Best Phrased Poems
you are my air… and I,
the blazing breeze
before the sphinx silence,
stretching beyond
the thunder-struck touch
of perplexed thoughts
as soul whispers in warm waves
letting go of stained stars
~ trace me like
I’m a decaying dandelion trap ~
look into the fixated flames
within these sunset eyes,
O defenseless divinity
my lips quiver in quintessence
to devour the bottomless depth
of your designed devotion ~
the sanctified slivers
of the rising dawn ~
your aura of aromatic aesthetics
carved too captivatingly
to be conquered
as my curved catharsis,
a clandestine curation
no color could recreate ...
I feel the night tighten
within your pensive veins
passively pressed
and paralyzed
amidst the perfumed pulse
of my passionate k i s s
so allow the hallelujahs
of this hyacinth heart
erase erratic remnants of doubt
clouding the clarity
of our conversed confessions
we’ve held
like secret 3 a.m. scars
for I will lead
you and your dusk
to the magnetic light
where language of longing
does not taste
like lament
nor love is phrased
with rhymes of bleeding
thorns and thistles
but becomes a hallowed prophecy
of a kinetic kismet
knitted with bewitching bliss
a gravitational grey
emanating the
despair within
fleeting seconds
as I am risking ~ tripping
everything and anything
to be your eternal mirror
musing ... succumbing ... sinking
the paradise ....burning
for
your timeless pull...
*inspired by the art ; The kiss of the Sphinx, Franz Von Stuck
"MARRY ME" -- The Sweethearts Valentine Candy
I write with passion in every line,
A poet bleeding words, in black and white
Elegant, like a fine glass of red wine.
I SIT!
I LAY!
I LOOK INTO YOUR KNIGHTLY EYES!
Pearly paper I unwrap the magazine
I switch the lights to read
Gently I kiss you on the cheek
Tonight my diary reads, LOVE
I walked away, bathing for the night
A beautiful purple Amethyst diary on the nightstand.
The unthinkable; -O' you opened to read
Page 1 - 50 dramatic, and set
You skipped on over to the day we met.
Page 88
Once I was lost in the twilight
Then I magically found a box of invisible light
There you stood like a diamond ring;
Suddenly my heart began to sing
Your love was more than the beauty that spawned from your soul
Fair and cold like winter blues
January stars following my every move
I treasure every moment we spend like my mother’s cameo
I lifted our memories and time framed them like yesterday
A vintage picture, no one can erase or take away.
Page 55
You skipped back and, opened a page that spoke about my broken dreams.
Page 66
Smeared cobalt words in every line (CRYING)
Page 77
Sapphire Glamour of fancy words
Phrased that I finally found my amulet
He will protect me with unspeakable powers.
Page 99
Moonstone & Opal = 4ever
My white shiny Pearl, listen to me whatever
SLAMMING the diary shut!!
A piece of paper fell, and you bent over to pick it up.
Your heart skips ---- (when you read your name)
Dear Diary!
The roads ahead are full of bumps and screams.
I will continue to open every door until I find my dreams.
My sweetest love, soon will come,
May he never dares to change me like the seasons.
My sweetest love, soon will come
Together well enjoy life and respect its reasons.
A sexy man!!
Will come and intrude the glossary of my life!
My sweetest love, soon will come
One day to make me his wife
Today I will write and smile about love
Page 111
I have no shame in asking the man who stops
By to sneak a peek and read my diary once a week
Will You MARRY ME????
A letter to my wounds,
fragranced with powdered incense,
every word woven from carnelian ink,
beauty lies in the readers heart,
bruised syllables define nothing,
when everything phrased and vented,
are mere signs of bravery,
flowing in eloquence.
So, see beyond vague verses,
crafted from mystical metaphors,
and sanguine similes,
there streams,
truth of a healing mind,
still bleeding broken ballads,
and soulful sonnets;
same rhythm as the
art of a passionate poet,
pleading to be heard and seen,
amidst silenced skies on gloomy nights,
as this quill desires no accolades nor
condolences but compassion.
