Best Raiment Poems
I see you ‘cross the vast expanse,
a love disguised in dreamy whirl
and clothed in raiment sun-spun gold
as wispy cirrus wraps your dance
the music of your sigh aswirl -
a breeze I feel but cannot hold,
but dance I will with memories
though for your arms I’ll ever pine,
I look to skies for bluest eyes
at times behind the tapestries
of cumulus both yours and mine –
the realm in which my angel flies.
Our love so like the lilac leaf
two halves that shared a center vein,
once green we were but now I fade
I’m torn in half without relief
the pain not washed away by rain —
this heart-shaped leaf afraid and frayed.
O touch me warm your slanting rays
how cold my soul you left behind,
to gaze through tears at beauty high
to wander through the haze of days
and know the planets misaligned —
when eyes of turquoise dyed the sky.
Alas, myself but cosmic dust
yet still, the stardust gilts the rust.
If e're we could move that mountain from between thee and me,
where would be lament or reason to grieve?
How remove the hollow from the tree, or shore from the sea?
What left would there be?
What if ere the beam lost it's moon.
Or lovely Autumn raiment lost it's tree? What then would it be?
Can one sow the seed without the land?
Would this be what Powers planned?
The grief, the longing, oh, the heartfelt gaze,
The strife the loneliness, but a soulful phase.
A mountain surmountable, a hollow fulfilled,
A sea able to be, a beam again spilled.
A stage again for raiment,... a fertile valley for seed.
Our love could not be boundless without the bonds of these.
Would you still love me ... perchance I was half a man?
My carnal, physical core torn from me like ragged raiment,
Off to war in courage and heroic sacrifice ...
Returned by God and country, as barely half of what I'd been -
The half that could never again join with you in passion ...
Would you still love me?
Imagine I was a monster ...
Deformed by happenstance or accident,
Still a man in the technical sense,
But with face and sinews that repulsed even himself,
Though the heart and spirit you adore still thrummed inside ...
Would you still love me?
What if the day came - a reality as viable as any,
When I lost everything of earthly value and worth -
All possessions, comforts, conveniences, and financial securities - gone,
The talents and abilities and experience to support even myself,
Blown to the four winds by careless fate or folly ...
Would you still love me?
Consider if I were human, inside-out ...
The abyssal and dark, troubled corners of my being
Worn on hapless bones like sodden skin,
The fearful ids and psyches, thus laid bare by illness or substance -
Free to dance like a demon for the porcelain moon ...
Would you still love me?
And pray, what if I were YOU ...
And you were the reflection of all that your dreams dare weave,
The horror and ecstasy that awakens you in the night -
Shivers and turns to ice on your faultless, barren skin,
Choking the screams from your chest ...
Would you ... could you still love me??
~ 10th Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 25" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Would You Still Love Me?" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
Sky covers her nakedness
with the raiment of clouds
Stars array in circular patterns
to stage a group ballet
Amid, sits queen moon
in silken robes and a silver diadem
bathed in garish light
with a flash of amber and a blaze of gold
like a halogen lamp
Soon clouds will make way for
the royal maidens’ ramp walk
across the long isle of the firmament
Keep your eyes raised
for the spectacular show
Shove your way to the dais
to get a better peek!
October- 16.2022
~ Placed Fifth~
For Brian Strand's Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Tribute To The Memory Of John Keats
Child of the storm-swift Hermes, lithe and strong
To Trojan tumult, had the gods thus willed,
They gave thee one short year of riper song
And more melodious than ever filled
The heart of youth; they gave thee power to build
A noble altar for thy offering
Amid the heedlessness that had long chilled
True poesy, true souls that fain would sing.
And thou, from depths of silent agony,
Hast left unto the world such rich bequest
Of love's own loveliness that thy last rest
Becometh as the soul's own sanctuary
To all that long have learnt of thee to wear
Sun-raiment in the shadowy House of Care.
R.J. Lindley
Sept. 9th 1975
Word Quintet in C Major
By Stark Hunter
Open the door my friend,
Climb on in,
Join me here in this relentless caravan,
This unstoppable, this incontrovertible,
this inexorable movement,
To the depths of the dry gulf.
