Best Overtones Poems
And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!
When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger
Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact
They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood
Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”
Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings
Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited
They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads
Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies
…
And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?
When will the flinty sheep
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began
Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands
©Drake J. Eszes
There’s a poet who thinks we are not
such great writers, yet she’s not that hot!
What that smarty pants spoke
was like saying to coke,
“You’re illegal” when SHE’S like pure pot!
For the the Dumb and Dumber Personal quotes Poetry Contest
I always liked the expression "The pot calling the kettle black"
but because of its racial overtones, a guy did a blog in which
a person identified as Celyn came up with this alternative more politically
correct quote: "Like the pot calling the coke illegal." It really struck
me as clever, and to me it went really well with this situation that I
describe in my limerick, which, sadly, I have seen more than just a
time or two, here at Soup.
I grieve for Summer, watching the leaves die,
and as tears of emotion swell, I cry.
For saying goodbye is such a bummer,
watching the leaves die, I grieve for Summer.
Autumn drapes the land in a scarlet shroud,
sensing Autumn's approach; Summer was cowed.
And acquiescing to Nature's command,
in a scarlet shroud, Autumn drapes the land.
I feel a chill creeping into my bones
as the wind moans with ghostly overtones.
And treading on the dregs of Autumn's kill:
creeping into my bones, I feel a chill.
When Winter arrives, snow softens the stage,
at first, a lady, Winter holds her rage.
And ensuring Nature's wildlife survives,
snow softens the stage when Winter arrives.
It was something
that brought a smile
to my face.
It had unusual underpinnings
with desirable overtones,
a pleasurable experience
as I wandered aimlessly
through concoctions Neanderthal
perpetuations ministered aloft
in dreams drearily
bound by time, space
glittery amidst synchronizing
to a land of make-believe
where all desires
could be fulfilled
it tantalized senses
drifting through subconscious
perplexity illuminating
dismal repercussions stifled
by cold truths.
Allow me to confess how gratifying it is
To see the rainfall of lights permeate through your eyes,
Swirling lightening warmth into my own
To see your thoughtful lips curve into a summer's beam
We energize each other as our words fall like playful spring petals,
Expressing our hearts' joys without grievance or complaint
But with genuine feeling and mutual delight
Fastened tight with love's newfound might
Artistic minds mix, dispersing colors others barely fathom
Upon the surface of their distracted rights,
Their distant autumnal attentions
Instead we dream, diligent of and in each other
Reflective of a world that snows and blizzards
Aware of the audience - the stars - that cry with glee in every climactic scene
We rise
For the sake of simply touching them
Every heart that means to listen
To such precious overtones
The subtle and soft notes below and above the melody
That make magic real,
And the darkest souls hopeful
I love to just watch you smile,
To take in every glimmering feeling
As they pass like seasons from dawn to sunset
Our feelings change
Our tunes build upon the ever growing masterpiece
That is our very existence,
Our union and our uprising of all that is life
I love to trace the silhouette of your grace,
To paint sounds and syllables where your eyes will accept them
To embrace you with an assuring memory to hold forever
We need not worry,
For the melody of this beautiful life has long waited
For the sustaining and blooming accompaniment
That we master, savor, and make better
My friend, my life,
From dawn to dusk,
And every trying night
These overtones will resonate our legacy for all time
Glorious hues arise from halo of morning sky
As dreamy eyes take me on a wondrous ride
Where cottony clouds scatter layers of purple
Adorning with shades of heliotrope flowers.
On my ride I visualize a celestial place on earth
Hearing fairy tales from fabled views unfolding,
And I ask my yawning bushes to vacate at once
So I can plant my lilac garden in sunrise colors.
Mesmerized by purple cues in orchid motifs
My day traversed gaily in enchanting overtones,
When clouds spewing gray darkened my show
Blocking twilight from glistening reddish glow.
Having lost sunrise, I hang on to sinking sunset
Assured by its scenic prowess I build my place
Near the lone lamp on street that is yet to be lit
Yearning for vistas of my daydream to repeat.
My place now occupies best of both worlds
Rising with mornings and setting with evenings,
Mimicking splendid hues of evocative contexts
Adoring fervent daybreaks and dreamy sunsets.
