Best Redness Poems
Why oh Why
A Collaboration between Seren Roberts, Tim Smith and Arthur Vaso
Poem inspired by Seren Roberts
Each poem written from a different view
The Murderer
The Murdered
The Mannequins who witnesses the crime
Why of Why
Lovers Die
Mannequins Cry
Sat, with his head in his hands
Remembering how love had once been,
Now, because of his stupidity
He was on his own, solitary again
Remembering, how love had been,
Behind the bars he now calls home
He was on his own as before and again,
Realizing, he was such a petty bitter fool
Behind the bars he now calls home
His mind, aflame with tears of regret
Realizing he was an utter fool,
To have stabbed her to death in a bloody pool
His mind aflame, with deep regret
Why... did he buy a knife that day...why?
To have stabbed her to death
Cause she had given love another try.
Oh how he wishes, its he that had died
Lovers Die
I linger with the scent of flowers
cascading over what was once spring showers
Your red hands drip passion
long since cooled
darkness surrounding you has lifted
and only I can see the light
Why couldn't you leave
a girl clamoring to be free
dressed in a burnt orange skirt
driven to the stake with your hurt
Words were written on the wall
but all you did was erase it all
Twisted as the knife turns
in a cell your hell burns
Mannequins Cry
We have no faces
We have no voices
You think we have no feelings
You see us as objects in commercial spaces
We saw the hidden knife unfold
We saw the young ones stabbed so bold
Pain is the emotion that frightens us all
Mannequins crying, tears running as we see her crawl
When the blood flowed
When the redness of hate showed
We with no faces
Shed tears at the human disgraces
Such young love so brutally robbed
By the jealous and lonely one, made us all sob
He regrets I am sure the hate that overflowed
Life's so torn it can't be sown
She hangs upside down in her night sky chair,
Chained to the heavens by ropes of bright stars
With rubescent cheeks and moonlight-soaked hair.
Wrists raw with redness of eternal scars,
Her silver tears drop like gems to the sea,
Chained to the heavens by ropes of bright stars.
Cursed by Poseidon, she'll never be free.
Punished for claiming the beauty of gods,
Her silver tears drop like gems to the sea.
She wallows in shame, so lovely and flawed.
Regrets bloom like roses with crimson thorns,
Punished for claiming the beauty of gods.
Jailed by nighttime, her weary soul mourns,
Weeping for freedom that will never be.
Regrets bloom like roses with crimson thorns.
Pinned there forever, unable to flee,
She hangs upside down in her night sky chair,
Weeping for freedom that will never be,
With rubescent cheeks and moonlight-soaked hair.
Five little stars
Represent her fate
Can she see us staring?
*Based on the mythological story of Queen Cassiopeia and her constellation
The golden hour for rising has arrived, and there are violet roses in the sky,
So, I bid hello to you, my robust friend, as the vibrant, cerise birds float by.
The obsidian night, it was very long, and was filled with pleasant dreaming,
Like scenes from the heart of jade forests, where lush nature is screaming.
But the dark hours seem as ages past, since you have risen on the horizon,
Reflecting your glory in the limpid waters, as day slowly begins to brighten.
So nice to see you again, my old friend, peering in the doors and windows,
As beautiful songs from emerald trees, begin their daily, rapid crescendos.
Soon all the world will be colorful and glad, like skyward birthday balloons,
Drifting on backlit skies of somewhere, like the aromas of various blooms!
We've traveled a long way, you and I, and like orioles, we've gone together,
Screaming our joys at midday hour, as warmth blankets the divers weather.
You trail every individual, peach dawn to dusk, and from season to season,
Forever going in and out of our lives, silently, and without apparent reason.
My work as a seasonal park ranger, has kept me in the glitter of your gaze,
As gorgeous wildflowers pursue us all, down the myriad, natural pathways.
Living with my family and my cat, and having a happy life on Pretty Street,
We danced all through deep amber days, terribly soon to become obsolete.
And often enjoyed memorable outings, birthday parties, and get togethers,
Like the euphoria of your floral days, are inclined to following predecessors.
Days at the beach, days at the park, ballgames or fun backyard barbecues,
At the happiest of times, everyplace I look, the first thing that I see is you.
And in olden, golden days, when I played on and on, your warmth was felt,
Like the presence of bittersweet autumn rose, though unseen, lately smelt!
Sweet summer evenings, you gazed redly, to say your melancholy goodbye,
Like the redness that strangely appears, when you're trying hard not to cry.
Crickets in the lilac bush, butterflies in the grass, all smile to greet the sun,
And yellow days are started and soon done, in dreamlike, skyward visions!
Flowers titter in warm, fragrant meadows, and oceans shudder with delight,
People beam at your kind warmth, and robins sing once they see your light!
Heart's memory of sun grows fainter,
What now? Darkness?
Perhaps! This very night unfolds
the winter.
-- Anna Akhmatova
I remember the summer
of yesterdays, folded neatly
like little leaves just waking up to life.
Ours were colored, all the days
hanging together on one twig,
glistening amidst the morning dew
like love's own eyes waking
beneath the passion of dawn.
