Best Mislaid Poems
...carries the wilted weight of autumn
in its broken beauty
with fields of brown stalks,
unharvested pumpkins that rest like mislaid dreams
patient where they are
November, detached from the moorings of green
when golden leaves, sparse, cleave to skein branches
to thwart the creep of cold
the leaf brown baggage below curls at its edges
like fickle affection
and yet,
the busy abundance of harvest
foretell platters of gratitude
Thanksgiving
a mix of deliverance and charisma
tangible
like the elation of coming home
month of nocturnal stabs of frost bring foliage to weeping
L i s t e n
L i s t e n
to what murmurs beneath half frozen furrows
fields that know what pushes through seasonal loss
radical roots
stored in darkness
a spring-to-come growth
thronged with voices
that never lay
far below
the surface
Poem written November 6th, 2022
Twas like the night lived all alone
with faith mislaid from cause to wonder,
to lose the love so few have known,
this dream we lived no less to ponder
Our youth, wasted in defiant haste
to think such flights could ever end.
Past sacred fruit, no more to taste,
paid by a ransom we had to spend
You filled a heart with summer's breath
and touched this life with hope forgiving,
but there are storms that spare no death
to dreams of love meant for the living
At peace, stay close and wait for me
for in my dreams, you are all I see.
01/19/2018
Wrong
Was I
To push love
So un-returned
At first though the love from you came later
I lost mine, rapt in imagination
So time forgot
Our passion
Mislaid
Sin
Petrichor petals
float with departing zephyrs,
misplacing misunderstood messages,
whose true meanings are misinterpreted.
Mislaid memories
reflect on picture perfect puddles,
mentally memorising mistakes,
leaving behind a legacy of regret.
Painful passages
monopolise melancholic mind,
bittersweet swansong symphonies,
seduce soulful spirit into a sabbatical.
Pessimistic penitence
engraves on blank expression,
depicting disease, drifting to death,
nauseating numbness perpetually laments.
Silent One
Simple Musings
26 January 2018
We decided to turn Paradise into real estate.
Trouble was, we weren’t too sure where to find it,
Though experts had located it somewhere
Slightly west or east (left or right, looking north)
Of a point midway between the Euphrates and the Nile.
According to some, it moved sideways a few inches each year.
Computer systems would relieve us of Adam’s curse,
Which many wanted back as soon as they had been relieved,
And Eve discarded more and more items of covering,
And everything (a forgivable exaggeration)
In the garden (the upkeep of which had to be paid for by taxpayers)
Was lovely (or at least pleasant enough for most).
The Devil, who no longer existed (save as a literary metaphor)
Had been extradited on a drugs smuggling charge
And was last seen heading north.
The Forbidden Tree had been cordoned off by
Security people and no serpents were allowed near.
One day we woke up to discover
That Paradise had absconded in the night.
The more sensational headlines read PARADISE LOST,
But this was watered down in a subsequent official press statement
to read PARADISE MISLAID.
As to its new location, even the pundits failed to agree
Whether and if so, by how much, it had moved left or right.
It was even rumoured that the Devil
Had bribed the Angel at the Gate
and infiltrated the Intelligence Service.
The Ministry of Defence reported that a large flying object
Had appeared as a blob on the radar before slipping off,
And some wag even suggested that this was Paradise in fact.
Adam uttered “What the..” under his breath,
switched off the telly – it was an old war film –
And gave Eve a knowing look.
Eve didn’t fancy an early night,
And the ensuing row
Raised Cain.
It came upon me unawares
As I bargained to make a living.
Thus absorbed in daily cares
The years I deemed forgiving.
Getting old was ages away
I told myself each new year.
"I'm still young," I liked to say,
"I'm certain to stay right here."
But the clock began to chime
Messages in muted tones.
I was running out of time,
A blackening in the bones.
I felt it too in others' acts
Addressing me as sir.
They excused my mislaid facts
Ever pretending I didn't err.
A godly mercy attends old age,
The past becomes a blur.
It eases one off life's stage
Thinking things that never were.
The mind eternal lies before us always.
Less pure in tone, we come to it drenched with life;
Fearless companion in our hour of days.
