Best Recounting Poems
He knew how to turn up the soil and seed,
Before the sun got hot by summer's glade;
And on his lips recounting roses creed
He gently viewed them as they swayed;
Together in a garden built of tweed
A bloom-vestige of grace, softly arrayed;
And as the gardener drank his amber tea,
he thought of roses and he thought of me.
Categories:
recounting, appreciation, romantic, rose,
Form:
Ottava rima
daylight hours
Ozzie and Ben at the picnic table
milkweeds dance across the board
chess match underway all day, every day
many stories shared, some repeated; neither cared
till knights and pawns cast long shadows
eyes straining, elders would bid farewell
violet sunsets escorted them home
one brisk morning, Ben waited for his friend
hours on end, until the orb began to sink
fading light from the spectral sunset
usher of regret
Ben sauntered past Ozzie's home
black wreath on the door
Ben cast chess pieces on the street
no longer wanted to compete
after that day, Ben’s zest for life faded away
sun still journeyed across the sky
but Ben rarely rose from bed
twilight hours found him there, recounting the past
tales he and Ozzie had told
in his mind never grew old
memories locked within his heart
shadowed recollections of a fallen chess king
Categories:
recounting, death, friendship,
Form:
Free verse
I've nothing more to say
I think I've said it all
I'm out of thoughts and clever rhymes
no words I can recall
I've covered every season
of life and in the earth
I've written about love and loss
and death and even birth
I think I brought you laughter
I know I drew some tears
I've done the very best I could
recounting all the years
So is there any reason
to write another line?
Will you even take a look
or shall you just decline?
All the best is written
All the rest is done
I'm much too weary to repeat
a race already run
A hundred years from now
will my poetry be read?
Will it survive the centuries
long after I am dead?
It's not for me to know
nor do I really care
I put my words down line by line
for dreamers everywhere
I've nothing more to say
I shall not even try
and with these last few sentences
I bid you all goodbye
Categories:
recounting, goodbye, poetry, writing,
Form:
Rhyme
When tons of doom filled nights fall on your head,
hot embers glow and fires burn unabated,
you recall her last breath and wish you were dead.
In a poem's sad lines you've been castrated.
From the heavens a voice thunders dire threats
about losses and breakfasts consumed without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawn's hard hammer fell
last night's burns are reminders of strife.
You stumble and look up from the pits of Hell,
recounting the reasons why you lost your wife.
Your clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with its wretched lucent moon.
You dream of hungry tigers eating your boots.
Your house is perched atop two adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; but it's not a tiger he shoots.
Your second wife cuts off your legs at the knees.
With life's blood flowing from your severed veins
your heart bemoans that you married once more.
By morning you were free from nightmare's pains
but horrid memories linger behind closed doors.
What vast burdens you bear in fear of sleep
and hollows in your mind fill quickly with dread.
When your clock strikes twelve, I hear you weep,
" Odious anguish! I wish I were dead."
Shadows dance on your walls in candle light.
Dark images of her body pressed close to you,
waltzing in your arms on a moonlit night
but she vanishes when dawn's rays break through.
Which sort of dream scars your mind with more grief?
The ones in which you're butchered; burned by fire,
or when daylight steals her away like a furtive thief?
Will your penance release you from the leeching mire...
the terror you encounter each night as you lie abed?
Foolishly, you once thought love claimed your heart.
Therein lies the angst of what you most dread...
the vexing memories in dreams that tear you apart.
Co-Written with Robert Lindley based on the original
verses he offered in the open challenge on his blog.
Categories:
recounting, dream, fear,
Form:
Rhyme
All alone you sit there in grip of graveyard, hosting demonic thoughts,
Listening to cries of tombstones, squalling from lovers’ somber epitaphs,
Recounting how you chased prospects, innocent souls you courted,
Celebrating your maleficence building bonfires on the burial grounds,
Where you buried them one by one, watching the dance of demons,
As your stony heart laughed aloud, mocking the dead in total disregard.
You lured them with synthetic smiles, faux glamor of loveless stance,
Never meaning a word uttered, attired in stares of spurious glance,
As you prayed on them, then discarded; in landfills of broken-hearts.
