Best Rehearsing Poems
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
Should I look down forever
or close my eyes to the fall?
The angle of repose is fatal
once detached from the wall
Will cosmic chicken wire hold me,
or sieve me out as smoke
back into the fabric of spacetime
to re-don my invisible cloak
I’m never truly destroyed,
even when dead and done
My up/down quarks persist
past this nothing I’ve become
Small comfort some say,
drifting the cosmos sans a mind
Just like before being born,
and this numbskull recombined
So who put me back together,
made me whole again
A carpenter working with Plancks?
a God that inserts the grain
Does my carbon find its footprints,
and return from where they led
Who’s to say a beast called “I”
can’t revive this host it shed
Take those maggots I killed
sterilising my bins last week
Those wrigglers came back,
showing a flaw in my technique
They appear more resilient,
and brighter from the bleach
How can I lay them to waste
when waste is their only niche?
The best I possess is within me
also the worst parts too
My niche is abstract thinking,
but the math’s a killer to do
Works till I reach infinity,
then the system starts to crash
My sum becomes fiendish,
and in need of a Benzo patch
Darkness can be expected
when engaging with the void
But I never calculated
how much was growing inside
With one eye on the heavens,
two on this earth I tread
It’s a hell of a way to live life,
rehearsing being dead.
Streets glazed over in wintered frostings,
traffic lights reflect glistening hues
painting this sidewalk festive
As I walk, my breath floats before me,
not unlike a ghostly apparition,
then disappearing waiting on the next
Footsteps striding to the song in my head
“You and me” that is our song…
Chills converge, though not from cold,
My rapidly beating heart sings
and it stays with me, never ending in my mind,
for I dream the lyrics are her words to me
Changing lanes a slippery endeavor
as I cross over the hidden yellow lines
coated white beneath blurred tire tracks,
ruts, like life used to be…before her,
before winter became beautiful
and opening my eyes each day a blessing
Making my way to her door step,
my pulse races between each fluttering snowflake,
perhaps anticipation, perhaps nerves…
rehearsing once more,
practice makes perfect they say…
as my forever waits on me
Reaching in my pocket I remove the small box
lifting the lid I smile at the sparkle,
dispersing the rays of a November sun,
shimmering in my eyes,
now mesmerized by the wonder that is us…
hoping she will say yes
“instrumentalising mind, I rested thought
employing it only when needed
shifting to heart, I became self-taught
gentling touch, voice of conscience heeded” ~ Unseeking Seeker
When thoughts purge in restlessness,
we pause the frequency of the mind,
allowing the rhapsodies
of the rosemary heart
to compose lyrics of
life in sync with sandalwood serenity…
I am a gossamer ribbon,
drifting across
caliginous cloudscapes,
like a delicate trace
of greying gloaming,
listening to the eerie requiems
ricocheting through the horizon.
But am I to follow the hypnotic lies,
perpetually prompting
my thoughts to ink
crimson confetti of confusion?
For the heart is the window
to the crown chakra,
awaiting the alignment of seven stars,
where the mind remains a mystery,
unreliable and capricious,
like the wind carrying
the sound of raging rain tonight.
O celestial maestro
of the cosmos and beyond,
let fears dissolve into ambient waves,
rippling with rejuvenating radiance,
reflecting seraphic light
from the crooning currents beneath~
tempestuous tides,
while I unchain the confined
chambers of my persona,
to unravel the alchemist within,
that knows not the
dying colors of dusk and dawn,
and reveals emerald auroras
in hibiscus harmony,
amidst the moonless
serenades of the sky~
in sync with my stained consciousness.
So let the dancing dreams
and the divine spirit
manifest through bleeding intuition,
as I open my arms to the sun
singing within his euphoric siesta,
there lakes of lotus ebb and flow in
ethereal themes,
transforming jinxed juniper lilies
into joyous jasmines,
and my voice shall mirror
pristine peonies,
scented with mystical musk,
where the fickleness of existence
is liquidated with lavender scriptures,
for my heart is the
empyrean haven for northern gems,
guiding the glass kayak of survival,
refusing darkness to mask
the kundalini mantras within
the alluring aura of life,
rehearsing self-fulfilling prophecies,
to illuminate silhouettes of
the galaxies in crystalline clarity.
Even as a child, how I used to enjoy
A simple stroll through the woods
When innocent instincts ruled my heart
And ran after every call from the wild or bush,
Mesmerized by the warbling of the cuckoo and the thrush.
It was a time when every rainbow and every peacock feather
Ignited endless curiosity in me
And colored my imagination wild.
How with my friends, I ran to the beautiful seaside
Watching the wild waves’ fury and cooled by the kiss of spray
Feeling the sea foam and the sand under our bare feet
With what delirious joy we watched at night
A hundred fireflies dancing around
Wondering if they were stars, fallen from heaven.
Like the sweeping breeze, we ran over grassy slopes,
Looking for the bleating lamb
Singing in chorus, ‘Mary had a little lamb’
They were all spontaneous acts like breathing,
With no interest in gaining anything or impressing anybody
But just the simple signs of being alive,
And a way of burning the exuberant energy that overwhelmed us.
