Best Precariously Poems
There she stands
Centre stage for all to see
Tall and slender
Precariously she balances.
I reach out for her
Draw her to me
My hand skims her body
Slowly reaching her skirt.
Playful fingers find hidden areas
Delighted her legs spring forth
Displaying the very beauty
Of her delicately adorned skirt.
Gaily she dances around
Dizzily twisting and turning
In the brightness of day shading
She gently tends to my needs.
Personal ballerina takes to toes leaping
Merrily bobbing up and down
As emotional to her performance
Clouds cry a thousand tears for her.
Reaching our destination
Slightly shaken, she leans
Watches me quietly drips
Against the wall.
Reminiscent of the day's fulfillment
We acknowledge one another silently
Restful knowing we shall be
One once more.
Categories:
precariously, confusion, devotion, life, lost
Form:
Personification
He toddles toward the pebbles, tumbling the smooth stones over
in his four year old palms, rubbing them like Aladdin’s lamp, tossing
them back into the mix, impishly shining with the zest of a boy.
He sees the overflow of snowy petals, finds the lowest hanging
stem, the gardenia bends to touch his greenhorn nose. Forever
that scent will remind him of grandma’s garden like she remembers
the tubes of trumpet petals in her own grandparents’ backyard. A
twinkle of tremulous joy impacting the fingers of her and her siblings.
The rare treat of parties, the round table laughter, heartfelt antiquity.
The boy explodes from the bottom of the driveway into the steep
mossy front yard, feeling each measured bounce, ne’er a straight
path to the door, exploring the red and yellow roses, the crumbling
timbers, walking the wall, following scurrying lizards, stepping on
ants, a roving eye for the fearful red, yet no thought of turtle monsters
nor copperheads that have precariously occupied my property,
nor coyotes that have encroached the boundaries. Unboundless energy,
nerve, verve of a courageous man in the making, trampling his feet,
owning the property then oh so gently snapping a stem, handing
his childhood princess a gift, pulling strings of a puppet’s heart,
winding the twine like pulling in a windswept kite, ever learning
nuances of my mind, tucked away to love, rebell and trust.
6/1/19
Categories:
precariously, child,
Form:
Free verse
Sudden, as a bolt from the blue,
Came down a humming bird, tantalizing
Skimming down and darting up
As an ever revolving top
It reeled round and round
Before it alighted on a drooping flower;
That hung from a bending branch
In a corner of my front yard garden
It precariously clung on to it
Like a small pendent on a chain
A sight so cool, now so rare
That lighted up my dull spirits!
Once they showed themselves up
On almost every sunny day
Promptly after the monsoon rains
When the plants en mass in resplendent bloom
Oh! How I love this tiny bird
Not larger than a bumble bee
Dressed in a cloak of green and black
Flitting round on fluttering wings
It literally dances and pirouettes in the air
Before descending down closer to its target
Swirling, gliding n’ moving back and forth
As if unsure of what it should do
Finally with a terrific jerk and swiveling move
It hovers close to hanging blooms
Balancing itself sans any support
And draws out nectar with its long needle bill
When the zephyrs carry a sweet scent
It flits from flower to flower
And having enjoyed the ambrosial treat
It flies back, well satiated like a darting arrow
My eyes fail to capture its lightning move
As it goes whizzing through the lambent air
Quickly disappearing like a mote of soot
Losing itself in the vast expanse of the blue
Being less than an ounce of fat
So light, sleek and well streamlined
It travels faster than the speed of light.
In a fleeting dash, moving out of sight
Can any other bird rival it in agility?
Or vie with it in its simple grace?
How cute, this spirit of ‘disembodied joy’
This winged diminutive denizen of the sky!
,
Categories:
precariously, appreciation, beautiful, bird,
Form:
Free verse
It was not that she was the only woman in the group, when mingling precariously beneath the bronze figure of William Booth, or her classic stance, when placing saintly, the newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly breached, but her opulent style, her contrast of attire, and as yet her hair unruffled. Although sparse of jewelry a gold ring dangles on a chain, catching the light as it shines in the noon day sun, a tinge of blood trickles down her neck. Her recently pierce ear lobe, bearing signs of some street wise ritual? Evidence of suave sophistication, exists with movements of grace and elegance, fingers more use to the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of a bottle of brown ale.
