Best Noticeable Poems
Black Diamond Night (a coal miner’s cemetery)
Where the ebony, we call “NIGHT”,
Old black rocks sit under the twilight
Diamond shape eyes unclear and lonely,
Sinister through hostile spirits only,
I stumble across these stones without a bone
A solitary confinement alone,
From a barren zone the light transcend
Only in time, our minds will mend
Endless valleys and limitless stones
These bones- these bones they sit alone
The abyss, of rotten cavities with no fill,
A system no power can unwell the drill
The blood that passed over without a spill
Peaks collapse into a spellbinding chill
They are trapped! They are trapped!
Another diamond in the rough
Is what they left
Obsessed with the dead without a death
A death that impatiently awaited their last breath
Gushing, into the gems of dead chemistry,
Diamonds holding its own intensity,
These lonely graves, on top of sycamore hill
Coal mining hearts that will never heal
If only shiny eyes could see?
These lonely bones inside of me!
Moving in every direction possible
Flowing in every direction noticeable
Sockets without eyes.
Stones hiding under the cobalt skies.
The mad sparkles, the madness dies.
Throughout this mess, we held in the blasphemous
Intervening lots of gems so miraculous
Into a stone of self-religion,
A black night filled of legions
Acknowledging the soul's capacity of free
Near the frail bones that sit alone,
Alone they sit in a morbid home.
Through a path unclear and all alone,
Troubled by the visions of my own stone
Where the night takes place in the dark
The ebony rides under the diamond bark
Along with the coal miners who never got to see the;
“Diamonds of another day!”
Some people wear baggage like a hat in church,
Still others could conceal it through a customs search!
Me? It depends on the mood that I'm in,
My frame may be thick, but my skin's super thin.
As a child, dysfunction was all that I knew.
Violence and alcohol increased as I grew
And the things that I heard and the things that I viewed,
I packed them all up with my clothes and I shooed.
And when I would meet someone, I'd try to disguise
That baggage as noticeable as my big giant thighs.
"You're beautiful," he'd say, but I knew the truth.
I'm fat and I'm worthless, and I've got the proof.
Locked deep in my psyche, but not deep enough,
Some poisonous, invisible gas out would puff.
And heaven forbid he got an ********!
My baggage was foolproof as a form of protection!
If he seemed too perfect on any given date,
My baggage would whisper, "belittle, berate!"
And so I would treat him like a much lower class
Then turn and retreat with my oversized ass.
But one day I waddled into a cafe
So weighed down with baggage every step of the way
That I knew it was time to this load jettison
So I dropped to my knees and prayed, "Help me! Amen."
The baggage still visits me now and again,
And I have to remind it we're no longer friends
I'm married and he loves me whatever my girth,
Reminding me daily I'm the fairest on earth!!!
it comes in rapid progression
parting reality with subtle lisps. brown eyes
a forest floor of fern
ever changing with the seasons
(a smile, a smirk)
preying hands collapsing
across sable skin too soft to wear. desire
wanting nothing more than
a moment prescribed as birds fly northeast
( a touch as noticeable)
just a sidewalk untraveled. saturated
by the wishful wisp of morning
softness of dew fingertips, thrust of a pulse
wanting nothing more than to be inhaled
(breath chasing the calm)
sensation measuring the lazy waltz
of the second hand,
time calculating reflections. frozen
in the simplest seldom fleeting look
(walking while talking)
our embrace mimic the trees
arm in arm--stride in stride
you have become myself. scent
of winter chanting a glance mirrored by deflection
(welcome the bundle of fire)
twisting our words imitating sounds
nearby vultures at a feast. carnivores
circling our mouths with no purpose
wanting to say what we know
(speechless sleep)
awkward postures resembling
Greek gods bathing in spilled nectar. measurement
of mathematical equations
melding together thoughts through
(a passing glimpse)
Sometimes, we expect
the sun to rise and smile,
through hazy hellish clouds
carrying vindictive
verdicts of venomous vultures,
surmising hues of
ink to pierce through
pores of this bleeding pen,
imagining rainbows
will unravel colors,
in violent violets and
intricate indigo streaks,
refusing to walk around
streets with
hailing stones of storms.
