Best Moulded Poems
It was the last year of high school and there was a lack of beaux,
But then I got an invite. Whew, that was close!
So now the Prom was coming and I was going to go!
Mom gassed up for the city, headed out with me in tow,
Big stores all hunched together on a tall and scary street,
One dress along a rack with just repeat, repeat, repeat.
But Mom found a creation in an entirely different place,
Moulded tulle and satin, fairy dust and moonlit lace!
I thought she was kidding though the thing was just my size.
I was worried; fairy tales don't often turn out to be wise.
And the price tag is ridiculous! I said Mom take a look!
She plunked it down determinedly, tore a check out of the book.
That left a lot for me to do. My looks are commonplace.
New makeup and new lipstick; how about new face?
Silken shoes, a tiny purse, it's a lot of stress
Just trying to live up to this fantastic dress!
Rhinestone droplets dangle dangerous from my ear,
My long hair piled up high. How much taller I appear!
Prom night came...Poor Tommy! I was done up to impress.
My hair swept up, my makeup on, long earrings and the Dress!
He stood there in the doorway, uncertain in his tux,
Black tie, stiff shirt; this is getting all too much!
The corsage he held between us was carnations glowing red.
He looked up cautiously and ventured; "Is that you, Bo?" he said.
At the dawn of life
Gods came with their wonders:
Obantala came with art and creation;
He was the one that moulded man;
Ogun came with iron,
It was Ogun that used his iron to make paths for others,
Orunmila decended to earth with wisdom,
In his wisdom he devines for other gods,
Aje came with wealth and riches,
Aje please come to me,come to my house.
It was Oya that came with wind:
Breeze that blows field shrubs mildly,
Cyclone that blows palmfonds wildly;
Oya is the owner of storm,
The day she married Sango-
Sango god of thunder,
God whose tongue is fire-
Was the first time there was thunderstorm.
With creation of thunderstorm
Oya blows down trees on her paths,
Oya blows dead woods down ,
The thunderstorm is the sword in her hand:
She uses it to cultivate life,
So Oya is godess of change;
She uses it to settle dispute,
So Oya is patron of justice;
She uses it to gaurd cementry,
So Oya is queen of death-
Vodou Lwa Maman Brijit.
When she in firmament sits
The wise say the sky has gathered storm;
With her rain she bacomes source of rivers:
Niger that gave Niger and Nigeria names;
Her river they call Amazon in Brazil:
Our Lady of La Candelaria.
Oya mother of nine,
Her first child is Masqurade,
Then twins in four different times;
If you see octopus,the star in the depth,
You may not be far from ruler of tempest;
The four pairs her art of twins,
The head is the masqurade.
10.12.2014.
Gods of winds.
Sources:
Wikipedia-Oya;
The Yoruba Pantheon;
WWW.thaliatook.Com/AMGG/Oya php
Sitting so pretty in a vase
You lift your deceitful faces to the world.
I may arrange you how I wish
And I may rejoice that your thorns
Lack the sting of real thorns;
But betrayed, you always are
When I touch you.
Your delicately moulded petals are cold,
And you stand upright
Because you can do no other.
You lack the perfume
That is nature's inner attraction,
And you do not droop and wilt,
For you know not what it is to lack water.
In pretending to live
You are no flower.
Forever beautiful,
You live not at all.
Forget artifice, but dare to take a drink
From the bottomless well of life,
And you will find the wonder of your making,
The divinity of life, ripe for the picking.
This fortress is overgrown with moss,
guarded from storms of selfishness,
when the waltz with winter left behind
a mausoleum covered in frozen dahlia dust.
Fading with scents of summer Jasmine,
peaches rot in a forgotten orchard,
where ivy strangles statues of past lovers,
whose infatuation drifted with nemesis clouds.
But, beyond the barricade
with every butterfly beat,
there is a sigh craving for comfort from
lips that will surrender this solitude.
My soul searches for Rumi's field of fairness,
where 'forever' is not just a gesture and
honesty is not hidden behind metaphors.
Yet, I wonder if love is a beautiful phenomenon
that will endlessly evade my grasp.
In this giddiness, I ponder
why romance is an abused cliché,
so should I gift my garden to another,
when petals I plant only perish?
Maybe, I am not worthy,
maybe, I seek for it in starry eyed fantasies,
where all bonds are evergreen -
but in reality most are moulded artificially
Confined inside the sanctuary of this heart,
behind a stubborn shield,
there is a love story where roses flourish,
alongside honeysuckle, untouched.
Knock to enter if you desire to cultivate,
not conquer through self-centred crusades.
Compose a chorus of internal birdsongs,
to revive extinct flowers. blossoming in my
oasis of kisses, only seen in your dreams.
A simple Sunday Musing. An example for the contest I am currently running.
17 May 2026
There once was a bear
Who was loved for his shoes
To a girl he was gifted
Just her cuddly muse
On a once rainy day
With a shelter required
The brolly was shaken
To it's cover retired
Then a browse through the store
With her eyes shining bright
The gloss of his footwear
Caught a beam of the light
A flash and a sparkle
Was all that it took
So a friendship was forged
That no force could unhook
As they travelled together
Through the sun and the rain
Their companionship moulded
By life's tough terrain
So the girl became woman
Then a grandma and such..