a fork in the lane
no signpost to guide one home
a need or a deed
Her head begins to lift higher and higher with every mouthful of distinct courage, every courteous act. Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle is released from her reluctant deep red lips, a senseless shake only proved her greatest fear. Suddenly to her aid came a wayward chap, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge. He commences to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit, with a mucus soiled cuffless sleeve, before passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly awaiting its return.
a lane to despair
not alone but in the palm
existence or life
After the corrosive day is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley park bench will be her abode with printed tabloids to cover her chilled exterior, her metabolism accelerating, to become one of so many, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will options for her begin to diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction rapid along the highway of completion!
first rays of sunshine
a trial or tribulation
the signpost renewed.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
Categories:
precariously, angst,
Form:
Haibun
Betrayal is a bouquet
of rainbow flames - blinding petals
bound by vines that choke.
A game of light and shadow,
delusions dancing to distract
across bruised walls.
Truth looms in creases -
in darkest corners, unseen,
while naivety stacks like kindling:
inverted pyramids of innocence
that teeter precariously, igniting.
And the same spark that drew
the moth to the flame
now brands with pain.
Realization stamped with liquid wax,
sealing the facts,
stripping denial like chipped paint.
Still, you sprinkle gasoline lies,
licking the lungs, filling them up
with sweet-nothing smoke.
But in this ring of fire,
it's too late. I must wait
for the crescent of coal to cool -
Then I cannot fool
myself anymore.
Categories:
precariously, lost,
Form:
Free verse
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
Categories:
precariously, history, war, words, war,
Form:
Free verse
Sick lungs whispering secrets untold
Bones reveal tempo with aches and moans
The clock precariously loses time
Pipe in teeth, pen writes the rhymes
Sounds of shadows haunt the halls
Strolling parapets on the walls
Impatiently waiting and growing tall
In darkening anger as night does fall
Tormenting noise of echoing drafts
Spirited shouts of children's laughs
This empty house my creepy craft
Teases the mind with visions of past
Cowering supine in pallet covered
Spare pillow cold smells of another
In loneliness sleep in distance hovers
Concealing dreams of a silhouette lover
A comforting cup drowns a pill
The shadows sleep as cuckoo stills
As mares of night gallop black hills
My aging body restlessly yields
An original poem by Daniel Turner
Categories:
precariously, anxiety, imagery, loneliness, sleep,
Form:
Rhyme
creepy eyes sparkle
from scary pumpkin faces
halloween is here!
******
At Halloween it’s my birthday
Lots of ghouls come round to play
(They are really children from my street)
Their creepy costumes look really neat
I helped mummy mix and make
A scary spider birthday cake
Our table groans with lots of party food
and creepy decorations set a scary mood
We have so many tasty treats to eat
huge sandwiches cut like monster’s feet,
tubs of popcorn ‘brains’ and boiled egg eyes
and green slime pie and vampire thighs
We made massive jugs of red lemonade
Using colouring for that blood red shade
When the party’s over we will head to the street
And knock on doors to trick and treat
******
Fabulous fun and fancy food with friends and family
Pretty parcels and presents precariously piled
Cornucopia of cookies, candy, chocolate and cards
Trick and treating takes time
Bulging bags bursting with bright bonbons
Cornucopia contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
11-06-17
Categories:
precariously, birthday, celebration, food, halloween,
Form:
The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.
He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.
It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption
Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there, with pure ardent fervor
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
The amber was gold, the umber was bold,
rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash
With him he took all the pride that he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
___________________________________
For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life R.I.P.
4/16/14 Revised for Anthony's Contest
Categories:
precariously, art,
Form:
Free verse
Dug deep down inside
and pulled out the memory file
about being a child
with my family for
a rare outing at Jones Beach,
we were all there with
my Moms picnic basket,
just in case we got hungry,
we'd eat one of her special treats,
My Mom didn't like the water
and especially the ocean,
so she sat on her beach towel,
applying suntan lotion,
the rest of us going for
a swim for some cool relief,
my Dad diving in first
to show his swimming techniques,
from how to tread water
if we couldn't land on our feet,
to how to cup our hands,
and stroke with our arms
in a nice easy rhythm,
I could tell my Dad was on
a teaching how to swim mission,
then some of us took a leisurely
stroll on the beach shore,
while some of us ran when
we noticed horseshoe crabs
eerily congregating,
my Dad picked a couple of them
up by their tail,
and after inspecting them
threw them way up in the air,
where they'd land somewhere
in one of the waves,
landing precariously with
a very loud splash,
I thought to my 7 year old self,
with pride and love in my heart,
my Dad is so very brave,
when were on the beach
he is my hero because
he makes me feel so safe!
