Best Raptly Poems
Aloft, with keen eyes in sorbet skies’ raspberry half-light
visceral vibrations of vitality does await.
Soaring in a hush, with plumage plush, a silent stealth kite,
he glissades on ghostly winds with mystical wings of fate.
Poised to plummet from his summit of purple sundown spread
with wingspan wide, wreathed gradual glide, hunts a twilight hawk.
Floating form causes flocks to brainstorm on life or death dread,
those flying forlorn, late to roost, are reduced by his stalk.
Aerodynamic, his dramatic dive deals destiny,
raptor raptly pursues passerine through air’s plum-bruised dim.
Whispering wings whisk to live and not die desperately,
over the arborvitaes the future for one is grim.
If it’s true that energy never dies; its cries transform,
then songbird's notes will ascend on hunter's wings in reform.
Susan Ashley
December 3, 2017
~ First Place ~
Contest: Your Best Poem In The Last Year
Sponsor: Silent One
~ Seventh Place ~
Contest: Best Rhyming Poem October - December 2017
Sponsor: John Hamilton
The moon had got itself tangled up
in a glass telephone kiosk.
Tricks of light do not apply to moonlight,
for it is a ghost
haunting its face only through earthy reflections.
It looks to us to see it.
The city was strangely quiet,
motorcars grew distant,
Like shadows upon cobbled pathways,
the clip clop of horse's hooves
could be heard to be passing-by.
For a moment,
time had slipped, between the cracks of the pavement,
I was convinced that the moon
was trying to phone me.
Standing as still as any wind-swayed lamppost
I listened raptly,
eventually the dull roar of modern traffic came back.
The moon had broken free and had returned,
to the darkening sky.
In the empty telephone booth
an old fashioned, Bakelite receiver
dangled from its curled chord,
while the night eerily hummed on.
Is life predestined? I ponder
Gazing up at the blue sky yonder
The alignment of stars in a certain way
Does favour and fortune our way sway?
Does Fate spin the thread of destiny?
Leo, Virgo, Scorpio or Gemini?
The constellation, the galaxy, the celestial sphere
Star gazing raptly with hope, awe and fear.
Heaven benignly smiles on the blessed few
Yet frowns on the rest. Unfair!! You argue
For Fate rages against this unfortunate lot
In a web of inevitability they are caught.
They toil and toil away in vain
Only to despair in sorrow and pain
Fighting their battles over and over again
Woe is life! Just to remain sane.
But oh for the favored lot, on luck they ride
Fate gently carries them across the tide.
What then befalls a person's lot
If against Fate he valiantly fought?
Fate, kismet, karma and kind
Astral influences on soul and mind?
Does Fate then our life destine?
To each an inevitable part assign?
Solitude beckons me
to sit in her company
and listen raptly
to the voices in silence
I attentively listen
to the voices in silence
playing a symphony
in the stillness of the day
I hear the soft whistling
of the wind passing
whispering to me
where she is going
I hear the gentle rustling
of leaves on the trees
as they slowly sway
to the blowing breeze
I hear the lilting voice
of a bird singing
as it perch on the tree
waiting for its friend
I hear the croaked voices
of the frogs in the pond
as they leap and swim
under the blazing sun
I hear the moaning voice
of the sea as if in pain
its waves rolling white
to the rocky shoreline
I hear the voice of the river
murmuring sleepily
bidding its time to go
to flow and meet the sea
All these wonderful voices
assailed my auditory sense
solitude has afford
in the moment of silence
Grandpa was a jolly fellow so talented and so wise.
He could plant a row of corn as straight as the arrow flies!
He was a very handy carpenter never once hitting his thumb,
And he built barns "'squar' with the world", never out of plumb!
He was very adept with fiddle and bow to everyone's delight,
Except for Grandma who thought the consarned thing a fright!
He'd sit for hours 'neath the old sycamore tree sawing away.
She'd heard the same tunes for sixty years, much to her dismay!
He was a great old-time fiddler, of that there was no doubt.
Why, he could've topped Roy Acuff should they have had a bout!
His elbows and fingers flew as he played "Turkey in the Straw"!
Friends and neighbors tapped their toes, listening to him in awe!
Summer nights we'd sit on the front porch 'neath a Hoosier moon,
Listening raptly as he played a mellow or a haunting tune.
He'd play a rousing "Orange Blossom Special" for the house,
Then switch to a lilting rendition of "The Blue Danube Waltz" by Strauss.