The bear became gifted
And was loved, not so much
Then one day, for some reason
His world became dark
In the silence he longed
For the girl and her spark
After years it seemed, waiting
One day it occurred
There was light and a voice
Of encouraging word
"I love him", she said
And he knew it was true
Despite fur slightly flattened
Or less sparkly shoe
He remembered way back
To the dusty old shop
Once that love lives inside you
It's a heart that won't stop
I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
write to me in wanderlust waves
of wakeful worship,
weave me a wish
with moon pearls and promises
as I bloom attached
to your aesthetic accent ~
amidst the soul’s pulse,
still questioning ~ quivering,
in need of a colorful
constellation of consolation
to erase the
fickleness of fading flames…
I know, love searches
for your name, breathing
into the warmth of my want,
like verses coursing through
the veins of irreversible ink,
and if, to feel you closer,
I must compose you a cosmos,
let me seize teardrop crystals
of champagne chandeliers
and light up your dusk
with deafening desire ~
recklessly awaiting the surrender
of your sky to my silhouette…
but what would soothsayers
know of the circumference
of a romance immeasurable,
unstudied and unknown
to fortune whisperers
forsaking fortitude and faith ~
yet preaching dissolution
and dissociation,
as if eagle-feathered ego feasts
on the nest that has no place
for the gossamer greed
of maggots,
manifesting mere moments
calculated through concave curves…
watch me waltz away from
the wickedness of bruised bluebirds
thirsting through cheap thrills,
seeking sunlight
beyond the barks of bravery ~
their tiny toes
perched in absolute desperation…
you are mine ~
O herald of hypnotic horizons,
wearing my poetry
perfumed with painless purity…
with you
the handles of heaven are nearer,
as the pilgrimage of you and I
is a visceral vision
of an unapologetic ambience ~
that no twisted tongue can tweak,
nor moulded monologue
can ever distort ~
the truth of tattooed fealty ~
a love letter left in the
arms of timeless flow…
star-swept with
soft blushing blooms ...
this slow sink ,
swathes my henna heart
with deep mauve hues ...
as I fall into the frostbitten lake
mispronouncing ~
the marmoris of metaphors
that were meant
to burn with magic ,
where the soulmate of poetry
breaks within the tears of sunset ~
sipping sighs of sorrow
from the crystal sky ,
that leaks loneliness
through the cracks of
liquid lilacs and lavender light ,
because there seems to be
no translation for the
language of love
that weaves woes
from warm wisteria
instead of blossoming
in coffee-scented chiffons
moulded into origami orchids ~
without any creases
and I wear no name
in the absence
of your ablaze august ashes …
read me swiftly
orchestrating in
the blackcurrant tattoos
breathing ... in tributaries
stretching to
the silent traces of trauma ,
twinkling with
turquoise and turpentine
for, I am not alive ~
but the seas still crash
the swollen shadows in my ribs ,
kissing the fallen sun …
that ebbs and flows …
through violets
of vaporising violas
like an incensed inferno ,
uncensored with ultraviolence
escaping the delirious doom
within driftwood dreams …
I want you ~
to not speak to me
so in affection
in this sparkling satanic siesta,
because poetry
has forevermore been
my saviour and my slaughterer ~
that leaves me …
drifting with the flow ,
in exile … evermore …
chained with
moonstone cobwebs
of confused consciousness
and conversing cryptics ~
befogged with gaslit goldens
laced with forest greens,
where verses wander
like a villain ,
withering
in emeralds …
listen, O velvet ink,
longing to be
r e
s c u
e d …
Why?
Love?
Friends leave!
Where is truth?
Where is love in life?
Truth is but an idle construct!
Friendship nothing but a barren fair weather desert!
The world manifests itself through hollow people, without truth,without love or passion!
Truth but leaves you naked and will expose your soul then to find it pierced by the hypocrisy and cynicism of those with empty hearts.
Truth is a masquerade dressed in fantastic costume by hollow men of no faith, manipulated and moulded to their own rhythmic dance.
The world turns on falsehood and deception,truth and trust sequestered,love forgotten!
Hollow words cascade from the mouths of fair weather friends!
Truth is usurped by hollow men!
Where is trusts sanction?
Where is truth?
Faith dies!
Trust?
Why?
Written by Shane Cooper
12/03/2015
Aware; instincts suffused
A feeling I've known
Complete; never diffused
Before birth twas sown
Before planets aligned
time had bound our hearts
Moulded, deepened, refined
Fused; no end no start
Evolved beyond lifetimes
Years measured in blinks
Eons blending nightimes
Eternity shrinks
Others wanting taboo
answers to life's "why's"
Myself? Without question
...it lay in your eyes
02/14/2018
Exponential Love
Just like a river with endless flow,
my love for you forever glow,
you have the sparkle in your eye,
that gives me the answer as to why,
Like a pendulum swing to and fro,
my heart is pounding blow by blow,
for as the rhythm stays in motion,
empowers the spirit of devotion
The growth of love is exponential,
cannot explain this rare potential,
You’ve engraved within my soul,
Footprints of love that’s cast in stone.
