Best Puddled Poems
There’s the tightrope for you to walk, wire walker —
defying the gravity of reality and the reality of gravity
you know damn well he won't catch you when you fall
as your sticky grip on the star’s razor edge slips
back away from the black back-alley -
use the street’s angles and curves to your advantage
run! from the rouse of his lure
as the lore is as sordid as it is euphoric -
ruined as you are by the ruse of his rune
fade to disappearance with distance
ride the rift of spindrift; a smoke screen
as if you were never here
but the territorial she-wolf knows…
she dreams of pouring rain pooling on a blurry beach
though she may choose not to open sand-puddled eyes
intuition is not blind and instincts are hackled —
for she’s downwind of dual deception
and her elegant nose is one with the yellow-rose winds
her howls now haunt your hurricane
passion’s kite - once blissfully lost in windy swagger
brash in its stellar flash amidst a hazy starlit pinwheel -
has returned a stormy petrel
dark and hovering over self-inflicted wounds feeding on strife —
incised by the rapier side-eye of your conscience
you seek to stem the red flow of guilt washing up in waves
knowing you can’t dye scarlet heartbeats white
there’s the tightrope for you to walk, wire walker;
the bloodline — that which binds
a sinful sister’s envies to the sinless sister
and divides loaves of husband-lies for the bronze bloodless sinner.
Categories:
puddled, betrayal, conflict, husband, jealousy,
Form:
Free verse
As the sky weeps
in periwinkle petals of
multicolored roses,
rinsed in lemons, and lavender,
the poet within me
releases a bougainvillea
bouquet of unfiltered gratitude,
swaying to the celestial duet
orchestrated by
the angel of raindrops,
adorned in braided
wildflower crowns and
windswept wishes,
echoing dulcet melodies
rendered in whimsical accents.
I ponder, if tears had a tune,
would it be the
sound of drizzling dewdrops?
Would you then feel
the pain I carry,
veiled in smoky silence?
Or would I forever be
the silhouette cloaked
in fogs of charcoal confusion,
too dark to be deciphered
by the fragmented eyes
that eulogize
all that sparkles and glows?
But when stained sunflowers
swirl beneath starless spheres,
scattering seeds of sorrow
to cultivate a garland of grief,
puddled with poignant poems,
I remain throned,
as the goddess of black rain,
riddled with cosmic rituals,
sprinkling kaleidoscopic dust
upon forsaken fields,
while listening to the
drifting leaflets in crisp air,
pleading for the demise
of my unfaltering faith,
oblivious to the truth
that I fear not
mists of melancholy.
I surf through surging seas,
unafraid of twirling torrents
and blazing tides,
piercingly striking
shimmering sapphires
floating in deafening despair.
There in the abyss of obscurities,
I’m nestled within restlessness,
in rooted resilience,
like a perplexed paradox
weaving crippled odes to
the sun that longs to rise and sail,
splashing hues of cinnamon clemency.
Tonight, I’m counting crooning comets,
amidst quivering hailstones,
dancing in cataclysmic rhythm above,
to find my home within
an island of daphne dreams
and singing seashells.
For I hear the flaming flowers
in their solitary stillness
serenade rain rhapsodies,
to awaken the petrichor
soul of heavy horizons,
wrapped in stringed
milky-quartz beads,
bursting forth blooming tomorrows,
illuminated by chamomile water,
concocted from charismatic spring falls…
Yet I think of us, engrossed
in umbrella moments,
Cupid too envied this
symphony of romance
where love conquered all,
and grief but a blurred memory,
in sunlit souvenirs of yesterday.
Categories:
puddled, angel,
Form:
Free verse
Even so young, life is so precious
Of human nature there is but one thing on her mind
As the two year old sits on a puddled pavement...
Her tears withheld, from a saturated and stinky diaper
She is not frightened of the dangers that loom ahead
Thunder, lightning, fast rising floods that can swallow her whole
Fallen trees, debris flying here, there, and everywhere
Her only concern...is to save the worm
(Photo 1)
Free Verse or Rhyme Poetry in it's beauty poetry contest
Sponsor Eve Roper
4-15-2019
Categories:
puddled, humanity, life,
Form:
Free verse
I sometimes feel a unique vibration within
my own ears. My baby’s crying, calling from beneath his quilted,
baby-blues. His sobs rustle the warm sheath of home.
Before my mind reacts, my body is up, hastily tip-toeing
into the nightlight’s calming glow of a cow jumping over the moon.
Outside a soggy, spring night splatters under streetlights
like urban art. A steady rhythm of flowing rain
beats down on puddled pavements. My baby’s cries
reverberate as they reach that instinctual part of me,
somewhere deep within my diaphragm and through my heart.
A mother’s astute ears know the subtle variations of her own
children’s breath in sleep…I hurry to the shadows of my baby’s crib
to find him curled up, eyes still closed; little whimpers
and groans escape from his open lips…a bad dream, I realize.