Relationships initiated in springs of life, often parched in summer heat,
As passionless encounters burned in flame of hideous promiscuity;
Got washed away by the feisty storms churning scurrilous intensity,
Propelling hurricanes lovelorn, flooding realms of lovesome prairies,
When aspirations of your lust subordinated inspirations of pure love.
Old and fragile, you ruminate now, in frigid winters of your miserable life,
Speechless, motionless, fearful of your pitiful world swiftly passing by,
Haunting your eyes, as paranormal spirits, the silhouettes of the dead,
Mock your decrepit existence, shouting insanities at your grimacing face.
Remorseful beneath moon and stars, you inscribe your own epitaph:
She was a gloom of stygian clouds, shrouding arc of love on sunlit dawns,
She was a dubious counterfeit act; she was a vile curse on romance,
A cooing dove of morn she was not; a phantom of love she sure was.
Categories:
recounting, death, lust, sorrow,
Form:
Verse
For My Sister and Brother Poets
Mornings, again refreshed, I wield up a
sledgehammer to strike the stone walls of
the confinement of my assigned nativity...then
seek to emigrate from those Purposes...to go
settle, an immigrant, in the more fertile territory
of Meanings, trusting a disclosure of my birthright
as a citizen among the searching population at
the address of Poetry — twin to the Soul — more
fertile for vines from the heart, more welcoming to
the orchards of Imagination, always ripe with songs.
Today’s afternoon was spent planting a grove of pink
dogwood saplings and sapphire iris bulbs nearby...
so someday they will bask in light, feeling winds
and us, too, walking past in admiration,sprinkling
our words of appreciation across the earth over their
roots. Birds sound dearly above as the dusk nears.
I work until the first sight of winking Venus...then,
take pages and pens with a flashlight under my tent
of sheets revealing on the net, a broad company
of my sister and brother poets, recounting — each
one of us — the full scenes of our day’s graced hours,
by words to one another, from pains to joys, all-
reaching, from solitary into community, supporting,
learning...expressive, in wonder, hoping to know
the sounding rise of the Voice within, and ever
thankful for a promise of a flight on eagle’s wings.
———————————————————————————————————————-
(c)sally Young eslinger 2/5/2021
Thanks be to God and to PoetrySoup, all of you
Categories:
recounting, friendship, giving, inspiration, metaphor,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Chronicler of Events and Emotions
As a Poet and as a Writer . . .
I’m a Chronicler of Events and Emotions;
I watch, observe, and record all that I see.
It’s truly enough to absorb and understand
Both the grandeur and depravity of mankind.
As I observe events—past, present, and future
And delve into any emotions that are at hand,
I make doubly sure to comment at will while
Showing no fear and sparing not the “sting” of
My words as a poet as a situation may command.
I can and should do no less on every theme I
Approach as a poet and a writer—for all of us who
Pursue this passionate path of refined exposition
Should realize that though we all may fulfill a very
Needed function of recounting and relating events,
Situations and emotions—we should never fear in
Providing, at times, a much-needed “conscience”
To a theme, event or situation as it unfolds.
And so it’s suitable for us poets to function at times
As a “conscience of mankind” and to be not afraid
To reflect this in our poems when the necessity of
A circumstance or situation pleads for it out of a
Compassionate need for human understanding and
Obvious decency.
For what are we as poets and writers, if we don’t
Undertake a deeper and more exalted approach to
What we do and really attempt to become “one” with
The human event, emotion, situation or relationship
We are writing about?
If we don’t do it—who will?
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
May 3, 2015 (Didactic)
*Appears in my new book under release date February 7, 2015.
Categories:
recounting, allegory, imagery, introspection, metaphor,
Form:
Didactic
When tons of doom filled nights fall upon your head,
embers glow fierce and fires burn unabated.
Recalling her last breath and wish you were dead
in poem's last line, you've been beat and castrated.
From the heavens, a voice thunders out dire threats
about loses and late breakfasts without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your foolish bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to bitter, burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawns hammer truly fell.
Last nights burns are reminders of your tortured life.
You stumble and look up from pits of dark raging hell,
recounting now the true reasons you lost your wife.
Your alarm clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your dark house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, sad wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with it's huge wretched lucent moon.
