Best Penchant Poems
Blades of grass, wet under foot, insect eyes
Dusk, offset by the cricket orchestra
Muted and receding into the trees and bushes,
Tickled by the wind, rattling snake tail wind
While we may be in the company of wolves,
A long legged friend is late for the party
Eyes, little iridescent stars
Attending to each one, and look there,
There she is, making the most beautiful geometry
Parallels within the octagons, pulling silks
An arm for every task, little perpetual motion machine
Is that the Queen of the Night under the rusted iron?
A forlorn lady, black patent leather, kill a man, maybe two
With her danger red symmetry, oozing with youth
And a penchant for paralysis, no one can resist her wine
Then there's the hall of cob webs, threadbare handkerchiefs
Left by ladies who exhausted all of their company
To be a spectacle under the moon, in the wood pile
Dressed up in the finest furs, all earth tones
Stepping out to introduce themselves in girlish droves
Venus of another sort, these little cursed jezebels
Hovering on the skin of the water, or on the red brick wall
Must frequent every happy corner, and slip away at a moment's notice
A real lady always knows when to say goodnight
Such graceful exits through cement cracks
Back to the parlor, to glow in the dark
And they become spiders again
That pensive look on her sweet face
Just like a child of mine.
Her eyes seem to follow you with
Dominion that's divine.
Northwest light on soft blush hued cheeks
Her grey-green eyes lay bare
Perhaps a secret rendezvous
In enigmatic stare.
Wet lips stained as if with cherries
Delft blue scarf hides her hair...
In penchant blossom of her youth
Portrait of beauty rare.
From her left ear hangs gracefully
One solitary pearl.
Melancholy hints, she may be
A woman, yet a girl.
May 3, 2017
Note:
Johannes Vermeer's 'Girl with a pearl earring'
c.1665 Mauritius Museum, The Hague.
The Dutch artist was born in Delft in 1632-1675.
One of the key paintings in Vermeer's oeuvre,
this portrait resists all attempts at the precise
identification of the sitter. It's charm, perhaps,
lies in the fact that it is an evocative expression
of timeless female beauty. I viewed this masterpiece
in 2009. She has the entire wall to herself.
There’s a very nice ring
To the words, “It is spring!”
When the sun is ablaze in the sky.
Oh, the joy it can bring
Hearing birds tweet and sing
As the hikers and strollers pass by.
By the river I sit
And I have to admit
It’s much nicer than being inside.
I’ll go home in a bit
But before I must split
I’ll absorb all the view can provide.
For in front of my eyes
Folks of varying size
Share my penchant for seeking fresh air,
Though it’s not a surprise
That with masks as disguise
All have New York aloofness to spare.
Let’s fly to the celestial fiesta of the cherry blossom,
In the North Eastern Region of Shillong, named, “The Scotland of the East,
The abode of the cloud,” in the lush mesa of the magnetic Meghalaya!
The wheezing Pine forest of the whispering waterfalls in the Khasi hills,
is bustling with the nature’s fairytale of pink, white and ivory!
As far as the eyes can see, the rolling tableland is ringing, ridden by the radiant petals of cherries!
Neither Japan, nor Paris, a mere remote region of Indian plateau,
Glowing in nature’s sublime glory of pellucid picturesque pinks!
Nicknamed, Prunus Cerasoides, the cherry blossoms,
a delightful boon of Himalayas,
are blooming profusely in the magical
verdant highland of the East Khasi hills!
The November is rippling with
moonlit music, plethora of flamboyant folk dances,
pageants, stalls to cater to the globetrotters’ penchant for the ethnicity
of the fur-flung region’s tribes’ cuisines, wine, arts and cryptic crafts!
Such bedazzling is the serenity of the panaromic platonic plateau,
As folks of the vicinity, are traversing despite the rampant pandemic,
to glimpse the shangri la of the richest biome of the floral magical lane!
The resonating frolic of the chirping and twittering from the cheerful cherry bushes
are teeming with the twirling bliss, intoning,
in winters whistling whiff!
A nature’s bounty, a pamphlet of picturesque hamlets’ terrains of aromatic sensuous purity!
Blessed are they, who have witnessed the once in a lifetime scene of crystal clean roaring rivulets, murmuring brooks, the ravishing orchids, quirky root bridges, aesthetic lakes and rills, scented wild flowers, encompassing the enigmatic cherry blooms of the mystic land of the majestic mountains!
