Best Polishes Poems
What is a man without the woman he loves,
searching for his lady like lonesome doves.
As his heart connects with the one he adores,
his soul will yearn to meet upon any shores.
When he comforts her mind with a loving grace
and the love of his life begins to reign his space,
nothing is ever the same, for she sets him aflame.
As the rhythm of her heart resonates his name.
He will whisper romantic musings - so sweet,
as her elegance makes his heart skip a beat.
He'll soothe her pain with his gentleman like charm.
Shelter her in his arms from those that cause harm.
He hears the sound of every breath she takes,
greeting with a pleasant smile as she awakes.
Promising a day filled with heavenly dreams,
embracing longingly as her happiness gleams.
Promising to deliver, receiving messages she sent,
he'll bring her the moon if that's what she meant.
Sacrificing his life, gallantly to conquer every climb,
searching for what she wants till the end of time.
Through the window of her soul he explores deep,
banishing all demons that cause her to weep.
Polishes her heart to prevent it from rust,
making sure his diamond does not collect dust.
A real man loves with his soul, not eyes of lust.
Shows her loyalty and builds a loving trust.
He can see their unborn children in her eyes,
as they embrace he knows where their future lies.
Silent One collaboration with Vijay Pandit.
21 December 2017
“Mystic Moment with you”
A natural look of who I am on the inside.
A reality check of who you are on the outside.
A mirror facing west makes the difference in you and me.
Open your eyes and see.
The child I was today is the reflection of you tomorrow.
The ideas of different skies drifted off without sorrow.
I am the good the bad, and the ugly…
A song permitting retrospection to delay the same face with yesterday’s glee.
From the moon to admirable moon;
The dignity of holding the same tune.
I am the swan that swims through your veins.
You are what swim’s through my moods and rain.
The miracle of our heritage echoed so far away.
Auspices now imitate metaphors that were under the surface bay.
An unknown look strays outside the window.
Behind the gates, that leads into tomorrow’s limbo.’
A mirage of turning around and seeing nobody but you and me.
Mystic moments that attract other moments of originality.
A dream that speaks about the image of my new beginning.
My courage polishes off the mirror image of a falling stars ending
You are the beating pulse that resides on the inside and outside of my being.
“You are the REFLECTION of my spiritual place”
Nails grow long and shapely
Standing out against the
Finger where it is filed
Down to a silhouette
That forms an erotic
Design against
The backdrop
Of fleshy
Fragile
Skin
Nail
Artistically
Colored with
Reds, pinks, auburns,
All the colors of polishes
Meant to reflect the glowing
Profiles of these well-rounded
Voluptuous digits that correspond
To the beautiful hand they are attached
To and are used to do the their daily tasks
Double reverse Etheree Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
Written on September 24, 2014
Clear the track, here comes Jack
Or Johnny Canuck to some
To a bunch of friends on Poetry Soup
He's that Wacko Jacko bum!
He's Canadian eh! From way up north
From the land of ice and snow
He eats bowls of nails for breakfast
Wearing manly lumberjack clothes
“Good day eh! How's it goin' eh?”
Are two of his favourite greets
As he polishes off his morning brew
With a slab of uncooked meat
He's a tough old dude, that's for sure
With mush instead of brains
A grizzled good natured son of a gun
With love running through his veins
He'd give you the shirt right off his back
But it's too damn cold up here
For fear of freezing his nipples off
Instead he's just say, “Wanna beer?”
Clear the track, here comes Jack
Or Johnny Canuck to some
To a bunch of friends on Poetry Soup
He's that Wacko Jacko bum!
© Jack Ellison 2013
- The Goodbye Goose-
Winter polishes at four o'clock, shining all the rocks aglaze.
Reflection, stretching shadows.
Longer thinner men - longer thinner still.
Shadowy tall , feeling small.
Sunmangled window in a diamond quadrant.
Keyhole orifice and creeping becomes nostalgia.
Why dont you just shut up and call?
Home going geese-slipstream in a vee.
High honking traffic, trailing vapour leaves you exposing me.
Cascading spirits slipping down the walls, swirling eddies
and smoky waterfalls, draping over furniture like slimy octopi...
Drunken weekend metaphors , Monday morning remorse.
Up and down the ladders of my memory, tinkly piano playing on my spiny vertebrae.
Permeating lies of my story told not of voice or tongue or lips-no.
But of crafty bits that left unsaid, untold encyclopaedia of me.
T'would be so simple to top you up, yet dark forces warn me ,
to pimp me out to you is to forfeit martyrdom and victory crown,
deprives the joy of shooting you down, shifting the blame.
Denies the stature as abuser , distracts my winner into loser.
Never be a frontal goose .