I gently rub his back, shushing away all that disturbs his peace,
and I wonder about a child’s impressionable mind…
what intrusions of an innocent day could bring a bellowed anguish
to the sweet dreams of a carefree boy not yet two?
I listen to him tumble in and out of his fear until his breath is a tranquil hum…
only then, do I hear the music of an early morning’s falling rain.
Categories:
puddled, baby, dream, mother, night,
Form:
Free verse
The Strength of Truly Gentle Men
Who wouldst decry such chivalry
deny the outspread cloak, the proffered hand,
plod through puddled mud, drag silken train,
in smug reproach of such a gentle man.
Hast all the glow been scrubbed from humankind
till every gesture – weighed - is found to lack
the power to deflect cold sightless eyes
from barren search o’erlooking all but self.
Should we, in vain reproach withdraw the cloak,
splash also in the muddled, mindless muck
that passes as the futures promised hope -
wash - Pilate-like - the stain from outstretched hands
Lest the cloak be tainted by history’s tarnished brush
and denied the strength of truly gentle men.
John G. Lawless
11/30/2014
Categories:
puddled, culture, society,
Form:
Sonnet
Sunlight surfaced at the breach of dawn
It climbed salty rungs to emerge from the sea
When fully risen, what had been spawned?
A molten fireball cast from the dragon's breath,
a firey yawn exhaled in languorous flight
searing tangerine flames across the horizon
Daylight drifted over waking valleys and hills
in dappled luminance of shimmering gold
It danced in pirouettes upon my window sill
and chased shadows from my bedroom wall
until it tumbled on the bed where my love slept
He stirred, I smiled and then wept with emotion
at the passion glimmering in drowsy jade eyes
With each rise and fall of his muscular chest
the heated flush of desire within me burned
Sinewy arms reached out for me...
"Come back to bed," whispered from his lips
and my gown lay puddled upon the floor
I'd had enough of watching sunlight's strolling
for it had stolen too many moments next to him
My toes were cold from morning's chill
but it was not from Winter weather that I quivered
It was time to savor the sweet warmth of love
from his fingertip tracings upon my skin
Categories:
puddled, sensual,
Form:
Free verse
My flesh is flush with inadequacy each day
for no purpose pulses inspiration my way
No motivation shows to validate
that my energy even palpitates -
I am a daytime deficiency breathing.
All things seem possible before I sleep
then night’s energy sun fades into lethargy:
I rise to flounder, flail and fail to move so never do I see the
me that my prayers and hopes wish new days would promote.
Has karma woven my desires revoked
or am I now a bad aging type of joke?
I cannot grope life’s enthusiasm
nor can I fathom what has happened,
but I am sad that my self-esteem’s armor
has been pierced by darkness infused drama …
home clocks loud mock me
as moments find me unchanged
just aged within ticks
tocking my stopped impetus
in passion’s puddled blandness
Categories:
puddled, anxiety, change, conflict, confusion,
Form:
Free verse
Adrift in dreams while romance reading
Asleep e're night shadows began creeping
She lay puddled in moonlight's rising tide—
Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' at her side
In reverie, Elizabeth stood on the misty moor
for what seemed to her a lifetime of waiting
Held her breath when in front of her he stood
Sighing as Darcy brushed a gentle kiss on her lips
Categories:
puddled, romance,
Form:
Free verse
To be honest, I’m not a natural wine drinker.
But for the past while, I’ve been sipping some of hers.
To make her laugh.
I noisily slurp, smacking my lips just for the sheer theatre of it.
She likes a dram of red wine with her evening meal.
A meal that seems to be getting smaller each passing week.
Twenty Bees – that’s her choice of wine.
Red. Never white.
Canadian, I’m pretty sure.
Only twenty bees were harmed in the making of this wine.
That’s not on the label.
I pour from the large bottle into a small crystal tumbler.
Two inches in the bottom - for her.
Another inch on top - for me.
I swirl it around, giving it air.
I think air adds flavor.
But, I don’t know for sure.
I bring it to the dinner table.
Hunched over, she peeks from under a fuzzy fringe of white-gray hair.
‘Your wine,’ I say, holding the tumbler in my hand. ‘Twenty Bees. Your favourite.’
She smiles.
Then, I slurp it. Loudly. Pretending to like it.
Sometimes I get carried away with the slurping. My shirt front blossoms red.
She laughs.
I remember that special laugh, but now a soft giggle’s thrown in.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she says.
It’s her favourite saying these days.
Except for ‘You’re weird,’ which she says quite often.
At least to me.
‘Not too much,’ she says.
‘No worries,’ I say.
I set the tumbler down.
Another smile.
A hand, brown freckles in abundance, eases out, slim fingers surround the glass.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘You’re weird.’
She sips - like a tiny bird from raindrops puddled within a leaf.
‘Ah,’ she says again.
Thin, pale lips smacking, just like me.
There’s an after-taste that lingers long after dinner.
