Best More... Poems
I am more than your definitions
more than affixed labels
placed on my anatomy
more than your misconceptions
or even valid perceptions
I am more
I am more than what's written of me
More than what the eye can see
more than what the heart can feel
more than what you think is real
I am more
Yes, more...
I am even more
that the boundaries I set for myself
more than the limitations I conceive
more than what even I believe
to be me
I am more
emanating from my core
are little particles of truth
dressed in the light of poetry
a mystery revealed
a little of the universe
~~outer and inner~~
set free
your reality reshaped
from a different world view
and cultural dimension
religious hues
shining through
all part of who I am
now part of you
but then again
it's true
I am more than these...
I am a valid element of history
soul written in rhyme
truth confined to a time
lines someone will read
and be changed
for an instant
perhaps eternity
thus, I am
I was
and I will be
part of the continuum
of life
of eternity
I am more
infinitely more
than what you see
I am what's meant to be...
Eileen Manassian
(note: picture is essential to the poem)
POTD 11-25-17
Teacher said my decisions needed consequences.
I have to write a million gazillion sorry sentences.
Billy was stupid to tease me, call my family poor.
I had to kick Billy so he wouldn’t say it more.
Just like Dad does, I laughed when he hit the floor.
Dad would say I was strong, teach says I was wrong.
I don’t understand any grown up stuff.
They don’t act the same way enough,
or Dad is right; I’m so stupid, I can’t keep up.
I’m trying so hard to stop my eyes.
Things always get more worse when I cry.
Even when I’m quiet and being haved
my tummy hurts cause it feels afraid.
Everyone’s at recess, but cause I made an upset,
Teach said there’d be no play time for me yet.
I don’t know what she means by classroom policy,
but it seems like a plan you grow up and forget.
There’s no sorry policy in my family.
Dad never 'pologizes when he kicks me.
Her trembling twilight
dims with streaking purple tears
bruised by youthful years of bleeding pain
hurting but never hugged—
locked in arms of atmosphere’s apathy
that smeared with fiendish fingers
a contusing plum palette
across any hope in her godforsaken horizon—
this sorrowful songbird
who sings with the shattered purity
of violin strains falling from Heaven
finds her bemoaning musical notes adrift—
lost on breezy deaf days
as she is once again thrown down
from the self-serving skyscape
by the hateful hands of wildcat winds.
In the deep inkwell
of lullaby-less lonely nights
where never a tender nursery rhyme
has ever set her free
are memories scribed of storm-battered days
and weighing heavily on Libra’s scales
are the injustices
of dreams she will never live
nor flights of fancy she will never take
as her sire of solar scorch and temper flare
—a warpath warrior against her springtime
sleeps soundly on a bloated bed
over-stuffed with betrayal and broken promises
while her merciless maternal moon—
distant and cloud covered
does not bother to wander the coal haze
with a lantern’s sharp beam
to cut through stranglehold-folds of darkness
to cast a light upon; to rescue her fractured form—
an angel beckons as breath and beat fade
her guardian as she passes through Earth's shadow
beyond the coldness of mother-moon's umbra
following to where warm sugar-stars soprano sing.
Tonight— a stricken sparrow
folds her fledgling wings never to fly again…
will land or air ever miss her?
Jesus gives me directions
To love as He has loved
With a sincere compassion
That knows no conditions
This love of His has no limits
It goes beyond worry and strife
It fills the heart with a joy…
That can only be expressed in rebirth
This love of His has a purpose
To give generously, without constraint
With a true sensitivity to the feelings…
That someone else has felt
This love of His has been given
To bring salvation to the sinner
Reaching into a wretched heart…
And bringing about a complete surrender
This love of His holds the answers
To every question we might ask,
Creates a sense of peace on the inside
That could never compare to another serenity
This love of His sends us promises
That our greatest fears will be overcome
By the assurance that no harm can arise…
For those who trust in God’s only Son
This love of His mends what is broken
Whether it be a heart or a spiritual pain
It restores the one who feels shattered…
With a promise of true hope and faith
This love of His succeeds where nothing else can
Pleading victory from these nail scarred hands
Reaching down to the poorest, lost sinner
And giving a new life, a new way, a second chance.