February 15, 2018
First Place:Sunrise and sunset contest by Silent One
Also placed first in ultimate 2018 contest by Brian Strand
A powder-blue sky turns prismatic
the sun glows marigold
chromatic colors, captivate, so charismatic
below the horizon an indigo sea glitters boldly
Looming clouds melt into marmalade
with overtones of a lavender hue
cerulean waves crash against sand the color of suede
as the setting sun slowly turns the sea sangria instead of blue
Streaks of tangerine reach down to touch the sea
iredescent lights bend and colors meld
giving way to a violet sky tinted with orange cream
the sun disappears turning periwinkle waves into midnight-blue swells
as night falls the colors fade
blue, purple and marmalade
Methinks pilots are such superior mortals
For their ability to make metals fly like fowls,
And soldiers have such an impressive mettle
That makes you salute their daring prowls.
Surgeons are such a precise and thoroughly seasoned breed
That will dumbfound with details of capillaries and veins,
And commanders-in-chief such colossal powers wantonly wield
Till they addict themselves to honor and extend their reigns.
A charismatic preacher will yodel tunes and heal the lame
And win a hefty standing among their peers in a moment;
The teacher is the final light and bearer of the last opinion
And their learned views sail without a single opponent.
But the poet is the chariot of thought that inspires them all.
He’s the silent roar of the Boeing with the pilot in,
He’s the muffled ricocheting of the soldier’s Kalashnikov;
The unspoken overtones of the preacher’s condemnation of sin,
The subtlest incision of the surgeon’s authorized blade
And the president’s solemn inspection of the honor parade.
Pain in the prophecy of wings through sultry sky
Orchestrating vision, love, destiny
Emancipating the tongue to tattle tales taloned with grief
Triumphing in truth to tumult another joy
Reel all poets in, glistening on a silver sliver of string
Yearning to for a final travail, immortality on wing.
Please God, tonight, dry her tears
Oyster her heart in your love
Eternal comforter of cares
Mystic center of the universe, a dove
Perpetual are music mustering our minds to sing
Overtones from the litany of emotions
Easeless wonder, sacrifice, oblation, offering
Tremulous thunder eastering devotions
Sweetly from the ragged anthems of our gift.
So polite. Wearing gloves. And hats. Hair in Easter colors.
Church ladies; prissy, smiling, crackling in their perfumes.
Flowered dresses, sitting primly on the hard wooden pews,
Singing in loud overtones songs they have known for decades.
Smiling at the Easter bonnets, and the tiny white lace gloves
Worn only by them and the toddlers now, everyone else in
Blue jeans, plaids, regular street clothes,
Sunday best no longer applies
Still they come, in their lavender hair, wearing their Bibles
In sheaves and satchels, letting their slips hang a bit in back.
Not as lively as before, but still with sparks they throw the
Way of Old Bill, the only bachelor over eighty, the reason some still come.
Lifted from somewhere, reference for attribution lost:
"If there is any characteristic which separates poets
from writers of fiction, it is their particular fascination
with words in themselves. Poetry is normally written
more slowly, more painstakingly than fiction and the
finished work is intended for careful, repeated reading.
It is natural for the poet to place a special emphasis
on the overtones, the rhythmical effect, and the sound
of words."
I shuffle papers, reread
what I have written long ago --
impelled now by the urge to say
something, not necessarily new,
but perhaps of minimal importance
and imbued with some logical meaning --
structured and stated in an "artistic"
and pleasing style.
Those thoughts, though, must convey
some meaning, cannot be
(or should not be) empty babble.
And ponderous subjects
are of little interest.
So, what makes poetic
expression pleasing,
or illuminating?
It begins with clarity of thought
with precision of expression;
it depends upon
having something to say
that is worth saying.
