Best Preferring Poems
This one is for the broken,
hiding behind invisible bruising.
For the forgotten and the ones
who have forgotten us,
like the misunderstood misfits.
Who howl at the moon,
look beyond the stars,
for some form of understanding.
For the one you labeled a weirdo.
Who's life is a cocktail of corruption,
struggling with ignorant co-existence.
For the ones who have lost their voice,
unable to speak unspoken truths,
like the child of stolen innocence.
For the abused, the violated, the humiliated.
Those who chose to run and are still running.
Hope you find a safe haven to call home.
Like the ones who no longer dream,
due to demonic intrusions.
This one is for those who
continue to love ferociously.
Breathing genuinely in a world of
hypocrisy and artificial actions.
Who's hearts are an archive of
old songs, lost in the concept of time.
Their piano keys of darkness and light,
have eroded with each tremor,
but still refuse to sell their emotions.
Preferring an overdose of life
lost in lullabies of rain -
battling against ugliness of adversity.
Their hope eradicates thunder,
emanating clear blue skies -
souls illuminating like a ring of fire.
We all have a purpose, a personal potential,
find it, feel it, be it.
There will always be a mountain,
with wandering wayward winds -
but there are several ways to conquer it -
just believe in the beauty of your being.
We are warriors.
Simple Musing
Silent One
30 November 2020
Regally it stands, the staunch guardian of her lonesome heart,
Reminiscing in revelries of yore, treasured memories impart,
Defying glum turbulence of now, hanging on to seasons past,
When springs-winsome banished, doldrums harsh-winters cast.
Disheartened, the gate harkens back~ O, so young its master died,
Lamenting of distressed times, when grief stilled her teary eyed;
Yet, with resolve, it squeaks its hinges, resounding a voice of pride,
Beckoning to benevolence of bliss, fate had so callously denied.
With kindred vibes it greets her, vying elation of cherished days,
Suppressing aches and rattles of its rusting, clamoring, phase;
Preferring realm of time, when he was the keeper of this place,
As dutifully now it opens wide, exuding mirth of youthful grace.
O, how fondly the gate recalls, dance of duo beneath full moon,
Humming melodies intimate, passions of doting souls croon,
Embracing celebration of life, as heartbeats enamored attune,
To rhythms emanating song of love, strumming infatuated tune.
Despite groans and whimpers, blaring aloud clattering of pain,
The gate vows to protect her, refusing ever to wither or wane,
Unwavering through thunders, rains, vicious strikes of feeble age,
Challenging its steeled bones, to gallantly defy seasons’ rage.
Though she holds his hands, he feels all alone
As moonlit desires sense his dissonant vibes
Emanating from pulses beating in discord
Plundering away ambiance to vacant thoughts
When a cogent conversation becomes a task.
Silence he placates discarding her prompts
Preferring the dark over company of stars
As a lone-bird sits forlorn on a leafless branch
Awaiting for daybreak to build a new nest.
Steadfastly she holds on to her view of galaxy
Undeterred by forces of invisible black holes
Comforting his woes till he rejects her call,
Deciding resolutely to abandon her place
When the lone-bird flees before daybreak.
November 5, 2018
Placed first in contest #520 by Brian Strand
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
So, what is the best theme for
a poem? No guarded secret, all themes --
Freely to Roam! And what, the prescribed
destination or direction? Wherever the poet,
himself, deems worthy of fond or pertinent
affection –
Poetic Theme (extended metaphor)
So, what is the best theme for
a poem? No guarded secret, all themes –
Freely to Roam! And what the prescribed
destination or direction? Only those fond
and pertinent, giving affectionate-justification as
reason for procrastination – to linger in a moment's
subtle discovery – the courses followed only those
which the poet deems entrancingly divine – he seeks
heartfelt permanent encampment – or just an
amicable pause, in a neighboring field, fertile for
blooming enchantment; with his companion pen, to chronicle
canorous visuals, fervently inspired – or simply folksy,
lyrical rides; for the poet, alone, decides where his poetry lives
or temporarily abides –
(his muse, never far off – nearby, perhaps reflecting in the shade of a flowering
fruit tree: heaped in petals, not trying to hide – more enjoying the velvety feel of an
apple before the outer peel, though colorful, would be far too bitter for his present
aromatic meal) – muse and poet, composing through a single eye. Writing as one:
sharing new sights – sounds with scent – their mind dutifully toward poetry
bent – shades of detail, mellifluously transcending common scheme and rhyme –
incanting verse worthy of a brief performance, or immortal, blessed shrine –
It's all fair, such dulcet affair! All subjects! All seasons! – preferring spring, in which to self-lavish and spiritually entwine. Therefore, his paths are fanciful, never truthful as definitive
would define; often choosing glitter over harsh realty, yet can be a prophet and oracle if a troubling-time -- though never, a ruling class mime; – in this sense, he is a likable charlatan, a chimerical rebel...irreconcilable passion his soulful crime, therefore not ever exhibited, an atoning-word or act of sorrowful contrition – so loved by God, who gags at his counterpart, the lying politician.
