Best Portrayed Poems
Art is abstract
Art thrives with colours
Colours brighten faded coral
Colours highlight black
Black skies with silver stars
Black opal gemstones
Gemstones like amethyst
Gemstones of vivid ruby
Ruby roses and crimson thorns
Ruby as precious as emeralds
Emerald stalks of yellow daisies
Emerald and velvet aurora
Aurora Borealis in hints of pink
Aurora Australis in tones of turquoise
Turquoise morpho butterflies
Turquoise waves on sands of gold
Gold rays of orb in sapphire sky
Gold crown with Indian jewels
Jewels that sparkle like red diamonds
Jewels unique like taaffeite
Taaffeite glimmers in mauve
Taaffeite shimmers in lavender
Lavender blooms in lilac buds
Lavender can help you to sleep
Sleep brings ebony nightmares
Sleep brings dreams of ivory
Ivory are a grey elephant's tusks
Ivory are the keys on pianos
Pianos are made from pine
Pianos can be stained in brown
Brown bark covered in green moss
Brown is compost for soil
Soil supports olive herbs
Soil weaves rainbow roots
Roots of amber sweet pea
Roots nourished from plain rain
Rain brings charcoal clouds
Rain flourishes fields of barley
Barley has an earthly hue
Barley crops bloom in beige
Beige looks a bit like magnolia
Beige is a little vanilla
Vanilla has a lovely scent
Vanilla can be a dull personality
Personality should be like orange
Personality is portrayed in poetry
Poetry is a pigment of creativity
Poetry is a vibrant palette of love
Love...
Creativity...
Vivid flashbacks from bloodshed battles
his soul still ravaged by devious dictators,
cries from fallen comrades still echo in his mind,
but he continues to walk upon a path of pandemonium.
Reluctantly he ventures forward with
vengeance portrayed through embers
engulfed within his frenzied eyes -
reflecting his mother's irreversible tears.
He is no mercenary nor a moneymaker,
just a repentant drifter, preparing for bedlam.
His purpose in sight, he closes his eyes,
but struggles to erase his thoughts,
as the sins of his ancestry inflict his mind.
Angels attempt to light his path with harmonic chords,
but demons cause havoc strumming broken strings.
Entering the kingdom of dry fountains,
where God has no influence,
he is afraid to inhale its corrupt pollutant air.
Charcoal clouds rumble,
before horizons shed unwelcome tears.
Before him platinum priests preach,
as court jesters dance with sly grins,
hiding metaphorical daggers behind their backs.
To his right overfull hospitals have no beds,
as penniless patients plead to be cured.
To his left the self proclaimed vain king
sits on his cardboard throne,
throwing dollars into a blazing fire place.
To his side his tyrannical hypocritical queen
hides behind her simulated smile,
oblivious to her narcissistic prince's incest desires
towards her clueless imbecilic princess.
It's an endless loop of greed cultivating corrupt seed,
which continues to breed nefarious creed.
Miserable masses attempt to break free,
but their liberation is dissected by cretinous henchmen.
In the marketplace of Machiavellian thieves,
merchant pawns auction fragmented dreams.
Sold to the biggest idiot!
His eyes full of disbelief, now rage with anarchy!
Intoxicated knights raise their half empty glasses,
as he calmly walks into this man made sand castle.
Gifts the cunning conniving cook some cyanide,
which he empties into his delectable broth.
Both watch as the elevated ones savour it like dogs,
perishing dramatically to their deserved downfall.
Beyond his childhood playground,
now with rusty swings and slides,
he places a crimson rose upon his mother's grave,
kissing her untouched headstone.
Expressionless he walks into the distance,
as storms wash away weak foundations.
Silent One
25 July 2018
With the tremulous dark vista so far and yet so near
Abandoning my defences ~ I stand in awe ~ not in fear
Virtuoso Maestro unleash
a Composition Grandioso
To Overtures of a Symphony
herald the raging storming Tempo
Staccato Strains cascading
rapid torrents of Treble and Tremolo
Rhythmic Beats a Prelude
to an intensifying Triple Time Scherzo
Silken sail unfurled I embrace the storm of your tempestuous symphony
Crashing~ drifting~ floating~ flowing~ tasting ~awakening my melodic epiphany
Effervescent chilling thrilling air as
Allegro whelms Allegretto
Electrifying sizzling Musette ~
Trills a mesmeric Capriccio
Registers booming Bass Notes
rumbling within your thunderous Vibrato
Echoing claps of thunder Prompt
a spectacular Cadence Crescendo
I release my Spirit to gratify every phantasy in its sight
The soaring Tempest of my Soul liberates its own Philharmonic flight
Inhibitions abandoned as I succumb to your Music of the Night
Footnote:
By way of musical term allegory, I have endeavored to dramatize and romanticize the Awesomeness of an Electrical Thunderstorm and simultaneously likening it to the rush of tactual Sensual, Sexuality and Emotions experienced in romantic instances. I felt that the instrumental rendition of ‘The Phantom’ Musical, aptly accentuates the trepidation, anticipation and elating sentiments portrayed in the various elements of my poem.
