Best Rides Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
Two autos both tried to have sex.
A pity they both were such wrecks!
With great apprehension,
One lost its suspension.
Old banger sex – oh so complex!
12~21~14
Contest: East Jesus
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
Checked using how many Syllables 8,8,6,6,8
~awarded 3rd place~
Walk with me in the dank moonlight
through the chill, rising, storm
so we can grasp the majesty
of Dullahan still born.
Without heads his horse and he ride
across the countryside
His head in hand they roam the land
none live where he abides.
A rush of blood, a gory spree
will take the sight of man,
then off they gallop wild and free
Dullahan, head in hand.
Here’s hoping he don’t call your name
for that would be worse by far
your soul would flee and fly with he
a soul as black as tar.
Carry your gold for I am told
this alone does he fear
and we can watch as he rides by
come give us a kiss now, me dear.
The winsome lass took his strong hand
and down the lane they walked
as in the distance hedgerows fired
and hooves clapped as they talked.
The sound drew near, a gate flew wide
the lassie shrieked and ran
so only her randy lad was
taken by Dullahan.
So, don’t think to woo by moonlight
near the shore in Galway
Dullahan hunts with cruel sight
each wayward soul a stray.
*While no-one knows for certain how the Dullahan originated, it is thought that he is the embodiment of the Celtic fertility god, Crom Dubh, who was worshiped by an ancient king of Ireland, Tighermas. Each year, Tighermas sacrificed humans to Crom Dubh, and the usual method was decapitation. The worship of Crom Dubh ended in the sixth century, when Christianity came to Ireland.
* music in About the Poem
Poet: D. Guzzi
.
Everywhere I go
My Chihuahua rides with me
In his McDonald's coffee cup
Right next to me on the seat
A drapery flutters of sunlit glory
With lustrous stars gleaming near;
Hovering around the ‘ Pearl of Orient ‘
Where seven thousand islands adorn
Tints of liberty, peace, and independence;
Radiant in hues… crimson, blue, white
Flaming the hearts of a race blessed
By lush rice terrains and summer winds.
O, a banner of smiles freely glimmers
Through a homeland destined to imbue
Love for all brethrens as it stands proud,
As the harbinger of native warmth
Offering comfort to voyagers , but
Fiercely defending a birthplace’s right…
Where one mighty streamer rides high,
Guarding folk and children…Philippines!
Judy Konos' Your Country State City Flag
Country: Philippines
by nette onclaud...7/29/2015
[Dedicated to the Memory of Chad DeLoy]
He rides above the clouds with no shadow,
Through the peaceful land of eternal sleep,
With all of his fellow bikers in tow.
Always keeping an eye on those below,
May all who have known him no longer weep —
He rides above the clouds with no shadow.
Moving swiftly, forever on the go —
Rising above hills, no matter how steep,
With all of his fellow bikers in tow.
He treasures your friendship more than you know;
May his company you forever keep —
He rides above the clouds with no shadow.
The sun reflects brightly off his window —
Through Lexington, the motorcycles sweep,
With all of his fellow bikers in tow.
He watches you all riding in a row,
Holding your memories of him so deep.
He rides above the clouds with no shadow,
With all of his fellow bikers in tow.
© 2014
We were waiting for Grandma, thought she would bring an Uber
Knowing Gram, said Jack, she might come down the stream in a tube-r.
We were watching to the east, but she came flying in on the right.
Riding her new Harley, which somehow felt just right.
Bugs hitting my face
Wind in hair, feet on pedals
-Eleven again!
She rides on a "star ship" high in the skies
embracing creation of her wandering star
cheerfully greeting her guests.
Some pleasant and chatty,
some on occasion she may ask,
“Please don’t fall over me.”
Hawaii is where her heart lies; “a poet’s gift”
and island of poetry that inspires her soul,
of orange sunset, against sublime radiant blue "ocean whispers,”
and "romantic reflections".
She strolls up and down the tan beach,
From "sunrise to sunset shadows"
enjoying the feel of warm grains of sand between her toes,
breathing in the whole innocence of beauty
as tears of joy blend in with the cool briny sea.
A place of timeless harmony
In "God’s presence"
her peace of "heaven’s realm"
5/22/2021
Title Wave Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
A tribute to Connie Marcum Wong
Her poems are inspiring
05/10/2021 Star Ships
05/07/2021 Romantic Reflections
06/04/2020 Heaven's Realm
05/13/2020 Sunrise To Sunset Shadows
01/18/2020 God's Presence
07/23/2019 A Poet's Gift
08/09/2019 Ocean Whispers
Light
Reflects
From the clouds
Floating in blue
Like cotton islands
All surrounding the hill
Where squirrels play in the trees
Rich sap green covers all branches
As they flutter in ripples of breeze
Peace rides with the sun, she’s heading to set
Heidi Sands
9/23/21
"She Rides with Lions"
That Queen rides like God
She rides with Lions
like she could harness the Sun
Her many arms throw fierce Durga destruction
as She holds tight to what means most to Her resurrection
hidden and held in the arms behind her
like a Mother all Trouble untroubled
the cub hidden and held for protection
Her many arms throw fierce Durga destruction
like a Mother
losses arrive expensive with high cost in wars
the stolen Worlds in the dreams of Other
come undone
Her many arms throw fierce Durga destruction
as She holds tight to what means most to Her resurrection
until all retribution is delivered and done
Unbroken ephemeral creature
Amor plate in front
Lion Daemon
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Durga's legend centres around combating evils and demonic forces that threaten peace, prosperity, and dharma, representing the power of good over evil. Durga is believed to unleash her divine wrath against the wicked for the liberation of the oppressed, and entails destruction to empower creation. Durga is seen as a motherly figure and often depicted as a beautiful woman, riding a lion or tiger, with many arms each carrying a weapon and often defeating demons.She is widely worshipped by the followers of the goddess-centric sect, Shaktism, and has importance in other denominations like Shaivism and Vaishnavism.”
Amor/french
Armour (English)
Armor (American)
Dry up those eyes my little red rooster,
remember to strut your stuff.
See that silver pony in the clouds
well God put him there for us.
That pony is not like the ones down here,
he was made individually, for us too.
So smile, when they say hateful things,
then say, that's the way God wanted me to be
One day things will be clear,
it will be hard for you,
but you climb to the sky.
Jump on that silver pony, let’s show them how to ride.
Take your time, you have the rest of your life,
my little red rooster.
Someone will see you,
and float on those clouds
riding a silver pony just they and you,
he will be a special guy.
No, it's not fair, you don't fit in anywhere.
Take pride in others, and love will apply.
As hard as it is for you
look to your family,
we are part of eagles flying high.
Be the spunky little girl you don’t think they like,
and show them your temperance
in little cowgirl Cherokee pride. Keep your eyes on the clouds waiting for a sign
great things are worth the wait,
and come in dear time
Things are never what they seem to be,
what you think is a diamond may be only the rough.
As with finding your diamond is made of dust.
Look for a silver lining.
Love the earth and follow the clouds,
know what to keep and what to throw out.