Best Motes Poems
The old screen door still welcomes me, a familiar song I've heard before..
But oddly now, it's out of tune. It has a wail of some despair
After this,...who'll pass this way?
Will they use the rug and wipe their feet, erase away the grime or sleet?
Or will they even care?
I feel my pulse and lungs collide, then take a breath and step inside
I've been asked to come, to clear the house
To organize, and set it right…
But it all seems wrong….
To trespass on the throne of life
that was softly lived, behind a gate where thirsty roses bloom and wait…
I hesitate….
to disturb the lace on drop-leaf tables…
Disgrace the quiet of the gloom
To open drawers, snoop and sort, ….a pruning,
of the good, the used, from worn and torn
My hands are able, but my heart declines..
what isn’t mine, to toss, to find, to mark, and label…
She had lived alone, the last to go,
one somber dawn, in the old brownstone.
Without a hint her time was near
But silently, without fanfare, death tiptoed in and closed the door,
beyond the path that brought me here
Echoes of her old straw broom
swept years away from every room
The dust motes in the window light
now spark and light each memory…
Soft treadle sounds from sewing hems, are recalled by the August wind,
that rattle windows, shaking blooms, in this waning afternoon
There are questions I would like to ask,
but I can’t recall just what they were
No matter now….with no one here
I must keep focused on my task…
Keep sorting, tagging, tossing, clearing…
How strange it is, how odd it seems,
the last thing found, brown paper bound
was tucked away, and gently loved.
Her china cup, her favorite one, so lovely in my hand,
would last beyond her grave, intact
Long shadows have closed the afternoon.
A letting go, and a fading sun
My task is done. And I must go
I'll keep the cup, and hold it close
It's a witness to a world unknown
Some fragile things are never gone
Categories:
motes, death, friendship, loss, love,
Form:
Free verse
Looking back again, back into the past,
it was written in sand, all those questions we asked
on those last days of summer, something was wrong
as the leaves started turning, and shadows grew long
There was dust on the tables, and the clutter remained
where never before, .... had it not been restrained
You were known for your grace, now your pride was at risk
Quickly swept, polished fine, brushed away with a whisk
This just wasn't you, having bricks without mortar
You were never unkempt ...now a life out of order?
You would never have allowed such things out of place
Something so small, would have been your disgrace
There was something to blame, something was strange
Even small tasks, we noticed, had changed
Another piece of a puzzle, fell into place
Your trace of bewilderment, when a name was erased
Your memory lost, and a world gone absurd ...
Then, once it was you....alone and disturbed
Lost and afraid, but mostly confused
Forgetting the day, many things you would lose,
or someone you loved, so much undefined
shoved back to blind spaces, your words couldn't find
Dust motes collected where never before,
would settle, make home, in your mind evermore
Without any warning, without any sound
until you were gone, and the years fell around
Dreams that you had, were drawn in the sand
into the traces of dust of a far away land
_________________________________________________
Inspired by Isaiah Zerbst's Contest: "Pick a Title"
10/31/14
Categories:
motes, age, memory, people, sad,
Form:
Rhyme
Love is ultimate, but with you it was fatal.
I had lots of laughter not until I said “I love you too!”.
Number two was my certified location
b’cos I’ve always reverenced you so high
at the topmost of priorities.
Your gladness was much more than my enjoyment,
it germinated into compulsory duties I had to perform.
My pride became your belt and my shame, your underpants.
The definition of me translated to the adoration of you.
I worry to give us a balance
but you hurry to topple the equilibrium.
My life, a spreadsheet of your errands,
subjecting my feelings into a standby
to suit your taste and exhausting comfort.
But one day!
The slightest of contact with an acid
will change the litmus colour
and a continuous debt by a tenant
will abruptly render him homeless.
Your oil is used up, the engine is knocked
and the lamp has gone dark.
A heart so tender, you deserve not.
Arms once warm have been frozen to rigor motes.
My back is turned towards you
and that beauty, you’ll never see again.
Go and taste the seedlings of the city’s daughters
and the well sauced soups of its young maidens.
I’m no longer yours even if nature advocates for mercy.
Consider my sweetness and calm now as stones
mixed in dough, baked and served with vinegar.
You proclaim “I’m now a completely changed man”,
I believe you, but for the next girl.
Know this Mr. Irresistible guy,
even if you’re the last birth of all men
I’ll never again present my affections for your selfish trade.
Goodbye my past lover, I sincerely wish you well.
