Best Provincial Poems
Traveling along these celestial corridores
Through the spectrum, called life ~
Brought forth by a birth....
Bourn, for this very purpose in time?
A revelation revealed, by the hands of imperatives, "Faith!"
These reverent realities, of a humbled soul ~
Manifest amid a myriad of moments....
Symbolic twinklings, of love laced stardust
Glitter from above, sprinkled before my eyes
This, amid glories impeccable Kingdom!
A binding cup now poured upon my sight
From within the throne of, "Everlastings Light" ~
Turning such truths towards this vision, I cry
For I am caught betwixt, the flesh and the spirit....
Knowing that everyday, I must face this evil, or so it seems
As Paul the Apostle once did upon the streets of Rome
O' wretched man that he was; bound in this body of frailties....
Do I envite it; this calamity of darkness' dynasty?!
Led by the prince of junapers himself; the fallen angel
Spreading his tear stained wings, upon the face of the earth
The valley of his own, shadow of death!
No, I would rather that these bindings sometimes
Did they ever exist....
But the truth is, they cannot hide; will not hide?
Nor, now neither can I, from their constant lasciviousness
Compelled it so clearly seems...."Chosen!"
While these principalities of pains provincial night
Transduce their tides of disease, amid their final days....
This plague; like a herd of lacerating locust
Devouring the unsuspecting fields of, innocent humanity!? ~ {Cont}
Categories:
provincial, faith, life, love, time
Form:
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !
Categories:
provincial, allegory, blue, color, deep,
Form:
Free verse
Ontario in Iroquois is-
Kanadario meaning sparkling water
the British claimed the land
under the approval of the Queen
148 years ago
well all that is another story
Ontario became a province of Canada
in 1867
a land of rivers and lakes and wild forests
the flag of Ontario has only been flying
since 1965 -
red background
British Union Jack in upper left corner
and Provincial Coat of Arms of Ontario on fly half
it is a symbol of our identity
and the history of Ontario's British heritage
our forever relationship with the Queen
the vastness of Ontario is breathtaking
the most amazing in my life
travelling to Hudson Bay's far north
mostly still untouched and pristine
did you know that the Ontario's flower
is the white trillium
found in woodlands
it follows the sun across the sky
our motto is loyal she began loyal she remains
the Ontario flag flies proudly beside the Canadian flag
a magical beautiful sight shining boldly
on any important building you will find her beauty
blazing in the sun
fluttering in the wind rain and snow
a symbol of pride
______________________________
July 10, 2015
Free Verse
Written by Broken Wings
For the contest, Tell Us About Your State Flag, sponsor, Judy Konos
First Place
Categories:
provincial, freedom,
Form:
Free verse
Qualitative’s Quantitative Dilemma
by Odin Roark
Numbers in checkers
Numbers in chess
Thinking beyond 2 + 2 = 4
Knowing 2 & 2
Portends extension
Invites the mind to ponder
Knowing a concluded 4
Indubitably finite
And so it goes
This constant tug-of-war
Placing the challenging value of quality
Against the easier calculated quantity
Like the riches of a fairytale ruler
Versus the needs-fulfilled of the provincial
One wallows in numbers for counting
While the other sees their every move
That of thinking through what constitutes
The next hour’s harvest of nourishment
Who is with the fear of losing?
The burden of fright?
Who smiles trustingly on patience?
The gift of nurturing?
If life were a board game
Which terrain would you choose?
That of hop skip and jump
The plundering of any spoils within reach
Or that which demands careful decision
Where precise positioning of tomorrow
May continue to provide all one needs
While protecting all worth dying for
That stealth-like foreshadowing gift
Answering one of history’s
Exhaustive conundrums
Must quality of long-term goals
Always be threatened by
Quantity of short-term rewards?
