Best Own Poems
Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...
POETRY FOR POETS
(I own this- edition)
Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the **** of life
manure
Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.
Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet
though occasionally
poems require to be forged
beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
accurately placed
ensuring they will be nailed
to their purpose
Pruned
dead words and metaphors
selectively snipped away
stunning display
There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire
Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love
Sensing and yearning allure of daydreams
My musings amble in meadows of themes,
Sometimes wowing ebullience of dawning,
Sometimes luxuriating in moonlit evening
Gazing lambent skies of stellar twinkling,
Inviting me to echo my inner most feelings;
Of whispers romantic when love is courting,
Of giggling streams and blossoming springs,
Of resplendent autumn’s falling gilded leaves,
Of fate unkind, bawling, in throes of grief,
Of pristine joy beaming from mother’s eyes
Jubilant in delight of child’s innocent smile;
Of ebb and flow to life in seasons undulating
Spurring me to attribute form and meaning.
So, I write verses stemming from core of soul
Striving to capture essence of elusive words,
Exploring assonance, even in rhymeless prose,
Attempting to inspire spirit of wordless woes
As thoughts-poetic heart’s rhythms compose;
Of chromatic sunsets and scintillating dawns,
Of starless nights hosting tenebrous bygones,
Of tales strumming romance, of fables forlorn,
Of ideas enthroned, of paradigms bemoaned,
Of boundless expressions, of passions I own.
August 30, 2022
Placed 2nd: I Write Because Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Who was that masked man?!?
Brian Williams, rides again.
He was in Amilia Earhart's plane;
even rode with the Dalton Gang.
The day the Titanic went down;
In the rescue boat when Rose was found.
He went on expeditions with Louis and Clark.
Once gave his seat to Rosa Parks.
He was actually the first man in space.
That shadow on the moon........ It's his face!
The earliest woman, they deemed to be
bones in the desert they named Lucy.
She was his niece, tho she drug her knuckles,
so he really is a monkey's uncle!
He walked miles and miles on the Trail of Tears;
wondered the desert with Hebrews for forty years.
He dated Cleopatra; drank wine with Moses;
gave the Queen of Sheba a camel and roses.
He's walked with Bigfoot in the hills;
been bitten by vampires, but magically heals.
He has had great adventures of every kind.
He's Brian Williams; a legend in his own mind.
Maybe I can be one of those news cast stars.
This is Arlene, reporting from mars........
Couldn't resist this little tribute to the wild stories of reporter Brian Williams who was fired for seemingly padding up his stories....
Let me own the Night
Let the others play on bright sun-filled days,
in song and merriment, play on.
Let me own the shadows that seep into your soul,
yet still promise hold, a promise of sleep 'til dawn.
With the morning pray.., bring them on gilded and gossamer wings,
for bright is their future with warmth of everlasting hope, and hearts lifted.
I long to be as cold and silent as a blanket of new fallen snow,
to spin webs, translucent, with life ebbing and borne of tragic past.
When, at last, clouds part and ominous foreboding dread flees,
into the corners, hiding..sinless, without remorse or regret.
Let me own this cloak, beautiful as rough-hewn stone,
I no longer seek acceptance, nor call another's fate my own.
May Calliope sing and lull them to a blissful place, redemption their's to keep,
for it was always said that it must be so.
I will continue to turn away from the calamity of the sun,
for what's left unsaid remains unsaid, what's left undone, undone.
No tears will be shed that will be seen where shadows lie,
the dark will hold them, it would seem, and so shall I.
The Hole Deep in One’s Own Heart
In moments of greatest loss, sadness and sorrow,
A hole forms so deep within one’s own heart;
There it shall remain so for each ‘n every morrow,
Until life’s end when comes our Heavenly depart!
My dearest, such times of tribulation define us pure,
For we know not all the twists and turns of this life;
We must keep our faith ever true, never it to abjure,
Whilst seeking angelic guidance from this human strife!
As we recommit our true faith in God’s blessings above,
We seek solace in His love that only our souls may find;
With this our passions ‘n emotions form the deepest love,
Giving us His blessing as our souls return His love in kind!
God’s love brings our eternal souls into His Heavenly space,
And makes our injured hearts whole in His Divine embrace!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 11, 2017 (Shakespearean Sonnet)
(Inspired by Abe Lincoln’s poem “Memory”)
Mortality's Own Friend
So sadly here, among the dead,
I live - mortality's own friend.
Recalling all that's lost, I tread
so sadly here, among the dead.
Sweet memories are as a thread
which link the living to their end.
So sadly here, among the dead,
I live - mortality's own friend.
Here is Abraham Lincoln's "Memory," which really speaks to me
(I could not get it to copy/paste from here to the box above:
Memory
by Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
My childhood’s home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There’s pleasure in it, too.
O memory! thou midway world
’Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that’s earthly, vile,
Seem hallowed, pure and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar --
So memory will hallow all
We’ve known but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
The friends I left that parting day
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray;
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I’m living in the tombs.
I write upon the fluttering pages of your mind,
My words of hope to make your spirit soar:
Reveal your inner light and charm,
When dark gloom and grief sow
Seeds of despair, never let them your soul pursue
And grow; pluck them out and away you throw.
I write upon rustling leaves of your thoughts that flow
From the tree of your heart, my words anew
To ease your unease and repose:
When dreadful storms do harm
Your mind's cool ocean, let pearls of peace cast ashore,
And help you smile at warm sunrise behind.
I write upon those empty spaces that I find
In your fragile heart, my words to implore
You to be ever poised and calm:
When endless waves of woes
Try to inundate you, never let them drown you.
Bask in the brightness of your own glint glow.
On My Own
It is early in the day for most.
