Best Represent Poems
Spring Flowers
Opal open clouds let raindrops freely fall
Coaxing coy blossoms of spring to bloom.
Fragrant sweet scents permeate the air.
Snow drops begin the parade as they appear.
It is believed that snow drops originated
When an angel breathed upon a snowflake.
The pansy’s bright *French face in viola shades
Were known to represent a lover’s pursuit
And remembrance of his loyalty and love.
Scilla Siberica with their nodding blue-bell like
Flowers feature a Royal Horticultural status.
Their faint fragrance and hues mesmerize.
Let’s not forget the flowering trees swaying in
Spring’s bucolic breeze where cherry blossoms
Seize our eyes in pink or white with such delight.
Song birds sing their sonorous songs with joy
As snow melts into rivers flow and waves goodbye.
New birth, harbinger of hope arrives in spring.
3-12-22
Spring Showers or Spring Flowers Poetry Premiere Contest~Nineth Place~
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
*The word, pansy is derived from French
language and means ‘thought’.
My thanks to Wikipedia for the photo:
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/38/Scilla_carpet_Alnwick_gardens.jpg
she leans back and points bare toes at clouds
chains creak their rhythmic squeak, hypnotic loud
taken aback, her hair sails slipstream flung
downstream freedom for a moment hung
in mid-air - earth's force gives up its grip
hands sweat, hold tight, they cannot slip...
underneath, grave ground drops and falls away
above, a fraction weightless, she holds sway
swing's song suckle drugs her hungry mind
lids close, sun glows infrared behind
pushed ahead, prow barges coldest breeze -
heady heights drop back to life's sleeze- tease
whistle warns soft shots across neck's nape -
a tug towards untimely no escape
pendulum head, concave waver rocks it
self gives way to backbone's growing grit
back or forth, the dipper croons reprieves unbought
no more a cradle - ladle, once more sought
after - alter course - alter - falter, first
of all, go back, bold, and slake high spirit's thirst
looming dark dips her fears in far off stars'
molten matter - fired white hot globes unbar
eternal flames, external spin as atoms swim
in ether - her thoughts burn bright just for Him
now's the time, now's the place, blown up sky high -
now's the time to kiss the shattered sky.
5th March 2019
Aqua Marine.
"Righteousness and Peace - they have kissed each other. " ( the connection of the two will be as evident to all as is the close association of affectionate friends...) Figuratively, a kiss could represent a demonstration of respect and devotion, and often served as a token of affection.
A Tree
I’m a tree lining a country road
Along with hundreds of other
Trees in the direction of a verdant
Forest—full of scenic wonder and
Teaming with life.
All of us stand tall and firm with
Such majestic beauty and geometric
Symmetry and precision which is
Evident from the angles and curves
Of each tree and the fact we all
Practically line up in a straight line.
The simplicity and beauty we display
To the human eye disguises the actual
Complexity beneath the surface of our
Existence which could even be likened
To some form of a thought-provoking
Algebraic equation.
We all represent the wizardry of Mother
Nature and the divine thought of God and
Have been an integral part of this Earth
Far longer than Mankind—and do we have
Some stories that we could share with you!
As a tree I’m nurtured daily by our Earth,
But as I take, I also give back and help to
Bring balance to Earth’s daily Carbon
Dioxide output in the greater scheme of
The worldwide environment.
And so, as a Tree, my life and function
As a living organism and an entity here
On Earth is a testament to the wonder of
Creation, and both the marvel and mystery
Of the Universe, and the omnipotence and
Divine power of God.
Gary Bateman and Ingrid Krukenberg-Bateman
– A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(May 12, 2015) (Narrative)
*Originally written on February 15, 2015 for my new book.
at the break of dawn
a Hummingbird starts his rounds
Morning Glory sought
flaunting a red hue -
Mexican Sunflower tempts
looking hot, hot, hot
the Don Juan of birds
sucking nectar from Beardtongue. . .
drunk on French kisses
Goldenrod at noon. . .
Zephyr carries a sweet scent
beneath a gold sun
between Rose bushes
the Flower Kisser gets lost
in Blue Infinity
Sweet Pea and Bee Balm
entice with purple petals. . .
