Best Plaited Poems
Chaste and more graceful
Than the white canvassed Dhow:
Reclines sweet Nefertiti
Upon a Blue Nile breeze.
Fabled entity more whiter
Than the purest white snow
That thickly blankets
And folds over the wide Pyrenees.
Dipped is thy beak
Into a harvesters August sunset;
A Bohun proper,
Gorged and chained with a crown;
Tipped Argent quills
Thus scrawl across royal warrants:
Plodding, punctilious creature -
Of high born renown!
Proudly thy trumpet Lancastrian ascension,
Emblazoned on a Heraldic shield;
Pomp and indignation
Paddling alongside contemptuous scorn;
Sinuous neck of Serpentine undulations
Tensioned as if a Longbow -
On whose plaited strings
The sturdy Yeomans Bodkins were drawn!
And did Columbines mask
Ever hold such indignant eyes
For whose feathered heart
The diligent cob did attend?
His sedulous efforts
To court within impassioned grunts
When intertwining throats
Do abouts and lovingly wend.
O, Cygnus olor!
En monde bosse - glittering Dunstable jewel;
Pen and immortal verse
Chart beside heavens gilded streams.
For under old mariners discarded stars
And above silvered byways:
Whoop the beat of dusted wings
Inside slumbering clouds wandering dreams.
Competition day had arrived,
His muzzle twitched with anticipation
And in relation my feet tingled in a way like never before.
For the first time, we both doubted ourselves
But fear not, we must carry on
As I plaited his forelock in preparation
I took the time to appreciate how flat his withers was
How typically racehorse he was
I stroked his fetlock as I knew this could be it.
His hooves were oiled and shiny as ever
Ready for anything
And the 3 link that he loved
Made no difference in poll pressure
As we bolt across the course, aiming to be the best
“I trust you, boy”
As if to tell him that even though, 2 years ago when he was deemed
A mess with dodgy hocks and lumpy coronets
Who was a waste
He could do this, to prove them wrong and beat the best
Become the best
Written: January 19, 2024
______________________________________
Love swells as a glossy plum
Love is a heavenly amethyst duet
Lambent love, a luscious lake of lulls,
Love is the genesis
of all creation sequined,
fulcrum fern,
of our symbiotic existence
Love is an alchemy
of cosmic serenades,
a strange spin sway
as a heart craves blood
even falling from a cliff
or drowning in a precipice
with love is delicious
It's vibrant-hued, bashful,
nurturing, as passion fruit
It's addiction—intoxication
uproots and shakes our roots,
It burns akin to embers
and molds you into a poet
you gladly and willingly bow
to its magical might.
Flames are blazing;
let the incense flow!
after resins hiss and vanishes
we cling to clouds,
where vapors fall and merge
whilst intense wish
and lovely yearning mingle
to light up the candles!
let slopes shine!
as hallowed naves, smells linger,
silently, we divine hand in hand
many melodies combine waves
there is no soft breath!
in choruses such as this
pure down ruins harmonies,
curls created by art and deceit
cast extra seeds into a brazier
amidst the silver flood,
senses may be able to discern
lovely, clever, drained woman.
Tent sky sapphire satin tracks
with gold moon and star icons
and set on an edge socket
topaz and malachite jars
nickel ball on a triple string
light dims our vibrant traits,
not to forget myrtle sprays!
drought will bestow prophecy
we listen on plaited hair mats.
before hospodar—known gestures,
I'm starting to grasp magic
of my early days as king.
1st place contest winner
Hyacinth Hands
Mother, ego-cracker, birthed an embodiment of freedom plaited with slavery
petunia planter, marjoram with Malay curry and rice, yet scarcity her best performance when hunger a primary protagonist
my leap into Sovereignty depended on unraveling karmic bonds binding us through lifetimes, countless ages, sotto scenarios
Piscean, she scaly presented the toughest tests with hyacinth hands, only an embattled Heart would accede to
her non-relinquishing of my spinal cord nerves entwined with hers, she decorated with wondrous wild animal decoupage vases
to despairing detach from plundering pain, each principal pleasure she designed with subtle oomph, unconscious sophistication
my divinity would have back burned in futuristic coliseums had she not been Mother of trialing pegs and variegated embroidery cotton
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I HATE your Gymkhana,
I loathe every second it's run.
I dread all those horses and obstacle courses,
and everyone else having fun.
Now Mummy is frantic, the panic gigantic;
my pony won't go in the box.
