Best Perspective Poems
I stand about five feet eight
I'll admit, I'm a tad overweight
Drive an old pick up truck
Not one to pass the buck
At the moment have a dog for a mate
Dropped out of school at eighteen
Got married in a pair of old jeans
A father of four
When I sleep, I snore
When angered been known to get mean
I grew up huntin' and fishin'
Done more than my share of wishin'
Been in a few fights
Know I'm not always right
For my age, still in decent condition
In my life, I've worked many hard jobs
Its been said, "I'm rough as a cob"
I've smoked and drank
Spent time in the tank
And never, not once, did I sob
I also love being outside
My old skin is weathered and dried
Still play in the dirt
Cuss when I'm hurt
But I do have a softer side
Poetry, I read and I write
These days, prefer music to be lite
Love trees and flowers
Warm spring showers
And swinging on stars at night
I like women who like to hold hands
Take moonlight walks on the sand
Curves excite me
Whispers invite me
A good listener who tries to understand
I wash dishes, do laundry and floors
Clean bathrooms, wash walls and doors
I'm a pretty good cook
Without a cookbook
To be honest, don't mind household chores
Just so you're perfectly clear
I've traveled from there to here
Simple but complex
Know love's more than sex
And on occasion I cry manly tears
Yes sometimes I even wear pink
Wear cologne to make sure I don't stink
Write poems about birds
Use everyday words
And I don't give a damn what you think!
by Daniel Turner
~Poetesses and Poets, Divine~
All over this great planet we live,
Penning our thoughts, and love to give!
With our hearts, as lanterns so bright,
Writing with hearts into this summer night.
Pen thee, then, of nature’s fine beauty.
Quietly, we are world Muses on duty.
Creations we form of happiness and sorrow.
Moonlight and dreams, on which to borrow!
A hug from me, now..close your eyes.
Tomorrow is both a gift and a surprise!
Hugs,
Panagiota Romios
California….USA
8/15/2022
~1~
How fast to wiles I fell my damask rose,
awake from slumber slept untold ages.
To gaze so deep in ocean eyes repose,
and print whispered prayer on mind's pages.
Your soul in gleaming shadow found complete,
a thirst no other want or wish contrived.
Nor cherry grown upon the branch so sweet,
without cold and dark of Winter survived.
What heart loved without a madness looming,
secure from injury sure to tarnish.
Unbroken, though lone in sadness' glooming,
and held away from love's fruited garnish.
How true the dove devoted in flight still,
that lasted in love, more than ever will.
When I am nothing, a no one,
when nobody remembers my name -
will you give me a purpose to remain?
When I can no longer run,
will you carry me over the line?
Will you teach me how to tread slowly,
upon paths I'm yet to discover,
will you bring me home?
In times of rage and rejection,
will you show me patience,
love me without blame?
Will you understand me -
comprehend the metaphors of my angst?
When I am lost in the wilderness,
will you guide me to be found?
When all doors are closed,
will you provide me with a key,
so I can open yours?
In days of darkness,
when selfish stars hide behind black hues,
when I'm lonely like the moon,
will you place my head upon your chest,
so I can feel the glow of your heart?
When I'm helpless
in the trauma of the storm,
in times of insanity and fear,
will you keep me warm?
Shelter my inner child,
from those who could harm?
When tears finally flow,
when my lips are parched,
will you kiss me softly,
heal me with breaths of empathy?
In times of infliction,
when there is no remedy for my cure,
will you hold my hand,
will you ease my pain -
soothe me until the end?
When I crumble like a summer orchid,
will you lay strong foundations?
Will you disguise my imperfections,
lie to me about my perfections?
When I'm too fatigued to flower,
will you become a pillow upon my flowerbed?
When my garden is no longer evergreen,
will you sow new seeds of hope.
so my memories blossom forever?
When there are no words
Will you cherish my silence?
When I can no longer walk,
will you lay by my side?
