Best Noons Poems
Said the moon to the sun
I was the first across the sky to run
Said the sun to the moon
True, but you can have your dark evenings and nights
For I've got bright mornings and blazing high-noons
~ sun showers, rainbows and picturesquely-painted late afternoons
So sweet your Venus kiss had felt
Under the silhouette glow in fair July
When your coral lips would burn
My forlorn face with a bright smile.
For each hell would seem an eternal bliss
And each breath is a lifetime of many moons
When embraced by your loving charms
That greets me tender in the fragrant noons.
My hands would attend to the teardrops
On rosy your cheeks that drips in the night
And when the mistless morn would rise
I'd fetch you a rose in the quivering light.
Fear not the darkness that cheats your will
Nor those sorrows your days define
And let not the troubles disarm your face
Of the beauty that God design.
For when I gaze at you then I would see
The starry candle lights of the skies
That holds the truth,love and purity
That is written in your eyes.
Its not the beauty that you possess
That draws me closer to your grace
Nor fame,nor wealth,nor form the best
That my heart has found its place.
But its your love as much as grains of sands
That is vast like the heights above
So heres my heart within my palms
To you my dear with love.
The second coming of age,
is like the
softened beauty
of the color s a g e;
rich in Indian summer warmth
graced with shades and shines
of too many noons and moons to count
savvy and savory… seasoned
with salted depth and perception.
No longer a blur of girlish green...
rather,
the continuum of time,
has weathered colors;
fine-tuning mindful hues -
balancing contrasts and intensities,
blending and smoothing
the not-so-gently honed edges
of life's tints and tones.
Continuance creates a mature perspective
worthy of viewing a canvas
painted from a palette of gold and rust.
Yes,
the burnished beauty
of the color s a g e,
like the second coming of age,
is easy to take.
The grass green pigments of colorful youth
are muted by mistakes.
For wisdom gained,
the price is paid
in the aged
and ripened patina
of the color
s a g e ~
my second coming of age.
Susan Ashley
July 20, 2017
~ Eighth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Patina
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
I am tempered in tender triggers
of transitory ticking tunes,
as the air feels heavy ~
with withered whispers
of waning reveries,
a mercurial mirror to
my burning skin...
I've nurtured the nature
nestled between
nuances of nostalgia
feeling the nudge
from wistful noons
freezing my thoughts
to follow the fleeting ebb and flow
of slipping silence,
swerving through
curtained homesickness…
but why must the salt
of sea-breeze melt into memories
hope knows how the heart
heals with hurt
whilst you see not the
pained palpitations
amidst light of life liquefying
into unmerciful minutes ~ of time…
O time ~ the tricking tamer
restricting inner resilience
straining the summer softness
retrospective recurrence
rewinding on repeat,
leaving me searching for
the falling familiarity ~
rays of wavering warmth
to feel the pulse of pleasure
closer to
the confined corners
within my conscious thoughts...
for grey is throttled in grievance
heeding not the restless rhythm
of wind and waves
ferrying the ocean-highs
speaking to my skies
~ catching catharsis ~
as heat unbuttons
the soul of azure
alliterating the alienation
of breathing blistered bliss
aching across the shifting
shadows of unmoved fields
and I waltz… a wanderer ...
sleeplessly swirling
through the love-phased
lace of longing
replaying the comforting touch
from yesterday’s dawn
the sun and
moon that soothed whirlwinds
of weathered
wild-jasmines ~
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Proud I am children, proud for sure, proud of day and proud of night
I can finally turn the key in my own door
No latent echoes filled with omnious warnings
Measuring out my freedom in abbreviated noons
And uncoiling mornings with elastic circuit of the sun
I can plant my own ten acres of banana more
Beach my own canoe on the shore
And will cut twenty more yards of sugarcane
If they pay me better now to buy a proper loaf
I come this midnight dividing present and past
Dividing hope from despair and brief uncertainty
About the cloud's timing of the rain.
