Best Peak(A) Poems
Written: August 05, 2025, for contest Marathon Mile 3 Poetry Contest / Sponsor- Mark Toney
***************
As it rises shakily, the aurora radiates,
Shore gets battered by periwinkle waves.
Scarce alabaster turns to an ebonized sheen.
A sacred, somber, and katabatic sorrow.
A mild ache dances around joyfully,
As kindred souls merge in a forlorn embrace.
And halcyon as paradisal opiate utopia
It is as vast as the unclaimed love.
Your skim was both ethereal and brief,
It hinders my span of lethargic wandering.
Chest pain at every peak: a fipple passion,
Gossamer scenes that wish to last forever.
We gamboled beneath auric heavens,
Effusive murmurs in dulcet hush.
Stringent crave twirled in tricky loops,
A mental usufructuary, weak and eternal.
The limb caresses a vulnerable, airy speck,
An ambrosian ache in a weary world—
Meticulous truths submerged in the deluge,
A shredded hope, a shriveled flame.
Love is a chimera—a ripple on a palimpsest.
Crestfallen spume claws the coast calyx.
Then resiles, bedraggled, into amorphous dusk.
Amort embrace, undone, beshrewed by time.
Now, balmily, you are my nepenthe,
A calix once held—an ambivalent ache.
And I, a desperate-looking romantic,
Forever ephemeral, forever asunder.
SWILL
The sadness epoch has never exist.
Life is just full of inadequacies.
I know that many may disagree.
Insofar as humanity is perilous and iniquity, we must never lose ourselves within these means.
I want to cry but I do not have the strength.
My eyes are dry and my mind lives.
A man can peak a mountain with ease.
He can venture into the unknown without asking for help to proceed.
Therein, he may find knowledge of long ago.
If not, he will become thirsty with the need to know.
He may want to cry but his tear ducts have closed.
He is out of water and his life is exposed.
The rain poured and the well was dry.
The drought has been on since summertime.
Today the country rejoice.
Once they were out of water, but now each life has been replenished.
We are the people that must feel.
We were created by a real God; therefore, we are given the will to live.
Wash
Drench
Drink!
__________________________________________________________________|
Penned February 15, 2015!
Petite peak a Pierrots' hat
cocked tipsy veiled bride white
pines rigid as if in pews
do not bow to the winds' harsh chime
behind a cloud
a peek a boo moon
hide and seek
Consuming Failure
Pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet
lest you believe the music makes him strut
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet
the cooling of the iron his sole treat
keep moving to avoid the final cut
pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet
harsh tempo of perfections searing heat
obsession with the ifs, and whens, and buts
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet
performing in the hope of winning seat
an endless line that must remain uncut
pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet
there is in heated battle no retreat
for some the dancer’s door will soon slam shut
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet
accept in simple failure your defeat
perfections long sought peak a muddy rut
pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet
6/12/2015
submitted to – Villanelle’s and Terzanelle’s Only – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Shadow Hamilton
The rolling Greens seem so serene,
forests pristine in sunlight’s sheen,
tall, rounded peak, a rocky creek,
a red-tail’s beak, rodents he seeks,
an aged elm, rare in this realm,
stands at the helm and overwhelms,
small dairy farm of rustic charm,
blackflies will swarm, cows takes alarm,
dunn Whitetail deer are grazing here,
jolt up in fear when folk are near,
the turkeys flit amidst the grit,
then stare a bit, and quickly split,
a low rock wall that never falls,
it stands not tall, not grand at all,
big boulders strewn, they look hand-hewn,
but Ice Age moons, carved them to runes,
where barns once stood, now quiet woods,
the land’s green hood, trees here grow good,
an old dirt rode the once did know
how horses rode with wagon loads,
slopes without trees where people ski,
and summer sprees, big tent parties,
vacation house always allows
the city crowd to come get out,
most local folk thing them a joke
but won’t provoke, or they’ll go broke,
quaint breakfast place, that maple taste,
tall-stack pancakes to feed the face,
hippie type, smelling quite ripe,
their ideas tripe, never quite right,
a breeze of cold, autumn unfolds
with colors bold, Green Mountains roll.
Water pouring like a soothing rhythm.
A rhythm trying to soothe a restless soul.
Water rising almost to the peak, a faint scent of lavender lingering amongst the bubbles that hover atop the steaming surface.
The warmth summoning me, to come and wash away the uncontrollable moments of today.
Just a girl pouring her heart out, shedding the burdens of the day.
The evidence disappears as her tears meet the faintly scented lavender water.
Water once steaming, slowly losing its warmth just as negative energy rips through the day.
West Virginian Mountaineer, hill country free,
Born down in a holler to folks of dirt po means.
Heard wind blow wave ‘er wave o’er regal mountain peaks.
Fed on cornpone, biscuits, country gravy, and beans.
