Best Risings Poems
Harken...those hollowing drums
Over cold vales so beat,
Exhorting a multitude of glistening
Star-tipped spears,
As marching over shattered landscapes
In shinning replete:
Crunch Artumes eternal legions
Across the snow bound years.
Casting down from the mauve
And cloudless heights
The pale witch broods upon her dark
runes;
Chilled breath steaming mutterings
Of meddling spite,
Uttered under Luna risings
Of half waxen moons.
Repulsed from the presence
Of the holy alters sacred glow,
That cuts like a torch
Across Yules Feast of Lights,
She incants of harsh Boreas
To relent his fierce blowes:
Raising high her crystal towers
To breach the walls of stilled night.
Tis now, away from cheery hearths
And the warm fires they keep,
That warring frost tightens
Upon this hardened land;
Happily sated people
Turn in contented sleep;
Motionless vapours are crushed
In the grip of an iron clad hand.
For as the siege heightens
In relentless might
Heavens wheeling sentinels
Begin to slowly withdraw:
Retreating upon spiraling orbits
Fading from diminishing sight;
Ghostly armies embarking
For far frozen shores.
Loosen now the silver longships,
Afloat on tides of drawing moonlight,
For the Red Goddess slumbers
In deep canyons to the west;
Artumes armies sailing
Into grey dawns fleeting respite...
Awaken... Oh Glorious Aurora...
Scattering your foes -
Before Sunrises conquest!!
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
An appeal of poetry
is its lack of rules...
though not to be loose
as a plucked goose –
without bare essentials
for flight
struts of logic,
living words
that excite with lift
long after the reading
and initial gliding
a pleasant aftertaste
not necessarily sweet
often profound such seasoning
(therefore, freedom unbound
can be a self-inflicted
noose – God yet dealing
with His man, on the intellectual
physical loose
Poetry~ a harbinger of potential wings
Poetry~ the elastic of sling-shot words
woven hemp of curiosity and
senseful affixation, tautening the
the literary-bow
for enabled focused release
Poetry, the loftier dialogue of both
war and peace
can be a voice of cold desertion
while also the arms of love's entreating
embrace...
with pestilence of hell
while equally possessing
the charm of saintly chants~
Poetry, the voice of victory
and defeat, co-joining of
calm with fear, for their
similarity of awe
Poetry, a writer's quest to make
sense of both soothing nature
and seasonal temperament
of our creator
His sunny risings then quakes
and deluges confounded–
poetry, somewhere within
our fanciful journeys
imagines a deeper truth
that witty penetration
will hopefully incant off the page
rising up and out into blissful new
unbound, forever enlightening living
reality
Poetry, a soaring liberty
and grounding addiction....
Breathe laden islands rise and fall beneath the lap
of crystalline water, a steam graced surface breached,
rosettes crest, their gently risings peaks to cap
mouthfuls of desire whose lower gate's lie unbreached.
Submerged beneath chest's hollow lies a navel fine
the round perfection of its form longs, for pointed tongue.
A sweeter base can't be found 'bove the water line
yet, men would gladly drown to go below hips clung.
Below, down deep, nectar bathes the pristine pearl,
and petals, rose-red gently part in delight.
The heat, the steam the bath, and the lovely girl
perhaps, perhaps, he thinks, we'll make of this a night.
Date: 3/6/13
** Devotion Poem, VANTAGE POINTS **
(For Jim. #17 in Devotion Poem Series)
“I’m not a romantic,”
you announced at the very beginning
With a side-flick of your hand
As if you might then stand
To exit…taking along your trail
Of cool colors — the blues and greens —
Too unwilling for any startling
By my sun yellows, tangerine oranges
Or my bleeding reds,
To disturb your eyes.
But committed to staying, you added,
“I’ve never been able to wink either,”
demonstrating that disability as if
To say, “At you, I would if I could.”
Hypotheses and proofs, have
always linked
In your engineer’s character,
While crayons and ongoing arrows
spread out through mine,
Which, like our colors,
I thought were complimentary,
But now it appears you
might have thought
were just me being childish
And not about any inspired creativity,
from the other side of the brain, so
Alien to the light-green violets
On your side of the color wheel:
Where the palette of intelligence
has formulae —
Not unpredictable outbursts
Or random integers of emotion.
Once, you held me like the first
Glimpsing of a winking Venus
in the dusk
Presenting to all
Her prelude of heaven’s lights
To continue on through the night…
But now, paddling deep in
an ocean of years,
I fear that you find me
Like a flicking bedside candle
Meddling in your wish to sleep…
While some galaxies
in my cosmos
Have darkened
With my own self-depreciation
and decline
So like
Those stars
and dreams that have gone aging.
