Best Portico Poems
Invited into Her circle
of five points,one for each
of the qualities She crystallizes,
truth as fire, earth as nourishment,
body in water, lights in air, and ether as love,
in Her center a sacred thought having origin in primal purpose,
we embraced as immortals do,
mouth to ear and song to song,
mind to memory and wish to wisdom,
connecting with the ease of melody on morning's hope,
frollicing within the gamble of a galaxy grown mad from curiosity,
the path of the Prime Mover performs a pounce along our venerable vertebrae,
She widens a door which illuminates a portico,columns white marble and red veins,
tempered flames in low tremble make vigil to the death bed masks of ancestors,
who made glory a partner against multitudes of dangers,such as living without loyalty,
encouraged by Her gravitas,Her need for a hero,I stared into those vacant eyes
on the pedestals held upright by iron frames,and I heard them chant I must for Her,
made so lovely with a crown of moon glow,
I kissed this Woman's hand,heaven in my sight,
my oath to vindicate Her from profane might,
I awoke facing a mirror,believing in Her dearly,
my headgear fastened and plumed,
feathers of a hawk and eagle divinely sprout atop,
from then I only knew Her words,and a dreamy picture,
however,I trusted Her affection,I could live on Her meaning -
J.A.B.
Categories:
portico, devotion,
Form:
Romanticism
Spring's veranda calls to me, come enjoy peace
Out on the porch I commune with sweet nature
A sacred place of quietude and release
Where seasons come then go with air sweet and pure
And the view causes my stress to slowly cease
Out on this portico, though a humble lure
Angels and the Holy Spirit reach down, touch
My soul mends at this place, my steady, strong crutch
Categories:
portico, appreciation, spring,
Form:
Rispetto
Elegant portico columns, fireplace frame
Fronting tasteful, demure white walls
Rich browns -- pianoforte, armchair
Muted ostentation, classicism bespoken --
the eye startled, struck
by the clear glass vase
on the mantel
stems ascending
to bold-green leaves
slightly upturned
as are firm, youthful breasts
topped by brilliant bursts
of pink-streaked flowers
panorama
Categories:
portico, class, color, flower,
Form:
Imagism
In Jordan’s desert, a building façade
has been carved into the face of a vertical cliff.
Stairs leading to the structure are lined with lanterns.
Looking up, a view standing right of center,
stone appears orange near the base fading to black at its top.
Where cliff’s edge meets the night sky,
darkness brightens into starlight.
While appearing more ancient,
this façade has features of Roman architecture:
columns, shallow gables atop flat roofs, carved figures decorating idle spaces.
It has two stories.
It’s first has six columns.
Two are set back from the entrance that is supported by four beneath a gable.
Two horses are carved on wall between first and second column,
two more are carved between fourth and sixth column.
Inside a portico behind the center four columns,
steps lead up to a tall entrance, black,
an opening to a large chamber inside the rock.
The second story, as wide as first, has a block cut from its center.
At each side are half gables, supported by two columns.
Statues are carved beneath each gable.
Between these gables is a turret supported with columns.
A statue of a human figure stands within the turret.
The grand scale of the western façade should be alien in the Jordanian desert.
It should be, but is not.
If taken from the rock and perfectly constructed in Washington D.C.,
with a coat of white paint, it would not look out of place.
A fusion of West and East, this place begs questions about the people who carved it,
political and religious beliefs of their civilization,
its purpose in a desert,
and how it could be ahead of its time.
Categories:
portico, arabic, art, christian, islamic,
Form:
Free verse
Fourth in the Mother's Day Poetry Contest
The woman married at a young age
to the eldest son of a farmer-
my maternal uncle and neighbor.
Usually, she woke up early at the crow's caw
and swept the dirt floor of the house with a broom
often wiping it with water and a nura ( wet cloth )
After that she took a bath, changed her clothes
and wiped with water the surface before the holy Basil(Tulsi)
in the middle of the courtyard
as well as the surfaces at the portico and inside the house
where the family Deities traditionally reside.
After these tasks, she prayed the Deities and holy Basil
while burning mekruk(,an incense).
The prayer was once again repeated at dusk
lighting a lantern or candle.
As a routine she grinding,hand-pounding
and flapping paddy,(sometimes cutting firewood)
alone or with a sister- in -law,
cooking food( burning firewood) and serving the family members,
cleaning the kitchen and utensils after the food served.
After these she washed clothes for the family members.
And in the afternoon she wove clothes
at the fly scuttle loom in the outhouse.
Besides, she helped the neighbours in times of need.
She treated her father-in-law and mother-in-law with devotion,
regarded her husband's younger siblings
as if they were her own children.
Many children were born to her
but, she died prematurely at the age of seventy.
After her death I sometimes remember her
as one of the symbols of traditional housewives
of the old past .
.
Categories:
portico, 1st grade, woman,
Form:
Free verse
The Stripper..... By Peter Onyancha
Lately I have come to believe
A poet is a stripper; that’s the naked truth
Strips utterly and attacks your eyes
You are the ogling private school mate
No. No one should know what you know, you know!
