Best Punctuating Poems
Similar sounds and letter alliteration are literally leaping and precipitously punctuating the
perforated pages of my mired, muddled mind..
Making mental maps for future fun in meditation mired muse, meticulously masks the
real reasons I rise from my favorite fluffy floral flecked futon.
It seems somehow strange but my favorite finely fitted floral flecked futon is infested full
of flippin’ fleas. I feel flabbergasted!
It could be the culprits causing this consternation are cats coming into the corridor
constantly carrying the creepy critters in. Crap!
We’ll have to hurriedly heave the whole heaping kit and caboodle of carnivorous cats into
a crate and fumigate the frolicking fun loving finicky felines. Fine!
Fortunately, I’m finished..…….finally.
I see neon orange
as it pops, rattles and jars
inside my mind, all the time.
It titillates, sizzles and struts
a solid, knock out punch.
Orange obsession, like a
manic brain on overdrive
squeezes it's juicy core
into every fiber of my
being, it reigns supreme.
I close my eyes and envision
an orange chorus of poppies
punctuating a country hillside.
They sing an enchanting song
while I dream of bright
orange tomorrows.
Written on 3/4/2016
the s p a c e between us,
is lined with full stops
and wistful questions~
tucked within "inverted commas"
of w e e p i n g stars,
but I'm lost in
suffocating s i l e n c e...
t h i n k i n g
l o n g i n g
d r e a m i n g...
as Y o u, my beloved
are enough...the poetic pause
breathing between
stellar heartbeats
of the mourning sky~
punctuating promises
mirroring the magnetic
equations of l o v e ~
a cosmic pyramid
glazed with pearl-dust
as herbs of henna
soothe this soul
swollen with g r a t i t u d e
sipping midnight mocktails
like a dressed devotee
worshipping the aura of roses
within serene scriptures ...
***AND NOW GOD BRINGS TO YOU… ***
Ladies and Gentlemen!
Through the auspices of
Our Glorious God’s
Creation Company…
Traveling the infinite of Love…
Across the heavens, then
Through our atmosphere, and,
With His eternal nearness to
The Earth’s moving horizons ~
In His wanting to reach
Every bedroom
Door and window with His Light…
All rise, please, as
The New Day
Now Presents to you:
The Sun!
See how
She first appears with a single, flaming peek
Out from beneath
The opaque black curtain of night,
Which stirs us to wake from
The forgettable dreams of dead sleep.
The fanfare of trees,*
which grows and breathes,
just beyond my window,
Now tunes up to accompany
Sun’s early swim up the sky,
Their punctuating notes, their leaves
swishing and flittering
In time with whistling breezes to
Signal
Sun has begun
Her welcomed performance —
Quite delighting our eyes
With her dazzling, ornate, orange dress.
There are exclaiming cheers heard
from Mother Nature’s
“Sold-out” audience — that color-lush
Everywhere around,
Holding hope for this re-rebirth of
A new day, preceding all
The days of discovery still to come.
————————————————
** Note: “fanfare” of trees —
SO, For the trees outside my window, it is not a “group, border, array, cluster, grove, mass, or forest.” Since I needed to describe and define with a NEW adjective, Writer’s License was used - after research — i coin the trees with whom I interac as a “fanfare” of trees, meaning essentially, an ‘addition’ or enhancement to a specified principal thing, which adds value.
Written with concern for world’s areas
surfering severe drought. Prayers going
Up for your relief & all peoples to work on the global environmental crisis.
(c) sally young eslinger 1012/22
Love comes in all
shapes and sizes – Thank God!
Myself having evolved in some
rather, undesirable directions...
But what is the same anymore?
Environmentalists say, not the sky!
Not the seas! (Seagulls flying off
with bees to who knows where?)
As those wide-open spaces – gone!
Concrete and steel having replaced
colorfully tinted rural faces, with grimacing
gray features – tenements rabid with crime
and moral filth...desperately in need
of far more heavenly graces – or, at the least,
the lofty illusions pearl-necklaced TV Moms
once gave us.
Libraries, the sacred cloisters of
of enchanted places and mystical dreams,
no longer bearing, at the least
informative fruits for deliberative
minds; such institutions polluted
with Liberal Politics, personal greed
coupled with insane hunger for
for power over more docile others,
a hollowing of the human soul
leaving a bitter emptiness
and disconnect where once
thrived the fertile seeds of cooperative
living...
So, what is the new normal?
Hell if I know! Politicians
speaking out of both sides of
elongated, medically enhanced
lying mouths – technically new?
Educators enunciating with their
backsides – but now their pant’s fully down,
Punctuating a Marxist agenda, their
transforming goals openly on display --
perhaps for them, a new honesty?
College students confused as to which
way to turn in bed – enough to confound
the most flexible contortionist….
Thank God for alcohol!
Mediums of Winter parse
translucent runes on the tines
of sloping firs basking like mallards
in March's brusk sunshine.
Arctic oracles echo on the lake's hard sapphire
with pearl crests punctuating
Spring's arrival while cat tails exclaim
nascent umber banks. As teals float
in a tarot of amulets tanagers preen,
imbuing remnant frost with scarlet omens.
The stir of a love song
whispers across midnight,
blending times present-
times past,
punctuating the softness
of a silence belonging to memories
locked away,
hidden within heartbeats . . .
whispering a sudden longing
for a time before the time
when innocence pirouettes
on the moment of passion,
and all songs stop.
The moon took possession
of the sky
a blank slate of atmospheric haze
punctuating
the seasonal sentence
of solar cycling.
