Best Pale Yellow Poems
The End
Seeing through these cold dead eyes now,
This world looks much different.
The scars of one’s life entire,
Appear now for all to see.
What once meant everything,
Really means nothing now.
I still see and sense things mortal,
But the earthly world can’t hear my words.
Lying on an ice-cold white slab this darkest night,
I see the pale yellow moon’s sad face in the sky.
With visions of people who’ve crossed over before,
I wonder when Charon shall finally appear?
Shall it be him who appears on this new horizon?
Or shall it be someone or something else?
The everyday mortal world moves on as before:
Regardless of one’s wealth, poverty, fame, shame, infamy.
I guess now all the ancient mysteries of the universe,
Shall become obvious and answered in kind.
I wonder what shall be said to me and the reception?
Thumbs up or thumbs down—I guess I shall find out.
The pale yellow moon now appears brighter . . .
As if a special message cometh soon from a winged angel.
Hope this helps to answer my lingering questions . . .
As the dark void from the mortal world grows greater now.
I feel a gentle tug pulling me upward now from Earth’s grasp,
Into the majestic arms of infinity and into God’s eternal light!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
June 12, 2016 (Lyric)
To Dreamland on Sunset's Lullaby
Gracefully the young crescent moon
ascends the sky like a cosmic tune;
replacing the drowsy pale yellow sun
sinking on a golden glowing horizon.
To dreamland on a lullaby of silvery twilight...
to dreamland floating with music of night.
Even as shadows of day seek rest,
choirs of songbirds fly home to nest.
But asleep I'll be before stars start to shine;
asleep I'll be before Venus and Mars align.
To dreamland on a lullaby of silvery twilight...
to dreamland floating with music of night.
Melodies of powder-puff pinks and baby blues,
splashed on sunset's orange-tinted hues;
gently I'll slip into a cocoon of sweet slumber,
on the wings of a celestial lullaby so tender.
To dreamland on a lullaby of silvery twilight...
to dreamland floating with music of night.
The trials of day fade gloriously to gray,
and into Sandman's restful arms I will lay.
My restless spirit is calmed from within,
serenaded by nature's soothing violin.
To dreamland on a lullaby of silvery twilight...
to dreamland floating with music of night.
03-23-2018
Contest: Lullaby in the Sunset
Sponsor: Vermillion Scythe
Placement: 1st (PoetrySoup Premiere Contest winner)
Pigtails loosen yet messed,
twisted by pliant fingertips
of evening’s devilry…
tracing her budding breasts,
embers gleam from a lamplight, dim…
his jerked breathing quickens to rake
this young, tender flesh---
from pink , blood red, to pale yellow... despicable!
Invading her territory,
the blister of muffled silence
grates adolescent wails,yet…
crazed feasting of desire remains.
She quivers under a toppled quilt
brushed in wounded cotton...despicable!
And while darkness slides on metal frame,
he riles, riles with abandon,
grinning under a sinister moon
arsenic as the sweat of male hunger
to ravage a girlish body... trembling, trembling
while her cupped mouth stutters,
‘Please step-dad, no!’
‘Hush…dear baby, I am your angel,
guarding you from evil wolves..despicable!
Quietly, he pins the knob of conquest
until the frail child's porcelain doll
splatters on the floor, and then…
.............
Re-Posted /1/2017
Contest: Let's Talk About It
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
The slap of sneakers on concrete,
Fill my ears with hollow sound;
Like my heart it has a beat,
Steady thumps against the ground.
My eyes are wide, to take in any light,
But not many shine in the dark.
I couldnt stand another fight,
Another sharp and mean-cutting remark.
I stop to take a quick bent-over breath;
Soon I'll start again on my run.
This adreniline is like crystal-meth,
It'll keep me going, when I just want to be done.
My eyes open again in the night,
Surveying quickly the world around.
For this action I wont feel contrite,
Otherwise I'd soon be burried in the ground.
My jeans are ripped at the knees,
My shirt-a tanktop of the color black.
This need to get away is like a disease,
With not an urge to ever go back.
The lights shine on the road, a pale yellow-white,
They catch my green-blue frantic eyes.
Even with no one around, my chest squeezes tight;
Afraid that they'll wake up and find me gone, though i never said goodbye.