Categories:
motes, heart, heartbreak, heartbroken, relationship,
Form:
Epic
I can no longer touch you
But here you are, still
Oh, how remnants of you continue to cling!
You're the motes I see dancing in the sunbeam
Your eyes will never again meet mine
But here you are, still
You're the gentle wind that continues to blow
the stormclouds out of my sky.
I'll never again hear your voice
But here you are, still
You're the rays of the sun beaming down
like a thousand moonbleams over my stygian abyss
You're forever out of sight
But here you are, still
You'll always be on my mind, and in my heart;
I still see you in dreams undreamt, in stars above.
So, you see, Dad, although...
I can no longer touch you,
Your eyes will never again meet mine,
I'll never again hear your voice,
and you're forever out of sight,
You're still here with me in spirit.
You never really left.
Categories:
motes, analogy, death, father, loss,
Form:
Free verse
Last night I stole a little - from time.
Don’t worry he’s got plenty on his hands
You could call it daylight robbery, but that wouldn’t be strictly correct, since
It occurred on the first of spring, at a minute past midnight.
But it’s really only semantics – isn’t it?
Oh I intend to give it back, but not until fall, I promise you that.
So for now, I intend to give it to those who
Hate waking to insipid mornings but instead,
Prefer the comfort of a long, alluring evening…
Time still has enough on his hands of course
To wake me in the usual way, the additional
Daylight finding gaps in my louvered blinds, it
Finds me; blinding me with stripes, a colouring of
Dusty motes with that angelic silver
A sliver of morning’s grace piercing my sheets
But the mornings are for birds…
And they don’t give a hoot about what was stolen.
Oh there are plenty of people who wake up to that inky blackness
Or even that rusty red, that bleeds all over the horizon
Oh they’re definitely not receivers of stolen goods,
Simply lovers of a pantomime, albeit in the morning.
She is one of those lovers… My wife Bronwyn,
A Welsh name to match her pale pearlescent skin.
Skin like perfect porcelain, that’s not in
Need of the proceeds of thievery.
Bronwyn stands over me now, the daylight interrupted
My slivers of dust broken
My colourful stripes stolen
Grace no longer piercing my sheets
Instead a finger piercing me…
“Get up!”
I did get up, for I needed to
Spend a little of the proceeds from my crime
Let the morning unwind naturally, feel the hush of
Time press upon my skin, when the sun is at its zenith
And ease into the evening like sliding into a warm bath…
John Lawless’s Poetry Contest – Saving Daylight
14 February 2015
Categories:
motes, fun, light, morning, sun,
Form:
Narrative
*
It happened in a moment, during my 7th grade English class *
As we studied classic literature; “Evangeline”, the poem
A substitute teacher, wearing shoes of polished coal *
His soft style, hair neatly combed, engrossed in reading poetry…
Pubescence slumped around me, nodding off, slowly being lulled...
Young minds. filled with clutter, gathering dust, from ancient stories
With glittering eyes, he read each verse * *
The soft, eager voice, that stroked each word…
He would wait, on occasion, to look around the room *
With wistful hope, I would suppose, to reach one heart, one soul
At the start of the class, I had been watching the clock
But, as I sat more enraptured, time just seemed to stop…
I turned the pages, one by one …and slowly fell in love
The beauty of old words, drifted through the stuffy air
Like the gathering of dust motes, glittered, hanging in suspension
Filtered in the angled light, of the afternoon’s warm detention
Sun filtered through window glass,…while voice of bliss droned on….
My heartbeat sped, with growing passion
I restrained my hands from reaching,… grabbing *
To catch each word, and keep them captive…
Dust motes, and words, were spinning around *
I was head over heels…for my substitute teacher…
I was head over heels for an old man named Longfellow….
Thirteen years old, I loved two older men….
Fell in love with the classics,....on a mid-day afternoon
While gathering dust, and the magic of words
……………………………………….
For the Contest: "Gathering Dust"
Sponsored by John Lawless
Categories:
motes, love, nostalgia, old, ,
Form:
Free verse
She is shadowed by fuzzy cobwebs of a morning without coffee,
while dust motes mingle with the mold of time.
Gazing out to the yard, through dingy glass, and fog,
into a dismal January, she hopes to catch a glimpse of the paper boy.
He travels through rain, sleet or snow, how could he understand,
(this teen-aged Paul Revere), that in this decrepit old house,
she is longing for a sign of youth? It has been a weary night, watching an old woman hang on by threads of life, that had worn thin years ago.
Watching and waiting, while cold winds blew and snow was falling,
and death was hoping to make a house call.