The redness, so we thought,
could never fade to colder days,
nor leave us chafed from winter's wind.
We were the only breath of air
shared within the expansion of dreams.
We never dreamt of sunset skies,
yet, we watch it now, fading slowly
across the horizon of night's rise,
questioning eye's own darkness,
wondering, what does the truth behold?
A thousand dots of bulbs flutter wildly
exploding into my summer’s redness
to gather awed murmur upon these lips,
my amazement tossed beyond open sills—
How I watch you glitter from a dance
as late afternoon spreads the outline
of your voluptuous curves tapping
beneath warm sunset now giving way
to that quickened female rush ...Just then
against gauzy light—a steady pause,
another different movement quite innocent--
weaves on fine voile of your tiny bosoms...
Until comes the stillness. The nobility
enhanced by caressed petioles
delicate as slow flame unto night’s halo:
I claim tranquility. I become meditative
unaware that grind of day tears my sensibilities.
O you, dear Asian vine grant quiet radiance
hanging leisurely through my window's slumber.
4/03/2019
Written for Craig Cornish: Bougainvillea Contest
I take firm grasp of the handle
My goal reflected in the steel of the knife,
I put the knife to its green face
Its' checkered skin;
I flex my bicep, grimace with thirst
I remember the day’s troubles,
The day’s triumphs, And I cut
The blade breaks the rough surface
Shatters the smooth oval,
And sinks deep into the soft redness beneath
Juice flows over my hands, and I forget my thoughts,
I reach in and take firm grasp of its heart
I wrench it out with red dripping fingers
Slobbering it into my mouth
The sweetness of the watermelon sends my heart racing with joy
And I reminisce that I had forgotten the plate.
P.S, for those who may not know, the sweetest part of the watermelon is the heart (hence
reaching for the heart)
© Samir Georges
2010
Blurry thoughts, hurried thoughts, they need to settle down.
Too tired to move, to worn out to groove, I'm frustrated all around.
Crazy voice, I have no choice, I want to surrender to sweet sleep.
Twisted thinking, racing blinking, my mind is an overgrown trash heap.
Eyes wide, I cannot hide, the redness of my inflaming anger
Too little relief, too much grief, the warning signs flash Danger danger.
I'm on overload, so I am told, need to shut my lethargic eyes.
Trying to sleep, car horns beep. can't they hear my cries.
My body is done, before the day has begun and it's only half past nine.
I hear you call, down the hall, pillow why can't you be mine.
Tic tock, goes the clock, the day is dwindling, departing from me.
Sleep, blessed sleep, is what I need, why can't anyone see.
Eyes burn, to close I yearn, my fists are clenched tight
This I can't take, going to break, I know it isn't right.
Shut down, the world around, this is my last attempt at sanity.
If I'm still awake, I will break, and you better stay away from me.
Night falls, my bed calls, the feeling is beyond compare.
Tossing, turning, salty eyes stinging, at the ceiling I still stare.
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:::::: `=(:/:)=` ::::: bee upon bee visit me
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I’d been bitten by a mosquito she was such a hungry beast
She landed on my arm, and on my blood she had a feast
My arm got red and itchy as she’d taken a tasty bite
Two red bumps appeared, my poor arm it looked a sight!
Victor called the waitress over and whispered something in her ear
He’d asked her bring some lemon slices; I thought this very *****!
The lemon slices arrived – but they were not to go in gin
Victor gently took my arm and rubbed the lemon on my skin!
The itching disappeared and soon the redness was gone
Next time I go to Malta I’ll put some insect repellent on!
A true story from my recent visit to Malta. I am so grateful to Victor for his wonderful tip it really was 'lemon aid'
11~04~16
People say my anxiety is cute.
The way I wring my hands, stutter over my words, jump at loud noises, and blush easily.
The way I wring my hands, because if they weren't holding each other they'd be shaking, or even sub-consciously digging into my skin on a bad day.
The way I stutter over my words, and stutter myself into a panic attack because I have no idea what the person on the opposite end thinks of me.
The way I jump at loud noises, instantaneously filling with anxiety and the unshakable need to hide, survive.
The way I blush easily, the redness of my cheeks signifying the onslaught of tears that wish to come, but never are allowed.
How anxiety has overcome me to the point that even my own shame at my weakness can not coerce me into coming out.
The way I'm so afraid of living.
...Adorable.
Oh dear butterfly, if you wanna know how handsome he is,
I'm here to tell you with all the ease
He is
as charming as
the smile that blooms on the lips of a sleeping baby,
as splendid as the rosy blush on the cheeks of a teen barbie,
as elegant as the twilight that kisses the ripples of love on the body of a lake,
as alluring as the redness of a cherry that crowns the creamy cake.
