Best Readies Poems
The old year hobbles out - his path an aftermath of blunders.
Glowingly expectant, the new year readies for a grand entrance -
wearing nothing but fresh unstained diapers of naiveté.
For the Sijo Poetry Contest of Rick Parise
As thephilosopher readies for his p soup anniversary
Remembering he found this place last Christmas Day
Surely the best gift he did receive
Now for some holiday fun, DON”T LEAVE
Denise Narayadu I can't end the line with her name
To mispronounce it with a bad rhyme would be a shame
Her writing has very much intrigued me
In her poems often it's myself that I see
Of Anne Lise Andressen what can I toast
She's in a contest of which Debbi G is the host
Of who Santa Clause is her knowledge has a lack
If she asked I could easily have told her it's Jack
I mean look at Jack, white beard, hair a jolly feller
If my put my original line here, I'd be locked in a cellar
Any American could mistake Canada for the north pole
It's cold, I've never been there and at times there's a lot of snow
Jack Ellison in his Santa role this time of year
Oh from the straight and narrow often does he veer
Constant approval from the p soup ladies, I know he smiles
If I was Santa his naughty list would stretch for miles
Andrea D secretly a hater of the Villanelle
That’s atrocious what’s my basis you say
She hosted a contest and a thousand forms she will allow
BUT a max of 12 lines leaves me saying CHINGADO
PD, the SWEETEST poet destroyer she told me
A philosopher asks how sweet a destroyer can be
The poet in me reads her work with much confusion
The imagery addicting but my understanding a delusion
Becca Lucas the girl who lost her muse
If she had schizophrenia she may have several to lose
However several other problems this would pose
If one of them was mean I may be a victim of her prose
FJ Thomas gave me the wonderful gift of the Fibonacci
She might deserve a song but my muse isn’t Liberace
She wrote the Art of Being Broken, a deep piece but not long
Did some guy really leave a comment quoting a poison song
And finally I will close with Richard Lamoureux
If you haven’t seen his clerihew read it TODAY
Quiet humorous, he pokes fun with affection
His first clerihew was a work of perfection
Yes on a few new names Wayland did call
Unfortunately he still hasn’t got to them all
Some he intentionally won’t mention
It’s Christmas Eve and he seeks no dissention
Quote: Some of the best speakers in the world
are those who were listeners first....
The rain gently whispers to my window I am here
as the trees chuchot to each other with terms of endearment
The endless sky has an auditory hum as if to say
you might be drenched today
The dawn is singing acapella as she readies for a dance
while the daylight waltzes softly on the steps of day
The hour of seven has just begun for me
I can hear the handles clocking free
The silence is louder than the noise of mid afternoon
yet softer still then the silent stars of heaven
The day has just begun and I can already hear
the first tweet of a birdling musketeer
Sponsor Mark Toney
Contest Name Poetry Marathon Mile 14 |
Sept 15 2022
Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”
- Mary Oliver
Poetry is my flesh, blood, body, mind and soul,
My heart and its beat; skin-bone unifying whole;
In her I talk, walk, work, rest and leisurely lie;
Without her, like fish without water, I might die...!
Do I pick my tooth-brush at rising, I don't know,
My pen, as though saving sword, ever strength does show;
Feeling hungry or full, somnolent or awake,
Pulsation of poetry, like waves, in me, break...!
As impulses pull and push to-and-fro actions,
Poetry pervades reason-cum-instinct fractions;
Self-enslaving inclinations soon washed away,
Poetry, for inner warmth of freedom paves way...!
Erasing evils with poetry might be hard,
Like razing down hardest bushes of jungle-yard;
Don't yet, drops of disinfectants do some cleansing,
When rooms go messy and pathogens do fencing...?
Poetry gives strength to my weakening muscles,
My aching knee readies to fight moral-tussles;
Each step I take is an inspiring upheaval,
Toward freeing humankind from every evil...!
21 November 2022
Poetry is a life-cherishing force Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
A dawn arrives bearing message of heart
And pleads with the sun to disperse the fog
And engages the sky to paint its horizon
In orange and pink with shades of crimson
Not much time it has to say what it wants
Before it must leave and pass the baton,
Regret's written in the missive morn carries:
Patient he must be to realize his dream
Confused is he for the words don't match
The celebration he sees in beaming skyline
Evoked by the goodbye of parting aurora
Encoding her passions on rising golden arc
Meet him she will but not till the evening
Not till the sunset elaborates her theme
Painting on blue tapestry lavender imprints
As she readies to decode what romance is
June 7, 2019
HM: Strand choice R contest by Brian Strand
It is the grey of evening...soft lamps glow as our hood readies itself for some crumbs of comfort:
Old widows wrap themselves with pillows for third- hand affection,
Children yawn sure as day that mothers will lullaby them like so ,
Single fathers brew coffee to tide them from a hard day's sweat-
Senior men listen to music begging for new memories...
