Best Pressed Poems
I write
you into
my upturned world,
gift you wings and transformation,
strewing pixie dust through silenced skies,
aching to see you sparkle and soar,
like an eagle-winged fairy
metamorphosed
into the highest ether,
where peace is more
than a poetic phrase,
and love ~
baptized by the blues of butterfly ink,
no longer a prisoner of pain ~
caged by chaos,
as the world never knew
the burden buried beneath
your blissful smile, and lyrical laughter…..
Tonight
I miss you,
when the haze above untouched seas
bleeds nothingness,
I remember us,
when the music of grieving night
fills my life
in captivating cadence,
and I will forever
write to the swirling stars
to sigh our serene song
when the telepathic moon wanes in weariness,
for even the sky knows
we are more than
just a memoir
pressed between
purple pages of
perfumed
truth…
By chance, I found them, there...
Three pressed leaves, with brittle veins of delicacy
Tucked between the pages
Of a tattered book of poems
Overlooked and gathering dust,
A cover worn, with broken spine
It had your names, an autumn date,
With script inside, a faded time...
Caressed in yellowed tissue, these three from ancient trees
Discarded long ago from russet crowns
A memory, kept, of time, so keen,
Of a long ago, brisk autumn day?
Where leaves had fallen so bold and gay, then twirled on down
From breezes that gently made the Sycamores sway
A place you walked and held his hand, and knew forever your love would be
Perhaps beneath those trees you made a plan for me
When winter's chill and stolen years had not yet come
Where fragrance of fall and new young love was found
From soft carpets of scarlet, red and brown
You chose these three from all the rustling hordes that grew
A tree had finished using them, in remembrance of you
They were yours for awhile...for your love, perhaps a lover's bed
now....here in my hands they lay....
They are mine to to keep, pressed leaves,
To keep for now, close to my heart instead...
She was my virtual secret lover
who staked a claim on me; it was her choice.
Enshrouded in intense obscurity
I never saw her face or heard her voice.
She spoke to me in silent words of yearning
inscribed in coloured ink on fragrant notes
attached to each a petal that gave meaning
to the emotions that adorned her quotes.
A longer letter came one autumn evening;
It left me trembling and with misty eyes.
With ailing strength she begged for love, forgiveness.
Her final words still echo her goodbye.
Attached there were two orange blossom petals
a sign of never ending bond of love,
now a treasured memory pressed for time eternal
of my virtual secret lover watching from above.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Make Their Jaws Drop
Sponsor: FJ Thomas
in the highlight of, a distant sky- one filled with love
simple thoughts of you, break through- sapphire blue
the sun waits patiently- to slowly dip into the sea, for me
as moments are pressed closely
~ a little scribble ~
You come back
with your mind
full of treasures.
Today, there was a leaf
plucked from a tree still coated
in whispers, a shard of sunlight
and a bird call you managed
to extricate from the sticky
strands of a banksia.
Yesterday there were
shadows rolled up
like rubber matts,
a butterfly wing
and the crystallized tears
of a child who was weeping
for the moon.
What will they do
with the pickings
you've piled up over years.
Will they empty
all the boxes
and throw away the dried
remnants of a life
kept between the pages
like pressed flowers.
And who will return
the tears shed
for the moon.
These petals held the blush of summer when
you handed me this gift. It raged with life
still, moments after falling to the knife.
Sweet sap was seeping out. But that was then.
If once a Ghibelline, it’s now a Guelph.
As taut as parchment, brittle, crackle-thin.
The wine-bowl of its bloom has been crushed-in,
prey to unyielding hardbacks on my shelf.
And if I flip the flimsy skeleton,
palpating it between my fingers: let
these petal-remnants quiver on my lip,
I find the thorns no longer hurt. And yet
a rose is still a rose. So, six months on,
I hold it thus... but who is in whose grip?
Eyes follow
Throat swallows
All that's left
Is lusty sorrows
I guess she wasn’t good enough for that little man.
When my parents were having words,
my father would give my mother the back of his hand.
But it’s not with her husband my mother wanted to fight.
She knew, he was listening to his mother
who always thought she was right?
I guess she wasn’t good enough for that little man.
But I don’t know, backhanding my mother
may not have been part of my grandmother plan.
But what happen the next time,
made me my mother’s number one fan.
Now I was too young to witness this.
My mother told me about its years later.
She even showed me the clipping from the newspaper.
She was ironing his shirts for work one day
and they were having words their same old way.
He turned to backhand her like he would usually do.
But she grabbed his hand before he could follow through.
She... Ironed a wrinkle on his shoulder
and another one on his chest,
manage to get his mid-section as he hollered and professed.
He tried to get away, but stumbled and fell.
