Best Over Him Poems
"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go . . . "
ee Cummings
No human ever touched me so wonderfully
as did a soul by the name of Ollyver.
I adopted Ollyver when he was only one year old.
Not too fond of males (perhaps abused by them),
he immediately took to me as I snuggled him on the drive home.
In time I discovered he was not too fond of anyone at all -
other than me! Ollyver was a white miniature Eskimo dog.
Ollyver followed me everywhere.
Knowing instinctively when I would be home from work,
he waited by the door and then leaped up into my arms
the minute I walked in.
In the night, he would curl up next to me.
He did not like my husband’s presence on the bed,
but he learned to adjust despite their mutual dislike for each other!
One day, for reasons I won’t mention, I was separated from my beloved dog.
Many tears I cried over him, for I had experienced from him
an unconditional love that perhaps no human had ever shown me.
I knew he was somewhere in my city, but he was at least ten years old
and I guessed he would die in a few years.
A few years passed, and one night, I believe my beloved dog
visited me on his way out of this earthly realm,
for I awoke to see him standing on my bed.
My heart filled with joy as I saw him there.
He jumped over my husband’s sleeping body
and into my arms. I buried my face in his soft white fur.
The event was so real to me, yet I fell back into a dream
in which I wandered the streets with Ollyver.
Never have I had such a spiritual experience
(not even with my own family) as what I had
with this little dog
whom I like to believe returned to me
that night of my splendid dream.
How could a mere animal have been
of such relevance to me in my life?
I know only this. . . I was loved completely by Ollyver,
and for that reason,
I carry his heart with me.
For the 'Beloved Pets' Poetry Contest
TOLERANCE
I have little tolerance for tolerant people.
Those that will endure the corruption of
the truth, the erosion of meaning. While at
the same time being intolerant of your
opinions, thoughts, and level of tolerance.
There is a quote attributed to Voltaire:
“I disapprove of what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”
How many of the “tolerant” would be willing
to fight for our right to “disapprove of what
they say”? Hush the crowd so that we might
be heard? Unblock their ears and hearts and listen?
Does the present day “tolerance”
lack tolerance, lack understanding,
lack the ability to endure a voice that
is not in tune, does not sing the same
song, does not pray the same prayer?
Or do they tolerate, put up with, the “fool”,
while denying acceptance of his opinions,
his beliefs. Perhaps the fool is more tolerant than they.
Listening to what they say, watching how they
carry themselves, interact with those “different”
than themselves.
For they think him a “fool”, because they do
not know that he thinks, what he thinks,
and most sadly, they do not care to know.
They will tolerate his presence but not allow
him to be present, listen to his voice yet hear
nothing, speak of equality while lauding their
position, education, power over him.
For they are tolerant only of themselves,
of their ideas, their thoughts, their peers,
their alleged - equals.
They disapprove of us, and what we say,
and will defend their right to keep it so.
John G. Lawless – 6/9/2014
In the stillness of my room I lay in bed
arms snugged tightly around my pillow
turned side-ways facing moon and light
But it is not the burnt orange moon
but glowing embers in his eyes that warm my vacant night.
Tonight ,I see him just like on other nights
He is the vision in my last waking thought
He breathes within every breeze in my sleep
He rests right beside me holding my hand and dreams.
Tonight ,I recall his soft whisper in yesterdays'path
Sweet -nothings in my ear touched soft-spots of my heart.
I find him in mountains bathing in fresh rain
riding on horses in memory lane.
I watch him get closer calling out my name
Its there when I kissed him , then ran far away.
I see him on earlier days where He has found me
It was love at first sight and instant chemistry .
It was deep affection for a blue collar guy
with dirt on his shirt and an amorous smile.
I smelled poverty all over him ,and on his soaked fuel rag.
Smelled the soap on his skin , and books in his bag.
He passed one to me ,and said it is mine
I made him a pledge that I'd scribble a line.
One line followed others in chapters of time
Chapters of star spumes, sunrise , and sky
Chapters of novels about a blue collar guy.
Inspired by a book I read in my early teens .called 'Mysterious Mountain Man'
-For Melissa
She asked me how long does it take to heal
In what time allotment, exactly, will it take
For forgetfulness to become a reoccurrence
A blessing for the haunted
Memories that can be bleached off
White sundresses put on in order to frolic
On beaches with waves washing away
Each grain of him
How long did it take for you to get over him?
