Best Pattern Poems
Poetic lines
plucked out of the universe of creativity
a structure perhaps in place.
The poet's mind
a receptor
like a television receiving radio waves.
A message and a form emerges and a pattern appears
then to be arranged and carefully designed
like a quilter creating a quilt.
Further guided to play with words and structure
so as to fine tune
like a musician fine tuning a musical instrument.
The poet beckoned
by the universe of creativity
summoned to create the poem.
N/A - Brian Strand - All Yours (Apr 14) Poetry Contest
The Moon
loves in lilac, sees in maroon,
swathed in gossamer and thyme of galaxies,
basking in the periwinkle pages
of my bejeweled mind,
as the night unravels a story
written in powdered vermilion,
of sun-dried moments
and bleached butterflies,
emanating wolfsbane and wisteria woes
of a maternal soul that sings for solace,
wishing sighs within clouds
carrying cotton candy lies
would see through these eyes,
and feel the warmth
between raining thistles.
For every star has a pattern of its own,
and there is no silver brighter
than the spark of faith
and kindness that flows
between charismatic constellations.
You and I, we are different shades of
glistening glows,
born to soar in sync with the
synchronized rhythm of peace,
tangled in a cosmic ballet
where love is more than a poetic word.
To embrace the difference of dialects,
the darkness before the morning rays,
the cataclysmic consequences of ignorance,
an effortless language forever
spoken between your astral seas
and my rosary of regrets.
Tonight, must I listen to the
heartbeat of the horizon
as monsoon tears fall upon my skin,
kissing away stained sorrow,
nurturing the saplings of grief,
in silence and solitude,
drawing a gamboge garden of sunrise,
resembling scented pastels
facing magenta musings
within the crescent of hope…
There is no rhyme rosier than the other,
through mismatched metaphors,
I weave magic of desires,
with wishbone clovers
breathing dreams
brushed in rosemary sage
touched by destiny,
for karma knows
no name nor skin,
but the face of love and
voice of hibiscus havens
an empathetic hymn
shared between ebony
and ivory hearts....
Patterns are evident throughout God’s creation.
A nucleus determines the pattern of every cell.
And the seas shape patterns for shores and straits.
Why should stars not have their patterns as well?
A city has skylines of steel, glass, and brick,
As stately as a mountain range of ridges.
Music holds patterns within every chord,
Much like urban waterways feature bridges.
An egg rests snug and secure in its bird nest,
Like a nebula embedded with a protostar or baby sun.
Here the protostar begins its long life,
Following the pattern ancient as the eternal fun.
In the cosmos patterns are not one size fit all.
So, each pattern fits one star at a time.
One for the massive giant and others for small,
Since little stars live longer in the cosmic clime.
Less mass means long life with many patterns,
While the giant’s life is less eventful and long.
Of course, all these patterns are seen only by God,
And serve as aspirations for man’s dream and song.
I was first picked up
In a cast-off shop in Liverpool;
Surrounded by racks of seasoned shirts
Bearing names of old soldiers.
“Draper” draped on an immature frame
In a collage of brown and green,
Overlapping and enveloping
Any semblance of a past self.
Baby-faced and militant,
The paradoxical camo in an urban warzone.
Slogans painted from shoulder to shoulder
In pungent, nuclear-white bathroom paint.
The smell is burned to memory,
Singeing nose hairs with chemical vigour,
Of dance-generated sweat, upturned pints,
A lover’s aftershave, the sting of cigarette smoke.
Washed once, maybe twice,
But anxious eyes watched the spin cycle,
Fearing specks of dislodged paint
Covering my muddy canvas.
Now “Draper” drapes a matured frame,
The only scent that lingers is
The petrichor of Northern summer
Tie-dyed deep into my fibres.
I bare a name that isn’t mine,
Memories of a life I did not live,
Scars from battles I never saw,
And honours that aren’t mine to claim.
“Just like each star is unique yet makes the universe what it is, the light in you makes you who you are.” Mary Gormandy White
**************************************************************
Each Star Has a Pattern of its Own
Gazing at stars on a clean summer night
Some shining silver bright in a blue sky
Hundreds of light years afar, some dim bright,
Others red, is a relish to the eyes
That transcends the heart beyond any bound
And raises the spirit above the ground.
