Best Mixes Poems
F l y i n g
a sailing tailwind
through cerulean streams
and creamsicle colored beams—
are wings reflective
of the turquoise truth
and white purity
of Autumn’s ether
he aviates
a clear troposphere
riding an unbridled
capricious and combative
boreas
on the cusp
of a new season
with a plumage infusion
of shifting Cape Cod skies
the blue jay mixes hues
with the Northern azure
that fades to shades
of turmoil
to the South and East—
becoming lost
in its milky breadth
its lilting light
its dimming depths
where the edge of rustic rural
meets the sandy ridge of conifers—crooked
twisted and back-bent
from gales
of salt-sprayed sorcery
Canadian bluster-gusts
leading the charge
of a cold sapphire crest
is bedeviled
offshore
by the raw
tongue-lashing spin
of a brooding onshore flow
twirling
a brewing brawl
whirling
in slate pearlescent space
s w i r l i n g
with the dusky feistiness
of stormy petrels…
mobs of darkening fog
growing fatter
on summer’s fainty surrender—
leftover tints of tender cornflower
and hints of dainty dove
there’s a sparkle
in the eye of the storm…
his mischievous black gaze
mirrors
the harsh harbinger
of commotion
clash and change—
his piercing “jay-jay” jabs
the maddening mayhem
of menacing air
with an emerald-needled sharpness
of wind-weary pitch pines
anchoring
the beige of coastal dunes
where his refractive blues
take cover
in colorful contrast
ahead
of the bruising
October nor’easter
Blindfolded, he takes me from the car through the humid air of August. He holds my hand, and then surrounds me with his arms, when small obstacles appear. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The silk rectangular scarf, I had folded and tied about my breasts clings to me. My cutoffs ride up further exciting me, as he lifts me onto a wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea where we are but, his voice and footsteps have a slight echo.
the wail
of a harmonica:
moonlight serenade
Vibrations tingle across my skin, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows a shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in echo, I hear him approach. He lifts me high and traces the droplet down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. I am still blindfolded when he places me on the ground. I feel his breathe upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, his face, his hands, his taste, and that night at the empty skating rink…but, sadly, not his name.
the scarf
falls from my hands:
the drawer closes
First Published by Contemporary Haibun On-line Winter of 2013
pink marshmallow clouds
tinted by the setting sun
artist mixes oils
11/13/19
A violet floral river
Quietly meanders through beds
Of fragrant gold tulip blossoms
With their close connection of heads.
Next a glorious crimson field
Catches the eyes in such display
That a view of such enchanting
Beauty, just takes one's breath away.
Everywhere you look lives colors
In most every inviting hue.
Asiatic lily mixes.......
Entice a captivating view.
Trees filled with rosy hued blossoms
That share their petals in the breeze
Fall softly upon daffodils
With line curved pretty paths to please.
Euphoric bliss fills the senses
Within old Holland's wistful arms
In her vibrant flowing gardens
Where grandest, she reveals her charms.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day April 3, 2017
An eagle finds the highest mountain to build its nest
And lays the first layer of nest with sharp objects
Such as thorns and stones for the unborn with zest
And next, covering that layer with soft targets,
Such as wood, feathers and the animal fur.
So as the baby birds are hatched, gets protection.
As they grew a bit, the mother eagle takes
The nest materials and mixes them up.
The jumbled mass is now a mix of sharp and soft
And sometimes sharp edges may cut babies’ skin.
And next, the mother stops putting food
From her mouth to the mouths of the babies.
Making their comfortable world into painful one.
The discomfort becomes so great for the babies
They begin to fly away to get out of the nest.
This analogy of God explains the value of pains.
We don’t seek god when happy and comfortable
We turn to him only in times of troubles.
God does whatever it takes help eagles fly
It’s a wake-up call to teach every one of us
Not too much indulge in physical comforts.
God removes the soft coverings to remind us
That this life is painful and full of sufferings
And its solution is to soar in spiritual realms.
+++
September 25, 2014
Form: Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
First Place Win
Contest: God's kind of poetry by BriAN Johnston
Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
in an enchanting house,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.
for The Enchanted House Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
ASP OF GRIEF
She buries her head upon this asp of grief —
soft with reptilian fangs, hard with poison.
Her covetous husband lies upon the Nile’s reef.
She holds her abdomen in her arms - his son.
with lunar belly...
the shape of her husband’s seed
...a fateful eclipse
The pit with its bone-chilling cold, hisses with hatchlings,
dreaming of spoiled seeds and seas with a vortex,
coiling around ships. A queen’s lips burn red, yearning for her king.