The railroad is up ahead, right beneath my feet.
I reach out my hand, and feel the Runaway Train.
I have one chance, I cant allow defeat.
Around the handel I toss and loop my thick silver chain,
And pull my self up, up and off the ground;
I keep up and hold on, with one last look behind.
To open the door it only takes one pound,
Then im out of the wind, inside, in the darkness, blind.
For a moment, I have the chance to breathe;
Gone from everything I've known:
No chance of dysfunctional familys,
No chance of ever knowing home.
Runaway Train, I've runaway,
The night abducts me.
The internal disorder has led me astray;
my mind is clearer, soon youd see.
I had but one choice left,
I chose the Runaway Train...
On the gurgling remains of Winter
as she seeps back into the earth
on a path around a lake
flanked by the casualties of winter's breath
cattails...
brown and bent with broken heads
backs turned to the pale yellow corn stock stubble
standing in mud clad fields
that lie beneath scattered hints of green
where a red barn and silo stand in wait
A gentle breeze... a ripple on the lake
cattail fluff floating in the air
a symphony composed by songbirds and frogs
drifts across the land and bubbling streams
that cut across the path
Moss lies abreast the thin skin of winter
still remaining in places
where the sun never shines
A blanket of burnt amber needles
and prickly cones
lie beneath a dark green canopy of pines
impaled by glinting spears of sunlight
where the path...for a momeent...is lost
Thump...thump...thump.. the beat of leather souls
on wooden planks over the marshlands...
The lake erupts in torrents of water tendrils
falling from the wings
slapping the face of the lake
as geese take to the sky...
And beyond the forest of pines...
the oaks and maples
display their new burgundy buds
and the few remaining
leaves of Autumn...
all crinkled and curled
still clinging to the past
on a well-worn path
that circles around a lake
with no beginning and no end
where the seasons come and go...
as do... I.
Written: April 30, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
The curtain in my room is pale yellow,
With unique embroidered golden leaves on it,
My mother lived in this room for a little while,
And unknowingly left a bit of her,
for ever!
She told me, she loved the curtain.
Waking up at the first light of ruby dawn,
When sky is mesmerizing with shades of vermilion,
She used to gaze at the enthralling golden leaves,
And ponder about every one she cherished in her life,
Each enigmatic leaf reminded her
Of each of her beloved ones.
She prayed for them,
With inimitable tenderness, whispering,
Uttering each and every name,
Each and every person precious in her life,
And in the end,
The names were countless!
The Yellow Curtain still hangs there.
May 23, 2020
FIRST PLACE - In Loving Memory Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
FIRST PLACE
"Mother" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
"The Throwback Challenge" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
SECOND PLACE
Featured Poem: April 12, 2021
I wrote this poem after my mother came to visit me in Canada, and stayed for a few months. I used to see her praying every morning, and one day she told me about the embroidered flowers on the curtain. This is the second poem I wrote in my life - the first one is "Dreams" (posted as first on Soup Page) - after I lost my mother, and knew she would never come back to that room. This was the beginning of my poetic journey. I realized, Poetry was my path.
when the coolness of spring
begins to fade,
in the wake of rising heat
in early April in north Indian plains,
and the golden wheat crops
shimmer in glade,
flowers of different hues
begin to lose their bright sharp sheen.
the dry, pale yellow and brown
dead leaves of most trees,
shed themselves off one by one
exposing the bare branches,
ahoy!! soon thereafter
the nature’s miracle can be witnessed,
if one looks at the bare dry branches
a bit more closely.
suddenly they seem to be covered
with growing tender green leaf-shoots ‘n buds,
and slowly begin to swing
in the gentle breeze like coy maidens,
taking cover behind each other
they nervously glance around to check,
they have not been seen naked
in their act of changing their attire
by any stranger.
when the flower-laden branches
of mango and other fruit trees
gently dance in the air,
to sweet notes of the cuckoo’s song
attracting butterflies ‘n insects
to their flowers,
and what a surprise to see
not so long after
the sudden evolution of flowers
into small unripe green fruits,
which promise to become
sweet ‘n juicy
in the growing heat of
the engulfing summer.
the morning cool and gentle breeze
rapidly starts to convert itself into,
a hot, biting, dry, strong westerly wind
as the sun simmers
agonizingly close ‘n longer,
everyone gets nature’s signal
to search for shade and cool greens
for solace, before the heat saps up
whatever energy is left in the living beings.
