Best Ricocheting Poems
“I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it..." E.E. Cummings
Another day soaked in the melody of your musical memories.
Breathless I seek, for a rosy gleam of morning glories,
cascading calming beams in tangerine tints, where~
dulcet dreams still linger over sun-kissed meadows,
engraved with clandestine seeds we’ve scattered across
fields of fireflies flaring childhood sagas woven with
glistening ink flowing in sapphire syllables, like
hypnotic hieroglyphics carved from tears left untold. Yet~
I ponder, what is heaven like, without me, by your side, do you still laugh,
joyously to the thoughts of how we swirled and twirled like
kindred spirits, lost in our own sacred spheres ricocheting with,
lyrical light, that emanated emerald euphoria..
Maybe, in the elysian castle, where you reside, angels would,
never let you forget promises we made beneath moonlit skies,
on the nights when the world too did abandon~
peacock-feathered peacefulness that we truly deserved, despite our,
quivering hearts, that beat in tune to the grief-struck stars…
Remember me, when fragrant flowers flourish in colors of~
soft mauve sunsets, we painted in butterfly brushstrokes.
Tonight, I’m listening to the waves whisper serene serenades,
unraveling sparkling tales of your seraphic realm in
violet verses, for I am still healing, alone, reminiscing,
wishing, someday, when every jewel in the horizon falls in~
xanthic streaks, like autumnal leaves, wilting to the absence of,
your loyal presence, I’ll find a canvas, to immortalize this love~
zestfully; while souvenirs of yesterday’s twilight twinkle, you remain the poem of my soul.
S l e e p feels like a pathological lie ~
deranged dialect
spoken from the tongue of traitors,
and I listen to the heinous haze
of the insomniac breeze
moving to the splitting silver
of Judas’s coins,
a reflection of an estranged estuary
with no island left to revisit...
For I’ve seen it ~
all alone,
tasted the tormented
tones of tornadoes,
their truth tender,
warmer than the vicious voice in my head,
gaslighting my mind,
betraying my faith
clouding my soul’s compass
to believe in the
phantom fallacies painted
and pigmented
from my own poisoned perspectives,
the forest serpents of fears
sojourning in the skin,
hiding the terror
left in the arteries of abandonment.
But what would the
cynical mirror of existence reveal
when everything I have learned
was written from the crippled ink
of a burdened storm,
carrying chaos amidst calmness,
unable to grasp grey,
as hope feels like the
devil in a dress,
drenched in deception.
And I hurt
like an infant left unloved,
oblivious to the eagle anthems,
threatened by aerial oaths,
as I am the architect of darkness,
not a victim,
but the turmoil to the
Sun and the Moon,
living in the macabre
valleys thriving in shame,
as my inner child still dreams
in cursed colors of crestfallen angels.
The toxic tune in my head,
the venom within my veins,
the cataclysmic carnelian
beneath my feet ~
O beloved bloom unblemished,
remove yourself
from this collapsing castle
of cruelty numbed,
where dahlias grow from doom
and skeletons wear my name.
I am trauma
a walking juxtaposition
suffocating your silence,
aching for assurance,
ricocheting like rust
of infernal flames ~
so wipe the traces hanging
on the smoke-kissed
screens of stillness,
burn the addictive
madness of my name...
Let these ashes be,
as nocturnal stars
watch me turn into
a sonnet, unrhymed
and
u n f
i n
i s
h e d …
Would you cover me in hydrangeas of healing,
when cold is the heavy air I breathe,
alone without you, beside me?
O’ magnolia-chime, melodiously ricocheting~
above silent fields of Swarovski orchids,
this lunar-glazed love
remains my euphonious elixir,
and your lips, the petals I graze in euphoric motion,
when orange sherbet streaks of the evening sun~
descend upon glistening ripples of diamond dust,
your chamomile flames of aquamarine love,
keep rising in hypnotic hues of hibiscus red,
for your love is like a fire~
your song, like the scorching rivers,
ferrying lyrical lanterns adorned with clear quartz crystals.
Within your amethyst arms, I’ve found a melody,
turning my needs into alluring aurora fireworks,
as your love is like a fire,
screaming my name in tantalizing tunes,
while I yearn for you to come devour me whole,
never letting the breeze steal our saffron symphonies,
here I’m slipping away,
letting music of my heart to take control.
So allow me to gently trace your thorny edges~
I’m addicted to your enthralling enchantments,
chaining my sighs to your eyes, that shine like oceanic sapphires,
there, you sketch my skies with poetic phrases,
igniting vibrating sparks across the horizon,
for your love is like a fire,
it delights me with daffodil desires, taking me higher.
