Best Neons Poems
I will die eagerly,
ready to go,
surrounded by neons
faeries, elves, imps
I will die happily,
in my own way
lying next to my garden
surrounded by orbs
I will die gracefully,
gladly and fully ready
adoring the heavenly
ancestors who come fetch me.
I will die with a smile
remembering my phenomenal
fantastic make believe world
my family, and my friends.
Woke up in the dawn of a life that now is gone.
In a town where the neons never on.
The books been read and the pages turned.
Maybe tomorrow, I'll have left and learned.
Leaves me asking, just what's the story.
I've walked these streets my whole damn life.
By now I thought I'd have a wife.
But I guess some people's lives were meant for different glory.
The little boy inside a man, the one who lost his way and ran.
Looking for the past when life was just playing kick the can.
Who's heart is now bereft and burned.
Sweeping up the ashes of what's left and learned.
In the distance, the future waits.
It all depends on our choice of gates.
Whatever comes, we will have earned.
An accumulation of what's left and learned.
LAME GOODBYE
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
like all the years that went before
the whole city seemed to throng en masse
in the sparkling Park street drawn by its lure.
In the translucent sky of the congealed night
the stars had all faded away in the glow galore
of the dazzling neons on the walkway bright.
Radiant faces glowed in joy of the night before.
Flowing out of endless stream of jostling crowd
in a bar my friend and I sought out a corner cozy.
Under the spell of flashing lights and music loud
counting the pegs shooting the head wasn’t easy.
Landing on wrong steps while going out elevated
I slipped, tinsel street turned dust, filled my eye.
With the bruised mind and a fractured leg on bed
I painfully bade that Christmas a lame goodbye.
November 27, 2018
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
To everything turn, turn, turn ~
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Standing upon this ledges edge; uncovered
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As peering amid the city lights below?!
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Gathering in biopsies water colours...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Moments splashed upon the vestige of neons
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dissecting organisms hues called life; time
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Seeking purlieu sorties reasons incised!?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lifted from the palette of brushed; this rhyme...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
... * "SwitchBlade" ~
The mist in Regent Gardens air
awakes a single rosebud there.
Her scent drifts past Trafalgar Square -
England’s summer has begun.
The rising sun above the Thames
shines brighter than a crown of gems;
peeks through the panes of Buckingham
until the day is done.
Saint James Park invites the dawn
as sunbeams nudge the regal lawn.
Grass blades spread their arms and yawn:
"Good Morning, Summer day!"
Big Ben chimes a fond embrace
whilst daybreak warms his noble face.
Tower Bridge can sense sweet grace -
Summer’s song is on Her way.
Chiffchaffs adorn the royal parks
as children’s voices trill like larks.
Blooming dogwoods deftly bark
in praise of Summer’s song.
Purple lilacs perfume the breeze.
Lombard's merchants aim to please.
Harrods unfurls green canopies
to shade the heated throng.
Piccadilly Circus burns so bright.
Vibrant neons illume the night.
A merry moon beams with delight -
enthralled by Summer’s spell.
Bells of St. Paul sing me goodbye,
as o'er the River Thames I fly.
My heart begins to sigh, as I
bid my London Summer - farewell.
Inspired by:
Summer Enchantment Rhyming Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Karen Neary
It is night yet in the West
and the planes land between listlessly burning tarmac lamps
stealthy fingers scurrying through diadems of neons halogens and amber
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The cowherds’ bare blistered feet already trample yesterday’s dust into mud
and cartwheels strain in crusted fissures where rains fell only once or twice
while dreams fester in cosy centrally-heated silken beds in luxury flats
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Tomorrow is yesteryear’s planned strikes
buses trains taxis office machines lie soundlessly asleep
and will not wake until the battle over psychic comfort comes to an end
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
For You there is no respite no pause
no tea-breaks with cheese biscuits or croissants
there’s only the last container to crane over the dock in unpaid overtime
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Your eyes will hurt in the twilight’s hazy glimmer
no time to brush your teeth nor shave in hot and cold running water
nor the right to flush a toilet nor heedlessly course through in cosy tubes to work
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The sirens rave through boulevards in broad night-light
rushing hypertensic cardiac cases from their delight-full beds
cholestrol and diabetic cane sugar within reach of every child in supermarkets
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Let those who succeeded their former masters
sip their sweet sweatless porto before the hors-d’oeuvres
and flap their tabliers hiding their secret shame under cabalistic arms
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! there’s little time left for your own bickering differences to fester
the dawn signals the tasks that lie ahead unfinished
and the carrion hunters trained in their old master’s image club together
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 2)
a lone star in the sky is what you see
blinded by the lure of the city
window shining the spree of shopping
neons begging to make the scene
buildings trying to reach the mighty
nonsense say the star surrounded with twinkles
as in the dark it shines in a multitude of cosmic laughs
looking at you dragging your laundry to be washed.
