Best Reread Poems
I will always remember the moment we met.
(Haunting woodlands in springtime, your slim silhouette)
The glint in your eyes sparked a tempest at dawn
overwhelming the dreams of a slumbering fawn.
I will always remember your singular smile
(Fusing fantasies, fancies and phantoms the while)
when I brought you a daisy, then fled from the room,
weaving dizzy designs on a mystical loom.
I will always remember first touching your hand.
(Like the wing of a sparrow, frail fingers were fanned)
With my heartbeat aflutter, I jittered with joy -
on the surface, a man, though inside still a boy.
I will always remember the sound of your laugh
(Merry mermaid amused in a summer sea bath)
as we strayed 'long the strand, for a moment, alone,
with your tresses a’ tousle and tumbled and blown.
I will always remember your breath on my skin
(Seeking castles in chaos, a spirit in spin)
as you drew me aside and our tongues first entwined -
tangled twists of amour had begun to unwind.
I will always remember the fires of love.
(Shades of autumn ablaze in the tree leaves above)
Crazy passions ignited whenever we lay
painting stars in the night with the dazzle of day.
I will always remember the nightingale's tune.
(Divinations awash neath a ruddy blood moon)
When we kissed to its cadency, laughed as we danced,
lurking lanterns in limbo forged shadows enhanced.
I will always remember the shattering knell -
(Wanton words tolled in winter... ‘Adieu, dear... farewell’)
just a note near a nook where so often we slept
which I read and reread and reread while I wept.
I think it’s time I write
Write you OUT
Of the coming pages of my life
Oh…you linger
On every page
that's ever been
Keeping the plot a disguise
Unexpected events
My heart's demise
Slowly but surely
being written
By your unseen hand
I reread chapters
You were in my yesterday
You haunt my today
I don’t want you in my tomorrow
Not when you only bring me pain
No
I’m going to write you out
Cause I couldn’t write off
The debt of pain
I STILL OWE
To your oh so exacting heart...
I can't write it off
and so...
I’ll do the next best thing
I'll write you OUT
Out of the next scintillating sizzling sexy sentence
Out of the next dreamy dreamscape
Out of the next contentment compartment
Out of the next feminine fruition fantasy
For you've written only fragments
Sentence fragments of the greater picture me
Oh my!
Oh me!
I’m going to write you OUT
Of MY book
Of rememberance
The book of ME
Oh, it could have been
The best seller of your LIFE
But now you'll never know
Cause the coming pages are clean
for some beautiful soul
Some expert author
With the plot of pleasure
Bursting from his heart
Onto me
I'll LET HIM
Scribble his lines
Those glorious curves and dots
all over my body and mind
all over me...
Yes....spill his passion inked words
ALL....OVER....ME!!
And him..
HIM
I'm going to write IN
Oh...so deep and gloriously...IN
The book of ME
Eileen Manassian
The announcement of their special day came today
But I just looked at it briefly and turned away
Hearing of their wedding day brought sadness, dismay
An invitation for me? I didn’t know what to say
Stinging sadness in my heart I could not convey
I gazed out at the landscape and let my mind stray
Just months ago he gave me a colorful bouquet
Frail roses of red I proudly put on display
But he quickly plucked two and put them in my hair
Pledging his undying love with romantic flare
The pure ecstasy I felt was beyond compare
Each day since, I cut two more from the garden to wear
Then suddenly he went away; I knew not where
Tapestry on my dress now holds tear stains of despair
How cruel this message seemed, how terribly unfair
Knowing the life I had longed for, we will never share
Other scrolls remain unopened, I’ve no desire to read
As with restless hands, strings of a lyre I knead
The blossom of our love has transformed to a weed
To open my heart again, I feel no need
The pain that lingers won’t allow me to proceed
Leaning against the column, I’m forced to concede
This is one scroll I’ll remember and reread
Though for the answers I seek, I vow not to plead
*Written July 31, 2014 and inspired by Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s
painting “Poetry.”
You touch me with your words
Syllable sensations
Sound unit caresses
Meaningful moans
From all those
Adjective crescendos
That climax into verbs
Pounding
Each phrase a taste
Punctuation reverberations of love
Placed just in the right place
To make me quiver
Your thoughts turned words turned hands
Hold me steadfast
Unable to move away
Captivated by content of your dreams
I stay
I try to breathe
You splash your scent in syntax
Fragrant oil
A grammatical rub
That makes me lose my senses
My sight blurs
I reread
I bleed
I’m freed
Oh those words that you string together
Have me strung and tied
So beguiled
By your masterful mind
That has me play
That has me thrive
That has me dream
In the letter land of your love…
Eileen Manassian
I have a love affair with words....I've written a poem entitled, Poetry was Her Best Lover! Ah...but words are living entities! They breathe and touch and love a heart in such fantastic ways!