But what must I do,
when the colors of sunrise fade,
leaving me weaving ballads of bruised blues.
I ponder, would you feel the heat of this cosmic longing,
how in darkness, I need your silken serenades?
Remember, ten thousand moons from now,
I’ll still need you to thrill my will~
to fill this canvas with peacock pigments,
for your love is like a fire..
I’m lost in a sea of wilted willows,
but you’ll be the star that never dies,
forever sprinkling citrine threads of magic,
like an alchemist, orchestrating soothing sonatas,
pulling me back to the lavender light,
aware of how I’ve tried in stillness,
to harmonize the rhythm of this roseate rhapsody..
So allow me to gently trace your thorny edges~
I’m addicted to your enthralling enchantments,
chaining my sighs to your eyes,
that shine like oceanic sapphires.
as the wind whistles
warm wishes
echoing the
sea-salt silence
flowing beneath
silver-kissed waves
I think of synonyms for
love
illustrating hate
in elusive rhythm...
for stars never
envy the moon
but silently orchestrate
a cosmic choir
of coruscating crystals
in incandescent cadence
swirling confetti across
the nocturnal sky~
a compelling
commemoration
that you and I cherish
in technicolor tercets…
I ponder
why do green-eyed gazers
spinning
lilac lies
within
jaded journals
along jeweled realms
rage with
j e a l o u s y?
pushing my quivering quill
to question:
am I not art
am I not the muse
am I not worthy
am I not the ache
romanticized with roses...
perhaps these words
are mere
remnants of ramblings
ricocheting
rhapsodies
within the
breath of perfumed heartbeats
that the kohl-cold souls
can never taste...
so I purge
inked petals
upon the digital canvas,
that feels not
lyrical lifelines
bleeding ballads
h i d i n g and
h e a l i n g
behind
murky metaphors
and
alliterative adjectives
weaving h o p e
amidst
the
crestfallen
sighs
of
bittersweet
horizons…
"We can't ever fathom,
when the ceasing flicker of hope
flutters away,
and
escapes to an
endless forest;
the only charm in this
spellbound life is,
to chase that
scarred saffron second
and hue it with our own
enchanting light..."
As the fiddling
crescent basks
in this reborn moonrise,
I slowly blanket
my soul with
shivering sighs
of frozen stars,
as they trickle
down my lungs
and echo a
scentless spring,
where oceans
yearn to feel
the kiss of
floral zephyrs,
tickling their
turquoise sirens.
Perhaps,
I was once a
lifeless snowdrop,
a stygian silhouette
of midnight which
wrapped those
neon skies,
as black ice
melted in cores,
when pain became
my melancholic
soulmate and no
philosopher's stone
could turn this
solemn melody,
into sapphire ruins
of remedy.
Since my spirit
has hibernated
in this crystal castle -
I've been waltzing
in a wondering,
did my eyes
loose their dazzle
and become mere
colourless dots
of an oil pastel
portrait, as
this quill turned
vengeful for
its own spirit?
Did I break
my own heart,
by watering the
macabre of miracles?
Fading in
marigold mangroves
that whisper to
my delicate muse,
I feel the breaths
of mirthful wingbeats,
ricocheting and
making me swoon
over a pedestal of
pure sunrays.
Have I always
been this alive,
where these pulses,
reverberating
in my chestnut skin,
could wake me up
from the crestfallen
slumber?
Now, as these
topaz horizons
unfold their
golden carpet,
embroidered with
velvet peonies
and silk carnations,
I slowly bloom,
with a princess-cloak
of fluffy feathered
petals, resting
upon the crown of
emerald leaves,
bathed in chic
chocolaty lakes, as,
~ an empyrean lotus.
So, reminisce me
evermore, as an
imperfect lyric
of a dusky
peach pixie,
leaving footprints
of faith in a
muddy reverie,
for, on the
bluebell crest
of lush earth,
reigns this
rosy Cleopatra,
rhyming with
jeweled perfumes
of tomorrow.
if flowers write about love storms
and the moon obeys the heart’s blaze
would you, O Dawn’s King
become my forever flame ~
the wild-blue fire,
finger-locking our besotted souls…
aching obsessively to taste
the sacred warmth
from the Asclepius arms
of Cephisesus’ spring river
ricocheting and reflecting
the burning desire we breathe…
and I listen ~ in amatory silence,
to your voiced whispers
the slow, soft velour laughter
as you caress my sky
with poetic phrases ~
igniting this ink to release
blooms spooned with fervent sighs
lines linear against
the hysterical history
of hurt without healing…
but if only the petals
floating and
frolicking in the wind
could empathize
with how my lips thirst
with flares of jealous heat ~
wanting desperately
to be the trembling skin
the only zephyr
that touches your smooth silk fever…
O pursuer of pressed passion
my reason to remain alive
relinquish into the orchard
of rooted, clandestine utopia,
where I savor the luscious liqueur
spilling from the titillating tips
of scribbled Shizuka ~
kiss me when the sun sleeps
feel me when the Venus stars awake
dress me in dancing darkness.
