Best Pecks Poems
Fool of Infiniti
A wanton bird pecks at the stars
A Jester peers through crystal bars
This prison of love with rainbow hue
Illusion parts to lets you through
On dragon wings forever free
You quest into your dreams to see
Smoke and mirrors and shadow haze
To guide you through an endless maze
Slow motion tear rolls down her cheek
Its only passion that you seek ?
Engulfed in strange duality.
She wonders her reality
Your eyes still mock her with desire
Your kisses light her inner fire
Your touch can melt her to your will
But you will never take your fill
Black widow spider guards your heart
She spun the web, she keeps it taut
It is your only fatal flaw.
A secret, silent metaphor.
And all about her swirl the dreams
The nightmares all with voiceless screams
And in her hand the strangest key
To fit the door of What Will Be ?
And when her eyes search yours again
You take her to the spider den
You spin the dreams she hopes to see
And lock your hearts in mystery.
So enter in to lick the flame
Eternal prisoner of the game
Illusion is false imagery
She whispers your Infinity
The Queen of Fate
The Queen of Fate by the outer Gate
Her carriage to Nowhere, will await
Her cloak is wrapped against the night
Her eyes are wide with peculiar fright
Gray horses eyes turn back in fear
With thunderclaps upon her ear
Blue jagged lightning points the way
Along the path to yesterday
Cold, sullen driver cracks his whip
His crooked smile curls round his lip
His horses leap the cruel abyss
Dark Queen of Fate sees none amiss
Above the mist a gate appears
Who will wipe the Gate-man's tears ?
Gray horses strike and paw the air
Fate Queen ascends the carriage stair
And all about her swirl the dreams
The nightmares all with voiceless screams
And in her hand a wondrous key
To lock Enigma's Mystery
Pass through the gate O Queen of Fate
Another carriage will await
Drawn by steeds of Promises
Illusion starts and finishes.
Do come, my love, for I insist!
Within the darkest crevices of time, we fight, we cry, I die
As vision gives us knowledge, we descend farther into the grime
Curiouser and curiouser, we fall in dark crevices of time
Molded by imagination’s ink, the tentacles stretch outward
Singed from top to bottom, see the glorious coals sparkle
Yes, even before their completion into diamonds never comparable,
It is the very time in between the transformation that enchants the very soul
For in this time, I see the very worst of you,
How it shines without shame, aching to be tempered,
Crushing to prevail over its creators,
The tentacles squirming in hollow defense,
Ink spreading in the dark blue waters of deepest sorrow and agony
How your beak ever pecks upon its prey,
Dashingly exquisite, its sharpness—petulant in its purpose
And I say to you, as you destroy—come, for I shall not back away
When the weapons you hold fall upon my budding flesh
Growing despite the damages you have made
Come, my love, come!
See how my wounds have me, exalt me, trust me…
Into a reality I deeply fall, forcing you upon your knees
For how I know, through your destructing ways,
That together I will always make us be
Come, my love, for I die,
Heavy in the ecstasy of grief,
See how the fairy trees dance upon woes and lift hearts like plucked flowers
How demons with tempting eyes move as squealing moths crawl toward our fires
Wishing the burn of the coals, yet never touching such change
How the light floods through and through, to every dark corner and fissure
Licking the bonding surfaces with perfumed oils crackling
The black tentacles scatter outwards, forming a wall around the growing blaze
My eyes close—from those very eyes you came
Descending to ascend, my love you crave
Trusting the time I have tamed in last feat,
You rise into the everlasting restoration of our name
**** Would like to preface my return, and many apologies to fellow poets who may have missed my absence. Though I did not have much luck in love this past year, this poem was written years ago; I think it is a fine poem though sad, which some may know my attempts at sweet-sorrow have well pleased many. The poem not only reflects tragic romance, but spiritual matters; the instructive distinction that its the soul or heart who remembers things of love, rather than the mind; I think of my passed loved ones in my view with my heart felt memories rather than a mental memory, for example. I find the 'idea' or notion poetically at least interesting and pertinent to romanticism, which is the poem's theme.***
How honeyed her perfume pastille
imbued many a god from their tower
Shook all the gloom which lonely men feel
she some mistress of darling power;
teems she the night with sweet mist
desires she all the allure of nymphs
She has strolled my garden many a time
forgotten I, the devil's music playing in the hills
and the sad forsaken tresses ---
weeping as a child;
or the dying swan and all her lamenting trills;
how many faces of God to touches of love
how many more gods,
though there need be but One?