White mist over each peak a crown of majesty.
In rich valley below, unique person dwelt.
Admired sprawling mountaineer family tree.
Anyone not ‘bon up ’thar in the hills was suspect.
Ran like a deer, strong as a bear, eyes like a hawk.
Had speck of earth’s riches: smidgen from modern store.
Used outhouse year 'round, often times in the dark!
Worldly things rated low; Evermore got high score.
Shot rifle straight as an arrow flying through the air,
As ray of sunshine finds its way through leafy trees.
Had the stealth of bobcat leaving his secret lair,
Could seek up on someone; unaware presence there.
Honored no pass signs around moonshiner’s grove.
Words sounded odd to some; "Whar, thar, airish out ‘har.
Folks growed "tabaccer, lit oil lamp and wood stove.
Misjudged as brainless; mind could ace lawyer’s bar.
Volunteered one day while wearing worn out jeans.
Proud to be a soldier, as ancestry of yore.
Eager to serve country; had just turned nineteen.
Sent off to hostile land; part of medical corps.
Ten soldiers died when compound was hit one night.
Each one was honored; a national hero.
Military honors; flags, taps, and over flights.
One from West Virginia; Marine, Megan Marlow.
A cowboy don't need no plushy pew or a rantin' preacher,
Pontificatin' from his pulpit aerie as his spiritual teacher!
He gits his religion from (to him) a more gratifyin' source,
Cherishin' God's Great Creation from the saddle of his horse!
He sits on a log contemplatin' the rigorous work to be done,
Sippin' joe from a tin cup, admirin' the risin' of the sun.
He saddles his faithful horse, Clyde, for the long day's ride;
His old dog, Rex, with tail a-waggin', trots along at his side.
He lifts his eyes up to yon Pikes Peak a-thankin' the Lord,
For sech majesty and the herd of antelope a-grazin' on the sward.
He crosses a stream and pauses listenin' to its soothin' hymn,
As water caresses stones - sublimer than a cathedral choir to him!
He dismounts, removes his sweat-stained hat and takes a break,
'Neath a ponderosa pine savorin' the breeze from a nearby lake.
Cheery meadowlarks serenaded the old cowpoke in acapella style,
Easin' the strain of his challengin' day and makin' livin' seem worthwhile.
His workday was endin' and he ambled home along the dusty trail,
To the bunk house where he'd be fed beans and bacon without fail.
As the sun settled in the west, a glorious spectacle caught his eye;
The Master Artist had painted a most beautiful sunset in His sky!
No! A cowboy don't need no cathedral in which to worship the Lord!
His redemption is reverin' God's Creation for his eternal reward!
Sacred sun awakening life with a peak-a-boo show at first sight
Warm and welcoming as he rises bringing everything to light
Encourages the song in your heart to soar and take flight
Magnificent blended color display as he soars to glorious heights
Mesmerized by such beauty, life's choke hold doesn't feel as tight
Lost in that wondrous moment there's hope everything's going to be alright
Clouds cover and hide him but his powerful rays still beam through with all their might
Inspires ones true colors to shine through as he's burning so bright
Stirs memories and initiates feelings of delight
Gracefully descends in all his glory sending vibrations for a peaceful night
Giving way to majestic moon now in sight
Illuminating everything she touches with her light
Under her influence love takes flight
Captivated and spellbound she takes you to new heights
Sacred guardian of secrets her lips are sealed tight
Center stage of night sky she sets the mood just right
Magical is the atmosphere, I wish I may I wish I might
Her mysterious beauty is accompanied by mystical stars ever so bright
When connected create constellations that twinkle with delight
She inspires the sweetest of dreams and glows as some become reality each night
The wind passes like a powerful current
through my face surface; as a serpent
making love to the flowers, trees, deserts,
rivers, and ocean leaving them peak a thousand hertz.
All that's left is its exquisite scents in its pace.
Her lamp hangs over as bright as a campfire embrace;
So lovely to give me warmth to tame
And those who live to quench her flickering flame.
The beauty of my ageless soul in a meadow of gold.
So many episodes put into words and secrets it does hold.
