Best Rivulet Poems
“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.”
David Levithan
I will forever be as pure
as white virgin fibres,
in your onyx
field of ravens.
When the
star-crossed
silhouette of
bleeding ink,
ricochets like
vindictive arrows,
within your
hollow walls,
quenched with
muted echoes,
I am reminded of
your ebony eyes,
cradled under
black decomposing flesh.
I shove my
misunderstood identity
into a pocket journal,
embalmed with a
fragrance of peace lilies
and rhapsodical prose,
amidst doleful dusks
painted with
past mistakes
hidden beneath
narratives of sinful
tangerine nights.
But, remember
that your fallacious
name is an
erased footnote
in the history of
relentless runes.
My tormented tongue
has become
immune to
your false screams.
There is no need
for close-fisted
fingers to flip
through pages,
of the story
I left behind,
as visions of
venomous verses
cremate into
ashes in my mind-
as mere memories
of monologues from
ice cold monsoons,
which don’t define me.
I’ve sculpted fragile
paper boats and
watched them ferry my
demons,
floating on daisies
in a ravishing rivulet
of truth and tranquility,
whilst you chase
impassioned imprints
within chapters
written in patterns
of insincere phrases.
I am a survivor of
your storm,
drawing dreams in
drowsy darkness,
blooming my
amethyst artistry,
which vibrantly
beats to burgundy
evolutions of a
blossoming flower,
who's scent you
will never savor.
My petals
may be fragile,
but I refuse to remain
prisoned in toxic
traits of a
weathered wildflower -
I only attract
majestic butterflies.
A world of illusions procreates
blinking sustained delusions
existence shivering in probabilities
memories afloat in traces astray
If only I were a meteor
I'd cross those barriers
to merge their essence for you..
Surviving beliefs proclaim strengths
astounding errors of hurled conquests
a seed of faith cocoons itself
in hazy blue dreams
If only I were a blissful rainbow
I'd splash hopeful colours
melting through the breeze for you..
Dark hallucinations evaporate
shrines of intuition exasperate
realities hinder imaginations
locking invisible worlds in mist
If only I were a feather in clouds
I'd wipe the dust of charades
sweeping showers of love for you..
Mortal moments stride along
paranoia of wanderer remains
wondering if forever sustains
a light to caress tender heart
If only I were a pious rivulet
I'd wash away those scars in flow
gleaming reborn leaves for you..
Superfluous battles of anxieties
pointing ancient spears of malady
shattering trust of naivety
masked crowds leading to agony
If only I were a lighthouse
I'd guide your fears in storms
projecting lucid emotions for you..
Sometimes I wonder if I really belong
to a world lost in speculations
If only I were a nurtured moment
If only I were a frivolous feeling
If only I were an eternal story
I'd orchestrate a timeless journey
mesmerizing parallel universes for you..
My love I am just a heart
striving to breathe in reality
scattered along my latent desires
all I am is a scintillating memory
tapping your silence in whispers
to hold you in my arms maybe..
"In the echo of silence, the whispers of the Divine are heard." By Rumi
I entered the winding path into the captivating vale
Surrounded by ice-capped mountains and ancient trees
Firs, larches, redwoods, spruce, and ash, all grand
I shouted in glee: “I’m here!” All around some Echo replied.
A repetitive Echo, always vibrating and mesmerising.
What a singular sound to hear nature at its best!
I lounged beneath the shade of an old maple tree,
Where the verdant vale lay sprawled in front of me.
Balmy breezes blew through dark green trees, an Echo divine.
Tiny thrushes flitted from bush to bush.
They permeated the vale with their familiar songs.
Occasionally they rested on a dense bush,
Hush! Did I hear the song again?
Choirs of echo resounded all around the lush plateau.
Down on the majestic plain, a babbling brook meandered
Towards a clump of cottages, providing water for all.
The rivulet was a sight with fronds of ferns unfolding.
How delightful to hear the water emanating such dulcet echo
As the stream zigzagged around rocks and small waterfalls.
Every echo ended in silence profound and I was in God’s peace.
A holy hymn hummed serene: echo after echo, all divine.
