Best Pruned Poems
Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...
POETRY FOR POETS
(I own this- edition)
Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the **** of life
manure
Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.
Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet
though occasionally
poems require to be forged
beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
accurately placed
ensuring they will be nailed
to their purpose
Pruned
dead words and metaphors
selectively snipped away
stunning display
There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire
Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love
Categories:
pruned, creation, metaphor, poems, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
An almost stillness came about
as she strode into my door,
like breath itself refused to move,
fearful of touching her mysterious beauty
But her obsidian eyes betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
she looked at me,
and I knew…
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Molten lava spilled forth from her mouth, melting our clocks—
eighteen hundred nightmares compressed in two hours.
Long hand moving forward, as the short hand moved backward
How can memories persist in such an acrid life?
She spoke of a beast in the guise of a man,
one who ravaged innocence with the flick of a click
A coward that collected milk teeth for hardened bones
of other horny beasts with no spine
That throaty tenderness when she spoke
sprinkled crystal seeds of frustration in me
She says he loathed him, denied she loved him
but her obsidian eyes betrayed her
There she was, a bud he plucked from the nuns’ garden
He grafted then he pruned her,
spreading her pollen, wafting her scent
yet folding her petals to himself
Caterpillars feeding upon her leaves,
she lets them devour her,
yet once they are wrapped in their cocoons to sleep,
she stabs them with her thorns.
Tears then slid down from her midnight lace eyes
and it was all I could do to catch them
She said she was weary of curtailing butterflies,
of tearing their wings before they can even fly
I had to ask, how many… how many winged gems?
She lifted her sleeves, and showed me her scars
One ugly mark for each innocent child plunged deep,
my heart getting slashed at least three hundred a beat.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A certain stillness came about
as I strode into her door,
like fear itself refused to move,
letting breath touch her mysterious beauty for the last time....
Her obsidian eyes had betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
I looked at the knife beside her.
Maroon-mapped sheets, a stunted womb.
Strains of Bon Iver’s “Flume”
flit past the sighing air like a butterfly,
and I knew…
08112014
Categories:
pruned, abuse, dark, mystery,
Form:
Free verse
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
folio..
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Carol Eastman's Your Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud
Categories:
pruned, adventure, woman,
Form:
Light Verse
Red, orange and yellow fill the valley
Like a bucket of paint, spilled on the trees
Water reflects autumn's grand finale
With colorful leaves, waving in the breeze
The humming birds have left on their long trip
With clear memories, of where to return
The cherry tree is now pruned, snip by snip
Breaking branches, with new lessons to learn
Acorns tumble across the colder ground
On lawn where the sparkling frost will arrive
Summer flowers passed, where they were once found
Death and re-birth of seasons to survive
The grandeur of fall, sparks new enlightment
Opening doors, to winter's excitement
Heidi Sands
12/13/23
POTD 12/15/23
Categories:
pruned, autumn, beauty,
Form:
Sonnet
Neither puppy love nor lust, each insists
in its imperfect play. Their hearts resist
both by clinging in its barbaric way.
Youth forgiven. The wolf begs her to stay.
But a commitment is made in marriage.
It is not found in a baby carriage.
What do we know of love - it’s not first sight.
It is the highs and lows - bond holds on tight.
Love’s patient, kind, not selfish nor boastful.
It’s the making of memories - joyful.
To let go of bitterness’ a decision.
Poof like magic, the wrongs are forgiven.
Black and blues, the stumbles and falls, gets up
on the horse - believers climb to the top.
~
Now what of those years, of the worse decrease?
Does the sorrow make the better cerise?
Does the white-gowned wife, handsome groom resume
as if the bond is pruned, roses in bloom?
Yes, the rivulets of tears reverent.
The jubilee melody resonant.
When love is stirred with sugar and nettles,
sorrow’d years melt. Felicitous petals
land on silver hair and wrinkles. O God!
Yes, three cords complete and restore the flawed.
Love protects, hopes, perseveres in trials.