Any diversion, life being lived,... one brief eclipse of life in motion would be a relief.
To observe him toss the news into the sky like a Frisbee... not a care in the world
How would that feel...has she ever known? Has anyone ever been so young?
She thinks she may go mad with death and dying, with weariness, with waiting.
She suddenly shivers from a dreaded draft of frigid air, slithering in,
like a sneaky, uninvited ghost, slinking in around the rim.
nor'easter winds roll top shoe box...
splinter the silence.. -- debutante' caught in amber
a cataract view frozen sepia
Grabbing a handful of a thread-bare doily, she polishes the cold glass,
rubbing vigorously in circles against the grime,
making figure eights, in spite of frozen, stiff, fingers.
Satisfied, that she has a decent view of the blanketed yard,
and can see clearly where the muddy, gravel driveway,
bends gradually, curving to mate with the snow banked road,
at last, she spies the old Jeep coming, and watches with automated eyes,
yet, with some expectation, and strange excitement.
Then, as she might have guessed,
the teenager drives hurriedly by, barely slowing down, tossing the news,
and leaving her gaze and her thoughts, splattered by dark murky water,
while the slinging gravel that has been pitched into the sky, by his screeching tires,
falls like the pieces of the old woman's lonely life upon the pristine snow.
__________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Mix It Up"
Categories:
motes, dark, death, farewell, loss,
Form:
Verse
“Memories Leave Silently”**
The memories leave silently
so as not to disturb the now
tiptoeing through darkening corridors
stirring only motes of hidden dust.
Sliding through the grasp of weakened will,
unfelt amid the growing numbness
now – disconnected from – then
how – in search of – why.
Eyes search the familiar – for the known
lips form words without expression
tears – devoid of sting – dry saltless
memories leave – silently.
John G. Lawless
1/16/2016
**This poem was prompted by the phrase “memories leave silently” in the poem “A Time To Let Go” written by Silent One on PoetrySoup.
Categories:
motes, age, loneliness,
Form:
Free verse
We've brought him back again, where in the corners lie
the shadows of his youth, a world that passed on by
I watch him walk the floors, that he had walked before
Old planks that creaked, with hurried, carefree steps
once sang with youth, ...now whine with sad regret
Again, the out-of-doors has let itself be clipped
to window images, of which he had recalled
where fond thoughts of youth returned, each spring, and every fall
Framed pictures of windy branches in the sun
We could hardly tell, at first, if the mountains slumbered by
The same old way, as days when he was young
for branches, grown, had crowded open skies
And yet, he smiles, recalling all too soon
how the dust motes, fill the afternoon
with chalkboard clouds, and ink well stains
with musty thoughts, and childhood's sweet perfume
Again, the out-of-doors has let itself be clipped
To window images, of which he can't forget
_______________________________________
Carrie Richards 1/30/14 "Historical"
Categories:
motes, father, school,
Form:
Free verse
Rhythms of Glass
These shards of you
Broken from the whole crystal you
Glittering razors
Of soft defenseless
Leave me begging their wounds
To pierce me more
Each slithers delicate reflection
Holds you
With prescient
To my soul and heart
Longs
With darts and bards of blood
The fragile formed
Such succulent tortures
Dreams of you
Palpable
Fragments slide between
Such pulsing wants
Holographic dust
Of you
In fluid font signatures
Trammel through me
On tiny claws
Of bliss
And their ache
This needle points petal
In these shavings of you
Wafts electric spirit
In me through to you
Suffers desiderium willingly
My collected motes of a star
Burning kisses in my palms
A stinging draft of love
Slake my thirst
In quenching rhymes
Of you
Palpable
Fragments slide between
Such pulsing wantings
Categories:
motes, love, mysteryme, me,
Form:
Free verse
The rusted Ferris wheel, a skeletal hand,
Points to a sky it can no longer command.
Once, laughter echoed, joy on the breeze,
Now silence reigns, whispered by the trees.
The carousel horses, their paint chipped and worn,
Dream of merry-go-rounds, of days yet unborn.
Once, children squealed, clinging to their steeds,
Now shadows dance, where happy laughter bleeds.
The cotton candy stand, its windows cracked and dim,
Holds the ghost of sweetness, a forgotten whim.
Once, sugary clouds, a magical delight,
Now only dust motes, swirling in the light.
The roller coaster track, a metal serpent curled,
Whispers of thrills, a forgotten world.
Once, screams of delight, a dizzying race,
Now only rust and wind, in this silent space.
