Best Queenly Poems
Invisible flames
emanate from your flowing mane
Flecks of fiery freckled specks
radiate from your glowing face
Your ruby heart wears a crimson crown
that completely, queenly captivates me
I’m forever your faithful knight,
whose armor reflects the auburn light
burning bright from your halo hair
Infra Redhead ...
unseen waves of attraction
caused me to be led
to your scarlet soul fortress
And the invisible flames
emanating from your flowing mane
totally transfixed my terreted mind
Infra Redhead ...
I feel oscillating passion heat increasing
whenever I utter your name
Unseen waves of desire
attracts me to you like a moth to the flame
You’re an untamed filly Mustang
with a fiery red flowing mane
Unfettered ruddy heart
roaming the wild, rocky terrain —
you chose to let me calm your restless spirit
on a peaceful, elevated Peruvian plain
Infra Redhead ...
raised my hopeless heart from the dead
with a dawning love daily resurrected
I love a lovely maid—a Flower
of the sun-baked land of Brazil;
ageless, she by clock's every hour
makes the time be perfectly still.
Though fair and gorgeously pretty,
she longs to be known and adored
for her heart and inward beauty,
where love is felt and richly stored.
She's queenly and wears a lush crown,
a regent who sits on her throne;
a Rose, she's praised and of renown,
and prized for her rare grace alone.
Too selfless and giving and kind
to disappoint, she lives to care
and gives alms to the lame and blind,
and for me always says a prayer.
A sanctuary waits for me
Beside a woodland stream;
Creatures chatter, beast and bird,
Dithering among the trees,
Engaged in nature’s repartee.
Fungi, moss, and flower
Gather in this shady, holy space,
Habitat of happy innocence,
Idyllic, secret forest glade.
Just let me linger in the quiet,
Kneel beneath the trees,
Listen to the lessons
Majestic nature speaks to me.
Noble trunks stretch upward,
Outward toward the sky,
Praising arms, uplifted, robed in
Queenly dress of leafy light.
Restorative peacefulness
Sweeps in sweet release,
Time’s tenacious grip relaxing,
Undisturbed, worldly discords cease.
Visitant I am within this wood,
Wistful, earthbound worshipper,
Xenophile, lover of heaven,
Yearning to go home.
Zion calls from where I bow.
May 22, 2022
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
Her cup filled with the Living Water
She shares with all,
She's the King's daughter
Dancing from poem to poem,
Like a butterfly serenely
The poetess Regina
Humble, yet so queenly
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
A lilt of joy within her praises
She shares with all,
His banner raises
Pouring gently from her flow
Of beauty that we always know
Flows genuinely from her soul
Serving Him, her upward goal
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
Lifting hearts, we sense a smile
That shines out as we read awhile
River flowing poem by poem,
His kingdom vast, her heart His home
Sharing joy, faith, hope and peace
Her lovely writings do not cease
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
To read her poems, is; o' my gosh
We love Regina McIntosh!
Posted June 15th 2021
Though she isn’t just a butterfly
She’s been a monarch of the sky
Wings, so gentle, often impress
Like love from above, she does bless
Like the ruler she’s always stood
Lovely and kind, reigning with good
She knows affection won’t repress
Like love from above, she does bless
Matriarch of hope, joy and peace
Just like the queen of scenic Greece
Her duties, much, I must confess
Like love from above, she does bless
Sovereign and sure, she is a light
Shining like the sun, kind and bright
Friendship is found in her caress
Like love from above, she does bless
Empress of her time, filled with grace
Sincere, her promise an embrace
She is known for her faithfulness
Like love from above, she does bless
With her queenly ego, she said, "My name is now Princess".
And so they complied ~ a loyal crew, whom by her words were led.
Then one day, she chose to change, and took the name of "Mrs."
She had a crown she did not know, the brain within her head.
Everyone called Joanna Wilde, Joanie, like an abbreviated crescent moon,
Of which she was much enamored, with its silky, maroon darkness tunes.
Pert Joanie was a young night owl, loving lone whip-poor-wills, singing,
And bewitching midnight stars of glitter, and a calm silence, for thinking.
Joanie was a successful librarian, and always dreamed of advancement;
And having the morning shift, she worked hard for career enhancement.
