.
Must you,
veil yourself behind metaphors,
whilst fusing through musical musings,
frustrating through lyrics,
still unheard to my soul.
I wonder
if you are only true in fairy tales.
And in your betrayal,
if the world really knew you,
would they still yearn for your complexities.
If only there was a marketplace,
where I could barter and
purchase you for a fair price
but when has love ever been equal.
The horizons keep mimicking romance
and I hope those who follow the moon,
can eternally dance under its moonlight,
but every night there is a hidden
solitary star sparkling all on its own.
My heart fluctuates between
new sunrises and old sunsets,
hoping love will wait for me,
before my spirit fades,
so, I can have a love,
which I can call my own.
A shadow walks
beside me
in the sun—
faithful companion,
mimicking my every move.
Through the
decades of my life,
I scarcely noticed
little changes
in his form.
He seems just
a bit shorter now
and stooped slightly
at the waist—moving
slower than before.
Now I find he is
also not so near
and one hand mimicks
the shake of my own hand.
Where does that come from?
Hardly see him anymore,
as I sit here in my room.
But friends and dear ones
gather round.
I seldom feel alone.
I tug now at my shadow,
for he shuffles more than walks,
as I spend more time outside,
walking in the sun, finding
purpose in my days.
Still my shadow struggles but
works hard as any friend—
never giving up.
Someday, I suppose,
I'll finally get a new one.
the ghost of science, born of blasphemy ~
a fossilized fallacy,
seized from the metallic heart of Mars,
seeks light amidst night-terrors
like an alien sculpted
from artificial accolades,
an embryo stuck in the interstellar state
of becoming,
stitched within radioactive ribs
beneath moonless skies,
when wolves of the eclipsed howl,
filling the illusive air with hypnotic lies,
as if the world chose to recycle
ruins of ancient dust…
but will the naive see the pain
of a breathing corpse?
engrossed in narcissistic echoes,
in the shadows of a megalomaniac ~
his skin ~ the translucent truth,
his eyes ~ the wickedness of a wasp,
his skull ~ reeks of human greed,
his sighs ~ mourn like skeletal sirens,
coded in russet rust,
cloned from binary sand,
d o r m a n t
yet
d r e a m i n g
to break free from the
carbon-based existence…
for he is the aftermath
of programming the forbidden mind,
oblivious to the weakness of scientific errors ~
a deceptive drawing,
framing the elongated hypothalamus,
pulsating a hypothesis
left with no clear conclusion.
tonight I run to a realm of reality
that fades when
dawn bleeds gold,
for truth is now an extinct breed,
as artists outline faces of the faded,
illustrating the unknown and unseen,
as revelations ribbon
with silver haze…
the constellations ~ no longer spectators ~
they are the archived,
within frozen scriptures,
scrolling stars in a sphere
of distorted algorithm…
as memories of angels and heaven
spill from silicon prophets,
disguised as messengers who serve
the blind with ominous oracles ~
in synthetic cadence,
in a choir of puppets ~
the iron-glazed tongues shall recite,
mimicking the sound of harmonious hymns…
yet I remember
the authentic rhythm of prayers,
lost now in the drifting colors of darkness…
so what is life
when all that floats is like
an engineered empyrean
only equations of numbers
can decipher?
is this the beginning of an end ~
inevitable?
the lost generation,
assembled as the ministry of superiority,
where emptiness is praised
with forged grace
and ignorance is crowned with digital deceit.
let this be flawed poetry ~
to be read through the cracked lens
of a philosopher ~
or perhaps a logic long replaced
by pretend perfection…
When I was a child,
summer at my Aunt Joanne’s
meant staying out as late as it took the sun to set!
And mostly with my cousin Chris,
I threw a baseball back and forth
with exhilaration each time I felt
the impact of Chris having thrown the ball
right smack in the center of my glove.
Chris’ dad, my Uncle Clifford, loved his baseball!