The park stands empty, a monument to time,
A reminder of moments, once so sublime.
The ghosts of laughter, echo in the breeze,
Whispering of memories, of happy, carefree days.
Categories:
motes, fun, memory, sad,
Form:
Rhyme
Touch with your tongue, touch with your heart
worded dewdrops speak plain..
not beating my chest., or tempting a soul
nor giving it away,
except maybe,
just this once..
again.
Think you saw something
that reminded you..
w' those same eyes that used
to see through, oh
used to see right through...
Would you have heard me,
If you didn't have keen ears?
So very, very keen..
searching a single note from afar,
though near enough
to hear my plea.
No, more, no less,
or maybe all of those...
waxing & waning in a dream's moonlit sky
Frankie said-
"whatever gets you through the night."
lest you wonder, at motes floating
past your eye..
it's all yours,
your turn to shine.
Categories:
motes, memory, perspective, stars,
Form:
Rhyme
One moment she was there and the next she was gone
like the wind when it blows through the eaves,
one moment she was there and the next, she was not
The year was 1976 graduation day sweethearts
her cheeks glowed softly, picking up the undertones
of her second hand Fortrel peach dress
she birthed magic in my soul as easily as a wizard
holding and elder wand of great value
Onwards to the year 2044, she flatlines in a cold room
one January snowfall day like a silent befallen Angel,
she succumbs to the light like a feather floating
amongst the motes of a broken man's heart,
a tiny feather floats down, it is all she leaves behind...
Tuesday March 06 no birthday candles this year
inside the old dusty attic sits an easel and a brush
his trembling hands begin to paint a memory
while the dawn softly skirts the reasserting sun,
each new brushstroke brings her back to life
One moment she isn't there and the next she is,
just like the wind when it blows through the eaves.
Categories:
motes, appreciation, love,
Form:
Free verse
TEXAS PRAIRIE PARADISE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
here, where the horizon bends.
the morning sun spills its warmth.
the Texas prairie stretches~
a vast unbroken beauty where
golden grasses sway.
the air, thick with the scent of sage,
wraps around me like a familiar embrace.
dust motes dance in the light,
tiny galaxies suspended
in the quiet splendor of morning.
cacti punctuate the landscape
these sentinels of resilience,
their spines reminding me
that life thrives in the harshest of places,
and wildflowers burst forth, fragile yet fierce.
here, the earth breathes differently.
my heart learns to listen
to the distant call of a hawk,
to the rustle of a rabbit, and
to the soft sighs of the prairie.
the hawk circles high above me,
its shadow gliding across the land,
a guardian of this sprawling solitude,
reminds me of the freedom,
of the vastness within and without.
I stand rooted in this stillness, finding clarity.
in the expanse, I find belonging.
beneath the wide-open sky,
I am both lost
and found.
Categories:
motes, 12th grade, freedom,
Form:
Free verse
Denizen of abyssal labyrinth,
legendary ancient Wyrm seeks succour
within prodigious sepulchral cavern:
her domicile for an ageless lifetime.
Ethereal shafts cascade through ceiling's
stochastic rifts, piercing tenebrous tomb;
vicious viscous scarlet smears juxtapose
against shimmering iridescent scales.
Aeons past, Faustian pact formed with Man:
vow of harmonious co-existence
exchanged for fulgurant falchion forged in
the heart of dragonflame's conflagration.
Sacred covenant shattered this night by
myriad ironclad interlopers;
ruination's harbinger was strident
warrior wielding token of treaty.
Last vestiges of cacophonous roar
dissipate into the Stygian depths;
acrid stench of brimstone clogs the air as
remnants of vitriolic pyres linger.
Twin gargantuan fibrous wings contract
behind enormous muscular torso;
fulgurating talons sluggishly sheaved
as serpentine tail shudders and falls limp.
Priceless metals and prismatic gemstones
intersperse with charred and twisted corpses;
amongst detritus of mortal conflict,
majestic titan finally crumples.
Massive lurid yellow orbs exhibit
an unfathomable intelligence;
succumbing to the inevitable,
moribund colossus bows forlorn head.
Lifemate butchered by zealous paladin;
remains of final clutch just motes on breeze.
Burden borne by solitary relict:
regal behemoth was last of her kind...
----------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 25th April 2017
Free verse, no meter, no rhymes - as per contest rules.
10 syllables on every line (howmanysyllables.com)
For the contest entitled "A Mythical Creature" sponsored by Julia Ward.
Categories:
motes, adventure, fantasy, fire, magic,
Form:
Free verse