Private – every portico private
Oh, it’s hard – Very hard to unveil
When the poet is gone, you groan
Imagine, you are left with fertile imagination
Infantile wisdom and you are fried
(This is the 1st stanza of a long poem entitled The Useleness of Poetry)
Categories:
portico, allegory
Form:
Light Verse
Principally, pretty Penny the poet gave the ILLUSION of preening
Outside the Palace in the portico pre-party.
Edward the Bard entered elegantly, elaborating with an INFUSION of
Trendy calligraphy pens and colored inks of CREATIVITY.
Ralph, the Shakespearian sonnet writer EVENTUALLY strolled in with a scroll.
You would think none of them new each other, as they
Practically knocked each other over getting to the press.
At any other time, Annabelle the actress would have been
Languishing on a director’s arm but tonight, she had
An editor! How INEVITABLE! Clarisse came to the Palace Ball dressed as
Cleopatra and carrying a clay tablet full of
Egyptian poetry, who would win for best piece was anyone’s guess.
Poet:Debbie Guzzi
Categories:
portico, funny
Form:
Acrostic
My park to me was not see-saws nor swings
instead, a treasure chest of stranger things.
A marble grave, 1891, well kept
where 'Tiny', estate owner's dog now slept.
The long gone Manor House front Portico
and where the star struck teenage lovers go
holds carvings, some initials, from the past
though in one case someone had left their last.
Script ' E Potts joined navy 1943'
Did such detail writ mean 'remember me'?
So many times I've gazed upon his name
that plea cut deep in stone it's power retains.
His call over the years still engraved there
since boyhood I have offered up a prayer.
The culvert is a concrete tour de force
too tempting for adventurers, of course.
Amphitheatre for screaming, scary,
in heavy rain, tomb for the unwary.
Mill races, lock gates, tunnels, falls and weirs
all testing grounds for our deep darkest fears.
There was no challenge our band could resist
we cocked a snook, and nature raised a fist.
Returning home, triumphant, green with moss,
in trouble, but we didn't give a toss.
The moment was our game and joy the prize,
such treasure blind to all but children's eyes.
Seek us out, the park was where you found us,
Green fields of innocence, it's magic bound us.
Feb 14th 2016
For contest 'The Park', sponsored by Craig Cornish.
Categories:
portico, childhood,
Form:
Rhyme
Cascades of stretching autumn ivy
snuggle close to the verdigris hardware
of an intricately carved, but sun-bleached
walnut door under a collapsing portico.
Droplets of sweat trace jigsaw trails
through the clinging film of dirt, revealing
the white of fluted pillars looming crookedly and
hunched by centuries of unappreciated exertion.
An eerie nostalgia laps at my consciousness
fettering my imagination to that very portal.
What yearning is this, to peer backward through
the impenetrable curtain of time?
Curiosity gives way to fearful dread;
wandering thoughts to waking realization;
that it’s a frightful thing indeed, to love
as death relentlessly pursues the same.
What can be built that cannot be toppled…
What can be polished, that will not erode…
What can be loved that cannot be taken…
behind that impenetrable curtain of time?
08/13/15
Categories:
portico, age, destiny, future, lonely,
Form:
Free verse
Like Moses fleeing Egypt
and finding refuge in Midian
I was a stranger in a strange land.
Having fled Chicago in ‘84
I journeyed east to the
unpromised land of Detroit.
8 Mile Road.
“I'm a man
I'm a make a new plan”
Eminem makes and takes the rap
while party stores and strip joints
pockmark the urban warscape.
“Super Lotto” “Beer and Wine”
“Liquor“ “Money Orders”
“We accept Food stamps”
“Girls, Girls, Girls”
9 Mile Road.
Driving north through Ferndale where
the Exiles of Gentrification live,
I was reminded of the sixties
and drag racing
stoplight to stoplight.
3-2-1-green
zero to sixty in three gallons
muscleheads in their muscle cars
dual quads, hemi-heads
bored and stroked, raked and shackled
four on the floor, two in the backseat
Jim Beam in the glove box
and fuzzy dice on the mirror.
Up ahead the Reuther crossed
where once a 10 Mile Road proudly served.
Named for a firebrand labor guy,
the freeway heads east out of Roseville,
veers south through Warren
then north and south again.
Torn up and re-built before it opened,
the 20 year in the making
gerry-meandering freeway
flows west around the Zoo
with a zig through Huntington Woods
and a zag through Lathrup Village.
11 Mile Road and electric
eclectic, engaging Royal Oak;
home of the Star Dream sculpture
Farmer’s Market and all things hip—
Just ask ‘em.
11 and a half Mile Road.
Art deco portico with garish neon,
never washed windows and
a pair of 69.9 a gallon pumps,
“No Gas” “No Gas”
Vinsetta Garage,
a Woodward fixture since prohibition,
is voted Motown’s best car repair
year after year after year.
12 Mile Road.
The National Shrine of the Little Flower,
de-flowered in the 1930’s
by radio Priest Charles Coughlin
whose coast to coast broadcasts
railed against bankers and Jews
and that communist FDR.
Like a journalist trying to find the
Who? What? Where? and why?
Like a little boy peering through a keyhole
I found myself in a Motor City funk
looking more than tasting.