Placed 1
Rain ©
I walk on slick shine streets
in the night with my lover.
Freshly out of bed and ravenous
for other food, he pauses and
licks the tears and rain drops
from my face.
Rain in its many moods
quickens to sweep the earth and
skies clean.
Settles on the skin like a damp
kiss. Cold, warm, sweet, clean,
sharp, rain.
Is designer bottled water
merely rain drops from afar?
The dog romps through the rain,
in his perfect raincoat, oblivious
to the wet.
Blinking owlishly when a drop
should fall into his eye.
Mysterious primates of the forest
sit forlornly, beneath the
umbrella leaf.
Forever patient as the skies
rupture with a torrential deluge.
Human-tender eyes reflect their
disgust and sadness at the wet,
messy coats they must wear.
The equine turn their haunches
to the storm to show their scorn
for nature’s tantrum.
Cats run for cover, sit
majestically removing the
wet rain from their person with a
wet tongue.
Wild fowl dance across the circle
patterns of the pond’s face,
beating their wings and singing.
They frolic and dive celebrating
the sublime circumstance of
being wet.
Man spends energy and money
to keep himself dry and safe
from the rain, darting from
doorway to doorway.
What does he fear? He won’t
melt if he gets soaked, he won’t
become ill or grow fins, and he
just might get clean.
Snow is rain in its wedding attire;
no two brides alike.
The rain drop falls into a rivulet
of other rain drops atop the
mountain.
The rivulet runs into the creek,
the creek into a stream.
The stream rushes to the river
and the river falls into the sea.
The rain drops turn to salty tears
as the journey ends.
It is said that chickens, if left out
in the rain, will lift their heads up
to the sky and watch the rain
until they drown.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
He ran the palm of his hand across the canvas,
Felt its soft, smooth surface, excellent fabric.
It was well primed with gesso, and he was sure
The end result would be an immortal masterpiece
The quintessential fragrance of daffodils,
a carpet of yellows in secluded woodlands,
new-born lambs on wobbly legs bleating for milk,
bees irresistibly drawn to luscious nectar.
male cotton less cottonwood trees flourish
as do the blooming peach trees erupting in fruit.
And birds flying here and there, chirping delightfully.
On one side a cottage, beautifully thatched,
with a rivulet wending its way from the water mill,
on the other, a bench beneath an alder leaf birch.
There sat a young maiden fair to behold,
on his knees was a young shepherd hand outstretched,
barely touching, proposing, as she smiles happily.
The painter looked satisfied. It had taken days
But finish it he did. The Museum would be satisfied.
After all weren’t all his vast landscapes immortal?
Rambling across the grassy flowering meadow,
She felt like walking on air, as she flipped off her shoes,
She ran across, feeling the dewy fresh morning grass,
All dotted with a kaleidoscope of colourful wildflowers.
She came down to the rivulet, her favourite place.
Instinctively she looked into the water just to see
Her face floating on the surface, a lovely smiling face
No wrinkles, no defects, not even a nevus to mar it all up.
Her lover sat down near her, showing her the food he brought.
She had not thought of eating and pulling him down
She kissed him full on his inviting lips, her Adonis.
Love was her food, her only food, as she felt the burn in her.
At last satiated, she laid down and put her head on his lap
Dreaming incredible scenes of luxurious, and joyful love.
8 0 8
Two doctors were discussing her case. They looked at the old badly wrinkled woman lying on the bed, immovable. “Only that machine is keeping her alive. Irreversible Coma. No next of kin, single and all alone. Look, do you detect a smile on her face? Even her ECG is barely showing signs of being alive.”
“It seems as if she’s dreaming.”
The other one shrugged. “It’s not for us to decide. The Hospital Lords will decide who will switch her off, rest assured.”