As we age we regret words of anger and spite
That were heard and remembered and can't be unsaid.
The remarks we thought clever or proved we were right
That resulted in losses of friendships instead.
All the heartbreaks that came from suspicion and doubt,
The betrayals and hurts we refuse to forgive,
The companions and love that our pride has cast out,
And the chances we missed that we'd like to relive.
All the pathways not taken and bridges uncrossed,
All the times had we acted, a difference made,
The potential delights that timidity lost,
And the kindness and debts that we never repaid.
All the secret dishonors we long to forget,
And the wrongs we inflicted in order to win.
For the strongest of sorrows are those of regret,
And the saddest remembrance is what might have been.
* * * * *
Or as Whittier phrased it, far finer and first:
"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
the saddest are these: It might have been"
I do not know you well, Joyce
But I know your poetry
And your character and kindness
Are there for all to see
Your words are crafted carefully
And phrased with acumen
So woven like a tapestry
Of dreams, both now and then
Your brush is filled with imagery
Your canvas made of joy
Your poetic voice sings sweetly
With the care that you employ
Your temperance is gracious
With an empathy, profound
And all who read or know you
Are blessed to have you 'round
You write with such exuberance
And give to us, the same
So, it isn't any wonder
That "joy" is in your name
While I have never met you
I pray this poem imparts
My soul, which you have softened
Just one of many hearts
And perhaps, if I can query
Just one more grace of you
You'll share your words with us
Another century or two ...
All the best of wishes, friend ...
You are true POET ... through-and-through.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Happy 100th Birthday" Poetry Contest, Carolyn Devonshire, Sponsor.
Many are the 'characters' I met while serving my nation.
Seems there's always one who stands out in every organization!
In Bermuda (where I fought the Korean War) was such a cuss.
He was my bunkmate and he went by the name of Gus!
Gus was the old man of the outfit, a staff sergeant as I recall.
He'd been up and down the ranks and boozing caused his fall!
Never to be promoted beyond 'staff'', he was happy with his lot.
Gus floated on cloud nine as long as he had his daily tot!
Near payday, funds depleted, out of booze, in a nervous funk,
He'd surreptitiously place this beseechng note upon my bunk:
"My boy, may I propose for your benevolent consideration,
A temporary loan for relief from my dire financial situation?"
Now, how could I deny his plea phrased in such flowing verse!
Besides, on payday, he'd promptly seek me out to reimburse!
On paydays, Gus and his pals were wont to go on a spree!
He'd relieve his bloated bladder nigh any convenient tree,
Proclaming, "Wherever you may be let your water flow free!"
(For some reason the local constables happened to disagree!)
Gus was a good man and I enjoyed our comradely association,
Despite his innate proclivity for intemperate intoxication!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
"free from conditioned belief
no agenda on our shelf
vibrant as the light of Self
life flows on all by itself” - Unseeking Seeker
Faith is more than a mere noun,
phrased within fragile pages
of a tailored manuscript;
it is a way of life,
found in the zestful air we breathe,
in the hushed haze
of peace and intrinsic love.
I bloom like a lotus,
floating through silence~
tied to tulip-twinkles of twilight,
turning nautical stripes
into midnight prayers,
sailing through the skyline
like a cultural odyssey,
facing the eyes of
the speechless sun,
to untangle brutal tendrils
chaining my sapphire spirit
to terrains of ashes,
smudged with societal lies
and narrow perceptions.
And as the wind blows
cinnamon hymns,
I listen to the heartbeat
of the horizon,
adorned with balmy auroras,
ricocheting runes engraved
within the pristine pillars
that hold firm the hibiscus haven~
a sanctuary that hears not the mantras
of megalomaniac meadows,
too consumed by stereotypes
and prewritten scriptures,
curled into clusters of constraints,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
to hypnotize the naive.
O utopian chateau,
I choose to soar free,
like a peacock plume
swirling in sync with
the lilac light of falcon fortitude,
and the timeless pulse of the Almighty,
unshakable from the
gusts and gales
enveloping my conscience
like a maroon maelstrom of misery.