I am just going to sleep. ‘
This will make many people angry.
But at times, I just don’t care.
I wish that I did.
A glass of wine, a pill from the doctor.
That is not enough.
Soon, it is a second glass, a second small tablet.
I have to keep up to everything; that is expected.
I have done so for so long, I don’t remember…
any other life.
Others hurt too. I see. I watch. I listen.
Everywhere, pain. Suffering!
Then there is that moment, you ask yourself???
“Do I like me anymore?”
(All drugs, alcohol or “other” should be taken in front of a mirror.
You need to see for yourself what things are doing to you…legal or not.)
If the answer is not hopeful…
then the problem is great indeed.
The burden heavy, the measure of it,
only “You” know.
Oh, and Him.
Friends,
Hope is sometimes right there.
In front of everything, seated in the best place.
Yet we “choose” to walk on, the path unknown,
Careless, reckless and dangerous to ourselves,
and even to others.
If that is happening, or worse has happened?
You have been given permission to go back.
“He” died to make it possible.
You can make it right.
It is a gift.
You are valued. You have a place.
You are loved.
Sometimes when I write, I tend to stretch the truth.
Same as when I gossip; I've done that since my youth.
It's not so much deliberate, but to tell a story well,
Folks tend to stray from tedious facts to magnify the tale.
This habit's often utilized a bit, I have surmised,
In speeches heard at funerals for loved ones eulogized.
By writers of the news I'd say it ought not be employed.
But “doozies” can be found inside almost any tabloid.
I think, for my defense, especially writing nonsense,
I need to find the place to get my own poetic license.
I pose to you this question- In my practice as a poet,
If I get myself a license then, to whom should I then show it?
for Let 'er rip (the mention of poetic license made me want to do this one!)
Along this season’s mid quarter-time,
I find myself wandering between
The raw of night’s wanton pleasure
And the sacredness from morn awakened:
Late evenings replay a dancing fire
when each hour blazes thrilled adventures
daring the self to run with passion: jazz music
gyrating through city lanes, sauvignon kisses
from love’s rendezvous, the late communion
with this artist's brush—an expressionistic glow!
The Poet's Own for Greg Barden's Contest
8/29/2017
Courage held In heart of Lion
Celtic memory of ancient reunion
In arena of Death's bloody passion
Lion's fight for life the prize
Swords held high salute the Caesar
Two giants hold their swords down low
Back to back now Celtic Lions
The Caesar drops his mighty hand
As pipes they began churning tunes
lamenting sadness sails across oceans
eternal darkness envelopes grief
in victory a crowd roars kill
within lust rising a mob salute
Thoughts fall back to ancient homeland
Mighty Arrach sacred mound
Sun In golden light descending
Emerald green this sacred land
Professions of Love given
Warrior queen does take my hand
Peace and Love once In a Celtic land
From hibernia out of a mist
one lonely teddy bear at sea
dressed in her green attire
sparkling shades her jewels
caressing rocks at her feet
shores washed by the great atlantic
kissing white foam spray
Mighty mountains stand together
Weapons crashing thunders song
As enemies strong advancing to destroy a Celtic song
Yet heart sings eternal memory
Ancient pride Celts viper sting
Blood rising crowd passion
Cheering death In passions' thrall
Celts In storm of fight
Ancient memories golden passion comes
In Pride and honour
we are a fighting race of warriors
groomed in our mothers songs of freedom
sail a world over wild geese
defending with pride in great honor
strong our calling haunting deep waves
we are the children of a nation who cry
mourning in the spirit drunken sings out
in prayer kneeling down welcoming freedom
red flowing a river soaks battles soil
another fight one bites the dust
A Collaboration by Liam Mc Daid & Michael Clarke.
My own proverb.....
Dream with your words, make love with your pen
And create an art of poetry with your soul.
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
All rights are reserved @ 2016 Ravi Sathasivam
Maternal tears
Never managing to let go
Vicarious pleasure, vicarious pain
Wishing their life were easier
Wishing they could avoid the pitfalls
You see so clearly
The traps that seem so obvious
Wishing solutions were as clear to them
As they are to you
They need to live their own life
As you lived yours
Learn their lessons on their own
They want to express their individuality
They’re not mini versions of you
Or your second chance at life
They need to plough their path
Clear their own way
Create their own world
Responsible for their own consequences
As you yourself had to do
Your hand delivering prepackaged solutions
Cannot help since it’s figuring it all out
That’s the process of growing up
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 4, 2018 to contest YOUR BEST POEM IN THE LAST YEAR sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 1ST
November 17, 2017 Poem of the Day
Originally posted on November 15, 2017
In the middle of my own small world I stand,
Both feet planted firmly on the land.
Gold is the sun in the sky.
Oh, that I could fly!
Then you see -
I
Would be free!
Earth-bound, though, I sigh.
I'll remain so till I die.
Knowing that out there is something grand,
In the middle of my own small world I stand.
Written 2/5/15
Now for Joseph May's 'Andaree - 11 Lines' Poetry Contest
Some people call it breakfast which makes me snicker and giggle
It might have been since it starts with a pancake or two
except then I add extra things to make it into a dessert.
At the very least I add a pacakage of vanilla pudding,
a teaspoon of cinammon, a quart of fat luscious blue berries
Then I lavishly sprinkle it with a cup of brown sugar.
Next I add.....
Bananas, chocolate syrup, maple syrup,
Caramel syrup, and of course I top it off
with half a spray can of whipping cream. When I eat
all of the whipping cream off, I use the rest of the can.
When my masterpiece is finished no one would suspect
it ever started out as a couple of simple pancakes.
Except my family who have started making their own
concoctions - each starting with two pancakes.