Best Recurring Poems
You may not know this,
But sometimes, I sneak
away from my cynicism,
and see through my vehement
in self loathing, to uncover
the tender optimism of
my former self, reminiscing
of elated memories, that I
over time, forgot belonged to me,
As I see us, my mind captures the
image, in hopes of warming my
essence, but the thought of
holding this picture, is inferior
to the risk of learning to smile again,
To smile and relish in a moment
that cannot be willed into reality,
despite the sincerity of a heart's desire,
Secretly, the vision of your beauty
belonging to me, releases melted
fragments of my heart through my
eyes, I shamefully wipe away such
signs of sorrow, and tell myself you
were "just a girl" but all of me
knows better, for the truth of your
importance is a factor unimaginable,
I cannot tell you that you were the
best of me, created out of prayer,
and wished into reality, or that my
eyes still remain closed until yours
sees sunlight, or that it was your
love alone, which gave me hope,
taught me faith, and filled my being
with the invincibility of a deity,
Such delicate confessions should
remain silent to your ears, and ears
of the world, for within them lies
the truth of a sorrow unseen by humanity,
and the power to allow this elation to
again grant me immortality, an everlasting
life in which I could only agonize over
a paradise unreachable, and the fruitless
fantasy of a raisin in the sun,
I'm phasing in a recurring monochrome dream,
velvet whispers lead me to a sonorous stream,
translucent visions fall as vibrating showers,
retracing footsteps on trampled golden flowers.
Fragrant lullabies guide me on bronze ferns,
a flamboyant willow guards the deserted turns.
On a dilapidated porch I pick dry hazel leaves,
under pungent moss, the tattered garden grieves.
A wavy shadow moves behind heavy sepia curtain,
why I stand in an unknown place, I feel uncertain.
I ascend the staircase of my fears to a bolted door,
a withered rosette of memories remains on the floor,
beyond the entrance are mementos of a family in past,
a photograph fading those faces but smiles would last.
A crystal chandelier sings of days lost in aged time,
strange that I find familiarity in the echoing chime.
My pictures on the impervious roof in white appear,
bewildered I run to the frozen window dripping fear.
Oh this mind is a decaying house I visit in reprise,
only to chase shapes of love from tears in my eyes.
July 16, 2020
Decaying House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
~Winner: 1st Place
Living one foot in the past
Yes, okay, sometimes two
Is not by choice
When it’s a past that holds you
By a tether
To your core.
Could it be any other way
When you love
With all your heart
In youth
In innocence
In foolishness?
(8/27/24)
A DREAM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A wisp of smoke, a phantom limb,
the dream dissolves, a sugar cube in rain.
Gone.
Morning light bleeds in,
erasing landscapes built of moon-dust.
A fiction, spun in the quiet dark.
But then, a shard remains.
A glint caught in the corner of your eye.
A swan's cry,
impossibly clear,
reverberates,
caught in the hollow of your chest.
It returns, unbidden, unwelcome,
a landscape
of tilted angles and knowing eyes.
You stand there, powerless,
caught in its gaze,
a stranger in a familiar place.
Inclined to wonder,
to dissect and trace,
the questions remain
bewilderment etched upon your face~
What did it mean?
What does it mean?
Recurring nightmare--
my blank answer sheets
in all the exams
Oh no! Again she’s been hijacked!
Woe to me, for though her shell is the same:
Dainty and fair; she’s turned a raging maniac!
A blubbering bear and volatile flame
I let the anger subside and the angel come back
to enjoy another month of my dame.
**For the Quatret Contest**
Recurring Dream – 2
No talent
Dreams come on the crashing waves of R.E.M. sleep.
They come from the darkest oceans of the subconscious deep,
whispers of time exhausted, drifting into the midnight hours
perilously merging, in darkness, with what we thought ours.
Not !, for there is this other recurring dream.
From its surrealistic messages, I do glean,
a missive from its distorted images seen
- there is no talent coming from within me –
This is why – it seems – all I will ever be
is a laborer, an apprentice, a go for
doing all the **** work – nothing more
in these dream - my life , slowly closing the door.
