Best Pliant Poems
Did you think my friendship fickle,
thus deserving of the sickle
did you think that it would wither up and die?
Did you think my friendship faded
thus transforming true to jaded
did you think you could revive if you try?
Did you think my friendship lacking,
thus you sent me swiftly packing
did you think that you should stop and ask me why?
Did you think my friendship ended
thus presumed it can't be mended
did you think that you could leave without goodbye?
Well, my dear, let me assure you
That as friend, this girl is true blue
did you think I'd let you simply walk away?
Quiet wrong is your surmising,
and I find it quite surprising
that you'd think this friendship's was not here to stay
So, now listen, friend, just listen
Let these word's of friendship glisten
as on through these lines of poetry you play
I'll be here though sometimes silent
With a heart that's supple, pliant
Write the words, and don't be doubtful, dear, I pray!
Eileen Manassian
Pigtails loosen yet messed,
twisted by pliant fingertips
of evening’s devilry…
tracing her budding breasts,
embers gleam from a lamplight, dim…
his jerked breathing quickens to rake
this young, tender flesh---
from pink , blood red, to pale yellow... despicable!
Invading her territory,
the blister of muffled silence
grates adolescent wails,yet…
crazed feasting of desire remains.
She quivers under a toppled quilt
brushed in wounded cotton...despicable!
And while darkness slides on metal frame,
he riles, riles with abandon,
grinning under a sinister moon
arsenic as the sweat of male hunger
to ravage a girlish body... trembling, trembling
while her cupped mouth stutters,
‘Please step-dad, no!’
‘Hush…dear baby, I am your angel,
guarding you from evil wolves..despicable!
Quietly, he pins the knob of conquest
until the frail child's porcelain doll
splatters on the floor, and then…
.............
Re-Posted /1/2017
Contest: Let's Talk About It
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
AROUSE ME
Enchant me
Serenade me
Touch me
Raise my temperature
Heighten my senses
Make me tingle all over
Apply your hands to my trembling body
Caress the heaving contours
Of my pliant body
Feel the rhythm of my passions
Boiling within
Explore all of what I have to give
Arouse me
Titillate me
Enhance my desire
Make me tingle with your soft kisses
Own me
Mould me
Control me
Free me of inhibitions
School me in desire
Pleasure me
It’s not all about me
But of you and I becoming we
Gloaming Glory
Fiery orb of living luminous light
descending slowly before the
sea at the edge of the horizon,
I am one with you, connected
through the cosmos divinely.
Your photosynthesis runs through
my veins like the pliant plants.
As I close my eyes in contemplation
I may still elegantly envision your
bright ball of golden glow.
A denizen of diamonds coruscates
undulating across the sea
leading a path to you in your
most glorious moments.
I reach out my arms to you as you
reach out your last rays to embrace
me with your loving crimson colors.
I bathe baptized by your beauty.
In breathless sighs I gasp at your bonniness
blessing me as I reveal my soul is
connected to you and through you.
Let me savor each moment before you
vanish, sinking beneath the sea, near me,
and all becomes blush, hushed in
temporary terrestrial mourning
of your absence. Adieu sweet Sol!
4-11-20
~First Place~
Slipping Soul Sunsets into the Sea Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Happy Easter Everyone!
My thanks to this site for the picture: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxYmD2Wb-fs/TiQEXx7haI/AAAAAAAAEig/X21CDD9G6wk/s1600/Island+Sunset+Wallpapers+3.jpg
Indigenous woman—rarely accompanied by their
white sisters—or their men enter
through the side door
of St. Peter’s Church.
Here they are boxed in cool stucco,
and stained-glass. A flock of Mexican
Madonna’s shift today to encompass
their fairer sister:
Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo.
Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es
el fruto de tu vientre:,Jesús.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros,
pecadores, ahora y en la hora ...
drones on—and on—and on
within the heavenly heights of gilded frescos—bleeding—
rainbows prism the room in false light, kaleidoscoping upon
the walls—murals of brocade, gold-threaded catch random rays.
Woman anchor the pews with their desires—
Pliant and pleading these mothers beseech Mary to intercede:
for first class citizenship (inside and outside the Church)
for work, for health, for a better life for their children.
Voices of the lamb bleating; dinner for the wolves, they pray.