I will be the violet spark
to your electromagnetic light…
take me beyond time
eviscerate the
evil threads of illusion
unchain the steel of
our imprisoned pages,
let the words flow as one..
for my heartbeat now
is the sober mirror to your pulse
nevermore remembering
the final glimpse
of an irreversible ending…
** inspired by the artwork The birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli ~
He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.
L o v e ~ a crippled nightingale
b u r n i n g in bronze tears
of tornadoes,
limping and writhing,
screaming for release,
but
what if I am the mistress
of glass-cut dreams,
crowned with
razor-edged regrets,
and splintered serenity?
Would the raven breeze
then cocoon my soul
with delicate doom,
fueled by petroleum promises,
searing in deadly flares,
as if I were destined
to be a victim of
vindictive vengeance,
torn and tainted,
chained in poisoned
strings of pearls,
a reflection of resignation,
of how kismet calligraphies
draped me in haunting ivory,
as the devil’s widow,
of when I vowed to serve
chastised chamomile,
of the night my innocence
was baptized in infected rivers,
rippling and ricocheting~
bleeding black with thorns…
O deranged twilight,
my heart aches in angst,
singing scars beneath
starless spheres,
where the moon is silenced,
eclipsed by the sun,
and the earth sighs
an unheard requiem
for the fractured skies,
stirring nocturnal feathers
to flutter and soar
in sync with the
beautiful tragedy,
while I lie in a sealed casket,
adorned with russet trinkets,
shadowed in macabre musings,
breathless and bruised,
alive, yet void of purpose
awake but sleep-walking
like an insomniac corpse
lost in the lethal gaze of life,
tracing emblems of the Valkyries,
caged between
the rising of dawn
and frozen dusk,
pondering if this is the end
of the beginning~
a cursed reincarnation,
as I see no escape
from your ill-omened grip~
a casualty of your cruelty,
I remain,
caught in the desolate
haze of h a t e…
T i m e ~ you are the spark
that tips the scales
of lovestruck heartbeats,
ricocheting glyphs of fairness,
etched with gold and silver.
Yet seasons of smoke fail to
trace the unexpressed emotions
woven with ultraviolet beams.
Perhaps the ticking truth of intoxicated haze,
is a resonance of pained pulses:
a poem without a title,
a sonnet without a rhyme,
a melody without a rhythm,
a palette without a dream,
cosmically tied, yet torn by space,
pondering:
what if these implicit metaphors
heal the beautifully bruised,
paint the scars with flares of serenity,
turn bleeding wounds into sterling specks,
and draw hope with swirling sunflowers?
As I am a wordless wanderer,
facing the heat of sultry skin within starlight,
tasting the milky flickers of quartz
as they seep into the warm arms
of blushing twilight.
These fingers curate chronicles
from archaic archives,
scintillating souvenirs,
like a forest library with shimmering shelves
touched by sunlit rays
and mauve memories merging
with evening mists.
For I am the mistress
of your amethyst afterglow,
engrossed in the ambrosial luminescence
of soft-spoken verses,
as alluring auroras emanate
burning thistles of thirsting galaxies~
the delicate dews of dancing diamonds
caressing the silk of stars to drizzle
one last drop of your pining poetry,
while I await the return of
Romeo’s rhapsody,
like Juliet on the tantalizing tip of throes,
counting Cupid's jewels of nightfall,
wishing upon the dusk of craving.
For in your absence,
I am but a poet with no abstract speech,
but doleful desires,
longing to kiss the final phase of Luna’s sigh
catching crooning comets,
lost in the hypnotic moon-gaze
of immortal love...
But wherever you are, I no longer want to be:
for you are thunderstruck moonlight,
and I am a scarred sunset ~ a secret in saffron,
melting into the myth that floats forever,
within silenced dunes of scorpion stones,
where the cryptic coldness of sand feels like~
Cupid’s daggers piercing through
my aching skin and bones.
