Best Reciprocate Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
“If I have to cry to keep you, I will keep weeping.”- The Temptations
If our atmosphere
Becomes a shattered animosity
If our cumulus clouds
Become wrecking balls against our Sun
If the touch of your hands,
Turns into rabid, feline tongue
If your messages of clarity & “I love you”
Translate into a Mime’s distress signal
If the sway of your rosemary breaths
Disappear
I ask you
Would your love
Your real love
Really
Truly
Make me shed oceanic leaks
While you ride leaky canoe
Above our water garden
Never tossing raft
Never diving in
To become my lighthouse savior
Because love
Real love
Should never
Ever
Make you embrace torment’s cry
Nor should love
Ever reciprocate
With muted stanzas
Date stamped:
“Return to Sender”
©Drake J. Eszes
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Roses have bloomed colorful, wearing
A symphony of red, white, and pink.
Gardenia and Jasmine pose in white,
Butterflies are fluttering in delight.
Insects are pollinating flowering trees
Devouring nectar, a fee for the service.
Apple flowers, pretty in pink and white.
Purple peach flowers, an enchanting sight.
The fig trees nearby have flowers too
Greenish blossoms hidden from view
The tiny buds, look like fruits indeed!
In fact, they're inverted flowers within.
Flowers' aroma attracts female wasp
Eager to lay eggs, as romance begins
Inside the Syconium of a male flower.
A mutualism yearning for symbiosis.
Baby wasps will soon mature
The siblings will mate with each other
Wingless males will die, females will fly
In a hurry with the pollen they carry
Searching new male flowers to breed.
Female flowers exude a special scent
Tricking the wasp to shimmy in the stem,
A one way street to death sentence.
Female flowers pollinate, don't reciprocate
No place for the wasp to lay its eggs.
Having lost its wings, it dies for a cause
The flowers in time digest the dead wasp
And grow into a ripened fruit we call fig.
Just this one time, mutualism lost its grip.
Madness, the Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's complaint**,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by....
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on Dorothy's thighs...
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Lenore's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
Reference Poem Knock Knock by The Archaic Poet - topic madness
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome a type of
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist who autism.
extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.
Love Stanzas
I write of celestial moons and flying carpet rides,
Of seasonal hues and rising tides.
I write when golden sunlight fills the skies,
And emerald hills enchant my waking eyes.
When the aroma of thulian roses scents the air
And wind blows the willows like Pele’s hair.
I write of all things that remind me of you,
How I’m sheltered by your shadow in all I do.
When I hear the sweet call of a turtle dove,
I smile at your deep amorous voice I love.
You are always the one after forty years
Though we've endured a few hardships and tears,
It strengthened our bond as we grew old
Our wedding vows seemed to be written in gold.
You put my feelings first and I reciprocate
I cherished the fact that you were my soulmate.
When moonlight gleams on our island sea
Our love songs still echo eternally.
The love we shared remains pristine and pure
When our souls combined to forever endure.
8-29-22
I write because Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
____________________________________
7-17-22 Rev.
~First Place~
Rhyme Rumi Quote Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
"From deep within my heart
I always catch the scent
of my Beloved. How can I
help but follow that fragrance?" By Rumi
_________________________________________
8-31-18
Still the One Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Michelle Faulkner ~7th Place~
* Thulian is a rose pink shade
N ever believes people can be back stabbers
A ppeals for honesty where none exists
I nvites in without a background check
V ulnerable when being openhearted
E xpects people to reciprocate in kind
That’s who I am…..
For Andrea's Acrostic Contest
September 7, 2013
'Twas the night before Christmas, I’d forgotten the sprouts
So I sent out a plea to the local boy scouts
I’d remembered the crackers, the turkey and ham
but my guests would expect sprouts, so I was in a jam
The scout leader admitted that I was in a pickle
and he said my family were all somewhat fickle
I said Uncle Bert just adored eating brussels
then he’d fart for days with his lax sphincter muscles
The scout leader had a plan, it is so well thought out
He'd call each scout’s mother to donate just one sprout
Every scout hurries round with one sprout in their hands
soon I have plenty of veg to sate my guest’s demands
On Christmas Day the relations ring my door bell
Pat barges into my kitchen; she makes my life hell
At one time she cooked meals for guys in the Navy
So she has to check if there are lumps in MY gravy
On the stroke of one o’clock I dish up the food
Uncle Bert belches loudly, that man is so rude
They devour all the turkey and round stuffing balls
By the end of the main course I’m climbing the walls!
