Best Perused Poems
He read her like a book
as her wistful words poured forth
from deep within the pages
of her tender seeking soul.
He lay mesmerized
as her paragraphs spoke
softly to him, luring him
so deep into her soothing spell.
He gently held the precious volume
in his searching hands
while memorizing each and every line
that danced across her parchment pages.
He perused her thoughts
so deep into the summer night,
word by word, as he sought
to understand the secrets of her soul.
He caressed the palish pearly pages
as her wistful whispered words
tenderly touched the fantasies within his mind,
fulfilling all his dreams,
until the light of dawn began to break.
On this summer night
he read her like a book…
again and again.
August 1, 2022
Poem of the Day - August 3, 2022
So many people complain when they lose
To gain better rankings, judges they schmooze
And if they don’t place, their egos are bruised
They even use blogs simply to recuse
To some extent, these attacks may amuse
But their true intent is to light a fuse
Comments from favor seekers surely ooze
Superlatives they always overuse
They don’t know how to give honest reviews
“Luv” is a word they quite often misuse
Seeking to have their poems perused
But tell them the truth and they’ll sing the blues
It’s a game of getting comments and views
If you don’t play, they will transfuse
Words of anger from an inadequate muse
My abiding memory of 2015 is of events that are so sad
With my father’s death, it’s the worst year I’ve ever had
It has been the most challenging year for me
But with amazing support I remain pretty happy
I don’t want to dwell on events that have past
My memories of the year 2015 will always last
I want to leave the year on a humourous note
With a true tale of a gift that didn’t get my vote!
Mum and I went out to a local church fete
It’s very well attended and the raffle is great
We perused all the stalls and brought a few things
I got some lemon cake and some brand new earrings
The raffle stall bulged with wonderful prizes
With boxes that ranged in all shapes and sizes
One pretty white gift box really caught my eye
Four ‘Dior’ perfume miniatures for a lady to try
We brought some tickets then sat and drank tea
I said to mum, I’ve seen just the prize for me
The raffle got drawn and mum’s ticket was pulled out
I collected the prize of Dior perfume without a doubt
Mum told me I could have it as a Christmas gift
I was overjoyed and it gave my heart a huge lift
The gift box was placed under our little tree
Its pretty gold ribbon was there for all to see
I didn’t open the box on Christmas Day
Until Boxing Day the pretty box did stay
We were going out to friends later that night
I thought my new perfume would be just right
Taking the pretty white box from under the tree
I pondered which scent would be perfect for me
Upon lifting the lid of the perfume box
I returned to the school of hard knocks
To my consternation and my deep chagrin
There was a void where the perfume once had been
An empty box was my only present from my mum
My gift is that I still have mum, so my poem is done.
This is a true story - someone had put an empty box as a raffle prize!
Contest: My abiding Memory
Sponsor: Viv Wigley
9th January 2016
Kill the Silent One
(Silent Killer)
He has invaded, unseen
Lurking and silent
Evil destroying one and all
From cell to cell
Crawling underneath
Leaching blood and soul
Smiles are murdered
Futures destroyed
Families ruined
The silent one is a killer
Who must be killed
The order has been given
Command centre now on full alert
Maps perused and studied
Strategies contemplated
The invasion...........
Will be at early dawn
Men prepare their battle gear
The landing party both excited and nervous
Life depends on them
Ones death also looms
They have no guilt
No fear
For whom shall be killed
The silent one's days are numbered
Victory is their only option and concern
War has been declared
And
We shall overcome
The silent one
The dawn is approaching
The men kit up in their uniforms
Preparing equipment, double checking their instruments
They march forth ready to do to battle
At dawn, as the brightness above shines down upon them
They enter the theater of operations
Weapons ready
Doctors in full dress
Scrub nurses ready for action
Technicians monitoring vital signs
The battle has begun
More saline, clamps, increase IV, Scalpels
Blood stains the heroes of the moment
The end, a silence, a satisfaction, a tear
This patient can be declared
Cancer free
The silent one was murdered
Cancer removed
Life restored
Family rejoices
Tears and kisses
This battle won
I have a to- do list cos I am thirty this year
Top of the agenda is to ride bareback through fire
Done many things in my short life
My twenty todo list did cause me strife
Wanted to walk on wings flying way up above
My bravery ran out they had to give me a shove
I did it, i perused the land from on high
What a beautiful thing, this variable sky
Back to the circus ring, my stomach did flip
Thoughts of why the heck did i think of this
Brought out this Black Stallion with nostrils aflare
Grabbed hold of his mane he gave me a stare.
We hadnt even started yet
my hands they did sweat
Then I saw the large ring, no flames afire
Wanted to slink off and forget i was here
As I got up close my nostrils held that smell
The oily rags lit up were as hot as hell
Lit up was like a giant firework display
Riding through it, oh my did i pray
The horse didnt flinch as I fell around his neck and cried
Thank you Black Stallion for being a safe steed
YUCK
I know we are supposed to love them
all creatures great and small
I know God had a reason
when he created those that crawl
even those that creep and flit
are part of a master plan
filling every earthly niche
in air, in water, on land
but Lord in your mighty scheme
please tell me in what mood
as you perused your work
and saw that it was good
inspected every nook and cranny
touched every leaf and twig
prompted you without a glance
to invent the pesky earwig.
Deep night-
In its quiver,
I write.
Perused-
Subconscious yields,
True muse
Child’s Zen
Speaking softly…
From when.
David Mohn
WHISPERS OF A MUSE - Poetry Contest
24 Nov 2014
'Twas the Perpetually-Missing Soup Poets case,
With Homes and Whatsup hot on the chase.
