Best Personae Poems
I
God had a thought
That is the Universe
Including you, sun, stars, grasses
Like the Eternal Author
All else are merely prop and personae
II
God's thought may be like an Ocean
I enjoyed being a wave
From the tiniest drop in the ocean
I became a ripple; I grew
I loved growing ... and rushing forward
Though I saw others bigger and more colorful
Crashing on the shores of mortality
Sinking back in Oneness with Ocean
III
I plunged forth, gathering speed and form
(Foam too, as I frothed at the competition)
I towered above other waves; was the envy of surfers
I can see I will crash and die
But I am in my prime, in the heart of Ocean
I cannot be a pessimist (so close to July 4th)
I keep moving on, hot sun or cloud notwithstanding:
Last night I dreamed of looking back at Ocean
To compare our relative sizes
I must have grown mighty, too, I dreamed
My ego was me: a false me, without steam
I know I will be part of Ocean again
In the mind of a Good God
Who thought the Universe in a split second
And the thought wants to make God the object?
The Prairie dogging contra versies Oh, the queen of dramaturge absurd this stick stinking stirrer A interdiction of artless showmanship Dramatis personae that’s pure over acting bull in a glass house better left in an outhouse
I have to say yes or no?
What happened to me?
Nowadays seemed like we've been wondering
All the stages of efficacy and not
Not to think I been like this
Changes...
Let me hear your wide adornment
Your deep thoughts
For my life so adamant
Twas you've never come back
Oh why? Why I been like this?
The moon could not tell
It's either fate nor how the way I sailed
From forth
But I hear you whispering
Of all those things
But I have to say yes?
It's enough that we've been collided once
I did all of my efforts just to be the...
Nicest
Prettiest
Loveliest
Bravest
More than you'll know
It was the same era of living
Now changes happens
And it was never like what I've done before
We're like the script of dramatis and personae
All angles of stages and play
Somewhere like we're died in there.
HIT THE GROUND
before I hit the ground
and all this fades to dust
before I turn around
and start to walk away
before forever is never
and all dreams lofty hopes
are castles in the skies of
whimsical lavish desires
before times tides turn
to a surging rush deluge
flooding out veracity
in hues of ocean blues
before authenticity
takes on forged personae
when mirages of delusion
compel me to hit
the
ground
© Kim van Breda—26 January 2015
T'was that which Paul attested to
The worthy fight, the heavenly race
That which men ran through the age
With vigor, strength, and divine grace.
T'is a race to meet the Lord
One ruled and guided by the Lord
And a most unique one it is
For all who win are blessed and crowned.
But many are the afflictions of they that run
So much that many stumble and fall
Of endless pricks of earthly thorns
Of signposts leading to deadly turns.
But praise be to the Lord of Hosts
In that He gave the Holy Spirit
A guide of gracious personae
Who leads all athletes to Beulah-land.
With a heart as good as in heaven,
though detained in earth of love’s leaven.
For Contest: A Couple of Lines!
In Honor of Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
He’s found his groove again
His pen finds a fount to reign
In the smile of a lady, he muses
In her voices, his rhyme bounces
Her presence illuminates his lines
Her thoughts take him thousands of miles
His rhyme is her unfading beauty
Her personae is his poetry
Her life is his prose
With this poem, he offers her a living rose
Kristel had some old scores to settle for good or for better
She had tried the violin with no significant results other
Than a crystalline chandelier shattering quite frequently
When she raised the bow after too shrieking concertos
In search of achievement performance and other’s acclaim
It reminded her of Oscar in Grass’ tin drum in which the
Protagonist refused to grow but sang at the top of his voice
Maybe she had to be arrested in silence and mute retreat
Instead she had to beat the drum and attack the membranes
Of a different instrument banging from the crest of her soul
She thought to herself to be rather good at it until the neighbours
Asked for an injunction for when the message failed to appease
A tambourine then and she became major but for minor disruption
But she longed for a more central part in her own drama and flow
And would not stay further backstage before and after the curtain
A faded tapestry it turned out to be when her inside kept aching
A silent walk on or a mime in the shadows of subtle diversion but
She sought more than a hobby or discharge of darkness in her quest
Wanted to be heard and not only seen when the narrator upstaged her
Out of nowhere crisp corals of her lonely tune come into rhythm
When Kristel chorded her vocal crescendo free from constraint
She found her voice struck all octaves and blossomed sotto voce
At first it was not apparent where harmony came from and whether
Cadences pretended to cover up discord or claimed syntheses’ mask
Yet when she abandoned personae she soon accorded music and peace
11th February 2019
Life is inherently difficult. It is its cornerstone
Awakened, striving to tie up all wear and tears
Respect you've given, the kindness you've shown
Will still offer me vigor and be my exulting gear?
Awakened, striving to tie up all wear and tears
To be truly human, fully conscious, and awake
Will still offer me vigor and be my exulting gear?
Feud grew fray, brother with brother, and no spake.