This love of His is worth more than millions
No amount of money can possibly buy it
Through grace, it is eternal salvation sent to us
Who simply have the faith to accept Him
Haunted by the death of dreams
and slaughtering of innocence
but too afraid to dig up the bones
and examine our own mistakes,
we bury our heads instead,
blindly following greedy leaders
who give nothing but hollow words
and meaningless moments of silence.
I know I’m not the only one asking -
what more can we do?
As summer nears, sunlight stirs
in streams, surprising delicate gardens
with dreams of daffodils.
Their bright eyes, wide with secrets,
suddenly close, and their dainty petals
wither until they are no more.
Knowing these last days
of spring rain will remain,
summer retreats.
Soon, their daffodil dreams will be
just a memory.
After darkness falls, all is numb.
New roots breeding evergreen
suddenly turn dry and dull.
Promises forgotten,
potential lost to pain -
tomorrow’s tree weakening.
The shimmering green of innocence
is gone, but fiery guns are drawn.
How can we forget while whipping winds
constantly howl? How can we only cry
as hatred’s bullets continue to fly?
Smoky skies once boisterous and blue
now choke our most cherished blooms.
The silence of complacency
is evil’s sickening laughter,
Do you hear its rifle reloading faster?
My blue tears turn blood red,
anger gushes, flooding me
from sea to dimming sea
in this vast land of violence versus vulnerability.
We are no longer free to dream,
no longer free to tend to our gardens,
to breathe in and measure
each miraculous moment,
to watch our fragile flowers strengthen
and grow to beautiful heights.
With head bowed, I listen
to the silence of my tears falling
where the flowers once grew.
I can no longer hear the cries
of the fallen with petals blowing.
I only hear the howling winds
of this never-ending nightmare,
and again I ask,
what more can we do?
5/25/22
Andrea D?...No brainer:
Dandy
Andie
Or in her younger, wilder days she may have been:
Randy
Andie?
(Just kidding! Just kid...Ouch!)
I have no choice but to categorize several poems by my mentor as:
Guzzi's
Doozies
(Now don't YOU start on me Deb!)
Ms. Macmillan's writing style is quite modern so here-to-forth she is:
Trendy
Cyndi
(You're not gonna' hit me too are you Cyndi?)
It is rumored that Mr. O is a care-free soul so some might name him:
Groovin'
Ruben
And be sure to keep up with current South African events in the:
Suzette
Gazette
A Christmas poem composed by Carol Brown could be a:
Carol
Carol
Writer's block PD? No sweat!...Just a temporary case of:
Souper
Stupor
Okay, that's enough...
“Something More”
Softly pastels spill
from lips where
crimson speaks the heart
time brushed its coarse
hands along the body
of my work
and like a voyeur
you watched
the romance of it all
never once
being touched
your eyes kissed
the bell curves
as they rose and fell
such dedication
to the symphonic
values of love
you rolled over me
words you
cupped and held
read like a hot wet heart
something
of me in you
of you in me
you heard and felt
the whispered secrets
of wanting,
something more;
I held you
captive
in my hands;
penned.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“In my life
the piano sings
brings me words
that are not
the strength
of strings
Firey rain and rubies
cooling in the sun
Now I see
that my world
has only
just begun
Notes that roll
on winds
with swirling wings
brings me words
that are not
the strength of strings...”
Why A Poem Is More Than Ink On A Page
Why a poem is more than ink on a page
its heart, soul and sweet treasure at any age
can be expressing sorrows and deep rage
or gems of wisdom from a brilliant sage,
a singer that lyrics so sweetly move
or artist that dares to share cool groove
a magical huntress, for true romance
a bold gambler, willing to take a chance.
Why poems are more than just paper ink stained
they are truth, often from those painting, deep pained
they are treasures, from those with braver hearts
or valiant cast dreams from across star charts,
a warrior, singing of courageous deeds
or farmer, planting hope and true word seeds
a sailor, sailing through turbulent storms
a paper kids sitting in college dorms.
Why poems are gifts that the reader rewards
they are aces in life's hands of living cards
with wins that can benefit one and all
or valiant words sent to answer a call,
a lost soul, asking for some great relief
or sinner unburdening darkest grief
a lover, horribly lost in a maze
a phoenix rising from hot, fiery haze.