Brick by brick I built my walls,
despite fires raging,
I preserved paths that connected
bridges between our breathless existence.
Now that my heartbeats
have reached a dead end street,
let me rest my jaded head
upon your chest -
for fate has foretold it as my abode to forever sleep.
I was the melatonin to your insomnia,
you the immunity to internal inflictions.
If only I could have drank your infatuation,
as a remedy for my antagonising agony.
Poetry was only a provisional potion,
yet it distracted from all negative notions.
We weaved a blanket of words,
where you adored the moon in nocturnal notoriety,
whilst I portrayed the beauty of sunrise in your eyes.
I guess nothing illuminates forever.
If this was my last love poem,
would you forgive my silence?
Would you still bless me in your verses,
or let my memories wither
like the petals your promised
to bloom in our poetic garden?
Would I be your last metaphor,
in your final spill of tears?
Or would you reveal to the world,
the greatest unfinished love story.
In manipulation of manifestation,
I was your willing wordsmith,
protecting you with my shield of sanity -
in the hope I slayed every demon who desired you.
If it was a crime to love you,
then I was content as a criminal,
awaiting my destiny on death row.
My black is majestic my black is smooth
Even when I was banished from public pool
Even if I was portrayed black face fool
I was a raven flying above you.
I am much more than kinky hair
Thick thighs brown eyes and ebony stare
I am the truth if you want or dare
Take my hand and I’ll take you there.
Black is deeper than had been enslaved
Nothing weaker than to steal me away
From my history where I am great
From times mystery of healing faith
October 17th we celebrate
All black poets on black poetry day
You don’t have to know it that you are a poem
written by spirit, fruit of the loin strong.
Most of us poets are not well known
In our hearts we find gem stone home
For literacy and for fuchsia full blown
Purple royal words we call our own.
The meticulous melody of my musings is she.
Quietly my quill inscribes intrinsic ink upon the paths she walks.
Profoundly postulated in poems I've portrayed her in -
she's inspired ingenious imagery of beaucoup beauty.
I ponder without her what my life would be like?
With determiners of this, that, these and those, she is the
one who guides like an orchestra of street lights at night.
In times of silence I wonder what she is thinking of
when gazing at blue horizons that appear cloudless,
as her exotic eyes always crave for calming climes.
There is no measure in the pleasure of her treasure and
her artistry on a blank canvas turns stanzas radiantly starry,
so I croon a tune hoping to be the moon under her serene skies.
Yet not all lullabies of lovers can ease a melancholic mind and
sometimes it's difficult to write lyrics making sense of it all.
Not all verses compliment strings with an instrumental that's
an emotionally unbalanced mix of tones not seen as the best
remedy in episodes of rage - so I wonder what becomes of
tranquillity when her tempest temper turns her thoughts dark.
I regret those forgotten promises lost in broken symphonies and
until sanity soothes with words of softness, I'll hold onto all that is bright.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty
The art was most masterful on the dark canvas,
portraying an artist's mind when feeling anxious.
His palette compiled of pastels in shades of grey,
weaved brushstrokes in symphonies pain can play.
His eyes consumed in obsidian thoughts untold,
he splashed secrets he was once afraid to unfold.
Emotions bled as his mind reflected midnight's trance,
but each stroke was a shield against a demon's advance.
Hues of onyx were now replaced by vibrant tones,
as shadows slowly drowned out ignorant moans.
He created a masterpiece of soft yellow moonlight,
as his artistry portrayed bright sapphire daylight.
An avant-garde maestro flowing in textured motion,
painting stars like diamonds in his inky ocean.
Rainbows and sunshine now reside in his realm,
where his abstract art crafts a harmonious helm.