The chirp of cloudy morning peal its wondrous beauty
As it was a perfect moment to sip the taste of an old times
Pampered and drawn by those vintage voices
Shrunk in this sweet anomaly, the frames of a time roamer
Word by word, time after time
An anecdote is herding, I'm dancing in a rime
Reread all my writes, feel the flakes of each verses
My masterpieces in time, the journal of life's flavours
Now I'm landing on a sketch of laughters
Where I feel the rainbow of bliss
A small creature is trying to stay
In a warm belly it grows in its way
Waiting is the first list to do
Hoping for the best is the lovely second line
I have another story to make
And this time I offer you the lollipop in page
Writing my first Sonnet was like a pregnancy.
I knew I wanted to give birth to one
and took on the parental responsibility
knowing it wouldn't... or shouldn't take nine months.
There'd been no morning sickness nausea
but there were times when I wanted to change my mind.
"Too bad, kiddo," I thought. "You gotta see this through.
because you can't put Humpty Dumpty back inside his egg
once the shell has cracked and broken."
Determined not to have yet another unfinished poem
take up space in a notebook, I persevered
spoiling myself with ice cream, chocolate fudge slivers,
a few cherries, and a liberal squirt of caramel sauce.
I indulged myself with a reward after the first verse.
I've never liked dill pickles, so when I couldn't find
the right rhyming word for verse two, I didn't eat those.
Pregnancy or not, I wasn't going to suffer puckered lips
because my muse refused to be pregnant with me.
She'd have made a useless midwife anyway.
Said she'd be back when she got a birth announcement.
I suffered alone and pushed this baby out
with the same force a laborious woman uses to birth a child.
No epidural in the spine, although I did partake
in a bottle of wine during the entire nascence process.
"LOOK," I screamed. "After fourteen hours of labor
it's an eight-pound boy."
Actually, it was more like eight hours of labor
to deliver a fourteen-line Sonnet, and lots of anxiety.
I took comfort knowing this baby wouldn't need breast feeding.
Now that it's here, it will be reread a time or ten...
a line edited here or a tweak somewhere.
It will be mollycoddled, burped, and pampered
but not with the naked butt baby kind.
I'll sing it to sleep when I'm the one needing a lullaby,
and I'll be glad it doesn't cry for a two am bottle.
I won't worry about it getting sick or growing up too quickly
because ten years from now it'll still be my baby.
Birthing a child is difficult work but we both survived the labor.
and my firstborn is not crumpled in a basket, lying on the floor.
Think, plan, scheme, devise
Write, read, review, revise
Sit, wait, reread, reflect,
Insert, delete, keep, reject
Rethink, rewrite, reorganize
Snip, cut, paste, prioritize
A poem's a process of many a step
From that very first 'No' to that final 'Yep!'
The woods hissed and sn*ggered but weren't without their charms
A ghostly silloette in the distance like a girl without her arms
A floating figure, lifted as if hung down from yarn, puppet like
Blocked out some light as the moon rose into sudden night
A puddle, suprized by the kick of life it was given
Dived over the crimson clothing of a passer by
Not batting an eye the shadow glides an leaps in wind
Approaching a tree supporting a corpse beneath its limbs
The breeze's secretive so it seems the bodies breathin' sings
Arrived. A cloak hides its features, a bag opens, it reaches in
Still speachless in the shower, yet no wet words to greet us
Though now a mouths visible behind work of an expert seemstress
Wild weather beats the woodland creatures deep undercover
All but two inhabitants, the hooded one.. & one other
Our second stood, furred thickly, big teeth in a brown jaw
Having difficulty reading, vision blurred by the downpour
Lit by light the town brought, a poster was just clear enough
''Assassin Wanted! If you catch the killer, fear you should
For finding this foe will bring, not tears, but blood
And a reward of 10 g's for anyone, police.. even Robin Hood'
The final statement sent shivers up his spine, an how then?
The King hated Robin, and the Queen signed the announcement
Heart poundin' at the thought of ten big ones he couldn't wait for
The character reread the paper, rapid fast.. just to make sure
Sure enough the word was good, but the woods weren't silent
A twig broke, someone close quitely worked beside him
The tree sustaining the message had been blocking them from view
The otherside was a hooded person, white stockings an gloves on too
The hood moved......and the disguise unravelled
It was Red Riding Hood picking mushrooms the size of apples
To the hell of Theresienstadt transported
all hope for freedom aborted
Rabbi Shmuel Goldin understood what awaited
a life of forced labor now fated
Led into his barracks, which Jews shared with rats
Reb Shmuel sat on his bed, removing his hat
When what caught his eye, but a makeshift sign
which strengthened his faith in his people divine
For on a hidden door as he sat on his bed
these words Shmuel read and reread:
'This is none other than the House of G-d
and this, the Gateway to Heaven.' (Genesis 28:17)
"Surely," he cried, "no Jew may despair
as long as he breathes G-d's holy air.