Categories:
provincial, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
The snowbird trees are putting on their colorful autumn coats
Preparing to follow the sun southward
The provincial evergreens are hunkering down for winter
All are well groomed in this spiritual oasis
A gently convex (concave if you are a koi) wooden bridge crosses a pond
The bridge is framed by the textures of nature
I leave my point of view
And walk onto it
Looking down I see koi lounging and strolling
Or perhaps they are wavy reflections of the koi-colored leaves above
I hear the murmurs of respectful visitors to this cathedral of nature
Reflecting their souls
Looking back to where I was standing is not inspiring
Murky
Colorless
Rigid
Perpendicular
Utilitarian
Nature pounded into efficient shapes
Soulless
My office
In which is hanging a window onto my deepest and highest thoughts
A large photograph of an autumn scene in a Japanese Garden
Categories:
provincial, anger, autumn, blessing, color,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Kathy rides the bus
an hour each day
to reach the club
saving her pennies;
last week
the phone company
shut her off
less than a month overdue
but they keep
single mothers
on edge.
Tall and lean
and yes still lovely
dark from her
Florida sojourns
she always
has a smile
and a dance
she dances close
rubbing her pert breasts
up your chest
her pencil eraser nipples
with their silver rings
almost within
tongue range
then down
slithering, pressing
her body - naked
against your body - clothed
pulling at your shirtwaist
with her teeth
almost mouthing
your crotch.
Her story
high school champion
gymnastics
broken back - recovered
provincial diving champ
but we all have stories
two past husbands
one a cop
“never marry a cop
always angry
sometimes rough
and after
no support."
Thirteen years
working one club
or another
and never think
it isn’t work.
I’d love to answer
her smile
to give her
my shoulder
to lean on,
or at least
a ride home.
But I have
my own story,
kids and a dog
at home,
waiting to be fed.
After the dance
she takes her money
having tickled my fantasies
for another week
and wanders
through the bar
looking
for another customer.
Till seven
then on the bus
and home
to her lucky daughter.
Categories:
provincial, abuse,
Form:
Free verse
Education has never deluded me,
it is a rich mine from which my gemstones are extracted;
and all of them can adorn with its brilliance
a king's crown, but the glitter on my silver pendant...
with my natal sign, not with my image, outshines it
and displays it very elegantly.
As skilled hands relied on mental deftness,
I depended on mom's provincial practicality,
not on chances, but on her canonical guidance;
her words told no canards, only truthfulness:
an illunination of beatitude to encourage and fortify...
and that voice taught me acts of benevolence.
Guessing what was the mysterious name it bore,
would have been quite easy to identify with sharp eyes:
examining the deeds I did and the actions I still compromise,
to conclude with certainty
that it fitted me so perfectly...
I learned that art by listening to clever people with more ardor.
This is not a gift which is instilled
in the infant's brain at birth,
it is acquired by growing somewhat old...
who could have such a prodigious knowledge?
The Old Testament prophets for instance, or possibly
every learned man who studied philosophy.
Spend time with me, and observe how I peruse:
listen to the clear and incisive words spoken aloud,
riddling no mystery, or being derogatory...
proverbs might be included to give some clues;
and they were written in an inimitable way
to stimulate the minds of the unlearned.
Is intelligence inborn or learned by chance,
or even isometric to astuteness?
Many admit it stems from accruing knowledge,
to increase the capacity of the thinker or genius...
accumulating their ideas and earning praises,
while the uneducated struggle with rage.
Logical astutness is efficacious when it invigorates ability,
and exhorts a great deal of mental energy;
and will the proper words be used to that effect?
Happy New Year to all the wonderful Poetry Soup members!
