Best Rites Poems
When harvest moon alights,
to sail like gauzy lace
on through a cloud’s embrace...
I watch her mystic rites,
as beaming, she excites
my lithesome hours of grace.
How glorious the view
atop a mountain crowned…
with lilies all around
that settle on her queue,
beguiling eve, anew
when sparklers reach the ground.
Till weaves of dawn advance
which ends fine Luna’s trance.
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Andrea Diterich's The HexSonnetta
Rhyme Scheme: a/bb/aa/b c/dd/cc/d ee
~ the word glorious has 3 syl count~
8/22/2015
Remember the day
Apron strings loosed,untied
as maternal voices faltered and cried
Remember the day
When a soprano voice lost its elan
and a boy became a man
Remember the day
Peer pressure would not hide
and diffidence was replaced with pride
Remember the day
Desire,with warm whispers heard
questions,answered with just three words
Remember the day
Filled with joy and love
a union blessed from above
Remember the day
Holding a first-born,so wee
as two self-absorbed,became three
Remember the day
Trust was born-a-new
a changed life came into view
Remember the day
Genesis as a work of art
with gifts to share and impart
Remember the day
The Rites of Spring
8/8/2023
It’s Spring, and all of humanity sings!
As large pinwheels dance in her winds
And lovers lips blossom into roses.
Hearts beat faster, new love in view.
Time. silences our will to win.
Enchanted, carefree, sail sunlit boats.
Observing beating veins in lovers throats
Racked with sensual desire to fulfill
Nature’s call, to honor holy Spring’s will.
a haiku string
a bad man
he could never be ...
circumstance
blessed virgin
wrong place
at the wrong time ...
justice prevailes
sweet mother of Christ
I stare
between the bars
snowey peaks
reveling in beauty
I seek inner calm
help him find what he needs
tight straps
brace against my chin
quickly a jolt
a young reporter cries,
his angst bringing tears
let not him weep in vain
eyes blink
and a life is gone
such is man
amen, amen and again
I looked
through the bars
snow still falls
a haiku string
a bad man
he could never be ...
circumstance
blessed virgin
wrong place
at the wrong time ...
justice prevailes
sweet mother of Christ
I stare
between the bars
snowey peaks
reveling in beauty
I seek inner calm
help him find what he needs
tight straps
brace against my chin
quickly a jolt
a young reporter cries,
his angst bringing tears
let not him weep in vain
eyes blink
and a life is gone
such is man
amen, amen and again
I looked
through the bars
snow still falls
.Sweet pleasures kindle a family
of hearts whispering amen
for ripples of affection
on homely broths, glazed
with smiles to wrap dawn
and night-time into a vessel
of holy gifts, spilling naturally
for an abode's roofs on the county:
Blessings of life's harvest shared fully
far richer than ancestral sprouts
birthing family wholeness , so divine
Dave Wood's Imagination Contest
5/20/2014
by nette onclaud
FUNERAL RITES
Hunter and the hunted -
It's a breach of contract
Finger , pointed at me ,accusing ,my dad .
Muse forefather , consecrated water ,
An agreement on half burnt chest ,
Primitive scribes chiselled-
Dad, you shake me in my sleep
Lifeless curses on me
Zenith of fear, I agonists
Tent a bye-pass
My love offerings to you dad .
My son breakes glass
Leap beyond circles
I weep in remorse
How I imposed solitude on you!
Brunt out ashes
Broken words-
Dad..............my Day.
Rites and Wrongs
This write suggests the search of many slants
Pursuing words of truth you hold most clear.
Stand sober toward the charlatans whose rants
Exact belief in those susceptible to fear.
Reflections on the tomes of writers past
Remark agendas with a want to bring
To light the mystic words that prophets cast
Which spread the lofty rumor of a coming King.
A rock holds sway while scratches on a stone
Prescribe the path of hallowed righteousness.
Successors to the dozen set the tone -
The mind that dares diverge invites the hot abyss.
The stream that's meant to wash away the stain
Which nascent blooms bear from the first of breath
Presumes we bleed not pure but earned our pain-
A wrenching debt, but spares an endless tortured death.
We know not why the wind sweeps insolence
Into the space of grayish rooms unseen
And presses some to scoff at reverence
For black-robed shadows knelt and bowed in holy scene.
Lawless acts to shelter sins are fraught
With hushed consort by fiends so likely bent
Who offer haven when their rogues are caught.
Whose shrouded malice deemed a minor, lone event.
But yet the seething silence in the guise
Of those whose offered trust was so defiled
Is broken only by their troubled cries.
A shameful stigma preyed upon them as a child.
So tremble not to dash the age-old trends
With questions bracing your unruly airs.
Yea, stand alone, if need be, from your friends
For surely your slant deems as much respect as theirs..