Grandpa's old fiddle is stilled now, it hangs upon the wall,
Though I suspect he's fiddling for the angels, saints and all,
As good old blue grass music from his golden fiddle flows,
And a bemused Saint Peter surreptitiously taps his toes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
And, rising, bless the Cimmerian shade of night
With cupped snowflake-skin flowing, bathed in sultry rebirth
Praise the darkness that impregnated your essence with light.
Now permeated with scent of ashes, grasp with might
the memories of a child once holy in its innocence of mirth
And, rising, bless the Cimmerian shade of night.
And gaze raptly, effervescent, drunk with flight –
into the Neverwere of existence that soured your birth
Praise the darkness that impregnated your essence with light.
When young, you were all-ignorance – in lack of sorrow, bright
Smote the mocking fruit of knowledge: caress with stable blaze the earth
And, rising, bless the Cimmerian shade of night.
With scars that unfurl like ribbons of wings you will alight
Entwine your luminescence with those unmarred before the curse –
Praise the darkness that impregnated your essence with light.
You misconstrued the pain that seared, but now you fight
No longer complacent, idle –embrace the warrior death brought forth
And, rising, bless the Cimmerian shade of night –
Praise the darkness that impregnated your essence with light.
**Inspired by Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"
Amid Arcady's sylvan groves(where once I gazed
Upon such luminous and alabaster grace
By her immortal beauty raptly drawn and dazed
As she turned and gently upraised her elfin face.
Like Aphrodite from the foam she rose and shone
With eager rivulets caressing ev'ry curve
Boldly her willing body yielded to the sun
While capricious Eros' dart smote me deep with love.
In that balmy dawn, birds all hushed in reverence,
Her glistening charms held so deeply me in thrall
Through the glade wafted her fluid fresh fragrance
So that I could barely stifle my lovesick call.
My satyr spirit begged me to Priapus play
But Aidos bade me remain withdrawn and hidden
If only I had known that this moment's delay
Would my great good fortune diminish , unbidden.
Then still she stayed,a startled fawn just before flight
As her skittish glance strayed towards where I was stood
'Twas then Actaeon's fate rose before me with fright
So I shrank e'er deeper into the shadowed wood
Lest vengeful Artemis let loose her hounds of hate.
But then coyly slipped away my shy shepherdess
As I stayed in fear transfixed and saw much too late
Her glide through the trees in her fluttering dress)
I wander alone aye haunted by this vision
While there fiercely burns in my heart a crippling ache
From which there can be no respite nor remission
That even Bethesda's waters would never slake.
Even now that image I cannot forget
Of her rising from the cool water
In my heart there lingers deep regret
For not addressing Aphrodite's daughter
As she swept back her dewy golden hair
Sparking within me an electric surge
The cascading streams caressing her everywhere
To animate me with a powerful Priapic urge
The tulip crop is in full bloom.
The cars have stopped for miles.
I watch in safety from my room.
Warm weather brings out smiles.
The cars have stopped for miles.
Passengers unload to see the flowers.
Warm weather brings out smiles.
Raptly they gaze for hours.
Passengers unload to see the flowers.
The colors are so entrancing,
Raptly they gaze for hours,
Until they know the time's advancing.
3/30/16
A Drop of Water
I look up into the deep sky
And the clouds as purple as a bruise
growl at the dry, crumbling earth
with condescending looks
they know that it yearns for the nourishment they carry
in their bloated bellies
I inhale the damp air
twirling and grinning
as if I can see
the hesitant drops
bracing themselves for the free fall
And the first drop hits
the very tip-top of my nose
I laugh
because I can hear the thirsty soil slurping
up the water in its agitation
to sate its parched throat
The tiger lilies behave a bit more civilly
they sip the refreshment daintily
gathering the gentle drops
in a necklace of crystal beads
ever so prettily
they bask in the warm shower
savoring the clean liquid flowing through them
Proud pines fill up their wooden mugs
with the clouds’ precious gift
letting the stream trickle down their sides
but they remain unbending
too full of hubris to admit their gratitude
though they stare up at the sky with unspoken respect
Me, I just stand perfectly still
breathing in wet grass and proud pines and refined tiger lilies
feeling the water streak through my hair
and listening raptly to the symphony
of the tap dancing rain
playing across the weather-beaten pavement
(A BIT OF BACKGROUND: The poem's persona is viewing a well-loved manga painting of a stately but abandoned old home, featuring an ethereal young girl who looks sad, and a number of half-hidden specters. This sonnet seeks to express the persona's longing for the painting to become a living, moving scene that can be influenced.)