A purity not withstanding breadth of knife.
Away! Away! succubus death,
much less a breach than I.
How many not mislaid in breath,
In priceless toll, said duty to be paid.
No field of honored memories
they preach without belie.
Captured each, and each with closed fist shouting;
Me or not, Cold or hot, we stand between as choice;
all for desperate screams grown silent.
Pastoral in the presence, of one solitary voice,
Whose form of words so hesitantly mouthing.
Whence came we witness to the stream.
Whose eyes are these that hold our field a-view?
Memories whose touch a solid scream;
Form ignored and glory gored of few.
We are not the man.
No animal or simple word defined.
We pause, we pleasure, we perform,
With speck, and all our mind deform;
Our fingers will one day unfold.
Our torrid tortured tale be told.
Yours, mine, ours,
Drumroll spam-like dance,
Become the gist of one more fist
To smash against the sand.
“Stroke-a-back
stroke-a-back
someone’s going to touch you
in a moment from now,
I’ll draw the snake
but I won’t end it.”
The old gas light flickers
above the old school wall,
a game of “Stroke-a-back”
To the song of the Swan waterfall.
Pastoral faces full of laughter
innocence disembogue,
a time to relish
this evanescent vogue.
A fall pipe to clamber
a railway bank to view,
our cottage upon Sugar Hill
Where the flowers once grew.
Pea-shooting bobbins
From Town head Mill,
A Burnside clangour
from a spinning shed of skill.
In unison sincere looms clatter
Gates Of head scarves bobbing up and down,
Reed-Hook used with aptitude
a woven piece for “Half-a-crown.”
Eternity for the shuttle
Weft and Warp intertwine,
mortal weaver in traction
for that packet of “Woodbine.”
The mighty Oak and Sycamore
shaking off the morning dew,
mist that mingled undaunted
footprints that followed the view.
For there, where twilight kisses the breeze
behold carpets of Lavender Blue,
The sweet scent of the Honeysuckle
Clement “Nesfield” Grew.
If one could walk within a memory
caress a perpetual dream,
then one would have to believe in miracles
a mislaid youth to redeem.
'Stroke-a-Back' is a hide and seek game'
© Harry J Horsman 1995
Written: September 16, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In arrant essence, without a fight,
Herald of vamps, in the dead of night
Ushers a raw wave that captivates,
The heights of the cosmos resonate.
Wax in our ears, the truth we long to hear,
Despite fear or quaint hopes, with zeal, we steer.
In bravery, the sun's light subdues the sight.
Rolling through the despair of a lonesome night.
Slightly too reckless, we dare to dream,
Framing a foist under the whiskey moon gleam.
Reminiscing about the warmth once shared,
Now mislaid in the miles left behind, scared.
Yet in the depths of our soul, a blaze remains.
A flicker of optimism that cannot be tamed.
Whiskey moon and a reckless wish
Guiding us through this journey, a celestial dish.
We dance with the cosmos, our spirits alight,
Embracing the unsung, chasing the light
With every endeavor, we withstand the odds,
Leaving behind the solace of familiar nods.
In the cosmic realm, we decry our place.
Unveiling the secrets with zeal and grace
Whiskey moon, shining dazzlingly above
Reminding us of castaway love.
But in the gloominess, we explore our way,
Through the shadows, we will not stray.
In the depths of our soul, we hold,
The memories of compassion were once bold.
Though miles may separate and time may pass,
The alliance we formed will always last.
Whiskey moon and ambivalent bliss
Swaying us through life's unpredictable abyss
When social upheaval brews chaos of nihilism,
Forfeiting moral values, embracing skepticism;
Instability ensues, clamoring in emptiness,
Believing world is futile, life is meaningless,
As broken norms shout, voicing nothingness
From souls alienated by misplaced intellect,
Mislaid by thoughts, vacuous and mindless.
Barren is the landscape of infertile minds
Dislocated in grip of meltdown and melancholy,
Preferring to host anarchy, disharmony,
Abandoning the virtues of reason, and logic,
Rejecting bliss and benevolence of empathy,
As gloomy clouds of disengagements form
Roiling hearts in intense emotional storms.
