Best Poesy Poems
When you are with no companion
and no one can read your very silence
When you are brimmed with joy
and you find no sign of warmth
When your solitude is lonely
and you cease to feel the wonder
When no single wave in the air
and you have a longing to breathe
When your heart denies its throbs
and your tone becomes still and cold
When none can hear the drops of your wounds
and you can't even swallow your sighs
When the night has no stars in his sky
and no dream dares showing a face
When no other alluring path to walk
and no thirst to reach satiating founts
When both, mind and heart share your pen
and no single paper in your den
How couldn't there be a life
that would save lives!
How can I envision my world
without you, my poesy!
A little light entertainment on another wistful people distancing day...
The Owl and the Puddycat went to sleep
tucked up cosy and warm
Till Little Boy Blue come blasting his horn
causing a raucous storm
The Cat and the Fiddle
both jumped sky high
Mary and her Little Lamb, startled
began to cry
Jack and Jill both tumbled downhill
their pail of water rolled on overspill
Baa, Baa Black Sheep trembled with fear
He guessed it was time for wool being sheared
The Queen of Hearts dropped all her tarts
Twenty four blackbirds bit the crust
they were lucky, weren’t they just
Little Jack Horner, tucking into his pie
bit hard on the thumb he’d mistook for a plumb
screaming “what kind of fool am I"
Yankee Doodle from his pony vaulted
lost the feather he’d put in his cap
as the poor scared pony bolted.
26th November 2020
Eight inches of snow saw no hat on his head
an act of derring-do, my father said,
He ascended the steps
the eyes of the world upon him
An orator attacking the lectern
~ Camelot, out to shatter Babylon
The glare of the sun no match
for the glint in his eye
Brisk winds no challenge
to the stylish coif he held high.
He measured the moment
took a deep breath
Out came an aria
~ nary a shibboleth
Tall and straight, he stood
erect as a soldier
firing words like bullets
targeting the mind's heart, to pull it
jabbing the air with his fist or his finger
pausing ever so briefly
~ he let the message linger
He moved us, he touched us,
lifted a nation's heart
without sham or deceit
~ only truth from his lips
did ever depart
He proposed the Peace Corps
to inspire the young--
For those older and wiser
he combined graciousness
with toughness
in a diplomatic
sharp-edged tongue
To Nikita Krushchev, the Soviet,
baring his claws,
Our leader's barbed-wire message
surely gave pause:
"Let us remember...
...sincerity is always subject to proof
Let us never negotiate out of fear.
But let us never fear to negotiate."
And to all 180 million Americans watching
in person or on the tube
~ He issued this challenge
destiny ringing, resonant rendezvous:
"Ask not what your country can do for you
ask what you can do for your country."
It's now 55 years later
and America's not seen
a President like Kennedy
~ to inspire us to dream
In the shadows of a
darkly relinquished night,
an unrelenting musing beast struck
presenting a proposition,
as he pranced about
viscous vision's intentions,
promised a copious poesy garden
'tween early morn's
buttercup metaphors
& dusk's poppy delusions,
danced 'til lavishly penned spirits
were indubitably unleashed
exploding 'neath elliptical eclipses;
whence the sun it did bounteously appear
midst all its magnificent splendor,
whilst Delphic inky nectar dripped
deliberately descending beyond
hellbent scripted passages,
vying vaporous voids of creation
'pon prolifically paradisaical poetry
If poesy is health, then I should be hale:
no invalid, but a bard whose high time
nears, whose destiny only God can tell.
Till then, I faithfully live by every rhyme.
If poesy is wealth, then I should be rich:
for I, now like a king of immense treasure,
am but a pauper who has found his niche,
a kingdom and realm of rhythm and measure.
If poesy is wisdom, then I should be wise:
for, through songs like these, even the dull and blind
(nourished with truthful, lovely rhymes) can rise
to higher ethereal states of mind!
If wisdom and poesy are thus absolving,
then I still should be happy and evolving.
What mystery has Poesy?
What purpose has its measured art?
Why ask, “To be or not to be?”—
when tragedy assails the heart?
What destiny has the Poet?
What future wonders wait for him?
How best do his verses show it
when other’s light become more dim?
These hidden lines from cryptic Rime
have kept the mysteries that shroud,
that veil for all of arcane time,
and cloak in an enigmatic cloud.
These questions of old, ancient Time
have plagued unwitting, darkened minds:
what won’t be known in double rhyme
will show itself in what Man finds.
Ivory beacon
Ebony reflections cast
Shades, mixed grey, upward
For the Reflections contest by Raul Moreno
Poesy and song are all about
rhythm and flow, and tunes and tones;
how every rise and fall throughout
make melody within the zones
and forms of verse without fade-out
to listener's tympanic bones.
Measure’s a trick of deft poets,
who know the cadence of their feet
gives lines their tempo. And so it’s
like Poesy’s pulsating heartbeat;
it’s hypnotic (and you know it’s
rhythmic),—so feel its potent beat.
Together, Poesy's clear measure
(the crests and troughs of its music,
the highs and lows of its leisure)
can roar like a score symphonic,
an orchestra of high pleasure
with counterpoint so harmonic!
