Best Retell Poems
and I hunger for you, like a moth
longing for one last flicker of flame
nestled deep inside my heart
the memory of my childhood worship sits deep
as an innocent deer panting by the riverside
and I need you now, ... like I need the air I breathe
for I feel lame as a joke I can't retell,
perhaps I am the joke itself;
inside this narrow minded insulated world of reality,
you don't exist anymore for me
at least not in the way you did when I was young
for I have given you so many different gowns and shapes
that I am no longer able to envision you
the way I did before, what do you look like now?
I ask while sitting quietly, beneath a
Bodhi tree.
From the tips, of her white foam caps
To the bottom of her swells
The depth of our Love for her
Only the Ocean can retell
As we sat on pristine beaches
Kissed by waves upon our feet
Calling Us to join in with her
On this nautical Retreat
With her coolness, She caressed us
On that hot and sunny day
There, in the depths of her bosom
She allowed us both to play
And when the sun began to set
On her wrinkled, deep blue skin
We both marveled at Her beauty
Then swore, to return, again
Shotgun shells, fireworks, an empty casing,
Burnt gunpowder sensed with imagined smell,
Bring a smile as the mind begins onward racing,
Of times past and grand stories to retell,
Hunts to remember; 4th of Julys raising hell.
Even the repugnant is remembered with glee,
Fresh swine manure upon beds of loose straw,
Time on the farm, a boy’s life lived carefree,
Fishing, hunting, and building with grandpa,
Learning gun safety and how to hammer and saw.
A favorite to this day is corn cut fresh,
Dust in the air with stalked rows piled,
Behind the red tractor and an 8 row thresh.
Memories overflow of that innocent child
Of the fun that was had, a boy in the wild.
(TWIN FLAMES)
Like he pleaded for your friendship
Let’s say he did, alright he did!
Polite rejection would be great,
But all those “hellos” were as fake
He thought being true was good enough,
And hoped by her life would look up.
As in his mind was the thought born,
It there did die before it sprung.
Quite all the moxie that he had,
Without a toil would have been hers,
Yet she felt naught (like would a corpse)
When all his dreams drained through the crust.
Like she pleaded to thus be strung,
Let’s say she did but was not wrong.
A gentle advance would’ve been best,
She tagged the others guys “coquettes”.
How would he know? He’s quite sinless,
And the movies would neither help -
Nor would these books reveal to him,
How upon maids, they work their wits.
Maybe she was, and’s still like him,
And never hopes to turn from it,
Maybe she too is still as true,
And hence she fell on tenterhooks.
She could be hurt and not retell,
The wondrousness within herself,
And how his fancy had took her,
From that first glance and salient smirk.
Like they both pleaded to be born
Dizygotic or one by one.
One should suffer, one should serve
One should proffer the other care.
Once on the earth and swarmed by dreams
Either, confused reality.
Who would be crowned? Venus or Mars?
Or would they both meet in the stars?
“Like a cold corpse felt naught” he thought,
Her heart was cold and dangerous.
Like autumn leaves are fallen dead,
She thought, “no love was on his head”.
The Gift of Christmas
Some people say Christmas in this present time
Wanders lost
Through flashing ads and tinsel carelessly strung
On an artificial bough.
Some people say the Spirit of Christmas
Lives no more -
The simple Christ Child’s birth
Coldly mocked by glittering commercials
For diamond rings and robot toys.
Some say our plastic credit cards
Bring shame to one, who, born so poor,
Wore no fancy clothes
Or even slept in a cradle of his own.
Some say a Christian world forgets
The simple song of angel praise and shepherd lambs
In hustle crowds who only hum
Atonal harmony in green cash jingles
Some people say that Christ remains absent
From our Christmas celebrations
So lost we get in buying –
So drunk we get with wine.
Yet, I see his star rise up again
In children’s faith, eyes aglow with awe,
Reflecting wonder back into the darkest night
The miracle of the Christmas story.
I watch a callous world
Retell Nativity
Then remember little acts of kindness
From a neighbor, or a friend,
In homemade thank you cards
Of cookies, cakes or ornaments.
The Yuletide air overflows with scents of sugarplums -
Pungent cloves, nutmeg sweet
And aromatic cinnamon -
A gift of time given to baking memories
In sweet spice with children.
Music fills the world again,
To herald
Carols dancing in our hearts,
“Joy to the world!” the lyrics say,
“Joy to the world! The Lord has come!”
Each year I watch the world
Stretch out a loving hand of help
To strangers shivering in the cold,
To those who live alone -
To ones with rags for clothes
And families who face each day
Empty cupboard shelves –
Whose children would be strangers
To the joy of Christmas morn
If not for hearts and hands
Of women and of men
Who bring the Magi’s gifts to poverty again.
I see this cynical world
So closely guard the spirit of this time
A world of Santa Claus’ asks no gratitude
For countless days of aching feet
Crowded streets
And traffic jams.