Milady May, if I could make you real
I'd cast a dreamer's spell on this tableau
Of light and magic, make the people know
The range of things a girl like you would feel.
We'd make the people wonder why the tears
Silent-shed beneath the blossom tree.
We'd have them scanning every inch to see
What trials have made you older than your years.
They'd raptly seek for evidence and crave
Some promise of what is and isn't true,
Some hope of future happiness for you,
Some hint why you're at once both sad and brave.
These ghosts and beasts, the show they'll try to steal.
We'll hint at clues, for now, we must conceal.
Grandpa was quite an eccentric fellow.
Apple butter sweetened his coffee.
Wore high suspenders of red and yellow.
He'd slip me peppermints and toffee.
He'd lift me high on the shiny tractor.
We'd traverse the rows of citrus groves.
Of course the weather was often a factor.
The air smelled of grapefruits,oranges and cloves.
We'd ride through the sagging trees,he and I.
Had to dodge irrigation streams.
I adored him so,I can't deny.
He listened to my colorful dreams.
One day I looked up and he was old.
Knew I'd be missing him before long.
The thought of him leaving made me cold.
In my life he was a joyful song.
So I made the most of his company.
Raptly listened as he told me his story.
It's written on my heart,you see.
For Grandpa has gone to live in glory.
his are whimpers of breath,
lullabies drumming from a rising chest,
his is a soft pat on the head,
a wave of tenderness, trough to crest.
her right hand reaching back,
sensing a nape's outline with touch,
her left hand spider walking,
closing on a leg with a silky clutch.
buttery eyes in half stupor,
weightless minds near limp slumber,
swollen lips distantly throbbing,
tongues muted after flickings limber.
a cheek mere inches from the heart,
the other side kissed by the midday sun,
a moment of reprieve from beastly lust,
whose fiery roars are momentarily gone.
penile twitches against her back's contour,
drying up in its own sweet flaccid time,
reminiscing labias with a head all its own,
inside warm folds of rhythm and rhyme.
mellifluous ecstasy banishing uncertainties,
troubles held at bay by such willing surrenders,
no worries to murk flitting bright hearts,
when raptly swirling in gyres of such breathers.
jumble of sweaty limbs haphazardly entwined,
one languidly quiet and breezy afternoon,
a velvety couch and wispy rays of sunshine,
the leather’s exhales coming none too soon.
Grandpa was a very jolly fellow, so talented and so wise.
He could plant a row of corn as straight as the arrow flies!
He was a capable carpenter, never once hitting his thumb!
He built barns "'squar' with the world", never out of plumb!
He was very adept with fiddle and bow to everyone's delight,
Except for Grandma who thought the consarned thing a fright!
He'd sit for hours 'neath the ancient sycamore sawing away.
She'd heard the same tunes for sixty years, much to her dismay!
He was a good old-time fiddler, of that there was no doubt!
Why, he could've topped Roy Acuff should they have had a bout!
His nimble fingers flew as he played "Turkey in the Straw!"
Neighbors tapped their toes and listened to him in awe!
Summer nights we'd sit on the porch 'neath a Hoosier moon,
Listening raptly as he played a mellow and haunting tune.
He'd play a rousing "Orange Blossom Special" for the house,
Then switch to a beautiful rendition of a waltz by Strauss!
Grandpa's old fiddle is stilled now, it hangs upon the wall.
I suspect though that he's fiddling for the angels, saints and all,
As good old foot-stomping music from his golden fiddle flows,
And a bemused Saint Peter surreptitiously taps his toes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
How beautiful they both are to my eyes and emotions;
my precious, toddler son is my very heart and
our frisky kitten is my loving, purr baby!
The two boys bonded quickly and surprisingly gently.
Right now, both focus equally raptly captured by all
wonders in rain’s changes upon the windowpane.
Enthralled by wet glistenings, one small paw and hand
both draw dew ribbons with same baby sponge passion.
... CayCay
September 7, 2019
Statue of Eros, beheaded.
Genitals gouged by offended Christians.
Gaze raptly at the dimensions of the cavity.
Imagine the marbled masterpiece
Of his more sexual face.