Best Ringed Poems
With pitchforks and torches they rode through the night,
their goal was Milton Creek, by dawns early light.
A surprise attack was what they had foreseen,
led by the infamous, lollipop queen.
With a group of ringed men, she’d deceived and collected,
they rode for the jail, for the first one she’d infected.
In shackles and chains, her best awaited his trial,
I can’t say his name, so we’ll just call him Kyle.
Old Kyle was arraigned for a snake oil ruse,
he claimed to sell medicine but was just peddling booze.
They stopped just out of town by farmer Bill’s pig pen,
where they all shared a lollipop, and a *Cornish game hen*.
Rested and fed, they all headed for town,
their plan was to free Kyle and turn his frown upside down.
There were many new graves that we helped Mayor Tom to dig,
we could smell them all coming, they were pungent like a pig.
Little did they know how Milton Creek was protected,
we watched each other’s back, and our defense was perfected.
David and Terry, were perched on the roof of the jail,
I stood right out front with my leaded cocktail.
Tania and Jan were on the top of the saloon,
Milton was keeping watch, as he played a catchy tune.
Deb was on the ground, locked and loaded,
Lin had Jenna’s Winchester and some dynamite to be exploded.
*a Cornish game hen is produced from a cross between the Cornish and white Plymouth rock chicken breeds, it is served young and immature weighing no more than two pounds*
In English we say, I am hurting,
but in poetry we say ~
I am windswept wave
weeping weathered roses
upon the haunting heart of drowsy dunes,
kissed by the mineralized melancholy
of wounded wadis,
for love forgot the fated flow,
nevermore feeling the forlorn skin
of b l e e d i n g ink…
I seize the scorpion crushed weight
of crestfallen crystals,
once voiced
through painless passion.
Devouring the distress
cutting through lips splitting,
I taste nothingness
amidst raining ruby-winged butterflies,
mirroring the bruise
burning in sync with extreme dolor…
O beloved, would you still recognize
the rippling riddles of soul’s river,
or has distance
dried the wild-lilies
dressed in dramatic scents
of dangerous devotion,
like the syllables I spilled
between the spaces that
held the poetry we once breathed?
Would you still hear the
undreamed chimeras ~
chapters channelled
now choking the reveries
I home in morbid muteness,
or has the nerving nadir
jinxed the sparks of Jupiter ablaze,
numbing ringed-jewels of strength
we once believed faithfully
would
never phase
nor decay…
I wonder if your skies serenade
soft blue soliloquies ~
sunrise soaked in honeysuckle hymns.
Do they drizzle
densely designed darkness
draped in dissonance,
or do you find comfort
in painting me with solemn ashes
as the black-fanged Empusa ~
one that inflicted
nothing but misery,
injected like liquid lethal lament
that suffocated
the arteries of midnight?
2:22 ~ angel omen ~
do with this what you will,
I overwrite to outrun the emotions,
refusing to be overtaken
by disillusionment.
I speak not to lure the stars across
your cerulean seclusion,
but to heal as I seal the envelope
of unanswered thoughts,
wishing the pulse of p a t i e n c e
would no longer
push and pull the string
of my weakness
like ice-hot estuaries
rushing against the ache of want...
O detached desires,
forgive my need to release.
I am not restless,
I am not reactionary,
I am merely reminiscing in resilience,
to rise again
as the seamstress
of scarless sonnets….
My heart bloomed from footsteps of the lonely
where their blossoms scent drifts slowly aloft
when sweet perfume was theirs and theirs only
in my secret garden of love so soft
where a wishing well was ringed with flowers
and love filled hunger deep with perfection
when our time was not days nor years but hours
as my heart bloomed with fragrant affection
this secret garden of promised lovers
has kept the shadows secret from these days
when flowers bloomed in decadent colors
and love became a winding flowered maze
Where only the lonely could leave a trace
And my garden became a restful place
O weary wings washed with seraph's silvers,
weep and bleed over this blackhole heart
as the smoke of moon-leaf sleeps upon my lips ~
I taste lethal liquids with tints of torture through its tender tears ...
neither salvation nor sins can seduce my sacred rhythm ~
since it does not starve for fanged foresights
ringed with feral roses and fatal stars,
as the hymns we hum are our own version,
not destined to die with the deviation of desires
O interstellar intuition
wading within infernal incense ~
I am not elusive,
I am never lulled by the locus of logic …
let the sky u n l e a s h what flows with time
and u n k i s s the mispronounced prayer
as I, a roaring lily spirit stained
with your love and lies, am not alone ~
but the only one closer to the cosmic
q u i e s c e n c e…
I am the heartbeat of the heavens,
handwritten… with the ink of soul
a believer of my own Sun,
the Zenith of my own Zen …
so let live and live, in this pulse of life
for, it is a soulful crown ~
the throne of transcendence
and this spirit seeks to be the truth that twins
with the loyal essence of the Lord's divinity,
as I remain ~ the rebel of nirvana ~ …
Wings flutter
off in the distance
as I shuffle through these stones,
tasting the energy trapped in each,
scouring my lands
for my lost crystal,
that which can mend
what I’ve torn asunder.