His words are mesmerizing
His thoughts are enchanting
His hugs are heavenly
His gestures are lovely
He is the cool drizzle on a hot summer's day
He is a waterfall in the dry desert way
He is the Santa's gift on a glittering Christmas tree
He is a radiant ruby in the enormous pearly sea
Take your eyes off him madam Butterfly
You are just a passerby as I am Mr.Handsome's
Chocopie
On The Edge
He lay flat on the floor
On the edge of his mind's cliff
Taking notes
Wondering
is this life worth living
He tried to remember
Grasp onto
Happier times
Shadows of light
Fluttered beyond his grasp
Teasing
Evaporating
Hiding
Figments wrapped in glittering paper
Promising
Tempting
Geometrically angled
Away from him
He felt the coolness of the tile
Terracotta pressing against his forehead
Soothing
Absorbing his fever
Steadying him
Whispering
Promising relief
"Let your blood accentuate my redness"
" I will protect your bones"
Light flows through stained glass
Christ's brilliant blue eyes
Piercing his sadness
Reassuring him
There will be more days
Brighter lights
Warmth not clay
Sadness shall be left to yesterday
The floor will not be fed today
It is washed with his salty tears
The edge vanishes
Was it ever there?
One moment
Graciously
Turned to years
He sits in a pew
Looks up away from himself
It now seems so clear
He gets up
Walks across the floor
Walks out the silent door
Deciding once and for all
He doesn't need
Or want
This horrid place
Any more
His heart is healed
God goes where he goes
The suffering he lived no longer grows
What he remembers sets him free
He will not be lost to history
He chooses a life of Joy not misery.
Dedicated to native children abused in church and residential schools.
Their culture was systematically stripped away. in some cases much worse
things happened behind what should have been hallowed walls.
In writing this I question if this piece was honoring to Native people. As I thought about this I realized that this piece speaks to their resilience as a people. Despite what was done to them they have found a way to hold onto their culture traditions art and language. We have much that we can learn from them.
Written by: Richard J. Lamoureux
www.wisedummypoet.com
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if ever i had two hours with you… or three,
the vacancy of this quaint café and barren
shores would be refilled with the pouring
of pink- frosted air on our glass-window’s past;
the multitude of disheveled suns ripping
arms of surrender; raged midnights ending
into carmine mornings; swallowed inches of stars
turning into lyrics replayed. and what splendor to
infect the whiteness or redness of seasons’
fingers wearing the pains and gains of many
a porcelain days. then,
to recall the sevens and nines of time’s scalpel
cutting our names into crumpled paper: a departure
of hearts traveling in different territories.
we inched away,
not because of lack for vows marked in deepest
sands. but… by fate’s desire to cart you in
a faraway land, while i.. i burned telephone lines
hiding beneath the long distance of regrets…
yearning for your comeback instead
of stamped letters thousands of miles so
removed from alleys where our arms used to walk,
we side-tracked along with stooping songs
that gently genuflected…
if and when we meet again, two or three hours
by time's grace, oh the fluttering of a thousand
thoughts would not be enough to say you were
the trunk that got away, and i was your last rose
that lost its stem.
all rights reserved
©
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love lost from long distance relationship
For Frank Herrera's Contest
By: nette onclaud
In the dimmed theater, the stage is set
not for a play though, yet a performance
one of baton, brass, notes, timpani
the performance I have waited for has come
As the stage lights grow brighter like sunlight
the theater grows dimmer yet, almost dark
but for the brilliance of the stage lights
then out you come with French Horn in hand
Along with thirty of forty other musicians
you take the stage, you are first chair
therefore you must be at your best tonight
and I know that you will be, you've practiced
The Conductor arrives on stage and announces
Welcome to the Black Hawk County Honor Band
I am sure you will be pleased with our selections
The Conductor takes the podium, opens his arms
With baton in hand he signals instruments ready
You raise your horn along with the others
ahhh the sound is fervent with excitement
the theater is alive with Parker in G flat
I can pick your horn from all the other instruments
you are playing the best you have ever played
you are caressing your horn like a fine jewel
and it sparkles in the light brilliance unimagined
Like your brother the writer of poetic beauty
you also have talent, musical talent like I
you now can hear a song and play it, by ear
like I you are learning the guitar, teaching yourself
The next song, Bach, such beauty to my ears
you and your fellow musicians have mastered the master
two years you have played, it sounds like many more
I film the whole concert, to preserve the moment
The concert ends with a Beethoven, in B how lovely
again you played masterfully, never missed a note
You even hit high G, and you thought you couldn't
well done son and it's all on tape, and in my memory
Red faced you leave the atrium, you worked so hard
I hug you and tell you how proud I am of you
all you want is a drink of water, you drank and
the redness is leaving your face, well done I hug you again
I wish your Brother could have been here to see and hear
he would have been proud too, and would have hugged you
You see, talent runs in our family, Me, you and Jared
all have it, So I guess it's in the gene pool, must be for you see
The Nuts fall close to the tree !
Life has a funny way of smacking you,
not that I'm laughing,
at the sting of redness,
left on my other cheek.
It is said that karma is,
a word they call a sarcastic woman,
the word that rhymes with,
and almost has the same meaning as witch.
I have waited for karma,
and all her craftiness,
she seems to be taking her good old time,
she is after all,
always threatening to come around.
Maybe it would be better,
if I stopped wishing,
and just realized,
it's not beyond the realms of possibilities,
That karma has already done her job,
been paid,
and is now on a sabbatical,
I think my red cheek has healed.
~Vickie Thayer~Poetry To Ponder~
2017