When all lyrics have been written,
when the last poem has been sung,
will you become my poetry -
will you reflect on my legacy?
When my soul is returning to its sender,
will you be my last
They hide behind mountains of ignorance,
judging within a valley of selfish love.
Among weeds where flowers refuse to grow,
to the mercy of hypocrites -
only we can set them free.
As we poets prepare our pens,
in the ceremony of a new dawn,
let us flow like a million petals,
spreading peace through our fingertips,
because our hearts beat the same.
When they fire bullets at those already wounded,
let us swim within sapphire seas of serenity,
healing through the purity of compassion -
we can beat them at their own game.
As twilight signals a new dawn,
an abundance of colourful sparkles,
infiltrate silent stars, disturbing their reverie,
but the moon gazes in admiration,
as illuminations brighten horizons.
In hope of a beautiful new sunrise,
tomorow can be the first day
to strum heavenly strings,
singing lullabies of peace.
Silent One
Simple Musing
01/01/2019
Hope everyone has a great start to 2019,
hope all your hopes, dreams and aspirations come true.
Paint me blue like the sky
rainbow's smile; thunder's cry
clouded curtains rife with rain
till shroud is lanced and bluebirds fly again
Wistful moods in mahogany frames
melancholy painters with undiscovered names
rearrange reveries in pastel hues
decorating lonely walls with brooding blues
Paint me emerald like the sea
feeling caged; rolling free
stormy rage; morning calm
who knows where swelling waves come from?
Which shades best record a personality?
Which side of the coin is preserved for history?
Shall I smile or appear dignified?
Do I show my true self, or try to hide?
Paint me tawny like a lark
as the sky dissolves to dark
flying free but not for long
a gloomy gloaming swallows up its song
What do you see as I hold this pose?
Will you reveal or conceal my imperfect nose?
Will you paint scars and wrinkles or leave no trace?
Will your biography in oils show lines on my face?
Paint me crystalline like a wine glass
for you somehow see right through
the paintbrush captures the epidermis
but the painter overlays the spirit
Superimposing your style, passions, heartbreaks, joie de vivre
onto my facets, form, features, and flaws
with love, you labor on
transforming my brief life into a lasting work of art
Paint me gold like a sunrise
as it marks the dark's demise
background wash of faith, hope, love;
the colors life's palette is made of.
When bones are one with graveyard soils
these memories preserved in oils
are saved for those who later come
that they may know where they've come from
written 1 Sep 2022
...with gratitude for all the inspired artists who
carry forward the grand tradition of portraiture.
My shoes have traveled miles of roads
Their soles are worn quite thin
Struggling with this heavy load
I carry deep within
Beyond repair, no longer shine
Scuffed with many stains
It's mostly been an uphill climb
Some sunny days, some rain
A little big when they were new
With ample room to grow
This green stain here on my left shoe
Was puberty's first blow
Those salt stains there, that's sweat and tears
Still damp from being heartbroken
They've darkened some throughout the years
Old wounds that were reopened
There are no stains from happy tears
I finally understood
Obviously they disappeared
Right after parenthood
All these scuff marks 'long the sides
Well they're from clumsiness
From times I fell and hurt my pride
A reminding subsequence
They've danced and skated, loved and dated
Walked a few high wires
Death devastated, been mismated
Even walked through hell's hot fires
It's said that one can tell a lot
By looking at one's shoes
Until you've worn these shoes I've got
You really have no clue
an original poem by Daniel Turner
NOT FOR CONTEST
Where on Earth or far beyond do we poets go, you ask.
My thoughts willingly stretch my imagination with this task.
I would reply...in any direction our ink chooses to flow.
To the light of dawn or to dark telltale shadows of Poe
There are no boundaries that could rein in a poet's mind,
even if we have the mournful misfortune of going blind.
A poet is not harnessed by sight like a horse to a carriage.
From memory our vision serves us in a sort of marriage,
a bond without rings and vows that gives us wings to fly
among stars, or to realms a common man cannot descry.