Young ladies lonely shut off their doors... praying Psalm 91,
Grandmothers pick up stale needlework, avoiding
pain of abandonment and senility
It is evening. This is where we are...getting older in wisened thoughts , to gather slivers of reflections, of dreams met and unmet...
And night shivers a bit asking: how will we savor to the pulp, this one beautiful life possessed?
And the light shuts off.
The Black Stallion
On a hill overlooking a wide broken canyon
runs a beautiful wild horse, an impressive black stallion
Mile after mile, in the distance, the stallion runs
he's wild and free galloping with pure abandon
Untamed and unbridled, he proudly flaunts his energy
No one can break him, his spirit is always wild and free
Nostrils a flare he bolts to the distant horizon without care
No one approaches, whoever could, who ever would dare?
His black coat glistens in the sun, in the pale morning light
His tendons tighten and flex as he readies for his flight
He rides like the wind vanishing quickly from my sight
I wait for his appearance, he arrives shortly before twilight
He sees me approaching at daybreak, will he allow me to his side?
All I want to do is be his friend, climb on top and go for a ride
He never allows approach, in a flash he's gone, far away he roams
He's wild, proud, and free, it's true, but... spends his days alone.
John Derek Hamilton
June 19,2016
Autumn brings leaves in multifarious hues,
Time's flow quickly readies us for winter's blow.
Fun days on our patios will soon turn to blues,
As it takes its leisure neath a blanket of snow.
The Sycamores have shed like some molting dog,
And each Crape Myrtle is dressed a yellowish red.
The huge Hackberry resembles an old upright log,
Now, too soon our days may be filled with dread.
The Hibiscuses are a gathering of pithy stalks,
Where once dinner plate size red flowers hung.
Now no cars come, stop and give strange gawks,
But things will be normal once spring has sprung.
Fallen leaves unmistakably are whispering to me,
Dancing at my feet they swirl along the ground.
As if they can't decide where they're supposed to be,
Each movement choreographed to whispering sound.
Day by day my body decays
And my soul waits
For the warmth of your embrace
The meaning I cannot trace
The time is now to receive your grace
I remember much
Yet memories past have no bearing
I can see much
Life
The meaning almost clear
The dust settles and chaos vanquished
Peace and love echoed again and again through the halls of time
Bear no weight until the final moments
Jubilance captured
A single frame as I lay
Time will no longer wait and I can no longer stay
Weep not
Harmony engulfs me
Symphonies escort me
And angels guide me
My loving Father waits for me
I can almost see Him
I certainly feel Him
The old world fades to grey
Weep not
A brilliant glow not of this world fills me
A love not felt by mortals
It is the beginning of the end
My breath shallow
My thoughts clear
My soul readies
Do not weep
He is waiting for me
This is exactly where I am supposed to be
Whispers of what will come
rustles among the leaves.
Blushes turn to golden hues,
Autumn's kiss upon the trees.
With a shiver of anticipation,
limbs shed their Fall dress.
sleep soon comes to subdue,
as nature readies to rest.
For the contest; Autumn's Dream
Sponsored by Rick Parise
The Cannabis Queen
Rides her Snow Chariot
A glass shard still remains in his heart
And his heart still remains ice.
This is his true state of existence.
He worships the Queen,
Because now, all is pure,
White and still.
He kisses the back of her palm
In deep submission
She smiles and takes him to her lap
And together they ride the snow filled country side.
Here, there is only love,
Only acceptance,
Redemption and forgiveness.
Together they merge into the fog,
Their silhouettes lost in a holy blur.
In a cold secret chamber,
The maid and the drunkard make love.
She kisses him not,
For his mouth reeks of wine.
N yet she clasps to him and does not let go.
There is,
Such passion,
Such want,
That nothing stops her from having him.
And as she moves rhythmically on top of him
She looks into his eyes
Where the power of wine
The power of an ******
The power of a sleepless night
Blur into a holy blur.
In a place called Xibalba
Through which the dead pass
From the confinement called life
To the liberation called death
One soul readies to take the plunge,
To come to terms,
To be one with the eternal.