How femme she-so-fatale and not enduring
with soft, she pecks my cheek
and all the universe her eyes ---
so sweet her kiss as worlds fade in yearning
to cinnamon lips, she of eyes wandering and wild;
twas her soul I wished to hold
with curves, lingering delicate
and never cold
Death shall take her to the lonely-wood....
from me shall fade the petal most crimson
about the night no more a-roving I could
nor velvet embraces with she my love;
the temporal love shall fall to heather
the winds blow, and the tempest's trumpet
roars about her whisper;
but in the deepest dark I roved the delve;
twas my soul which remembered
(Scarlet)
Outside the fall is deep and new
Tangled branches on the trees
Are bare black but drifted white
Survivors of the wintry night,
Birds are perched by nature blended;
At intervals a few will fly.
A few will light beneath a weathered
Picnic table darting drilling
Sorting husks or hunting a nut
Some squirrel has hidden in a place
He only knows. Then on a stump
One whiskered fellow paws a fruit
And from above a pirate jay
Comes circling down so blue so bold
Pecks his tail then steals the gold.
a noseless snowman. . . .
the crow nearby
pecks at a carrot
for Brian Strand's '2 or 3 LINE POEM any form,any theme' Poetry Contest
Snow flurries are swirling faster and faster,
soon a blanket of white covers the ground,
Robin redbreast pecks at the cotoneaster -
where bright red berries still can be found.
Filigree snowflakes fall without any sound
Winter quintain , Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
12/20/21
In this castle
Created in my mind
A tree,
This tree
A scar
A jagged one
Still healing
Blood dripping
Forms a path
Two watchmen
Chipping away
Away at it's skin
Creating holes
To suck out blood
Warning others
To follow the path
The path
A constant path
Almost invisible
Leaves an endless highway
That will not be seen
From
Far away
it forms a thin
Long and Knotted trail
Small black dots
On this pathway
Twisting and turning
Around the tree
In this castle
Created in my mind
None have wondered
Where this path goes
They follow the crowd
The sounds
Constant sounds
Almost silent
Leave prints
That will be heard
Far away
Calluses, Sores, and scabs
Created
From the non-stop endless migration
The rhythmic pecks
The perpetual stomps
Of these creatures
in my mind
Forever
Endless
As it seems
When will one
break through it's sea
The truth
An unknown truth
Can be turned into
Lies
The destination unknown
Cannot be reached
As it is
So
Far away
Tapping to "The End"
The tap, tap, tapping of the keys
with the carriage thrown
in rhythmic dings to the letters
appearing on the page.
Each letter becoming a word
then turning into a sentences
that flows into paragraphs
of the story living in his head.
Zzzzzzip !!! Another page finished!!
Followed by the click, click clicking
of new paper being fed to address the
quick flow of his words.
He was at his work and had found
his muse, singing in rhythmic chorus,
through the quiet of the early hours
while others down below try to drift
asleep to the clicking,
dinging and tapping of his keys.
Better still, we all knew, than the pacing
and shuffling of steps round and round
the room--- The attic floor revealing
the circles of worried creative thinking.
The storyline falls into place
as the characters breathe on the page
and new life appears in chapter after chapter.
He pecks on with his typing with writers
ferociously till his story reaches “The End”
5/16/13
For: “The Typewriter” contest hosted by Craig
Each morning on my window sill
A little robin sits.
He stays around for a while,
Then away he flits.
Is it me he comes to see,
(Perhaps he likes my company ?)
Or is it the piece of cake I leave,
That he pecks at gleefully.
He makes me smile, it cheers me so
To watch him eat his fill.
To see him happily eating cake,
Dining, on my window sill.
7/29/18
All over the road, about to wreck
One of many causes for yet another death
Too many chickens giving each other pecks
They just look and rubberneck
Person overboard, from falling over the deck
Luckily they had on a life vest
No offense
I don't want to sit around and work behind a desk
Far from over yet
It's been one heck of a trek
I currently work at a vet
Helping take care of people's pets
With care and respect
Putting forth my best
Situations being assessed
During the quest
Making progress
Taking continual steps
Striving towards success
And nothing less
In order for it to manifest
Otherwise there'll be regrets
Like all the beer I buy and drink at my own expense
Knowing it can have harmful long-term effects
Taking occasional time to reflect
Great and not very well is how it went
I wasn't making a dent
Until my intent
Went to the furthest extent
And was one hundred and ten percent
I got more than I ever dreamt
Near and far from items made with hemp
On days and nights with a drop or rise in temp
Such a f***ing mess
What the corrupt have been doing is grotesque
I'm not going to repent
Or lament
Occasionally I disconnect
From the internet
Took off and left
Went camping, pitched a tent
Then took a rest
Somewhere out West
For time I'm pressed
I got to jet
From the dirt back to cement
Taking care of business, and running through a check
Zero time to focus on petty things, no bigger than a speck
Yes
I confess
I'm lonely, I guess
Now let's
See what happens next
God bless
When my time comes, in peace I'll rest
By: Dalton Ogletree
When the wind blows I hear the faint sound of voices running through the trees, they speak with low tones as if they are speaking to me.
