Best Ribboned Poems
Time keeps crawling
Time thaws fleeting days
Days with daisy hope
Days where you fall
Fall to rise again
Fall in perfumed dreams
Dreams forgotten
Dreams lost in silence
Silence that sings
Silence with secrets
Secrets unquestionable
Secrets unfathomable
Unfathomable reality
Unfathomable clarity
Clarity with no remorse
Clarity of seven stars
Stars of lavender love
Stars of silver hymns
Hymns of forsaken flowers
Hymns whispered in rhymes
Rhymes left unwritten
Rhymes with no rhythm
Rhythm of bleeding ink
Rhythm of whistling waves
Waves of healing
Waves of cleansing
Cleansing yesterday’s pain
Cleansing masks of shame
Shame rinsed in mauve rain
Shame with shimmering stains
Stains of rosy red
Stains from emerald emotions
Emotions that made me hush
Emotions from tokens of love
Love painted in prose
Love within my heart
Heart ribboned with sunsets
Heart reflecting clementine sky
Sky sequined in sapphires
Sky quilted in rubies
Rubies within summer blues
Rubies mirror twilight hues
Hues of moonlit souvenirs
Hues of untangled strings
Strings of faith
Strings of words
Words mean nothing
Words mean everything
Everything…
Nothing…
When you are
an agonizing
echo from a
benevolent voice,
life exhales in
mahogany haze,
spreading across the
lachrymose meadows as
scarred rivulets of
sandalwood scents,
where ceramic
rhymes slumber in
watercolor coffins
with opaque metaphors,
weaving hoaxed
hymns of the nascent
heavens within these
mortal hues.
I'm a bronze brushstroke
of origami colours,
pinned to the weary
wall as the state
of forsaken art,
splattered in acrylic-
resembling sombre
diamonds that
knit ebony pixels
of my onyx heart,
scattered across the
blistered brims,
framed from
fate crossed palms;
doused in poisoned
henna depicted
in dismay, to portray
the painting of despair
within my splitting mind.
Isn't the monochromatic
shade of an aesthetic
mural a clementine
symmetry, where ruby psalms
stained with black peonies,
bleed thistle-ribboned
tales from an orchid's silence?
Not every artist
can mold
peace from a
pastel palette
filled with poignant
petals engrossed
in purple pain,
but poetic fingers
can sculpt an evergreen
masterpiece through
crisp flakes of
tumbling torment,
carried through
arctic mists.
But is there a
teal-azure texture
to create a
timeless tapestry
interlaced with
lavender musings?
As melancholy soars
beyond roseate realms
like a moon-winged butterfly,
fluttering across
cantaloupe sunsets,
etching heartbeats of
hope in harp's periwinkle pigments,
when twinkling jewels
lose their shine,
leaving tales untold
to waltz with
forlorn silhouettes-
dwelling in a gallery of grief.
For, in the calligraphic
corners of chaos,
I’ve found healing,
between ethereal pages
within a cathartic labyrinth.
I woke up to the soft
marigold melodies
of whistling waves,
reverberating in
turquoise tunes,
stirring the sleeping
sunrise within my soul,
while the hermit crabs,
soaked in salty sand,
creep along the ivory
shores at a slow pace,
too eager to find a
faulty ray from my
honeyed horizon.
Yet I refused to allow
the crawling crustaceans
to obscure the serene scenes
unfolding in shades
of teal zeal beneath
azure spheres,
for I am the
metaphorical mermaid,
weaving aquatic anthems,
awaiting the crystalline
calling from the warm
arms of an oceanic heart.
I remember walking
on colorful clouds,
tiptoeing my way to
the psychedelic gates
of seraphic realms,
oblivious to the
hibiscus haven thriving
in tropical fruitfulness.
Perhaps the flavors
of twilight cocktails
were blended with
trippy ingredients,
untying ribboned skies
to unveil a
kaleidoscopic staircase
to untouched bliss,
where no breathing
footprints can blemish
the pearlescent purity
of an exotic paradise.
