Best Mull Poems
If only I could write you a sonnet,
Iambic pentameter and what not,
Let my muse mull profoundly upon it.
I must write it quickly lest I forgot.
It will have to stress real passion, love,
Mention a rose if I really must
But for heaven's sake leave out the white dove,
Still do mention the red moon that I trust.
Compare her eyes to some fragrant flower,
And wish to taste her full strawberry lips,
Scheme to meet her in a quiet bower,
Clouds enfold us in mythical eclipse.
Will she come, will she go, my marigold?
Ah, my poor love sonnet has now gone cold.
POTD 14 September 2020
Melodies of magical wind chimes
Carry me back to such blissful times
Hand-in-hand we planned for a long life
Dreams to share as you made me your wife
When a summer breeze rides on the seas
I still hear your voice and I’m at ease
Now I wander the shoreline alone
A child left behind by fate’s cyclone
As I stroke fallen plumes from a gull
I’m beset by memories to mull
Thoughts of warm nights we fished from the pier
Wrap my soul like a blanket so sheer
I’m transformed to the girl I was then
And, Sweetheart, I’m loving you again
When a summer breeze rides on the seas
I still hear your voice and I’m at ease
I’ve been lonely today so I’ll go
Where a summer breeze is sure to blow
Sitting on sand, I’ll set a new goal
To fill the void and make myself whole
If only I can open my heart
To a man whose loss won’t tear me apart
Just a tender embrace at day’s end
You were my love; he’ll just be my friend
When a summer breeze rides on the seas
I still hear your voice and I’m at ease
Transform me to the girl I was when
You let me love you again and again
*August 3, 2018.
Awakening from a restful night,
I thank God for my humble home,
For His keeping watch as I slept,
And for His morning show of charm.
Enjoying my breakfast with delight,
I feel God’s presence in a brimming cup.
And before I grasp His amazing provision,
All my morning meal has been eaten up.
With joy I sit in safety and comfort
While I mull over visions in my head.
I think of words to express my pleasure
For having a window above my bed.
Clouds overhead sailing thru sunbeams
Are like ships on a sea of blue sky.
Such placid scenes have a calming effect,
When a rare day of strife is nigh.
Everyday I receive God’s daily bread
And wash the dishes happily indeed.
I know my heartaches are rinsed away
And replaced by what I badly need.
God blesses me with gifts every moment.
And every night I sincerely pray.
Though I can never repay His charity,
I thank Him for gifts He sends each day.
There was no finer detective than Inspector Thaddeus Tweede of Scotland Yard!
He was most astute in solving crimes and could quickly detect a fake canard!
He joined the force as a 'bobby' working himself to the peak of his profession.
You daren't pull the wool over his eyes when he was seeking a confession!
Ah! He could have been cast in a movie since he was a detective's prototype,
In his tweed suit, tweed cape, tweed deerstalker's cap and ever-present pipe!
When investigating crime scenes he'd mull the facts with his chin in his hand,
Puffing his pipe making copious notes should he be called to the witness stand!
The highlight of his career was solving the case of Prime Minister Percival Hoar,
Who was found by his maid one dark and stormy night sprawled upon the floor!
There was no evidence of forceful entry or anyone breaking through the door,
Nor was there any sign of a struggle, bullet holes or oozing, bloody gore!
Who could have done this dastardly deed that brought the minister to his doom?
He took prints, photos and noted a strange odor as he moved about the room.
Thaddeus called on all his experience and training to solve this mysterious case,
Muttering to himself and doing a lot of 'hmming' as to and fro he did pace!
Eureka! He noted a bulge in the prime minister's jacket he hadn't noticed before!
Gingerly lifting a bottle from the pocket he deduced he needn't search anymore.
It wasn't a gun, the butler, jilted lover, political enemy or an envious friend
That did the terrible deed - 'twas demon rum that brought the minister to his end!
Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.
You cannot articulate in words
To the one that is glancing from the outside
The total chaos on the inside
Because on the outside you wear a smile
Of order and calm
In silence you mull over
The I “wishes”
And the I “could haves”
Even though deep down you know
That is burnt ash
That it will never come to live again
But it is the only thing that keeps you going
For now
At times the in between moments
Are the ones that take your breath away
Because they happen unplanned
Those tender moments of joy
You know you can have again
So this is not you throwing in the towel
This is you at rest
Preparing yourself for the next step
Because when you eventually get through
All the chaos
You will smile with your soul
What a quandary Dan, you find yourself in
Choosing a membership fit for a PS king
Why mull over it to see what others think?
You know you love exploring the PS link
Reading and writing poetry everyday
It seems obvious that Premium is the way
One, two or even Life – Just do it, Go Life
Then you can get up to all kinds of strife
Absorb yourself completely, in all it gives
Post a new contest and have us as captives
Create an awesome blog and have us in fits
An attentive audience to your fun and wit
Poetry Soup community know you are clever
You know you want it, membership forever
Written for Dan Kearley - A reply in poem to Dan's poem
titled "Should I become a Premium Member"
SILENT ROOSTERS SLEEP
Dads don’t sleep. They drive over-packed cars, and sip coffee from a thermos cup. Kids in backseat mull over grandma’s home ~ roosters never move, cuckoo clock never quits, and grandma’s always at the door, waiting. Front passenger divvies out cheerios and chips. The turnpike yawns with well-worn pitstops. All seats salivate for grandma’s homemade coffee cake. “Are we there yet?” echoes, bounces, plays with the driver’s nerves. Dads get revenge, transforming the auto into a tour bus. Pointer finger flashes toward a birthplace, a high school, and a park, and finally a hearth in the suburbs of Depew.
silent roosters sleep
moonlight auto unpacks dawn
crowing door exhales
7/14/2017
Haibun Form
The beach this morn was wonderful
The waves came thrashing down
They were wild and white and foaming
And their voices thundered round
A lonely figure walked the sand
Her head bent down and sad
And if you were up closer
You could see the tears where out
The sky was dark and cloudy
The rain was falling light
The wind was napping somewhere
And the water felt like ice
I watched that figure walking
With a black dog by her side
A memory in me stirred somewhere
Of times that where not right
She pulled her jacket closer
As if to shut it out
The thoughts that did invade her
Or memories that did shout
And all the times the waves came in
They didn’t ever change
They licked her feet and washed them
And then went out again.