Join me here my friend,
In this annihilating armada,
This incontrovertible migration,
This inexorable swarm
To the watery crossroads of the dry places,
To the liquid asphalt of insipid time!
I stare at you from across the room here.
I stare and gawk and hawk at you,
And I feel the pelting rain of desire.
You look good over there, sitting
With beautiful gleaming crossed legs.
“Sorry, beg your pardon,
I say, but have we not met before?
Did we not share beers on the Terrace of Tyre
At sunset?
Did we not tell each other stories,
Old stories of love and betrayal and heartbreak?
At sunset?
Did we not look away from each other,
When stories of new love suddenly emerged,
As with a new sunrise?”
My friend, there is no
Escape from this throbbing hole, no
Escape from this cold numbing wind,
This whirlingly insane wind
Of cold blasts of killing ice.
And I ride here
Ride like a sweating Sultan,
Astride the mighty beast of Tyre!
Perched high in rich raiment,
I wave to the multitudes
I send a salute to the throng!
I ride shotgun here
Ride nice and easy
Like a tanning garçon on his off day,
Like a sitting trog waiting wistfully,
Waiting waiting for gams not intended for him.
My friend, the world turns and turns,
It turns today and tomorrow,
It will turn as the river turns in spring,
It will turn as a woman’s heart turns,
When eyes that once stared ahead, now look away.
It will turn my friends because it has to!
Riding, Riding, Riding….
Downhill now! The insane wind
Assaults me. Harasses me. Accosts me.
It presses its loose lips upon my face,
It seeks the mad blood of passion!
“Let us calm ourselves
Reassure ourselves
That all is right and as planned.
Let us all look at one another!
Let us all nod in agreement!
The days ahead will manifest themselves,
Transfigure themselves,
As blooms upon the water lilies.
In what haunt hath hope,
he who in solitude,
weeps into soiled palms;
calloused by that labor
desolate of redemption.
Leathered and wrinkled
by ever so recent a passage
of too many yesterdays.
In what haunt hath hope
those tears shed in anguish
amidst gales unrelenting
which snatch at birth
and toss into oblivion.
Unmarked is the course
across age weary cheeks
drooping under the weight
of too many yesterdays.
O miserly fates
how hollow thy prize
no less, at so great a cost.
Greatness is lonely,
my soul for a kingdom
bartered so unwisely
from dust to ash
and the shimmering
to rust by the reckoning
of too many yesterdays.
In what haunt hath hope
such beggarly ilk
adorned in finery
beyond dreamscape lux.
Hidden under lavish raiment,
decay of the forsaken
lost even to themselves
in a calmly rippled wake
of too many yesterdays.
07/03/15
You stand there in your pride and raw beauty,
But don’t forget that caressing you is my decreed duty.
That warm and sturdy fabric my heart can feel,
Because of your humbling courage-stimulating appeal.
My arms are ardent by desire of your body to hold,
And with due grand and tender affection to neatly fold.
I pray you will always be a symbol of power for peace,
And a force for the oppressed to use to gain release.
No longer will you flutter like a vulture over divisions.
But flying o’er a land of unity with matchless decisions.
You give none of your glory to racist sexist bigot forays,
Since such tyranny abuses the favor of the Ancient of Days.
May the blue field of stars display its splendid raiment,
As the blue of our lakes and rivers reflect the firmament.
And our valor and devotion let the red stripes impart,
Reminding me of the red blood throbbing in my heart.
Lastly the white stripes symbolize mountain caps of snow,
Given its magnificence by the light of the daystar’s glow.
It floats o’er the expanse of the brave and fairest land,
A mighty responder for every just and proper demand.
When the oppressors are humbled and shackles burst,
Supporting the liberated our colors must be risen first.
The justice seeker knows this is not the end of the story,
But may God continue to bless the sway of Old Glory.
Rooted on a moss-banked hill,
its branches spread far and wide.
By Summer's end, leaves veined gold and crimson.
Then, Autumn’s hand brushed them with russet paint.
Twas the time of year the elm tree despised.
Wind ruffled in their last days,
leaves danced as if burning flames,
until gales sent them tumbling to the ground.
Barren, as though in malaise, the elm stood.
Blame was cast upon harsh Winter weather.
Weeping for its naked limbs,
on a moss-banked hill it grieved.