Vision, a window divine, open wide to aspirations of heart,
A lens paramount, for perusing aesthetics of beauty and art;
A sight beaming imagination, on ambitions of curious soul,
A focus coherent, shaping impulses, passions studious cajole.
A medium of communication, an engaging lure of romance,
An infatuated response, a jubilant hint of enamored glance,
Blossoming in language of love, without utterance of word,
Extolling meaning amorous, that desires romantic spurred.
Perceptive of worldview, on mission to observe and learn,
A journey into the unknown, yearning curiously to discern,
Vision quests for knowledge, aiming to be literate, well read,
Vision peers into future, navigating life’s road maps ahead.
It thrills watching a baby smile, elates in celebration of life,
Saddens when mind summons anguish of grief and strife;
Dejecting violent places, thoughts kindred deeply deplore,
Preferring banks of avid shores, dreams endearing implore.
Vision captures images of life, ruminating in joys and sighs,
Rejoicing in blissful memories, or tearing-up its forlorn eyes;
Reveling in exuberant prairies, vying for flowering springs,
Or shuddering amid barren trees, bearing angst winter brings.
Her luxurious penthouse
is like a cocoon with plenty of pretty distractions,
so she keeps her door firmly closed,
because she prefers fantasy
over the handicap of reality.
Afraid of light,
her malingering mind,
keeps her hidden inside.
To shield her from the sun,
she won't open the curtains,
as she thinks it's certain,
her mechanisms may melt.
Shyness is her veiled excuse
to separate her from society,
But it's the anxiety, anxiety, anxiety!
Preferring to be an option,
rather than a priority
her caution from socialising,
breeds from the alarm bells,
set from abandonment,
betrayal and manipulation.
Trust is her terrorist.
People hunt like packs of wolves,
devouring her mind like a candy snack.
Fears of her heart are like an aeroplane,
shaking from a turbulent storm,
with her hopes forever crashing.
Trying to forget in a flash of courage,
she takes one step towards the door,
but the noises in her head become louder,
and Louder and LOUDER!!!!
repeating, Repeating, REPEATING!
Violent vibrations induce vertigo,
silent screams screw with her sanity,
struggling to breathe, feeling like
air is being sucked out of her lungs,
she vomits, collapsing to the floor.
Nothing can take off the 'edge',
the therapists do not work.
There she remains in her internal prison,
away from her eternal nightmares.
Safe in her sanctuary,
from engagement with stranger's eyes.
Like a chocolate bar
in her shiny wrapper,
that looks so sweet
but feels so darkly bitter.
vivacious roses pose
in air
oxygen free from the stem
arising like balloons
resurrection of rosies
blushing brides at peak
before their spoiling
before their mistreat
their passionate gowns sweet
wormy stems
await greening apples
Eden’s eschew
the ladies wave bye-bye
preferring the troposphere
fear of flying
ain’t there
angels, palms up,
invite their climb
up golden stairs
heaven is a lighthouse
waves crash on dry and crusty land
petals fall like rain
dowry to the grooms
wives look nothing like the brides
kites tied to home soil
desperate for heaven
a few grooms
smooth
the bed
water the roots
the rose thrives
2/24/2021
*Salvidor Dali’s Bleeding Roses
Sometimes Truth
is a bit too enlightening,
eyes preferring haze
over prickly points
of stunning beams –
when the
heart in shadow, a slow
peep can be preferred over a
sharp glare,
though the caution of the
heart, can be detriment to clarity,
also a survival skill taught
by wilderness wandering --
Compassion is not always
truthful…
sometimes best a lie --
like seasons and night and
day – the ice, a slower thaw --
Love first
and never be wrong….
Baile con migo, hips made from the rhythm of merengés and cumbias, samba, swagger and a pinch of azucar mixed into my backbone.
My first language was Spanish.
Learned from sweet stories told by my papi at bedtime.
My tongue a formation of the stardust of my heritage,
An intertwined galaxy of rolled r’s and the pledge of allegiance.
It was something I would soon forget after I was told it was wrong
Taught a new way to introduce myself “mi nombre es” turned to “my name is” after the girl in my class told me she couldn’t understand me.
So I was taught to reject the language of my family and to be proud to call myself American over Mexican.
Now my Spanish 2 native class seems so god damn foriegn and I can't seem to remember what comes after domingo on my pop quiz.
I would learn to hate my name, much preferring something like Tiffany,
Leaving behind my silent TL and X that sounds like an S because they said it was strange.
When I visit my grandmother all I could do is nod or shake my head,
Because her native language sounds like a tongue twister I can't seem to master.