Categories:
portico, life, urban
Form:
Free verse
The holy city prized for ancient fame
With silent walls she wails in agony
For centuries ungodly conflicts reign
Her priests and prophets mourn captivity
Unqueened, for her ravished sanctuary
Political pawn is what she became
Religious and unfeigned hypocrisy
Heads bow in shame for peace is just a name
Her greatest prize in heart became fine gold
A temple filled with tithe-less thieves that thrive
Bequeathed birthright unto strangers sold
Laid desolate, deflowered and deprived
Thy dwellings of delight are destitute
Beggars of foul bread find most ill repute
The heritage they trade as prostitutes
Depravity reaps a most bitter fruit
As massive towers shadow in thy streets
Fools gather by thy royal portico
And void of wisdom did the master meet
In blindness as Siloam's waters flow
While empires rose and fell upon thy feet
Which fought in vain a rebel struck the goad
The day had come when thy true monarch meet
Sweat, blood and tears flowed from thy olive grove
And until then thy holy place lay bare
That hollow hearts may find his presence there
Categories:
portico, city, jesus, jewish, sad,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
The night moon bows to sheer degree
Passing through an arching tree
Branches together shape a breach
Form a portico - it to reach
A precisely finished border
Drifted in natural order
Light bulb sans elongated stem
An hourglass made to diadem
I had been waiting for hours
The night too for its fine flowers
And for the essence each distends
Natural stage the arch portends
Lilac scent and other delights
Often touch on soft breezy nights
Their creation so appeasing
Affect comfortably pleasing
Never to see I must append
When next falls’ moon makes its bend
The trees swell in each later year
Cede consent to natural veer
Never there be a midnight call
The night the moon made this grand fall
Sit out no matter what they say
Watch and smell the revered archway
Categories:
portico, inspirational, naturenight, moon, night,
Form:
Rhyme
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Twenty-Eight
Other media meanwhile busy with who’s sleeping with whom
Relying on New-Sweep and Thyme to make loud front-page zoom
Mainly of those who leapfrog into top power palaces
On whether de Beauvoirs or transvestites be given more room
Dohr took dire toll on the High Prelate’s laboured vocal chords
And just as the Chief pow-wowed with advisors and legal boards
So did His Holiness with a delegation come from afar
The results as well as can be expected turned out: Discord!
The wily Franquist woman counselor slammed the Chief’s car door
And bee-lined the barred gates of the trysting hotel’s portico
The Chief sent Commandant in hot pursuit of bent-backed woman
Scarf drawn over pockmarked scalp limpet-mouthed suction sore
As the dohr throngful of the Faithful streamed out queues formed for asr
The Commandant waylaid the Imam come out for some air:
“…ad subjiciendum… Omar…Tent Maker’s prodigal heir…”
“Means thou Umar ibn Al-KHattap…Exalted Caliph Sire?”
Non-plussed the Commandant looked hard at Writ in his thick hands:
“Your Holiness! Be it thy pleasure to peruse these commands!”
One yea-sayer read aloud: “Oooo..maaaar ibn al-Khaaayyaaaamm…”
“Who? Must be that drunken half-Turk by rich widows favour finds!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
portico, allegory,
Form:
Rubaiyat
ROSES AND CARNATIONS
Roses and carnations, a lively
Imitation, of life’s full-bodied wine.
Different, yet parallel.
The embodiment of Cupid’s strike.
~
Riveting roses, sensual & aromatic.
Hourglass form, like lover’s hips
And crimson lips. She’s introverted,
Felicitous and faithful.
A dozen in her dainty hands,
A crown of beauty, bestowed.
Jealousy of upturned smiles,
Tremble around this delicate flower.
~
Roses and carnations, a lively
Imitation, of life’s full-bodied wine.
Different, yet parallel.
The embodiment of Cupid’s strike.
~
Coveted carnations, beheld.
Their colorful skirts - twirling,
exhaling & whirling. Hues
Of ruby, sapphire and pearl.
Posh petals of personality,
Adorned in grandeur’s golden portico.
One snipped, for his boutonnière.
Gaiety in her bridal bouquet.
Two lively hearts join in matrimony.
~
Roses and carnations, a lively
Imitation, of life’s full-bodied wine.
Different, yet parallel.
The embodiment of Cupid’s strike.
10/7/2017
Julie Rodeheaver’s Roses and Carnations Contest
Categories:
portico, flower, love,
Form:
Personification
His bride comes like the gallant sun
In the blue-white chariot of the cloud
As the dancing moon awaits her
In the company of the choiring stars
See! Day and night claps in warm embrace
While nature stands in ovation
There in Pharaoh’s portico at the arid savannah
In the city of pyramid’s pride
The bride meets her groom
Wait! Zeus stands in admiration of this awesome beauty
Jupiter caught in ecstasy untold
As Venus and Cupid made passes in loud whisper
Now! The prince of Egypt bonds with civilization
An ancient union posterity would always befriend.
WHAT OTHER TITLE WOULD YOU RATHER GIVE TO IT?
Categories:
portico, africa, allegory, dedication, imagery,
Form:
Blank verse