“Let’s go for a drink. We need one.” Rambling along the long corridors, they found a hospital canteen, ordered their drinks, and rested at a table on comfortable chairs,
Moon In Auburn
As the stars were heaped upon a mantles Shangri-La
The miniature toy town beneath its cape
Quiet hung in yellow golden windows lit
So silent in the dales and woods blanket
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
Crisp and cloudless chill less coldness
With the twin of the moon fluxed silver blue
In the tiny handmaidens mirror of reflection
Natures dark slept beneath the shadows of her hand
And she crept in dreams
Within the tip toe of cats
Rendered the night through amber eyes
Glistening on the turns of lovers kisses
For all the endless that she misses
Arched above an eternal sky
She is drawn to the moss of rocks
And clings in branches hung with lichen
To the feathered damp of leaves
Which catch her spark
Just a whisper footfalls breezes shifter
In the country lanes of ancient mazes
By stone wall and rabbits foot
Close upon the dandelions head
With all the disguised colours leaping on unseen acoustics
Were hidden amongst rivulet beds
Catching the silver blue
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
And swung out the flax upon the stars
Fingers traced their destiny within those pinpoint suns
A pattern constellation traits of has; she was born
The atonement of steady reckoning he had
Cut in trough on the ploughed earth
Where all the seeds of tomorrow had been scattered
With all their promises of a seasons ripening
Old songs sung of proud man “John Barleycorn”
And the distillation of his bone and marrow
And while the stars piled high on their Shangri-La
Recounted the lost tales of lovers in forgotten times
All the memories fell in auburn locks
And swept upon the Luna light shores
The twin she fluxed in silver blue
And the dog fox cry echoed from the moon
The time will come...Then, let me lie easy in a box of natural pine
And please, no bouquets of store-bought flowers will I want
Give the money instead to a soup kitchen, they need it more
A flower from your garden or the fields will do just fine
I'd love music; if there is; I will hang around a little longer.
Just to listen as soft breezes blow, while I whisper goodbyes.
Should it rain that day, I'll dance in puddles as I did as a child
Filled with excitement as cool drops rivulet down my face
As "Adadgio" wafts upon the wind, perhaps I'll frolic bare feet in lush green grass
Perchance it'd be a sunny day, I may twirl in fields of golden wheat
Then anxiously, run through whitest of white, sugar- fine sands
Stand on blue-green ocean's edge; teasingly chased by crested waves
Suddenly, I'd realize that I have eternity; that time no longer has claims on me!
I'd stand upon an ageless boulder; feel the vibration of rolling waves
All the while laughing as cool ocean mists gently wash my face
While I await the awesome moment - the grand reunion of light to light!
~*~
For Paula Swanson's "When" Contest
Burst
Of sweet
Rivulet,
Bubbling towards
The water-mill, its wheel turns endlessly,
Churning a mellow constant melody
As I enjoy
The deep peace
Of red
Dawn.
25 September 2020
Placed 1
Picture 1
Double Tetractys 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Quietly now,
my serenading sky
you to me are!
almost radiant and high, facing the light
be about your plants of green
your strewn paths and needles
let rays tend the weeds that harbour gainst your hand
and trowel deep each foot that steps
they live as do I
mountains waiting ire
I watch and yearn the uprooting
the dislocation, the cast away,
each fibre stretched against the cotton
and the curl of sweat
separates...
Ventures a rivulet down your back,
you are the mystery my love
Knelt neath the shading of time
bowed, from the unforgiving branch,
how do I see you so
a dance
to the music in my heart
a dance
that wealds the tilling grasp,
the pain I feel , is white peaks screaming
curling to kiss the clouds
each bead pours from your diamonds stream
and settles on the rock
catching sunlight on your nape,
a nape I've kissed a thousand times
I live a'neath the bowing branch,
allowed my wallow time
in shadows looking down
timeless tunes a humming
little inconsequential notions
swept back, brushed away
a remembered time when ledges cowered,
in rockbeds so dry of love
like strangled flowers
that grow untended, like lies
reflecting summer sunsets under the
mountains of your
unforgiving eyes...
We strolled along deserted lanes
lined by straggly rubble walls,
adorned by yellow cowslips,
perfumed with early wild narcissus,
and music, a fine harmony,
performed by finches of all colours
Whilst blue **** and sparrow fly from tree to tree.
I lingered there, hoping I could get away
from the fathomless worries of the weary world,
or perhaps find rest in an eternal quietude.
We walked hand in hand, listening to the rill
Its clear waters zigzagging downwards.