Addendum: My deceased Dad was a terrific swimmer who worked as a police officer on a police boat for the Marine Bureau on Long Island, N.Y. from 1955-1985…rest in peace Dad. We love and miss you...
Categories:
precariously, beach, childhood,
Form:
Light Verse
I must have been five
And my brother only four
Feeling adventurous
We explored the wooden area
A stone's throw from home
I had the bright idea
To climb that tall oak tree
It was so grand and majestic
I told my brother to stay put
I climbed up and up
Way out onto a branch
Then I had nowhere to go
Stuck I couldn’t back up
Ended up flipping over
Arms and legs
Precariously wrapped
Around a rough old branch
Looking straight up at the sky
I knew I was in trouble
When my grip got loose
And my little arms let go
I held my breath to no avail
Free falling slow motion
It was the strangest feeling
To see my little body
Flat on its back
From way up above
And hearing a deep voice
Out of my own throat
Saying to go get help
Laying there motionless
As I watched still from way above
Like never again ever in my life
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on September 20, 2017 for contest POEMS THAT PAINT A PICTURE 3 sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 4TH
Categories:
precariously, adventure, child, surreal, tree,
Form:
Free verse
III
But, of course, I had no dizzying towers
To burn...only bridges; and they were torched
Years ago in the urgency of my direst hours;
Along with so many mighty battlements sacked,
Countless golden fields scorched...
Afterall -- it was the age of Bronze!
I should have well known that in the flight
Of birds, in each cold dawns pale grey light,
I would eventually come to see the unalterable
Fates of Wilusha's last Imperial Scions:-
Tottering precariously - on the brink -
A world in crisis! Then the elopement...
Did you not once stop to carefully think
It through? Giddied no doubt by bestowment
Of that accursed title; just as if it were the
Same giddying rush
You have experienced from the heady
Potency of a full bodied, Oaked Chardonnay.
The coy performance at being required to strip --
An inner excitement at your self's shamed
Nakedness! The obvious insincerity on display
When receiving an invite to dine at the gaudy
Little bistro; your hot skin noticeably flushed
With the delirium of wine; frequently
Pressed to partake of yet another glass;
There was, he casually said, much to be
Desired in a pleasurable rape. Her audible gasp...
As if, from that roadside window, she was
Suddenly staring out over the idyllic plains
Of mythical Arcadia;
His eloquent assurances artfully calculated
To lend themselves to a distressful behaviour.
Categories:
precariously, longing,
Form:
Rhyme
Tufted white-tops
on pale beige staggered-stalks,
the coneflowers crowns
dressed the perennial bed;
leaning precariously against
the conical mushroomesque birdbath.
Snow, soft and wet wrapped the grape arbor like ermine;
making trellises reminiscent of Kanji on a blank page.
Fragile, frozen, flowers hung decoratively,
from frail clematis twined about cedar posts.
Brittle brown maple leaves, left behind by autumn;
drag branches draped,
as in bridal lace to the frosted tarp;
defying winter to do what fall could not.
Conifers cried under the weighty white down.
Their limbs straining not to crack, surrender,
snapping to attention as the day warms.
The snow plops pleasantly to the ground.
Winter waits patiently as the garden dreams.
Categories:
precariously, seasons
Form:
Free verse
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
Categories:
precariously, community, history, ireland, time,
Form:
Narrative
When I’ve gone
to the place
where my fathers’
have gone before me
and the last tribute
has been paid to my memory,
may my singing words
crack the silence with clanging echoes.
May the clanging echoes
excite starving eyes
and taut wrinkled eardrums—
both to awareness—
guiding them
to actions of liberation
yet to come.
May clanging echoes
wake-up sleeping souls suffering
uncertainties of tyrannical rule,
slobbering from political absurdities,
drooling from mouths of misguided evil
diagnostic odysseys—peddling false hope
to precariously lost wanderers.
May my clanging echoes echo ringing
bells of freedom that can’t be unrung:
“Oh death where is thy sting?”
“Oh grave, where is thy victory?”
Poets will die;
but the ringing chords
of their words will live long lives:
Echoing clanging echoes…
Categories:
precariously, allegory, analogy, death, hope,
Form:
Prose Poetry