An abandoned wreck will not lay eyes upon his baby’s sex.
insanity’s kiss...
eyes burn with crimson lipstick
...unrepentant flames
She plays with sticks and desire, enticing asps of despair —
gorges with vampiric teeth. She embraces their mock
and likewise teases, beckons and pleads for death so fair.
Like a breeze about her ankles snakes snip her royal purple frock.
entanglement frays...
dyed purple threads unravel
...rigor mortis strikes
His candle ensign in the dark, a resurrected hero of vanity.
The light flickers with feet in the sand, footprints at lover’s leap.
His profile in death’s shadow, his purple passion of insanity —
laughter litters this carnivorous cave where ashes of dust heap.
alluring ashes...
Salome’s serpentine dance
...Cleopatra’s veils
The sound of a knife being sharpened, his sword with venom drawn,
leaps upon his self-righteous chest, a single blade’s deep penetration.
No handsomer lover, thighs of steel, tanned and craven brawn.
He lost his rapturous beauty bright and fleeting, weeds of veneration.
bilious-amber
mixes with his crimson blade
— a suicide pact
4/28/2018
The Lord weaves His grand tapestry across the skies
He outlines charcoal colored clouds with silver threads
sews the sunlight of dawn into rays that caress the sea
and folds ocean ripples into fans of intricate patterns.
Each morning God’s canvas awaits His ready hand
a master Artist, His creativity knows no bounds
He dips His brush into the spectrum of rainbows
like a whirlwind, He mixes and paints dazzling designs.
God deftly blends pastel shades to greet the rising sun
He sweeps white, cotton clouds that hover over land and sea
He paints the morning light to touch lush liquid waves
and adds violet colored shadows that fade into the horizon.
His living canvas continually changes its hues and tones
each moment rearranged by heat, wind or sudden storms
a cornucopia of shapes sweep across the heavens
like rapid time frames that move within an eternal film.
Will not many among the nations fail to see His mighty wonders?
Will not many among us look up to relish in His majestic sky?
God’s handiwork daily displays His infinite creation
may we lift up our eyes to behold His unending glory.
Written on 1/17/2021
Upon ice clear - frozen window pane
A single breath remains, captured warm - then dissipates
Beyond - whipped by season's song
Somehow, beauty mixes with fury
Living white smoke snakes across grassy fields
Powder dunes shift aimlessly
Seeking their space to claim
No sign of life...
The landscape foreign - engulfed as prisoner
Inside I feel much the same
But..now beside fire's glow
When winter has had her say...this sand will pass
....give way to spring's soft plush green grass
© Donna Jones
He makes me see in color
when I’m enshrouded in my grey.
His hues of happiness twirl and dance
and my life takes on a different stance.
~~~Beauty birthed in blessings believed~~~
He gifts to me...
reassurance in reality’s revelations!
His color blind eyes
make my truth blind ones see...
My words are wonderfully wise
Passionately poignant
Honestly heartwarming
Sensually scintillating
Oh la la lacious…simply delicious
vibrantly colored in vivacious!!!
These are the word colors
he mixes on my page’s palette
with his own signature artistry.
He embellishes the plain canvas of my mind
a kaleidoscope revelry….I see
This color blind poet,
this mentoring friend
is a man who carries a name
which says it all...
Lamoureux: the one who loves
He's a lover of colors he cannot see
because he’s gifted them...
He’s gifted them all
to me
Eileen Manassian Ghali
For Richard Lamoureux's Contest
Who Do You Think I am
September 26, 2015
You paint your pictures, on the canvas of my mind.
Ebbing and flowing, as your thoughts become released.
Texture and color, are displayed with every line.....
From another poem
If I could see in color.....
Richard Lamoureux
Blood that screams mixes with tears of fears,
Over your hypocrisy and useless years.
Fresh cuts don't matter - your attentions yet wane.
It's just too easy to shut down, I could end this pain.
But, escape artists aren't artists at all.
When life ends the real journey begins, the journey to be
Above imperfection and glorified weakness everyone sees.
Life trickles into the drain of the sink, wash it and pretend
The veil is burning off,but there is only so much fire can mend
Besides, escape artists aren't artists at all.
Like fallen warriors,
we collapse side by side,
glistening in the sweaty afterglow.
Limbs still entangled,
too exhausted to sing the other’s praise,
we stare at the blades of the bedroom fan
slowly circling above.
A lone,
satisfying sigh
escapes in between your deep,
cleansing breathes.
Your smile
reflects in the brass, ball base
of the rotating fan.
I smile in return,
unable to rescue my gaze
from the fan
cooling off our steaming bodies.
Slowly,
your right hand moves;
fingers entangle with those on my left.
I still taste you on my lips.
I silently laugh to myself
upon the realization that I still have one sock on;
the other dangling on the end of a fan blade.