Copyright 210 by Andrew Crisci
Categories:
provincial, education, history, people, philosophywords,
Form:
Sestina
Emperor
Happy news came from royal imperial agents of his majesty
Printed on provincial paper of the day
The emperor will visit the village within the week
For the golden chrysanthemum event
To bless the cattle and the rice and eat a couple figs
Bad news came back the next day from palace guards
The emperor has other engagements to the north
But promises to return and keep his word
Sadder news came on the following day from imperial officials
The emperor would be going even further north
And hundreds of miles to the west, deep into borderlands
He will return when all wars come to an end
Our humble villagers can only wait
No one has ever seen the emperor to date
Not even his guards or family are sure if he is there
One of the palace guards assured us of the facts
While walking in the royal court
He is sure he saw the Imperial shadow clear as day
It is the emperor’s true shadow for certain
Being held there by the radiant sun
No one ever questioned this event
It would be bad luck
Though the dark spot on the wall evaporated in a fleeting second
Yet deemed official business by the royal court
As something to remember or forget, you have your choice
Villagers learned real soon, worse news, from rumor mongers
Stories started to fly, by those who specialize in lies
Perhaps the Emperor expired, fighting in the hills up north or west
This information disturbed, confused, perplexed
Yet the simple country folk did not care about these matters
The truth for them is this
No one has ever seen the man
Perhaps his shadow knows
But it moved on
Another Emperor will spring up some time
In someone’s mind
Royalty is just another toy
To fill the void
In subjects imagination
Categories:
provincial, adventure, conflict, culture, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
I saw her at the only bus stop
In our little, forbidding town.
She seemed to be on the top -
The girl was getting me down.
I wanted to be just like she –
A young girl of the world
With a hand luggage- so free -
In a bus on the provincial road.
Colorful lights of a big city
Were on the lookout for her.
The bus departed, I felt pity –
I had to remain here forever.
Where are you, girl from the bus?
Where is your destination?
There was a difference between us,
Or... it’s only my imagination...
Categories:
provincial, life, girl, girl,
Form:
Lyric
Tasmania
Wool of the sheep in Tasmania is full of soot a fire has
destroyed the farms they belonged to. They have gone
feral now grazing where there is any grass left…
In a country where insensitive incomers stupidly killed
off the Tasmanian tiger, sheep are safe, no predators,
but man. Tasmania, this land of bungalows, sheep and
white immigrants seeking an Eden sans fear, then came
the big fire and people had to flee into the sea to avoid
getting burned. I was in Hobart once, it must be classed
as the most boring town in the world; and to my utter
disgust they sold margarine made of sheep´s fat. Think
of if fish & chips cooked in THAT FAT. People who live in
a secure society do not improve their culinary taste or
and their culture ,tend to be provincial and they love fat
sheep meat; an adoration which is typical for a people
who lives in a cultural cocoon.
Categories:
provincial, natural disasters, people, fire,
Form:
Blank verse
Gradin foliums....
These Oratorians of self deceit
Dicentras bleeding hearts....Benighted
Trying hard to portray, something else
And then to justify, this begriming....
Through hollowed and piercing words
Projected towards others
These prima facia showings
Of pretentious light....
Often unveiled, amid their antipodal works
Derived from a desire....Beguiled
That fills this emptiness
The amiss, of their own darkened worlds....
Standing behind the provincial podium
Gathering in others, as they themselves...."Unknown"
While selling their blood drenched tickets
To Apollyon's, never ending curse
..............Folie A Deux..............
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Convention!
Categories:
provincial, abuse, allusion, analogy, love,
Form:
She lies, quietly reclining,
her flitting eyes
beneath porcelain lids the only sign of life,
save for slight rise and fall of maiden breast.
But in her dream . . .
she soars beyond her narrow, provincial world
where tales recorded in approved books
are her only adventures.
Moonbeams beckon,
luminous trails of stardust swirl
gilding the fluid pathway of her flight.
She wanders aloft, observing narrow streets,
foreign to her wide and planted avenues
where one walks protected, shielded
from the rough venues of common life;
there dwell
the weak, the halt, the maimed, the depraved,
those whom poverty and cruelty have crushed
beneath ponderous feet abuse and hurt cleated,
seeing an encapsulated view captured by inner eyes
that sense her privileged world
has lost step with humanity.
