Best Pleasant Poems
You see us everywhere you go
Every corner of your street house our offspring
Every bridge in your city has become our refugee camp
We are the people you call peasant
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
You see us at the entrance of your estates
You see us at the gate of your beautiful companies
In search of what our mouth will feed on next
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
Our gradually fading skin
Now a sweet companion to the midnight moon and afternoon sun
We are the ones without homes
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
When bridges become forbidden by the law
We opt for uncompleted buildings
A few of us get lucky when it rains
And shield themselves under cars
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
We are the ones that beg for the remnant from your table
We are the ones life has just not been fair to
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
We are the ones that get poorer while you get richer
We are the ones that scramble for the leftover at your feast
We are the ones that fight for your used clothes
We are the peasants with pleasant rags
Nearby a desert, trees and peace both flourish in my city, Pleasant Grove.
Written Oct. 3, 2016 For the Where I Live One Liner Contest of Silent One.
*Pleasant Grove is a small city of Utah, USA, not far from capital, Salt Lake City
For twenty-seven years I have lived here
inside this little city, Pleasant Grove.
I live too far away from sisters dear.
Not easily from this town could I rove!
I live here with a dog, a cat and spouse.
I hardly know a thing about this town.
I’m here because it’s where we built our house.
A few main streets I’m used to driving down
yet hardly know my way around this place!
I also do not know its histories.
One thing I like (for me, its saving grace) -
it’s home to many varied gorgeous trees!
My own hometown I know much better though
I spent my childhood there so long ago!
Written Jan. 3, 2016
For the contest of Silent One: Sonnet about where you live
It is morn in the countryside late in the spring,
and the lake is so placid and birds they all sing.
All the flowers in bloom and the air is so clean;
not a day that’s so lovely has ever been seen.
As I walk to the lake I can see little swirls
where the fish break the surface as morning unfurls.
It is late in the spring when the fish end their spawn
that the fishing is best; to this place I am drawn.
For the crappie are biting or so I am told,
and a stringer of fish is a sight to behold.
There’s a fish fry tonight; I can taste it right now;
to my house you can come and your friends I’ll allow.
But my telephone rings and it brings me to life
brings me back to my world which is filled with much strife;
many deadlines to meet and my day is extreme,
and my walk through the country was merely a dream.
Pleasant thoughts in mind
Life treats you kind
Swirling anger and rage
Toss you off-stage
(A double etheree)
I
took the
“scenic route”
home through my town
today, driving down
streets unknown to me and
some I’d driven down before
but now could barely recognize-
so many new houses had sprung up!
Guided by instinct, I turned onto streets.
Mostly I guessed wrong on my directions!
What charming homes line those clean broad roads;
how gorgeous are autumn’s colors
all around; different from in
spring (when nature blooms) and
yet - no less lovely!
In fall’s dying,
what beauty
lingers
here.
I stepped out the door to feed Doggy
The day was so beautifully foggy
I tripped on his dishes
And swam like the fishes
And now all my dress clothes are soggy!
Today the past passed by my table
I never thought i would be able
To look in these eyes again
I was having a coffee and looked up
And there it was taking over my present
I must admit the surprise was pleasant
My heart started pumping and jumping
My eyes lit up as bright as the sun on that day
Never imagined but or years i have been hoping
It would come my way
I embraced my memories
And kissed them on the cheeks
While giggling with tears in my eyes
Didn't know how or what to speak
Remember this ...remember that
Wild memories and strong emotions started to show up
I know they say what happened in the past
Should stay in the past
But this was an exception
I dot mind for this memory to last
And say hello,when passing by at my table
Custodians of pleasant deed
You will see them behind good
They mean no harm, but to join hands
Their aim is to build an organization of
Creative generous innovation
They are the structure;
The citadel of good behavior……….