In frustration
I abandon my quest,
deciding to find
my feathery deity,
the wind carries her scent to me
and I head Northeast,
diving through brush
and dodging trees
like only a Lycan may.
She must have picked up on my intentions
for I sense her
heading towards me
so I veer more northward,
there’s a place I know.
As I draw near
you can hear water
cascading off rocks,
when I arrive the moon is up,
clouds curled beneath it
as if it were a white pearl
resting on gray cushions,
to the right
the beginnings of a river
being fed by the waterfall,
about 80’ tall
careening off the three
stone outcroppings
and filling the air in the clearing
with a fine mist,
the left is ringed
by long needled pines
which have supplied the ground
with a soft cushion.
My winged beauty
lands on the third outcropping
whipping her hair back
under the waterfall’s edge.
I sprint to the water’s shore
and leap to the first,
as my claws connect
bound to the second,
paws touching
then legs thrust me
to the third
where I bring myself erect,
better to ensnare my love
within my arms.
As I bring her close to me
she raises her left hand up
and caresses my muzzle and cheek
with her claws,
I bend downward
and gently
sink my teeth
into the side of her neck,
she springs off the precipice ,
me entwined,
and glides down to the pine needle bed.
As we land
she pushes herself up,
drags her right claw
down my chest
and leans in to drink.
I drag one nail along
each shoulder blade
and let her blood
drip down on me
while I lick my claws clean.
After hours
she crashes down
into my chest,
exhaustion settling in.
I cup my hand around the back of her head,
hair entwined
in my fingers
and as she uses her wings
to blanket us
we drift off
into a pleasant slumber
while the stars blink at us
and the night creatures
serenade us with their calls.
Gliding down amber, leaf strewn lanes
Her wild hair flowing in golden tones
Goddess of Autumn awakens again
To soothe the sound of Winter’s pain
She lingers in woodsmoke of promises made
Where trees are shedding their Summer shade
She paints their green with a crimson tinge
Beside oaks that stand all acorn-ringed
Her voice is whispering in every glade
Her frosty eyes and spicy smile
Her ragged, leaf brown rustling gown
Her brisk, bright essence floating down
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping hunger and abuse of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
He remembers when his many bolts
weren't ringed in rust,
and his seams weren't blackened
with years of grime and dust.
The post upon which he sat
was gray and weathered now,
and had become just slightly
west of plumb somehow.
The screw that held his little flag
had long ago come loose,
chipped and faded, no longer red,
it was of little use.
The driveway that he guarded
was dirt and deeply sloped,
and halfway down it gently curved
around a massive oak.
Now some might think that he'd be bored,
stuck there night and day,
but he found entertainment
in the things that came his way.
He pondered long and hard on things
before making up his mind,
there was no hurry, he reasoned,
when all you have is time.
He carefully watched a nest of ants
both day and night for weeks,
before he reached the conclusion
that ants must never sleep.
He marveled at the seasons
and loved both sun and snow,
but sometimes he felt beaten down
when the wind-whipped rain would blow.
He loved the feel of bird feet
when they used him as a perch,
and when a truck would rumble by
he'd feel his spirit lurch.
He delighted in the field mice,
and wept with the mourning doves,
was suspicious of the furry raccoons,
with their masks and leather gloves.
Though days and months and years went by,
and he was oft ignored,
his life of perfect stillness
was itself a rich reward.
So as we hurtle past him,
with our tires spitting rocks,
perhaps we could learn something
from our stoic old mailbox.
f o r g i v e n e s s
is the window
to unknot the twigs of tainted trees,
where cuffed anklets
around the star-struck skin of
seraphic silhouettes
feel the suppressed sighs
of the ice-moon,
while
cocooned in a nest
of clamorous clouds,
blanketing rivers of love
flowing within
the esoteric orb,
like the raining snowdrops,
designing a bed of purity and humility,
to rinse the remnants of
stinging sorrow,
pricking thin feathers of phoenix wings
in compassionate clemency,
sealed in envelopes
carrying inked veins of a
weeping violin...
and as the city lights
adorn the panoramic view
of this bleeding boulevard,
I search for a verb
that hides between verses,
woven from heartbeats
of you and I
from pools of poems
poignantly painted
within closed pores
of persimmon pages,
locked with glimpses and polaroids
of
unscripted
t o m o r r o w
that only the soul of swirling
comets
can decipher~
for this is a tale
of peacock butterflies,
mirroring blue-ringed topaz,
like hibernating eyes
that seek not
ephemeral effervescence
jinxed by the touch of
two-faced artists,
performing hypocrisy
in perfect tenor,
like alchemists
dressed
in neon fairy lights.
