Best Reposed Poems
"I wandered lonely as a cloud." William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a boat
a shallow dingy left behind,
alone in marsh of reeds remote
my paint now faint so unrefined,
my only hope the next high tide
on brackish water then I’ll ride,
in aimless drift left up to fate
the wind and wave upon the bay
on rhythmic swells, I’ll grow sedate
with naught to see through mists of gray…
on ripples pale so soft so free
my destination out to sea;
that distant place where lay the sun
across the sunset waters west,
the ambiance of cirrus spun
to brush with colors every crest
where I can bathe in shades so bold
of melting solar marigold.
Yet — let go I must of wishful dreams!
My lifeline dispossessed I strayed
and followed streams with other schemes —
now lofty tide cannot be swayed,
a rustic wreck in reeds reposed
their wind-song whispers I’m imposed.
There’s no escape their soldiers’ lance,
the blades of green so tall and crisp,
with waves they undulate in dance
and breezes ruffle tassels’ wisp,
though swans find beauty mid the reeds
—a wistful coward’s bitter weeds.
Susan Ashley
January 14, 2023
~ Second Place ~
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Poem Of The day ~
January 16, 2023
Poet’s note: this poem was inspired by, but not written for, the contest: “I Wandered Lonely As… Challenge”, sponsored by Natasha Scragg and judged on September 24, 2022. Thank you, Natasha, for the beautiful William Wordsworth quote and for the poetic inspiration.
Photo: gettyimages; Jay Fleming
How sweet the soothing songs of May
Reposed upon the fragrant breeze
The comely songs were Seagulls play
On the lulling trembling seas.
That dissolved the traces of your feet
That lingered in the distant sands
While the sultry beams unite to meet
The carnal rosebuds of your hands.
That blush in light the morning spray
Descending warmly in your eyes
Who knew the light of love this day
Would lift me up to a new sunrise.
Yet in the sunless fleeting hour
I would hold you in my smile
Or steal a kiss from you my flower
In this languid scented isle.
That quivers in the blue distance
When tender birds are fast asleep
When blazing stars of night entrance
The lonely fountains glistening deep.
I would hear your whispers by the sea
On the soothing waves of night
Its mellowed voice would comfort me
When the winds would take to flight.
To the starry distance and empty spaces
That holds the night sky of your hair
On hallowed streets and sleepless faces
It blows the Eastern dews most fair.
And on the enchanted blossom rare
That I'd finally pluck in spring
To bow and give to you my dear
With this golden diamond ring.
Not to be taken lightly, I burnt all my clothes
Cut the tattoos off my back, tore pins from my nose
Foraged for food particles, where wild beasts reposed
Lapped water vapour off thorns, when the thirst arose
My identity gone, I herded mountain goats
Built a makeshift altar, one by one, slit their throats
Looking to the heavens, chanting primeval quotes
Tell me what to do, this sacrifice I devote
But silence returned, I knew nothing else mattered
The goats now all dead, my hands blooded and spattered
A local tribe watched on, their souls not so shattered
Idolised me, then to the four winds they scattered
After two score and ten, they returned unforetold
Carrying symbols, textbooks, diamonds, and gold
Smiling in joy, I asked what stories they behold
All wrote versions of my life in books, but mistold
Some had butchered nations, said it was in my name
Others brainwashed little children, feeling no shame
The rest knocked on doors, telling lies they heal the lame
Scamming billions of sesterces, their one true aim
I condemned the lies, but was a very bad call
They burst into laughter, and pointed to their haul
Just then everything made sense, as I do recall
Killing goats made me, the biggest scapegoat of all
I remember that place
in green pastures called home.
But where are you now
“Union Yard, Britton Holm”
Deep in reams of memories
indelible you lay,
reposed at the helm
of a life rushing by.
Guess i’ve played life’s
generation game,
yet somehow you appeared the same!
Misguided my mind
in local pursuit,
when reminded
one does not belong,
the only stranger there was i.
Sometimes I try to tell myself
that life yesteryear was never real,
just a fantasy of one’s youth
the way I use to feel.
“But you are so astute”
No one to change nature’s way
when every step together we retraced,
“Only the human race it seems fluctuates.”
From time to time
the dream awakes, then swiftly abates,
even the memories seem to fall
like autumn leaves
that swirls within the gutter,
when I see urbanization,
spread its wing
like some gigantic woodcutter!
Alas no more the sight
no more the sound
no more the light,
in this life to be found
in that foundation called home,
the last bastion of my folks,
only a memory of love
and a mind at will to evoke!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
On the streets of sin city, on the high roller's main drag,
Known as the Las Vegas Strip, a gentlemen phantom
Does stroll dressed in all black attire, striding forth with his golden Cain,
Flipping a silver chip into the air, and mocking at its power.
The devil's agent of deception is he, retaining a list of names
To collect upon, this gentlemen bandit of the forsaken.
He is here on the dark master’s behalf, ready to claim on
The I.O.U's signed by the greedy, and innocence fallen.