Their MINDS are so clean and pure
They always want to make HOLY
They are like angel of the Mighty, the Highest,
The Wonder, the Mystery, the Marvel
They are the angels of light in our society
The bad will always be on a point while the good
Will always be the foremost
Their name were being written
With white pen on white board, the custodians of
Pleasant DEED shall not DIE
They shall rise in the hereafter
Where the fellow angels will welcome them with A song
Dedicated to all good wishers on this site,
I can't MENTION NAMES , they are countless
It is symphonic
It is rhythmic
It tells a story,
of love and life,
of pleasure and pain,
of joy and sadness;
a story of defeat and triumph
It is the invisible book
of the human experience
It has the power,
to move you,
to make you yearn for more,
of its delightfully painful,
audible deliciousness
It can deliver you;
it can be your cry of deliverance
It is so mysterious;
it could only be celestial
It straddles the emotions
quietly packing a punch,
but pulls it, only to suck you in
When it hits,
it leaves no bruises
It knocks you out,
into the habitation of joy;
a relief from heaviness
It is transcendent;
a passport and transport,
to the esoteric zone;
the inner longing of the soul,
warping the time in its wake,
at such a pace,
that leaves you transported
It blows in,
from beyond the firmament,
riding the undulating,
invisible crests of space
It is copious in joyfulness,
filling the soulful emptiness;
an aid to cope with the sorrowfulness
of humanness,
reaching deep into the soul,
soothing even the savage beast
It is infectious, but does no harm
It is delightfully musing;
rousing a deep satisfaction,
yet, in it, lies a deeper longing,
for something or somewhere,
fleetingly familiar,
very present, yet very distant
Seemingly desiring to reconnect,
to something or somewhere,
enchanting, elusive, and disconnected
Shhh! Can you hear it? It is music! It is Jazz!
It was pleasant every time we went to grandpa and grandmas.
We woke up in the morning with the smell of fresh baked bread.
Wouldn't cause much for all of us and grandpa to pause
whatever we were doing and ran when, "It's ready." was said.
Slices of bread smothered with butter and jelly souls were fed.
Grandma would fill the wringer washing machine
with cold water from a hose hooked up to the house,
I enjoyed watching it agitate getting the clothes clean.
We hung them out in the backyard on the clothesline and rouse
the sunshine to dry giving them a fresh air scent especially my blouse.
Now that I'm older with my own family I try to keep those traditions.
I use a bread machine instead of using my hands to knead bread.
One of the few things I lend and provide myself to be ambitions.
On sunny days, I'll hang my clothes out on the clothesline instead.
These small things became quite real to me, I will never dread.
2/19/2018
Poetry Contest: 'The Scent Of Baking Bread, The Scent Of Clean Sheets Fresh Off The Clothesline' English Quintain : a,b,a,b,b
Sponsored By: Sara Kendrick
One day in early April, I’ll be given a surprise.
Old Man Winter will have barely trudged away.
I’ll drive up to my house and before my eyes,
Spring will have returned in bright array -
with my front yard trees a part of her costume ballet.
The buds on my pear tree will become florets,
prettily unfurled a creamy white.
My plum trees in bloom will be two coquettes
posed charmingly to the pear tree’s right
and bejeweled in amethysts - to my delight!
The costume ballet is a gorgeous thing to view.
There is no dance, but rather you will see
a movement from block to block of every hue
displayed in early April most gracefully
by my own and every other costumed tree.
(My city is famous for its beautiful trees; hence
the name Pleasant Grove.)
Written Feb. 2, 2012 for Francine Roberts'
english quintain a spring day Poetry Contest
Asunder have all my classical forms and themes been torn,
Who tore them?
Who destroyed them to bring the poem down to the earth?
Yes, I did.
It is I who is now cold like a fully unthawed polar ocean,
No longer a wrathful wrangler,
No longer bold.
The neatly shaped rhyme and rhythm of verse is now
Like a frail vase, clasped by a frailer fist,
Falls only to get smashed on the floor
To sharp smithereens.
When undaunted I trotted upon them,
Found my feet hued with
Beautiful stains of love.
Happy only with MTV in Ukraine,
The Sun must always shine, no more rain
Or cold weather, let it will be warm and pleasant!
Pleasant Chinese spaghetti;
cooked to resemble
a yellowish smooth earthworm.
To it all children
cry to the hearing
of their mom.
Wow!