But what if the skies
unfold mysteries of yesterday,
would tales of truth need
translated transcripts?
oblivious to the weight
of every thorn I sustain
within these words I weave.
Whilst daggers
on my spine
still remain rusted with
runes of revelations,
as I’ve felt claws sharper
than twisted tongues,
so those feculent fingers
pointing at abstracts
across fields of
fruitful flowers,
adorned with
smokey quartz
jewels of life,
is nothing but
mere artless blades,
that burn bridges
from blunt blindness.
Let the bare brokenness
of your rags be
the conqueror of your
own demise,
I’ve seen too many
ghosts turn into
steel hearted devils with
tasteless plans.
Yet these cracks
won’t grow wider
from misconstrued
conclusions,
from barely noticeable
turbulence within a
psychological warfare.
I am more than your
definition of sharpened
needles and knives,
as I’ve been nurtured
in fearless forests with
herds of faceless wolves,
this warrior spirit
is unmovable,
by a million mountains
engraved with
lifeless blood and
bones of your kind,
so take your little
quilt of cowardly questions,
wrap them around your
fragile little ego,
perhaps, sleep too
can reveal
rosier dreams
in your doomed
nights filled with terrors,
for I refuse to
drink from chalices
of emptiness
concocted from
bitter ingredients.
I've been contemplating the tastelessness of the soup being served on site.
The difference between what's sweet and sour is noticeable in every bite.
It's not just the infusion of artificial intelligence that leaves the soup bitter,
but poetry that's been stolen from others that stinks worse than kitty litter.
Months ago it was perceived by many PS poets, that there had been an influx
of so called 'poets' posting 'poetry,' but quite frankly... most of it just sucks.
And then there is the returnee woman who holds contests entering her own
with names who returned with her in a scam that no one should condone.
There remains the do-goodies, who continue to claim they've been victimized
but that story is so old that it is known as garbage and needs to be sterilized.
A butcher, baker and candlestick maker, who burns his candle on both ends,
still hangs around but nothing he says is believed and cannot make amends.
A quill is meant for writing and not for fencing with neither parry nor thrust.
Take care who you accept to be a friend for it's not always one you can trust.
I've turned off commenting or the trolls will be feeding on my every word
those floating in soup's toilet bowl, who should be flushed like a stinking turd.
I'll also post this as a poem in the usual manner of poetry on this flawed site
for those who wisely don't pay attention to blogs where bullies post smite.
The soup kitchen needs a Gordon Ramsay visit to free it from rats and mice
because it's been infested with toxic waste that some have labeled 'spice.'
"THE whole truth and nothing but the truth"
Precious and so innocent the heart of a young child.
The heart produces feelings of warmth and love so
hard to explain.
As one reaches their teenage years these feelings
become more noticeable to them.
The mind says one thing and the heart says another.
We are left wondering which feeling to follow those
of the heart or those of the mind.
I chose to follow my mind and not my heart and I
wonder to this day...
What would have been had I not been scared and
followed my heart instead of my mind.
Truth be told maybe I am better off not knowing.
For P.D.'s "Truth Or Dare Contest"
Written by: Carol Brown
Written on: 02/28/2012
5th Place Winner
Why drowning when there's
the ability to swim in me?
Why sleeping in the cold woods
with a match box in my Jacket
and an Axe below my head?
Why the self condemnation
when I'm a billion miles ahead of a billion?
What exactly do I see in my inner mirror?
Is Life embracing or pointing a finger at me?
I see a pretty one of huge significance
with effective duties like an Angel.
But also, I see the ugly one
dust to sand, stone to rock
that's just its living sequel.
I view a perspective
rough but sweet; challenging but interesting
which is exactly my gospel.
But then, I see them as temptations
and tests with no ability to repel.
I notice when walking through red coals
I never let my tears be my Life's panel
but the submission of my adaptation becomes so parallel.
I'm mind blowing and noticeable
like a newly-sewed apparel.
But day and night, I posses a tag with
just one label.
No matter the task to stay beautiful
nothing stops that quest to excel
but I see a limitation to
just a specific ordered function
like the ringing bell.
I'm staying elegant and attractive
making all long to be part of my counsel
but my usefulness, worth and confidence
no self awareness to propel.
Beginning as crude
coming out as a refined Jewel
but still, reality seems so cruel.