The remainder of our clothes
strewn around the room
as if the hamper had exploded.
Your brassiere
ruined when I removed it
with my teeth.
Beads of sweat roll down my thigh
where our legs remain interlocked –
I love the smooth contrast of your skin
against my sun dried legs.
The ever so slight breeze
created by the fan
is starting to dry our exposed skin
as we slowly regain strength.
The circling blades hypnotize.
The subtle,
rhythmic hum
from the fan motor
mixes with the recent memory
of the rhythmic dance
just concluded.
Your hand,
now lightly brushing against me,
is re-energizing my engine.
Slight,
involuntary movements
near your finger tips
indicate our dance may not yet be over.
I blink
to interrupt my transfixed,
mesmerized relationship
with the ceiling fan,
so I can once again
concentrate on you.
Energy restored –
as if pumped back into our souls
by the bedroom fan –
the warriors re-engage
in battle once again.
A battle in which
each warrior wins.
The moon spoons pieces of jeweled firmament from the universe's dark heart
into her golden bowl, mixes incandescent milk with a cool touch,
then pours it all out on us in tender love, hoping we are ready for such a gift.
-----------------
December 19, 2016
For Kai Michael Neumann's contest - 'Moon Spoon'
Deck of cards
Aces, Kings, Queens, Jacks, tens to twos, Jokers
Can society not be balanced as deck with equal no of Haves and Have nots ?
I love 53rd and 54th card, Joker
As it does not belong to any Suit - Spade, Club, Diamond or Heart
Can society be not classless, casteless akin to Joker, part of deck but not any suit?
Joker just two in deck
As against four of each rank in deck
Can the flexibility to include / remove Joker not extended to Politicians in real game
of life?
Rested in pro-games, permitted in fun games
Playing Joker mixes with card of any rank or any Suit
With Joker’s adaptability, can society’s all Suits not live in harmony?
Joker, colourful card favourite with kids
Placed atop house of cards
Like child, Joker ever smiles back; can we not ape Joker? Or child?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For Members contest : Pick A Card, any card by Paula Swanson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I see…
red splotches on her night gown
still oozing down her face
“I fell again.”
She looks at us
with that same wobbly smile
“I’m Ok! Don’t worry. I’m OK!”
I can’t see
a clear liquid oozes down my face
I see…
Mama is dazed
clutching her face
Couldn’t light the stove fast enough
An explosion
We thought a bomb had hit the kitchen
War time years
Everyone running around
Mayhem
Mama burned her face
“I’m Ok…I’m fine.”
She tries to smile
I scream
I can’t see clearly
watery haze of tears
covers everything
along with the smoke
I see…
Mama gasping for breath
Mama going red in the face
“Mom, are you ok?”
Another coughing fit
Can’t get the food to go down
I pat her on the back
I pray…
Will this be it?
Will she choke this time?
Muscles that don't work
I see
I see
I cry
I scream
Raspy voice
Tears streaming down her face
I’m…Ok…..I'm OK now."
That lying smile
Her hand goes up
I can’t see
Double tear vision
Life is unclear
I hear
I hear
“You’re afraid I’m going to die, aren't you?”
I see
Kind brown eyes
Looking into mine
They are filling up
the wobbly smile is gone
she lets her tears speak
Oh….to talk to talk about it
Release
What can I say?
What can she say?
We feel
We feel
She crushes my body to hers
Neither of us can see
Blinded by tears
I see
Clouded eyes
She’s in a place I can’t reach
I shake
I shake
“Mama, can you hear me?”
She tries
I cry
I scream
ANGRY
I SCREAM
“Mama, listen to me!”
“GOD?
God…HEAL HER!!!
HEAL HER!
NOW!
A miracle
For ME!"
I beg
I plead
I demand
“Mama, do you believe?
Jesus can heal you!
Do you believe?”
“Yes,” a whisper
Almost inaudible
I pray
I can't see
Eyes of mustard seed faith
Shut tight
“Forgive our sins!
In the name of Jesus
Be healed, Mama!”
Eye lids fluttering open
I see
I see
Mama is still on the wheel chair
She’s bound…not free
I don’t see anymore
My head drops to my knees
I get dizzy
I drop things
In the shower
I fall
Cracked ribs
I cry
I scream
Alone
I hear
I hear
“You have MS TOO!
It has come for YOU!”
I can’t see
Shower water mixes with tears
“God?!
GOD?
Do you SEE?
DO you HEAR?
DO you FEEL?
GOD?
I’m here!
I’m….here!
No wobbly smile
No one to be strong for
I'm not alright!
See me!
SEE....ME!"
Eileen Manassian
In dedication to her MAMA, Angel Manassian!