SHORT SHRIFT-little or no attention or consideration
Fate
knew best,
as fingers
intertwined souls
weaving…bringing elements together
A patch of soil, a whisper in the wind
a blackened storm,
wish ablaze--
finding
love
~***~
Earth
embraced
slumbered seed
nurturing it
making room for it, and letting it grow
Through the years, this tree stood steadfast…solid
rooted deeply
yet pliant,
humbly
strong
Air
carries
tall tree’s wish
soars, touches stars
that whisper to the Heavens, blow kisses
Leaves dance, flirt with breeze in constant motion
seasons fly on,
lives pass by,
granted
wish
Rain
water:
a blessing,
tree soaks it in
never drowning, drinking in happiness
Its wood sails in the sea of memories,
waves then crash in
until it
reaches
shore
Flames
burn free,
fire licks...feels,
ravages wood.
Tree’s ultimate sacrifice, exhausted
Glowing embers now remain, gives soft light
just the right heat,
warming souls
that need
it
~***~
He
was that
awesome tree.
He always said,
"You are elementary in my life."
It is only now that I understand…
I was his Earth.
Air. Water.
Fire--Light.
Love.
--for Chris' Double the Fun~ (Tetractys) contest--
B-R-E-A-T-H - OF - L-O-V-E
Summer sun or winter freeze pulls heartstrings in trapeze. . .
Cotton soft to gnarled callus vows have thread along my way
embroidering ribbon actions to pliant swings of reactions
like a darting fish thrilled to catch a passer-by knees.
Two pairs of eye sew webs to bridge affection display,
pines teeming green crown my arrested heart--
tachycardic I am... each time I hear your sound.
Has breath of love tickled my nerves to interaction?
Like a bee I'm drawn to your sweet ambiance 'round
hoping by miracle it will birth me a fresh start.
Scents that streams from bulbs swirl on wafting wind--
Ah! They all fell to shame for your breath of love tames.
Once a rebel soul that long been thriving for satisfaction
with breath of love that resuscitates, I mend my flame
channeling muse to stroke the peak density of mind.
Slender February breeze taunt my fingers
to type rhymes that shy edge of reason.
Eternally plunge in surrender
I-- filled with breath of love ships my horizons
to script stories in shades that lingers. . .
______________________________________________
***Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name your Favourite Old Poem
++Placed 3rd++
©O.E. Guilermo
12:31 pm, February 07, 2015
*** Awaiting Inspiration ***
(written for my brother and sister poets)
Reaching for dreams in the black of my closed eyes, but sleepless,
I go on in music, out past radiant lights —
Bright and brighter — spreading beams that hold back off every
Fright plotted by the cornered, infernal shadows threatening
To overwhelm as they amass over meadows bordering
The forested wilds’ protection of those — hidden therein.
Those, who, in their God-graced innocence, their divinely destined lives,
From infant cries to elder wise; and who will survive
Keeping in the depth of their beings a spirit of truth with
A visible valiance — seen upon a look deep into their eyes;
While —- in this place — in this secrecy thick with trees — I alone
Am ready with pen in hand...to be their mirror…
For I am a documentarian of the hopes held
In humanity’s array of feeling hearts:
Whose stories I note
In the bounce of continuous city din; in tales recounted by farm folk
Walking between their grain-growing rows; and told in chanted
Prayers rising for the ill, the poor, the despairing…needed and answered.
Thus, holding visions and voices, I persistently proceed with my work,
First, with a necessary pulling at these pliant walls
Of the creative cocoon — its soft, loose weave deceptively
Can seem easily penetrable. Possibly God will respond to these
Cries for his collaboration. Meanwhile, alone, awaiting inspiration, I stay
With crayons in hand, watching the approach of a very rare snowfall in May.
*****. ******. ******. *******. ******. *****
Inspired by Milton & Dante, may be Part i of a longer work.
Thanks be to God…
Also for Charlie and Jim with thanks.
11/21-28 (c)S. Young Eslinger
LOTUS FOR SLOPING KNEES
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
the contentment of disheveled twigs
sitting on shoulders of humming trees,
the sunlight wafting shades on meshed nets---
it is before early morning, pale always ever,
pagan and pliant as the swoon
of winged winds. after all, while village trawlers
tug the day’s haul of buttery clams,
salmon and weeds,
the river washes its feet unobserved.
even when the hills fondle the peaks
of embossed leaves, there is no time
for human leisure on the streams, not yet. not till
compass’ hours stray too long, tedious, unabated
for folk fishermen to haul the orb ropes
and slug aquatic baits in exile, washed
from sea wine that cradles trout’s liberty…
many a time, when incandescent beam
envelopes all things gentle and sunlight drifts
on lotus flowing, rowing; as clouds hover odorless
upon sloping male knees: fishermen become
the fishes darting free, finally tranquil…
content as disheveled twigs lying
on shoulders of humming trees.
,,,,,,,,……………………………………,,,,,,
© all rights reserved
Suddenly from somewhere
A street urchin-
An untamed bird of the wider sky
Dropped down
Into the circus tent
Before him was unfurled
Scenes eerie….awesome!!