Their love returns a hundredfold,
Through smiles and gasps of childlike glee,
To nestle beneath boughs of evergreen
When the dawning light opens up the givers joy
Spreading across a silent world
A message sprung from hope’s own heart
Born with a baby boy.
12-2-22
Contest: Christmas Spirit Poetry
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
How Fine Life Is To man, When His Crops Are All Green
Yesteryear, I saw grapes hanging heavy on the vines
Such bounty was not all, bright where the windy pines.
Green the grass grew, fodder for all of mankind,
How I wish I knew, that righteous path to again find.
Beyond that past scene, rests solace in future hope
Life soft and less mean, no bad seen in my horoscope.
Another Spring giving joy, gentle winds in my sail,
Happiness for my little boy, treasures he can retell.
With that thought, I can find another gentle peace!
Today my heart raced on again, into its new scene.
How fine life is to man, when his crops are all green.
Music reaches into his heart, dancing into his soul.
He rises in joy's restart, entering his blessed new role.
With that thought, I can find another sweet release!
Robert J. Lindley, 3-22-2016
My new sonnet form.
Royalty can be no match
Sometimes, for a plan to hatch
From the minds of angry men
When they have an angry yen
To overthrow what they don’t like
and make a move to shoot and strike
Rather then make their appeal
They would rather maim and steal
But
In this saga to retell
As his rage he could not quell
It is true as it was seen
’Twas a pickle saved the queen
Had she not reached for that Dill
Her assassin’s plot to kill
Might have gotten very far
Had she not reached for that jar
Thank God for that pick, pick, pickle
Saved her life, it’s just that simple
Sometimes, she is just so fickle
Thank God, she reached for that pickle
Now forever in this land
There will be a PICKLE Stand
With a sign for all to see
Saved the queen, HEY, look at me
That assassin’s been arrested
And his punishment attested
He will labor many years
Canning pickles, chips and spears!
You and me,
we got a lot of storefront love
Yes, we got pockets full of
coupon passion
Discount tears are so ooh ooh
out of fashion
‘Cause we got plenty smiles on the shelf,
and even more good kisses on display
Giving free samples to each other everyday
We are two items sold as one
Beach towel hearts wrapped together
under the breezy tropical sun
We both are an item
that was more than once returned
Our no-refund love is a gift freely given of
past tear checkout lessons learned
Walking down the aisle of happiness,
we purchased a vow
to give each other our very wed best
We were lost items
looking to be true love found
No need anymore for
shopping our regrets around
Irregular heartbeat feelings tossed in the outdated bin,
skipping rope fidelity style ain’t coming back
A limbo fate put us together on the right rack,
we were a perfect matching pair ~ So good looking
No more thoughts so mannequin,
no more packaged plastic posing
Me and you,
we got a lot of real storefront love
Pockets full of plenty good
coupon passion
We are two items sold as one
Jogging suit soulmates ~ Retell joy synchronized,
on a love time marathon run
We both are a gold item,
so ticking in tandem delight
Much too often buyer remorse returned
We are a beautiful item,
rare birds in romantic flight
Having no caged doubt discard concern
Crannies in Time
Resting beneath a pile of silken scarves and soft kid gloves -
Hatboxes filled with old tweed caps, cuff links bearing long lost crests,
A leather box – a jewelry case – opened to reveal a ballerina’s spinning grace,
To release a mania of memories, popping up like popcorn, as if they waited
To jump out - surprise conspiring to astonish eyes of wonder;
Travelers in time, arms of welcome pointing to a portal for hearts returning
With startled souls among the murals painted on their walls in time indelible,
Revisit wrinkles in eternity where moments recline -
Retell events re-formed by memories cast in sterling,
Linked by silver circles showcasing milestones days, precocious pets,
Musicals with wishing wells, a lovers vow, frayed dancing shoes,
Milestone birthdays, skis for winter, umbrellas for a city clothed in rain,
Side by side with souvenirs, states with nicknames stamped on their backsides
Collections, a crowded patch of rambling flowers scampering up a garden wall
Poking through the tiny crannies left by minutes flying by in streamers flowing,
Daylight merging into starlight - midnight gliding past each dawn -
Captivating charms guarding sacred spaces where treasures abide
Now seen through cracks in time, amid the winds with hands of ice,
Hearts welcomed back to reflect in sanctuaries warm
With new eyes that once searched for ghosts of meaning –
Specters - understanding - come in focus.
Daddy, your bed time stories were the best.
The extra prescision you took while reading a book,
To overcome your struggles and ensure you pronounced each word correctly,
Were the most beautiful sounds.
The way you would sit and practice slowly,
Sometimes repeating words out loud or to yourself,
In efforts meant to bring our sleepy ears an image written down.
They were always the most beautiful words Daddy.
They were the best stories, that I lay in bed,
An adult now, and listen to my memories, where you retell them again.
You stuttered - it mattered not.
No other stories compare.
I felt as if I was intruding, invading her space,
When instructed, I reached out and touched her face.
I stood in awe before South Africa’s gentle giant.