In a world ruled by gods and men,
who holds in their hand nature's pen?
When words are smitten to deaf ears,
dost one conclude their deepest fears?
Thy skilled soothsayer is portrayed,
as nothing more than a beggar paid.
A wandering derelict of the past,
his bardic tongue now shall avast.
On a park bench, he sleeps at night,
oft Poe's "The Raven" he does recite.
'Tis thy chilly nights he dreads the most,
so in his prose, he gets engrossed.
The birds doth come and hearken in,
as he weaves his tales and rhymes within.
This man was once like you and me,
so sad this world could never see.
Love is a metaphor,
which glows in vibrant hues.
An abstract masterpiece
from Da Vinci's palette,
easing souls to feel peace.
Love is a metaphor.
A guiding moon compass
with spotlights at midnight.
Showing how lovers meet,
then shine in diamond light.
Love is a metaphor.
Portrayed through Rumi's verse.
With words that make you think,
how will your sweetheart's lips,
kiss you like quill and ink
Love is a metaphor.
Simple to comprehend.
When conduct connects speech,
words bloom from heart to tongue.
Romance is what you preach.
How many roses since have come and gone?
he thought as he sat looking at her grave.
How many futures had been staked upon
those brilliant blooms to her he often gave?
What stiff buds like hands in prayer since drawn
in oils on canvas did she seem to crave?
“White angels,” she did sing the day they wed.
Again he placed them here now she was dead,
as he'd done each year upon her birthday.
The emerald garden and granite stones
still looked untouched. The olive trees now swayed
as ever had in June. As white as bones,
statues silent, but proud as gods portrayed,
were yet his marble friends and not undone
by tears. My Angel White was she when wed,
he mused again, his feelings still unsaid.
A thousand memories like ivy spill
over the wall behind his quiet chair.
Such fervent whispers in a windless chill
go through his head of sparse and silver hair.
So many letters from an inkless quill
he wrote alone as though they'd reach her there.
A thousand roses white as angels tread
upon his dreams, keep singing in his head.
But now the car was packed, the house was sold.
Their young sons all were grown and since moved out.
He blurted forth, “My darling, now I'm old.
The boys are grown and all are strong and stout;
I know that you'll be safe within their fold.
I must move, have a life that's now about
the years that I have left. I'll always hold
those times we had as precious as though gold.”
He stood and put the chair into the car.
He cried upon the freeway for some time,
the new life in the desert still afar
from coastal past and reminiscent clime.
A new home that he'd found could be on par
with what he'd now let go. Had come the time
when he must vanquish sacred angels white.
And thus he drove into the coming night.
8/20/17
“Let me be strong, for to be anything else is to languish in the abyss of compromise and to descend to places of impoverishment so destitute that they will squelch my soul and crush my heart.”
Craig D Lounsbrough
When left to languish in lament.
Metaphorical swords become tired
from words portrayed through bloodshed.
Misery is a master of manipulation,
pulling strings of sorrow,
personifying portraits of puppets in pain.
When dreams and desires disappear,
nonchalantly negating nocturnal nigrifying nightmares,
a heavy heart hoarding hurt is helpless,
crawling like a caterpillar without a cocoon.
In an anthology of anguish,
spirit withers in a lyrical language,
lost in lanes of latent lament,
so we search for signs to our secret sanctum,
to heal broken wings of bandaged butterflies.
When hope, like carnations of death, crumbles,
resembling crying chrysanthemums.
Tepid tears of tribulation,
trickle in trails of tired tinges of insecurities -
yet we still yearn for an expurgated Eden.
In the internal insanity of suffering,
sanity searches for a relief from repression,
as our existence can emanate into
a chalice full of missed challenges,
if we do not learn from life's lessons.
When trauma reverberates on repeat.
Words are as fragile as a beautiful ballerina,
without a ballad in a ballet of broken hearts.
Yet our pens crave to dance on virgin fibers.
Our souls are an essence of evanescent emotions.
There are no winners in battles with silence.
In the rationale of reason.
raging rutilant ink pleads to pour
puddles of purifying poetry,
gracefully releasing breaths of suppression -
A speechless saviour for timid tongues.
Death, I'm told to be frightened of you,
you should be one of my greatest fears.
But you'll come no matter what I do,
followed by abject anguish and tears.
Your actions are portrayed as a crime
in your sinister cowl, grave and stark.