To know sin's sorrow, we would walk through a fiery hell
if it would give us the insight that living could not quell.
Inspiration is our weapon, feathered arrows we shoot,
aiming for the rhyming words and chasing in hot pursuit.
Though our muse flees, and crumbled pages lie at our feet,
our mind struggles in unrest but will not concede defeat.
On ventured missions, traveling where our hearts will lead.
Among distant galaxies, where we collect poetic seed
to plant in fertile delta land or in sandy deserts on Earth,
cultivating cogent lines, to which our scribing gives birth.
Fathering or mothering verses from infancy to fruition.
Editing until at last, our brainchild is worthy of submission.
We see far beyond mundane realities of life and reason.
Writing from the heart, rebuking the penalty of treason.
We wind through mazes of each personal poetic anecdote.
Exposed is our nakedness in each lyrical line we ever wrote.
June 20, 2022
2022 Marathon Mile 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney.
I remember clinging on to the naked branch,
which had been my home since the season of birth.
In my days of botanical glory,
flourishing and nourishing in nature
I would spread my vibrant wings of luscious green,
blooming alongside a canopy of compatriots,
shading the world from bright sunlight.
At night we would shimmer under moonlight,
sheltering sleeping nests weaved by 'expecting' birds.
When only baby feathers remained,
and as birdfeeders slowly emptied,
skies altered their aura in hues of grey,
one by one my 'fellow stems' started to fall.
Helpless I watched them decay under trampling feet,
each step sucking the life from them.
Rampant rain arrived soaking the veins of my life,
dripping tear drops upon the ground beneath me.
I wondered if the sun would return to show mercy,
hydrating my crumbling sallowish skin,
but in its goodbye,
I was left abandoned in the cold.
Wondering
is this my destiny?
A temporary existence -
why was I not formed in an evergreen shield?
Lost in thought, abruptly,
the winds began blowing stronger,
rain pelted more persistently -
my grip became weaker
so I let go screaming
I remember falling in slow motion,
being blown around,
twisting and twirling, up and down,
as my
'whole life flashed before me'
Car headlights flashing,
I was defenceless to my upcoming doom.
My end, a predictable fate of fragile vulnerability,
was near, as I prepared for my last sigh.
but before I took my last breath,
I fell upon a brown eyed,
giggling child's face,
tangling in her curly hair -
"Mummy, can I keep it."
she asked
as she placed me carefully in her schoolbag.
in between the pages of her diary..
Old man
he lived over there
in a house of dreams
alone
every day
he fetched his mail
I woke
when he died
Now I stare at the window
where a little boy
watches me fetch my mail
alone
So much to know, so little time to learn
To think of all the unsolved mysteries
Still trying to understand all that we know
How sad, most go through life just passing time
Our life is but a tick on time's big clock
We, less than a speck of cosmic dust
Significant only by the fact we are alive
Yet insignificant in the grandest scheme
So arrogant in our ignorant intelligence
Thinking ice is the shape of water
Consumed by greed, vanity and vice
Destroying the only place we know life exists
The laws of math are universal
Like humans, stars live and die
One day our sun will burn out
Until then, we are our own worst enemy
by Daniel Turner
To be loved
is to be a wildflower
blooming in springtime.
How wondrous to be much desired
by all the honeybees in the meadow.
There's no greater wealth on all of earth.
That feeling,
that inexplicable feeling
is like being all wrapped up
in warm sateen sheets.
Oh, what a thrill it is
to be loved, unconditionally.
It's like being sung to all at once
by the robins of the universe;
words can't possibly describe it.
Is it crazy to imagine
it feels like a walk across
heaven's pearly gates?
Is it but the loveliest of dreams
one would rather die
than awake from?
Oh, I bet it is.
I know this much is true,
it's heavenly to be loved
by you.