What exactly is my mirror saying?
Is my Life that of a Damsel or a Camel?
This, I just cannot tell!
Recognition
There I am again,
in the wall-size mirror
at the gym,
myself seeing myself,
a compulsion of sorts,
a checking-in
to see what has changed.
My bent and rotated spine
is always the same —
a very noticeable dog-leg
listing me to port.
There are those
who look at themselves
each morning in the mirror
and think,
“Damn, I look good.”
Perhaps the guy at the gym
with the triangular upper body
and tree-thick thighs does this,
but I don’t know him,
so he doesn’t count.
I don’t feel very old inside
except on cloudy, wet days.
My exterior says otherwise;
that doesn’t matter much now.
I know shadowy mortality
lies in wait. Occasionally
I hazard a quiet guess
about the time I have left,
a fruitless contemplation,
leading only to
gloom and foreboding.
Most often I move on
to meaningful pursuits:
driving much too fast,
eating ice cream,
making love,
writing and painting
to sustain my soul.
Some believe that one should,
"Live fast, die young,
leave a good-looking corpse."
I regret not living fast enough in my youth,
I’m thankful I’m not James Dean,
and ashes are only as beautiful
as the urn in which they are stored.
So, henceforth I shall marvel
at my visage in the mirror,
appreciating both my continued presence
and the elegant curve of my crookedness.
This garden city
Concrete skyscrapers loom;
Greenery punctuate
Tree-lined avenues
Bourgainvillea clusters;
Traffic jam companions
Waltzing slowly
Overhead bridge;
Ant-people below
Old neighbourhood
Heartland community;
Ageing populace
Feeble old lady
Speeds on wheels;
Electric commotion
Playground
For small kids and big;
Noisy charades
Fitness park
For young and old;
Fighting spirit
City side walk cafe
Crowded after hours;
Beery happy hours
Noticeable absence
Dry spell ending;
Sudden torrential rain
Umbrellas raised,
Parasols hoisted;
Too late this drenching
Side walk cobbler
New lease for old shoes;
Assorted wears
Hyper art queue
Long-winded delay;
Fussy customer
Bank ATM await
Ready to dispense;
Urgent pocket money
Office podium
By shopping mall;
Buzz of human traffic
Downtown hype
Temptations galore;
Mostly unnecessary
Leon Enriquez
23 Apr 2014
Singapore
Thunder and lightning ruled the black night
As the frightened young mother struggled
Beads of sweat ran down her pretty face
The old midwife calmly sponged off sweat
She hummed a lullaby to soothe her pain
Praying that the husband would be back soon
Five miles to travel in treacherous weather
Seeking the one doctor for hundreds of miles
Twelve hours of labor now seemed like days.
Fell trees and shaved off roof tops, toppled by whipping winds
Rising rivers were swollen, and flooded make shift roads
Endless rain poured like there would be no end
Meanwhile her unborn child lay bridged as it battled for release
Suddenly the door burst open and the doctor rushed in
His clothes sticking to his skin; there was no time to change
With his palm he felt her forehead asking pertinent questions
He and the old midwife tried manually to turn the exhausted child
At each attempt, mother’s painful cry was heard in the distance
She gave one guttural scream and usherd her baby into the world
The child, born limp, barely breathing as the mid wife took her away
He starred into her eyes, and knew that she was beyond his help
He brought the new born to lie in her mother’s warm arms
The silence was noticeable; the raging storm had passed
The sound of light rain, now a comfort, gently tapped upon tin roof
In a soft, weak voice she called her husband and managed a smile
Then she blessed her child with words from a mother’s heart
“May you be a light, swift as lightning when days grow dark.”
“May you have wisdom and foresight beyond your days”
“May your heart nurture and remain open to love”
“Like rain, may you bring life to all “
“Born this stormy night, your name will be “Rain”.
~*~
By : Audrey Carey
Note: Imagination at work:) Written for Constance's "Rain, The Story" Contest.
My imagination took me to some little village in Africa. This scene is played out in
many villages where health care is non-existent. However, there's always, thanks
to God, a wise, caring "midwife" to help mothers during delivery.
Everyday, countless miracles are performed by God through "midwives"!