________________________________________
Based on a story heard from Rabbi Dr. Jonathan
Schwartz, the Rabbi of Congregation Adath Yisroel,
Elizabeth, NJ, youtube.com, 'Unity' - Not Agree-
ment, Parshas Vayetze, Nov. 23, 2023.
We were waiting to board a boat when I happened to be blessed
to come across a bench close by the ocean…
this bench was facing west.
With an inscription from a husband to his wife…
now obviously gone
It read ‘Judy, in “All Ways” the love of my life…
the author’s name was John.
The second line which was written,
I imagine, with no regrets
went on to read
‘Remembering the Joys of Love & Great Sunsets’.
I never knew this couple
either together or after Judy was gone
I never had the good fortune
of knowing Judy and John.
And though I never knew them I could see them
sitting there…holding hands
watching the sun set into the ocean…
as its shadow crossed the sand.
And though I never knew them…
I think its amazing how
from an inscription on a bench they shared…
I kind of know them now.
As I reread the message John left Judy
I felt happy and a little sad…
For though I never knew them…
I kind of wish I had.
I remember, not long after we met,
playing the parts of free-spirited hearts,
adlibbing lines without rehearsing.
Absurd as it sounds, 'twas quite profound
that tensile strength of our tapestry threads
became so quickly woven together...
without eyes meeting nor voices heard.
We meshed as if delightfully dancing,
swaying like palms in a balmy breeze.
Our steps were always in perfect sync.
We were Fred and Ginger, turquoise and silver,
Darcy and Elizabeth without pride and prejudice.
I imagined his touch and kisses with bated breath
until the day he went away... emotionally.
In realms where daylight and darkness merge,
that shadowed place where docile dreams
and nefarious nightmares converge,
he was lost to me... Love's tragedy.
Our Utopian haven became a dystopian desert,
a desolate domain where stoic silence rules
over fools who choose to hold on to hope.
The nib of a pen, his tool of seduction
His dark verses seduced my hungry soul
and lighthearted lyrics were welcomed humor.
I sighed over his poetic rhymes of garden roses.
I suppose the fault was as much mine as his
for flirtation came easily in moments of desire.
My heart yielded without repent to be with him
and longed to smell the scent of his garden beds..
‘Twas more than a mere whim
My yearning burned for him like wildfire.
Suddenly, his flame was extinguished
as if what we'd shared had never been.
I had become addicted to his alchemy.
Combustibly enamored with explosive thoughts
because my greed and indulgent need of him
no longer fed my famished heart.
I was a prisoner of emotion, tangled within his web
of silken threads, longing once more to feel
his passionate embrace, but no trace of him was left.
What we vowed we felt was intoxicating.
I wanted him to make me that part of him
that didn't allow him to breathe without me...
but it was not to be.
I savor what we shared; that aching aura of love.
The months we dared expose our hearts.
I reread his poems and think of them as elegies ~
memories that may one day fade away
like sad melodies of haunting love songs
that unearth melancholy on dark, dreary days.
M ystically making magical mountainess memories
Y outhful yielding yachting yawns younder
N ewborn Nightingales nesting nervously near
A mbient animals auditioning against the airwaves
T imorous trees that tirelessly tower throughout time
U niversal uplifting of uproarious undying unions
R ivers rhythmically running revitalizing romances
E arth elegantly euphorically evolving eternally.
Oops!...had to adjust..reread...poem must be minimum 8 lines maximum 24 lines
Aug.08.2016
Wordscapes - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Lifted from somewhere, reference for attribution lost:
"If there is any characteristic which separates poets
from writers of fiction, it is their particular fascination
with words in themselves. Poetry is normally written
more slowly, more painstakingly than fiction and the
finished work is intended for careful, repeated reading.
It is natural for the poet to place a special emphasis
on the overtones, the rhythmical effect, and the sound
of words."
I shuffle papers, reread
what I have written long ago --
impelled now by the urge to say
something, not necessarily new,
but perhaps of minimal importance
and imbued with some logical meaning --
structured and stated in an "artistic"
and pleasing style.
Those thoughts, though, must convey
some meaning, cannot be
(or should not be) empty babble.
And ponderous subjects
are of little interest.
So, what makes poetic
expression pleasing,
or illuminating?
It begins with clarity of thought
with precision of expression;
it depends upon
having something to say
that is worth saying.
The music is low, as the pages unfold
A dusty worn novel, on bent-spinal shores
These classic old books, are my treasures of gold
A narrative story, with mystery's core
Latitude England, heavy with multitudes
of somber descriptions, and fictional lore
Chapters reread, opened with gratitude
Moldy with knowledge, elegant diction
Read once again, revises new attitudes
Timeless depictions are viewed with conviction
I find new adventures while reading each phrase
Loving old heroines, claims my addiction
My own place to spend time and ponder the maze
and to find some conclusion, left in a daze
___________________________________________________
For "A Vice You Love" contest
Sponsor Rob Carmack
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