On weekends, Joanie and fatigued friends, had fun days in fresh flowers,
Below feathery clouds floating far, in warm honeyed sun, of tonic powers.
Sunshine fever fetched family and kisses, when flowers feigned fainting,
'Ere purple finches stood still at noon, in jade scenes, like fine paintings.
Joanie lived in the house of starry eclipse, of dusk and moon hiding sun;
The red, gold and purple not much missed, afore a rare night was done.
Sweet sounds and scents traveled far, along her street of silver willows.
And minty butterflies kept so busy, as sunbeams slept, on cloud pillows.
Neighbors brought their needlepoint, with news, on nice, nostalgic eves;
For nothing's as neat as nonstop conversation, like a chattering of leaves!
'Cuckoo' flowers denoted colorful hours, as 'busy Lizzy' steadily bloomed;
While mimosa blossoms wore lush silk in sun, in the teal world, perfumed.
Purple bleeding hearts mourned sunset, in the summer of vibrant sparkles.
Red carnations shone as if for queenly coronation, awash in gold marvels.
Joanie was finally up for promotion. That set her ruby heart to dreaming;
But, working nights, she suffered burnout, like grape sun, when scheming.
Her habits had to change-and soon! Like 12 hours spent amidst a lily moon.
She'd hence be a night owl only rarely; like a sable nightingale's new tune!
'Birds sing in the morn
To tell us to rise,
And he who sleeps late
Will never be wise.
For early to bed
And early to rise
Is the way to be healthy
And wealthy and wise.'
It all worked out for the best, to the pride and pleasure of Joanie's family;
Who loved her enough to be a part of, every heartache and fuchsia victory!
Have you met my lady cat
A most prestigious aristocrat
She's of extremely dignified ascent
Genuine regal blue blood descent
Everyday might as well be a holiday
My lady’s a class act in every way
Elegant and graceful as they come
Madame de Pompadour quite venturesome
Prances proud in her queenly manner
That's how she graces my humble manor
AP: 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Pi (e) Day Sestina
being the recollection of a conversation between myself as I was trying to enjoy a piece of
pie and my suddenly irrational, demanding, and surprisingly bilingual stomach on 3/14
I really want a frosted sugar cookie right now.
Now, don’t think I’m loca
but if you don’t get me one I’m going to get Chuck
Norris to roundhouse kick you in the face. His lust
y pectorals: tan, hairy and torsional, will be but a blur in your memory. Never underestimate
the power of the one who can even make pi
a rational number. Oh irrational love of sugar cookies! I can almost taste the sweet buttery
goodness of the frost
ing melting in my mouth like the frost
y ice crystals busy changing states of matter now
on top of the piece of pie
hastily served to you before properly thawed at the loca
l diner, piled high with enough fake whipped cream to satiate even the lust
iest of appetites. “Who would chuck, even if they could chuck, would chuck
away such a flawless embodiment of pre-prepared, packaged, processed, passed off as
home-cooked goodness in favor of a stale cookie, and on Pi(e) Day nonetheless?” you chuck
le. That snide remark is deserving of the bestowal of my best Queen Frost
ine stare, you know, cold and queenly and vaguely reminiscent of the Candyland character
with the same name, whose (il)lust
riousness is matched solely (not only in beauty but also in sugar content) by that of a frosted
sugar cookie. I hope you (k)now
how to take a hint. No? Well, then get that pie-filled fork out of my face while I spell it out
for you. Loca
te a frosted sugar cookie for me pronto! This piece of pie
disgusts me! I don’t care that it’s pi
day! You’ve got 3.14 seconds to get me a frosted sugar cookie before I up-chuck
all over everything in this immediate loca
le! Don’t make me get all Frost
y the snowman on you now
and have a meltdown! Wow, I need to stop and take a deep breath. I’m making myself
extremely (f)lust
Despicable
Marie Antoine
dressed in puce
paraded
her gown,
with a queenly
high head,
the pretty
little tome
soon to be
cropped.
When the chopper
had his way,
her head
came off
and her face
turned puce.
Was it purple
or puke green?
Maybe that’s the
reason puce is so
confusing.