One time I remember
being loaded with the other kids into his old car,
summer wind blowing through my hair,
as he drove us to a game in Davenport.
Uncle Clifford used to play on that same diamond
where he took us to watch that game.
I wasn’t all that keen on it.
But the atmosphere was so lively.
Vendors selling hot dogs, cracker jacks, and candy -
this was my childhood delight!
I am sure I must have cheered
for a team of which I knew absolutely nothing,
mimicking my elders there in the stadium
as wildly they called out their reactions to the game.
In school I played baseball myself,
standing like a statue in the outfield.
It was more exciting to watch my brother Dale from the stand,
those long hot summer afternoons as he played on his league.
It would be at least twenty years later
that I would sit and cheer for a baseball game again -
this time for my son in Little League.
Rooting for a loved one makes the game more alive for me!
Grimacing with every strike my son made;
standing up and going crazy when at last . . .
he knocked it out far into right field!
Glowing with pride that my son’s forte was as catcher
and watching him in all his gear behind home plate.
When I hear the old familiar song Take Me Out To the Ballgame,
it reminds me of the simple pleasures
of my youth,
a time when life was slower paced
and those summer days with my cousins.
America’s pastime, which has trained so many kids
to love being part of a team,
now seems to take a back seat to that rowdy sport called football.
But give ME a game I can follow,
a game that through time I came to love.
My Uncle Clifford has since passed away;
oh to spend one more day with him
at the old ball game.
Creeping creepy creepers, the crawling trellis
jutting out of everywhere
snaking through country and metropolis
twisting turning in floral bliss
but more like snakes that hiss
But in quietude feign death for self-defense!
Weeping willows with an unreal surreal sorrow
weeping tears of dew onto the silted furrow.
Perhaps weeping for bretheren felled
in deforestations and land clearings in
my imaginations of the call to preservation.
Against ethnic cleansing of greenery for selfish building
As per man's construction for mere recreation
Velvety-green tear- stained faces or rather foliage
When dew is stuck on them as nature's trinkets of pearls.
And over there touch-me-nots swaying coyly
like prim and proper maidens
in the fantastic floral gardens.
And what in the world is this case?
Imitation flowery in place of imitation jewellery?
Yeah, thats poinsettia in a vase
Leaves in the disguise of flowers
Its actual flowers relegated to backstage.
And ethereal fairy-slippers await their never coming wearers
and Indian pipes to be admired by Red Indian sightseers.
Oh and here's another spectacle- but sniper tactics this time
Yikes! Let the naive insect world beware!
Whilst the bloodthirsty killers lie in ambush
Those camouflaged jungle guerrillas
or should we say the venus fly-traps!
Or a more harmless one yet mimicking the scary
A snap-dragon flora, its mouth opening and snapping shut.
Then watch that mega-sized jumbo giant flora
The world's largest flower
No stems, no leaves, plant-eater plant, rafflesia.
Is it too much for the faint-hearted ha ha.
And wow now watch that incredible costume, oh my!
A flower masked as some pesky fly!
None other than the remarkable fly orchid.
And yet another, the silent music of the fiddlenecks
Fiddles as if for the light-weight fairies.
And lastly not forgetting ofcourse
the sky-blue unforgettable forget-me-nots
A memorable bouquet but themselves devoid of memory.
Ah nature lover poets if you wish to view
more of flora in a fancy dress masquerade
Go ahead and flip through the pages of
a botanical, floral
horticultural
pictorial journal.
And see for yourself the fantastic flora's charade
or else imagine them dressed as a floral renegade!
What smug pseudomorph
inhabits my reflection,
adroitly mimicking my
every manner and expression,
mercilessly mocking me
with flawless simulation?
She is the great pretender;
a master counterfeiter;
a furtive opportunist;
a thieving imitator.
She is a soul-sucking demon
of the gravest degree;
a brazen parasite
feeding on health and ingeny,
pillaging my youth
with savage gleam and glee;
siphoning my precious hollow
of vitality.