I choose to follow
the soothing shimmers,
of the morning stars,
letting go of the
tempest of Midas’ touch~
labels and ego,
discrimination and darkness,
materialism and fickleness,
while the icy weeds
in my skin unfurl
empathy and kindness,
aware of sacred states
sewn with threads of
karma and kundalini.
I am the soulful veins
of an amaranthine leaf,
flawed in fire,
embracing the
fluorescent frequencies
that ebb and flow
like waves of wisdom,
surfing through fogs of fairy-tears,
like sea-glass smoke
kissing the porcelain
sands of serenity.
So, between the melodious mists
of the breeze and the blue,
there I find a reason
to rise and rinse stained ripples,
while attuned with
the butterfly dews resting upon
divine diamonds of blissfulness.
He entered the hall and took a seat
in the back row, trying to be discreet
Something in the expression he wore
seemed to convey that he knew more
I stood before him and said, I know.
He smiled at me, kind eyes aglow.
"Tell me, child, what do you see in me."
Hesitantly, I phrased my decree...
You're a man who loves to speak,
but you rarely talk.
You're a man who loves to preach,
but you rarely walk.*
"My life, I gave by choice," he replied.
He continued in me to confide...
"Gladly would I cherish to walk
and of heavenly things I will talk."
*Quoted from the poet, Sea Salty.
A BRUSH OF ARS POETICA
Rhythmic verses wherein death paints a picturesque of life
or life itself is written in lethargic-dying state:
a dusty stocked vocabulary still cuts like a knife
when done and re-phrased witty, nonparallel and ornate.
Like the azure fluffy clouds parading affront the sun,
its smiling hue of yellow-orange kisses sleeping hope--
softly flaming those frugal thoughts in grace and wonder stun,
remarkable enough to line dream stanzas ropes and slopes.
Strokes cast spells of rattles, rambles to erratic silence
allowing trembles to twang murmurs upon hardened hearts
same as magnet it attracts eyes and ears to your essence
because your speech ushers morals incubating fresh starts.
_______________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Ars Poetica
++Placed 1st++
O.E. Guillermo
2:26 pm, March 06, 2015
***I define art of poetry as variations of light and dark, life and death, pale and vibrant, real and fiction... Writing poetry resurrects life even to a scene spelling disaster and death. Art of poetry embodies every angle aiming to touch the senses. Deep and superficial, all around breathing or not screams/is an art of poetry.
abstracted bass, cacophonic drums echoing.
fretting guitars, humming in jubilation.
knackish lyrics, melancholy narrated opus.
phrased quartets, rare sonorous texture.
upbeat virtuoso, windy xaphoons yodel Zep.
Strokes of eloquence
breathe airbrushed scenes
painting my world in linguistic dreams
How tasteless bland these buds would be
If phrased thy love were unspoken to me
like honey barren of sweetened flavor
a silent, save-less savior
In awe
giving pause
grant witness your thoughts
grandiloquence such passion draw
as violent rage to sweet stillness assaults
Like Iridescent colors
wrapped in transparent light
are the words of my lover
divinities descendant a lingual delight
If loosed a cellos strings
an octave low
an unworthy note
void would be the magic
at the touch of the bow
But No!
I hear the heavens open
my soul spun in a rainbows glow
oration poised a symphonic token
of love as it was intended to show
Let my days grow ever old
bereft my riches in tow
but take not thy language of love for me
lest my light fade away for the woe
Simply pleading...
Don't go, don't go
Thine eloquence to have and to hold
Fellow poets, when you write, you put down words, of fact or fiction.
With conscious thought you select letters to make words in diction
Words strung together in rhyme, pearls of wisdom, marking the time
You create the thought, the flow,you're painting pictures as you go.
What would you say if I told you, it's all a lie, Shakespeare never existed
His works arrived by chance, perfectly phrased, not tongue tied, or twisted
Letters assembled themselves into words, then words in perfect succession
Formed themselves into rhyming sentences eloquently said in progression.