For the Poet Laurette contest by Brian Strand(this one was a real challenge)
Poetaster am I, award unworthy,
Gratitude given to the great state
Whose honor did bestow me
Acceptance gladly and thankfully recieved
Hail Georgia!
This is the Vignette form of narrative.
Historiography is no job for the coward.
if you are doubtful, locomate to the “cow ward”.
Summon Ibn Bantuta, Jan vansina, Samuel Johnson and Cicero ,
they all know history is made in every scenario.
“What is history” , written and tailored by E.H Carr.
Written tradition will help for I intend to carve.
Great historians filter out myth and fables,
but illusions,monocausal explanations ,and lack of chronology still on their table.
Written sources is our Cinderella,
But in trail, historians is our helper,
cos they will shelter our history for the better,
And also help them out of their obscurity coma.
History will be kind to me for I intend to wright it.
Walter Rodney, Marx, Al-Tabari and other great historians like me are all at it.
Hit at it, achieve it and breath,
cos written history brings us out of the heat.
“Not knowing what took place before you were born is to remain forever child” … says Cicero.
Get matured, grow, flow and know,
as you lay your head on your pillow.
history is an unending dialogue between the past and the present, hope you know.
Sammy Kyle the historian , the poet, oh yes! i am.
Will not stop learning as I need no ladder to climb a can.
Historians are radicals they say, we brag! oh! yes we are
And for ever will I ride on because there is a reason behind the name kyle.
Sammy Kyle
Into what wisp of cloud or clod did my poem flee?
Into what minuscular pinch of diaphanous, free-floating empyreal, stratospheric air did my figurative furled parchment disappear?
Where are those poignant yet comic, yet weird and allusive and furtive and outrageous and oddly touching and haunting and charming and outlandish and wonderfully lame words that I wrote?
Why did I not, as I wilt with this, assay to make some few or sundry copies of them?
Why did not my cursor flick and flit over them, and my highlighter underscore and envelop them in its oddly circumvallatory way?
Why did I not behave upon these things, to actuate them, to do my bidding-
The only way I might have safeguarded and given due survival to these, my "children"? Children of an oddly misshapen, half-formed sort, but lovable all the same: Loved with the authorial yet kindly and parental love of the writer,
The poet, the author...
They are missing, they are gone-and who but I, in my callow, thoughtless reckless irresponsibility; who but I mourns them?
I, who unwittingly made their death happen?
(Yet, 'twasn't another, other than me, another agency, also blameworthy and complicit in these "deaths" and disappearances? In these inverse deletions and erasures? Wasn't some draconian governing body passing equally draconian and abstruse, unknown and unknowable, laws...were they not also to blame?
Where is the justice and the mercy and the forgiveness and the pity for the ignorant? For, in this case, myself? I, who almost was a victim, myself?)
The Poesy of My Poetry
An enchanted geometric cadence
With an unpretentious pentameter
Causes euphoric confusion
By means of philanthropic lineage
Outside of the way words sound
Beyond phases sans their meanings
From the free flowing vitality
Inside of me
To the cautious intrusiveness
Inside of you.
This is to be experienced
From the dust we clean on
To the spirit we lean
For the cause we became for...
Taste Accept Receive
Me.
7/29/2015
Poesy…thou feminine part of me
Which I believe; thou mine secretive soul
The “origin” of very word, being; she
Am I part of you or you my whole?
The negative impulse is still in force,
The inside, the dark and the ugly part
Are opposites; for me - it’s Thee...the source
I’m throughout in sync; beyond me & my heart
I wish to be back in love- the longing;
To live with; the yearning to love & die for,
It’s a forgotten word, in thine owning
Ever since; I’m lost in my world, so far.
To be with you, I know I’m sure in love
That sets me up with my poesy-my love.
I was quiescent and reposing on a wooden chair
to a faraway distance the vista seemed nothing.
I was engrossedly thoughtful in an empty stare;
In this somber fixation i did not sound maudlin.
In the surrounding, in a room, there was naught to care
even how vociferous the unaffecting din.
I was vacant without a frown or grin.
Then, an astonishment by an abrupt interruption
awakened me chop-chop from the pensive exertion.
An instinctively soft guffaw was my reaction
and an immediate beam marked down my emotion.
From a study to a stir was the alteration;
I uttered a word or two in continuation.
It was a spectacle of fruition.
Sometimes it is diverting to father relation
of familiar episodes in consecution;
Even how minute is their banausic condition.
It can be reported engagingly in a verse
with welcome alternate rhyming association
and with no contemplation to secure confusion
so as any sage mortal can immerse.
Knowledge in large…I have owned
And hid in my log books of poesy
Untouched and unseen for years.
Where in its discovery I found myself
Yet but to invent myself, I had to undergo
And, there took a diversion,
A Quest…for another form of art
With a longing & high level of learning
That has made me forbid my beloved art.
And once, on retrieving my past journals
I’ve my wealthy accounts realized
Of which I haven’t thought off...
Of late…I’m back, yet; But to pursue
Once again- my beloved art:poesy.