Except for the snow, it’s a monochromatic scene
The pond is frozen to a reflecting mirror finish,
In the fields there is not a speck of green to behold
Overall, the countryside is bleak in winter’s cold,
With clumps of sage punctuating the near pasture
The trees have given up their leaves in past autumn,
While a trickle of smoke is creeping up to a hazy sky
Onto the briery bushes an inch of snow has settled.
I can imagine the family gathered around a fireplace
The only vestige of warmth in the entire painting.
Livestock are locked securely inside a barn on the hill
All is serene in this landscape, though it elicits a chill.
written January 17, 2022
I doubt that one can put
a price on love...though
many have tried – even
lied;
I doubt that one can be
happy without a fair slice
of love, the spice of love,
received a letter of love
and wished, at the least,
to have replied –
unless missing the punctuating
part of love, lacking the spirit's
feeling heart of love – staying
safely beneath or above, avoiding
the core nature of love, fleeing
the prime director of love...the soul's
reason for being....
My haiku pond sits
in the corner of my garden~
small as a teacup,
deep as a breath.
Frogs sit like syllables
on lily pad commas,
punctuating the stillness
with soft green thoughts.
Dragonflies skim the surface,
writing bright, brief lines
in their iridescent ink~
three beats, then gone.
Even the reeds whisper
in measured cadence,
counting their own shadows
as the wind turns the page.
What’s in it?
Only what belongs in brevity~
a ripple, a pause,
a moment that refuses to hurry.
Why?
Because every pond
needs a place
where the world grows quiet enough
to speak in seventeen heartbeats.
The restless night had ended
abruptly. Caught between dreams and
consciousness, the town was arching towards
the sprinkled light of dawn. A perpetual regularity
reigned over the dusty path that led wayfarers and commuters
alike in and out of this forgotten cluster of humanity. Somewhere
out there, a man cursed, and, as if to answer, a woman laughed. A
repetitive metallic clang—the whines of an iron plate being hammered upon an anvil—
twisted with a dog's tedious, short barking to form a discordant ladder of dread, telling how the day might turn out. Punctuating that were the weary shouts of
the night guard. An advice. A message. “Awake! Morning is here.” “Awake!
Morning is here.” A woman walked beside countless others in a long, silent
procession. Steps measured and heavy, hardly disturbing the dirt, eyes ever
forward, locked at the sunrise. Life hadn't been kind to her. At forty-five she
looked sixty. It was just her luck that age had been frivolous enough to come
early, and sketch a crude lesson at cubism across the pages of her skin. The
grey streams on her hair had become a roaring river of high
monsoon. The frozen, dark pools of her eyes had given way
to the smokestack dullness. On that day, like the day prior,
she had woken up with honks of a garbage truck out on the
street and drunk the cheap, inky tea that she
had made for herself and her son.
Bathing under a valveless tap, she
had put on her helmet, and set out.
The siren from the jute mill had blared
with an obscene loudness and promise.
She had to answer. She squared her shoulders
and trudged on, reeling back into the open maw of her
her slow, almost languid death, like a cassette on rewind.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 31 / 12 / 2016
Let me drape upon you a written robe,
beautifully indexed on your tablet.
My! you look divine,
off we go to dine on literary flavours and liquid verse.
A five chapter meal we just published.
This evening with you was a stunning essay read like a swift summary.
Narrating your life’s novel,
I record and archive,
citing the volume of your smile,
punctuating the exclamation of your eyes.
May I undress you with my pen,
printing kisses on your pamphlet lips.
Nonfiction foreplay is the order of the day
with teasing stanzas and touching tomes.
Your skin the clear scroll,
we edit with rhetoric as I explore the fiction of your passage.
The lexicon of your moans, would a fine manuscript make.
This plot you will review then quote.
You descend from that last paragraph,
this memory shelved high in your canon.
My pen has woven for you a silk word blanket;
as you lay on my journal pillow;
wrapping you in the epigraph of my affection.
The House is full of stuff my husband saves;
A pair of bentwood rockers, goose-neck armed.
His grandparents sat in these, discordant creaks
Punctuating arguments. No one sits there now.
There where they are we do not need the chairs
Nor the table with the wobbly center post.
The sewing machine, treddle run, would work
But belts and bobbins no longer can be found.
The old piano, a gift from grandma for a child
Who thought he’d learn to play. He never did,
The keys are out of tune, but the wood--
The curly maple keeps its seasoned glow.
A hundred other things that take up space
Flowered lamps, a bowl back mandalin.
Newer things would go there just as well,
We only keep them for the tales they tell.
Angry fists pommel a defenseless face;
racial slurs punctuating each black eye.
And as punches start to increase in pace,
a black man collapses; and boots let fly.
I've seen hate.
The needle twitches as you inject death;
while chasing a high, you slip into shock.
And overdosing, you gasp for each breath,
drowning in your vomit while strangers gawk.
I've seen fear.
Staring at the past as it disappears;
having lost yourself, you live on the street.
And a vacant look lingers past the tears,
as you sacrifice pride, and face defeat.
I've seen sad.
While an injured soldier cries out in pain,
a medic responds; undeterred by fear.
And his uniform is a blood-soaked stain;
as he tends to the wound, then drags him clear.
I've seen brave.
Icy currents grip the boy like a vise;
immediately, his mother jumps in.
And when frantic rubs no longer suffice,
she warms him up next to her naked skin.
I've seen love.
An infant is born an innocent dove;
with skin so soft it almost seems to melt.
And triggering unconditional love,
this babe embodies feelings deeply felt.
I've seen hope.