Best Regrettably Poems
"Dead leaves lay still, even the last flower is withered: yet there is a beauty in decayed imperfection." Taken from a quote by _Constance La France
On an orbital rotation around our planet every day, nothing stays the same. We change our surroundings change, our thoughts change, constantly evolving into what we are and what we will be tomorrow.
Everything changes. Some things grow bigger or older, some are renewed, restored or replaced, some break or decay. Nothing stays exactly the same. Therefore we are never finished changing. As it was intended, or broken, still nothing is perfect forever. Regrettably Rolls Royce rust.
Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
The old woman replied. ”Didn’t you notice I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
All these beautiful flowers are because of you."
Knowing a fault and making use of it, not alienating the item because of its fault but accentuating it, creates joy.
"When you were perfect, I loved you when you were not, I loved you more.”
The old woman kept the withered pressed bouquet, it’s in a box displayed on the shelf. From their wedding day, glorious red roses, now in decay. She smiles as she remembers its beauty and that of herself.
The flowers she kept, emphasizing their imperfections caused by age, give her joy.
She loved them when they were perfect, their beauty actually means more to her now that they are not perfect, as their remnants have lasted all these years.
All things must be looked upon as spiritually one and of use either aesthetically or practically, (or able to be recycled).
Good,
God’s presence in Man
For safeguarding the divine plan
Of harmonious collaboration and coexistence
Which, regrettably, people evict
Replacing it with vicious
Evil!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
13 September 2015
"Xanadu of Oranges", the reporter wrote,
just one of many paper slips and notes,
left behind when the poet died, unquote.
To his very last moment, he had hopes
that he could write that one poem so supreme
in its cadence and rhyme, in its meaning
so sublime, that no one could miss his dream.
No one could misinterpret, none seeing
his words could mistake intent or lament
that he had regrettably missed his mark
or remark, "derivative!",or really meant
much of his work as only so much dark
comment on a personal life of strife and grief.
No, he meant a poem to sweep you off your feet.
To reach nirvana
Poet paradise
You have to reach the third level
It's a journey to forever
It may take some their whole lifetime,
and others may never get there
It's a quantum leap
fraught with uncertainty
First it takes writing skill,
then an inexhaustible will
and finally, untapped creativity
The first level is easy
Most anyone can do it,
you simply write what you feel and think
It requires no linguistic coordination,
no moral obligation,
just the courage to dive in, unafraid to sink
Some people drown in their own words,
no sense of it all can be heard,
just a rapid ride on their stream of consciousness
If you make it through the first level
with pen still in hand and curiosity still intact,
you can further elevate and explore
But a lot of poets, sadly, become satisfied with where they're at
The second level is much harder
Not everyone can do it,
exploring themes not from your own personal experience
It's a precarious climb
melding a vicarious mind,
leading you sometimes to places that you never sought to find
Some people can't handle it, they cower away
when facing the daunting realm of the unknown
Unanchored from their familiar world view, their confidence be gone
If you make through the second level
with sound mind in place and determination still undeterred,
you can shed the constraints of time and space
But more winnowed poets, regrettably,
haven't the creative stamina to finish the race
The third level is the most difficult to reach
Only breached by a chosen few,
who were born to travel to the farthest dimensions of the mind
They breathe unexplored air,
they speak with authority of being there
Poetic pioneers fearlessly going where others are not so inclined
They are chosen ones who enter a hidden sacred space;
transversing the treacherous depths of the heart, facing come what may
They are timeless souls searching beyond the veiled gray
They've reached the third level
Nirvana
Poet paradise
The nexus of every imagined possibility:
they will be faithful to observe,
faithful to record,
faithful to write all that they see
Thus I sail the sacrificial scabrous seas and touch tormented tides
Battle-scarred in the breeze and washed ashore where evil hides
The Sun regrettably retreats where malice mortals digressively dare
Walking barren saliferous streets where I live on a penniless prayer
The citadels of submission crucially crumble where they saintly stand
In their unholy cognition you are a slave to their carnivorous command
Embedded in stone my tangential tears will endure beyond the grave
Bludgeoned to the brutal bone by the unlawful carnal knowledge knave
Lost in oblivion my blood runs calamitously cold by the river's edge
Beware the Ophidian with sabotaging scales leaving you on the ledge
Deceivers of the realm punitive penetrators connivers as they clutch
They manipulate and overwhelm with their torturous tender touch.