I was never called a poet or an artist then—
Not worried about rehearsing or perfecting my art.
I was just an observer, inhaling all the beauty
With a fluid spontaneity, characteristic of childhood
let me be a wanderlust vixen in the vortex ~
a voltage liquified to the upbeat vibrato,
versing vehemently in venom-glazed grief,
and rehearsing your criminalism
like a serial liar ~
because I am too voiceless
to command the Monarch of mercury
to vindict the sojourners
that lure me to their blind holes,
and vandalise the chromatic criticisms
that clench me in their cyanide claws,
through the cracks
branching in the demonised billboard …
Oh scorching serpent,
slithering with velvet-tongued torment,
never leave me tethered
between the lips of loneliness ~
like a leaflet tucked on
the seaglass screen,
screaming for those stygian seashells
to lock my secrets behind
the bars of misplaced passwords,
because, this pulse of paranoia
is too pure to palpitate
in the pixels of poisoned prayers ~
and there is no anecdote
that annihilates the anxious
acronyms of abandonment,
streaming through the realms
of disposed dimensions.
There are no strings attached
that hum in hexed hoaxes
through the violin vendetta
strumming an acapella ~
through the lusty noise
of monsters longing for
the loss of my sacred insanity …
perhaps, the voice in my head
is an ode to the orchestrating shadows,
too mindless to manipulate ~
scripted in secluse
replaying the ruins,
paused in the prison
a sketch of sleep in splitting senses …
as bipolar ballads
tame their schizophrenic strokes ~
when the Maestro of moon
mediates a megalomaniac
sonnet of venting slaves,
in the muted matriarchy of mantras
that keep repenting rage,
in the impulsive incandescence
of my icy azure ink ~
refusing the warmth
of vulnerable sagas
that ache to heal me
and release the
insomniac coldness ~
blanketed with the sparks
of murky mermaid stars …
I own this label ~
the name of a lunar lunatic,
and this is a war,
between the sphinx of sabotage
and the never-ending nocturns ,
as, I remain weapon-less
like a cardinal iris,
rewriting the rules
of unshakable madness
in your maniac meanderings,
ineffable ~ invisible ~ incurable
an impostrous
i n v a d e r …
I will tell the truth:
love is not always kind,
and it is rarely fair.
It does not arrive on cue
with music swelling behind it.
Sometimes it comes limping,
late, unsure, smelling faintly of regret.
Love does not fix you.
It finds you mid-sentence,
mid-failure,
mid-life—
and listens anyway.
I tell the truth:
love is not the absence of loneliness.
It is loneliness
sitting beside another loneliness,
agreeing not to leave first.
Love forgets anniversaries
and remembers the sound of your cough
at three in the morning.
It argues about nothing
and forgives something enormous
without ever naming it.
Here is the hardest truth:
love does not promise forever.
It promises now—
this cup of tea going cold,
this hand still reaching
even when it knows how easily
hands let go.
And yet—
I swear this too:
when love is real,
it teaches the heart
how to stand in the witness box
and still say,
without rehearsing,
“Yes.
I was afraid.
Yes.
I stayed.”
POTD 02/10/2026
LITANIES REHEARSING ADIEU
Soft
wheezes
from
crossbills
and mistrel
fusion
pluck
refrains
from May blooms,
train litanies
rehearsing
adieu
pause
unto
biting cold
out stretched
wings
to soar
high!
_______________________________________
ACTUAL FORM: Waltz Wave
1/2/1/2/3/2/1/2/3/4/3/2/1/2/3/2/1/2/1 syllables
***Sponsor Kim Merryman
Contest Name Shall We Waltz?
++Placed 5th++
O.E. GUillermo
10:22 pm, June 13, 2015
The more mature ladies sit aside
Engrossed in conversing
Contented in perusing dance
Some their feet rehearsing
Such a seat up high with a view
Alone upon the hill
Longing once again to dance
And tap out those fancy rills
In a plain Calico day dress,
A coat once rich now worn
Dreaming of spring, as peach dress swings
A spring day newly born
Different shades of springs clear blue sky
White apple blossom gown
Spring green decorations line hall
Peach blossom dress the crown
Off in the distance, the sound of the train
The whistle announces
It has stopped here in this young town
From train master bounces
There's a package over his shoulder
Sealed in a fancy bag
He mounts his horse that is waiting
Behind he did not lag
The lady that sits high on hill
In a gazebo hoping
Unaware that riders from town
Approach as she's coping
He tells her of observations
Of her strong courage
In the bag he brought a gown
One that matched her virtue
The belle of the cotillon ball
Dressed in emeral green
A velvet dress made just for her
One fit for a great queen
Inspired by
Isaiah Zerbst's
Contest: Ballroom Delights
From the painting by: Victor Gabriel Gilbert
Written: Over several days in November 2014
Home to President Woodrow Wilson
Ivy scaled Monmouth’s outer walls
Laughter of youth from decades past
Resonated in marble-floored halls
The theater building was set apart
Further down Cedar Avenue
Another spirit stalked the stage
Where college actors made debuts
A gift from the Monmouth Race Park
Actors’ dressing rooms were stalls
Where a stealthy ghost spied silently
As thespians answered cue calls
Arriving early one April night
Eager to recite the witty lines
Of “Blithe Spirit’s” Madam Arcati
Rehearsing her séance foremost in my mind
In character I asked, “Is anyone there?”