Quietly, moving amongst the crowded venues, he waits
Until his lord calls the name of the unlucky, to be reposed.
Dance do the neon lights, flashing towards pleasure dens of iniquity,
As ladies whom belong unto the night itself, offer their
Tokens of favor, for a working man's paycheck.
Black jacks twenty-one, cut those cards, and pass them out
The first timers dumb luck, will deliver him unto evil,
On this walkers dead man's list tonight.
Against the loaded dice, no soul is left unsanctified,
On the sacred green velvet altar, the wheel of fortune
Spins out of control, then hitting the baccarat tables
Wooden wall, someone screams snake eyes.
Then all is lost, faded are the dreams of illusion, melting away
Into the harsh desert soil, along the road side leading to sin city.
Beneath the arid sandy duns, lies the grave yard
Of the unknown unidentified, a missing persons
Smorgasbord of the rich and infamous, lying right
Beside, the unreported poor man corpse.
This is the Grim Reapers play ground, taunting
And tormenting, those begging for redemptions
Last chance to gain a reprieves pardon.
But when tapped by his golden cain of death,
Your life's essence has wagered it's last bet,
To the winner goes the spoils, and now you
Belong unto the devil.
People say what happens in Vegas stays
There, and rightly so will he agree, with his blackened
Heart and soul, for after all is this not
The capital of hell on earth, known as
Sin City, Las Vegas, Nevada.
The populations of the undead just added
Another’s names tally and the gentlemen
Dressed all in black, is sent a wandering
Again amongst the crowed streets, to claim
Another victim in the dark master’s wrath of
Vengeance.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Open Letter to Thomas Jefferson
You sir, destination unknown, I dare
To address. A son of worthy causes
For land vast in majesty and vast as
Vast can be in matters of liberty;
With ideals so prim and suffused with
Philosophical forethought derived from
Your bumper harvest of keen knowledge from
Poetry to paleontology;
You the offspring of music and science,
Master of the whims of public forum,
Framer of destiny of the nation,
Bearer of the conscience of masses and
Winning hurdler of political kinks.
Now, the moldering public discourse is
Unbearable. One can no more cover
One’s nose. Nowhere is a silent shelter
From megaphone of ubiquitous din.
Where is a refuge? Simply, know not I.
I beseech you, sir, for learned counsel.
As thundering wildebeest migration
Clouds the slopes of national horizon:
Tulip of your acclaimed Law of Nature
Lies in the path of a roaring rampage.
I beg to ask, why uncanny tactile
Projections of your mind failed to measure
And forecast proneness to such afflictions.
Sir, you did not proscribe such maladies,
Or provide cautionary bells, at least.
Where have all the magistrates gone, I ask?
As I flip pages of your Summary View:
Prefaced by a motto of Cicero:
“It is the indispensable duty
Of supreme magistrate to consider
Himself as acting for community,
And obliged to support its dignity,
And assign to the people, with justice,
Their various rights, as he would remain
Faithful to the great trust reposed on him.”
Your pristine flora of the applied skills
In statesmanship and proper decorum
Is being supplanted by scurrilous
Scions of egocentric rhetoric.
Pails of justice are perceived as empty
By the parched sectors of land of plenty–
Await quenching rain of tenderness, but
Clouds of compassion remain unseeded.
Please forgive the outburst of my verses.
To rein my pen is to muzzle my soul.
Daggled and bloodied, the young man lay upon the ground where he’d been
left.. .left by vile men who, spurred by senseless hate and ravenous for a taste of
violence, had lured him with false fellowship and brought him to this secluded spot
by veil of darkened day. At first, they bound his arms, rendering him defenseless to
what was to ensue. After dragging him a small way from the back seat of their van,
they proceeded to pummel his stomach and his face, breaking his nose almost
instantly. When he stumbled to the ground, he received the heels of their boots as
they kicked at his extremities and then again, he received their cruel blows to his
stomach and face. When certain they had done enough damage so he would not
last a night in the cold, they spat on him and drove away.
As his attackers sat far away in a bar, drunk and boasting how they’d “done the
world a favor,” he’d already passed the stage of vomiting and gasping for his
breath. And though his brain was writhing with awful pain, with knowledge of his
sure obliteration, his chilled and broken body stayed inert. Reposed as if inside the
womb, he felt the ache receding, and before night’s shadows passed into the dawn,
his blood had stanched.
Now as flesh turns into carrion lying undiscovered in the dust, his spirit… never
quashed. . .cries out for justice.
It was the point of a meaningless moon,
That being dealt life, its absolute gloom,
Vague stars shone hope to reposed past of Earth,
Dusk hath casts a crazed eve, pure hueless girth,
Joint lives of suave views have spread neath vain space,
Twain hearts of faint aims bent at an odd place,
Hath time rose, it was at a library,
Heartbeats are intact, waft of rare moon, free,
Scene set single swift shift that sways said lives,
When immortal kiss filled, hatched modern drives,
Flash of bliss, sum less than a week, pithy,
Souls warp sovereign time a dichotomy,
Ageless Sun o'er timeless Earth, midst readers,
Pave periods, us, episode writers,
Two; songbooks split, both sung; books wrote, both said,
A book close, ashes to ashes, rites read,
Ode paid, poet refrains, anew begun,
...Chapter One.