In Marie’s case
she was not
confused,
just dead.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
for a contest about our favorite color. I must admit it is not my favorite
Arriving through a carriage in red mold
Lady of Fall spills colors which behold...
Adorning the view in an ornate drape
Her opals strewn along the flamed landscape;
Rolling through Autumn’s fire and kindled mirth
To endow a season with lush rebirth!
How her blossoms rise in mauve and yellow
Declaring passion as stars waltz for a flow...
And hues turn crystal, gentle not rough
Lusty in night's fold... soft like a cloud's puff,
While flushed is that smile like her gown embossed
Till varnished leaves glimmer on boughs tossed.
~
Lingering on, then waving a bright hand
She drifts off... awed by her queenly command.
'''''''''''''''''''''''
Colorful Fall Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Entered 9/20/2018
When she stepped out of the shower
In pale wet skin
And splendor
She wore water like a queenly robe
Dripping breasts
Made of gold and treasure
Such beauty deserved
To be inscribed
Something no man should forget
In case I couldn’t memorize the bite of her
Kiss
The trembling release of her depth
In case I might forget the flavor of her
Cries
The excited rasp of her breath
I needed a photo of that naked pout
A vision
Never to forget
“Don’t take my picture,”
She warned me
In ferocious warrior tongue
Daughter of Nordic barbarians
Beauty unlike anyone
What did she think I would do
With the image she might surrender?
Sell it to the highest bidder
For thirty pieces of silver?
Send it to perverts and sex addicts
Specialists in self-pleasure?
Post it on church walls
So celibates might be tempted?
Raise it upon a flag
For an entire nation to be offended?
“Don’t take my picture,”
She warned me
In ferocious warrior tongue
Daughter of Nordic barbarians
Beauty unlike anyone
But I defied her fierce instruction
Spit from heroic luscious lips
Picture snapped
In a flash
Naked beauty captured
At last
And
Never saw that warrior again.
How faithfully I gave you priority
I even built you a Queenly home
As the centerpiece of my Life.
How reverent I was to your desires
I even built you a sacred temple
Where like a star your interests shone,
As I looked at you;
Bowed - with glittering eyes.
How every thought I would dedicate to you
Reserving you a special table -
In the Galla where Life's events are held
I even made a status-bearing label
And hung it on your thronely chair.
It simply read 'Honorary Human',
But around it I inhaled its majestic air
Oh How I did my best to serve you;
Oh how I always served you first.
How eagerly I took your orders
How promptly I'd respond.
But oh how I failed you self
How I served you
But did not serve you well.
Self serving was my great expense;
My intention was to give to you.
Yet nothing was all I bought
For selfishness is worth naught.
Already the leaves are staining red,
Blood, too thin, seeps through taut skin,
Capillaries weak walled and weeping;
Dying Summer bows proud head,
Emptied of green glory;
Filled, fiery cauldrons blaze red-orange,
Golden flamed tongues glowing.
How harsh that she must fly
Into the great beyond,
Jettisoned like a human soul
Killed before its time.
Letting go, whether fast or slow,
Makes no variance in the pain;
Numbingly, it strikes the heart
Over and over again.
Passionate, she would linger,
Queenly in her floral gown,
Regaled for stunning splendor;
Sympathy never his approach,
Time beats a strong percussive stroke
Unstoppable, dispensed in quick cadence.
Valiantly she struggles, clinging,
While wild winds hew each leaf down;
Xylogenous lichen sparsely veils
Yearning limbs laid vulnerable and bare:
Zephyrus and Chloris frolic there no more.
Note: Zephyrus, the gentle god and personification
of the west wind, the bringer of light spring and
summer breezes in Greek mythology; he abducted
and fathered children with the goddess Chloris and
gave her the domain of flowers.
Xylogenous - living on or in wood
Copyright, August 15, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Ocean rising--such silent splendor--
she stains a golden passage on the waves;
blushing not, though borrowed brilliance
is the only light she ever gave.
Lesser celestial lamps, bright retinue,
honor her regal queenly estate;
yielding obeisance to her power,
seasons and tides bow at her gates.
Royally she rides the Milky Way,
stardust blithely trailing in her train;
lonely earth lovers, looking upward,
stabbed in their souls with longing pain.
Copyright, August 12, 2014