Days? Weeks? A month or two?
Hope shining like a naïve flashlight during the eclipse of hardest times
Beaming on me, waiting for an answer
How could I tell her, honestly,
That it took me years
To overlook the smallest details of his smile
How he only has one dimple on the right side of his face
The way his hands felt, every line and crevice of his fate
Thought to fit mine perfectly?
How could I tell her, truthfully
That no matter how many times I washed my sheets
I would catch the scent of him at 3:45 am, sometimes
Or hear his faint tapping on my window
When it’s really just, my imagination
That she’ll spend months waiting for him to text her
Call her, email her, think of her
When really he’s lying in bed with another women but she refuses
To believe that it’s over
Or how my heart still aches, just a little
When I hear he asked about me
Or that he can no longer say my name out loud to our mutual friends
Could I muster up the courage to explain to her
That it took me 2 years, 3 months, and 16 days to realize
The ugliness of being pathetic
It was time to rise up and take the lead
Time to forget all romantic casualties
It’s only yesterday that I found myself straining to remember
His faults, forgetting the man and only remembering the hero
How could I break her heart for the second time by telling her
The truth?
She stood there patiently waiting for me
To pull a metaphor out of a hat, something poetic
Comforting, beautiful, reassuring
I see myself in her
Wanting people to lie to us to see the Zen in ourselves
It’s like we’re all in the same play with the same roles but different names
It takes time for each actor to fulfill the destiny
Others emphasize while others downplay
Moments in time
How A Poet Was Born
Jacob Payne aka John Posey sat alone by the fire
When it came the time he would normally retire.
But his eyes would not listen to slumber’s request
And soon finding sleep became a physical test.
His heart was in panic and he felt it would burst
There were words coming to him that he must say first.
Words about bridges he’d crossed long ago
Across destiny’s caverns so far below.
Strange feelings came over him – he felt so alone
Then he felt a strange peace like he’d never known.
Sweet memories of childhood were at his command
Up to the time he would stand as a man.
He recognized memories that must not be lost
Lest eternal restlessness would be his cost.
And before he had time to stop and think
He reached for a half used bottle of ink.
The words kept coming like wind driven snow
Till his pen took on a near ghostly glow.
These things I can relate to you now
Are counted as a beautiful gift, somehow.
And no matter how hard I try as I might
The words stay hidden as on a long lonely night.
Written By John Posey
9/10/14
My ordinary life -
like the plain stretching across the region of my birth,
has been for the most part
rather smooth.
Though sometimes on my path, I’d encounter hills,
they were few and were not difficult
to get over.
One day on my travels when I was still young
I came across a man who, like a majestic mountain,
would take my breath away.
He captured my attention completely,
distracting me from all the normal things
my plain life had entailed.
When he smiled, it was as if
the sun were peeking over him
in golden splendor.
Madly in love with him I fell,
and every day I worshiped at the mountain.
This was a short phase in my life -
a time of pure enchantment but also woe.
I behaved as if I were a stream, a babbling school girl
murmuring with joy for a while
as I meandered
the mountain’s pleasant aspects,
but one day my meandering came to a halt.
Coming to a cliff’s edge, I became a waterfall
frothy with madness as
I plunged
to the rocks below.
Picking myself up, I had to turn my back
to the glorious mountain.
A final look at him, and I saw the red sun sinking
into June’s cool night.
Finding my way back to the plain, I trudged.
At the mountains of madness, I’d known something -
something I had foolishly mistaken for love.
Other mountains wait there, for me, for you,
for almost anyone who desires to find one.
But since my later summer years and in my fall,
I’ve kept walking on the plain,
for it is truly, after all,
my heart land.
for the But it was not real Poetry Contest of Lewis Raynes
An Devil's Dalliance
It was just one of those mornings?
Or at least I think it was, that is,
if I had created “morning’s” yet.
