Best Record(A) Poems
Paint me blue like the sky
rainbow's smile; thunder's cry
clouded curtains rife with rain
till shroud is lanced and bluebirds fly again
Wistful moods in mahogany frames
melancholy painters with undiscovered names
rearrange reveries in pastel hues
decorating lonely walls with brooding blues
Paint me emerald like the sea
feeling caged; rolling free
stormy rage; morning calm
who knows where swelling waves come from?
Which shades best record a personality?
Which side of the coin is preserved for history?
Shall I smile or appear dignified?
Do I show my true self, or try to hide?
Paint me tawny like a lark
as the sky dissolves to dark
flying free but not for long
a gloomy gloaming swallows up its song
What do you see as I hold this pose?
Will you reveal or conceal my imperfect nose?
Will you paint scars and wrinkles or leave no trace?
Will your biography in oils show lines on my face?
Paint me crystalline like a wine glass
for you somehow see right through
the paintbrush captures the epidermis
but the painter overlays the spirit
Superimposing your style, passions, heartbreaks, joie de vivre
onto my facets, form, features, and flaws
with love, you labor on
transforming my brief life into a lasting work of art
Paint me gold like a sunrise
as it marks the dark's demise
background wash of faith, hope, love;
the colors life's palette is made of.
When bones are one with graveyard soils
these memories preserved in oils
are saved for those who later come
that they may know where they've come from
written 1 Sep 2022
...with gratitude for all the inspired artists who
carry forward the grand tradition of portraiture.
Note: In 1976, Richard Clayderman (real name Philippe Pagès) received a telephone call from a well-known French record producer, who was looking for a pianist to record a gentle piano ballad. Paul had composed this ballad as a tribute to his newborn second daughter “Adeline”. The 23-year-old Philippe Pagès was auditioned along with 20 other hopefuls and, to his amazement, he got the job.
O sweet Adeline, born eyes open
And a smile on her small lips.
O delicious child I heard her gurgle
As if she had heeded a joke.
A tune raced in his mind and
He knew it was urgent to put it on paper.
The babe made noises of joy
And the music echoed its tune,
At times it was repetitive
At times it sounded soft and sweet.
But soon the babe raised her voice
A repetitive mellifluous melody
Lulling the babe to sleep.
Dream little child, dream on
Would that you have pleasant dreams,
And may the Good God bless you forever.
After we're gone.....
do we turn out the light -----
or will we hear our names whispered upon the wind?
After we're gone.....
does the midnite moon still stir the soul,
or the seasons still invite us to never be alone;
Do the birds still sing in the trees.....
Do harmonies of life seize to be.....
Can I feel her love still in a quiet breeze,
assured that I am?
For can history bare a great book -----
with all our names,
a record, a final log -----
that we were,
(at all) ?
SUNDAY
by Sandi Hoot
Sunday
A DAY TO REFLECT
all excited newness to be planted with our creators love
like a sponge absorbing energy from above
reflections of light twinkles in eyes
with roots connected in our humanly ties
A DAY TO CONNECT
cooking outdoors on the grill
kites in the air oh what a glorious thrill
smile is the language spoke on this day
souls connecting in such inwardly ways
A DAY TO RELAX
friends and family gather with full hearts and rumbling tummies
kids outside playing and acting funny
loud laughter fills the delicious warm air
this kind of happiness there is no compare
A DAY TO ENTERTAIN
trying to sing along to the bible hymns
but daydreaming of which football team wins
high five cheers in ears
such tradition through the years
A DAY TO REMEMBER
The snap shots of those that have departed
they are the reason these gatherings started
grandpa and grandma would be so thrilled
if only they were here still
A DAY TO CONSIDER
what happen last week is no longer the target
letting mistakes go not sweeping them under the carpet
for Sundays set the record a new
hopes that blessed will be the view
A DAY FOR GOALS
Setting higher standards from the past
asking God to let our lives last
for the falls are part of the crawl that leads to a closer goal
and makes that in you a better soul
A DAY FOR PEACE
Sunday helps us plug into that eternal peace
So let your light shine fully this upcoming week
HAPPY SUNDAY
Reflecting on the broken past,
All I see is smoke and flames.
The million bridges I left burning,
This house of matches that I made.