Roaring lions and tigers,
Gibbering baboons, caravans of camels,
Animal tamers and acrobats,
Artists balancing on poles
Swinging from bars to trapeziums
Pliant girls with plastic limbs
And pouting breasts,
Walking on tight ropes.
A strange world,
Peopled with beasts and men!
His face, painted white and red
In motley dress, he was arrayed
And a tall tapering cap, placed
On his forcibly tonsured head
He hardly knew what it all meant.
He heard the bells ringing
And it was time for the show
He was told
He would henceforth be a clown
And should make people laugh
A thousand sunsets passed him by
He forgot the familiar alleys of the streets
Lost sight of the endless pathways of the sky
In a world –
So populous- so empty,
He buried him
In the hidden caverns of himself
Nursing a hundred bruises
Inflicted by Time’s sharp razors
Often he was reminded-
“You should make others laugh”
He did make people laugh
While a fountain of tears lay frozen
In the slivers of his broken heart!!
Jan.7. 2023
~ Placed Fourth~
Tatters Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mystic Rose Rose
feathered …
moony beams daub your lips -
the irregularities
shaping little cornflower thorns
but oh, how supple the
pliant press of those luscious fruits
(savored like honey) …
I touch them delicately with the
back of my finger
then move lower to your
daintily-dimpled chin, and down …
I follow the blue beams
with my fingertips
dancing across your surfaces as
little bumps form and
your flesh jumps here-and-there
telling me I’ve found the
sweetest spots,
though I’m winding my way to
an even dearer dermis
and warmer intent …
what is the enchantment of
these moments -
this magic of moonlight that
makes me want you so?
there is a mad mystery to why such
time stops and waits for us,
and were it not for
the responsibilities of morning,
we would hold this moment forever -
painted in dreamy shafts of blue
trading touches like truths
swimming the rill of each other’s soul
and haunting a wonder-world -
whimsical, immortal
and ours …
alone.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden
Loose green tendrils hanging low
kiss the soft green earth, the bough
kneels with the wind as if in prayer,
a penitent so humble, so subservient.
A pliant bow that's unreleased,
and like to spring to heaven with a swish,
a stately, monumental king
of meadow and a murmuring stream,
in haze concealed, a misty dream,
a graceful monolith 'twould seem,
cloaked in the blue-grey hush.
No snow can ever fall without your memory
punishing and pushing me into a dark reverie.
Watching snow fall, I see your face, feel your touch
and fade into a tangled web of sensory rush
until I am bleak like snow when turned to mush.
Snow of bright, gleaming thick layers
reminds me of me when still truth spared.
Then, when snow browns with man’s grime,
I feel my heart bruises sharply combine.
Making love in a remote cabin should not
have happened, only the fire was not a lie.
Your deceiving words of love’s design
were words I believed as I gave my all to you.
By fire, I submitted, pliant and fully subdued.
As we lay entwined in love’s aftermath
you stabbed me with words that attacked.
As the fire cracked, my heart burned black.
You spoke of your wife, your still married life,
and confessed lying to get me in the sack.
Smugly, you shared a hope I was okay with that.
I could not speak, I felt only emotional smacks.
Fire was the only sound when you fell asleep
and a rage grew in me much to raw to keep.
How strange to watch myself from outside myself,
to see myself rendered into anger tremors
as I rolled you into the fire’s splendor.
I heard your screams muffled in fire’s temper
until you were reduced to ash and embers.
My sonnet has the temper of a screaming child
because I'll not allow it to run free and wild
Mired on a pad, it damns me. "I want to fly free!"
"You're not ready," I whisper. "Put your trust in me."
It cried, trying to hold on to its pregnant dreams
blaming me for aborting expressive rhyme schemes
"Ask your muse to find more decorous selections."
On her advice, I began to make corrections.
I purged all the rhetoric and made a new start
resulting in the birth of a sonnet with heart
I danced for freedom I'd granted to my verses
No longer do I hear the yowling of curses
I will continue to write with a pliant quill
and an open mind with the ink I choose to spill
The Morning Speaks With Skylarks Singing
....inspired by 'Poem in October' by Dylan Thomas
The morning speaks with skylarks singing
o'er the greening meadows and the pliant pasture,
crisp and clear, like God's first measure of
a holy hymn.
The air alive with
songs of praise, the gentle winds a sacred message,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
His grand prescription,
like a dream
that streams out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore,
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free,
between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy as a lamb on shaky legs
and tumbled freely,
without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.
The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn blood,
the flame,
a blend of hues
the likes of which would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet,
happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.
The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled,
nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream
falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!