So she reminds me that the colors in my soul and the rhythm in my bones are blessings and that I come from the Incas, the Mayans, the Aztecs, los Mexicas, who built an empire nunca imaginado.
That we are a children of an oscuro pasado,
A mixture of pain, sadness and oppression,
But we inherited the strength.
We have inherited the passion.
She reminds me that my name holds the power of the most legendary Aztec princesses who ruled with the grace of the most beautiful flower.
So this is for the women that still name their children in nahuatl and the men who wake up on Sunday mornings to listen to Vicente Fernandez with their fathers,
And families that still pass on recipes of arroz con pollo.
Because we are the sons and the daughters,
And we hold the stories,
The journeys of the remembered,
Those who walked through deserts, waded through rivers.
We wear their legacies on our shoulders with pride,
And we do not lose ourselves to broken perceptions,
But rise above with the help of our powerful stories.
Our melodies, our galaxies,
Por que somos Latino-Americanos
And we will not be forgotten
Clumsily tripping, over our own feet
Sometimes, minds aren't meant to meet
perhaps we're off just a micro beat
thoughts obscured, behind glass covered in sleet
Sure there are those, who wish to exploit
but really in the end, what's the point?
We're all merely visitors, in this joint
Trying our best, with words to annoint
Cloisterd in shadows, wanting to be found
glimmers of earlier selves, clowning around
When others laugh, why do our fears compound?
Downturned mouths, strangled crying sounds
Embarrassing moments, last an eternity
Sometimes I'm my very worst enemy
Thinking hidden messages, are meant for me
Is that what poetry is meant to be?
I let essential words, roll off my lips
Credentials have no taste, when I take deep sips
Preferring a message, from a page that drips
My mind unfocused, takes many trips
I like the power, of words intrinsic
Flavors and texture, is what I like to lick
If it's too saccharin and sweet it makes me sick
My pleasure comes, from words hot and thick
So you see, I too like to word explore
Words found, behind a cryptic door
I start upright, end up on the floor
Keep on reading, until I can't absorb anymore!
Written at the request of James Horn.
Response to his "to Come Back Again" Poem.
Thanks James, our interaction led to a poem of the day!
" Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."(Final lines from Walt Whitman's "O Captain My Captain")
My hero, oh how wonderful it would have been
to know you personally, to have spent time with you,
especially since I learned the way you were back then
both as a child, then as a man – so strong, so wise, so true!
The way you’ve been described, you had a gangly look -
not a handsome lad, but oh, you were so bright!
You were poor, but you did all you could just to find a book,
one you might savor late into the night.
I relate to how you had a very human side;
to the way you loved to play a prank or talk jokingly.
You never were unkind, and you had no worldly pride.
Preferring friends to chores, you also loved poetry!
What other man born in a cabin would rise up and accomplish so much?
Predestined for greatness, you had inside you the desire
to be better! When you realized that your country boy dialect was such
a hindrance, you taught yourself proper English to climb higher!
You were so very good, and your soul so godly old!
Once in New Orleans you witnessed the African's sad plight -
men and women chained like animals were being sold.
All you saw, felt and heard determined you'd fight for the right!
You had no religion, Honest Abe, but you looked to God!
Freeing slaves, you also would have fought for women’s freedom too.
A melancholy man at times, and maybe a bit odd,
“ O Captain, my Captain,” poets ever more will praise you.
For "To Honor My Hero" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
There are plenty of Ayn Rand followers around
but there is something called "Art for Art's Sake"
I have gotten paid for writing - even sold some poems
However, I feel that Art for Art's sake
is not a lot of nonsense
Poetry can liberate the spirit
and bring to life feelings that money just can't buy
So does Chock Full of Nuts coffee
However, I don't drink coffee
preferring to mellow out with some tea
"the green kind"
I certainly wish success to the Green Pavillion poets
All the time realizing
that
writing is a great escape from the troubles of life
I. also realize that there are some
very great poets out there in the darkness
who never get up and read their work
who will become known in the future long after we have returned to dust
I have little control
over the world's travesties
I have power
over little more
than my thoughts
my words my actions
so put away that sharp tongue
so as to never sting or slash
best choose to be kind
so as never to regret
the smile not given
the kind word or
compliment not granted
preferring
to love
wholeheartedly
and spread kindness
as best I can
AP: 1st place 2021, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Posted on March 4, 2020
Anomaly don't enter contests like this
the style is a bit avant-garde,
I'm a bit of an oldie, preferring baroque
and finding this bona fide hard.
The cacophony of words dancing round in my head,
carte blanche to use this ten word list,
this is my third attempt, seems a bit deja-vu
but my dilettante side can't resist.
Not sure if I can do this write with elan
but hey-ho, ennui go.
For contest 'Ten words, ten lines2', sponsor Silent One
January 23rd 2018