She stared at the rivulet with wonderment.
I admired her composure, her interest
In all around her, a stoic tranquillity.
I invited her to sit besides me on a wooden bench.
Enjoy the vast silent panorama of the countryside.
No other human could be seen in the vicinity
Except far off, a farmer tilled his field.
She put her head against my shoulder.
We uttered not one word. It was pure bliss.
I realized love can be silent,
For utter silence is true love.
Quiet moments of our deep love
trickling through the evening rivulet of moon
alight as softly as the dove
…as I dream
Your breath so close to my face
fervently seeking passion’s safe harbor
leading your lips and setting the pace
…as I dream
Your bold touch fulfilling its dearth
charting the curvatures of my being
docks as a ship finding her berth
…as I dream
I quicken and offer safe port
inviting your entry and sheltered mooring
as in true life, I am your willing consort
…as I dream
There is a mystic hint of endearment
In watching you through shadows ,
Like observing a diaphanous river
As it meanders its way down the bend;
Past reeds and grasses on a foggy edge
To somewhere new and therefore lightly seen.
The delicate, steady throb from your glide
Moves through cycles of my lulled vision
Bringing respite from your otherworld's form
Sailing on an air of unconsciousness
And pulling that filmy silhouette
Down , down to a ripple of celestial dreams .
I relish intangible thoughts about you
Flowing gently into me. You drift quiet, still :
Those ethereal whispers bidding me closer
Like the rivulet which beckons
Through your movement in it's veiled outline.
Silhouette Contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
9/15/2017
Why don’t you come now
To the plot of blue river shore
Where we would
In an intense chocolate mood
Sit in a sun rise satisfaction
On the grainy sand
And create pearl drops of time
From the rhymes of waves
With the vibrancy we behaved
Exchanging those fine chimes
From our moonbeam dialectics
And converging synthesis
Of our hilltop thoughts and marine activities
After a diamond quest
Like the river
Or inside the river too?
How wonderfully we regressed and progressed
Making those radiant rings of time
Sometime winged
Sometime pink tinged
Time is bland and monochrome
Unless from your chromosome
You paint it like Van Gogh
Arresting the wayward clock
During which
Regardless of Greenwich
Taking colours from our river-wave flowers
Taking flavours from our cellular tremors
Taking sounds from our nascent heart pounds
Yours and mine
In our proximity alkaline
Would paint the wavelets
In the cups and plates
Opening the normally closed gates
Of sweet sweats
From each pore
And millions of such pores
From smiling to laughing in a petrichor
Unlocking the thousand doors
Of a colour continuum
From San Francisco to Baltimore
As we exchange our breath
From our deepening cores
Raising a rivulet
In the blue pigeon’s breast
And the bulbul’s beautiful crest
A supreme rest
In a purple tumult
Shadows lengthen in ecstasy
As sessions come to a termination
(No termination is possible though
What happens is a slow transformation
Of one melody to another music
Speeches flowing into lyrics
The sounds into stillness mystic)
So therefore
Bringing to the fore
From the amalgamated core
A flower of fusion
Pure and fresh
Out of the flood
No mire or mud
Looking at us conveying greetings
We look too
And from the meeting
A poem is born
Why don’t you come any more
Very often I look through the eye hole
Of my expectant door
The wishes naturally soar
In case I may see you coming
Dulcet sounds your feet strumming
But it’s all mist
I almost don’t exist
I miss the oasis
Of the cleansing catharsis
_____________________________________
19 May, 2017
For the Contest sponsored by Neyda Ivette Negron
why do we
still assume that whispered diamond dialects
delicate and sheer
aren't scripted with blades
that curdle blood-stained musings
as summer symphonies scorch ebony skin
tattooed with dark and deep sinister sonnets
sewn from superficial scarlet syllables
that emanate rusted mahogany hues
so listen to the mulberry metaphors
that rain with roseate rhymes
from the hazy melancholic midnight skies
where not every mist of dust
becomes a halcyon teal blue rivulet
of passionate poetry
nor do they mirror
the wind
carrying unspoken tale
that is veiled
beneath twinkling twilight tides