When disorder harbors indignity, incivility,
Misery and despair lead to destructive society,
As lost, worn-out souls wander unfulfilled,
Rudderless, in angst of hollowness within,
Aching for love-lost in fractured relationships
Navigating purposeless-digressions adrift,
Going nowhere, hovering over pit of abyss;
Until from consciousness cogent voice speaks,
Enlightened by guidance of wisdom satori,
Harkening back to yore, of inspiring dawns,
Blossoming-seasons of resplendent bygones,
Reminding~ back then, how tranquil life was;
Empowering now to banish reign of anomie,
Exiting tenebrous clouds, shrouding sanity,
Traversing back to abode of grace and unity,
With compass-benevolent of love, and divinity.
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
She stares into the casket
open, not what he wanted,
but she did, even more now.
“Stiffer than he’s ever been.”
she snickered, silent, unheard.
“O M F G thirty years;
look at you in your blazer
and that idiotic badge;”
she toasted, raising a glass
of cola and single malt
discovered upon finding
the “mislaid” Tantalus key.
“I bet you’ll never guess where
your model steam engine is?”
She whispered into his ear,
“Oh, once more into the breach,”
she laughed and knowingly winked.
“Nothing to say, no repost?”
“Not a cutting, hurtful quip?”
“you’re dead, you say. Can’t answer.”
“I was dead for thirty years!”
God give me the courage to change the things I can.
For I jumped out of the pot right into the frying pan.
I thought things would be better, that was an oversight.
Instead of boiling, I'm now sizzling, my blisters blight.
I long to leap once again but I'm desperately afraid.
The wok beckons me with good intentions mislaid.
The spoon rest looks comforting, and I need a rest.
Why does change make me wary, excited and distressed.
The oven is warm and inviting, will my essence be renewed.
Or will this latest transformation cause me to come unglued.
I'm reminded by the clock not to waste precious time.
I should soar like never before while I'm still in my prime.
Please give me courage, things have to change!
Broaden my horizons beyond this kitchen range.
Cecilia Macfarlane
Contest: SERENITY RESPONSE
"courage to change the things I can''
The Ghost Train
North Wind, it was a howling, the sky was black as guilt
Malevolent the sheen, where upon her moonbeams spilt
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Roaring down the line, she was roaring down the line
Charging down the line, the Ghost Train rolls tonight
She glides along the platform, where haunted faces wait
With dreams of grand ambition, that only she can slate
The driver in his blood red suit, turns a skeletal grin
Toward the hungry hopefuls, then ushers each one in
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “We can’t be late”
For time is money and money won’t wait
With shovels full of human desire
He fuels the fire of hate
The whistle cord is pulled, the flag flutters all clear
The engine she is plied, starts the journey into fear
On it goes a rumbling,
On it’s round iron feet
Inside the folk are tumbling
From every leathered seat
Amid the laughter and the chants
What life, what love, what times
Everyone is held entranced
By ghostly railway lines
Tittle tattle chatter, ash from the chimney pours
Natter rattle clatter, onward the Ghost Train roars
Strange games are played
Some win some lose
Sincere thank you’s become mislaid
As each the other use
Beneath the load the earth she quakes
As all aboard debauch
Done deals and shady handshakes
On every carriage porch
Kerching-kerching-kerching, the till bell rings
More-more-more, the engine softly sings
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine, right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “we can’t be late”
For power is waiting and power is great
With shovels full of human remains
He fuels the fire of hate
In never ending search, she roams across the land
Controlled by the evil, of the blood red suited hand
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Charging down the line, the Ghost train rolls tonight
If it pulls into your station
Will you jump upon its frame?
Will you lose all inhibition?
On your way to wealth and fame
For when the ride is done
There’s no-one else to blame
If you find you become
Another furnace flame.
My costume makes me look fat
And I lost my witches hat
I can’t find my broom
It’s not in the room
Now where’s my lucky black cat
An unfortunate man named Keith
Mislaid his set of false teeth
Tried apple bobbing
His jaw was throbbing
Poor guy can’t get no relief
I love eating pumpkin pie
My tum is big its no lie
I pick up my spoon
Then I start to swoon
Feel sick and I want to die
Jan Allison
11th October 2014