Bees join the orgy
Monarchs swarm in droves
when blue Hummingbird alights
on Butterfly Bush
Evening Primrose
waving in the dusk’s last breeze. . .
the proper lover
the Flower Kisser
leaves his harem sated as
white Moonflower glows
*The capitalized names for flowers
represent some of the most popular
flowers visited by hummingbirds.
They are in meaningless session again
Not seeking to serve but to practice the deception
Not seeking to lead but to mislead
Taking black and white, creating gray
Don't wave that flag if you do not honor it
Oppression by omission. You have given
NOTHING
But rights to the dissidents and wrongs to the citizens
Hear me now
I cannot replace the spine you're missing
ONE NATION UNDER GOD
If you cannot accept you cannot lead
If you cannot lead you are the problem
THE FAILURE
Authorizing condemnation and treason
Banning prayer and patriotism
Once filled with victory and pride
Now mired in failure
Represent or resign, serve or secede
Make a stand for once or fall forever
We no longer will tolerate
YOUR FAILURE
One nation UNDER GOD.
Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect rose.
So was a metaphor created from the rose,
Then plagiarized and used for all of time,
Simply here to represent the beauty of love,
A perfection to which we cannot aspire to in life,
Or even death, in the darkest of all those woes,
Great though they may seem by the passing day.
It's a fragile, soulful kind of love,
In the pressing presence of the breaking day,
Where your back breaks beneath ample woes,
And there just simply isn’t ever enough time,
To do what you plan to do with your life.
Then you start to resemble that rose.
Soft and delicate, with easy loss of life,
Mournful of the passage of time,
Counting down, day by dreary day,
Ever seeking out to find dear love,
The theoretical banishment of woes.
Such is the way of the deep red rose.
Has it ever occurred to us not to mark time?
Just to ignore it, along with any such woes,
Just to leap forth and enjoy life,
To live to the absolute fullest everyday,
And just as chosen by the poet's rose,
To find and hold on to, that one true love.
For I find, that it's mostly true these days,
That people don't make enough time,
For laughter and fullness in life,
So preoccupied with petty woes,
That they forget about the beauty of love,
And in doing that, they forget about the rose,
I know what the rose represents in my life,
And I work hard to expel my woes every day,
So that soon I will have time for true love.
*****Written in Sestina for Constance's Poetry 101 contest.*****
******* 5th Place winner*******
******Sarah Blake August 2010******
A sestina is a highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-
line envoy (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order
as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy.
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
No Not Me
Did you think when I left
I'd never answer my phone,
ignore your messages,
never speak to you again?
Did you think I was that guy?
I thought you knew me
but it wasn't about me was it?
How often have others disappeared?
You were judging me as if I was them.
I guess I can't blame you,
life is not always kind.
But not me, no not me.
I'm not him,
It's my actions represent me,
define the man I am.
Words lie and eyes aren't always
an insight to every man.
You can't always trust their smile.
I bet the devil is an attractive male
with an inert charm and not a horn in sight.
You can't beat the sky in your own skin.
If your a demon you groom flawlessly,
dress like a king, with a look that's soft.
The wolf doesn't tell the sheep "I'm here!"
It's the guy with nothing to hide who is often
misconstrued. Honesty has it's price.
I don't blow dry my hair in the mirror.
practice my reactions.
I don't kiss up,
my nose is clean.
I don't always talk in a quiet melodic voice
or hide my tears. When I say it's alright
It just is.
I didn't walk away, I had to leave
but you can find me.
For you I am always here!
Did you think when I left I would disappear?
Never!
I hold you dear.
I'm always here.
No not you
You would never just walk away
Away from people or things you love
You don't always say what you feel in spoken
words,
yet you shout out your feelings in written words,
no lies are here, you write from the heart.
Your love holds no bounds, you love for life,
You say that your eyes are not an insight to your soul,
Yet when the light goes out, I know your dying inside
To walk away, no not you, to hide for a time,
Maybe,
.