Frost-kissed vines wrap around
my wintry heart,
screaming for a sacred release
from the tethered torment
of satanic sapphires,
breathing within the haunted caves
of unending nightmares ~
and the twilight that wanes
behind flatlined promises.
Tonight, I feel like arrows of angst,
ricocheting within these woeful walls
of my melancholic mausoleum,
mirroring the heat of a burning breeze ~
like an epitaph lost in the sweltering air.
The clover of golden green glimmers,
like fireflies around my wrists,
luring distant ravens,
croaking above paralyzed dreams,
to untangle the crooked lines of lies,
crawling within clouds of comfort,
oblivious to Lilith’s serpent slithering
around my fragile feet in slow cadence,
pushing me to the darker dusks
drawn above the prying
valley of putrid prunes,
where these wistful musings
will remain as mere voiceless ashes,
cremated in vain,
with flames of forgotten folktales
echoing as faded music within a glass urn.
So, if tomorrow I’m gone, remember me ~
I still breathe silver snippets of hope,
a frozen quiescence,
etched in seven arcs of stardust,
longing to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps as the last verse of your poem,
or could I be the lone rose,
forever thriving in the galactic gardens of love,
where hate and greed, tangled in
jinxed jewels,
dissolve into nothingness ~
like rusted ribbons of the crestfallen lunar.
I hope lilacs and lavenders will bloom
in hypnotic hues, to calm raging rivers flowing
within the arctic arteries of a dark poet,
longing for a home
away from hellish hands,
so I can serenade songs of survival
and rhapsodies of resilience,
while watching every tear I’ve shed
crystallize into pearls and diamonds,
like born-again stars in violet skies.
“This is love: to fly toward a secret Sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life.
Finally, to take a step without feet.” ~ Rumi
Life can be a pilgrimage through rainless moors
and solemn seascapes draped
in mists of soundless mayhem,
where bleeding butterflies reflect
the fading stars etched with broken promises~
that time has abandoned.
I am a corpse of a firefly suspended
in a maroon mirage,
chained with petunias and pearls,
while my heart seeks a celestial chorus
to recite a harmonious hymn.
I yearn to write a compassionate chord,
ricocheting with empathetic embers,
silencing the fiendish
drumbeats of the devious leeches,
searing the fragile curves
of my cinnamon skin,
as I’ve long been a victim
of the vindictive voices of Satan
and his spellbound followers.
Yet nestled between temptation and torment,
a garden of miracles blooms
with lavender lakeshores,
its sweet scents of honey-rose petals
infusing the aching air,
unveiling a sky adorned with lily wings
and sapphire serenity.
O how I long to be the
silhouette of moon fairies
revising and rearranging
kismet melodies shaped in sorcery~
for I draw salt-kissed sunsets
in acrylic eloquence,
to eliminate black magic violations
still running beneath my trembling toes.
I will dance to the alliterative rhythm of
adjectives and assonance,
flowing in sync with the viking violin
within my soul.
So listen to the unlocked
tunes of restricted rhymes;
you’ll hear my name unchained from
the maleficent mantras~
weaving metaphors
screaming between resilient lines of
highlighted healing,
rephrasing the art of letting go
tattooed in raven jewels,
flipping porcelain pages of hope,
flowing within
the anthology of sprouting orchids.
I d r
e a
m away
from the golden-laced drapes,
tracing smoke-veiled cloudscapes,
reminiscing rainbow reveries,
raining with musical laughter,
mirroring the sun within
my maternal spirit,
drawing cerulean smiles
across the kaleidoscopic sky
with initials of my
beloved June child.
As in acrylics, I find happiness,
and in palettes of pastels
I feel the twilight twinkles of time,
revealing rosemary reasons to rhyme
in rhinestone radiance,
releasing runes ~
ricocheting colors
of my hibiscus heartbeat…
O kismet constellations,
I breathe glitters of gratitude
to the sapphire stars
and swirling sparks
drifting through shifting monsoons,
cradled in the
blissful sighs of my son.
For in his presence,
murky mists of melancholy
fade into neon nothingness;
in his words,
a thousand gardens glisten and glow;
in his eyes,
I see hues of hope ~
ballad of a seraphic summer.