Why a poem is more than ink on a page
its heart, soul and sweet treasure at any age
can be expressing sorrows and deep rage
or gems of wisdom from a brilliant sage,
a singer that lyrics so sweetly move
or artist that dares to share cool groove
a magical huntress, for true romance
a bold gambler, willing to take a chance.
Robert J. Lindley, November 9th, 2000
edited, July 13th, 2006,
March 7th, 2020
Note: We write because we must, we write because we should,
we write because to not write is a heartache, we write to unburden
our souls, we write to give to others, we write to record we existed,
we write to say we are imperfect, we are loved, we are forgiven, we are hopeful, we are dreamers, we are artists, we are painters, we are craftsmen,
we are fighters, we are lost, we are found and we care about more than just ourselves, etc..
You severed my wings
For your failure to fly
But I soar - 'cause I'm more
than your ex, or your why.
11/6/19
to be your wind, the wind beneath your wings,
would that be more than enough ?
. . to feel you,
to know you
oh- to be the sun, when day has begun
your light,
the moon at midnight
would you feel me,
know all that is me ?
would that be more than enough,
to know love,
to feel love,
to feel you -
do you feel me ?
just to be the song, your song
- - words that create this melody within me,
would that be more than enough,
to feel you,
to know love ?
________________
just a scribble
~ some lingering thoughts ~
Friday May 29, 2020- Poem of the Day
What Holds More Resplendent Gifts Of The Great And Vast Beyond
Seas of poetry orations, I once took my swims
being strong in spirit, stouter in heart and lithe of limbs
What dread had I of illness or passage of Father Time
when great beauty of verse sang so deep, dancing in its rhyme
Waves of its amber grains, its sandy beach, its great pleasures
stirred heart, pleading soul in immeasurable measures!
If tired, I cast myself upon lands flowing true and fair
seeing magnificence in Earth, Life, Nature- everywhere
Before dawn, before slumber flees this soul's poetry dreams
of paradise shores, poetic thoughts, soft cast golden beams
Winds of change and sublime words to describe and thus to match
castles of hope, beauty's grace and golden eggs- set to hatch!
Fearing not of, high flying fancies and heavenly flights
of lost romantic desires, cast adrift on stormy nights
Or that of abandoned ships left behind in gleaming seas
for poetry gifts its love and blessings of granted pleas
Bountiful harvests of word-seeds so pleasurably sown
are but summer days sending cool winds so gratefully blown!
What holds more resplendent gifts of the great and vast beyond
than poetry, its powers, which poets are so very fond
How its paintings, colors memories one sweetly recalls
of life, living and flames of hot-romance youth often falls
Beyond poetic seas of white-cropped waves and foaming foam
may this old poet's soul, in death, forever gaily roam!
Robert J. Lindley, 12-03-2018
Rhyme, (Inspired verse) (Poetry is Life and Treasure too)
Note- I dedicate this poem to my very good friend Susan Ashley and her wondrously inspiring new poem that inspired me to write this today.
Her new poem titled, The Red Leaf- set me to thinking of its beautiful poetry
and life. And how much poetry means to so many dedicated and in love with poetry poets!
I sat down and this flowed right on out, early this morn.
Note: Use in my poem of "white-cropped" = "white" for good, "cropped" for "appearing unexpectedly".
Thus translated- beyond poetic seas of = unexpectedly good waves and foaming foam.
Definition of “crop up” - English Dictionary
American
English
“crop up” in American English
See all translations
crop up
-pp-
— phrasal verb with crop US ? /kr?p/ verb [ T ] -pp-
?to happen or appear unexpectedly:
Before I die, I want my grandchildren to know these things.
Believe in yourself and be your own best friend.
No one else can keep your secrets like you can.
And if you do not believe in yourself, it will be difficult for others to.
I want my grandchildren to know this:
When you get old your hearing and eyesight may fly away.
Like birds on an almost weather day, never to return.
So do whatever you want now while you are fresh and young.
I want to will my five hundred paintings to my grandchildren.
For I feel my children will pluck them off my walls and burn them.
They know how swiftly I paint, and do not have a love for hippies.
Grands appreciate my neon colors, unicorns, dragons and faeries.
I want to apologize to my children for the mess I am leaving.
I did not bother to clean anything,
It will be a bonding experience for you three girls
A week or two of cousins getting together, which will amuse me.