She is shadowed by fuzzy cobwebs of a morning without coffee,
while dust motes mingle with the mold of time.
Gazing out to the yard, through dingy glass, and fog,
into a dismal January, she hopes to catch a glimpse of the paper boy.
He travels through rain, sleet or snow, how could he understand,
(this teen-aged Paul Revere), that in this decrepit old house,
she is longing for a sign of youth? It has been a weary night, watching an old woman hang on by threads of life, that had worn thin years ago.
Watching and waiting, while cold winds blew and snow was falling,
and death was hoping to make a house call.
Any diversion, life being lived,... one brief eclipse of life in motion would be a relief.
To observe him toss the news into the sky like a Frisbee... not a care in the world
How would that feel...has she ever known? Has anyone ever been so young?
She thinks she may go mad with death and dying, with weariness, with waiting.
She suddenly shivers from a dreaded draft of frigid air, slithering in,
like a sneaky, uninvited ghost, slinking in around the rim.
nor'easter winds roll top shoe box...
splinter the silence.. -- debutante' caught in amber
a cataract view frozen sepia
Grabbing a handful of a thread-bare doily, she polishes the cold glass,
rubbing vigorously in circles against the grime,
making figure eights, in spite of frozen, stiff, fingers.
Satisfied, that she has a decent view of the blanketed yard,
and can see clearly where the muddy, gravel driveway,
bends gradually, curving to mate with the snow banked road,
at last, she spies the old Jeep coming, and watches with automated eyes,
yet, with some expectation, and strange excitement.
Then, as she might have guessed,
the teenager drives hurriedly by, barely slowing down, tossing the news,
and leaving her gaze and her thoughts, splattered by dark murky water,
while the slinging gravel that has been pitched into the sky, by his screeching tires,
falls like the pieces of the old woman's lonely life upon the pristine snow.
__________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Mix It Up"
She left me enlightened
With her “Heart’s Imagination”
Taught me about love
In the ink of “Melting Point”
She gave me a whisper of insight
Within the breath of “O April”
And sang to my soul and spirit
On the wings of “Germination”
She colored my heart in hues
Of lavender with her psalms
Who spoke to me of hope and love
Joy birthed in “My Iridescent Garden”
She illuminated my soul’s faith
With “Soulful Journey of Shooting Stars”
And breathed pain into my nostrils
On the tone of “Heartbreak Hill”
She graced my thoughts with light
When she penned “The Virtue of Motion and Life”
I felt the waves of her pensiveness
In the words of “Mirror of a Son’s Eyes”
She left my heart in bright adoration
With “Rebirth of the Third Angel”
And encouraged me to listen to silence
On the reflections of “Wire Walker”
She delights, enlightens, flavors my thoughts
In amber, scarlet, sapphire and emerald
All the colors of inspiration and sensitivity
Inviting me to listen to the hopes within me
She inscribes a bit of enchantment through me
With her vivid portrayals of imaginations
So loving and graceful, like psalms that grant me
A light to guide – a hope to ignite my faith
She is a writer who has left me with appreciation
For the empty pages that draw her in
And bring me such beauty, light and laughter
Love that points me to a heart that is perceptive
A woman of grace and beauty and wonder
Polishes her poems with flavors of amazement
Inspirations so thrilling, so revealing, they take me
Through the poem into places I’ve only dreamed of
Her poetry holds a trace of stardust, a flame
Of expectation, a promise of illumination
Fulfillment and pleasure, satisfaction with words
That brightens lives and leaves elegance wherever it flows
In her poetry… there is hope for words!
Title Wave Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
May 19, 2021
For a wonderful poetess, Susan Ashley
Titles of Susan’s Poems are in BOLD
Stones In The Honeyed Ring Of Time
Sitting here dejected, mere pile of bones
pleasure, just memory in darkest past.
Strip out each lie one polishes and hones
facing truth, nothing can forever last!
Stark reality of deeds soaked in slime
pain, a racing bird sent to torture me.
Memories in the honeyed ring of time
everything costs dearly, nothing is free!
Evil are the chains wrapping my crushed Soul
Time, a sword cutting so deeply my heart.
Lost hope of any future winning goal
sad truth is ripping rest of me apart!
Pile of bones, only treasure I have got.
Smelling meat, seeing its hideous rot!
Robert Lindley, 01-10- 2015
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 100
OTHER WORDS FOR LOVE
Like snow, there are other words for love,
That swirl and fall upon us.
One of them is daughter.
Another is father,
For when his beard is salt and pepper
And his voice the sound of cracking frost.
So what can I say that is newly fallen?
Not that I feel, but that I am, with you?
You are my teacher.
You show me where my care lies huddled,
Hiding from the cold.