Fusion of thoughts are moulded in one
Trusting I will never walk alone
I sit and pause, looking at the sky blue ceiling above me. White vapour cotton wool clouds
gently float like water lilies on an upside down pond. My humble seat, an igneous rock
from the Devonian period. A glaciation past has moulded this comfort to rest this weary
climber. I am in fortunate delight as this skyscraper of old can turn nasty with nature.
These marvels can unite and lure unsuspected hikers, and draw them into a weather world
they have never known. The gulley's and faces of this quite wonderful Munro hide
challenges and dangers for all who dare climb. Many have been lost as they become
disorientated, as natures weather closes in.
The ascent route to the summit on a day like today is quite wonderful. The beauty of the
glens, with their sporadic mix of andesite and basaltic lava mountains, rival many a range
on our fine planet. Many colours explode on the surrounding canvas. Greens and beige's,
greys mingling with red granite masses. Screes are in evidence, a sign of the range ageing
as natures seasons take their toll. Plant life carpets the slopes, where grasses of sorts
mingle with the purple and white heather. Ferns from a prehistoric age fan out catching
the breeze, like Sea´ ferns´ in the ocean.
As i climbed, at various intervals i would close my eyes and listen to the calls of the
wild. The sporadic bleating of sheep, as if echoing through the glens. Crows and their
hooded cousins fly sorties looking for carrion of such. Suddenly they scatter, as royalty
makes a welcomed appearance. As majestic as the King of the mountains can be, a Golden
Eagle glides on the thermals. His subjects looking on from a distance, for fear of
angering him. Rabbits, lizards and even sheep and lambs, bow down in whatever chambers of
safety allows them. As graceful as he arrived, he leaves. Slowly but slowly, the lookouts
of the species declare their haven a safe zone.
This climb has certainly given me a thirst, as the thinned mountain air leaves me tired.
Nearby a small stream offers a weary climber a much needed tonic. This pure fresh
translucent chemical substance quenches my crave, with a gentle splash over my sun beaten
face, i feel refreshed to a point.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland-3.php
Like the gradual diming of the
sun
I watch as day fades away
Along with my troubles
Watching as the worldly
canvas
Completes its daily painting
Maybe im amazed at the way
Time gives me a break
When the sun seems to burn
too hot
The song of the darkening day
Morphs my ears into those of
a mermaid listening to the
ocean
My fingers Beethoven their
way to my journals
Composing the poetry that lies
be4 my eyes..
The poetry that is the end of a
day..
An end has never been so
beautiful
Like an instrument of God
Moulded to aww my gaze
Moulded to intertwine with my
Inner self and allow me to..
Breathe ..
But ofcoz every dusk has its
dawn..
When the sun rose
The birds could not believe
The miracle of the horizon
Taking away yesterday's pain
Painting a new picture for
nature
To embrace us nd draw us
once again- a new today
I seek no explanation of
The heartaches of yestday
The rain that soiled my
journals
Inking off my thots to nothing
I fear no more the chirping of
the sparrows
My heart levetates with the
hope of another smile-
another laugh- another kiss..
Breaking is normally a painful
thing
But dawn showed me the
healing power of it..
The purity of its virgin birth..
I rise with the sun
Feeling its rays touch my soul
like an angel's halo upon my
gaze.. #deepSigh
Like a lotus flower-
The existence shows its true
rarity
An enigmatic beauty ..
Seen everyday at the break of
dawn.
The beginning and end of
A story
The full stop
And the heading
From dusk till dawn
Even a vampire can never
deny such a miracle.
Rustic mountains
Through glaciations
Moulded this wonderful
Scottish Nation
Caledonian Forests
Covered our land
On our Western Islands
Golden beached sands
Glens and rivers
Cris cross our land
Glorious moors
Where the Highland Stag stands
Majestic and tall
Proud and might
This king of beasts
The most wonderful sight
Scenery to thrill
Heather-ed in purpled bloom
Look out any window
Its our own front room
Golden Eagles
Soar above these lands
Winged royalty
In their blue blooded strand
Our contribution to our modern world
Is all around us, read and learn
Logie Baird, with Television
Pedal Cycle, Kirkpatrick MacMillan
Medical marvel, Penicillin
In other Nations our touch has felt
Our Ancestors us, we Celts
For centuries we cast our nets
To further lands
We were always met
Friendly Scots in every way
Gave this world
A better say
America, Canada, New Zealand too
Us Scots are in me and you
Ancestral blood runs through our veins
The quite wonderful Scottish strain
Alba.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
Turning salt mixes within the desert sand
fired clay dipped inside a deeply moulded shell
from the blood flowing straight into feathers
A wing speaks from four chambers as an echo
holds a silent moment paused touching oceans mist
A sky burns red as the sun dips down dawning twilight
Faraway distant murmurs through the heart's beat
whispers carried upon the winds that change tune
one thousand memories captured in the grey clouds