Let's stop the abuse...and spread the real love
Aug.01.2017
Let's talk about it
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
1 original, poem on the theme of abuse, emotional, sexual or physical.
Any form is acceptable.
Within the mendicant monolithic mirror
The fraudulent faces that are never nearer
For in the whimsical wonderland of Alice
Parasitic pretenders in the pompous palace
As we listen to the pretentious preachers
We give long life to the loveless leechers
For the masking mirrors regrettably reflect
Flamboyant fantasies of life’s nemesis neglect.
July.12.2017
Modern vanity
Sponsored by: Lewis Raynes
You gave me magical words this morning.
I should have stopped everything I was doing –
to go write them down.
Words are precious fleeting, living things
And when ignored, do not stick around.
I knew the words were important
A Devine missive was given to me.
But life can get so busy
Disrupting,
Distracting,
Interrupting our thoughts.
The day’s plans and appointments’
Easily dissolve precious thoughts and words
Into a fog of forgetfulness
Lost and scattered
Fading…
Leaving me, regrettably
the knowledge -
That you whispered an image Devine
Given me in a moment–
And I was reckless…
I did not pause to acknowledge
or save it.
12/02/2020
In the indifferent desiccated wasteland
obscure tufts of slender grass
struggle to rise from cleavage of ruthless rocks,
their tips holding the pearls of dew drops
sparkling in the shine of the rising sun.
I see in them the faces of children of fate
lighted by the waning smile of residual innocence,
although regrettably for them the sun rises
with no rays of hope, no tinge of dream,
for it has already set in the dark future horizon.
The infirm dew drops don’t bejewel the grass,
they’re tarnished by the dirt of our times.
In harsh winds of servitude
they toil, uncared and soiled,
they dry and disappear, ignored and abandoned.
In the glare of the blazing sun
the dreams of dew die premature.
It pains me, it hurts me
to see their blank colorless faces
carrying the vestiges of joy of juvenile splendor
flowing in tears, drowning in depth of obscurity,
Nobody helps, doesn’t hold their hands,
nobody cares, doesn’t take them to shore.
In my twilight hours
I wish to give the last rays of my sun
to the hue-less dews so they can glow,
I wish to drip the last drop of empathy
so their innocent smile doesn’t dry,
I wish to show the children of deprivation
the dreams of dew that never dies.
April 4, 2019
(This poem is a protest against child labor)
Today, it is a sunny Thursday morning in April, and my body
aches like it does when a rainstorm hits, and I am regrettably
bitter about it because in this very moment in time,
I am still waywayway too aware
of this world.
My horoscope tells me that it’s about time to get rid of some of
the baggage that I’ve been lugging all around town with me.
But (apparently) I haven’t quite
figured out where to
put it all yet.
And it’s times like these where I try to fool myself into thinking that
I’m actually good at things – regular things that other people
are especially and typically ordinarily good at.
Like, writing poetry or scrapbooking, or bigger-deal-things like
showing up to work on time.
And I’ve been waiting to tell you this without blinking for once,
and I’ve been actively searching for that relief everyone keeps
saying is buried deep in that one place that’s also hidden
underwater somewhere. So if you could feel the
blood in my veins, you’d know what I mean.
I’m anxious to feel the exact moment when the morning sunlight
hits your cheek and your irises slowly dilate with the rhythm of
your heartbeat, and I would memorize it all so perfectly,
you would’ve thought it was just a simple feeling
to give away.
But it’s impossible to sneeze while keeping your eyes completely
open and I may be just a little pessimistic about some stuff
every now and again, and I know that it’s been
a really long while since we’ve touched,
but you still look the same to me.
For crying out loud, the flowers are gorgeous,
Fresh, happy, young, alive, and vivacious.
Regrettably, we, humans, cut their lives short,
From time to time, from events to events.
For God’s sake, let the flowers live like the monuments,
Let them enjoy a long life, like the statues in the court.
Almost every event, like birthdays, weddings and anniversaries,
Is the end for those petals, which are sinking in past memories.
