Best Photographs Poems
Opening the dusty leather bound album
Lots of memories come flooding back
Dad had a lot more hair back then!
Proud parents when our son was born
How he’s grown into a delightful young man
Outings to the park with his little friends
Turning the pages I start to get quite teary
Old faces of loved ones no longer with us
Good friends and relations who have passed
Rich reminders of happy times in days gone by
Amazing events captured, frozen in time
Pages turned bring tears and laughter
How precious are all these moments
Snap some pictures today for you to share
ANY NEW ACROSTIC ABOUT NOSTALGIA Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
12/21/12
With my brightened lens, I watch you
mystically zooming in zooming out,
and my eyes focus on the shutter where
a hundred gulls flap in brief moments: carefully,
I seize the image, almost lost in transition
as my rushed stanzas etch
the language of your distinct angles.
Following your trail, I chance upon
a lattice of asters sprawled on pine wood
grating my line of phrases:
flowers posing without shame, beautiful like
summer ‘s shape...and I watch you romp
in the blur of rain clicking on a Kodak chrome;
while my quill explodes with the burst
of your animated snapshots. My dear,
in this symbiotic flow where poetry and visual arts
understand the hidden grandeur of the world,
shall this my verse meld with your splashed landscape?
....................
August Premiere Contest for Brian Strand
Fading photographs are strewn across alabaster tabletops,
drenched in moonlight streaming through rustling curtains.
Snow owls call out to each other through the whistling wind,
as flakes of snow dust
frostbit grass outside crystallized windows.
A roaring fireplace crackles in the corner,
and I sit back upon an oaken rocking chair,
tracing my fingertips over delicate memories,
transported back to harmonious
days and carefree nights.
Your silhouette appears, drenched
in glorious sunlight.
Summer emerges like
a breath of fresh air,
as luscious ivy crawls up
wrought iron fences,
and onyx roses bloom within the gaps.
Your golden voice calls out to me.
A single teardrop slides down
the warmth of my cheek.
It’s been so many years since
I heard that angelic sound,
smelled the aromatic vanilla
permeating from your silken skin,
and fell into your tender embrace.
My blood swelters under your touch.
I whisper, “I’ve been so lost without you.”
“Can I not stay here with you like this forever?”
You whisper back,
One day, my love, for it’s not your time yet.”
And within the blink of an eye,
an icy chill races up my spine,
snapping me back to harsh reality,
to a world so frigid without you—
forever tracing memories until
I can finally take my final breath.
I’m tracing memories in fading photographs,
oblivious to the storms that sepia frames clasp,
questioning pixelated sparks, will ink ever release~
a timeless sunrise that no rain can erase?
Or am I just a silenced star, disguised as a poet,
weaving heart-shaped dreams with ethereal flames?
"Old photographs have something that is beautiful
and timeless, like works of art."
Quote _ Unknown
I have tons of photos,
boxes inherited:
full of old photographs,
of people quite unknown;
some lovely and some laughs.
I have tons of photos,
love the ones of babies:
and children all dressed up,
the weddings and couples;
sadly some are beat-up.
I have tons of photos,
moments frozen in time:
forever part of life,
though their souls are long gone;
hope they had joy not strife.
I have tons of photos,
love the ones of pets too:
a dog, bird, or sweet cat,
the old folk and the young;
some thin and some quit fat.
Photographs share his long and changing journey.
Youth one day moves to the bearded grey.
Smiles of playful days captured for an eternity in black and white.
He grows from fat to thin and back again, colors of his hair blond one year and silky brown the next.
A catalog of mystery, young carefree boy, sad solemn man.
Family members and good friends long gone remind him of his pain.
Photographs some scattered in tattered boxes or mounted high in chipped wooden and silver frames, disrespected.
Day grows old and shadows project the shape of his favorite gum tree.
He lies down to rest his aching bones the images reappear, the photographs, the memories, the journey, help him ease his restless sleep if only for today.
Some poems are poured
when a poet loses someone,
so those who cannot write,
feel words mirroring their souls.
Since the betrayal of your blind vision,
I've been roaming in realms of broken reflections.
In your aquarium existence,
I've let my emotions sink to the bottom.
Remember, when I was your first thought,
a jewel in your celebrated crown -
now I'm just a pebble in a dirty puddle.
It all started with a camera flash.
With an obsession of clicks,
we captured an anthology of amorous portraits.
But now our love is a fading photograph,
forgotten in the sun,
edges curling, colours bleeding,
where only faint faces remain.
A butterfly romance,
becoming more fragile over time.
Vivid scarlet hearts, once beating rapidly,
now echo in distant blurs
and all I feel are the saddest sighs.
In seasons of saudade,
I've become an abandoned snapshot
of an erased existence.
Yet I still yearn for the taste of your lips,
to break this haunting hunger.
Helpless, lost in a desert storm,
footprints left behind,
dissolve with the wind,
each particle floating away,
forever misplaced - disjointed.
Memories become like starlight spirits,
as silhouettes and shadows
dance under a moonlight sonata,
slowly burning away all
traces of permanence,
so all that's left behind is an imprisoned moon,
clouded in a dark hymn sky.
All my eyes seem to envision
is a maroon monsoon.
Now my fingers are too afraid
to create another photograph -
as some memories bring back
a waterfall of sorrows.