It’s a good thing he found religion, because he sure caught hell.
The police were called, and a newspaper reporter made it there too.
She explained to them both, in defending herself.
She did what a woman in her position had to do.
I had to kick his behined and his ego too!
oh, and he’s going to need some help removing my shoe.
I changed my husband’s attitude with an iron,
He is not a man! No husband of mine!
And that’s why I put my foot where the sun doesn’t shine.
Pressed Linens
I left for the church when called to serve
A need for help in the kitchen was the request
When I arrived I saw the hurse had come
And they were rolling in the casket.
I did not know the person who passed but saw their family gather
I said a prayer of comfort in my heart and went to the kitchen,
the sisters with singleness of heart;
Prepared the family meal,
pressed linens and arranged centerpieces.
We set the tables with shiny clean white plates and utensils,
glass wear and freshwater,
We were preparing for a moment in time
attended by the individual who had passed,
to honor them
with the final meal of remembrance and a reunion,
a place of making peace one with another,
a possible end to a quarrel that had ensued.
An ending but even more for a beginning.
The prayer meeting around the casket had begun
The importance of a soul is eternally profound
We see them day to day and tho we may never speak,
they hold in reverence, a special place in this world,
we are now in their presence as they stand by
awaiting their own burial, they will never forget
your moment
before the casket,
your special goodbyes to them were heard.
because of them, the world will make a change
for the better.
flowers pressed in book
rose petals saved in baggie
breathless memories
June 2, 2020
I ache for your touch.
I want to feel,
your hands on my body,
your lips on mine.
I want to just feel you...
Your skin against my skin.
Nothing but our bodies,
our feelings,
intertwined close together.
I want to feel the love,
the lust,
all our built up
feelings escaping at once.
I want to hold you,
to be held by you.
I want to feel you
against me,
your body pressed close
against mine.
I want to feel you,
all of you,
forever.
I have pressed on so lively and depressed on me so much and stressed so vibrantly that feel so overturned bt stress disorder that never arranged through my mental that mind surfs me always. I have learned to settle the arranged disorder that maybe so overwhelmed in discomfort but cope through meditation to soothe the reasoning and my issues thats always cured by a blessing and a sanctified faith and encouragement which is the cure that confronts my mental states of depression discomfort disorders that never leaves my existence of mental phases in my life depressed headaches and illusions by overwhelmed depression mentals. I stained such potential through my mental ambitions morality and intuition that are critical thinking that subject me for any gratitude with such mental stable ability.
(a collaboration with Dilly Dally, great fun, thank you)
Lost as the night wraps its ebony shades
round red lips like the petals on roses unfurled;
in the mist, the soft crimson of beckoning smiles
leave me hopeless to shun a temptation like this.
Watching eyes in the dark now hang in the air,
mouths smothered in silence, are untouched and alone
~ through the fog, mute impressions choke a voice that was mine
before sliding to sleep in a vulnerable dream...
In the air, like the scent, of a fresh blooming rose
drifts the musk, like a bee to the pollen I'm drawn,
so...in willing surrender, I contentedly fall,
though beware of the thorns and the danger they pose.
Wide awake in my dream
the night lingers ~ trapped in place,
'til I once again fall and surrender my will
~ restless dreams, tangled thoughts,
stems stinging with fears.
What sweet peril we chase
through the gardens of dreams,
drowning in tears for what might have been
left forgotten and pressed in the pages of time...
pressed upon
laid back, coral bells and red roses
pretty petals impressed
scents and shapes, unfurled
regality in the trivial
ah, the memory
the piquancy
5/3/2022
he stands amid the dusted rays
of beams from smudged, windowed days
casting light on the words below
pressed flat upon papered page
he's been here since before sun up
stained and smelling of turpentine
surveying the thoughts he's pressed
quickly he hangs the page to dry
then re-inks the typeset laid to table
and inserts another piece to press
pulling at the screw-pressed platen
repeating process his labors express
his desire to enlighten the world
not just his neighbors informed to tell
ideas and thoughts carried on back
ancestors haunched with ink and quill
before them criers cried the street
events be known upon lips aloud
spreading ideas throughout the land
difficult to speak beyond the crowd
and unbeknownst to him and kind
someday in future ideas are spread
with something called electricity
through wires and waves on into head
to reach to you my heartfelt soul
ideas with emotions and feelings said
until now, thoughts sweetest aspirations
words spread like jam on slice of bread
words, like feelings toil quietly
carry your touch and feeling along
to distant lands and distant times to
give life's meaning, therefore prolong
what the publisher and writer wish
to convey to all able to read or hear
that thought, like life, is precious
held close at hand, the mind made clear
© Goode Guy 2011-08-09
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ink
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Printing_press
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Publishing