For the change of season, it held loathing
and contempt for Nature's wrongful doing.
For surrounding its roots with drifts of snow
But on cusp of Spring's advent
tiny buddings will appear.
Branches will be clothed in fulgent raiment,
an umbrella agape, providing shade
for trilling songbirds in need of perching.
Reigning from atop the hill,
Ancient elm, regally frocked.
Over the west Sun dies, oozing blood,
The hillside glows in a ruddy blaze,
Pink and crimson fade slowly around,
And a pallid shade taints the twilight haze.
By and by, darkness descends like foggy mist,
Wrapping the Earth in a blanket of gloom
And God turns on his ornate chandeliers
To illumine the world in effulgent gleam
Attended by a cortege of starry maids
The Full Moon arrives in her glowing raiment
Evading the amorous presence of clouds
She enthrones herself before the royal regiment
So glad she is in her princely state
And in her fair mien, she takes delight
Bards and lovers have often been mesmerized
By such charm surpassing all that is bright
Beaming, she gives the night its nocturnal glee
Beckoning us heavenward to gaze and praise.
With benign grace and regal grandeur she smiles
On kings and clowns and on all the human race
She changes her contours with every unleashing night
Constantly renewing and reveling as a glamorous queen
She leaves the world aglow beneath the blue sky
Lending the night its unrivaled celestial sheen
April.13. 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Good earth styles
Fine ample grass;
A fine raiment
Sun and rain speak
Splurge fond refrain;
Rainbows echo
Dawn flings
Shadows drowned;
Awake to birdsong
Man-made park
Forest architecture;
In the city
Journey here
Begin within;
Greet the sea shore
Waves splashing
Jetty promenade;
Fishing trip moments
Offshore boat ride
Temple pilgrimage;
Kusu Island awaits
By temple hall
Ancestral tablets;
Silence mitigates
Sunday church service
Congregation sings;
Amen to that
Buddhist mantra
Chanting meditation;
Mindfully aware
God's children come
Kingdom awaits;
Barter for bread
Hindu yogi
Beyond samsara;
Lotus posture
Muslim Renaissance
Faith revival;
Touch of grace
Sufi thinker
Austere profoundness;
Lessons to learn
Taoist philosophy
Yin-Yang address;
Harmony presides
Christian theology
Heaven and Hell;
Symbols and signs
Jewish piety
Despite persecution;
People of God
God wears
Many hats;
Each a religion
Wise men tell
From all faiths:
God is Love
Men of Science
Men of God;
Bridge the gap
Go beyond faith
Rest in stillness;
Walk the middle way
God's children
Need love and light;
Stern compassion works
A wise man said:
Live and let live;
Do not shed blood
Keep your faith,
Love all colours;
See human rainbows
Leon Enriquez
05 August 2014
Singapore
memories are the sweetest recompense when faced with imminent death ~ by poet
We were two for forty amative years.
I turned toward you for comfort and strength.
You came to me with your deepest dark fears.
We lifted each other and talked at length.
Each doted on the other with respect.
Our distinct differences made us whole.
The other’s support we came to expect.
Each other’s success was our greatest goal.
As successive years grew long and longer,
the wrinkles showing as we became old,
the bond between us grew strong and stronger.
Subsequent aging grew tougher, more bold.
Then Old Man Death in his black raiment came.
He proceeded to do what must be done.
My shattered life will never be the same.
We were two – woefully, now we are one.*
* HEY beautiful PS poets/poetesses. The greatest compliment to me as a poetess is that I can evoke such caring, emotional comments from colleagues. I have received so many soulful, prayerful thoughts and caring condolences about this poem, I would feel dishonest if I did not report that this is entirely a work of FICTION. My humble thanks to you all. With love, Linda
Stung with the absence of his father, he excruciatingly rumbled deep inside of his mother’s womb.
He stormed out already filled with disappointing void.
The mother’s joy was of uncertainty.
Memories of her husband, flashed back right in her face once again.
She could feel the exhaustion of a lifetime encircled around her and the weight and magnanimity of raising the beautiful baby on her own.
Two years creeped by and the bond between them was legendary.
The love was so constant and consistent, like the sun will rise.
Their friendship thrived through the encroached stormy desert.