I was here once
But now I'm one of the forgotten ones
I faded away slowly
Imperceptibly
Like the once vibrant blue of blue jeans
The edges frayed
as I walked along the road of fleeting popularity
I felt my fabric thinning
until I became comfortable
It made me kinda cool in a way
for I was worn almost every day
it felt better than okay
Paired with shirts and sweaters
until a time later other clothes seemed better
My holes became too noticeable
instead of somewhat perceptible
The day came
when I was sorta just a bit out of style
So you washed and folded me
carefully put on me on a shelf
After all I was a favourite
no one wants to throw a favourite away
Right there in the closet I stayed
Next to all the pretty new things
waiting
until the day
You might wear me again
But somehow
like sometimes
things just are what they are
faded old blue jeans
inexplicably disappear
If you ever do find them
You smile and remember
how they made you feel
But sadly
when you try them on
they don't fit anymore...
FADED
I was visible once
but now one of the forgotten ones.
I faded away slowly
imperceptibly,
like the once vibrant colour of blue jeans.
My edges frayed
as I walked along the road of fleeting popularity.
I felt my fabric thinning
until I became comfortable.
It made me kinda cool in a way.
I was paired with shirts and sweaters
until a time later other clothes seemed better.
My holes became too noticeable,
instead of somewhat perceptible.
The day came
when I was just a bit out of style.
So you washed and folded me
carefully put me on a shelf.
After all, I was a favourite.
No one wants to throw a favourite away.
Right there in the closet I stayed,
next to all the pretty new things.
I waited
craving the day
you might wear me again.
But somehow,
things just are what they are.
Faded old blue jeans
inexplicably disappear.
If you ever do find them
you smile and remember
how they made you feel.
Sadly though,
when you try them on,
they just don't fit anymore.
A hint of Autumn I can feel
in August when it starts to cool.
It's a small pup at my heel -
not too noticeable – yet real!
Though changes yet I cannot see,
a hint of Autumn I can feel.
More comfortable I’ll soon be.
September’s days are my ideal!
Like fruit when you remove their peel,
a zing revealed comes in the fall.
A hint of autumn I can feel.
Right now - a child - it’s at a crawl.
But by October leaves change hues.
Nature no more can conceal
the season’s beauty that ensues.
A hint of autumn I can feel.
The lines on my hand are baby-like soft, and pink with an almost
Imperceptible blue undertone.
there are bracelets of x’s around my wrist.
I stare at them fascinated.
It is said that the closer the lines are the same on both hands,
The more apt you are to living the life you had planned
Before you arrived.
Most of us have three deep lines in our palms.
The top Is the head line.
The length does not matter.
Is it deep? That is the important part.
The middle line is the heart line.
Does it branch off? It usually does. There are marriage lines
And relationship lines, less noticeable, but
There if you know where to look.
The line that makes a half moon around your thumb is your life line.
Oh, my gosh, yours is short? No worries.
It does not mean what you thought for a second.
If you really want to be fascinated by your hand lines, check out a palmistry book.
Circles, whorls, loops, and x’s mean different things.
The length of your fingers, and the relationship of one to another mean something too.
I have no idea how accurate the study of palmistry is, but it is fun to study,
And if you lose your hands in a pile of hands,
It will be a lot easier to identify them.
cake & eat it
bored with the
relationship s/he’s in
but not wanting to leave
the positive aspects,
thinking s/he’s too old to
start again &
been there before anyway---
with a pattern s/he knows
all too well
looming just over the horizon,
s/he takes the plunge,
not looking before s/he leaps &
not wanting to think about
the significant other
who may be at home
wondering, waiting &
wanting to get to the bottom of
the change in
habits (all that are noticeable &
s/he thinks they aren’t),
the change in his/her look
(clearly prepping for somebody
else & the audience at home
ain’t buyin’ that its them),
the change in the craving for
attention from the one s/he lives
with &
of course, the list goes on---
s/he starts to look outside the
cell, refusing to leave on her/his
own,
desiring &
desiring &
burning up
inside with
sheer want, until
s/he comes across
someone that s/he cannot have,
someone who says s/he’s got to
choose between the stability of
boredom at home or
a new trip, entirely,
someone who reveals the obvious in
plain English---
“cannot have your cake & eat it
too.”