A man named Erik sang a drunken lyric on the way up quicken this limerick a field for the horses the name of course I will take it by force sang the drunken Norse unleashing ire a land this limerick
Stranded, sorrows billow suffering sails,
Surf snaps at broken hull's plea; 'swallow me'!
Lost love, life black-white, living color pales,
Tears sew sad tapestry on stirred sea.
Surf snaps at broken hull's plea; 'swallow me',
Grief, windswept memory’s muck lines the shore.
Tears sew sad tapestry on stirred sea,
Grains grit harsh reminiscence evermore.
Grief windswept, memory's muck lines the shore,
Winds retch your name, sandblasted stinging bites.
Grains grit harsh reminiscence evermore,
Essence dying, anoint loveless last rites.
Winds retch your name sandblasted, stinging bites!
Lost love; life black-white living color pales.
Essence dying anoint loveless last rites,
Stranded sorrows billow suffering sails.
Susan Ashley
August 3, 2017
N/A
For contest: Lost Love 2017
Sponsor:John Hamilton
He asked her why they allow it,
How they could be subordinate to a woman.
“They would never take you seriously.”
She smiled and turned her face,
Moved her stare toward the sea.
“The women bury the dead
The men simply make all the bodies.”
After a while,
The violence catches up to you.
After a while,
There are no more men.
Only bodies.
Work in Progress
Mauna Loa Volcano & Kilauea Sister Volcano
The political and spiritual symbolism of Mauna Loa’s historic eruption
“We’re seeing new land, new geographical features being born right in front of our eyes, and there is no power — no human power — that can stop it or can deter it,” one Native Hawaiian scholar said.
“The Native people have been saying this isn’t your place to extract and profit from anymore,” said Kaniela Ing, co-founder of Native Hawaiian-focused organization Our Hawaii and a former state legislator. “You don’t have authority to shape our sacred lands.”
The eruption, Ing said, “is Pelehonuamea saying, ‘They’re right. My people are right.’”
The deity Pele, often referred to as “Tutu Pele,” or Grandmother Pele, has been regarded as an ancestor who “creates new land” as hardened, molten lava adds to the surrounding terrain.
— KU’UALOHA HO’OMANAWANUI, AUTHOR OF “VOICES OF FIRE: REWEAVING THE LITERARY LEI OF PELE AND HI’IAKA.”
Mauna Loa, on the island of Hawai’i and alongside the dormant, snowcapped volcano Mauna Kea, is expected to continue erupting for weeks. Thus far, the lava flow has significantly slowed and does not pose a threat to communities, the Hawaii Emergency Management Agency said. However, authorities expect it to eventually reach Daniel K. Inouye Highway, which is less than four miles away, in roughly a week or more.
A named Mercury plies the air
above his fountain
in the Phipps Conservatory.
Children wet their fingers
in the receiving pool
and stare
up at possibilities
that may enable them
someday
to match the blossoming
in the Amazonian Room.
Co-eds with athletic boys,
muscular Pitts and tall Duquesnes,
meander through
the scented aisles,
enlisting spirits of the place
to augment flirtatious smiles.
Wedding guests accompany
a bride and groom
who set their basic blue
amidst the foil
of dappled bloom
and celebrate their day
with words they’ve learned to say.
Then from a group home crowd
a single swain steps forth
and casts his gaze on all around
and asks the god,
“O where is my Marilyn;
who took my Marilyn away?”
I cannot answer him
and the god above,
as silent as a stone,
appears to have no power--
no balloons or wedding bells
or maps to Love’s sweet bower.
When the saddened lover asks again,
"O Marilyn; who took my Marilyn away?"
she appears,
not taken, only loaned,
to trees and flowers
and charmingly atones
for all her wandering.
Standing before the door,
she smiles broadly at her lover.
I see him see her.
Our hearts soar.
Calabash cracks
On the frond chair
Splinters
Black sash, then sparks
Tooth, bone and hair
Whispers
Patter-patter
Footfalls on stone
Midnight
Blood-moon and fog
Shadows haunting
Mist-white
White dress, bare feet
Root, foot… slipped
Whimpers
Neck and wrist slit
Wine of soul, spilled
Sputters
Dawn and duskblade
Spell rites fulfilled
Hunters.
FUNERAL RITES
Hunter and the hunted-
Itís a breach of contract
Finger, pointed at me, accusing, my dad.
Muse forefather, ancestors of Time
Sandal, flowers, consecrated water,
An agreement on half burnt chest,
Primitive scribes chiselled-
Dad, you shake me in sleep
Lifeless curses on me
Zenith of fear, I agonists
Tend a bye-pass
My love offerings to you dad.
My son breaks glass
Leap beyond circles
I weep in remorse
How I imposed solitude on you !
Burnt out ashes
Broken words-
Dad...........my Dad.