It isn’t the wine.
It’s the memories of what once was.
Forever lost.
‘You’re weird,’ she whispers.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I am.’
Categories:
puddled, i love you, marriage,
Form:
Free verse
Do you recall the fields of flowers, that swayed and shifted their stance
as the wind swirled around them?
Do you recall the leaves that floated in such stillness upon the puddled rain?
Their orange and yellow glow contrasted against the gray cloud reflections..
Do you recall the racing heart as it's beats drummed rapidly
knowing that lips would soon be surrendered and savored..
Do you recall the night that called out?
Inviting lovers to explore under the sparkling brilliance
Melting as one as the new day sun, painted pink the sky, with it's arrival..
Do you recall the dreams that filled head and heart?
The dreams that fell from fingers, no longer held..
The dreams that chase slumber from the night..
These things I recall, as I sit in quiet contemplation...TAH
Categories:
puddled, desire, dream, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
Storm clouds are calling
from skies gloomy gray
Drenching the thoughts
that are falling today
Chilly endeavors
along puddled themes
Trying their hardest to
dampen our dreams
Darkness to wander
before every sight
Bringing the sadness
that flows in the night
Yet there are waiting
beyond shadowed hills
Harmonic breezes
and melodic chills
Crescent moon choirs
to sing us to sleep
Drying our tears
so we no longer weep
Then we will wake
slowly open our eyes
Wearing our smiles
beneath blue autumn skies
Categories:
puddled, encouraging,
Form:
Rhyme
stone throw away
reflection of one's
a symphony of age?
© Harry J Horsman 2019
Categories:
puddled, allusion, emotions,
Form:
Questionku
I'm a fruit of the tree of life
with knowledge of
the unknown
What I'm known to leave floats
above trees with grown broken
branches
I've grown to see that not
all soil is fertile as many
seeds are left
to languish & toil
The grounds are barren for
the unyielding & those
sowing with dirty
intent to spoil
Foiling that type of harvest
is light work
as I'm of
a heavier metal
The petals of my flowering
are yet to be seen
but are iron clad
I'm feral & the sowing of oats
breed chaos in tamed
minds of the past
We reach for what is hard to
grasp but is within our
clutches for time
is at hand
We're blocking out hate
that's been hashed as we
escape from boxes
part of a plan
The sham was meant to
throw heads while
they rested on
pillows soundly
in their beds
We make our beds & will
lay regardless
of how they've
been made
Some dream while awake
while others sleep
through
all of their
days
They spray with intent
to wilt & cover their
tracks from eyes
We evaporate leaving trails
behind like leaves
in favor of friendly
skies
It all falls to ground like
flowers at the end
of their days
Before you know it
its risen again like rain
from its puddled grave
Categories:
puddled, introspection, perspective, philosophy, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
It is wise to direct your anger towards problems - not people; to focus your energies on answers - not excuses.
(William Arthur Ward)
If kept bottled up, a poison taken like vitamins,
this elixir will eat you from the inside. Ears
pierced not with pretty jewels, but allowed to be
stabbed over and over again with curses. Blessings
should have been returned, kisses for the enemy,
not for lips but for grace. Bitterness hardens
the arteries, the heart becomes a surgeon’s slab.
Anger
entered with close encounters, with flying spit
not holy water, with not the shadow of the King
but of a spouse, leaning in not for a hug, but
for elocution and effect sans affection. Forgetfulness
of passion as if you were an annoying passerby.
Still
you hold your breath after all the tears have puddled
around the bathroom concrete, almost losing
your sanity…repeat…repeat, and grace.
Enough
love left, your mind nearly slipped into the abyss,
but you pointed a dagger finger at the enemy,
the devil, and shouted adamantly, “No! No! No!”
and God
turned it all around, your anger buried underground,
your love melted your husband’s heart. Reverberations
of a sound mind go out…go out to all. Applause
of angel armies, the good guys, the surprise
of grace.
Kiss…kiss…erase the bad times. Good times roll.
Categories:
puddled, anger,
Form:
Free verse
In reservoirs, far underground,
where stalagmites are sometimes found.
In lakes and ponds and puddled pools,
in mist and marsh and snow that cools,
I hide beside my sisters.
In issuing springs that sparkle bright,
on stony slopes of shade and light,
to flowing streams that twist and turn,
past meadow banks of grass and fern,
I glide beside my sisters.
In river reach with rippling flow
‘tween rush and reed I always go,
to delta mouths both deep and wide,
which seas contest at every tide,
to glide beside my sisters.
In raging rapids torrents race,
or waterfall’s tumultuous pace,
in storm lashed seas, which crash and break,
on shingle shores that white waves rake,
I ride beside my sisters.
And who am I that rides so free,
who glides and hides so easily;
a mermaid in the salty sea,
a naiad or a white kelpie?
A water nymph you just might see,
me ride, beside my sisters.
Categories:
puddled, fairy, nature, water,
Form:
Quatrain