Best Quavering Poems
Note to contest sponsor: poet's name is mentioned at beginning
of the audio. Do not listen to audio portion if you wish not to
Know the author of this poem.
In forest's night, the trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow;
silent shadows waver there,
chilled by gusts of autumn air.
Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
Among those stumps the shadows creep
and shroud a form that seems asleep
Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals -
a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
with scarf of death left on his throat.
The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
They cannot speak, but if they could,
they’d tell all travelers of the wood:
"We’re not the foe. It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
Although we loom and cause you fear,
something worse is lurking here."
Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
And silent shadows start to shrink
into a night of blackened ink.
“No thank you”
I spoke in answering whether I wanted my till receipt ,
No ! wait ‘
but there is a ( thank you for your service) but no I don’t need the receipt.
I slow my breath briefly ‘look down then lift my head after the pause in thought .
“I’ll say this in its-stead ‘ pointing my finger to an imaginary white board ‘that only my minds eye can actually see ,
“Thank you but no”,
wait that’s not right either as the ‘but’ implies a condition to me giving you some gratitude,
( a slight hesitation)
So ask me again’
‘this time I think I have it .
A Long silence and a nervous look back from the adolescent servicer:
With quavering words and the slightest upward inflection ‘the question is asked for the last time ‘
Probably a good idea as the queue is getting restless and hostile.
Holding my hand up and tilting my head at a jolly angle i reply
“Thank you ‘no”
the fragility of a flower
quavering in autumn's draft
infallibly will succumb
to the rime of night
the capability to shield it
prevails in your hands
if only to prolong its life
from the foreordained path
imagine your own life
retained in your hands
your trembling fingers
grasping the tips of needles
wary of each droplet
perceptive to the fortuity
that each could mean
extended life or inevitable death
Soft somnolent skies have ceased seething, for day’s nearly through,
while winds echo whispering thoughts of returning to you
and heavens throb, pulsing and bleeding in crimsons, once blue -
their passions, like flames, fill my veins as you pass into view.
The breeze holds her breath as you touch, then embrace me anew
and smouldering clouds withdraw, blushing, then paling their hue.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The pendulous moon appears, sweeping the fog from up high
distilling the drops into notes of a hushed lullaby,
their quavering tunes spinning tales which amaze, mystify,
while tremulous stars fling a fire that fevers the skies,
for stories they tell reflect love as revealed by your sighs -
their fury is burning, alive in the depths of your eyes.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The shifting shore’s moaning, seduced by tempestuous tides
which flow with the rhythm of flesh as our senses collide,
and quiet explodes as the stillness of night’s amplified.
A lingering kiss bids adieu till the morning breaks wide
when cockerels come conjuring dawn with voluptuous pride
enticing the sun into banishing night, starry-eyed.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The stone's angle
offers no cover
as she lay
openly exposed.
Her pedipalp mane, disheveled
by the soft reverberation
of an accidental intruder.
Whose mouth will froth?
Whose stunned lungs will blanch?
Whose limbs will twitch
then stiffen?
Aculeus poised; quavering telson.
What is her decision?
Will you writhe in the throes
of her opaque venom?
Or will she?
Author's commentary:
Scorpions are intriguing creatures.
Urban legend has it that when they are threatened they will do one of two things:
sting their perceived aggressor, or sting themselves to death.
Thankfully, this is only a myth and my reverent faith in the scorpion remains intact.
But still, the idea led me to wonder why, when facing extreme hardship,
some people exhibit self-preserving behavior while others opt
to self-destruct.
It's fascinating to me that the latter could be considered a viable option.
Heck, even scorpions know better than that....
Would you like to go to the coffee shop?
Where the smell of damp fills the nose,
As rain outside starts to shatter like dancing glass,
Leaving darkened stains on dampened clothes.
Would you like to go to the coffee shop?
With frosty hands that puncture from warmth,
Sniffling noses relaxed from fog,
Quavering shivers that slice through coats.
Would you like to go to the coffee shop?
Since roasted aromas fill the box,
Slurping echoes through the empty air,
Creaking vibrating from half broken chairs.
Do you remember that coffee shop?
The one where we first touched our cracked up lips,
You slipped right through my fingertips,
Dropped the cup as you whispered goodbye…
… like our favourite coffee, how bittersweet.
Baneful, manufactured decay
eerie, drab, atmosphere swaddles
stone walls wail, briny dismal tears
stagnant puddles, linger upon
ruinous, dreary, derelict paths
rancid foul stench, squalid minds
unlit musk, dank, tunnel conceals
societies obsolete, unruly
observing eyes, close in secret
quivering hands, steady weary stance,
shrieks echo through, high pitched whistles
malicious pit whines, engulfed in greed
screams absorbed, through murderous throat
stealing adrift shadows, to feast
fleeing terror, quavering legs sprint
stumbling towards, sunlight caress
as church bells chime, Sunday's hymns
This is a anecdote about not taking things for granted....
Seeing how we often jump to conclusions based on wrong assumptions...
A top notched news photographer was in a mighty hurry...
He saw a plane on the taxiway, pilot in place and take off all ready...
He jumped quickly into the plane and commanded the pilot to take off and start flying....