Without doubt or trepidation,
I am never more certain of this Being we are Becoming,
Than when I remind you to tie your shoe,
Or wipe the chocolate from your face.
(Watch, keys and phone.)
My rag polishes your mirror and
Reflected in your shining face,
Are all the moments that are yet to come:
Birth, death and the swirl of illusion inbetween.
With all the certainty I will ever need that this world,
This world is a good world.
This life is a good life
Simply and precisely, because you are in it.
There are pieces I haven't yet shown. You see,
you hear, you taste, you sense... but is it real?
This is definitely not the end of me.
As the water gets immersed in soothing tea,
I hope your heart gets immersed in sound and feel.
There are pieces I haven't yet shown, you see.
And I will tend to these words that long to be,
as a blacksmith polishes bronze and steel.
In a lonely bliss, just my own thoughts and me.
I uncage these birds, let them fly and be free;
soar into cotton clouds and skies of teal,
yeah, watch 'em fly from sea to shining sea.
Climbing these peaks with bent back and broken knee;
still stealing every sight there is to steal.
This is definitely not the end of me.
I believe true beauty is never easy,
I may not win, but I will always deal.
For there are pieces I haven't yet shown, you see.
I'll give it all I got until the end of me.
Minnie mouse is so famous
Wearing bow as pink as rose
She also wears dress
So clean and no mess
And polishes her black nose
Mickey mouse likes her so much
They’re best friends, a perfect match
Both wear nice sports shoe
With colorful hue
So, they’re designs of wrist watch
Mickey and Minnie are smart
So talented since the start
They hold hands to dance
In a lovely prance
But Mickey gives a loud fart
Dec. 2, 2022 12.09pm
howmanysyllables.com
77557-77557-77557
76 words
93 syllables
403 characters
First name
unique, generous, wondrous, enigmatic, hopeful
Sister of Madonna, Gail, Chris, Diane and Heather
Lover of life, puzzles, people's laughter and language
Who feels loves intensity with hope
Who fears the dark, enclosed spaces, yet feels fearless in the breeze
Who would like to see the masses succeed
Resident of home, a warm embrace, a tender touch
Surname
I found this structure boring and unimaginative and mundane in a world enriched with such flavoursome musings - I unapologetically ruined the form with pride and decided the words below were more entertaining for your reading pleasure... Enjoy me
An ounce of ratbag, a giggle, a bounce and slide,
she puts on her socks and polishes the floor with her moves,
the running dive onto the bed is never a question and she loves to sneak up and tickle.
Frosted grass, and a breaky sunrise eaten from the curb, delights her heart and inspires her mind.
Her one love - a child of impossibility - held on by hope; a chance to live, to laugh.
Intrigued by the landscape of colour, enlightened by touch, cleansed in a breeze.
A smile to light up the dark, delivers a truth profound, generous in love in all its forms.
A dancer in a world of statues, grounded and real, she will lift you up and hold you til your ready.
Musically, she paints the tragic world with grace, sensually depicting each space, raw and defined.
A family of separated ties has carved an independence so fierce she is rarely displaced.
Adopted by the masses, free in spirit she maintains faith, home is all she needs and finds that in many: a comfortable easy smile, a gift of coffee, an open door - embraced.
Loved.
A friendship gift, a unique beautiful ride, buckle up she's arrived...
17/10/2018
Pocket knives, tape measures.
An extensive collection of coins.
Nails, screws, numerous sizes, and sets
of nail clippers, files, polishes and brushes.
Shoes, always shoes. And dresses.
Shirts and ties. Loud and quiet.
The sick and the dead are forever quiet,
never quite quiet. Our solicitude's unnecessary.
Playing cards, backgammon games,
chess. Every move's a variation on the next.
And so it is with words, numbers,
shapes and sizes. Feet and hands,
knees and eyes. Why and where and how won't matter
once we've divided the bags of clothes
among the poor and destitute. It's not too hard
to laugh too hard. The son and daughter deliver them
and then go home. Letters, wallets, clocks and watches.
Photographs in which the name and face don't match.
a messy matron
polishes the silver--
the teapot whistles
Childhood should ideally be packed full
Of giggles and hugs and good times at school.
But not all childhoods are walks in the park.
Some's starting years are tragic and dark.
Sometimes the parents are just not able
To make everything so loving or stable.
And the ones we lean on are shockingly small
They live in our homes and cushion the fall.
Because not all monsters are under the bed
And not all fear is just in your head.
Friends understand a that or a this
But nothing replaces a bro or a sis!
Holidays are beautiful when shared with others
Especially a slew of sisters or brothers.
To all of the siblings, but especially mine
You are what polishes my Christmas-time shine!