All my little angels trying out their
wings (in a strictly non-competitive
manner of course). I was slightly
distracted by Creation at the time
so some of the details are a bit
sketchy---the “all knowing” thing
a bit exaggerated---however I did
suspect some shenanigans within
a small group. You know, changing
the shape of the clouds, a seemingly
innocent diversion had become a
bit racy. They were playing with
rainbows and dabbling in an
evolving plot. Anyway, when “he”
showed me his “new” pet – the
duckbilled platypus - I had to draw
the line. After a thorough scolding
I sent him back down to clean up
the mess he’d made. A darkness
came over him (we call it anger now)
his wings darkened, his eyes glared,
a putrid wind arose beneath him
(the scent of defiant rebellion).
I still remember the sting of his
scathing good-bye. “I’ll start my
own “heaven!”. “I’ll be bigger than
you.”
“Until an hour before he left
I thought him beautiful”*
“I still do, for I know the
truth of who he is and wait
patiently for him to realize it.”
3/4/2016
*Arthur Miller, The Crucible
“Until an hour before the Devil fell, God thought him beautiful in Heaven”
submitted to Expand Arthur Miller’s Thought – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Julia Ward
Little did she know, she was never "The girl"
No matter what she does, or what happens.
It was not her, it will not be her.
Those fairy times were just a mirage,
A disguise to cover his scars.
She never stopped getting hurt, how could she?
She gave him his best, still watched him choose someone else and flee.
Maybe she was his best friend but she always craved for more
Maybe he never recognised her love, they stood at a different shore.
What she had for him, he never saw, never even felt.
If only her heart could see, even the icebergs would melt.
She became his respite and he her ocean.
She actually didnt know, if it was a mistake she makes.
But at the end of the day, it was her heart that breaks.
She should move over him, for now is the time.
Her feelings will get slaughtered, there will never be a rhyme.
She did everything she could to get him over his ex-girlfriend.
Little did she show that he was falling for someone else.
Little did she know, she was never "The girl"
No matter what she does, or what happens.
She and the handsome gentleman finalized the contract, and he gently placed
the antique pearl necklace into the palm of her tiny hand. As he walked away,
she fantasized about making love with him, for he possessed both charm and
exceptional good looks; he certainly was enchanting...thick, black wavy hair,grey-
green eyes...tall...muscular ~ oh, those muscles...all over his tanned body...head
to toe.
But she wondered about that limp as he walked away, depending on a heavy
metal
staff
for
balance...
after all, an eternity of beauty and power in exchange for
one
pathetic
soul.
The evening of the deed was a frigid six degrees, and there was a dead smell of
the sun. She stayed late after work, waiting anxiously until everyone had gone.
Finally, he was alone in his office, so she placed the pearl necklace around her
fragile neck and unbuttoned her red, silk blouse so to reveal her sexy red
camisole.
She entered the office, and gently leaned over him from behind; he was aroused
by the scent of her "Red Door" cologne...his favorite, and his senses were even
more heightened as he turned around and observed her erect breasts speaking
in a language only he understood. With his large hands, he slowly explored her
thighs, making his way up her black skirt.
"You have beautiful legs."
"You think so, huh?"
They kissed, and the necklace brushed his chest; he didn't feel well, at all. He
was hot...so hot, and his body began its metamorphosis, retaining a grayish
tinge....then blackish...
He
burst
into
flames;
then, disappeared along with all omens of the deed.
She walked over to the black wrought iron mirror and smiled; her wrinkles were
gone...vanished...just as promised; she was ten years younger.
The windows began sweating, and the handsome stranger appeared.
"I have one more assignment for you."
"But we made a deal, one soul."
She began to feel peculiar, and as she viewed herself in the black mirror, she
began aging...ten years...twenty...thirty...she pulled out a large clump of thin, white
hair.
The room darkened from his moonly mind.
"My dear, the other soul...is yours."
He sits in a wheelchair pushed to the curb. The people around him move aside to assure he is able to see. His shrunken body a shell of what it used to be. His breathing labored, aided by the tube that extends from the oxygen tank attached to his chair. On his head, he sports a blue campaign cap with VFW stitched in gold. He is one of America's finest, come to pay his respects.
Behind him stands a younger woman who has guided him there. A daughter perhaps, fussing over him, adjusting the robe in his lap, assuring his comfort. He shows no resistance to the attention, but simply sits and waits.