She's shouting and screaming (and often blaspheming),
when Dobbin sits down on his hocks.
We stop in a field, by others well heeled,
their lorries all parked in neat rows.
My Dobbin looks grotty, all rumpled and spotty;
their ponies are plaited in bows.
I get in Show Jumping my usual dumping,
when Dobbin refuses the last.
I'm beat in the Bending (and cry without ending);
my pony is not very fast.
You're calling my name? Is this all a game?
And now you are pointing at me?
What me in the line, at Prize Giving time?
Oh, my? Have you answered my plea?
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I LOVE your Gymkhana!
It's been such a jolly good thrash.
The Rosette I won has made it such fun;
my Dobbin has got a bran mash!
~
For Francine Roberts' "Children in Rhyme" Contest by Charles Clive.
Children in the village are filled with joy
Waiting patiently for the grand parade
Each one has a task every girl and boy
Sandwiches prepared and tables are laid
Laden with treats and ice cold lemonade
The may pole bedecked in ribbons so bright
Children gasp at such a beautiful sight
Kate dreams of becoming Queen of the May
Elegant and poised and so full of grace
Prays so hard that it will come true one day
Her lovely dress made from cream coloured lace
Fresh flowers will frame her pretty young face
They’ll dance round the maypole on grass so green
Just for one day will Kate be the May Queen?
Girls dance around in bright coloured dresses
Judges choose who is the prettiest girl
Sweet scented blooms are pinned in their tresses
Ribbons are plaited as the children twirl
The May queen in crowned her minds in a whirl
Kate’s the prettiest one the judges say
Dreams do come true; she is Queen of the May
03~05~15
Contest: On The First of May – Isaiah Zerbst
My first attempt at Rhyme Royal – ABABBCC
~awarded 4th place~
PARADISE ISLANDS
At the end of a double rainbow ~ golden sands ~
Hawaiian sands ~ beside ~ azure waters
My plaited lei roars ~ toward ~
~ Lover’s footprints ~ on sandy shore
Waikiki my ~ happily ever after ~ dream
~ Haku mele ~ strums upon ukulele
Coconut tans and bare feet ~ embrace ~
Oahu ~ the gathering place ~ sunrise to sunset
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Who is he who skips the mountains crest
and in the forest takes his play
who wanders flowering meadows blest
and paints her majestic peaks by day
Who roars like a bear emerging from his den
rises from the sun rays shadow
and walks within the misty glen
He casts his pigment panegyric to adorn
to the art of beauty has his soul he's sworn
Plaited music to the rising hills
and lack of virtue does lament
insinuates the want of justice
in images our minds can print
He bubbles forth like fountains
which escapes the rocky cleft
one cannot ignore his passings
without him our cores bereft
Thought frightening his acquired skills
he's hidden his gems within
so blinding is his casing
the breadth of imagination there begin
Who is he who opens his hands
to show the colors of his world
whose arms are the strength of captains
where the banners lay unfurled
So casts his umbra like a rainbows wake
through the veil of his heart does life partake
And madden hearts of maidens
blazed the trails of his quest
in rich diversity is he laden
what is his name , have you guessed
Some have named him legend
and to his core he's prime
he's entertained the multitudes
deep is the well of captured mind
I put forth the question
where can his like be found
his grace upon inspection
and in it's wax be drown
The edges of his borders
are not yet mapped and plain
for he has concealed traits
he has buried deep within
He seems not to understand
the skills he's left untapped
another side that's left alone
within it's fear is capped
So in my words I've framed him
a lesser picture of his soul
I counted him among the men
where womens hearts have been made whole
Whilst I realize this is one of those short
diversions from what I usually write
while I know he does not see himself
this way many do.......but this is how
I see him
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Aeolus God and Ruler of the Wind
Summoned Aura and surveying her grinned
Then proceeded to whisper in her ear
Brought shocked expression, a falling tear
"Please do not pursue the Aurai nymphs"
Whose replicas were on all column plinths
Aeolus struck his staff on marble floor
Ordering her acquiescence through the door
Notus the Southern and Zephyrus West Wind
Both held aloft the reasoning gold string
A murmur bubbled up across the room
As Borus held Aura in a swoon
His chilly North Wind and wintry embrace
Soon revived Aura to her lifelike grace
Urged "Go to your nymphs, divine Aura breeze"
"It is useless to argue or make pleas"
Doe-eyed she surveyed all attendants there
No others showed concern she was aware
Except the Winds who were her only friends
Ominous forebodings brought dire portends
For he who sought them to trap and entice
The Aurai nymphs debt was to be paid thrice
Aura took herself away from there
Praying for insight as she plaited her hair
The sad nymphs found her, as they often did
As one tidied her plaits and then redid
They all knew perceptibly the dire news
That Aeolus wished their powers to use
Aura decided without any doubt
His wicked order she would therefore flout
So then with her nymphs she fled the King's Realm
Each with saddened hearts to overwhelm
For sometimes you may feel them touch your cheek
Or in their terror rise to wail and shriek
So with Aura they curled, swirled and whirled
To try seek refuge in the human world
Dated: 12/13/14
A strainer for milk or for juice, a window shade
Worn as bibs, diapers, or a kerchief
Turned into skirts, blouses and slips
Plaited into rugs of many pieces.