Perhaps, the voice of this
unconditional love remains
the synonym of happiness,
the syllables of zen,
and the metaphors of euphoria,
bound to the skin ~
of rooted truth,
truth of a mother
dressed in the dulcet dews
seized from the dawn
when he learned the light of life…
So let me rephrase,
in redundant dialects,
to write in coherent cadence,
of the warmth I weave,
of the peace I paint,
within jeweled lines of lavender…
I smile not because I see no sorrow,
but because my existence
is a mere iron-arched
gateway to guide astral rays
above the island shores
where his footprints echo,
porcelain patterns,
erasing fringes from
the blemished blurs
of grieving moonlight
caressing the sanguine sea
rippling with turquoise tranquility ~
a tale of teal tomorrow...
“instrumentalising mind, I rested thought
employing it only when needed
shifting to heart, I became self-taught
gentling touch, voice of conscience heeded” ~ Unseeking Seeker
When thoughts purge in restlessness,
we pause the frequency of the mind,
allowing the rhapsodies
of the rosemary heart
to compose lyrics of
life in sync with sandalwood serenity…
I am a gossamer ribbon,
drifting across
caliginous cloudscapes,
like a delicate trace
of greying gloaming,
listening to the eerie requiems
ricocheting through the horizon.
But am I to follow the hypnotic lies,
perpetually prompting
my thoughts to ink
crimson confetti of confusion?
For the heart is the window
to the crown chakra,
awaiting the alignment of seven stars,
where the mind remains a mystery,
unreliable and capricious,
like the wind carrying
the sound of raging rain tonight.
O celestial maestro
of the cosmos and beyond,
let fears dissolve into ambient waves,
rippling with rejuvenating radiance,
reflecting seraphic light
from the crooning currents beneath~
tempestuous tides,
while I unchain the confined
chambers of my persona,
to unravel the alchemist within,
that knows not the
dying colors of dusk and dawn,
and reveals emerald auroras
in hibiscus harmony,
amidst the moonless
serenades of the sky~
in sync with my stained consciousness.
So let the dancing dreams
and the divine spirit
manifest through bleeding intuition,
as I open my arms to the sun
singing within his euphoric siesta,
there lakes of lotus ebb and flow in
ethereal themes,
transforming jinxed juniper lilies
into joyous jasmines,
and my voice shall mirror
pristine peonies,
scented with mystical musk,
where the fickleness of existence
is liquidated with lavender scriptures,
for my heart is the
empyrean haven for northern gems,
guiding the glass kayak of survival,
refusing darkness to mask
the kundalini mantras within
the alluring aura of life,
rehearsing self-fulfilling prophecies,
to illuminate silhouettes of
the galaxies in crystalline clarity.
Memories wound like shards of shrapnel
exploding through the restless night
bursting into jagged slivers like broken glass,
leaving a heart wretched and contrite.
Ears strained to hear voices crying
from somewhere within the dark beyond,
the place lying between emptiness and sighing
but not one echoing refrain responds
Not a single word from the void spoken
Silence takes a ransom toll on emotions
There's not a whispered breath, no scant token
that offers hope in any measure of devotion
Shattered is the heart that has been forgot
In the midst of grief, a voice it does not hear.
It's time to move on for the echo returns not.
and in its absence, a heart must prove austere.
Purge all the sorrow and wash away its stain.
No longer whisper and do not strive to hear
nonexistent echoes that resound in refrain,
those ricocheting words that never did cohere.
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing, the metal tips on her heels dinged on the metal steps.
The sound reminded John of bullets ricocheting on a tin roof he had heard two weeks before.
She reached the stage and joined the other dancers and then one of the girls sang Brahms lullaby.
John was enjoying a day’s leave at the hotel, last week it was full of German soldiers, Paris was now liberated and the look of joy on the Parisians was evident on their faces.
Tomorrow his regiment was being deployed, to where he did not know, it was just after midnight when they got back to their camp; a couple of miles from the hotel.
At the briefing the next morning the orders were given to assist US forces at a town called St Louise, It was 04.00 as they drove up a steep hill and from here the city churches pierced the mist.
They arrived at the town and he could hear sporadic bursts of machine gun fire, an American captain signalled Johns regiment to keep their heads down.
He soon found out why as the whistling of artillery shells hit their target at the far edge of town.
Silence now, and then they began a sweep and search operation going from house to house.
Then he heard music, cautiously he entered and at the far end was a young girl of about ten
John approached her and she smiled, he picked her up and she was still clutching the music box.
He went outside and in case of snipers he closed it and now smiling crossed the square.
There was a field ambulance by the fountain and John handed her over to the medics there.
He started back to join his patrol and then the girl opened the music box which started playing, yes of course he had heard it before, the unmistakable sound of Brahms lullaby.
Written on Wednesday 6th June 2018
For one nine and sixteen poetry contest sponsored by Viv Wigley