Even the funerals are not sympathetic to the beautiful lilies.
In lieu of flowers, why can’t they write beautiful poems,
Make memorable cards or fake flowers with dead leaves?
Let the flowers live in the garden, and plant them in the cemeteries,
In lieu of flowers, send meaningful poems that inspire dreams.
For crying out loud, please end the customary bereaves.
Copyright © October 2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Jesus is the greatest
There's no man greater It’s a fact
You cant deny he change the world, he made an impact
He is the past, present and future
There's never been a greater teacher
Its dedicated to the man himself who knows right from wrong
Admittedly I was a lost sheep until he came and knocked
It was a long talk but by the end I was a changed man
Its safe to say now I'm a fan of the man
But he is not just a man but a living god
His name lives on forever
I cant help but wonder still to this day I cant believe
How he was deceived
He payed a hefty fee for me
He suffered for my sins, three days later he was resurrected
Regrettably sometimes I took it for granted
I just hope he is not offended cos I never really meant it
He will come again to judge the world in his glory
that’s how the last chapter ended
Jesus is the greatest
Jesus is the greatest
Jesus is the greatest
What I would give to see him in his glory days
Gave a man sight using only his spit and clay, that’s not the only miracle
He gave the world hope he touched the hearts of many people
Showed us were all made in his own image one and equal
Taught us to forgive and turn the other cheek
But I must confess at first it was hard to believe
How can someone that was heavily deceived
Was able to turn the other cheek
I had doubt in my mind about how he was conceived
I needed answers, was he the real messiah or a liar?
I turned to the scriptures, I turned to Isaiah
He predicted the lord would walk up on this earth again
He would bring with him the heavenly fire
This gave me hope when my back was against the ropes
I tried to be tough but I without him I wasnt strong enough
I guess he was always with me, i never did this alone
I cant stress it enough but I will say it again
Jesus is the greatest
Jesus is the greatest
Jesus is the greatest
As The Rising Sun, The Dawn Came In Softly & Slowly;
&
So Did My Suffering.
Maybe Unexplained Or Unexpected Feelings;
Which Have Been Ignored;
A Sudden Melancholy Skulking In The Silence;
Awaiting The Arrival Of This Day.
The Days Have Regrettably Passed Since We Parted Ways;
About 4 Years Ago, & I Now Wonder If There Was Anything I Could Have Done;
I May Not Have Needed To Spend As Much Time In The Closet;
I Probably Need To Have Paid Closer Attention To How You Felt About Being Anonymous;
Or;
To Anything Else That Would Have Kept You By My Side;
I Am Sorely Missing You Right Now.
My Thoughts Are Hitting Barriers, & My Tears Are Falling Like Waterfalls;
All With Photographs Of You;
Including Your Wild Hairstyles;
Wild Kissing Technique;
All-Gleaming Beard;
Lovely Eyes;
Beautiful Voice;
Undetectable Abs;
&
Silly Smiles.
The Monotonous Music You Listened To In Your Place;
I Can Still Hear Them Playing In My Head From When I Visited;
I Still Occasionally Hear Them In My Brain;
Which Is Shocking, But I Genuinely Miss You & Those Awful Songs.
Your book of wisdom,
Have you opened, before my wondering eyes,
Oh, divine nature
Wishing thus all of your secrets to me
To unveil
And
I, for decades now, your mystic vocabulary to
Decipher have tried, longing your truth to read
But
Regrettably, have to admit, to
No avail!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 FEBRUARY 2015
stagnant I lay…
zealously yearning
yet reluctant to play
In the first grade, as well as I can now recall,
I took my lovely little Bonnie by the hand
[Held it in a firm clasp, she uttered a quick gasp]
And planted a big kiss on her cheek in the hall
Regrettably a teacher saw this sweet gesture
And, an old maid, she was not so impressed at all
Clucking her tongue, then displaying a nasty frown,
In comfortable shoes standing up very tall
Blabbed to teachers what she saw all over the land
[She uttered a quick gasp, held it in a firm clasp]
Ever thereafter this young lover took the fall.
FIRST PLACE TROPHY WINNER
Written April 20, 2021
For "A New Abracadabra Poem" Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Eleven 12-syllable lines checked