The truth of a lifetime's years in their smiles.
Shakespeare regales Summer’s hot gaze, short days.
Yet love stoked in the Winter’s hearth - O blaze!
1/30/2021
What Is Love
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Hybronnet is similar to a sonnet, can have a variable rhyme scheme,
does not have to be iambic meter. The poet is given liberty to choose how to structure the rhyme of the Hybronnet poem into a combination of rhymes be it slant, feminine, masculine, etc. or apply it in any design deemed appropriate
Categories:
pruned, age, love,
Form:
Hybronnet
The golden sun of yesterday
played out in fields of gold
inside the tarping memory of father, handling LIFE
the joyful whistles that he fluted pruned alongside vines
and mothers pumping heart of song lauding in
loud and STRONG
No treason yet no aging bridge no tented hope
just morning glories,
a baby breath away from here
and all the sunlight we'd afford
inside a little yard of sweet explore,
I see,
the lonely eyes of a young girl longing for a friend
a hand held jar for fireflies or butterflies in toe
Pebbles rolled beneath unpaved paths as
dear together raw as butterflies we scabbed our knees
with swivel, in the morning breeze
Like BUTTERFLIES preluding dawn with shiant colors bold,
the summer sun of yesterday played out in fields of gold;
Inside my hiding place a youthful carefree life
still lingers in my heart's enfold,
without the memory, of growing old.
Jan 19, 2019
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Contest: Free Verse Style Only
Categories:
pruned, beautiful,
Form:
Free verse
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
Categories:
pruned, destiny, fate, strength,
Form:
Free verse
In a field that is claimed to be wasteland
only fed by the sun and the rain;
its dotted with a sprinkling of yellow
amongst the wild grasses again.
And the manicured lawns of the village
with the roses pruned into shape
will never be found in the wasteland
and don’t have the will to escape.
There’s a man who tenders this wasteland
and the villagers all disagreed
when he argued a case for himself
that the dandelion is not a weed.
Yes, dandelion is a humble herb
that provides us with salad and tea
it has flowers that mirror the sun
and draws in the wild honey bee.
When plants are missed in the harvest
or left for a season to grow
there is cotton like seed parachutes
drifting off as if dandelion snow.
If a parachute lands in a garden
and finally sprouts from its seed
not a villager can be convinced
that the dandelion is not a weed.
Yes, dandelion is a humble herb
that provides us with salad and tea
it has flowers that mirror the sun
and draws in the wild honey bee.
Being rich in mineral content
essential oils, and vitamins too
dandelion is kind to our bodies
a healer growing free to pursue.
As I reap my crop in the wasteland,
and only dig up what I do need
I’m happy I don’t need convincing
that the dandelion is not a weed.
Categories:
pruned, flower, health,
Form:
Rhyme
Against a browning hill
oak trees' bleeding limbs are stretched;
some drops release to softly fall
some cling to dry encrusted scars.
A few short months and we will walk
beneath the springing trees
marking their swords of thinnest green
stabbing at the stars.
And so, life seasons make their rounds
in nature and in men
the flower wilts, the rose is pruned,
the leaves must fall again.
Everything of lasting worth
contains a seed of loss;
on young love's throbbing circlet
hangs a bitter cross.
We will walk life's lanes together,
cherishing this pain we share
for spring will come tomorrow
and bloom on our despair.
Copyright, November 11, 2014
Categories:
pruned, growth, love,
Form:
Rhyme
Relaxing on the porch as darkness fell,
I sipped iced tea, reflecting on my day.
There was breathtaking beauty all around,
the perfect lawn, a pleasure to survey.
I'd had a scrumptious meal with fine red wine
and watched a Lifetime romance on TV.
I'd waltzed around the den as CD's played
the tunes I love the best by Kenny G.
Then came my thirty-minute bubble bath,
so warm and soothing. While still damp, I lay,
just briefly, on the comfy bed. I dressed
and used a lightly-scented body spray.
That's when I got the tea and came outside
to relish what would be the best of nights.