They don’t offer to help, so I fetch the dessert
Uncle Bert drips brandy butter all over his shirt
Then they guzzle the cheese and finish the wine
Bert then farts profusely, he’s a disgusting swine
Then we sit round the TV to listen to the Queen
Bert’s eaten too much, his face has turned green
Pat gives me a present, of a hand knitted jumper
It’s three sizes too big, I just want to thump her
They’ve descended on me these last fifteen years
I ask if they’ll reciprocate, my words fall on deaf ears
They never say thank you, they drink all my booze
Next year they can whistle, I’m booking a cruise!
To give is good, most would agree,
When helping poor feel more secure.
A splendid thing's philanthropy,
Though motives are not always pure.
We seldom sacrifice at all,
Our charity, when we accede,
Is excess money we withdraw.
We rarely give what we may need.
Our gifts put donees in our debt.
As time goes by, they often learn
That benefactors don't forget
And may want something in return.
Some donors want their giving known,
Refusing anonymity.
When placed on plaques or carved in stone,
Their names remain for all to see.
These measures three make giving great:
You give what you cannot afford,
Nobody need reciprocate,
And no one knows except the Lord.
Madness, the Mad Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's Complaint*,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on the wicked witches thighs.
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Poe's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
It drive me crazy just to think!
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome.
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist [has autism]
he extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.[Really!]
Some people are convinced that they possess
Accomplishment within a certain art,
Yet sound, impartial judgement would conclude
That they have little talent to impart.
In contrast there are those with aptitude
Who never share the gifts which could inspire,
Reluctant to expend their time and skills
In quickening a kindred spirit’s fire.
Each person is endowed with unique gifts
To be applied, not to be hid from sight
Nor quenched by the mundanity of life
But rather to encourage and delight.
No gift should lie unsealed upon life’s shelf
True talent must be nurtured and unfurled
Enhancing lives which then reciprocate;
Creating an enlightened, vibrant world.
25/09/18
'Parable of the talents contest' : Sponsored by: Holly Hippocampus
PARABLE OF THE TALENTS N/A gifts Anthony Biaanco 7/18/2020
I was asked to write an honest portrayal of my life-
I could say I am a daughter, mother and wife.
My days are full of so much more than just those things-
I spend time sketching portraits, playing guitar and I sing.
My past is full of such loss, blame and internal regret-
But the lessons I have learned I shall never forget.
I spend a few hours a day writing verses from my soul-
Expressing passion from my pain and joy that makes me whole.
I compose lyrics and create melodies sitting on my balcony-
Forming such dulcet rhythm and sweet euphonious harmony.
The bond I share with two sisters transcends space and time-
I lost one tragically to suicide, it turned my eyesight blind.
I’ve been married for fourteen years but together for twenty-
I have a husband who adores me and I reciprocate plenty.
I am a stay at home wife and a mother to a beauty queen-
She is my soul-saving wonder who is almost a teen.
I have fought addiction and my life was almost over-
I am happy to say I am now almost eight years sober.
The last thirty-six years have been full of calamity and pain-
But through my faith I have found the sunshine through the rain.
My life is abundant in anguish yet deep love and compassion-
I try to live my days in benediction in a lovely womanly fashion.
I am honest when I say the pain from my past taught me lessons-
But I am also grateful for all my day-to-day sanctioned blessings.
Your Best Honest Poem
Sponsor: Lewis Raynes
Date Written: September 17, 2016
Mirror of memories
As he stands by me,
wonder if he is the one?
my first love ?
Subtle emotions of schooldays, classroom,
Those moments
of togetherness in canteen,
For one cup of coffee,
teasings and laughter,
I remember everything ....
But for the missing person,
Is he the one ?
Tears roll down
as he kisses my cheek,
Emotions outburst
I thank him for being with me,
His passionate looks
and I find him helpless,
Is something wrong with me that he knows ?
I dare not ask him
and reciprocate a kiss,
Probably a blackout
some faded memories,
Trust not erased ?
I maybe tired or sleepless,
but sure will be able to recall and cherish,
Some of his images ....
that I once embraced,
Just for once..,
I again close my eyes tight,
hold my warm breaths that mist
the mirror of my memories,
For one last search within myself
in my head and my soul !
Written Nov 20th, 2015
For contest "Alzheimer's"
Sponsor- Tammy reams
Awarded HM
I do not love for love,
Nor will I hate for hate.
Cannot, I, feel for you,
To just reciprocate.
Unflattering as is,
Unempathetic me,
An honest truth still is
Most complimentary.