I come to see my own black sorrows rolled back
To taste the ripe green of land and labour
And peace of sovereign gold
I come for me, and I come for Nanny on the mountain
Looking down, and for Bogle's marching done
I come for brother Sam fired dream of freedom
Do you hear their great spirit chanting us
Garvey on the podium after the black, green and gold
Have taken its place proudly amongst the nations of the world
I hear him thunder "rise ye mighty race, rise"
And feel the lightning of the heroes voice
Those all past, and those to come
This is a great moment in the building of a nation
A great berth of ship before the salt waves lick
The sturdy bow, O ye valiant seamen, no cringeing now
No shackled hopes, no tethered dreams, our coffled hearts
Shall be only what reminds of the bitter voyage past
My soul is breathing like the abeng tonight
Atop its pole the flag of Jamaica in full flight.
I live in a town where all things go in
reverse. The bushes grow reversely,
shrink smaller back into seeds, and roll back
into the past-life seeds. The river flows
reversely, very swiftly. My friends,
my nephews and nieces, my siblings, and
my parents walk reversely, and
steadily become smaller, younger.
Helplessly, I stand, watch, and cannot grasp
things back. The brains think reversely
into the prehistory; the handwritten
pages decrease, turning reversely for
never being lost. The ruined house of the
neighbor girl is built reversely, becoming
back the house of her young days. The
voices, familiar and unknown, talk
reversely into the afternoons and
noons and nights, calling up the wronged ghost
of a priest whose enlightened shout wakes up
the legendary copperhead, which slithers
and crushes a corner of the forest. A
tornado blows reversely, peels away
the layer of sedimentary rocks,
and shows thousands of ancient cities, where
millions of bricks become new again to
build countless clusters of towers, and where
the waving hands, smiling lips, colorful
clothes, villages, crow’s cries, and flocks of birds
fly reversely into the sunshine arc.
I solely stand, lonely.
Translated into English by Phan Tan Hai
Original poem titled "Song Lui" -- written in Vietnamese by Inrasara.
Fall Of Autumn
The deep south, confused summer, autumn's blight,
Nature's microwave is on overdrive,
Dog day noons, sultry dusk undress the night,
Escapist schemes, routes north relief, connive.
Red Indian drumbeats as Fall swelters,
Mirage, sweaty heads host an oasis,
Sane in A/C cars, dash in cool shelters,
Heat holds life, pause Winters' death, the basis.
Latter is solace, fire sparks energy,
Pains of the past, remedies in their youth,
Melts the built, curls their hair, sums synergy,
Drab purple dawn the horizon, cold truth.
Gasps of frost taunt the raw vexing season's,
Soft made tough, green ripens, Fall sets reasons.
2019 October 05
*3rd Place*
Autumn sonnet
~~John Hamilton
Yesterday, time stirrred of reveries when
All of Summer brought colours bright;
My love's longing roamed this place, yet
Troubles whipped our days; in a rush it
Seemed your tenderness withered fast.
So hasty for that promise of evermore,
Far from flames that once led us to new stars
Away from a maze, until noons grew cold.
Now, despair widenened a river made,
It drained petals crowning your hair. But love
Looks at us without a glimpse of eternity
As miles flew by, not one word for a heart yearned.
Though roots are tended where gardens bloom
They're dried by sun's heat, unwatered and frail;
Here where our fingers dug into the sand
To memorize the glory of dew. I asked you to
Stay and wait for birds to name our songs.
Oh, those hours when wings of joy flew
I recall the way your smile rustled with the wind.