Euphoria was at a height--AND THEN
IT STOPPED! I saw two brightly glaring lights.
The Johnsons, owners of the house, were back
two days before they were supposed to be!
I tossed the tea glass in a well-pruned shrub
and fled before they got a glimpse of me.
The Blakes' weeklong vacation will begin
tomorrow. Like the Johnsons, they will hide
their house key in a fake rock near the door.
Man, I can hardly wait to get inside!
John Lawless's And Then it Stopped Contest,
placed third of eight July 2017
August 3, 2017, entered in Brian Strand's August Standard Contest
January 18, 2021
entered in Brian Strand's Completely Your Choice (44) Contest
Placed 5th
Categories:
pruned, house, vacation,
Form:
Quatrain
Flower power
“If you’re going to
San Francisco be sure to
wear a flower
in your hair”
long and shaggy
shagged longing wild
And to Berlin or
Paris for that
matter to dream to
meet a girl and more
under the fountain
The “Fountainhead”
on your mind
“Atlas shrugging”
all the weight of
established rigour
tremors oscillations
generational discord
transmitted juxtaposed
agonising opposition
Budding opening
freedom harmony
erect and upright
subconscious conscience
That girl with
curvy bottom and more
outer beauty inner fire
no curve balls
simply passion
adventure living
loving one in all
Embraces soaking
wet the moment
living on for now
for past and memories
intertwining venture
What is
what is coming
what was to come
appeared enlightened
what did not happen
withers lingers
explodes from
Venus-mangoed delta
reappears in wetlands
of pruned and rooting
ecstasy high rising climax
It matters not
if cobbled streets
descended from Montmartre
or mountains climbed
in open spaces putting
petting lips and heartbeats
openings and new
beginnings novel closure
It matters little great
deaths not so petite
at times of passion
'enlived' 'enstoried'
restoried recomposed
narrated and retold
episodic dedication
Floral bouquets
wild herbs and spices
arrangements
derangements
cinnamon bark on
your underbellies senses
Gathered over time
reflections longing
hope pragmatic
bold appeasement
ceasefires dynamic
bonfires bonne fires
static momentary
life and for the
living levitating
lovers
You are not going
to Paris all that
often any longer
but the scent free
spirit erotic flowers
frisson crescendo
warm hearted climax
exhaustion images
Is there in you hair
still shaggy longing
seduction floating
coming together
Is there in
your path’s ways
Is there in
your dreams
Categories:
pruned, love,
Form:
Free verse
SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ME WHEN I WAS JUST A GIRL
IT INVOLVED A BAD MAN, & IT RESHAPED MY WHOLE WORLD
A NEW SET OF DEMONS WERE INTRODUCED INTO MY LIFE
PAIN, & SHAME, DESPAIR, ANGER, & STRIFE
THERE WAS GREAT CHAOS IN MY LITTLE SOUL
AND IT GREW, AND IT STAYED, AND INCREASED EVERMORE
THERE WERE NO PSYCHOLOGISTS, OR THERAPISTS FOR THE RAPED WHO WERE POOR
AND THE DREAMS!
OH, THOSE DREAMS
SO GRAPHIC, SO REAL
I BEGAN GOING WITHOUT SLEEP
I BEGAN NOT WANTING TO FEEL
I COPED WITH THE INNER-TURMOIL IN A NEGATIVE WAY
I GRASPED ON THOSE DEMONS WHO WERE WITH ME
BECAUSE PAIN BEGETS MORE PAIN
AND SO, THIS WAS MY REALITY & THE JUST OF MY LIFE
HURTING BUT SMILING, DEAD BUT ALIVE
THEN, YET MORE CHAOS....WHEN I BECAME MOMMY & WIFE
THOSE DEMONS, MY COMPANIONS, THEY INVITED SOME FRIENDS
THEY HAD TO, THERE WAS MORE OF ME TO SHARE, IN THE FORM OF CHILDREN
BUT GOD......