But inside,
My sun’s risings and settings
Still glow blessed
With vibrant, surging color…
Wishing to be held by
your morning’s horizon-blue eyes.
———————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 3/22
Thanks be to God
The name
mistakenly saintly,
the other one
a rite-of-life,
a gauche passage
for some, for most
the contract costly,
imprints its meaning
post firey baptismal dive
to rise again somehow
from each our own
calamities, the personal
cataclysm we confront
or shun in a parallel life
of optimism, there each one
observes what was and lingers
to kiss the font of the child
within every one, each their own
version of the meaning
of catechism,
forgotten by most,
yet a lingering malaise
swims in their waking,
a sense of de je vu,
these are the incorrigible
pushing the envelope,
the timestamp licked
and mailed off
to other voices
that do not speak,
that do not arrive
through lips, yet
open sleeping minds
and hold the eyelids
to peer directly into
and through to meet
that thing that powers
the brain within,
to shine its glistening
luminescence, one
senses that thing
which is forgotten within,
is commissioned
to win the race of life,
and lose and then,
win again -
the losses mailed off
in worldly corrupted
creative ways, didactic,
where one revisits
as a dark shadow,
standing with all
those other
dark shadows,
frankly contemplating
conversion, and the
salt-strewn stinging
many paths of logic
through those
illogical clues
breadcrumbed
by all those
other shadows,
the eternal puzzle
of understanding
the life viewed standing
under lamplight;
in the disillusioned
poetic world,
we must forever
cultivate our garden,
that never-ending dream;
all is for the best, romantic
cliches and adventures,
falls and risings;
for those who think
they are normal
and above it all,
above the others -
all is never normal,
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
we stumble and we fall,
some stay where they are,
others get up again and again;
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
ou l'Optimisme,
Candide
a muse
amused
Candide,
all is as it should be
all is for the best
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Oh stars, even stars! Even the suns
whose undying light breathes life into all
countless mortal creatures across the universe,
whose sisters are their gods, whose risings set their clocks,
whose settings set ablaze the fire in their lovers’ eyes,
even they, even they are consumed
in the heartless Void!
Waves crashing at me feet, noble tall as I stand.
The beauty I see beyond me, tides washing in the sand.
Bright sunny days, to mist in the mornings.
Cold winter chills, see the whales adjoining.
No other life but this ocean to imagine.
Picture perfect memories, a life not meant for a cabin.
The years have slipped by, for even a friend I could not tell.
My roots have grown down deep, for my solitude suits me well.
To the east and the west, south as far as the eye can see.
My territory I claim proudly, belonging to only me.
I could never miss a friendship, A love bringing me such glee.
Reminiscing shared tide risings, ship sailing mad at sea.
Ask me why I grew here, for that I could not tell.
The wreckage from a past life, for a witch cast my spell.
A smile, I will smile; My best I will always be.
Enchanted for whatever reason, is perfectly fine by me.
In sight my green leaves flourish, growing taller by salty sea.
The world will know of my beauty, from the lighthouse tall like me.
Control casted light, during the storms jilted hour.
A guide of protecting beams, illuminated star built tower.
A Chelsea between us, ships resting, white caps sighted.
If someone were to look here, off ports path, to be united.
My secrets buried treasure, moonlit travel, capsized martyr.
My worth to yet be known, a tree in the harbor.
The delicious odor of home-baked bread
instantly takes me to mum's kitchen door,
I'm in heaven, though not a word is said.
Kneading the dough, she'd punch it down once more,
calling for three risings, she'd give it four.
I can never resist that fresh-baked smell,
just one whiff and once more, I'm a small boy,
there's no smell like it; I could always tell.
It's forever linked to a time of joy,
a nostalgic quirk, memories employ.
The instant its unique aromas waft
up my nostrils, with that heavenly scent,
I envision my mum's hugs, firm yet soft.
Going to the bakery's an event
that brings back flashes of mom's French accent.