Her wings unfolded like an angel, extraordinarily patient as a lion hunting.
The fondness between them was as phenomenal as THE SERPENT GOD at chichen Itza, that he was unceremoniously detached from her.
A devastation of a 4-5 year old separation to a foreign land, felt like an erupted-never-ending-volcanic-nightmare.
The purpose of that crushing disconnection, was feeble.
he was starved off of food, shelter and raiment.
Apportioned milk from animals became the only privilege given.
The purest and cleanest form of consumed water, was of a residual of donkeys streamed through the shin of an old dirty black slave man.
An occasional feasting on birds, caught through invented-trapping.
With innocence, he’ll apathetically rip the head, feathers of the little creatures with bare hands, bury them in the sand of the mountain top desert, hours later, it’s BEANO.
He was deprived of even just a glimpse of his family for all those years, he wimped in loneliness.
And on a dark frightful night, came the growl of the famous fox, but he survived.
Life is fickle and comes without no warning and can’t be anticipated.
Survival can not be measured by *echoes* of preventions, it is destined and destiny is not always a gift.
The tale unfolds in hardship, a narrative woven through the threads of resilience and survival. The bond between mother and child, tested by separation, echoes the unpredictable journey of life—a journey marked by both strength and vulnerability.
Abstract images to the debris of micro fibers.
Down to the Haitian survivors praying for Red Cross donations rather than meaningless
conversations and commotions,
Across tech tonic structures islands break off, continents sides of earthquakes, sizzling
millions of years with a side of ketchup as condiment
Natural bloodshed delicate as a cracked vanilla wafer moving and subduing natural
disasters with a waiver
1st born protected on the doorstep with lamb’s blood, a sanctified remnant of raiment
Oceans swallowing nations in containment.
Countries bruise, ail, and swell.
Broken, body bones, normal day vertical swing parallel.
High land separating bodies of water and 3 sides of the peninsula .
Drowns, in the brown decay of metamorphic rock and hardened clay.
Day after the tomorrow, tirades un-tranquil in sorrow.
Statures of broken individuals in full robust
Feed the struggling souls
On the television reveals reflections of us
A Knight from the vast Kingdom
of The King of Holy Throne.
Michael slept within a castle
on beds of peat moss, and of loam.
His face was sedimentary,
though laughter mapped its course.
And his gleaming hair cascaded,
much like a Viking of the Norse.
His raiment wasn’t fancy.
No silk nor satin hose.
But his mind was quick as silver
and his heart was pure as gold.
Cloaked without, by a robe of integrity.
Fortified within, by a will of steel.
He wielded the Sword of Justice,
while holding Truth up as his shield.
Saint Michael’s crusade was legendary,
as was the power of his sword.
Forged to slay the inner dragons,
in reverent service to our Lord.
Countless times the blade was tested,
for malice dwells not on defeat.
Never lacked he for contenders,
disciples of rumors and deceit.
Bad Rumor sowed the seed of doubt
within the mind of man.
Watered from the trough of spite,
he conceived his evil plan.
Each rancid seed that sprouted
grew to a bud of tarnished mail.
Thus, shrouded by corrosion,
he sought corruption to prevail.
When Rumor heard of Saint Michael,
his phosphorous eyes lit up with hate.
Armed with his pitchfork and scythe,
he charged through his hellish gates.
Targeted by dark ambition,
saddled by vicious greed,
he raced upon the clouds fate,
engulfed by jealousy.
.
Michael felt the evil presence
and strapped on his Mighty Sword.
Then he rode off to a clearing,
in the sweet realm of The Lord.
Rumor attacked with animosity,
his trident held, as if a spear.
But as the Sword of God unsheathed,
Rumor was lanced by sudden fear.
Michael raised the Sword of Eminence
as if to pierce the sky.
While sunlight sparked along its blade
a beam smote Rumor’s eye.
Blazing light seized Rumor’s mind.
It seared his ravaged soul.
And when the inner battle ended,
Rumor’s heart was charred to coal.
As Saint Michael wiped soot and ashes
from the length of his trusted sword,
his eyes fell upon the hilt
to runes inscribed there, by The Lord:
“May The Force be your faith
May your spirit know The Lamb
May Love guard your heart
May The Light guide your hand.”