To be truly human, fully conscious, and awake
Oblivious to what Dramatis personae uttered;
Feud grew fray, brother with brother, and no spake
Will be thrown out of the nest in a steady world?
Oblivious to what Dramatis personae uttered;
Must live each time, as if it were at the beginning
Will be thrown out of the nest in a steady world?
Facing life head-on lessens our ought-clinging.
Must live each time, as if it were at the beginning
Respect you've given, the kindness you've shown
Facing life head-on lessens our ought-clinging
Life is inherently difficult. It is its cornerstone.
Written: December 08, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 22 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Labyrinthia P. Babineaux …………… The White Witch of the Lower 9th Ward
Papa Babineaux …………………………… The Father, an honest apothecary
Algebra Babineaux ……………………… The even-tempered Mother
Bumblebee Babineaux ………………… The precocious younger Sister
Gnat Babineaux …………………………… The curious little Brother
Cabernet Babineaux …………………… The distant Cousin
Ulysses “Zully” Kowolski ……………… The world-weary Sailorman
Nikita Something ………………………… The learned Creole Seer
Mitchell Hollywood ………………………. The adulterous Inn Keeper
Tom Sickley …………………………………… The disingenuous Feather Merchant
Fr. Marcus Paternoster ……………...... The lecherous Clergyman
Steve Merkin ………………………………… The unscrupulous Accountant
Vince Fettish ………………………………… The nefarious Fantasy Man
Xerxes the Great …………………………… The Emperor of Persia and Media
Dante Foolhardy …………………………... The Stultifying Court Jester
John Travailleur, Esq. …………………… Just another John
Plus … townspeople, pirates, Indians, street musicians and beggars, Cajuns, swamp rats, women, young ladies, and girls.
Pauline’s perfume personified poise and passion, a sliver.
In the quay of life, it was quaint, but it made one quiver.
Parading through life enticing quite a few quails,
Querying within but most suitors attempts were fails.
Pauline had the upper hand for sure, in every kind of way.
Her quiet, soft, personae was sedate almost every day.
Pauline’s platinum personality put us all in a quandary.
Did we pay penance, genuflect or just admire her that way?
I was not sure, so I stayed in my corner, under lock and key.
For this amorous scent would have been the quick undoing of me!
Poetry Contest: Mind Your P's and Q's
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
Written 2/28/2021
Come on in take a seat
everyone’s welcome,
I don’t discriminate,
black-brown-yellow, or whites,
Say now your a
really good person,
An altruist philanthropist
or really just nice.
Yeah whatever I only
care what’s on the inside,
Have no interest
in color of skin,
Just keep coming never
turn away a stranger,
If you like bring some
more of your Kin.
If only others took a
leaf from your book,
What a much better
world this could be,
No racism, hypocrisy
allowed inside my joint,
This grim reaper accepts
every body he sees.
By
David Kavanagh
The Power of a soul burnt in dark Wind birth a diamond
In the midst of the raging personae emerged an Almond
You're the wisdom that lurks in the shadow of Storms
You pushed the limit of your mind; we celebrate your dawn
Chanting Enoki the language of the Eso-Exoteria you-revere
XaZeViGoFuQTaGes ViNY KoVKiz UZiM VaKQeLiz
XaZOHSZ Ha! XaZeViGoFuD XuSuHHM Va SQUOF
Qe LeZ TaGeFiGoFuZ KaZeXiHKON QeN DHiG
The Earth see you this enthroned on Dragon Ice
Wrong is they that would Mis-Rate you; Falcon-Mysteria
Earth; For a baby-Longed the Cosmos gave a Maze Queen
The beauty of your aura has LoFuQaK FOZ ZaVaLeF CoQiNY
Happy Birthday..... Chinenye
Only clowns had masks
And secret agents
Personae non grata
Disallowed from disguise
Now the Stasi and Gestapo
Of all nations denunciate
Those renegade souls
Who hide their screen
Blindfolded we justify
Judge and reprimand
Cushion our conscience
In self-righteousness
28th April 2020
You’re a writer? I am too. My brother is. My father is. We all write.
I am asked to critique, but I refuse, for I am not a critic or an influencer.
My muse Trixie yells things - kick them, run away, hit them in the head.
She is much more daring than I and cares not for social cues.
When I write something politically outrageous, I blame Trixie.
She loves the attention – twirling with happiness at the acclaim.
My show-off, extraverted personae; I am the one who slinks away.
Drawing cartoons about you, to appease my other selves.
I write ten to thirty poems a day; this may not sound like much.
But I had this as my goal three years ago, and I have met it.
I am constantly writing around my job, you cannot ask people though.
They do not know. They think I am typing important stuff for work.
I am throwing poems and stories onto clean crisp white pages.
I stop everything I am doing when humans come in with spying eyes.
I do not tell anyone I am a writer; okay, maybe two people know.
The rest of them would just say “I’m a writer too” so I keep mum.