I want to assure you that I will be in a catbird seat, watching.
I will listen to what you are saying about me, and I will laugh with you.
I never took myself too seriously, and it will be a great time for me.
Because life beyond this world is the real living. Earth life is confining.
Letting you in on a secret. I am an astral traveler in my slumber.
I am not in my body; my spirit is outside, travelling at great speeds.
I do not believe in death, because I am also an empath
I am not “dead” – I am actually more alive than ever before.
As the evening crept in
whisper of pines unfolded slowly another story,
every single instant seemed one decade;
unknown stars above blinking endlessly,
hand in hand ,our hearts unbridled themselves
and then escaped somewhere into darkness,
old moon unveiled the amazing mountains
every tree inundated by oozing silver;
under this autumn sky
enchanted by immense beauty
our speechless,unbounded moments
as four eyes met in love once more;
unabated passion about to explode moment
into fragments of pleasure
unlimited,boundless and never ending;
we inhaled fragrance of love
unfurling like a rose every second,
I thought of the universe for a moment
even though it seemed oblivion to us.
###########################
For David's VOW/CON contest
Contest Rules:1 original, poem on the theme of any theme 19 lines no more or less.
your poem starts with a vowel then a consonant and keep all of your vowels in alphabetical order, so the pattern will be A con E con I con O con U con A con E con I con O con U and so-on until the last word ends in the vowel 'U' .
Please use more than two or three words per line...
I am immeasurably honoured to have been invited to collaborate with as fine a poet as Robert Lindley. Our first collaborative process has been very quick, very instinctive and very natural. Thank you, Robert, for a very rewarding joint venture.
As I Plot Just One More Day
A collaboration with Robert Lindley
11th October 2018
Desperate as the waking at blackest dawn
I seek only moments within eternity,
for the day upon me is long
and I do not ponder its end.
Forever the blackened door beckoned
in tones of promising delights
who can know what lies in its beyond
perhaps a cure for the world's pains
I walk halls leading to its hurts
echoes that resounded as if playing
with no malice, future screams at my hesitation
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day.
Decadent as the lust of gloomiest noon
I am immersed in the consummation
and overpowered in the contest, yet hopeful
that still I may embrace eternity's devious charm.
Never ending cycles eat into a wanton soul
they are all too familiar
and their boredom becomes a chain
a rasp in my dying breath
I hear its rhythm and each echo speaks
O' that parade of desires hides deep within
as the dark expands its borders
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day.
Dire as the languishing at darkening dusk
I seek an eternity of moments
to sate my lust and to quell my rage,
to forgive and to be forgiven.
As I Plot Just One More Day
Desperate as the waking at blackest dawn
I seek only moments within eternity,
for the day upon me is long
and I do not ponder its end
Forever that blackened door beckoned
in tones of promising delights
who can know what lies in its beyond
perhaps a cure for the world's pains
I walk halls leading to its hurts
echoes that resounded as if playing
with no malice, future screams at my hesitation
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day
Decadent as the lust of gloomiest noon
I am immersed in the consummation
and overpowered in the contest, yet hopeful
that still I may embrace eternity's devious charm
Never ending cycles eat into a wanton soul
they are all too familiar
and their boredom becomes a chain
a rasp in my dying breath
I hear its rhythm and each echo speaks
O' that parade of desires hides deep within
as the dark expands its borders
as I plot just one more day
as I hide my lusts just one more day
Dire as the languishing at darkening dusk
I seek an eternity of moments
to sate my lust and quell my rage,
to forgive and to be forgiven
A Robert Lindley and Lawrence Sharp collaboration
10-11-2018
Poetry Note-
I am very pleased to have found a new and fantastic writing partner
that presents fantastic free verse poetry in its top form. This our first collaboration was a true pleasure and great joy to create. We both found ourselves in tune, as we worked to present this dark free verse poetry, that depicts the darker side of this world, past wayward youthful experiences and a look at what even today our youth face in this unforgiving and to oft deceptive, corrupt and tempting world that rewards darkness, and giving in to wanton desires.
The magnificent verses my writing partner contributed to the creation of this piece sincerely awe me- as I am learning of the depths, beauty, great and high artistic value in creating and reading free verse poetry, Both my thanks and my appreciation come from a sincere and very appreciative heart.