Their leafs rustling and flapping tells me that the wind is delivering fresh air and to live life without care. With their branches touching one another it teaches me we should hold our hands out to each other, they speak to me with these words of love letting the birds nest high above.
Some are young and some are old these rings of cycles tells this story untold, as they stand so tall seeing the spring, summer and fall and they all sleep through the winter readying their branches for new leafs to fall.
The squirrels scratch their trunks climbing up and down letting the birds view from all around. The woodpecker pecks trying to remove bugs while the Eagle looks for food on the highest branch up above.
They sway in the wind as if they were dancing singing songs by using their leaves, these trees sing this song of beauty and grace as the rain from above waters their roots helping them to hold the earth as the wind blows their branches. They are a family of many that stands together without one complaint teaching man how to live together in all bad weather but, man has become deaf and dumb to theses voices of the trees.
Maybe I was too terse with my replies,
But that was the way I was made.
I have no fervour to apologise.
Maybe I should have dated you so much more,
Heck, could a leopard change its spots?
I always was like that.
Maybe I should have whispered sweet nothings,
Like I love you dear, my sweet.
But that was not actually me.
Maybe I should have kissed you more,
But mine were just mere pecks,
Like hens kissing each other.
Maybe I should phone you immediately
But that would be surrendering to my faults.
Yet I was not an arrogant man.
Maybe that was her ringing my doorbell,
I opened the door for her.
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
Maybe a moonlight shone from outside
And blinded me, so I hugged her.
Our kiss on the lips lasted so long.
There is no maybe now or ever, for we
Will plight our vows with love
Forever.
The kitchen radio rumbles heavy drumbeat,
outside, rain pecks out its staccato
on the porch.
Stirring fragrant coffee,
I ponder doing dishes, starting laundry,
pause to glance at him.
Across from me,
his eye-crinkling smile
liquefies all my resolve.
Oh, listen
to that insistent rain
ans heartbeats drumming.
Secluded Lovers Nest.
.
Alone as one in our secluded nest
Made of love to be forever together
Heart to heart and heaven blessed
Lost in the cozy moment
Giving and sharing awakening blissful kisses
And sweet tender caress
.
Eliciting a deep flow of warm emotions
And exquisite mounting sensations
Freedom to express what mere words cannot express
With teasing strokes and loving touches
Increasing tension to a satisfying liberation
.
Silver trails planted upon a sensitive yielding
Smooth receptive sensitive landscape
The secret garden tendered
As two bodies rive with pleasure
And weave in the midst of a firry lake
Assenting to a higher place
Only twin flames can venture
Few travel with the sweetest pain
Upon such a thrilling sensual adventure
.
The waves of hungered passion
Now as a placid lake
Warm embers still aglow
The lavish feast now satisfied
Wrapped up safe in each other's tender arms
Pecks and butterfly kisses
And the glazed look of love
In my lover's eyes
.
She gently nuzzles her lovely head upon my bare chest
I stroke her cascading fragrant tresses
With loving fingers of heartfelt tenderness
I tell her how much I love and cherish
The angel by my side
Two kindred souls and entwined hearts
Brought together by devine providence
My world my life my one and only faithful bride.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
A bunch of dry lime leaves like schoolkids runs
across the street. Be careful, do not slip
on crispy morning frost. I see someone’s
bike on its side, its owner rubs his hip.
Are you okay? He is okay. A crow
pecks out a crumpled tinfoil. What's inside?
Alas, inedible. I’d like to know
what cars parked off the road dream of at night.
Oh, these wet dreams that make their windows sweat,
you’re definitely better, to misquote
Poe, than reality. A young brunette
next door walks her old dachshund in the coat.
That's how a pen of poet turns sometimes
a routine morning walk into the rhymes.
21.10.2019
Your Best Sonnet July-December 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
https://www.howmanysyllables.com
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10