DaVinci too didn't exist, he's just a figment of some wild imagination
Mona Lisa was only a chance meeting of paint and canvas in congregation
There was no artist, with stylized strokes of brushes and pens in harmony
Ink and paint just flowing freely, creating their own masterpieces randomly.
You wouldn't believe it if I told you, because you know it's just not true
But when they tell you God doesn't exist, what do you think, or do?
Some say that life evolved by a chance meeting of cells and molecules
Natural selection, started chaotically forming an organic cosmic soup.
Does that make sense when you see the beauty and artistry all around
In the sunsets, oceans, lands and seas, where life teems and abounds
The universe with a complexity of it's own, a cosmic timepiece of majesty
Saying order comes from chaos, is a disgrace to the Artist, a real travesty.
When an artist paints a sunset he is just copying what he sees with his eyes
It's not an original work, but he signs it anyway, maybe he doesn't realize.
The complexity and order in life should tell you we were fashioned by design
Faith in the Designer comes not by chance, but by choice, read the signs.
John Derek Hamilton November 20, 2015
An Open Debate, We Await...
Hohoho.....
Someone is so full of himself and sounded so arrogant...
So full of self importance to come across as belligerent...
Issuing an open challenge for a public debate any time and place in Bolehland...
That brave but brash man is now caught like a deer in a car's headlights in No Man's land...
His open challenge is now officially accepted by a small party's president....
Whose party has unobtrusively accepted the challenge on 29November...
Albeit a political party small in numbers but with a gutsy lady president ....
Who accepted the open challenge and now pursues it too its desired conclusion....
The ignominy of which the proponent surely grasps and understands...
The acceptance for a much desired and publicised political debate...
Comes across in black and white, well phrased and with a glaring caveat...
The proponent is not to withdraw or to cook up excuses of any kind..
To escape his obligations for an open debate he so brashly publicised...
The proof of the pudding or pie is in the eating...
Bolehland awaits if this man has what it takes...
To an open debate on rights and privileges of Sarawak and Sabah...
In the 1963 formation of Bolehland as a free nation...
Hohoho....
Simply put, the question remains, got balls or not.....
Or was it all just a dare me on, just a political talk....
As in the acronym NATO, No Action Talk Only....
A prevalent norm of operations from the ruling party...
Hohoho....
In my golden sunken eyes
In see the future of my life
Fraught with uncertainty
A name without sanctity
I made a world of desires.
Lost along the line of fires
A dreadful isolated life,
Where I had so long survived
The showdown begins with the start
The ray of hope falling from my heart
I pray for the grave which death promises to take
The life that my destiny gave
The endless voyage ended with despair
Oscillating between hope and despair
Now I sleep in complete silence
A soul free from turbulence…
MY MATERNAL AUNT DIED IN YR 2003 JUNE OWING TO LIVER CANCER. I LOVED HER
SO MUCH AND I WILL NOT HESITATE CONFESSING THAT I LOVED HER MORE THAN MY
MOM....I JUST PHRASED HER WORDS . [PUBLISHED IN 2007 DECEMBER - TIMES OF
INDIA]
Leighann Anderson's contest '' Sea of Words''
Where I grew up there’s a unique creature
Has Horns everywhere, a unique feature
Six inches in length and dinosaur like
The horns on his head stick out like a spike
They call him a “Horned Toad” where I was raised
“Horney Toad” or “Horned Frog” he’s also phrased
Actually he’s neither a frog nor toad
A “Horned Lizard” is the proper name bestowed
The horns on his body are actually scales
But on his head they’re bone and hard as nails
When he runs, he lifts high up off the ground
A wibble-wobble run to where he’s bound
We took some to a Boy Scout jamboree
Traded them as pets or sold for a fee
We also painted some large cockleburs
Traded as porcupine eggs as it were
There’re all kinds of legends about these guys
Like eating hot coals, and spitting in your eyes
There are fifteen species in the US
The Texas Horned Lizard’s biggest and best