Gazing at the complexity of stars
Baffles the breast of the best human brains
So unique a pattern each star spreads far
Such singular contours each weaves with pain
Like a little shining child of the night
With fads and fancies to charm viewers` sight.
A matchless creation of the divine,
Like each man with special traits and features
Each star has a matchless distinctive shine
That makes it an unrivalled creature
For every star to frame its preference
For every star to mark its difference.
Though of varying textures and patterns
Each star has its place in the universe,
To brighten the divine face of heaven
To inspire the poet his sublime verse
And arouse the crest of lover`s delight
With the particular shine of their light.
Life is like a pure glass goblet
Molded from the beginning
Etchings are added like memories
Each one carefully placed
Home is represented by a firm line
Showing the beginning of life
Followed by the ups an downs of growing up
Here the pattern begins
Love and marriage follows next
Children added to life's total
The hearts and tiny flowers
Are etched upon the glass
Old age quickly follows
The etcher with expertise
Entwines the flowing line
So that the picture is all as one
Life's pattern is etched for eternity
Unless carelessness causes
the glass to be shattered, gone for evermore.
Inspired by : Figure Fusion written by Robb Kopp
Penned 30 June 2013
She handed me a pattern for her bridesmaid dress
Intricate it was, and the fabric was sleek
My sewing machine skipped ‘tween each stitch, I confess
Knowing some proportions I’d still have to tweak
Tessa had a figure resembling a milk carton
So I reinforced each thread by hand with great care
Some proportions were large, but she was no Dolly Parton
And there was not an inch of fabric left to spare
Each of the twelve panels that formed the bodice
Were ironed and carefully set into place
(It wasn’t the first gown I’d made; I was no novice)
You should have seen how I stretched the skimpy lace
A French stitch was needed to prevent any fraying
Each night for three weeks I spent hours on this dress
The neckline require extensive crocheting
Finally I brought it to her, hoping to impress
In the weeks that had passed, Tessa had overeaten
And the pattern size twelve should have now been eighteen
The gown was perfectly stitched, but her diet did sweeten
A mirror wouldn’t suffice; she needed a wide screen
I charged not a penny for the work I had done
While other bridesmaids paid four-hundred or more
As Tessa squeezed into the dress, seams came undone
In the rear she resembled a huge wild boar
Since there was no more fabric available
Little could be done to ease Tessa’s anger
Her accusations of incompetence were highly debatable
Her gown simply looked far better on a hanger
*True story. Made many gowns and costumes for friends at no cost, but this was the last. LOL
Written Sunday, March 23, 2014 for Verlena S. Walker’s contest
What is inside your heart right at the moment?
Are you lonely or excited? Are you needed a hug?
Friends are all over you; giving you unlimited pleasure and amusement
But have you find someone that comforts you? A real friend
I wonder how this movie script ending
That every life is a movie and you are in it
Life is a free will. Choices are everywhere
But what is left? What makes you so sure?
Is the life that you chose is the one you’re supposed to choose?
Others say that dreams are delusional
And hope is only to give people a hollow motivation
But people who hold their dreams are the ones that stable
They may fall but hopes keep them to hang on for another day
You can hold on to your dream but don’t let it be your master
Will it coming true? It’s only a possibility
But through it, you will gain sureness
That you will walk in the line you’re supposed to walk
You have waited more than you ever think of
Never counted how many wines you have drank
How many nights with cries and screams you have spend?
Even how many praying you have uttered
Anything that happens in this world is possibility
And time will answer all questions
You may not reach an apple on the highest tree without a ladder
It’s impossible but there is no reason that maybe you can reach it so easily
Maybe life is all about fiction and fantasy
Where reality only offers us cruelty and disappointment
That’s why we look elsewhere
To live for something else, to save and to be saved or to love and to be loved
Each star has a pattern all its own;
so far away, this cannot be shown.
Stars are envisioned like our Sun;
brilliant and fiery till they are done.
And so we imagine each as a sphere
circling the outer space atmosphere.
With patterns unknown, we use our minds
to conjure up what musing unwinds.
Perhaps, as lovey snowflake designs,
each star is etched with celestial signs;
or like Ursinia- flower's name-
shaped like stars with gold petals aflame.