In kitchen used as dish towels, cover for dough
Helping to pass pans so hot, to tie up dishes
To clean and polish stove and table
To abraide and to scrub from cellar to gable.
In bedroom, to dust the bureau and bed posts
Turned into costumes of October scary ghosts
Waive me to say” hello” to a distant neighbor
I am that durable and practical flour sack.
======================================
November 17, n2013
Form: Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place win
Contest:Any poem goes #27 by Linda
The Rose of the World went weeping
and many the tears the Rose shed;
they flowed like a river softly
on a world that was dry and dead.
The Rose of the World was heartsick;
the heart of the Rose broke and bled,
the mad world plaited a thorn crown
to cruelly pierce His fair head.
They crushed the Rose in its beauty,
and they nailed the Rose to a tree;
the Rose with His tears and His lifeblood
emptied out His fragrance on me.
Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson
Flooding to sky, my feelings over the sloppy bank
Dangling like tulips on the rainy eve, flourishing
My smile, angels awake, their trumpet, my soul nourishing
Tell her! She never my heart left blank.
Her small argument, amuse i, while on bed to rest
Creature! Oh! Creature, she beat nature
That day, on my side seated, she never mature
Hope, her idiosyncrasy like weather never change abreast.
Wishes are pathetic, we might walk one day
On the plaited heir of roses and lilies
While our aged stories grow new like sweet bay
As ecstasy hovers like drunken butterflies.
Traverse her all time, i might miss her last wave
In case, do see her, my monumental epistle, try to save.
Uche Chidozie Okorie
fee- foo she wanna groove
give her space
so she can move
caught the beat cause the beat is funky
drop down
like ah funky monkey
study bouis
to pass yo' test
caught the groove when the
beat is fresh
dance a little
shang ah ling
come on baby
won't you do yo' thang
skop woop dee- dah dough
nappy headed afro
stringy hair
kinky too
gelled back
and plaited-up crew
getting it in
cause ya know you next
gone girl and cash that check
grind yo' thing
and get change foo twenty
swip swoop dat beat is
funky
STANDING STONE.
In my image of standing stone
I dared to move beyond
Chilled time lines
Or perhaps my physicality
Will evolve
Like unto some warm flesh
Exposed to the wintry rains
Or to vagrant summer nights.
I may be a word
In constructions of dreams
An angelic legend serrated
With wings clipped
An eagle soarful of
The harassed heights
Spurred by winds
Of the plaited horns.
The bright white
Lights of afternoons
Will snatch horizons
From trembling shadows
And might smuggle in
A maudit melancholy
To upset prescribed sermons.
With cut face
Within my stony profile
With chipped voices
Within my throat
A circular solitude
Within my dreams
I may be ready to scribe
Some strange tales
Quilled in dripped bloods
For annals of the unknown.
"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
With fond memories my heart embraces
childhood days of innocent impressions
and plush playmates with adoring faces
Dolls and tea sets were my prized possessions
Forming angels with friends in Winter's snow
and making silly facial expressions
I gathered wild flowers in the meadow
and plaited wreaths to wear in my long hair
Selling lemonade with my best friend, Jo.
In my younger days I didn't have a care
In make-up, pearls, and high heels, I was dressed
Ignoring Mom when she'd say, "Don't you dare!"
Affectionately, my fingers caressed
photos in scrapbooks of my early days
Years of my life when I was richly blessed
My vision is blurred by a teary haze
Recalling those years, today and always
November 25, 2020 ~ Terza Rima Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Rhyming verified on RhymeZone
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