Best Recognition Poems
I have a dearest sweet friend
my love and gratitude to her of no end
She is of great beauty and deep truth
to send me her Love in a gift of youth
How would I conceive my very age
When deep inside young in every stage.
I have a dearest sweet friend
my love and gratitude to her of no end
A tethered soul of depth and harmony
with gifts of compassion and fervency
How would my soul age with time
when the finest of her words in my heart rhyme.
I have a dearest sweet friend
my love and gratitude to her of no end
Music in her roots and in her veins
a winged mind, an entranced soul that never wanes
How would souls shrink and wrinkle
when in dark times, her stars wink and twinkle.
I have a dearest sweet friend
my love and gratitude to her of no end
A seeker of Light, a solid spirit, a time traveler
a poetess of grandeur, a human nature of calibre.
How would I in humble words render pure an emotion
to a lady I’m honoured to befriend and ink my recognition.
To my dearest friend, Maria Williams
Dearest Maria, these are but so humble words disabled in the presence of a great Lady, a beautiful mind and a tender heart..
Deeply grateful for ever lending a huge compassionate heart.. allowing your insight to connect and flow its Light.. spreading the scent of your generosity to let other souls inhale beauty, health, wealth and growth...
Thank you so much for your Love and gift of youth.
Recognition
There I am again,
in the wall-size mirror
at the gym,
myself seeing myself,
a compulsion of sorts,
a checking-in
to see what has changed.
My bent and rotated spine
is always the same —
a very noticeable dog-leg
listing me to port.
There are those
who look at themselves
each morning in the mirror
and think,
“Damn, I look good.”
Perhaps the guy at the gym
with the triangular upper body
and tree-thick thighs does this,
but I don’t know him,
so he doesn’t count.
I don’t feel very old inside
except on cloudy, wet days.
My exterior says otherwise;
that doesn’t matter much now.
I know shadowy mortality
lies in wait. Occasionally
I hazard a quiet guess
about the time I have left,
a fruitless contemplation,
leading only to
gloom and foreboding.
Most often I move on
to meaningful pursuits:
driving much too fast,
eating ice cream,
making love,
writing and painting
to sustain my soul.
Some believe that one should,
"Live fast, die young,
leave a good-looking corpse."
I regret not living fast enough in my youth,
I’m thankful I’m not James Dean,
and ashes are only as beautiful
as the urn in which they are stored.
So, henceforth I shall marvel
at my visage in the mirror,
appreciating both my continued presence
and the elegant curve of my crookedness.
A wounded animal retreats to the scrub,
where anything worth saving lives.
It licks wounds inflicted by a wicked wind whipped world.
Filled with big stone faces unsmiling.
The wounded animal re-emerges with a perfected limp.
One eye missing, the one that viewed the cruelties.
Fur matted by fingerprints, uncaring.
Hunger and anger are its only remaining God.
In time, everything transforms.
The rotten freshens.
Eye sockets fill with colored stones.
Ugly will beatify.
The angry limp becomes an exotic floating blossom.
That only exiled Buddhas and black cherubs dare recognize.
I couldn't find her, oh, where did she go?
Energetic young woman, that I used to know
She'd once had her hair always done at the mall
She'd answer the phone any time one should call
I looked through her home where I knew
I should find her
It seemed Darker than once, though,
My eyes are now blinder...
I stepped into the dismal and yellowed hall's light
A woman stood staring, and we both jumped with fright
I drew in a quick breath, for soon I could see
An odd recognition, familiar to me
I took a step closer; she took one as well,
The woman I'd sought...?
If so? She looked like hell.
Then both our fists flew,
With one piercing shout....
She crumbled to pieces...
Bloody mirror... Thrown out!
liberating...
the recognition
of a job well done;
infinitely more worthy
than any trophy.
a chef's kiss explosion
at the realization
that an accomplishment
is, at last, celebrated
that one crying for help
is seen and heard
that one is enough
for the Lord
notwithstanding
walking with feet of clay
ain't it grand...
one soul -
out of a billion -
knowing
how bright another shines?
isn't it a blessing
that he or she sees
the spark
of the besmirched gem
deep within
when the universe remains
hopelessly blind?
it's an answered prayer.
Paradox of Recognition
Unknown the impasse of a whisper
She echoes stranger in the darkness
Of her heart
So alone in the glowing flicker
The love she keeps alive there
By fired dreams
She longs to share
Somewhere in the footsteps of the night
A solitary lover wanders
Lost and out of sight
Sometimes he can hear
The falling of quiet patient tears
They keep his life bent on searching
Has pursued now for so many years
She feeds the ember-ed flames
Still softly weeping
They fall and map the shadows
He is struggling to part
In the penumbra’s of his heart
One day the tiny light she keeps
Catches spark in a stranger’s eye
He finds himself on new ground walking
Into a burning golden sunrise
Sees her holding up a shinning lantern
To guide his way
To her
Smiles bright a silvered morning
Open in a skies blue waking eye
Standing there before them
The mirror of their lives
There is a dance of lovers joining
Washing, singing through their soul
One to the other
Their hearts are falling
Into someone they have always known
A paradox of recognition
A secret their lips
Have longed to divulge
He kneels down beside her
Echoes stranger in the darkness
Of their heart
One arm wrapped about her shoulder
One word to say he promises
To stay beside her forever
And feed the fires
Of those ever hungry flames
Unaware of who we are,
it’s clear we’ve drifted afar,
insentient to God’s light,
glowing within, day and night.
To this end, our will we bend,
that in silence, we ascend,
simply melding head with heart,
feeling bliss ignition start.
Ego dies, we become wise,
truth of Self then realise,
dancing with love cheek to cheek,
that we are he, who we seek.