Was it a true spirit who answered?
A short young man swept down the aisle
Stage lights my vision hampered
“Hello,” I called as he disappeared
Into the workroom below the stage
For a moment I stood frozen
Losing my place on the script’s page
Curious, I followed his path
But the work area was empty
Where did he go? Whom did I see?
Unanswered questions tormented me
A bit of fear entered my heart
To doors above the seats I raced
No one else was in the theater
My terror was not misplaced
But as I opened the door to leave
Professor Harrison entered
Stunned, I gasped, and he had to ask
“What’s wrong?” (I was usually centered.)
“A man came in as I rehearsed,”
I panted, “wearing a shiny hat
And a jacket of dark blue satin.
He vanished, gone, just like that.”
My mentor grinned as I composed
“Believe me, what I’m saying’s true.”
Harrison smiled and said calmly
“Huh, I guess you saw him, too.”
I wasn’t first, perhaps not last
To see the lost jockey searching
For the stable that held his steed
As the great race was approaching
*October 16, 2014
True story. It turned out many students had seen this jockey's ghost. Professor Harrison worked on set construction and I could sometimes hear him talking to the "ghost." Happy Halloween!
Tomorrow is not a given:
yesterdays can't be taken back.
Today is your reality:
and Hope is what keeps you on track.
Live within the moment of now,
delve into the essence of you.
And ask yourself if you're happy,
have your fantasy dreams come true?
Look deep within your hurting heart,
have its wounds festered over time?
Or have you experienced love
that can only be called sublime?
Take a break; step outside yourself
and see the you that others see.
You are constantly performing,
playing who you pretend to be.
We are but actors on life's stage:
roles written by the hand of fate.
And busy rehearsing our parts,
leaves no time to communicate.
Ice crystal contrails cerulean skies crisscross,
Grazing the wispy clouds of cottony linens
Like smooth white, waxy strings of dental floss
Strung out high above these heavenly denizens.
Grazing the wispy clouds of cottony linens
Are they playing war games above the peace?
Strung out high above these heavenly denizens
Are they from earthly tensions finding release?
Are they playing war games above the peace?
These high-flying aerial jockeys of daring feat
Are they from earthly tensions finding release?
They soar through the heavens without defeat.
These high-flying aerial jockeys of daring feat
Top guns rehearsing for battles they must abhor,
They soar through the heavens without defeat
Ever testing, faster, never enough, always more.
Top guns rehearsing for battles they must abhor
Keenly aware of the vital defense roles they play
Ever testing, faster, never enough, always more
Their high-flying antics are de rigueur for the day.
Keenly aware of the vital defense roles they play
Like smooth white, waxy strings of dental floss
Their high-flying antics are de rigueur for the day,
Ice crystal contrails cerulean skies crisscross.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Submitted to "Pantoum - Old or New" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
SECOND PLACE WINNER
Written May 29, 2022
Submitted to "Flight Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
#12 on BEST NEW POEMS LIST
June 10, 2022
Submitted to "Marathon Contest Mile 3"
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Themes are overlapping
The current keeps criss crossing
Dreaming and digressing depressing and unkind
Mish mash meandering in a labyrinth of minds
Wonder lost.....fingers crossed....
Misdiagnosed and so stupidly maintained
Disjointed mistake.....
Contorted remorse
No kingdom no horse
Replaying the scene
Rehearsing the song ... unmended
Keep doing wrong
How do I check my tongue?
Why does it always come out wrong?
Ill get forgiven - of course
And then I transcend it - much worse
Imprinted my thinking - not right
I keep on repeating .... my plight
Until I get along, its best I walk alone
How to undo this old refrain
Your spirit I fractured - time and again
Painting ~ Return of the Prodigal ~ Il Guercino
Returning from the land of my rebellion,
in rags that reek of pigs and sweat and mud.
Now penniless, I’ve been a hell-bent hellion,
wasting the fortune of my flesh and blood.
But now considering my distant father;
how could I dare to think he’ll have me back?
I’ll plead to serve as slave and be no bother;
even his hired workers have no lack.
I journey home rehearsing all I’ve done:
“Father, I’ve sinned against heaven and you –
No longer worthy to be called your son.”
My voice goes numb when home comes into view.
My fears fly when I see my father’s face
and weep in his forgiving, kind embrace.
written 8 Sep 2020
All those years I thought I was sane,
The sharpest tool in the shed,
I think I believed every thought I thought,
Sat soberly up in my head,
Because every short night I’d lay wide awake,
Rehearsing thoughts over again,
Of what and how to present myself,
In conversations I had to invent,
And I clearly chose to ignore the blur,
The days when my mind was a fog,
I chose to ignore all the signs I had,
Befriending a moody black dog,
Now nothing is fun, people are shades,
My thoughts are a little corrupt,
And the light in the tunnel’s a flickering sign,
Flashing: “Lewis - you’re mentally f####d”.