An euphoria to have a ride amidst the clouds of the misty moorlands,
gliding languidly to take the signature of the mementos of the moments;
to kiss the plateau of wild orchids, flowering Cherries and sacred woodlands of those Khasi hills,
crackling with the sprouting, cherry blossom festival of the far East!
the truth never told me a lie; if one writes a thousand poems one has a thousand poems written; everyone sees the sky as blue; Chicken Little is the only one the poet knows to see the sky as falling, therefore, the poet can imagine what it must be like to wonder if the sky will fall on her too. Oh, and by the way it can happen because of you know that law (No, not Murphy's Law ((gotcha)) ), Godel's law. Well, time for a dictionary hey?! And even funnier, the poet doesn't have any screws loosw since the nuts and bolts of the poet are adjusted quite well anyways. Well, scrap that concept, the poet doesn't actually exist except for in some macabre, abstract, poetic, humanistic, peaceful way that for sure will cease within the next one hundred years. Therefore, the poet so shall choose to be the Biggest frickin', flippin' "Dreamer Be" in such a Divine sense as to ponder all things and mark the poet's fingerprints on life in sizzlin' accordance with the poet's law which is as follows: "Skip your mundane penchant for life and live a new existence-- exchange a size small life for a ginormous size dream life!" Skip to the beats with fervid heat. Off my soap box now, the poet puts her words into action-- Lights, Action, Creation. Dreamer Girl gives way to her Big Heart!
Then I Opened That Door…
To The Question: “How was your Day?” came this response…
The other day I arrived at work and found my chair was gone. Oh the Horrors!
No way to rest at my desk. I looked and scurried all about for it.
Someone said to just grab another one. “Grab another one?” I queried?
I told them that this is no ordinary chair. It was special.
It was the legendary Chair that lays the Golden Eggs. And I did not stop there.
I had back and leg pain and someone named Billy Beanstalk found this chair for me.
He had gone thru his network of vines… I mean friends.
He talked to Penny Patty (middle name CowPie, but I digress).
And when she heard about my missing chair she had a cow.
No, really. She owned a real cow with farmland to spare.
Anyway, Billie had the beans to spread the word far and wide.
It caught the attention of Penny and the cow. The cow wasn’t talking. He was mooody.
Penny mentioned the penchant of Ogres with flagons from wagons,
Who lived in caves by the waves. (I am not making this up!)
They loved chairs by the pairs and tables with strange labels.
This story should not be confused with dragons with issues.
As I was saying, Billy and I were able to sneak into the Ogres Lair.
And inside I found my chair. How did I know it was my chair, you ask?
I didn’t put the label on the table; it was on the chair with the hair,
On the flagons were dragons, where the brew was true.
Billy and I will have to tell Penny and the cow about this. The cow still isn’t talking.
We proceeded to sneak the chair by the Ogres who slept by the hour.
It wouldn’t be nice to bring the Ogres awake by the lake,
That’s why there were waves by the caves.
So that is how we were able to retrieve my Chair that lays the Golden Eggs,
And I can finally rest my back and legs.
Really now, I did not make this up. It really happened.
About the cow, I think the Ogres had one too,
After they found they didn’t have an even pair of chairs.
Written by Hubby at the encouragement of Dragon and Wuffie Poo
Written 6-25-2015
Rebellious hearts won fame and infamy,
And knew black nights of burgundy.
Then resisted we the merest tyranny;
For we'd so long longed to be free.
So hip and wild and young--
We touched tongue to tongue.
And to our dreams fiercely clung;
Children of the flowers we frolicked among.
In an age of such degeneration,
Blossomed the youth of my generation;
Who had a penchant for creation,
And caused very much diversification.
We graced museums with pop art,
And sang pop music from the heart.
Memories of scarlet evenings won't depart;
Naked lust never kept lovers apart.
All the world was young when I was!
Seems even the bluebird had a cause.
Our actions gave authoritarians much pause;
We broke the most rigid rules and laws.
Breath to breath, flesh to flesh, toe to toe;
Baby, tell me, where did the years go?
Of smoky rooms, black nights and disco,
And the rosy mornings of love's afterglow?
An ogre is seldom awakened by poetic lines
but he shakes his fists trying to slander others.
I laugh at his desperate attempts at writing.
Delighting in his flawed efforts at metaphors.
On all fours this ogre creeps around like a spider
Oh what distorted webs he dares to weave...
when he deceives those who do not know
his penchant for whining and absurd cries of wolf.
He aspires to climb to the peak of a mountain
but fails miserably with each witless haiku.
Do not fear in the false bravado of the daft beast,
but feast on his raves as he digs his own grave.
Imagery is lost among his gibberish blabber...
a rather nondescript description of such bluster.
His script is not clever, thought he thinks it is so.
He doesn't scare me or those who know... whatever
Inanity is the work of such a bootlicking fool...
a tool who yammers thinking he impresses others,
but a jester dances for those who seek a false throne.
Does that ring with a piffle of drivel to anyone but me?
Holier than thou,
sacred as a cow
anointed with margarine spread;
a Sunday to rest,
some socks and a vest
and a penchant for laying in bed.
Sicker than sick
and thicker than thick,
drugged with a heroin chic,
bright light beams down
through a crack in the crown,
spearing a spoon-bending freak.
Speak unto thee,
the voice of a tree,
afire with gelignite balm;
whacky and wild,
abused and defiled,
born to succumb unto harm.
Lysergic the feast,
the mark of the beast,
halogen burned to emboss
symbols on skin
as forever begins
ripping infinite Christ from the cross.