27.5.2014
A bouquet of canaries came calling.
A yellow rose quartette.
They sweetly sang and expected nothing in return.
Preened the pangs of life away.
They were looking for a place to rest.
They had been flushed from the hills and valleys.
But never did they once complain.
Life continued.
With days and nights of water colored nonchalance.
After some time,
I noticed their plumage turning dull.
Their songs all but stopped.
Suddenly one day they all just flew off...
On an icy horizon
sat a fattened red-tailed hawk.
Flashing a pale-yellow beak.
Reflecting in a jagged mirror called fatal destiny.
pale yellow shards of brittle glass
shatter under my feet
as I stroll along this grey patchwork of concrete
and if the world stutters precarious on its spurious axis,
I pay it no mind
the ice of my pupils melts into inky lashes
that bleed cold down my face
and in my head,
I conjure a universe where
every contradiction, every illusion you did not believe in this one
becomes a reality
all around me,
there are people breathing autumn air who know the art of exhaling
their throats don’t choke, and their tongues don’t freeze
at the thought of forgetting the taste
and that is what I remember hope to be
the galaxies and supernovas and black holes in my chest-
I am tired of their weight
it’s too much for a person, and I am just half of one
so I tell myself it’s not selfish
to fall to frail knees on a faded sidewalk
to double over in searing throes
and give up on starry eyes,
even if it is their memory
that dusts begotten leaves
their golden brown edges crumble into goodbyes
under callous feet
The pale yellow sky, reminds me of a smile that never fades
From a greeting etched in memory, immune to words like cutting blades
The tall emerald trees are drawn toward the layers of light
A pillowed curtain for the baby blue skis, waiting to darken in the night
I will hold onto the smile in a world full of escalation
I will carry hope it will bring peace in dreams, without fabrication
The light guides me through changes, only the seasons know
A place I will probably be sitting later, writing about falling snow
These reminders are the gifts, this creation never fails to give me
They guide me through each stage of unsettling uncertainty
As I am ready to close my eyes, yellow is turning to peach colored sky
I let go of all the unknown and release myself from.asking why
Because what I see in front of me is a miraculous formation of peace
To be still in this moment, where hope will never cease
Heidi Sands
9/19/24
(C)opyright
I thought the more focussed, the much better
Thoughts can flow easily like a delicate feather
A feather decorated with arrangements of patterns
Bursting from the dull dreary colors of the ground to the beautiful pale yellow of
Saturn
Exploration from Saturn to the deep blues of the mysterious sea
Water creatures curious, lively with the current not knowing where they be
Wandering with no knowledge about the outside of their world, these species are
careless
Following the sounds that the fresh waters possess
Sweet melodic sound of the rushed waves clashing on shore
Bringing the days end in a swift little roar
The quiet wait for the tics to toc
Everything seems vacant as I slip back to thought
Comfortably overlay-ed by the thought of relaxation
Time to wind down from that brisk vacation
I thought the more focussed, the much better
Thoughts can be disrupted easily like a delicate feather
- Rebecca C*
“Of all flowers, methinks a rose is best.” – William Shakespeare, The Two Noble Kinsmen
Sweet Rose, for ages you have blessed the human race
with your beauty, elegance and grace.
You show yourself to us in so many ways . . .
as miniature, teacup, floribunda, rambler,,climber, and
as so many other species of loveliness - a true wonder of God's creations!
Whether on the ground, in the wild, in gardens, or on bushes,
you bring me such pleasure to see your many shapes and sizes.
Unlike pansies and other annual flowers,
which glimmer for a time, then die – never to regrow,
you come and you go, sweet Rose, continuously
from spring, through summer, and until the chill of fall.
Oh, sweet Rose, with your names so charming,
I love you all.
With female names like “Princess Diana,” “Lolita” or “Bathsheba,”
you intrigue me.
With names that reflect the splendor of your many hues
such as “Toffee,” the pale yellow “Sahara,” the bold “Gold Medal,”
“Beyond Blue,” and “Black Magic,”
you enchant me.