One by one, with trembling heart,
I pull out faded memories.
Dust off the years that have no part,
of what's left of you and me,
saying goodbye while crying softly.
For the contest Five Lines Down
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Placement: 1st
Mornings blushed in dew
replicating your jubilant smile,
love-ladened cupcakes in pink
flavored by your honey-dipped fingers,
fragrance of your jasmine-clad hair
swaying along every time you danced,
exchanging exclusive looks in public
to laugh at shared secrets with coffee,
strumming broken strings of your guitar
when we collided against the window,
rambling vintage songs on deserted streets
of an unknown city on our vacation,
laughing out aloud when I repeated
our mistakes despite your warnings,
sharing anxious hugs scared to part
on a journey to unbeknownst roads.
Someone pause that treacherous night!
When you screamed in agony and left us,
gifted your baby echoing innocent cries...
I miss each moment when I look
at our photographs teary-eyed
sitting on our abandoned bench again
years later, in a world without you..
'Retreat to our world dear friend', I pray.
A ray of light shines through me,
someone just called me wide-eyed in glee.
Oh such a gorgeous creature she is!
Reflecting everything you had once been
I hope you see how adorable she is, my friend...
I love and relive each moment again
as I look at your charming daughter.
Our yellowed photographs smile again
In a world without you..
May 27, 2020
A World Without You Poetry Contest
Sponsor: JCB Burl
~~Winner: First Place
BRIAN'S CHOICE X,any form,any theme contest
~~Winner: Third Place
Above: Wystan in fancy dress
as a beetle -1912
Photographs of Wystan
One of the world's
greatest poets
in a pose, similar
to an Anne Gedde's baby
Balancing beetle antennae
his head at an angle
a satin suit padded to
emulate the chest
of a beetle's,
Spare legs of black velvet
dangling while
he stands upright
feet together, his
expression, militant
Certain in this moment
of his current
resemblance to
a beetle
At five years old,
to think he held
potential for such poetry
A black and white photo,
frontspiece for "The Life of a Poet"
It appears to have been
snapped just before an
exhalation of his cigarrette.
At 65
his face is wrinkled
eye bags reminiscent of
a sharpei puppy
but it is the forehead
that so amazes
with grids as square as graphic paper
as if the poetry
had been mapped out
on his face
I've seen mud, cracking
like that, on a dried up river bed
His fingers are long, chiselled
and in relaxed contact
with that cigarette as
he holds back a chuckle
with the smoke
His air is of a casual formality- a waistcoat
teamed with with a plaid sports coat
In retrospect, here, he had
reached his full potential
I wonder if someone
uttered at his funeral
"Stop all the clocks."
how memories mellow with time
nostalgia falls upon us all
days of youth awake from dreamy nights
warm feelings turn images to treasure
silent witnesses capturing still moments
creating a collage of mismatched flashes
a life holier than swiss cheese
yet still paints a wistful portrait
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~LOOKING BACK~ 2023
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on April 18, 2018 for CONTEST NO.425 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
beneath the gnarled b r a n c h e s,
a photo rests within my clutch.
time d
r
i
p
s
like h o n e y e d amber;
i long for vanished visions,
saudade, a muffled heartache.
s
moonlight streaks through tangled trees; h
a silken s i l h o u e t t e shrouds my aura. t
a gentle caress grazes my shoulder, o
memories of her touch f l u t t e r like m
the past entangles with the present;
the scent of f a d e d jasmine lingers.
as the night drones on softly,
cold air wraps around my wistful longing.
poison ivy clings to crumbling cemetery walls.
i look to the heavens for answers,
as the sky weeps and squalls in erupting solar storms.
her scattered ashes settle like snowflakes,
softly blanketing the remnants of forgotten joys,
cradling memories like delicate g l a s s.
the red thread of family ties is now seve /
/ red;
the roots asphyxiate on generational sorrow.
if the olive trees knew what
became of hands that planted them,
their oil would become t
e
a
r
s.
time’s relentless hand ticks on,
while decaying hearts beat like distant d r u m s,
resounding in the silence of cursed solitude.
PHOTOGRAPHS
Past to present flashes,
priceless pages of life
physically twining
perpetual moments:
personalities smiles,
passing squirms! Jumps! Cries! Clicks!
Portrait heirlooms of LOVE...
__________________________________________
November 11, 2015
Luke got hold of a camera
And went on a picture taking spree
He took a picture of his baby brother
He took a picture of me
He took a picture of his nan
He took a picture of his mum
He even took a picture
Of the dog, while it was licking its bum
But Luke was holding the camera
Completely the wrong way round
It wasn’t until we saw the photos
That all that was to be found
Were not the pictures we were expecting
All we ended up with instead
Were lots and lots of photos
Of Luke’s shiny forehead.
Fading photographs collecting dust,
the images of moments from my past
like ancient aging metals caked with rust
from torrid tear-soaked dreams that didn’t last
and cast aside as hopes became aghast.
Stowed away behind my closet door
these boxed up fading photos you will find,
though hidden out of sight, I can’t ignore
these dreams now buried deep within my mind;
the ancient aging dreams I left behind.
These memories still haunt me late at night
while sitting all alone in my dark room
without a single dream that brings me light
to brighten up this ever-growing gloom;
all caused by fading photographs entombed.
September 19, 2024