(Dianna-Marie was born in 1979)
Twenty years old and married to my best friend
I lived upstairs my parents in a duplex on St. Michel
Each night before we went to bed we prayed together
With young fingers linked, love was never an effort...
It was a cold January day in Montreal that year
We huddled together beneath the covers and laughed
"Wouldn't it be nice if we made a baby" he said to me
Guess the angels were charmed and heard his plea,
Cuz nine months later we received a bundle of joy
To our great surprise it was a baby girl
We didn't get an ultra sound we didn't need to know
Her room we painted yellow - her curtains blue
I was supposed to call her Jade but he said,
"Who wants to call a baby after a stone "
and so we named her Diana "Moon Goddess""
As the years went by she became our jewel
Creative like her mother, strong like her dad
She had a penchant for truth, trust, and beauty
We loved her from the start and years later
we realized that she was conceived
on the wings of our youthful prayers.
We look at her and see "us " everywhere
in her eyes, in her smile, in her heart...
She was our first born daughter
A constant reminder of the love we once shared.
July 22, 2018
I love you without surmising 'why',
your passion sets pon dusky distances
betwixt & 'midst quartz glass spaces,
where scented phases astir moon glow
and impassioned fireside involvement
madly erupt above obscure air castles,
beyond a swept away briny rendezvous
of crystallized darkly essential marrow,
like wildflowers penchant for Spring
blooming 'tween summoned fiery March
snowdrifts' lashing bout ignitable flurries
amongst wind's orgasmic undressing,
farthermost indulgent sundown piques
regaling its worth with naught but those
magnificent moments in timely conception,
whence endearment yearns to be evermore
Inspired by Pablo Neruda - - Sonnet Xvii
Alive today, in this time, undeserving, yet, I am blessed…
By His divine mercy
By His eternal love
With a resolute faith
With a loving family
With special friends – a few
With hands yearning to heal
With a gift of verse -sometimes
With a gift of stitching - therapeutic
With a spirit for sharing
With a penchant for nature – no reptiles
With a special love for roses
With a beautiful smile that welcomes
With great fondness for the sea shore
With an incredible love for books and music
With a heart that loves unconditionally
With eyes that still see some good
For all these things-everything and
More!
*Note: For Dane-Ann's "Count Your Blessings" Contest
Badabee bada boom
Cabaala vroom vroom
Up in the sky
I fly on my broom
Valleys and vales
Over dry hay bales
On wispy clouds
My twitchy broom sails
By the moonlight dim
Those sighting Grimm
I search far and wide
They’re my next victim
Dissecting their hearts
Burying other parts
Potions I make
For my dark arts
Green red golden & blue
Tonics in every hue
Sparks fly while I invent
Myriad concoctions anew
Turning mice to owl
& Hounds to fowl
Transformations galore
All of them in my bowl
Powders that enchant
Varied pills for penchant
Chinkaara hula hoo hoo
Incantations I chant
Yes I am a Sorceress
Conjuring spells and curses
Necromancy, black magic and voodoo
Excel in all, with me don’t mess
Form:
Night skies bend through fading light
spectrum hints of prodigy pale might
restless moons hold her penchant still
burning up in an ever aching sky till
Forehead to forehead wonderments lie
stargazes trapped among cinnamon eyes
dance naked amid sensual tips of desire
fires fed stoked gasped airs spilling higher
Hush the night roam in fantasy fields
foreign found objects of affection yield
faint scratches the surface silently burns
affected simper rest transient intentions yearn
Sunday cockcrow nascent
aural essays reveal
laissez-faire raptures.
Enigmatic silken piece compost ushered in by
trenchant trademark tremulous signature.
Doe-eyed instrumentalist’s strident brass ensemble,
wakey wakey for the pier gazing loiterer whose blasé
sashay amble’s out of kilter.
Maverick antennae on a radio safari,
hawking hourglass heritage lodestone.
Closet Peter Pan’s astride transistor, literati goggle eyed and glued.
Silhouettes of wistful mint leaf tract,
navigating hoarse throat shellback allegory.
Earnest weekend welcome mat to madcap jester, laureate, bohemian.
Religiously the listener’s transported
from a humble tepee sanctum
to alluring levee inundation area,
far flung folly edifice,
nomad siren hymn sheet to mount Half Dome.
Long wave bounder in my dreams,
I limb skip oe’r fiction world simulcast entanglement,
snoop beneath rogallo-wing parachute in a Middle East plot,
“twin peaks” would be awestruck by this labyrinthine concourse.
One can flit invisibly round medieval black market cobblestone arcades,
ghost novelist’s ethereal penchant for pinch and pilfer retro-fit infringement.
Melting pot cinnamon dispenser, whiff stick fix antidote to kettledrum ennui
the blight of urban jungle setting and rural folklore.
Otherworld contortion with a shard of drama for magic carpet flight of fancy broadcast
Lineage derived from ancient epochs now assumed but for an inkling, icons I become with card shark sly booth legerdemain.
Maybe I’m that fictile clueless hiker, destitute, indigent