Stars twinkle on with planned Cosmic goals
letting their magic sky fill our souls-
begging wishes come true in their glow;
searching for patterns we'll never know.
The sun within me reflects off the moon you hold.
Showering me with aura light and the true story told.
I must be the most powerful me
to allow you to be the most powerful you.
That is how unity shines in our harmonious flow.
Many divine elements of nature and earth,
sky and infinity,
bring us together on this present soul journey.
Beyond matter and time
we have always been of a similar kind.
Whatever body we have carried or dimension experienced,
our knowing has been vertical with spindled permanence.
Sewn and weaved through various soul needs
we meet on this earth and complete what we have agreed.
I rather mystic
to stray from the heap
but my flaws,
should always take the lead
or why would you listen to me.
From pains I lay,
for you to take heed
before knots mole your steel
noggin for hills.
So I write
with the versatility
in deal that's immersed
in me till emergency
and my rear...rear
has to help to breathe
life into the catatonic
with senses frayed in sense.
Even remote from
click, right or wrong,
black and white
is bred and or personal.
I want a sense of you
if you would like to let me know.
So grab my hand,
look in my eyes
and show me your rightful color.
If you're drawn back because of me...
well I know I'm obnoxious
a lot of the time, I'm sorry.
Shine.
She sat for hours
Needle in hand
Stitching in silence
Inviting medleys
She stitched together
Hues happy and glad
Brilliant and vibrant
Inviting medleys
She threaded her needle
Gently with patience
Taking time to create
Inviting medleys
She laced each stitch
Careful, a caress
Against soft fabric
Inviting medleys
She pieced each square
Rectangle or triangle
Together with care
Inviting medleys
She gave her heart
To the pieces she sewed
Weaving hope with her thoughts
Inviting medleys
She held out the quilt
Sensational dreams
Blowing on souls
Inviting medleys
She gave them away
Pieces of her love
Graceful praise
Inviting medleys
She was always laughing
Alive with compassion
Filling her stitches with light
Inviting medleys
She wove love and hope
Into her quilts
Delighting spirits
Inviting medleys
''T'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
November 7, 2021
TAPESTRY THEME WORD
A person is a child,
If he behaves as a child,
A person is mature,
If he behaves as a wild.
A person is kind,
When his heart is mild,
A person is selfish,
When only benefits he compiled.
A person is honest,
His treatment is fair,
He respects others,
And he believes to care.
A person is rude,
When he is dishonest,
He exploits others,
When he takes rest.
A person is loyal,
When his need is a matter,
A person is critic,
When he can serve better.
When the biggest question is the perception,
When the biggest obstacle is your own mind,
The biggest enemy is your own body,
How to know when you’re happy,
Or just delusional, is this all just illusional?
The sweetest obsession is your own regretion,
Confide to you’re dreaming, and all is seemingly
Pointless and worthless, short lived and joyless
to the point of remorse and total disconnection.
Thinking of past, not sure about future,
Each day is a mist of your own hesitation,
Each morning is flow of unreal expectation,
The feeling of similar sweet degradation.
Like snowflakes, no two stars are alike,
despite their myriad declension,
to minuscule pin-pricks in sky above.
Unlike the sameness of sand-grains
scattered willy-nilly on a beach,
that no one notices or cares
of their randomness in profusions,
looking up, we see the pattern of stars,
unique, one by one or in gathered collusion.
In galaxies, the blinking stars curl and swirl.
Their spiral arms stream to awaken their dangling tales.
To the ancient star gazers the milky way appears as milk split
by the Greek goddess Hera while nursing Heracles.
Or as cornmeal crumbs dropped
as the Cherokee dog ran away.
It's a pathway, a rainbow, a river, a snake or a crocodile
connecting heavens and Earth,
connecting spirits and souls to hope and the underworld.
For us, here and now with all our fancy scopes,
The more you look, the more you see.
Each star in the sprinkle is unique in color, shape, age, and its twinkle.
The more you venture back in time,
into the myriads of mind boggling light years away,
the more the unique layers of patterns
are revealed, with countless, endless
myriads of possibilities, beyond apprehension,
in the milky way, supposedly spat out
by Big Bang spurts.