An obvious flaw in the design,
The blueprints were drawn to fail.
Sketched with a ink,
A shade called failure.
On a boat named "Going Nowhere" with no sail.
Sailing sea's of the blackest emptiness,
A perfect disaster I did create.
The can of gas now empty,
I constructed this great blaze.
My life, my loss, my loneliness.
The ashes poured in empty graves.
The coffins held no bodies,
Rather the world I could not save.
They followed me to failure,
Not a leader but a slave.
Marching to someone else's drum,
I lost myself along the way.
I forgot the meaning found in deep blue skies!
That the sun would rise to fight the shade,
And in the process it would kill the pain.
The demons fled from sight.
Destroying the shadows darkness made.
How the trees would dance in the perfect breeze,
And that flowers smiled as they prayed.
Thank God for the lonely Moon,
Who did record a promise that I made.
"I will fight throughout the darkest night,
Restoring order with my sword.
Uproot the seeds that sorrow sowed,
When peace an torment went to war.
I will be a voice for the voiceless.
A sign of hope for those who cannot see.
A vision of triumph to symbolize Death's,
For the ones who cannot dream.
A beacon in the night,
For all who remain lost.
A knight to fight the war for you,
No matter what it costs.
A pillar of strength,
To stabilize the shaken.
From blooming Spring to Winters frost."
I swear I will find you in that darkened forrest,
Beneath the dying leaves.
A shoulder for you to lean upon,
And I swear I'll never leave.
After dark, the prosaic comes alive
morphed by a klieg lit stage—
at once, both peaceful and kinetic.
A neon world of predator and prey,
through my viewfinder
garish greens and vivid reds
play with the afterglow of twilight sky.
I try to capture saccharin sweetness
and the promise of forbidden fruit.
I thrill when a percussive din
shatters the vesper stillness.
I’ve learned this murky realm
of mixed lighting and chiaroscuro charm
is best rendered without filters
and the patience of a saint.
For twenty years I’ve meandered through great cities
camera in tow, prowling the grittiest parts of town.
Working quickly to record a vanishing scene
and to keep out of harm’s way,
after dark, it’s scary and electric.
Not long ago, some tragic soul, a young man,
Accidentally fell into the well (an 18-foot drop)
In the Delhi zoo,
Where a white tiger was resting cozily
In the warm September sun.
The stunned young man,
A poor Androcles,
A gladiator without a sword,
Pitted against the six-foot wild animal,
Held up his hands—as if in supplication.
The tiger, curious, studied the victim
Before swiping him;
And then again took quite some time –
Perhaps to let the people around
Watch and cry louder
And to let an excited boy
Record a neat video,
On his mobile, of the moments of agony –
To maul the unarmed gladiator
And drag the limp body away
Before eventually retreating.
A gory death
With no glory in it.
The moral of the story?
RSVP!
--Ram, R. V.
I was travelling. I still am, but
once upon a time I was on my way through
a particular place. It was north of Wantage
that I stopped and stepped out
of my car to survey a white
canyon.
They'd been cutting through the chalk,
the power of human engineering on a grand scale,
near the beginning of motorway evolution;
making a straight way for mankind.
I wondered at all the remains of creatures
living how many years ago? that made this dead chalk.
Scattered around were broken flints.
This one
drew my eye. A survivor, almost unscathed.
Its curves record a once fluid form, speaking
of the heat of creation, of powerful forces still at work
destroying and re-creating, volcanoes, earthquakes, after shocks...
How small the scratches of human engineering.
I picked it up and took it on my journey.
Is it mine?
No, it's His:
Creator of me.
I refer to Him in wonder.
Frail and intricate, I pass by and hold
this particular survivor.
When my travelling's done and the traffic thunders on
relentless and forgetful of the place,
this flint will remain wherever,
still.
I look for a pen to record a line,
but the pen I find is an inferior design.
Not the pen I wish to use,
to write a line for you to muse,'
or send a love you may refuse.
The rest of the world sleep at night
The dead too, unless there are errands to run.
& this is why dreamland is a clumsy place to be.
But the best time to hibernate the tongue
& let the nose do the snoring is early morning
When the length and breadth of Paradise
Is minimized into the size of your mattress
& you have all the peace in the world
Unto yourself clenching it firm in your fists
& dipping them loosened inside your pants.