As I sat there and I watched her
That figure all alone
I wondered if she registered
The lack of sun that shone
The day seemed very fitting
For one so sad as she
The misty rain, the dampened air
The water round her feet.
I wondered as I watched her
From whence her thoughts did come
Had someone precious died here
Or had a love undone
She didn’t even see me
Her thoughts so far away
I think if there where people here
She maybe wouldn’t stay
There was nothing I could do here
Her thoughts where all her own
I felt she needed solitude
And time to mull the groan
I stood there, and I left then
A lonely figure, I
I pulled my jacket round me
My black dog by my side.
I keep watching the river run
Always twisting
Always turning
It’s there I sit
Beneath your eyes
And mull over dreams of paradise
With you
Someplace where the sky is white and blue
Yet I’m thinking much too much
And I hate walking alone
It’s not often that I ponder such
But when I wander
Thoughts come rushing in
Willy-nilly
I don’t have a special place
Where all these thoughts begin
From the left
And from the right
Without warning
They attack me when I wake
Early in the morning
I wish I knew what I had done
So I’ll sit here
With you standing there beside me
Beneath your eyes
Beneath the skies
Where clouds and birds and angels fly
And listen to the waters running free
As you watch me
Watching the river run
A poem, lovely as a compost pile,
One lingers, sifts the elements awhile.
At first unclear, not all is evident;
Sharp images emerge as time is spent.
Though pieces, separate, may cause chagrin,
When taken as a whole, beauty's within.
To mull, to stew, to tease suggestions out
Though time elapses, ere they take shape, sprout.
For oft, a new direction is deduced,
Organic thoughts are grown, notions produced.
A poem such as this is never spurned,
But contemplated often, gently turned.
————-
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the "A poem lovely as a" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Margarita Lillico
Written 03/03/2022
She knew not of a simple life,
only a complicated oblivion-
She sought not material things,
just imagined a good world to live in.
She believed not in herself,
yet in other’s opinions and notions-
She was a compassionate woman,
full of love and devotion.
One day she’d cry,
the next she’d smile-
One day she’d comply,
the next she’d defy.
She wore two pair of shoes.
Each pair for a different mood-
She knew only joy then sadness,
her sanity turns into madness.
One pair red, one blue,
one very high, one too low-
Her inconsistency grew,
here and there, to and fro-
On which path should she go?
One pair shiny, one dull,
one very smooth, one too soft-
Each separate foot left to mull,
she was quite confused too oft-
Downward spirals then aloft.
She knew not of an elementary life,
but knew she had too much to lose-
for she was just a mother and a wife,
wearing two different pair of shoes.
written about my struggle with mental illness.
August 5, 2017
What inventions have had the biggest impact on my life?
This is a question I was recently posed
and I didn’t have to think a lot about it before this answer I composed.
I didn’t need to mull the question over…
didn’t need to give it too much thought
because I realized almost immediately
The best inventions are the ones that can’t be bought.
There are many inventions that make my life more effortless…
that make it easier for me.
There’s electricity, the light bulb, the phone the computer
the car, the radio, running water and TV.
I’m sure I’m leaving others out…
I’m sure there are many more
more inventions that make my life much easier
than my ancestors who came before.
But I’d like to thank whoever invented love and kindness
and the capacity to care…
whoever invented generosity, decency and the ability to share.
Certainly man-made inventions have made my life easier
but the invention of friendship, the invention of the smile….
the invention of love and kindness and caring…
they have made my life worthwhile.
from: "Me to You", by Alastair Reid
"...write me about the weather.
Perhaps
a letter across water,
something like this, but better,
would almost take us strangely
closer to home.
Write, and I'll come."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monterrey, Nuevo Leon
Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
I feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.
Pleasure primes pain,
Wit wonders why?
Glimpse gutsy gain,
Style sanguine sigh.
Fancy feels faint,
Big blossoms bulge;
***** questions quaint,
Ideas indulge.
Prompt payment plays,
Ask apt award;
Death delays day,
Reap real reward.
Action aids arm,
Buzzy blooms bounce;
Cherry cheeks charm,
Pretty play pounce.
Wanting woos wealth,
Migraine mulls meet;
Hurts hurling health,
Gloomy groans greet.
Desire dreams day,
Big blossoms beam;
Pure passion plays,
Dear dancing dream.
Sense sensuous surge,
Bright bearings boom;
Play plunders purge,
Greet glory gloom.
Bright blooming book.
Charm creams cherry;
Lasting lines look,
Love leaps lovely.
Soar sweet stanza,
Choice charms charade;
Apt agenda,
Poise primes parade.
Grab grouchy gaze,
Loss litters lull;
Doom defers daze,
Moments mimes mull.
Dare describe deuce,
Loose lines lessons;
Meet mindful muse,
Words weave weapons.
Leon Enriquez
29 Apr 2014
Singapore