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
The truth - it is not armed hand.
The truth - it is not the boot of iron,
compulsive stigma of force
and determined heads.
The truth it is not the screech of demons
and the sound of their lute.
It is not the brightness of foggy neons
and the wisdom of their quarrel.
The truth - it is the daily bread,
straight speech, straight calculations.
The truth - it is the light for oneness,
heart on the palm; ways, directions.
The truth - it is everyday people
and knowledge of things as they are.
The truth - it is the broken shackles,
not captives and not the serfs.
Prawda (Polish Version)
Prawda to nieuzbrojone ramie.
Prawda to nie but stalowy,
rozkielzanej sily znamie
i uciemiezone glowy.
Prawda to nie skrzek karlów i demonów
i dzwiek ich lutni.
To nie blask mglistych neonów
i madrosc ich klótni.
Prawda to chleb powszedni,
mowa prosta, proste rachunki.
Prawda to swiatlo dla jedni,
na dloni serce, drogi, kierunki.
Prawda to ludzie codzienni,
znajomosc rzeczy takimi jakie sa.
Prawda to rozerwane kajdany,
nie zniewoleni i nie poddani.
Dark wide sign board,
Blinking green neons-
Glow Worms!
My living room is full of brown furniture,
but you do not notice it
because my paintings have
exploded onto the walls.
My paintings are not landscapes,
or faces. They are cartoons, and they
are gloriously a part of twenty whimsical
themes. They are hippies, faeries, art deco,
warrior women, pirate women, or dragons.
My husband says I might be a lesbian,
and I cannot say that he is wrong.
I used to paint in regular colors, but they
got as boring as the couches, so now I
paint in neons. Neon red, neon orange, neon pink,
neon yellow, neon green, neon purple. On my walls
are neon paintings of Steampunk women, gardens, flowers,
unicorns, cats, woodland creatures, Christmas, and Halloween.
I have gone painting to painting to see if I have given you
a clear picture, and yes, they all fit into these categories, as long
as you add butterflies, bees, and owls. I have no idea what my family
will do upon my death with these glorious paintings. I am enjoying them
now, and this is enough.
Stephen used to have sprinter Richard Whitehead,
As a team member when he did play ice hockey,
Before he became a sonar sailor, the water to wed,
In disability sport, the key was his sporting degree.
He played for the under 18 Wales rugby union team,
Because he lives in Bridgend, from Ogmore Valley,
Then he contracted meningoccal septicaemia, deem,
‘Cos this amputated his legs to make everything ok.
His ice hockey team did well coming third in Turin,
And in Athens at the World’s his team got a bronze,
Then in Beijing they came sixth in that hot condition,
But was disappointed at London by penalty neons.
========================================
To everything turn, turn, turn ~
Standing upon the ledges edge; uncovered
As peering about her city lights below?!
Gathering in biopsies water colours
Moments splashed atop their vestige be neons
Dissecting organisms called life; time
Seeking purlieu sorties reasons incised!?
Lifted, from his palette of brushed; this rhyme....
========================================
.."SwitchBlade" *
To everything..
Turn, turn, turn
Standing upon this ledges edge
Uncovered as peering amid
The city lights below
Biopsies water colours..
Moments splashed about
This vestige of neons
Dissecting organisms hues called life ?
Time, seeking purlieu sorties
Reasons incised..
Lifted from the palette
Of brushed; their rhyme.
There is a hilarity in this canvas
Not often found in Van Gogh's art
And recognizable faces
Also unprecedented
They might be sneaking contraband liquor
Outside away from the prying eyes of the women
For it is three men, and a boy who is taking a taste
It gives me a new feeling about Van Gogh
An artist myself, I enjoy his art, for it is cartoonish like mine
I use neons, which he did not have access to back in his time
I am confident if he had access to neons, he would have used them
Can't you see his Irises and his reflections on the water
in florescent? I sure can!
This painting makes him more real to me than he has ever been
which is why it is my favorite of his.