The best time to mimic the dead is when
All the phases of darkness lie in the
Distance between your eyelids & pupils
& you record a voice note on your cellphone
Telling anyone who remembers you exist
That you do not. These are times when
You take a break from reality
When life holds you by the tail & you keep
Slipping off, merrimenting in the fantasies
Of your illusions & reminding the world
That most times, the lazy man lives longer.
Ollie Hynd MBE is a first class swimmer,
And has neuromuscular myopathy et all,
He broke his brother Sam’s WR skimmer,
Which was set in Beijing 2008, his gaul.
Ollie debuted in 2011 at the IPC Euros,
Where he won the 200m individual medley,
Setting a new European Record, a new pose,
And also taking a silver in the 400m spray.
He got gold in the 200m SM8 in London,
At the Paras in the individual medley again,
And silver again in the freestyle 400m photon,
And a bronze at the backstroke 100m men.
In 2015 at the IPCs, Glasgow, he did win,
Gold in the 200m individual medley mix,
And a bronze in the 100m backstroke to grin,
And another gold in the 400m freestyle pix.
In the Euros 2016 at the IPC championships,
Ollie won 5 gold: the 400m freestyle and relay,
The 200m individual medley, and with his hips,
The 100m backstroke: the boards he did array.
And he struck gold again, just as he does,
At Rio 2016, where he won the 400m freestyle:
Another gold for team GB, strong as its foes,
So that prowess at sports we do meatily tile.
He swims in the S8 category and in 2015,
He became the year’s Disabled Spokesperson,
At the Nottinghamshire Sports Awards preen.
He was born on 27 October 1995 quite a son.
My real name is Leah;
Yesterday my name was writing lyrics,
Today my name is record a CD,
Tomorrow my name will be best singer ever,
In my dreams my name is Kelly Clarkson.
The ideal time to record a citing is when you see it,
Because it seems that everything out there in God's
vast domain is on the move and never waits for the mood.
But it's better to share something later than nothing at all.
Some three hours ago, around the 4 AM hour, I looked
out the windows. Facing the West, there was only DARKNESS.
I then proceeded to my Southern window and saw plenty of STARS.
The BLACKENED SKY waved at me, and the host of stars shouted, "Hello!"
But what captures me most both day and night is the SOUND of the WIND.
The site of pure darkness, back-grounding a host of stars, is not a trivial matter. Moreover, when heaven's art museum opens your eyes, your ears require a melody. In this rural land of beans, corn, cotton and rice, the songs are nice and varied. Incased within a Meca of TREES, WETLANDS, and a few SWAMPS, this area of trees provides plenty of fuel that encourages the wind to sing songs to me.
She sings what and when she wants to, and allows my heart to blend with her melody. She's pure and natural, requiring no assistance from chimes. She replaces with great taste the cites of big city lights, and the dreadful sounds of sirens. And when she sings, unlike city sirens, no one is hurting. And unlike sirens, she's healing me.
When I consider this day's DAWNING, I am reminded again of the great balance of NATURE. The darkness, the starry night, and the whispering sounds, all felt right at home. And so did I.
050622PSCtest, Your Favorite Poem From The First Half Of 2022, Julia Ward
A lantern to spill the flaming way
Unmeshed milestones, flooded today
You always record, a thousand things to say
And now, as your wall-paper, their curling away
I’ve left this lantern
An encore to a siren, droning, beneath a factory of glass
To the frowning, reading, repeating what they say
While not knowing? Toe to heal: way my come
A lantern to spill the flaming way
Unmeshed milestones, flooded today
You always record, a thousand things to say
And now, within wall-paper, thoughts withering away...
(This poem is dedicated to all the mothers we lost to alzheimers...)
When I feel lonely,
And I miss you,
I listen to you sing,
To help carry me through.
I close my eyes,
And pretend you're here,
I listen to you sing,
Everywhere.
Then I open my eyes,
Because the song is done,
So I close them again,
And begin a new one.
Your voice carries me away,
From my troubles on Earth,
Troubles I've had,
Since the day of my birth.
I'm sorry when the songs are over,
And I've listened to them all,
When I was listening to them,
I felt a bit tall.
I can't wait until I see you,
To record a new song,
TThen I can listen to it,
All day long.