It always seems it may not always have been to clear
Telling mother you’re not sure about who you are
What you thought she was always expecting to hear
Went right into her heart like a knife to reopen a scar
And to finally come to see, no one could erase all the lies
No matter how I try I feel like a star in the sky after it dies
Reminding me life is just a quick sparkle alone in the skies
One thing is true, and that I wish is, that I never knew
The truth will always remind me of, my Mothers eyes
But the truth is here and my heart cries as I look out to the skies
And just admitted the truth and dropped this phony disguise
Now I will always be alone in the cold lonely darkness of the skies
Lost in the black holes of the heavens, hidden behind my Mothers eyes
And I can’t get away from the things that I still feel and hear
The whisper of a sigh and a cry, and the drop of a tear
Don't know why I hadn't thought, or known, but now I realize
In the overtones of their cries , tears, and all of their sighs
I will always remember, I saw it all, with my own Mothers eyes
The rock has iris rainbow overtones
with pins and needles on our wandering feet
and irradiates flowers and trees that absorb
radio clear and light-dark energies
The hummingbird sucks them
the insect pricks them
the cow gulps them down in its grass factory
Insects don´t understand brainy birds…
Who are these giants that fly like them?
Multicolored birds land on cows…
Who are these quadrupeds that emanate milk?
Better to fly, to look at the world below
round and covered with pollen and pollution
The equine understands not , the knowledge of his master
Where to , does he take him riding and riding?
He trusts his affection, strong , warm and secure…
and at the end to rest placidly in the horse feed stable
Humans don´t understand being and thinking…
The All created life, who created the All?
Beyond the universe, rotates an infinite space…
What a pleasure to sleep and not exist !
As cold as ice
Wrapped round your brain
And darkness unfolds
You’re breathing in pain
It’s been freezing here
In this Land of Shattered Dreams
It’s been freezing here
This corrupted winter stings
It’s been freezing here
(Où est la Lavande?)
Your body can’t stay warm
(Où est la Lavande?)
It’s been freezing here
(Où est la Lavande?)
This cruel and criminal storm
(Où est la Lavande?)
But don’t give up
Don’t despair
Taste the hope
Floating through the air
When the lavender returns
It’ll warm your frozen bones
Vivid violet clothes
In their candy overtones
When the lavender returns
It’ll race across the land
Rebel flower grows
In the palm of your free hand
If you look out your window
The ground’s parched and bare
If you call for your lover
She’s no longer there
If you ponder your life
Well, it feels like a wreck
And your failures are scars
You can never forget
As leaves turn brown
Sky fades to grey
You’re feeling the drought
The end of the day
It’s been lonely here
In this World of Fallen Souls
It’s been lonely here
With nowhere left to go
But don’t give up
Don’t despair
Taste the hope
Floating through the air
When the lavender returns
It’ll warm your frozen bones
Vivid violet clothes
In their candy overtones
When the lavender returns
(Où est la Lavande?)
It’ll race across the land
(Où est la Lavande?)
Rebel flower grows
(Où est la Lavande?)
In the palm of your free hand
(Où est la Lavande?)
When the lavender returns
(Où est la Lavande?)
It’ll warm your frozen bones
(Où est la Lavande?)
Vivid violet clothes
(Où est la Lavande?)
In their candy overtones
(Où est la Lavande?)
(The rehab of a supervisor)
My eyes! Saturated
with industrial crap, eventually
to intoxicate what’s left of one’s
bewildered brain.
My sight! Shackled to the
delusion of corporate inconsistencies,
when leading one’s head through each
enigmatic juncture.
My ears! Burn with unprincipled
mispronunciations, after boardroom
lampoons of delinquency miss the
mark, especially when delivered
within the queerness of each
insidious secretion, only then to be
viewed with suspicion, when basking
within the formulation of one’s own
comfort zone!
“Labeled” Non aspirant
when introduced to those
emerging within the endearment of
one’s company charter!
“Without ambition”
The blind clown of managerial youth
articulates, one score and five
not an option in this perfidious
global arena.
Astute! The annual assessment
in place, only to bolster
insecure managers.
A feedback, to aid keep one
in one’s place.
The first phase of corporate
correctiveness, complete with subtle
innuendoes.
Barriers! Put in place to analyze
inflexible overtones, before pleading
guilty of being in possession of too
many answers.
But alas! Enlightenment validated, only
if, of a positive kind.
Ah! Is this the answer! Positivity with
in this negative world, where truth has
lost its meaning in a labyrinth of
corporate “Lunacy?”
Seminar after seminar concoct to
intergrade somewhat aimlessly with
today’s intellect, corporate logic
filtered through hidden agenda, systems of
corrective surgery implanted, to keep
“Shop floor” On track.”
“I! And some, from
a bygone era, ridiculed, insulted,
with in the classroom.”
© Harry J Horsman 1999