(English- Quintain)
2/18/2018
He laughs like an ocean
His breath is a breeze of a crystal blue sea
That passionately meanders
Through and across her naked, burning heart
His depth boils like a patient volcano
That irons her rough edges with
Penetrating heat of desire
She coils and cries like a little kid
As she reminisces the milky ride
Of his million kisses on her skin as his tongue
Parades itself in the depth of her curves
In the risings of her femininity
Leaving with her sensual wetness
Of heavenly golden drops
He sees like an eagle, and feels like a child
Her heart resonates when he talks
He is a sea of words of life, hope
The immensity in his sweet voice
Brings romance to her life
Awakening fallen talents
She is his queen, he is her life
The hero in her sky
He is the quiver in her silent whispers
The after rainbow cloud in her footsteps
The confidence in her demeanor
The loud excitement in her laughter
The sparkling light in her battered will
He never gives up, he never gives in
She will never give up, she will never give in
She has found her hero in her sky
She awakes at the soft sensation of,
The velvet texture in his sultry lips
Sending vibrating waves of passion down her spine
The promise of eternity in the twinkle of his eyes
Settles her wanting heart, healing her passions
She moans at the curvaceous slither
Of his hands against the art of her sculpture
His body melts profusely against hers
At the emancipation of locked passions
As she surrenders to his indelible charm
Their souls interlock like spurs of stardom
She is the sky, he is her hero
ROSEN BLUT
And when the final times had come
to be known by all,
as the doomsday rock
had set its way,
those who had seen its course
chose they must not remain in silence
but prophesy even about the end.
And people laughed and believed us not
until it showed as a star
into the morning sky.
And then they did say look
how many risings of the sun
have we left?
And the children did ask
how big can it be?
Then said the heralds, yea
even bigger than the sky.
Look!
This is what will end our time....
....and together will they rule
over the world
and all they that dwelled there-on
for the rest of its days
which were numbered and few.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet aka Ron Wilson ©
With a poignant tale, he stands in crimson tide
His soul curves a silver lining like a wispy masquerade
The resonance in his innocent gestures tells a story
Of a rare, undeniable infancy so impeccable
There is a silence in his deep piercing eyes
Too many words unspoken like the twinkling away
Of a million stars in to the distant milky way
A radiation of elegance sprouts
From the passionate fire in his voice
A romantic mist slithers around his words
Red roses grow from his lips
Darling buds of life stem from his scrupulousness
There is a greater will yet not foretold
A greater yearning yet not fulfilled
Much is hidden away in a homely rally
Shall he lick the tip of his craving heart
Shall he mingle the curvaceous melt
Of vanilla risings, yet still crave to wade
The subtle waves of earthly bliss
Is there a love such as this
Or is this just a summery breeze,
Romancing the soft lyrics in his song
What shall he compare this to?
At what point in life is one allowed to give up?
After how many falls and risings,
Do we give them a go-ahead to giving up?
In a land of verbal freedom and peace like this,
Where you and I belong as good citizens,
Workers are enslaved and exploited,
Made to work like donkeys and rewarded with bones like dogs;
Not by man of different origin and color and language,
But by man of a resemblance of all except DNA make-up!
In a country like this,
Hard economy; as difficult to get a coin as it is to get water in a desert,
Yet with an education system contrary to the needs of man,
With a high demand for money like a bottomless pit of hell.
In a world where they preach to people that education is life,
Only to be roasted dry by the scorching sun as they roam around looking for jobs.
As it rains,it falls mercilessly onto them with their documents,
This is when they remember that,once upon a time, they had dreams,
Dreams to be great people and make their parents proud,
And yet,here they are, not any different from the fauna in the parks.
At this point,isn't one supposed to let it go?
When man starts eating dust like the cursed serpent,
Is it not right for him to give up and try something better?
When that something better gets worse than this,
Is it not right for him to completely let it all aside?
Afterall,isn't life better than all these,
Prestige,good jobs, pretty children and beautiful families,
Large mansions like palaces, expensive rides like the president's;
Does breath not surpass all these?
These that perish and vanish in a blink of an eye,
Yet life, regardless of this all,continues for as long as God has said?
When should man give up?
After how many losses, and beatings, and deaths
Should we allow him to let it be?
Haven't heard from my daughter
in many moons
But I don't interfere in none of that
My parents didn't interfere
in my life
Looks to me like a cosmic payback
I refuse to spend my time
worrying about her
Because I raised her to be
independent that way
She has a self-sufficient nature,
she has a non-inclusive regard
Other people she don't depend on,
she'll do things her way, right or wrong
Haven't seen sight of my daughter
in many sun risings
But I don't interfere in none of that
I'm cashing in on all my labor,
I'm receiving a big cosmic paycheck
Sweet and salty,
Bittersweet,
That time of year everyone's ready for the heat.
From Alaska to Florida,
California to Maine,
In teens and kids,
A time to celebrate.
School's out for now,
Gone are the books,
Late night crunch time,
And early risings.
For three months its swimming,
Sleepovers and camping.
It's summer time, baby!