I listened to the story of her proud and defiant
Fight for survival. Elephants at Knysna are so few.
The hunters had slain thousands, tragic tales but true.
I stopped and looked deep in her eyes, it is hard to explain,
But it was a special moment, as if we shared the pain.
What terrible memories has she stored of times gone by,
Back when she wandered wild beneath South Africa’s sky?
As her trunk took the fruit I offered from my outstretched hand
I knew it was impossible for me to understand
That greed could prove to be just as deadly as a disease
That anyone could even think of killing one of these
Magnificent, peaceful creatures, it seemed obscene to me
That so many had died for the sake of their ivory.
She finished eating the fruit, turned, moved away ambling, slow,
Reluctantly I turned also, it was time for me to go.
My meeting with this great old matriarch had meant so much.
Then, I felt it, gently with her trunk she reached out to touch
My neck. It was like a velvet teardrop, caressing, soft,
I turned, she raised her trunk in triumph, high aloft.
The sad story of her herd we must tell and then retell,
Save elephants from extinction, stop that final farewell!
Outside my dorm window, the snow began to fall;
Everybody had gone home, but I didn’t have a car.
Christmas break started yesterday, they’re gonna throw me out;
I’ve got no place to go, I’ll just be wandering about.
Rubbing elbows with the rich kids on an academic ride,
But the tracks that I come from are from the other side.
No daddy who’s a lawyer; no mother with a doctorate degree,
No car keys to a new Porsche underneath a Christmas tree.
Threw some clothes in my backpack with the cafeteria food that I stole;
Borrowed my roommate’s comforter to protect me from the cold.
Found a shelter for the homeless on the other side of town;
With my First Year Contract Law book, I started to hunker down.
A little boy walked up beside me and stood beside my cot,
“Mister, would you like to share my candy, it’s the only thing I got.
I’ll give you half my candy cane if you read me a story from your book.”
How could I refuse this little boy and the longing in his look?
“You can keep your Christmas candy, but I will tell you a story,
About a newborn baby King and the star that signaled glory.”
As I told the story of Christmas, the best I could recall,
People gathered around the two of use as the snow outside did fall.
When my story was finally over, the little boy just smiled,
And put a smile on every other face that gathered in the crowd;
Then he looked at every one of us and said, so simply,
“Jesus Christ put that star of hope into all of you and me.”
Suddenly, my self-pity flew right out of my soul,
Becoming rich like all my schoolmates, no longer was my goal,
I closed up my text book and went outside into the snow,
Laying on our backs, making snow angels, we watched the stars aglow.
“The star of hope still shines brightly, each and every Christmas night,
With our faith in baby Jesus, everything will turn out all right.”
I returned back to the university and finished my degree,
Dedicating my life thereafter to helping others out of poverty.
Every Christmas Eve I go back to that shelter on the far side of town,
And retell the story of Christmas to whoever comes around.
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
She sat alone
Against jagged stones
Carving her misery into them
Watching the blood, red and worn
Retell her sorry tale
The ocean waves crashed at her feet
As if trying to warn her
As if trying to tell her something
"He isn't there anymore"
But she won't heed the angry voices
Nor will she try to move
Because the ocean reminds her too much of him
His blue eyes, and cold heart
And a midnight summer charm
She waits until it fades to black
and the ocean looks like a black abyss
Then she hopes it will swallow her
leading her to him
Maybe the ocean will take pity
And lead her straight to hell
And into her long lost love open arms
Where he's waiting for her
But the ocean refuses to open
And refuses to let her drown
They try to tell her that he isn't there anymore
She has no reason to cry
Tear a Heart, Shred a Soul
No difference will it make
Unless you head the silent whispers
That he is waiting on the sand
Beneath the moon
Watching and Waiting for her return
His tale too is a sad one
For she will never come back
Her ripped up mind
Her beaten body
Lay in the ocean, buried deep
Waiting for him
(i have the same poem up on a different site...username XxUnforgivenxX)
A night before I saw her smile
And saw at dawn she smiled again
I saw her she was now in love;
She loved the fairness of the skin
And felt incomplete in dim moonlight.
She loved infants and played their eyes
That winked when tiny smiles they see
On little fair buds of her joy
She would her tales of love retell
And on the brink of eve she would
Rise from voices to her throat
And utter voices free that mean
To every understanding heart;
Sore she would from her throat awake
And tell infants her tales foreseen.
She was the queen of all infant
And shiver in her fever mild
On final arms of hasting clock
First foreseen and then remembered
I saw she was now in love.
The numbness that on limbs would run
Then I would see her bleed her blood
On chicks and then she blush again
She sweetest sees when such her face
Would glow in eyes that recollects
All her joy to heal her pain:
She now would hide from all cities
From those where she had ere spent
The infant nature of her limbs
She blushes in shy, and blush again
Her eyes would linger from the hues
And blush again to see those hues
She would like and see again
So she could blush once more again.
Dear loveliness, lend her hand
So she could love forever
I see she is in love.