Poets leaving was not breaking news,
So they slowly perused the usual clues.
Dr. Whatsup said, "Why do they go?"
Homes replied, "You mean you don't you know?"
"Though they tend to blame some bully's voice,
Poets disappear because they make a choice!"
I love to reminisce about great Aunt Mattie.
Her home perched atop of an old barber shop;
a barber pole below her apartment told my young eyes
that we’d arrived at her place.
Her tiny space, smelled of a million confections and
um, lilacs; house a plethora of oriental treasures;
stories fed my wild imagination.
She worked as a nurse but, she was born with a baker’s soul and
she should have had her own bakery.
The old candy cane pole was so appropriate;
revealed her subconscious desires.
I believed her canary sang so well;
of sweet scents wafting silently throughout the rooms;
he was so blessed to reside there inhaling the,
buttery chocolate and caramel bliss.
I was blessed to visit and savor them as
I perused her, “what knots”;
the Chinese dragons and lions who shared her home,
her brass dragon gong, now lives with me;
it still sings of her creations;
each time that I awaken it and my palate joins the song,
as I travel once again through, “what knot”, stories; breathing in butterscotch, cocoa and lilac memories.
A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.
A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.
Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.
No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.
Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.
Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.
But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.
Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?
I am told the poetry's fine by some,
enjoyed perused that was their sum
and yet this flow.. Through mind and soul
I cannot own; not it's depth nor its Whole
no more than call my last breath back
it’s beyond the pale of life; for this wearied hack'
No eye has seen the vista's all'
awaiting ears that listen; to the saviours call,
no mind conceives the splendour Grand;
under control of the Son of man,
so are the words that spring from me
That are fed by water that flows by the tree,
where a brightness dwells not of this Sun
where the Word and the Spirit and the Father; say come!
© Joe Maverick 5-5-2020
Importance of the Alternative Perspective
Contortions of my sentient being
Distortions of my inclinations to dream
Proportions of truth deciphering what it all means
Abortions of opinion as things are not always as they seem
Embellishments of truth displayed on the evening news
An inelegance that’s uncouth waiting for uncivilised cues
An epiphany of untold magnitude seen in awestruck colours of light and hues
A litany of criminal activity revealed by a complex set of clues
The vibrant laughter of children free from care or thought or sorrow
The vagrant daughter of an aristocrat whose forced to beg and borrow
The fragrant spice of delicate refine that contemplated living for tomorrow
The content found on television devoid of depth and so very hollow
Renewed graces of a man given a second chance at living
Perused statements of an intellect whose ideas are always giving
Confused looks from a stern command who remains perpetually unforgiving
The innocent intentions of a naive soul who stakes his fate on wishing
An ordained priest of benevolence preaching love to his fellow man
The contained feast of eloquence as a poet reaches linguistic highs
The engrained yeast of vigilance pacing back and forward as she cries
While the deranged beast of malevolence plots an innocent souls demise
Should we contain the urge to purge our souls from all this hate ?
Or simply refrain to complain at all lest we get locked out of Heavens gate?
Can we pertain noble incline in the workings of the human mind?
Or is the most essential attribute to remain above all else to be kind?
*Image of Best Collapse by Giphy.
Pilfered Soulless House
Pilfered dawn occasions a soulless house, bruised
appeals innocence whilst porch screen once tended,
concedes whispers of dust calm quest of quarters,
~~views endured through time.
Some non-existent floorboards chanced ferns sprouting
rights, roots by an unnerved staircase, challenging
few, yon a blurred window, --rooms without a view
~~volumed sights, ventures.
Wilt garden fruitless seasons, its gardener
enshrined nigh, atop sits scentless plastics, stiffs
amidst squeezed breaths constants against a rosette,
~~hugging touched headstone.
Tempest strived roof musing o'er wealth perceived themes
of swayed hyperboles, midst shared rooms, aroused town's
tattlers year-long spread, wanes, delays one closed door,
~~course perused ruins
***porch, ferns, roof, rosette, staircase, window, garden, house, door, whispers
2020 July 13
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND your pick
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 08
*1st Place*
Decaying House
~~Constance La France: Judged 2020 July 19
I wandered and pondered my bleak isolation
As I slowly perused this wide open space
That one cloud above me seemed, like me, quite lonely
Its passage was slow as it matched my own pace
And then I saw poppies so tall, red and bold
I wished they were daffies in yellow and gold
The lake in its vastness reflected the skies
And sprinkles of sunlight beyond that lone cloud
Peppered the ripples with myriad eyes
And led me to feel like I walked with a crowd
While unopened poppies stand tall with bowed heads
They’ll stand even taller displaying their reds
Could there be any more precious a day
I all at once yearned to be no other place
With sunlight and ripples and poppies that sway
I found that a smile had enlivened my face
For such a sight might make an old poet gay
(Which one should interpret the old fashioned way)
For oftentimes upon my old sofa lain
I reminisce of all those poppies so red
Their petals occur to me now and again
But gold hues hold sway in my head
Though poppies, that day, cleared my mind of its ills
I still wish that they had all been daffodils
When I’m reading a novel
And nearing the end,
(Especially one that
I would recommend),
I want to speed up
So I finally know
Where the author was leading
Through ebb and through flow.
On the other hand, I’d like
To slow it all down,
‘Cause when I reach the end,
I’ll be wearing a frown
Since I must bid farewell
To the characters whom
Feel like friends I know well
Though our parting ways loom.
The pages I’ve turned
And the chapters perused
Have left me intrigued
And provoked and enthused.
But at last, when I know
That the end’s drawing nigh,
I reluctantly finish
And say my goodbye.