With cute precious names like “Adorable,” “or “Angel Face,”
you delight me!
My muse reawakens each spring as your glorious scent
perfumes the air, and you offer yourself to the worshiping bees.
In those rare moments when I see a hummingbird
partaking of your nectar, I nearly gasp with excitement.
Oh, sweet Rose,
whether posing steadfastly in the summer sun,
dancing with breezes, or dreaming beneath the moon,
there is no flower so popular as you.
And no other flower bears so many different meanings
as those found in the paleness or in the vibrancy of your many colors.
Innocence is your white; your friendship, yellow; your modesty, peach;
In burgundy and dark pink, you show forth admiration;
in coral, good fortune; and in light pink, the cheerfulness of youth.
In the tint of amaranth is your passion; in rare green, your freshness;
in purple, your whimsy; however, your ruby red
transcends them all with the purity of love.
The deeper your hue, the deeper is your meaning.
You are the symbol for so many things of which the poet dreams!
Oh, sweet Rose, I adore you. How you inspire me
with each bloom of your dewy petals that I chance to view.
Never do you cease to amaze me, sweet Rose.
May you blossom ever sweetly into eternity!
a post from 2014
for my beautiful granddaughter, Alexandra
After 13 days of confinement,
a caterpillar broke out of her butterfly egg,
Then ate the shell and pipevine leaf,
upon which it was laid,
A small fuzzy caterpillar,
with red spikes sticking out her sides and top,
She noticed on her middle,
a bright yellow colored spot-
Pipevine plants are toxic,
to things that are alive,
But for Queen Alexandra,
they would help her to survive,
These leaves would be her food source –
a repellent to her foes,
And if a predator caught her,
they’d vomit up and go-
Queen Alexandra wondered,
where on earth she might be,
Glancing at a tree canopy,
1,300 feet above the sea,
She noticed the thick greenery,
covering all the ground below,
And knew that only in a rainforest,
could this kind of vegetation grow-
Queen Alexandra didn’t know the name,
Papua New Guinea,
The tropical rainforest home,
to the largest butterflies that be,
Loggers destroying habitat,
collectors catching this species fast,
Predictions for her family –
only until the year 2021 to last-
Queen Alexandra as a caterpillar,
ate and grew for 120 days,
Shedding her skin six times was work,
not any fun or play,
Then she tightly clung
to the underside of a pipevine leaf,
And changed into a pupa,
the outside hardening as a protective sheath-
Inside changing her looks,
” metamorphosis” in her safe cocoon,
Forty days later emerging as a butterfly,
in hours long before noon,
Her 12 inch wings were mostly brown,
with pale yellow hues,
Her brother’s wings were smaller,
with streaks of iridescent blue-
So flying up they joined a group –
Queen Alexandra and her brother,
A gathering of butterflies together, you see,
is referred to as a “flutter,”
For about three months they’d fly,
at the top of the tree canopy,
This endangered “Queen Alexandra” Butterfly,
a beautiful rarity to see!
This Thing Called Love – 4 Lines
After feasting on this amazing THING called love all through the NIGHT,
we sweetly sip from silver goblets, aged wine rich, red, warm, and mellow,
wistfully wishing to delay the threatening dawn that breaks golden, pale yellow.
In Wonderland, we woozily waltz - wildly, wantonly, to wondrous Wagner.
12-17-2015
Contest: 4 Lines
Sponsor: Silent One
Placement: 2nd
I’m an orchidaholic and for this there is no cure
In my eyes their delicate flowers are pure perfection
My collection numbers 25, although I cannot be too sure
For when I see a new colour I must add it to my collection!
Delicate shades of pale yellow I love
Subtle shades, different colours and hues
Pastel pink blooms sent from heaven above
I find it extremely difficult to choose!
Some blossoms are pure blocks of colour
I could stare at their beauty for hour upon hour
Blooms so unique; each plant differs from another
I carefully nurture every single leaf and flower
Being an orchid grower is incredible fun
Your world I know it will enhance
I can highly recommend it to anyone
Just buy one of these stunning plants
Original poem called 'I'm an Orchidaholic'
amended for My favourite flower contest
Sponsored by Rick Parise
5th March 2014