Time ticks across my aging face
while our eyes lock in defiance,
and in the end, my spurious friend
will demand my full compliance.
So, with a twinkling eye I wink
at my mirrored facade,
acknowledging this fearsome foe
with a playful nod.
Respectfully reciprocal,
she gestures back to me in kind,
and we part as esteemed enemies,
to my last breath resigned.
"I wandered lonely as a cloud"--- By William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a tramp,
Far, far away from all human habitats
Away from all prying eyes
Following the bent
Of my vagrant inclination;
Into Nature’s sylvan pockets
To places studded with trees
To the tranquil bosom of the woods
Onto the heights of bald headed hills
Where shrubs struggle to strike root
From the cleft of rocks and ledges
Where in hollows, wild bushes grow in clusters
To watch the shreds of hovering mist
To gaze upon piles of sailing clouds
To shout loud and whistle long
And to listen to the hills
Mimicking my own sound
There I will hop and jump,
Like a sprightly forest fawn,
As I don’t fear
Either the silently gliding streams,
Or the clump of swaying trees,
The host of wild flowers,
Or the monstrous mossy rocks,
Either the birds or the beasts
Never will they watch my cranky pranks
And call me a loony
As here my own men might do!
September 19, 2022
Written for the contest, I Wandered Lonely As _ Challenge
Sponsor, Natasha L Scragg
Judged on 9/24/2022
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
Should it be a poet's duty
To write solely about beauty?
A POET’S DUTY by BETH EVANS
ANSWER ON A BED OF NAILS
let me answer the quixotic brioche —
we all need a delicate pinch;
brachial bruising a warning
all the flowery talk dispels the magnitude
of cancer, the carbuncle of abuse,
the horrific salutations of the nazi regime
we march alone but also as a world
arm in arm, armed with insecticide
words like ants; a bench’s rash
a hose in diffusion’s spray
may try to paint the sky
in shades of love’s foray
turn it off; let flow subside
take a better look —
heart on a bed of nails
war of words; a twisting sword
let truth be the blood
that scores
because a poet can also whitewash
with parrots
mimic...mimic...mimicking
seek your bellyache
examine, test, squander
all its savings
let cavalry of water fall
soaking wet
with poet’s ink
10/9/2020
Beth Evans’ A Poet's Duty Poetry Contest
I woke up changed
but love stayed ~
for my cluttered consciousness
escapes into the cosmos,
where the Flame-June stars
are christened with
healing hieroglyphs
hibernating within
your heartbeat
mimicking the murkiness
of this mind that
noiselessly misses
the metered magic
you composed cautiously
into redolent reality
with acrylic colors
from dawn after hailstorms…
and I drown… O beloved
I swallow my ink...
stained with your scent
in lucid dreams
steeped in seared sienna
wrapped in stimulating silence
as faith meets me fearlessly
beneath the kiss of an angel
that left me lethargic
longing for the levitating light
of a sultry sun that
clothed me selflessly
unspooling the urge
to pirouette through peace
that looks like homely solitude
as hope rests in the
saffron soul of clouds
where your rhymes return…
so trace me amidst the
trail of thoughts I find
myself weaving
with wildflower wishes
into the glistening sky
glazed with
passionate promises
caressing my pensive skin,
while I plead
with the awakening moon
to teach the tuscan
tones of my phoenix sun
to soak my silhouette ~
a saving grace beneath my hair…
but these feelings
are not severe symptoms
of persistent exhaustion
or spiritual emptiness
this is the sound
of my pulse ~
a piercing ache
to feel the lips of
an empathetic empyrean
to breathe siren’s bliss
into the arteries of angst
like waves undressed
unreservedly obsessed
with the thought
of being seen and saved ~
a prayer perfumed
like a dream designed
in citrine gold crystals…
*Inspired by the art "Flaming June" by Frederic Leighton
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.