Courage is conceived; resolve is awakened:
a Florence Nightingale is born.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, May 16, 2014
Categories:
provincial, abuse, dream, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
The morning sun stretches across the sky,
charging a palette of blues, greens and chalky coastal whites.
The smell of salt is carried by the early morning humid wind,
and seagulls search for their first delights.
The sparseness of our beach terrain rises up
into sweeping, spartan hills where provincial gardens stew.
Our little white bungalow house proudly stands
on the high promenade and gazes down to the ocean blue.
With stucco walls our house is stout,
it’s long low face consumes the heat of the clamoring seasonal sun.
Through the wide, arching doors to the four season porch,
the eaves crown a frame of fragrant cinnamon.
Our long, slender, wall-less garden extends out to the sea,
where our cliffs afford views of natural luxury.
A centuries old stone staircase descends to our beach,
where blue waves refract light into love’s estuary.
The four season garden is divided in two, half is for cooking
and half for the artist’s eye to bravely portray.
The sun warmed, fertile sandy soil has been sculpted
into rows of herbs, beach fruits and leafs of blue-gray.
The kitchen is open and the heart of this house,
where home grown love is slow cooked and always eaten close.
Stone floors and wood paneled surfaces appending the rooms,
with unframed windows to gaze and expose.
Interiors would be decorated with the colors of love,
painted by hand in the organic way that lovers can.
Our bed is a sand dune of linen and sea bird feathers,
where sunsets and it’s music seduce us time and again.
Categories:
provincial, home, house, beach, garden,
Form:
Verse
Planet Of The Apes
Planet of the apes is the now.
barbarianism bar keepers hollering last call slurs at
old and grey
homeless haired suicidal
bastards kicking
rubbage and greed at the ignorant University students sappy and sarcastic
as they all leave at the same time from the clutch of undescribable grip
choked on hells liquor,
crooked mind sets clash like titans tipsy looking for more.
The bus drivers of this town are the most primitive
living out the fullest extent to which mundane can be described,
stopping
and going
then stopping again
only to start again knowing
that another stop is soon.
Makes perfect sense why bus drivers are so pissed off sometimes.
Champion chimps win provincial championships in the game of a life time.
Tree top canapy race with diamond emerald steps and chestnut slick
flex tone wire for swinging daringly over the floor of the concrete jungle.
The young are fearless and the old fear everything,
middle aged monkeys pretend like they dont know whats going on.
Still a victory dawns, then sets
as we watch
the planet of the apes
fighting for all the wrong reasons
accomplishing so much
yet taking away an exponential amount from the soul
of the earth.
No more winning.
No more loosing.
Network of bannana eaters
slipping on their own peels
kind of silly.
Monkeys with brief cases and roller skates preparing your taxes
recording all your personal information
your I.D
Your address
your "size".
Get lost.
Let my body live its course,
not the course you have subjected it too.
Brown monkeys wearing black ties and black shined shoes
no more monkey see monkey do.
Categories:
provincial, life
Form:
It was what it was …
The fantastic idea,
The thoughts of carefree and joy.
A few small steps is all it would take,
And we’d be living our lives in Savoy.
It did what it did …
This incredible dare,
To the notions of travel and explore.
Inspiring the house to become European,
With a provincial French swinging door.
It took what it took …
Every day of our life,
Devouring every dream that we had.
Leaving us both with nothing at all,
Turning our pride, hope and dreams into bad.
It has what it has …
Our ghostly friend,
Flying with everything that was us through the day.
It’s a bloated ghostly figure, a memory figure,
It ate our dreams like we were its buffet.
It is what it is …
My life void of ideas,
Safe from free thoughts, or joy or from care.
I’m existing once more, alone in my head,
With no flicker or shimmer or flare.
Categories:
provincial, dream, loss,
Form:
Rhyme