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 6 Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Date submitted: 07/02/2022
Date written: 03/07/2021
Poem of The Day on 03/09/2021
Now, when the day is cool and new
While fragile light is still allowed
My paper captures views of you
Your eyes, the shape of shifting clouds
While fragile light is still allowed
I sketch your hair as blooming trees
Your eyes, the shape of shifting clouds
As rain replenishes the seas
I sketch your hair as blooming trees
Noting beauty by star's contrast
As rain replenishes the seas
Like amulets from journeys past
Noting beauty by star's contrast
Where mirrors stand, fractured and bent
Like amulets from journeys past
With all the futures you present
Where mirrors stand, fractured and bent
My paper captures views of you
With all the futures you present
Now, when the day is cool and new.
Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful thing in the world, A limited, limiting clarity I have not and never did have any motive of poetry But to achieve clarity.
George Oppen
If it wasn't for poetry,
how would we portray stars of clarity?
Moon would appear silently ordinary,
how would we express that which is contrary?
Verses without stardust shimmer would be horrid,
no metrical composition would sound torrid.
No sapphire skies nor turquoise tides.
No ivory shores nor firefly guides.
No magic of butterflies dancing under moonlight.
A travesty of no lullabies to ease before midnight.
Horizons would appear blank, dismal and dark -
your muted muse would forfeit their spark.
If a poet's conscience suffers a premature death,
how would you honour their quill's last breath?
How would you express that painful goodbye?
No legacy for our words to poetically beautify.
Unable to honour memories of the deceased -
an unwritten elegy cannot praise a masterpiece.
Autumn would just be a modified season.
Spring slowly blossom without a reason.
Summer would bring no wonder in flowers.
Winter would be grey with freezing showers.
Would music suffer from atrocious lyrics,
unmetered songs only lead to hysterics.
Would poetic love exist?
Would our lips have ever kissed?
No expressions to defeat hate.
No epodic justice to fate.
No sweet sonnets to revere.
Shakespeare's world would disappear.
Romeo would not woo Juliet.
Literature students would forget
bards who bled ballads before us -
what would lovers have to discuss?
No angst or alliterations.
No 3am damnations.
No syllable creations.
No lustful flirtations.
An end to narrations.
All lost translations.
If there were only ugly words,
would it be the end of singing birds?
No emancipation of the oppressed.
No catharsis for the depressed.
Hearts would repress and suppress.
Demons would stress and digress.
If it wasn't for poetry,
I would still be a mystery.
I would not speak in rhymes,
there would be nothing to define.
My soul a misunderstood metaphor,
drowning in an inkless reservoir.
Life would become a burden,
as petals die in my poetic garden
and after everything has been said and done,
there would be no Poetic One.
Many a year so far
a sweet sensation would within surge
as back to school season
has just begun..
The feelings of a child
eager and joyful
to pile notebooks, pencils and pens
excited to have them all in a schoolbag..
Even as a teacher
that sweet habit, that unique joy
got wild much more!
a deep conception
that a smile, a word
could change a world
a strong conviction
that teaching is a vocation
a mind trained to train
a heart able to see and comprehend
confused faces
gazing at you
seeking the secret of success!
day dreamers, untamed teens
aspiring to reach and own
the treasure within..
Many a year by this time
soul and whole
I would wonder
what would I utter
of words
willing to sow the seeds of passion
in virgin lands
to instill a love of learning
a deep sensitivity
to guide to goals
to cultivate creativity..
What would I teach of lessons
use of methods
to inspire young souls
and their imagination kindle!
Now I’m back to school
with a load on the heart
a sense of culpability
torn about what I should
and must do..
The world of teaching
a hallmark of my identity
leaving that part of me
a possibility
even a necessity..
My heart aches for the realm of poetry
the power of words
that translate my innermost emotions and reflections
their magic
that transcends what is ordinary..
I have a longing for
a sense of belonging to
the world of words
I am an avid reader and learner
with a passion for creative writing
and leaving a world
would not mean
ceasing to be..