2/24/2023
In Bloom Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
It tags along with me wherever I go
There isn't any journey my blankie isn't in tow
Like a super hero cape I wear it wrapped around my shoulders
As I explore my top secret mission waiting around the boulders
On long rides in the car it keeps me warm
I use it to take down bad guys that swarm
I use it to make my own secret lair
I set a sign outside of it saying enter if you dare
I sometimes use my special blankie to dry my crocodile tears
I took it with me my first day of school and like a superhero I faced some pretty big fears
My blankie is super soft and cozy
It makes a soft landing when I'm playing ring around the rosie
It gets drug through the dirt mud rain and snow
Indestructible like a superhero, wouldn't you know
Sometimes I'll use it to play peak a boo with my baby brother
While I'm really a super hero working under cover
I like to lay on it and day dream about the shapes of the clouds in the sky
To far away lands on my blankie being my magic carpet that I'd fly
I use it to sail the seas and take down pirates to find the burried treasure
No other blanky can ever compare or measure
I snuggle my blankie when I take a cat nap
I wear it as a royal cape with a royal crown, not cap
Some who watch Snoopy say I'm a cute little Linus
I Iike to think of myself as more like lockness
Grandma's added extra superhero patches whenever it's torn
It's extra special because she made it for me before I was born
At Nana's I take it with me for a special sleep over
It brings me luck like a four leaf clover
When I get hurt and my parents are out of sight
One hug from my blankie and my worlds been set right
At the Drs office I hold it extra tight
Mommy and Daddy tuck me in with it each night
My blankie loves me and I sure love my special blankie
Grandma says when I get bigger she's going to turn my blankie into a bunch of special hankies
As one waits for the morning and looks for the first flush in the east,
February strains its eyes and ears for the earliest signs of spring,
The signs could be a slight increase of some birds in their passing,
From mere call-notes to twittering and an occasional song and a flower.
February comes in as a month of thaw from a cold winter to wet and dreary,
It is a month of anticipation, and the birds from the continent regard it so,
Expressing their feeling as a carnival by all sorts of merriment's and gaiety's,
It is also the month of the snowdrop, and sap stirring in trees, buds swelling.
Snow birds begin to sing and dance and a song sparrow joins in from a high branch,
As it sings, a beautiful bird, its bright ruddy breast appears, the first robin,
February, just now and again, delivers a faint undercurrent of bubbling life,
Like a mountainous country, before the sunrise, peak after peak, a rosy light.
Delusive days, a whiff of spring today gets buried under a foot of snow tomorrow,
Magical sounds of the early song sparrow, strikes the first blow, of winter fetters,
Flocks of ceder-birds, called cherry birds, and wax wings dressed in their Sunday best,
Wax wing, is named, because on its feathers and tail bits resembling red sealing wax.
MY CONDITION
Earlier the snow fell sideways slowly in gigantic flakes
but now their weight is too great; they descend straight down hard.
For her everything is constantly changing…a mind in flux, ebbing and flowing,
a wavelength on a nearby monitor…never quite sure where you are,
who you are. “Who are you?…oh, my son…yes, how are you?”
The snow coats the manicured green lawn with ghostly white.
Her head collapses into her hands and she cries…”I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Pieces are missing and she can’t find them; she searches the archives
but the vault is disorganized, plenty of boxes but no labels and the more she searches the more frustrated she becomes so she rummages through the ones close to her, merely random location…nothing personal. “Why are you sorry, mom?” Feeding her clues, breadcrumbs, like the snow settling on the grass she calms and states matter-of-factly:
“For my condition.” She recognizes that she doesn’t recognize granddaughter and son.
Is that irony? Time is not the healer they say, time is the snow that discreetly covers the earth;
once a Garden now a tundra; time kills memories and names, he is a thief and a murderer.
Do you blame our mortal enemy time or the disease? “Would you like some cookies?
I found my blue watch, today.” She cascades down the ribs that are the chapters of her life;
memories fall and fail, the mind so frail, they break apart on the rocks of time, only fragments remain.
“Your Aunt Mary loved winter…we made snow-angels in the corn fields…where was the farm?
What was that place called?””Strathroy, mom.” “Yes, that’s right…have you ever been there?”
“Your granddaughter Ashley was born there.” “Is that right, dear? Oh, my!
I found my blue watch, today.” Later, after we’ve gone and the snow relented, she becomes
‘Peak-a-boo-Kay’ to the night staff, looking out the door then ducking back inside…
waiting for visitors, or a chance to escape? There is no stranger prison
than to be the stranger in your own mind.
A Sea View
A sea view
Of aqua hue,
Greets the skies
As waters rise,
A peak, a surge
Swells and merge.
The pebbles wake
As waves break.
Curling, foaming,
Lapping, moaning,
Licking, lashing,
Stalling, crashing,
From ocean floor
To grip the shore,
Scoops every grain
To let them go again.
In the sand appears
Scattered souvenirs
Of broken shells
And fishy smells,
Where cockles yearn
For the tides return,
To the shiny beach
Where gulls screach,
Who stomp their feet
To coax, to eat,
Before waves seal
That elusive meal.
As the sea glimmers
The horizon shimmers,
In the suns rays
That reflect the haze
Where shadows prance
When silhouettes dance
On the breeze that gloats
On the sails of boats,
Shoving, pushing,
Swishing, whooshing,
Spraying, heaving,
Coming, leaving,
Relentlessly until
Once again is still,
When in awe I'll gaze
Across the bays,
Under blazing skies
That fix my eyes
On the hypnotic blue
Of a sea view.