There, in the rhyme-less
roots of palm trees,
you’ll find my inked dreams,
kissing the cinnamon sun,
unfurling herbs of
seasoned sanguinity,
a singing siesta
soothing ruffled crests
rippling with topaz tranquility
along celestial currents.
This is me turning perfumed
pages of my grounded reality;
a picturesque painting
sketched in the
amethyst arena of
my sixth chakra,
and I will forever remain
in this island of romanticism,
collecting conch shells,
writing poetry with
evergreen stems,
and floating weed,
a lyrical hideaway,
without scarred flowers
envious of the sapphires
I knit in ceremonial silence.
If tomorrow, there is
no sailing catamaran
to steer your lusterless shadows,
here upon porcelain dunes,
forgive my need to
strive in sweet seclusion,
I am no longer strayed
on ruthless routes that
lack emerald empathy
and camellia compassion.
+Her Spirit Sublime+
She knelt in God's marble chapel, in her uniform.
A suit of deep,forest green with fresh white blouse
honoring God, her King.
So young, she bowed her shiny brunette head in reverence,
Hearing the robins sing, that teenage spring, singing
in angelic consonance.
Her prayerbook of black leather, gold-leaf edges and
ribboned marker of red,
Made her realize as she stroked it, that is was only by God
was she to be led.
The delicate scent of candles that burnt so bright!
The artwork of mosaiced windows, sunlit-hued made her
feel heavenly light.
Her crystal, beaded rosary which transformed,the white marbled
walls, into a supernatural rainbow divine.
Grateful, to be in a school, that this memory still sings in her memory, sweet,alive and utterly, sublime!
11-30-2020
10:30am PST
**Poem of the Day**
12/2/2020
Dedication~ to my high school and religious mentors, who taught
me who runs this world! Thank you.
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
I have been a stranger
I have been in a strange land
Land of forsaken frangipanis
Land of black diamonds
Diamonds never decay
Diamonds forever sparkle
Sparkle like neon fireflies
Sparkle amidst darkness
Darkness depicting light
Darkness illuminating skies
Skies sketched in topaz tints
Skies mirroring my spirit
Spirit of a forlorn wanderer
Spirit of a firm believer
Believer veiled unseen
Believer sings hymns unheard
Unheard sagas of truth
Unheard tunes of time
Time twirls through confusion
Time enveloped in silence
Silence is a fragrant dialect
Silence is misunderstood
Misunderstood yet deafening
Misunderstood monologues
Monologues of the strawberry moon
Monologues of sunflower scriptures
Scriptures of sacred seasons
Scriptures lost in deserted dunes
Dunes of healing heartbeats
Dunes of forgotten dreams
Dreams of a midnight Jasmine
Dreams of a faded star
Star that guides the raven dusk
Star that flickers pink gold
Gold is the color of faith
Gold ribboned with hope
Hope is an emerald home
Hope is a thriving tulip
Tulip personifies awakening
Tulip honeyed in harmony
Harmony from serenades of serenity
Harmony of singing sunrise
Sunrise painted in poetry
Sunrise and rainbows
Rainbows with quartz runes
Rainbows of colored revelations
Revelations unnamed
Revelations untold
Untold…
Unnamed…
brushed by the blushing Fontainebleau,
blooming with rainless foliage,
like a poem kissed by the green…
I sigh as thoughts wander
in saffron silence,
in the echoing warmth
of your breathing silhouette...
we are beyond wraiths of wildflowers,
waltzing through the wilderness,
sipping honeyed drops of sunlight,
whilst specks of citrine
soar above olives~
merging in mystical mists of magnetic gold,
oblivious to the spectral leaves
thriving within inner forests,
veiling the vindictive vines
painted with ice-corpse colors of life.