In one cosmic leap, the soul
Splits into a million tiny pieces,
Of its many laughs
Of its many cries
Of its many loves and hatreds
And its each tiny emotion
Each tiny memory
That came to be in its journey through life,
Becomes a star,
Studding the eternal silver sky,
And transforming it into a holy visual blur.
I’m a witch of the modern times,
Nay my caldron is not round but square,
It has four sides square, and it’s called a microwave.
No bubble, bubble toil or trouble, with this new
Modern age tool, I just add these mystical
Prepackaged ingredients, then sit there on my
Broom stick and drool.
Forget the bat wings, and the eye of nout,
I prefer the minute bag of hot popcorn instead,
Wouldant you.
I’m the wiz of a wiz with this squared box of
Miracles, from the mid-night munchies, to the
Commercial button pause freeze zone, on the
Talley blue screen.
There is no more a sacred sound ever heard
On this earth, then that dinging bell going off,
Then ever buddy scrambling to check out, what
Homemade goodies mom has cooked up?
Now the crook top is dandy, and the stove
Maybe handy for more flavor, or special
Occasions of the holiday persuasion,
But I prefer the minute satisfaction,
And gratification of this microwave
Magician.
My personal idea of home style cooking,
Is pierce the bags plastic top, and stir,
Then serve, boy that broke this fevers
Sweat, are you ready to eat my young ones.
Now in my spell books of cooking perfection,
There’s just no place to plug in this modern
Tools connection.
So these massive volumes are just dust
Collectors, but I have a dust buster for
This readies problem, I just have to pop
Dinner in the magic box first, before I can
Solve them.
So what will it be tonight my friend,
Pizza or Pasta surprise, with an Abracadabra’s
Ding, and a POP, I can feed a whole troop of soldiers,
Or a hungry family of five.
Just call me a modern wizard with technical
Support, the best invention of all times
My microwave caldron, with its four
Squared sides, excuse me please,
The bell just went off!!!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO MY DAUGHTERS AMANDA AND ASHLEY
And also to the inpatient animals of the world, thanks mom!
The soldier stands at attention,
As he readies the next annihilation,
Fighting for the freedom of our land,
Awaiting his last command.
Rushing out to meet them all,
With no room for any stall,
Defending our nation strong,
Without a notion of how long.
Family and friends gather round,
As we honor the renowned,
Troops fighting for our lives,
Making sure our nation thrives.
How can there be despair when the entire
natural world unfolds with new life?
When the anhinga alights from the Nowhere
he was into the Somewhere you are, negotiating
his spectacular landing, spreading out his
Gulliver wingspan to warmth and healing on
the grassy knoll that rolls down to the lake--
manmade it may be, but the green-gold ducks
don't know that. They swim, they scan,
they disappear into its mysterious depths
for what nurturance is there.
How can there be sorrow when the male cardinal
darts across your line of vision with his red reality
twice in the same day into the Crape Myrtle
as it readies to burst its rooted heart? And, when
he comes again at dusk to rest on a budding
branch to sing a song you never heard before--
allows you to tell him how beautiful he is.
But when you ask him to stay, he darts away
because you are not the regulator.
How is there is no blessing when the stone
gray Buddha in his prayerful place on your porch
with his folded hands and bare feet reminds you
that the gods we respect do not always look like us.
When the Northern mockingbird who fell in love
with the South offers his limitless songbook
in the Laurel Oak, that wise grandfather, whose
leafy language writing the Braille of the senses
says Hold On, Hold on, and So, you do.
Spring, like the Phoenix, rises from the ash of winter's fire,
when ice and snow from frozen row were logs upon its pyre.
The thaw will trickle moisture to each niche upon the earth.
The liquid flame of water means a season of rebirth.
The Phoenix lived for centuries while the seasons are our place.
Our lives in hastened, fleeting years meets death once, face to face.
So, when the waters grant new life our world takes on the sheen
of bold and brilliant color showing forth so fresh and keen.
Bright summer knows the vigor of each green and living thing:
the creatures, all that walk or crawl, or soar upon the wing.
Bold seasons see the great bird's crest as lustrous, bright and gold,
but as the seasons cool and dry the Phoenix grows so old.
His colors are still vivid for the shortened days of fall,
but slowly piling twigs and leaves he readies for his pall.
The harvest gleaned, cold holds dominion 'oer the late fall air,
a sallow, aging, Phoenix seeks in earnest for his lair.
The long and dormant winter binds all life within its chill.
The once quite vibrant Phoenix lies upon death's pyre, so still.
We long to see the Sun shine bright and wake our frozen earth,
its fire means like the Phoenix we experience rebirth.
Spring, Like the Phoenix
3-17-15
Iambic Heptameter