No regrets, separate lives lived since my first kiss experience, though death came at mid-life, both of us had a fulfilled life, and for that, I am content.
Come, come my sweet let's go to bed,
Now that you've eaten all your bread,
The room is so cosy and warm
And sure nothing will give you harm.
Let's dim the light and close your eyes,
And strong you'll be when you arise
Sleep and dream of heaven my babe
Up among stars of perfect shape.
Imagine angels flying round
They all sing lovely music sound.
Ah now your eyes are sweetly closed,
Dream of heaven and be reposed
9 May 2021
Reposed in the ghost of light below the dell
Where brunette pine needles and thirsty oak leaves dwell,
The wind hisses in the canopy
Delivering dreams from the crabapple tree:
The cotton white petals flutter toward my lips
But brush on by with soft ginger wisps
That shroud my eyes from the blinking sun,
Then dusts the ground in a snow-like pollen;
Ripe round blooms cup fondly in my hand,
And the flesh blushes while it nears my breath.
The taste revives my memory; I stand,
And float to the tree which marks her death.
A lattice of vines covers this resting place
Some headstones fallen, lying in the grass,
That I drift back into hedges of t i m e,
Where markers seem to hum life’s stories.
This quiet glade, an archive on a ridge,
keeps secrets untold where stones are marked~
As a cloak of vines protects all those gone by
remembered not by any living heart.
I wonder if those reposed could share their tales
Before crumbling away as nameless dust;
Their sorrowful mysteries so hidden
Entwined now, with the vines’ languishing blooms.
To leave this place ~ where silent souls abide
Is to be aware of my unknown days,
For when, in dimming light, inscriptions crack
Will I be forgotten, like these old headstones?
------------------------
Overgrown With Vines Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings 10/3/2016
Born again Christian, imagine that!? She found Christ at the laundry mat..
He appeared some where between rinse and spin and now he definitely resides with in..
She no longer drinks. She no longer smokes. She doesn't hang out with unsavory folks..
Reading the scripture several times each day, she falls to her knees whenever she prays..
This new found faith she keeps reposed while she sorts thru the whites and her other clothes..
She holds it close, intent to capture and quietly awaits the coming rapture..
I come consistent, end-of-day
To lay my troubles down and pray
Beside those worries that I weigh
On hushing sands that trim the bay
Thru sun or rain, in bright or gray
For wondered hours gone astray
Reposed in twilight's soft bouquet
Thus seeking life's sweet interplay
To shift and shape this grand ballet
While drowning in the day's decay
Amidst the bloom of nature's fray
I set loose cares and drown dismay
No brooding with "poor-me's" cliche'
Seclusion birthed of Hemingway
This shore, my peaceful protege'
A timeless friend to doubts, allay
And leave the griefs of yesterday ...
Let strains, like seas, just ease away
Soft, come the evening, come what may
Though softer, still, the moon's display
As slow, it creeps, to peep the cay
Oh here my soul shall ALWAYS stray
Where silence, peace and grace repay ...
Swept shore-ward ... love's last castaway.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Grace And Solitude" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
There is a black fire that reigns upon this land
It burns beyond the red and yellow flames
Dead and done to skies of cinder and ash
To choke voices in the dread of darkest hours
We struggle to empower our meaning
While the giving light of hope
Rides on the slope of choice in its bond to truth
And now lays reposed to guide
In the blighted dead of smoke and lies
A living fallacy this madness
Our demise battles with our sullen cries
As our soul's sadness clings
To the countless sacrifice
For equality in the decades of man
With great boundless fading grief
This disempowering shore of insanity
Opens its door with no relief from the exercise of hate
To suffocate liberty
To implore our beliefs with crushing weight
To have us flounder at the shores of possibility
Taking our final breath, our truth and freedom to restore
August 14, 2020
Be Inspired Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
The Mill wheel wouldn't turn until the Spring.
Covered in ice from the frigid Winter freeze,
no production until the ivory dove does sing.
The town wondered what nature would bring,
so no one walked around with reposed ease.
The streamlet was frozen and along the shore
they found messages in bottles from the past.
Some had never seen anything like this before.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door,
and the meanings of these messages were asked.
No one spoke truth about these strange words,
they all denied knowing about them in fear.
Shaken up by this calamity the town was stirred,
they were told their messages would be unheard.
Just then a loud noise approached from near.
Ice melts, revealing secrets- wheel creaks
though the upcoming Spring hadn’t yet arrived.
Everyone stops in silence and no one speaks,
the snow stops falling and the ivory dove shrieks-
Lightning strikes the Mill wheel, and no one survived.
One, nine, sixteen v3.0 Poetry Contest
July 20, 2019