In the distance drums are heard, soon to be joined by the sound of horns. A stirring march riffles over the crowd, and an electricity grips their senses. Soon the call of cadence is heard. The measured tramp of boots, perfectly in time with the music. It grows louder until at last, a military formation looms into view. Uniformed soldiers, marching in perfect rows, perfect columns, gleaming boots, ribboned chests, weapons at rest on their shoulders. The crowd stirs. Small flags are waved. Cheers erupt. Pride hangs thick in the air.
The color guard approaches. Banners held high, snapping in the breeze. Some spectators remove their caps while others cover their hearts. Children, hoisted to their fathers shoulders, clap in excitement.
The old man tugs at the woman's sleeve and motions for her to come closer. She leans down and listens as he speaks, then asks "are you sure"?. He nods his head. Walking to the front of the chair, she removes the robe and, grasping his outstretched hands, pulls him slowly to his feet, where he stands with her assistance. Those around him watch as the frail, stooped body, with some difficulty, stands more erect. They see the pain etched on his face, and the tear that escapes his eye as he offers a salute as the flag passes by.
Suddenly, the cadence count stops, and in it's place is heard a command . A command normally reserved for when passing a reviewing stand. "Company, eyes right" the guidon bearer bellows, and with that, he returns the aging veterans salute, a sign of respect for an old soldier. After all, it is his flag. It is his country. He bought them both many years ago.
Bob Quigley
Jan 10, 2012
He glances out the window,
And watches the sunset,
But he doesn’t see the beauty,
Nor the warm rays which,
Pierces through the glass,
Only the anticipation and,
Anxiety of a long night,
Carefully, he watches,
The colors change,
First the bright orange,
"God I pray this never ends…"
Filling with a deep red,
"Just a little while longer…"
Slowly softening to the,
Deceptive pinks and purples,
"Please, one more minute…"
Fading into the crimson black,
Which only night can bring,
Reluctantly, he gets ready for sleep,
Yet, knows it will never come,
He tossed and turns,
Half praying, half waiting,
Knowing what will happen,
In the way only a child can,
A light! It peeks through a crack,
In the door as a shadow floods the opening,
Quickly, the figure slips through the door,
And shuts it softly, but not without the,
Empty creak which has become so familiar,
The shadow climbs in beside him,
Touching his trembling leg, whispering,
“Hush little brother, it’ll be alright,
While I’m here, have no fear,
I’ll keep you safe tonight,”
He struggles and writhes,
Sadly knowing he will never,
Break the grip and prays to faint,
To loss all consciousness and,
Memory of that horrible night,
Just for one night without the pain,
Just for one night without,
The cold empty feeling,
Several years pass, too many to count,
A single call, one he had never expected,
He rushes to the hospital to find,
His tormentor for so many years,
Lying on a cold, hard bed,
Able to move, but only by pushing a button,
Able to speak, but only with a whisper,
He stays by him for weeks, caring for him,
Reading to him, watching over him,
Still suffering, still unable to move,
He takes his brother home,
The day goes on, moving slow as all,
The evening comes and he,
Watches once more as the sun sets,
Carefully watching, Orange to red,
Red to purple, and as the purple turns to black,
He walks into the room where his brother lies,
Slowly, he sits next to him, holding a pillow,
Stroking his head whispering,
“Hush big brother, it’ll be alright,
While I’m here, have no fear,
I’ll keep you safe tonight,”
The difference between right and wrong,
Can be hard to find,
But who’s there to see you,
When justice is blind?
“Seducer, healer, deity or thief,
I will see you soon enough—
in the shadow of the rainfall,
in the brief violet darkening a sunset—
but until then I pray watch over him
as a mountain guards its covert ore
and the harsh falcon its flightless young.”