Believe me, I'm unable to bequeath this glow
In you I found the luster of dusk, more beaming than
Yesterday, today or even tomorrow, still---
Yesterday's Acrostic Contest
Falling in single droplets yet forming one heavy downpour
Yet cometh from nothing much more than vapor
Thudding on the roof like a May Day cry
And taking over the place where the humans once pry
Rain-rain
Graduating from drops to drizzles and eventually to blizzards
Scaring away the sky birds, ground humans and even the monitor lizards
Making the world fresher, yet still causing hazards
Rain-rain
Darkening the sky with all its thunderous might
Changing even the brightest of noons to the ebony of the night
Yet striking and lightning with so bright a light
But not sparing the excited kids and adults alike of fright
Rain-rain
With a touch of coldness that sends shivers down the spines
A touch of wetness that sends persons collecting cloths from the lines
With flowers shying and trees swaying, even the pines
Rain-rain
Carrying away the rich brownness of the top soil
Where crops would sprout only if the farmers could toil
Yet if the crops come before, it would still come and spoil
With the valor of a python waiting in a coil
Rain-rain go away!
when this endless anchal of dhanekhali sari
continues to make dip-swimming
in the bottomless water of the paddy
and if into the colour of her fore-finger
enters repeatedly some whole-noons of the chot-boshekh
and from the more depth of the ceiling-fan
comes out the ordour of the open-hair of the village-orange
then with that lac-saliva wouldn’t an easy pandel
be constructed on the roof
its water will be made begin as well
that white cloud … that life of this concrete …
beforehand to it … with a garland of flowers of the sun-plant
around her neck… let her be seated on this branch of peepul branch… for once
taking the warmth of the kites flown after having a thread-cut
let the cows of man be productive by a few inch more
A friend named moon
What a boon!!!
My friend named moon...
Please dont leave the sky so soon
Kindly join in as I play to thou this
tune
As we rejoice in the fact that the
faded afternoon
Has made its way for my friend
named moon...
Love is in thy presence
With every crawling wonder,
Can I feel thine eternal essence...
No soul is awake to smell the night
I pity the sight!!
Just observe the moon blessing with
all its might
Wonderful!!Indeed a pretty sight!!!
Light my friend, my friend named
moon
Shine my friend, my friend named
moon
Cause the forgotten light shall one
day,
Bask in the shadow of that way
Where the departed ones shall stay
Awakened at all times with wisdom, I
say
And where the still asleep ones
dream about the knowledge they
may
Seek to mask the guilt in their hands
By enslaving the righteous ones to
pay...
O the great witness to all sufferings
Always been there granting
blessings
My friend named moon
All is going to end real soon...
This is the last journey my friend
My only friend named moon
No more noons and no more toons
No more dines and no more wines
All that shines and all that rhymes
Peaceful shall thou stay at all
times...
Happiness these days is a wishful
state
You ought to go through a blue gate
Look above the might of the night
There will u explore the depth of the
light
Every ounce of your soul now seems
to find it right...
What a boon!!!
Yes thou!!!My friend named
moon...!!!
Ha, Ha, Ha.
It's getting better now, days of wine and roses, dates, and alpine courses.
But through the haze of lost days, mornings, noons, and nights.
Everyday now!
A flower blooms, made of concrete.
weary morns, hair afoul, breathe I breathe.
head a pounding, sounds afouling.
A flower blooms, made of concrete.
Awfully splendorous fallen-leaf paintings on landscapes!
Ultra momentary changing of sky colors and shapes!
Trees, true forerunners, paving paths for the winter princess!
Umbrellas bidding farewell to the summer-rain messes!
Munificently mesmerizing multicolored Morns!
Nebulous fogs knitting knotty nets in nocturnal noons!
04 October 2021
Autumn Acrostic Poetry Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Choking, churning dense river of clouds.
Vengeful, raging, wrathful airspace,
where seraphs and cherubs are murdered,
where cold torrential demons are unleashed.
Dank deep noons and nights interbreed,
incestuous and quailing, unholy waters
wailing, exploding, spilling specters,
erasing, defacing, disgracing all that was.
We all know the inequality of cruelty.
Cloudbursts inflict the most on the least.
Drenched hopes and soaked assumptions are
undone by mudslides, unhinged in flash floods.
There are so many conversations we wish
we once had, before the rains started,
before the blast of tainted waters scoured
our private rooms, and it was too late.
No, we don’t know we’re drowning in
the life we repudiate.