O time, cloaked in cryptic clouds~
in a world that cares not for the forgotten,
let the fields of fervent petals
dress the untouched trees
with butterfly-blue blurs,
as peace is more than a mere noun,
nestled between framed figs…
and to heal is to heed the harmonized~
hymns mirroring soft springs of Eden,
where l o v e is an aesthetic array
ribboned with amorous emeralds~
scattered across meadows
lost in redolent reveries.
I speak to the breeze,
cradling the balmy boulevard
in hushed tones~
to unfreeze the wintry thistles,
to untangle complex chords of woes
piercing the pained canvas
aching within my mind..
for in the layered heart
of external pleasures,
there I’ve found the palette~
that homes not regrets and troubles
but elevates the m a g i c
of sketched solace…
the verdant of swirling hope
fine-tuned strokes of sage~
sun-soaked distraction,
a memory of soulmates
tied
to the timeless roots
infused with trust ...
Galloping within the nights of her innocence
he raced around the field fire chasing the heat of equine glee,
the horn of his head, a wizard's weapon and a witch's wish
with which a poison may be whimpered and youth enriched with longer laugh,
rose gold gilding on the supernatural spike ribboned with ribs of silver spells,
sensing the magic of her intuitive love the beast of God's bridge halts,
her eyes pretty in patient approach, his alert with admiring admonition,
they tresspass upon each other by exhalation of warm airy awe
whirling from their mouths, measuring the elation of frienship newly carved,
although invited to mount, the Maiden rubs her chin along his velvet nose,
fingers glide through the mane like breeze through willow branches, he huffs from joy,
in a gesture of supplication she kneels to the Unicorn's lead leg, one arm around
and a hand of healing pressed against his ripened chest, be restless and alone no more,
nibbling her ear in acceptence she giggles at the thought of adventure's anxiety,
leaping like an angel possessed with purpose for playful liaisons,
his back forming a saddle of supple security for her healthy frame, they join naturally,
she names him Azyerbel and he rears in rejoice at the grip of her knees,
riding into hinterlands of history unborn, they share courage known only to legends -
J.A.B. written in honor of, and for PD.'s Unicorn Birthday Contest 2012 -
Happy Birthday my Sphinx -
He sits in a wheelchair pushed to the curb. The people around him move aside to assure he is able to see. His shrunken body a shell of what it used to be. His breathing labored, aided by the tube that extends from the oxygen tank attached to his chair. On his head, he sports a blue campaign cap with VFW stitched in gold. He is one of America's finest, come to pay his respects.
Behind him stands a younger woman who has guided him there. A daughter perhaps, fussing over him, adjusting the robe in his lap, assuring his comfort. He shows no resistance to the attention, but simply sits and waits.
In the distance drums are heard, soon to be joined by the sound of horns. A stirring march riffles over the crowd, and an electricity grips their senses. Soon the call of cadence is heard. The measured tramp of boots, perfectly in time with the music. It grows louder until at last, a military formation looms into view. Uniformed soldiers, marching in perfect rows, perfect columns, gleaming boots, ribboned chests, weapons at rest on their shoulders. The crowd stirs. Small flags are waved. Cheers erupt. Pride hangs thick in the air.
The color guard approaches. Banners held high, snapping in the breeze. Some spectators remove their caps while others cover their hearts. Children, hoisted to their fathers shoulders, clap in excitement.
The old man tugs at the woman's sleeve and motions for her to come closer. She leans down and listens as he speaks, then asks "are you sure"?. He nods his head. Walking to the front of the chair, she removes the robe and, grasping his outstretched hands, pulls him slowly to his feet, where he stands with her assistance. Those around him watch as the frail, stooped body, with some difficulty, stands more erect. They see the pain etched on his face, and the tear that escapes his eye as he offers a salute as the flag passes by.
Suddenly, the cadence count stops, and in it's place is heard a command . A command normally reserved for when passing a reviewing stand. "Company, eyes right" the guidon bearer bellows, and with that, he returns the aging veterans salute, a sign of respect for an old soldier. After all, it is his flag. It is his country. He bought them both many years ago.