-Dana Gioia’s Prayer
Captivated, cruelly scorned
Innocence breached in the caress of sifting leaves
I breathe…
Shards of crimson ice splitting the skies,
I breathe…
Hung in the nest of my Guardian’s threshold
I breathe…
I receive the tantrums of travesty,
Though I pause, the air suspended in my lungs
Death, damasked and naked
The hairs of his youth dancing in the breeze
I breathe…I breathe…
Words of ire, phantom echoes in my mind,
I breathe…I breathe
The pain of existing taught in those eyes
I breathe…I breathe
Until the fighting for control ceases
Until the lungs are filled to the brim with torrential tears
My eyes, open, lifeless
I see you, gallant Guardian
A silhouette sobbing, a heart pounding and throbbing
You sing to me, lulling life wonder
Spices surround me, for you are my Gatherer of needed scent
Allowing your tears to fall, refusing to grieve
Seeing in me budding revelation
Your lips hot against mine
Gently, gently you breathe
And in Death’s astonished brow,
I live
(7/5 Trochee Poem)
Chicken Little, thinking that
sky was soon to fall,
saw a mortuary and
crawled beneath a pall.
He was in a strange dark box
where a dead man lay.
Then before he knew it, they
hauled that box away!
He was moved, but that poor bird
couldn’t get a look,
for they’d closed the wooden lid,
Chicken Little shook.
When the casket got dropped down
in the ground so deep,
Chicken Little, very scared,
still made not one peep!
He was sure the sky fell down
when he heard the dirt
being shoveled over him.
This was gonna hurt!
Nothing happened, but he could
barely take in air.
Am I dying? Little thought:
Is the sky still there?
No more would the animals
hear poor “Little’s” call
warning them of tragedy
if the sky should fall.
Chicken Little never guessed
he was murdered by
that same earth he‘d walked upon,
and not by the sky!
Moral: Fear can sometimes lead you into something far worse than you ever imagined, so be careful not to fear things too greatly!
An oldie for Joseph May's Fabled Musings Poetry Contest
Just outside the window
a row of coned shaped trees bend their foolish heads
for her attention...
She can have her way with them...
yet, with such a wily nature, she passes over them,
and softly treads a path through the garden gate...
Her steps are light as dew, making not a sound...
as she hesitates to wake a slumbering rose...
and timidly brushes past a trellis of sleeping morning glories...
She peeks in, then slowly slithers through his open window, while he lies sleeping....
The angle of her glance makes his closed eyes flutter...
and he smiles....
Her appearance casts shadows on the far wall, as she stares across the room at him
She tarries for a moment
A reflected image on the mirror spreads her silken white cloth...
He feels her move over him...
He is kissed by this welcome intruder, ...hypnotized by her charm, and her cool breath...
Dazzled by this embrace, he tosses the quilt, in restless dream....
She caresses so softly, filling his heart, and making him sigh...
He basks in her love, and lies in sweet gratitude in his sleepy state
enraptured with sweet contentment
Soaking up and drunk with the intoxication of her shine
Outside, a lonely eucalyptus tree is jealous...
Impatient and longing to feel such affection....
It's branches clamor against the glass, hoping to break her spell on him...
But, woefully....
angry clouds intrude to steal away the moment...
She runs and hides!
No longer does he feel the kiss,...the sweet lunar incandescence of her breath...
The seduction of her glow...
Coolness and disappointment envelop him as darkness returns again...
And he is once again alone in the shadows of the dark
He must pull his blanket up, and dream of other lovers.....
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For Dr. Ram Mehta's contest..."Luna... Goddess of the Moon"
"Outside Closed Circles"
Tall limbed stories
are stilts
to walk softly
aloft the shallows
casting shadows
bruised in purple
a double degree
in stray fellows
luxury is the
comfort calling
in front of all the Lost
pressed between pages
keeping safe between lines
transparent cowards
blooming now
between pages
kisses soft and velvet
like moist dew drops
on forgotten blue flowers
that unfurl skywards
fresh and smiling
lick the golden syrup
of his sun
Lux
is
Love
Could this be
Life again
Beginning
again
unravelling
before the feet
of the somnolent casual
outside
closed circles
and
black shadows
under the eyes of
the thinned skinned
Is this the
Begin Again?
the true story
unravels
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Wake Up Alone" / Amy Winehouse
https://youtu.be/bS8-qQojlhA
“Drowned in me,
we bathe under blue light
His face in my dreams
seizes my guts
He floods me with dread
Soaked in soul,
he swims in my eyes by the bed
Pour myself over him,
moon spilling in
And I wake up alone “
LYRICS/ "Wake Up Alone", Amy Winehouse
https://genius.com/Amy-winehouse-wake-up-alone-lyrics