So take these words
as memoirs of m e r c y
this soul is the soil~
where chamomiles bloom
in the glass garden
of forget-me-nots,
as my mind is
a beloved heritage,
awaiting drizzling rays
condensed with contentment;
a tempest
sedated and subdued
in
ultraviolet grace…
Nasty Aussies
Nasty critters do we have
Under the Southern Cross
Deadly Funnel Web Spider
Deadly Blue ringed octopus
Box jelly fish might get you (deadly)
Great white shark eat you too (nice fella)
Our Redback spider nips a bit (burns like hot coal)
And Possums in the loo (toilet)
A Pelican will blurt on you (whitewash)
Cane toads come in the house (poison glands on back)
Sand goannas sucking eggs
Roo’s will punch you out
Pussycats they are perhaps
Paralyss tick gets you
Short arm snake attacks, gets slaps
The Shielas run off too
Don Johnson 15-may-11
Black
I lay in my bed, alone with my thoughts, looking around,
But all I see is black.
Black is what remains of a disregarded rainbow,
Colors that used to spew from my mouth as happy words
Are now the slow drip of a faucet, thick black sludge drips down my chin.
I think about jazz hands that have now turned trembling digits,
Sweaty palms, purple nail beds, frozen fingertips.
I look at my eyes.
Once glistering with shades of bright green and deep browns.
Twinkling with brightness, beauty, and life.
I look at my eyes again.
Ringed with purple, irises a murky, foul swamp
Dull, emotionless, the eyes of a walking corpse.
I look at my hair.
It fell down my back in perfect golden ringlets
As bright as the sun
As soft as dandelions on a warm spring day.
I gaze once more.
Greasy locks hang above my shoulders,
Knotted from the countless times I run my fingers through my hair.
I listen to my voice.
Once bell like, sounding as smooth as honey,
Dripping with confidence.
I speak to myself one more time.
My voice left hoarse from sleepless nights,
Screaming,
Crying,
Giving up.
The bell is no longer in use, replaced by boards that
Squeak and creak every time I speak.
My voice cracks, shaking with fear, eventually to be silenced by
The air that is not entering my lungs.
I lay back down and look up again,
Attempting to get a glimpse of some sort of color spectrum,
But all I see is black.
The Hope, Climbing To Ascend
born of earthen soil, clay models of infinite degrees and sky hopes
snowy mountain ledge, peak ringed by white stormy clouds, icy silent breath
12/20/2019
Poetry Contest: ku duet
Sponsored by: Silent One
Syllable count 34
checked by, How Many Syllables.com
Velvet red roses stand
cheek to cheek
with daisy faces, ringed
in petal fringes,
sweetly scented
by creamy bubbles
of double jonquil popcorn blooms
beside a starburst
yellow chrysanthemum,
and long leaves
squeezed between.
Below, their stem-straws blur
in the ribbed glass jar,
looped with a satin orange bow
for your 97 years
we must farewell soon.
The loved ones are visiting,
bringing flowers, hugs, reminiscences
for you, last of your generation -
two brothers, two sisters.
I don't want to say, 'Goodbye'.
Let's have a few more days,
or weeks, or months,
just for keeping company,
like the flower bunch.
As My Sad Tears Fall, Its Gown Glows A Fearsome Red
I simply can not write good poetry today
yesterday's ghost haunts me and will not go away,
on its torn black cap and red shoes are jingling bells
in its raging red eyes are high, sea raging swells.
Ruby ringed left hand, holds repugnant staff of wastes
in its right, bucket of blood, begging bitter tastes!
I simply can not write good poetry today
last night's dreams, yesterday's persistent ghost yet stays
replaying scenes that are chosen to break my heart,
screaming, beautiful red roses were torn apart.
As my sad tears fell, its gown glows a fearsome red
casting curses upon lying words I once said.
I simply can not write good poetry today
yesterday's ghost haunts me and will not go away,
on its torn black cap and red shoes are jingling bells
in its raging red eyes are high, sea raging swells.
Ruby ringed left hand, holds repugnant staff of wastes
in its right, bucket of blood, begging bitter tastes!
Robert J. Lindley, 7-17-2018
Rhyme, (Dark And Ghostly Regrets)
Inspired by a dream, rather a recent nightmare I had....
Glossy, heart-shaped leaves of galax
ringed ‘round the lingering lilacs
that played across the garden gate,
bent now – bowed from foliage’ weight.
Wild roses replace Venus et fleur
having a sweet natural alure.
Chicory and Madonna lily
grow here and there, and willy-nilly.
Bachelor buttons and blue bonnets
clothe the field with unsung sonnets.
Coreopsis and black-eyed Susans
frolic with their rambunctious cousins.
Of all the flowers God has wrought
I love the ones that were last thought.
Haphazard flair of wild flowers
bestow joy with dewy showers.