©1996 RICO LEFFANTA
Apache Ga-an are like the disciples of Christ, they were most highly respected
Missionaries condemned the Ga-an as “Devil Dancers,” and called them inferior
“New World” new beliefs, but even the woman and children were unprotected
Apaches totally rejected a religion where humans only are considered superior
Evil men, who taught they were above everything else, “The Chosen Ones”
Apache language was unaccepted, so punished when it was proudly spoken
Franciscan’s, Jesuits, Spaniards, Comanches, confinement, disease, and guns
Killed, called them savages, or their spirits and bodies were gradually broken
The dance ceremony is performed to drum and song, and mostly at night
Four dancers representing different cardinal directions north, south, east, west
The messenger, “clown” with a dual nature is the only one who wears white
Dancers represent mountain spirits, their masks prepared by a shaman guest
A bull roarer or whistle starts the ceremony to create an ethereal sound
The ceremony is performed at na’ih’es, girl’s adulthood initiation ritual
Flashing adding to the dazzling effect are the mirrors on the crowned
Apache, indigenous peoples, associate with spirituality and are habitual
Powerful mountain spirits and a comical teacher who heals through laughter
You may see the Ga-an rise from the flames, when you hear the messenger
The dancer’s bodies painted with symbols and patterns, stars, of here after
Today, more enlightened Americans call the Ga-an, “Crown Dancers” ~
Learned to drive in 1980; it became a must.
The car I bought soon broke down; “Another One Bites the Dust!”
With two kids by ‘81 - plus work. My tired bones!
“Start Me Up” kept being sung by the Rolling Stones.
“Hungry Like the Wolf” was I; what future would be mine?
Prince knew back in ‘82 how great was ‘99!
Culture Club and Cyndi Lauper put me in the groove
when to a house in ‘83 we then made a move.
Michael and Madonna in the next year were the rage.
But a baby blue Camaro in my life took center stage!
“Walk Like an Egyptian” sang the Bangles. We did more!
In ‘85 we headed west to California’s shore.
Pre-86 we’d always been “Livin’ On a Prayer.”
But once in the Bay Area, much better we would fare!
In ‘87, boating with my kids and spouse was cool!
I saw George Michael’s concert, and our complex had a pool.
Teaching dance aerobics, having all the fun I could.
For my family, ‘88 was “Straight Up” crazy good!
89’s big earthquake hit; my husband’s work was done.
“Free Fallin’” we then headed home. Farwell to West Coast sun!
November 8, 2018 for
Michelle Faulkner's 'Remembering the 1980's' Poetry Contest
(I loved the music of that time and tried to represent a bit of it in each couplet)
A white liberal editor said what I wrote wasn’t black enough.
I spoke to him with confidence,
with a hole in my shirt I had tucked in my pants.
I told him I am a man just like him,
and he acted like he didn’t hear what I said.
He said, my writings wasn’t black enough.
I gave him some more essays
and he said, it didn’t represent the people who were struggling.
And on the way home on the bus,
I thought about my father, who was the only black man
receiving his PHD amongst a predominantly white university.
Was his struggle, not struggle enough?
On the way home, I continued to write and look out the bus
window and I saw the prostitutes do their dance as usual...
the gang members watched and peered on the corner.
And I wrote my poems from what I wanted to see.
I wrote about the flowers that grew behind the barbed wired fences.
I wrote about the women on the streets who once admired the flowers or who secretly admire them.
Can we admire flowers too?
Do we have a right to feel some softness in the world?
Do we have the right to be a full human?
*This simple acrostic combined with the photo and the song represent a message I've been preaching since my return, ie, Poets for Peace. A similar message can be found in my lyric - Song of the Poet, and my series of senryus - Winds of Change. We live in a world that is fractured and splintered like never before. Hatred, bias, suspicion, accusations and so on are the order of the day. My sincere hope is this place we call Poetry Soup can become a haven, a place of rest and peace. May this be your prayer as well.
Poetry Soup is the place to be
Art's on display for the world to see
Revolution's now in progress
And the future is clear
Do unto others
Is the message we bear
Grace is the way forward
May all present give ear
Solidarity, I believe
Humans long to achieve
Isolation brings sorrow
For a better tomorrow
Tolerance and kindness are key
let love and peace reign supreme
My poems are words with soul - Silent One.
As a monotone morning sketches
charcoal trees under
smoke filled foggy skies,
rain casually falls,
sliding down slate roofs,
causing havoc for traffic
on bustling roads.
Red lights seem to shimmer,
shining through shades of grey,
as the sound of raindrops drip
against my BMW's black bonnet,
my mind drifts nonchalantly,
discarding beeping horns and FM beats.