Dreaming of hungry tigers eating your new boots.
your house perched atop two tall adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; it is not a tiger that he shoots.
Second angry wife cuts your legs off at the knees
Metaphor amputations are so savagely sever.
Your spirit cries out I must flee, tiger is near.
The tiger roars with laughter, I own all your pain.
Second lioness purrs with abject contempt and disdain
Your old slaughtered heart bleating faint cries out.
Memories tainted and dreams coercing a shout.
In abyss of regret the famished tiger dines.
You struggle to cope, tree sways breaking it's vines.
What of taunting lioness who's false words defame?
Half muted stutters quivering lips murmur blame.
Muttered niceties in deep with disgust feigned.
Tiger haunting your dreams, as King it truly reigns.
Will you take a stand your courage regained?
Can you bare the cost, can you bear the pain?
Be strong take back what your past gains.
Clean the slate wipe away the shameful stains.
Climb up from the depth of hells dark pits.
Replace dawns hammer with soft cotton mitts.
Let satisfied lioness purr, hunt the raging tiger.
Be happy, be proud of regaining your swagger.
WRITTEN WITH ONE OF THE BEST POETS I KNOW.
ROBERT LINDLEY FOR THE CHALLENGE ON HIS BLOG.
THANK YOU ROBERT FOR CHOOSING TO WORK WITH ME.
Categories:
recounting, dream, emotions,
Form:
Rhyme
Lady laughed manic, scrubbing hands
blood stained fingers washed one another
The water, scalding, removed any trace
that evil had transpired here
Her eyes wide and wild...recounting, remembering....
...reliving...rejoicing. He lay dead, face down
Vengence surged euphoric
She whispered through smiling teeth
'You won't hurt me no more'
removing red spattered hand made dress
Naked she laughed and knelt to the splintered floor
piece by piece she pried the wood
Fumbling with foreign tools
Creating this corpses tomb
Rolling this limp, lifeless mass into the earth below
Her bruised, weary face stared down
His eyes, one stabbed, met hers as she smiled
pouring lye over his hated face and limbs
Tossing the dress down to the crypt
She grabbed the knife to follow it's path
thought better of it...keeping it gripped in hand
....a symbol of her new found strength, she couldn't part with it
Replacing planks of floorboards like jigsaw puzzle pieces
Hammering them in place to make a more familiar scene
The table was pushed over to conceal the calvary
She sat...eyes wide and wild...to a dinner made for two
she sighed...naked and relieved...slowly carving the meat
Categories:
recounting, lost love
Form:
Narrative
Bony knuckles raking gloomy halls
Chambers echoing fate’s footfalls
Slumping shoulders and deathly grins
Recounting on fingers, countless sins
Shuddering, shivering in godless fears
Admonishing my guilt, the end, it nears
Cowering in silence, holding my breath
Smelling foul odors of impending death
Grasping and groveling a final chance
Embracing, mating, in fatal romance
Facing my fears in a sorrowful stare
Fingertips gracing my tendrils of hair
Ghastly screams erupt pouting lip
Into the darkness my soul does slip
Categories:
recounting, dark, death, destiny, fate,
Form:
Rhyme
The year 2017 will I not forget
at that time received really bad news
diagnosed with prostate cancer no less
shaken in my core really got the blues
But God drew near in midst of it
showing Christ is indeed my mighty rock
He brought calming peace in the situation
whispering His love in midst of my shock
When you're told you've got cancer
it takes some moments to sink in
in my case, it was just five per cent
then the treatment would have to begin
But Jesus was with me through it all
proving Himself a saviour of all might
touching me in and through my treatment
so that I would know His awesome light
Now in 2018, I am much better
majority of cancer is now gone
trusting the healer to do it all
dispels the darkness before the dawn
(Recounting my experience of 2017 having been diagnosed with prostate cancer and praising God for his healing hand in touching my body in his power and now feeling much better with needing no more treatment just 6 monthly checkups.)
Categories:
recounting, cancer, christian, health, jesus,
Form:
Rhyme
To speak for those, who no longer have a voice,
were I to get it wrong, would they really have a choice?
No.., they didn't choose me as spokesperson, why would they?