Shortly after, he asked the pilot to make a turn to over where a forest fire was raging..
There was a moment's hesistation before the pilot queried why...
Pompously, the newsman replied he was a news reporter, that was why...
There was a another moment of silence, longer than the earlier momentary hesitation...
Then a quavering voice from the pilot, "You are not my new flight instructor?"... ..
Don't simply assume or jump to conclusions...
It can bring forth dire consequences...
Have a nice day, people!
Footnote..... sharing a message from Facebook 20Sept2016
Would my life be happy
if I had never known
the quavering ripples I caused
by tossing that first stone
Tranquil waters of a lake,
would never slake my thirst
March 31, 2023
Bite Size Contest no.61 Poetry
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Absent is the frigid cold
Breath expelled now goes unseen
Come are days of warmth and light
Dawning of the longer days
Ere the twinkling stars of night
Forest green returns my sight
Gone are drifts of wind blown snow
Hardening has the Winter been
Inspiring is the Sun again
Juniper again in bloom
Katydids begin their swoon
Lambent is the setting Moon
Meandering is the ice less stream
Nature once again will sing
Opulent is the scent of Spring
Palpable is everything
Quavering voices can be heard
Revelations of the Birds
Sanctified by warmer rain
Telltale signs of Summer
Unborn flowers yet in bud
Versed is Mother Nature
Wakeful is Her duty keep
Xenophobic wildlife roam
Yonder, never far from home
Zealous is the Rite of Spring
02/16/15
leaden bows scour quavering cellos – lithely lilting violins
28 Dec 2017
Angel In A Jar
I caught an Angel from the morning sun, in a jar her wings undone
A blissful beauty a spinning spun, I will keep her with rejoice and run
I look in the jovial jar; I see an ethereal enchantment a heavenly star
I’m mesmerized by far, she smiles at me a benignant butterfly bizarre
Eyes immersed in blue light, cyan skies warmed with congenial white
I hold heaven within my sight, for I caught an Angel in her festive flight
The jar begins to shake; I feel beautiful vibes that she begins to make
A jubilee of Angels in her wake, of miraculous music a quavering quake
I decide to let her go, I see visions of love as her wings attach and glow
And now I weep and sough, for I held an Angel in her wounded woe
Let free your Angel to the sky, even if it means a cathedral crimson cry
Do we ask the question why, Angels come and go in the blink of an eye?
March.23.2018
Picture This
Sponsored by: Joseph May
northern lights glisten
quavering on ailing ice…
warming seas approach
© Harry J Horsman 2022
POEM FOR EUNA DAVIS
A very throaty Warbler issued
Quavering Trills in a morning song -
As he serenaded the dew
drops on the grateful trees
Other birds were answering with
songs of praise from familiar days.
No one taught them
how to sing or gave them
the messages they so proudly bring.
Birds form near and far
joined in as if to say -
We will add our voices to remind you,
that we are cheerful and we sing for you.
We are aware-we are awake-
and we are awesome
chirping and singing our songs as
we bath in puddles of raindrops.
We remember the timing of the of the
golden and silver songsters.
Ruffling feathers coquettishly
as each song in the distance stirs
up fond memories of your existence.
The caw-caw, the peeps, and the chirps;
The caw -caw again and
the melodic harmony begins
Orchestrating the morning worship
in celebration of this life.
One songster descanted a high range
as he sang a louder pitch
Distinctly he told tales of ancestors
with welcoming smiles
.
The siren in the distance and the
overhead plane Threatened the calm
The plane resounded as thunder
above all the noise
the birds continued to sing.
I Listened as they go on to conclude
in exuberant delight Warblers warbling
Tweet- tweets deliberating discussions
many more chirp’s peeps and tweets
During the morning meditation.
As the world passes by
I'd listen to the bird’s serenade-
I'd listen to the clucks-
and the cackles, I'd listened
to the throaty warbler-
as he resumes the lead song.
The other birds in turn join in again.
The world rejoices in their songs
all over the universe-
the rest of my day
could never be as great as
the moments in the morning when
I'd meditate and listen to the birds sing.
A loved one closed her eyes
and made her transition;
The chirking birds know-
That the only triumph over
death is to have lived a good life.
So, they continue to sing.
I'd sit and solemnly listen to the message
that their chipping brings
I softly say goodbye.
We shall never forget Euna Davis
as long... As early in the morning
We be reminded in jubilant birdsong.
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013
I
I write-
words quavering with emotion-
my words speak thickly
fragments of my life
minced words that ramble
and I lispandslur
I croak and hesitate
and mitigate
words
oh this world is so shattering-beautiful
my pen
fragments of minced
words that ramble
and jumbledthoughts come tumbling
I have a message-to embody in words
it's
a phrase
a thought
and
an
utterance whispering
a mamby-pamby poem
minced
words
that ramble breathe rupture
II
tumbling words
from a word picking girl
of promise
mincedwords
goody-good-good
words that splinter the soul
with pain and sorrow
minced words
in verse and rhyme
_______________________________
June 17, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/"minced' words that ramble
Copyright Protected, ID 16-802-129-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Minced Words
sponsor, John Lawless
Third Place