B. J. “A ” 2
June 15th 2005
Past umphle and some scatter beans
Past tickly cough we pass.
A grumble through the chorley wood
To breed a better rash.
Past arsewiffe with a whopper club
Past bramble burt and bibby.
A farple for old fortitude
To sing the Doo-Wah-Diddy!
Crave not for little Jeremy
A blister on his soresight.
Go butter up the khaki tin
And wave for Queen and kite.
Re-muse the giddy pumpkin.
A smile turned upside down,
For better bread and smutter
We chortle like a clown.
For years I’ve sadly known of one who dislikes me—
A member of my family, whom I do love.
No matter how I’ve tried—solution not to be,
My fervent prayers unanswered by dear God above.
Except I’m granted a recurring dream, so real,
Whereby the two of us are friends and get along,
And in my dream, I thank dear God that my appeal
Was heard whereby he helped to make our kinship strong.
This haunting dream recurred for many hopeless years,
And still, invades and stirs my sleep at present time.
In it, my heart accepts apology with tears—
Rejoicing, we embrace and kiss in scene sublime.
What disappointment when I stir and then awake
And realize once more it was this same old dream—
My morning seems less bright, my heart forlorn with ache;
If only this were true, not sleep’s nocturnal scheme.
However, I do feel that God sends me this gift
As his firm sign of things to come some future day.
My hope is strong, my heart wanting to mend this rift,
And make my dream come true—take this heartache away.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: Emotional Anger, Hurt, Rage
Sponsor: Lewis Raynes
Judged: 11/30/2017
~3rd Place~
Contest: Dreams
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 04/28/2015
Iambic Hexameter
(after Paul Verlaine)
I often have this strange and vivid dream:
a woman I don't know - but we're in love.
She's not, each time I see her, quite the same,
nor truly other: loves me, and knows of
my pain. She understands. My heart, to her,
is see-through. She can take my cares away.
My forehead she refreshes with her pure,
kind tears, as only she can do. You say,
she's dark? She's blonde, or redhead? I don't care.
Her name? I only know it's sweet and low,
like names of lovers lost, long years ago.
Her eyes? Think of a statue's even stare.
Her voice is calm but far-off, laced with dread,
the voice of those we've loved, who now are dead.
There she stands
in silent repose,
her hair rests at her shoulders
under little white bows.
She fixates on the house
in a field with no trees,
it's lone luminescent window
emanates unease.
The path ahead is trodden,
She's been here before,
The wheat grass lays flat and broken
right up to the door.
Although the sky is painted
with streaks of blackened clouds,
the house casts an eerie shadow
upon the barren grounds.
Anger is just like a high
When u r mad
But when it's over
You are sad.
You hate what you said
You hate what you did
In front of Ned
And the other kids.
In the world
of sleep,
Where dreams are
free
Now and then
She comes to me
A world explored,
but yet-so uncharted.
The wisdom of
a thousand minds
could never
dissuade this high
And so, as they say
it must be
love.
Would you please
describe to me
the jokes, the schemes,
the lockless key.
Visions of equality
dissolving as quickly
as what they say
must be love.
I had that recurring dream
Night after Night
That i wandered by thy ways
Bare winter suddenly changed to spring
And gentle words led my steps astray
Mixed with sound of murmuring rains
Violets, Daisies and Roses
smiled like stars in the skies
I wanted to hold on to all
Stetched my arms to reach out to them
I wanted to kiss them
But they all fled away.....
Disappeared in the misty realms
Heaven set out legions of Angels
To collect my tears
Bring it to the Mighty Blue
Overwhelmed He shed them all
on earth again....
Have you seen the first morning dews
dying at the first sun ray?
Today again, I went to go teach, totally unprepared.
And fearing the principal would come observe me had me so scared,
I rambled through the room, floundering and fluttering.
And then a student asked, "Mr J, why are you muttering?
Do I sense maybe ~ you're just a little bit impaired?"