Bob Quigley
Jan 10, 2012
How I love the Wuthering heights rugged landscape
Of the wild savage moor
As I stand upon a rocky outcrops
High on a windswept Tor.
Under the blue sky canopy before me
Lies sweeping lush green and tawny vales and rolling hills
Land so wild and unforgiving
As the cold wind begins to bite and chill
Carpets of lilac heather providing shelter
For grouse rabbit and mouse
Somewhere in the distance
I catch the site of an old dilapidated stone farm house
Battered and in decay by the harsh temperamental weather
Every day.
Silver ribboned streams gushing and rushing ever flowing
Sparkling in the sun as lazy trout swim and pout
Trying to kiss the sky.
Little white woolly dots majestically graze on idle days
As the ravens take pieces of wool for nesting away
Suddenly the sky turns black and the icy rain begins to pound
And somewhere in the far distance I hear a deep rumbling sound
Cracks of light flash in the sky and the thunder now close by
Gives out a mighty roar
I feel the power shake the ground where I stand
And it shakes me to the core
A mixture of fear and acceleration sweeps over me
As I watch far from safety in awe.
Suddenly as it started the thunder stops and the sky begins to clear
A rainbow crescent appears and the lark twitters once moor
As the started wild ponies and heads of deer reappear
The overpowering smell of damp earth
I'm soaking wet my cheeks red and aglow
I'm lost in the wild untameable timeless beauty
That I have come to love and know
In my isolation I find peace of mind so serine
I am not just a visitor
But at one with nature and part of the scene.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. June.
Queens are all over, and there are festivals, parades, banners and stuff.
I wanted to be Corn Queen once, but they chose a girl from Council Bluff.
Our phenomenal state fairs have a bunch of pageants galore.
We watch these winners parade in with titles, banners, and more.
Miss Atom was fine, looked great in her huge science lab.
Everyone was glad she got it, for she had the gift of gab.
Ms. Plastic Surgery had lips that kept falling off,
So her title was given to Miss Whopping Cough.
The men have their own competitions, of course.
Some bring their own cow, their llama or horse.
Mr. Cowboy for the West part of the state,
Was given a chilly reception, being six minutes late.
Stripped of his title, it pleased his first runner up.
Who had also won Mr. Lassie and Mr. Buttercup.
Mr. Elf on the Shelf was irritated ‘because he thought he had it.
Mr. Emergency laughed, for he was named Mr. Bad It.
Mrs. Hostess Snowball wore snowballs strategically placed,
And Mrs. Not—Ever-Ready wore a corny veil ribboned with lace.
Queens and Kings, running around, winning titles fast and furiously.
To put on their resume’s or job applications? I am guessing curiously.
Not being in a pageant, myself, I truly do not understand.
But there are contests for queens and kings all over our land.
Showing off titles, and banners and stuff.
Here is Mrs. Wart Hog cemetery. Her hide is tough!
As you start to walk out on the way,
the way appears.- Rumi
Tonight, I speak to the moon,
lunar verses echoing the piercing
lyrics of an aching heart.
Its crystal wings softly
kiss the sea line in silence,
releasing silver ripples
of renaissance,
while the sun awaits another
dahlia dawn, graced by
delicate symphonies of
fairy-feathered fantasies.
Time is a treat ribboned
with truth and testaments
of melted monsoons,
left as souvenirs of the past,
on shimmering shores
of fragile flowers.
I was once a broken ballad,
bruised and battered
like an ornament left
on a haunted island,
where every breeze felt
like the seething sounds of sirens,
awakening demons within
my chrysalis psyche,
to cloud the horizon
painted with pigments of peace.
Trust was an ink blot
I spilled upon oceans
of blue-black pearls,
oblivious to the cracks
and faded glows of opalescence,
for I was a naive target
of narcissistic daggers,
caressing my skin with
pestering perceptions.