For history's maligned you through time;
a reaper of life, shrouded in dark.
I see no malice within your deed,
you're as essential to life as birth.
Wisdom is born of logic and need,
and I've come to understand your worth.
We wear mortal bodies like a suit,
tailored to fit ego and belief.
But our souls are in constant pursuit
of release, our time here is so brief.
You bring closure when life has to end,
opening doors for souls to walk through.
And I think of you more as a friend;
for life could not exist without you.
me
needing
you through
good and bad
times shared of
joy and love with
forgiveness linked
into redemption
saved through troubled times
with truth is grace
loving daily
portrayed and
pure is love
through me
needing
you
Forgive me, the "Backwards Poem" form is not an option on Poetry Soup so I listed it as a "verse". It is a form of poetry which can be read correctly downwards and upwards also.
I used a strict syllable count of: 1-2-2-3-3-4-4-5-5-4-4-3-3-2-2-1
Date Written: June 30, 2016
My existence seems like a timeless tragedy,
ticking away in the harmony of misophonia and me.
I've been reluctantly raised in the arms of trauma,
hiding from the darkness looking over my shoulder.
I place a metaphorical knife under my pillow,
as I fear the biggest bully in my mind's playground.
Sound is like a sadistic samurai slashing at my sanity,
as innocent echoes become the euphonious chant of despondency.
An eldritch echo of anguish triggering anxiety,
a constant conflict between the shadows and the soul,
narrating a sorrowful story in each tear I shed,
but I'm shouting into the void of ignorance,
no one understands why I've bled.
Each breath is like a riddle,
each munch and crunch tasting like monotonous moments of meaningless screeching,
erupting into an earthquake of emotions.
Nobody understands the chaos from within,
thinking I'm a little bit crazy.
I search for a sanctuary where peace meets me at sunrise,
where screams of a sonorous mind are not shattered in fragments of estrangement,
portrayed through the plentiful imagery of pain.
I yearn to live a life mocking butterflies,
to flutter in the flakes of eternal slumber.
begging to lose the blessings of perception,
as all I hear is evil voices chattering from within.
Silence is a poison I'm willing to take,
yet I'm cursed by misophonian lullabies.
I wish to remain isolated within mental muteness,
as I know you will live forever in me.
In the pantomime of pretend prose,
the moon dances on lonely nights.
Before the lights go out at twilight,
unforgiven ice cold hearts,
remain abandoned, hoping this is the end.
Her eyes like Eve were deceived,
by manipulative sea green serpents.
Stranded on shores where time has no name,
the artistry of dread, breathed in poetic chills,
inhaling life, exhaling pain like dolent daisies.
Concealing metaphors of dying embers,
behind an avalanche of emotions,
she anticipated the rebirth of an artist,
by an art nearing the opposite side of yearnings,
because in the deepest chasm of poetic love,
an alliteration of antithesis attracts affection.
I was not as naive as Adam,
searching for heartbeats from heaven,
knowing that is how you ruin a poet.
An empathic spirit ignites pens full of fire,
burning the strings of poetic puppets -
the greatest gift of entrancement.
Rumi taught me the universe is infinite,
and so am I, so I knew I would meet my muse,
like stars greet the moon in a meadow of miracles.
As roaming romance conjured my dream's horizon.
Her name always echoed in the silence of quiet nights.
An empress without an emperor in a crumbling palace,
yearning to blossom in an epodic flower field.
Her seldom smile was as radiant as the golden orb.
Despite ghosts hiding in the shadow of sunlight,
mystical silver spirits were summoning me to her abode.
Her misspelt phrases accidentally fell on my page.
I found her burying her frozen quill under six feet of snow,
with a withered heart reliving a winter wonder nightmare,
constantly bleeding pearls in a silage of tears,
cursing her tormented tongue.
Her winter kisses were as tender as butterfly snowflakes,
but at first, her rage slashed at my wrists,
drowning me in her obsidian grieving seas,
but my soul is like a seasoned samurai full of scars.
I always believed small steps lead to great places,
and I would kiss her sorrows goodbye.
Upon realisation there's no blood in my veins, only poetry,
together we portrayed pastel coloured sunsets,
illuminating a celestial canopy of light,
sowing trees of forgiveness,
surrounded by colourful petals,
leaving behind the dark long road home.
In our internal garden of Eden,
there is no darkness,
there is no forbidden fruit nor sinning,
only an aura of love personified.