I ponder
is it an act or is it an art
this thing they label as life,
living with a formula formed and forged
from a mix of experiences and emotions.
I begin to question myself.
(why do we do that?)
I seem to have adopted a sense of vulnerability,
fusing feelings of fragility,
since my hair infused into silver (yes I chose silver over grey) -
something my father warned against.
But I'm not as tough as him,
although he wasn't half the man I am...
Yet what I have seen and heard,
has ultimately made me who I am today
and in all the suffering I have
always searched for the light -
Rumi was right.
Maybe I'm too open minded,
too fair in this field of selfish spirits.
Maybe I'm not loyal enough to my beliefs,
which contradict my moral compass
and philosophical projections,
but I've never claimed to be saint.
My soul is telling me to shut up..
I've always wondered if I'll ever be understood..
At least I understand me - but is that any consolation?
It's not as simple as wisdom accumulating.
Sensitivity of a smile can never be underestimated.
You have to peer beyond the verbal,
non verbal - comprehend the action.
Sometimes I feel unloved,
many times invisible,
yet I seem to come alive in loneliness.
Would I be a plaintiff or defendant
in a court of your judgment?
I will always represent myself.
Words with speech have never been true confessions,
as my thoughts are too deep,
sometimes too unreliable,
that's why I never pen them down -
it scares my soul (who tells me again to shut up).
I wonder if I make sense. Soul calls it nonsense.
Green flashing circle says I can go.
An abrupt end to contemplation.
Sadly grey tones and
tints of tiredness remain.
Simple Musing
8 December 2023
Created
By Michelle Morris
21/12/2022
You created me from nothing
Where the Universe births new stars
I was one of a billion new souls
That were formed in your eyes
Such love and light and joy
You gave to every being
May we all realise that we
Are angels yet unseen
Thank you for Your blessings
Your compassion and Your grace
Your peace and mercy save us
Your love is greater than all space
For from nothing we were created
And to You we owe our souls
May we represent Heaven
As part of the Universe's knowing
Each soul perfect in itself
Each destiny unfolding
We are all from one place
Where the Universe was dawning
You created us from nothing
Using starlight and stardust
May we spread light and love and joy
Until the Universe is perfect
© Michelle Morris, 2022
When I met the tall and amiable Vietnam War veteran,
my shyness showed,
yet, my throat dried and tightened when he softly
spoke the words, "The war never goes away."
All these humanity destroying wars never cease,
soldier's names, faces, their eyes so well-worn.
Their love letters sent home never faded in their
immortality.
The soldiers who made it home alive weren't
given a hero's welcome.
Their nightmares flashing as they wake up
sweating in their sheets in the dark,
yelling for respite from still hearing and
being in the firefight, still seeing the VC,
and witnessing the life breaths leaving
mortally wounded brothers.
Descending into the night's loneliness,
the blue-gray of the t.v. on low volume,
the sobbing of a loyal wife.
Some marriages, families split apart
with crushing sadness,
many veterans homeless on U.S. streets,
such a heartbreaking shame shadowing
over the face of America the beauty.
Surviving veteran's hair becomes snow-white,
war wounds achingly arthritic,
memories of their war buddies still sweetly
preserved in their mind's images.
Vietnam War veteran's reunions as their
bones stiffen, but still salute their brothers
and sisters in arms,
their hats with the name of the war,
the pride of their service.
Many barely out of high school,
with brothers of the same town,
the same state,
so much youth called up,
joining brothers from other regions
of the U.S.
Blessed by God in their fraternity,
their bravery.
The deep red poppies represent their
precious blood.
I remember the 1960's-70's searing
scars in my mind,
weeping for the loss, the hurt in our
hearts over the Vietnam War.
MIA's, POW's,
disappeared as aging families still pray,
still wait.
In the local Veteran's Cemetery,
I met a woman in her eighties,
she was a little confused,
couldn't recall where her Vietnam veteran
son's grave was located.
She told me her daughter-in-law couldn't
bear to visit his grave.
We found his grave,
his name glistening in the dew of
that gentle May morning,
as wrens and sparrows sang on
blossomed boughs.
A chance encounter became such a
gift to honor her son,
and his mother.
To let her know he was not forgotten,
but cherished,
Welcome Home. ~