Is there any who will challenge circumstance?
On this place of 40,000 writers, how many care?
Maybe many arn't active? Did they get tired?
Some have died..This I know.' Good talented men
Women, I wonder?? I am not much for waiting.?
Not these days, people are starved of knowledge
Denied vision, there has been subtle and overt
Bullying since1920 till now..Now its getting more
Agressive, louder more volume less quality.'
Accountabilty.? That only describes numbers now
Thats all the Media nephalim are inrerested in.'
Period.' How low can they push? all who challenge
The death of the nations? as low as they allow it to
Go.' Thats it..' we can live for better or allow worse
And die in ignomy.' What gain is that? If we allow
Ourselves to be pushovers, it still hurts when the hit
Comes..Are your eyes closed? And is that because
They are swollen from some earlier punches? Or is
It just that you welcome the firing battalion.. Not a
Squad.' Today this epoch..Is one of utter wastefulness
So the ideaology equals current endings, save no reality.'
IN DUE RESPECT (MY DUE RECOGNITION)
I am not that to my poetry.
We are.
But the thing is, we are not.
You are with me in spirit when I write.
I know this well because we speak into my mental environment.
When I publish my compiled poems in a poetry book, I am not the best seller being marketed.
How is this when you know the poems as I am writing them.
I am asked by my publisher will I use their tools to promote my manuscripts.
I did once and no one pay attention.
Does it make sense when the world knows who I am?
I tell you it is just a waste of money and I am, therefore, being scammed.
Moving mountains is what I do well as Andra Day sings.
Precarious times and perils of the world manifest the truth in that I write about life and things I have witnessed to.
Don’t I suppose to get recognition for writing so good?
Additionally, is it right when the Soup ignores my poetry?
They do not put me on the list of “Best New Poems” popularity.
Yet, I have my audience and I am read just as much as everyone else.
Thus far, I must let the Soup know that this list is incorrect.
Mountains I do not shy from.
I am to climb to overcome.
No reasons to be dissuaded by a lack of recognition.
My poetry is to be written.
It heals the troubled soul soothing the thoughts that ponders.
Political activism for the universe of people humanitarianly bonded.
I am a Poet and Philosopher growing stronger.
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Written July 29, 2016!
Modern day Empire
The same as old,
Man doesn't really have time
Just Inventions and different clothes.
Still craving our nature the two split purpose,
Consumption and reproduction
All else is conjuring vanity,
An evolving Microchip of lost perception, a tinted clarity.
Yet we entrapped ourselves into a diamond cast,
Being compounded by every grasp that meets ear, eye and touch.
Never forget the truth bearing lust,
that feeling of inner-ness that splinter-hair precision awareness
And ask the question you've subconsciously locked away
Why are you being and what are the aims?
And then at that moment your shell will fall apart
so remind yourself of the real truth the binds mind and heart,
and roam among your ancestors in the lyceum of endless fascination
in one's mighty reflection and complacence.
First off-
you're E~did,
fawned like frozen in a wrong beam of time-
God is only justified by his own usury,
and we don't do the forgotten as a figurine...
We all are falling,
forwardly and softly forestalled,
faked,
forgiving four fickle frogs,
finding our fifty nine frot foe,
just as we fizzle the fantastic flowing fight, fitted-
if that's enough to gloat see me stuck in the next simple dictionary-
having nothing to say to the ears of men who listen,
children who dream,
women who can misinterpret.
Sleeping is optional,
sojourn is an ancient land full of those flaws,
free,
we are not this-
fleet,
we are so fast at adeptly encouraging the sanctimony of the next...
This path I take
So familiar it seems!
Of sweet years past I dream,
Of distant seasons I dwell; But of love---
Of love I miss. Although deprived of a
Maiden's gift, I bestill my aspirations;
With passions gone I retrieve my thoughts but fail
To comprehend; and now I must cater to my wounds
Of empetiness and bleed to the boredom that follows.
Same, wrote this in HS for a publication, 1970-71.
Sometimes there is a meeting of minds To share a technicolor dream Beneath a flat gray sky
Saw my doctor today
he gave me
an "official" letter
confirming my
Male to Female transition
and said it was permanant.
He signed and dated it
and has been
sent to-day,(16/12/2015.)
recorded delivery
to an official government body
DVLA
fantastic !.
Elizabeth alexander.
this was to change my driving license from he to She
Form:
Sunrise is nearing but everything has remained
still, not even the birds have burst into song.
The sky is a mixture of colours but most are
slowly fading into the well-known blue.
A slight breeze has been born, it makes the
trees and bushes flutter their leaves like wings.
Still I remain stuck in this horrendous bed where
I am seen as an invalid where pity is bestowed upon.
Many faces may project smiles but they are
truly nothing for they are false and unwanted;
pity is a poisonous gift that no-one wants to own.
Still I remain glued under these bedclothes that hide
the horror that has possessed my once radiant skin.
I have been burnt beyond recognition, nothing remains
except memories of my once natural beauty; untarnished
by the elements of age.
Tears are worthless for they will never erase what has
become of me for I feel ugly and monstrous then yet
people still look at me as though I am my normal self.
But disgust is overshadowed by pity, I feel I shall
shatter a mirror if I peer into the depths of the glass.
The sun has now risen, it hangs in the sky like a
angel’s halo; life has now begun to stir, creatures
of all shapes and forms are set free.
They seem to roam the land untouched by the evils of
life then yet here I lay burnt beyond recognition
with nothing but sourness and spite for company.
My soul has been scarred by fire, the very element
that gave life a home when the Earth was young.
Still here I lay burnt beyond recognition but grateful to
be alive.