SAID, “ OK, THAT’S ENOUGH!”
THEN HE BREATHED IN AND HE BLEW......
“HI, I’M JESUS, GOD’S SON,” SAID A VOICE, “AND I DIED JUST FOR YOU.”
“ALL THAT STUFF THAT YOU’RE HOLDING, GIVE IT TO ME.”
THEN HE HACKED AND HE CHASED AND SPOKE AND HE PRUNED
AND WHEN I THOUGHT MY FOOT WAS SLIPPING
HE SAID, “ MY GOOD WORK IS NOT THRU! FOR MY LOVE IS ETERNAL.”
“AND WHEN YOU HURT SO DO I. NOW IT IS MY TURN TO RESHAPE YOUR LIFE.”
YET ANOTHER VOICE APPEARED, AND IN A WHISPERED HE SAID
“ I AM GOD. I’M YOUR FATHER, AND I’VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”
“ I’M GONNA TURN THAT PAIN INTO PRAISE!” THEN HE GAVE ME A TOUCH!
“THIS IS HOLY SPIRIT, AND HE IS ALSO ME.”
AND SINCE THEN, MY NAME’S BEEN CHANGED TO ‘BEAUTIFUL PEACE’.
OH, LIFE ISN’T PERFECT, AND I AM STILL QUITE FLAWED
BUT, I AM NOW ALIVE, AND I’M LIVIN’ WITH GOD
AND MY FAMILY IS BLESSED
NOT DEMON-POSSESSED
MY WAYS ARE THE LORD’S
AND I’M FREE FOREVER MORE
Categories:
pruned, childhood, inspirational, lifeme, pain,
Form:
Free verse
A friend I'd like - someone like me
Fun and cheeky, full of integrity.
Gardening lover, nature attuned
of life's useless baggage pruned
perhaps also a crafter of words
Enjoying too, the flight of birds
A hawk winding a spiral on the wing
is a particularly magical thing.
So here be a quirky, crazy, active sort
Uses gift of the gab in glowing retort.
Nature guardian and explorer of seaside pools
Crafty proponent for reading the rules!
Written 15 June 2018 for Contest: Qualities you admire in Friends
Categories:
pruned, friend, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
There are those special moments in life
That become etched in one's heart
Leaving a sweet precious memory
Etched….. never to depart
I have one so treasured memory
Though so simple in its act
Entered my heart and stayed
With a huge impact
We had a beautiful Magnolia tree
In the front garden of a past abode
A florist asked if she could prune it
Taking the cuttings to her florist to unload
Yearly she pruned the Magnolia tree
Always with an assistant there
This particular year it was a young girl
Lovely, pretty with dreadlock hair
When leaving the girl went to the front door
For what reason l did not know
What that sweet hearted girl did
Left my heart aglow
On the front doormat
She had placed one big beautiful magnolia flower
That innocent kind gesture
For me ….held so much power
It touched my soul in such a way
It has remained with me through time
Just a simple act of honest sweetness
Now forever etched in my mind
Categories:
pruned, appreciation, blessing, simple, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
The time has come, the nest is bare.
The little ones have grown and flown elsewhere.
The house once filled with laughter, turmoil and noise
now echoes silence, with peace heralding different joys.
The rooms once cluttered with toys and books
are now empty and tidy, mementos put away for good.
The walls that once echoed with cries and screams
now stand as silent expanses, the noises lost in dreams.
The days once spent in a flurry of activity for dependents
now stretch out before us, open and free, for us as co-defendants.
At last we can do what we really want to do for ourselves,
with memories much cherished put in their place on shelves.
The future ahead may be uncertain, empty and new.
But I am ready to embrace it, to start anew.
To rediscover myself, to explore and grow in the pruned thinned out space
To follow my heart with you, wherever it may go.
For though the nest may be empty and bare
my heart is full to the brim, with memories to share.
And as I look back on the years gone by
I smile, knowing I did my best, with love in my nest.
Categories:
pruned, family,
Form:
Free verse