I am not clairvoyant.
But they haunt my dreams still...cause me to rise, plead me to look back.
They won't let me alone, point in fact.
“I am waiting patiently. Goodbye my darlings"
Bill didn't have enough water to write much more than this.
Born on Valentine's day, with his heart set on Chubby,
eight days to dwell on a love that almost was, now missed.
Mia was a sad-eyed beauty, there's no denying that.,
she never got free the shadow cast, Ernie's early demise.
Though a mother's love, given and reciprocated,
found a fondness binding, throughout her short life.
Marty made the day special for friends and family,
never thinking of himself, a miracle and twin borne.
Forsaken in life's wishes, called only for justice seen,
lived life fitting of a brother they'll always mourn.
Save up the coins for the ferryman while you still can,
the days will bring swift recounting.
Leave lasting memory for love's empty hand,
and debts of the heart ever surmounting.
Categories:
recounting, angel, brother, grief, i
Form:
Free verse
It's been a lifetime since I heard your voice
Most times I can't recall
Your Laughter and whispers became foreign to me
Behind my memories walls
Too numerous nights when your face haunts my sleep
That I struggle to hold to the last
Fighting to save what my minds eye has seen
A myriad of years in the past
Was it so long ago that you passed from our lives?
Laid down for your final sleep
It feels so close although far from my grasp
You have been the one treasure I keep
I've searched out your life and the people you've touched
The legacy you built over time
Trying to resurrect you in some practical ways
Weaving their memories with mine
For twenty five years I've stared at your picture
Recounting each day remaking each choice
If I search deep enough in those eyes long extinguished
It nearly whispers a trace of your voice
Categories:
recounting, death, father, hope, inspirational,
Form:
Rhyme
If, Plead I, Beg I, To Merciful Heart, Dare Write,
Dedicated To Master Poe
If, a master of dark poetry I could be
composing verses that shows Light's truth to be free
in mind's hidden realms, take witnessing midnight strolls
as such the better, Light's greater powers extol
With nary a fear, that Truth ever meets defeat
knowing such verse to many is so very sweet!
Plead I, writer for justice as born I to be
kind of man, brave and true, as stout as an oak tree
as a word warrior, that this wicked world would fear
as poet, with a courageous path true and clear
With nary a fear that, Truth ever meets defeat
knowing such verse to many is so very sweet!
Beg I, blessings be on white paper from black pen
with sweeter hope sent to children, women and men
words set to regale and show how Light's truth prevails
in recounting from those dreams, many darken tales
With nary a fear that, Truth ever meets defeat
knowing such verse to many is so very sweet!
To merciful heart, this deep hope as my sweet goal
knowing well, such would take a sacrificial toll
in doing comes, ills that beset a poet's heart
sacrifice to the better, Light and Truth impart
With nary a fear that, Truth ever meets defeat
knowing such verse to many is so very sweet!
If, plead I, beg I, to merciful heart, dare write
setting Light to Dark fears of mankind's scary nights
will Life this gift again punish as it did Poe
gifting blacken-sorrows everywhere I dare go
With nary a fear that, Truth ever meets defeat
knowing such verse to many is so very sweet!
Robert J. Lindley, original rhyme,
June 9th 1985--
edited, August 1989, May 1997, November 1999,
July 23rd, 2007 and finally today, December-08--2019....
FORTY-EIGHT VERSES EVENTUALLY CUT DOWN TO THIRTY.
Categories:
recounting, appreciation, art, creation, deep,
Form:
Rhyme
A canvas washed with pastel hues
In palest pinks and liquid blues
Perfection seen through Monet’s eyes
Recounting where his genius lies
The lilies floating on the lake
The water, greenish blue opaque
A fluid mix of subtle tints
A flowing dream with fragile glints
This work of art from sable brush
Perception, depth, a hazy blush
This masterpiece both cool and warm
All bound up in poetic form
To gaze in awe, to stand and stare
To find oneself transported there
The tranquil view, unbroken, whole
Will heal the heart, rebuild the soul
The peace, the calm, the beauty rare
The artist’s gift for all to share
Margaret Foster- 21st September 2011
Categories:
recounting, art,
Form:
Couplet