As I wore my wounds
like corsets crocheted
with crooked compassion,
too eager to embrace
wrathful winds~
bursting forth infernal flames,
while drenched in the
subtle dews of raging rain.
If I were to tell the world
the person I used to be,
could I write without
my fingers trembling,
without the weakened words
of weariness that weighed me down?
For I knew not what love was,
and I knew not
dreams of strength,
runes of resilience, or the
unbreakable gravity of forgiveness.
Yet I rise, beyond faceless ghosts,
soaring above nameless streets
of pointless thoughts.
I am now everything I was not;
I am both shadow and light,
seeking and waltzing to
the music of my own magical fight.
So remember,
the furs and claws,
the water and fire,
outlining the garnet~
aura of my ambient existence.
Time and tide again waits for no man
tempest-tossed upon life’s billow
The hull or the dinghy
Serves as a fortress
Though steady on its keel
Knocked his wits and sense
As he vacillates between levity and despair
Caused by his unbridled folly
He rakes the moon from out of the sea
A gust of air blew
It tethered him to flee
All you see is overcast
Knots, tiller, hatch, or helm
Love’s killer patch, overwhelm
Derelict in a sense
A castaway float astray
Break the resolve
Of a man who once vowed
to never sail again
But the songs of the nymphs
Was beckoning him
Is there something alluring
or is he just lonely?
Can't find comfort in the stillness
With every beating on the mast
Fate on the tide
Because not once, not twice
But several times
he almost drowned
He was lost at sea
His curse muffled
No stir in the air
He was peeled
And like the tales of sailormen,
She suddenly appeared
Like white foam
She ribboned the blue sky
The clouds drifts idly
As if they haven’t heard
Not a stirring breeze
But her ravenous rage
Devoured him
With rapacious eagerness
Lapping at his ballast
A violent wind is no match
To a careless sail man
in the middle of a stormy sea
He tasted the saltiness
And remembered the breath of his past
As he found himself washed ashore
He was saved at last
But he was looking for more
Despite the warning from the weather lore
And like the wind,
She whips a howling dance
As sea and sky make love
She could not calm her frenetic ire
It stirred something in him
It hit him like a squall
Once again he takes the plunge
Stupid as he is
To find himself once again
Sailing in the storm
Amidst the tempestuous sea
Evening gray and morning red
He could only wish he was dead.
All hands on deck
And as he chants
Red sky in the morning
Serves as warning
Red sky at night sailors delight
Her crimson lips parted
As she said,
"Evening red and morning gray,
help the traveler on his way.
Evening gray and morning red
bring down my wrath upon his head".
Take initiative go to the light where the force of darkness ends
A flame needs its kindled source as a sparking awareness mends
Our enlightened energy wrapped in an array of cavernous colors
Ribboned radiant impressions given in vast deepest depths squalors
A shadow self may live dormant and await unveiling the chaos within
When it has become an unbearable journey to live in your own skin
Opaque indigo stones skim over shallow waters in an empty well
Stratas rock labyrinths chiseled lies of neglect in a nautilus shell
Warm sorrel ribbon evokes sympathy in a disparaged tale of woe
A sorbet of violet, green, and tangerine conjure a melodious flow
What is truly a wellspring of a healing rainbow palette renders
We find the key to unlocking magic embers in dormant chambers
Dank darkness may lead us astray from individuality and truth
Take initiative, find the light of all brightest light reaching for you
Time stood still with me
on aegean beach at tiffany twilight hours,
the senile sun sank in admiral splendor
beyond the lap of the lapis horizon,
the cobalt sea soaked the cyan sky,
ribboned by strands of periwinkle cloud,
blown by aquamarine breeze.
You came flying on its sapphire wings,
slate hair kissing the teal lips,
lacing the prussian eyes.
From the azure shadow of waves
I swam on turquoise glint of your eyes,
sank deep in your indigo heart,
embracing me with cerulean serenity.
Written : July 13, 2018
May 1, 2020
Contest : Strand Pick J, Any Theme, Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand