Best Rubaiyat Poems
I relinquish my pen before the storm
of her tears falling upon my bare arm
her gentle whispering breathed in my ear
Muse of mine, adieu to your wit and charm
With piqued reasons I have come to deduce
It's time to say fond farewell to my muse
She should seek a new poet and lay claim
for my words have grown utterly abstruse
Spare me sullen eyes, from cries in refrain
I shall not weep in sadness nor disdain
Bitterness does not become a recluse
My poet's heart weakens, I dare not feign
Time's drawn the shades in darkness of night
No candle flame shall glimmer enough light
in which I may be tempted before morn
to doubt seclusion and attempt to write
Cloistered without pen, I shall ever be
From thinking in rhyme I shall be set free
Poems half written on bits of scrap paper
I shall lock away and then toss the key
My hand has retired, this last poem now penned
No more idyll thoughts of mind will transcend
Bereft of rhymes and abandoned of verse
This poet knows her time has reached an end
Ink no longer flows through my tunneled veins
Expressed emotions in poetry wanes
And when interred, on my stone I shall read,
"Reclusive poet" over my remains
No larger than a grain of rice,
her face is forming; mouth, a slice.
Her heart, a tube, begins to beat;
at one month, things are imprecise.
An inch now from her head to feet.
Eyes, fingers, toes: not yet complete.
Her neural tube, well on its way.
At two months, things look pretty sweet.
Four inches long, an ounce to weigh;
miscarriage risk drops every day.
All parts are present, there to see;
at three months, fingers grasp and splay.
Her nails and hair seen easily;
eyelid, eyebrow, eyelash agree.
Four months now and six inches long,
the ultrasound clear: she’s a she.
Her muscles build; she’s getting strong.
You thought you felt her; you’re not wrong.
She’s covered with lanugo hair.
At late month five, she hears your song.
Her fingerprints? Whorls present there.
The eyelids part; eyes open, stare.
When she hiccups, you may observe.
Month six births: viable with care.
Refinements to sensory nerves,
reacts to light, from pain will swerve.
She rarely is reserved or still;
month seven, and this gal’s got verve!
At five pounds now, she kicks at will.
Lungs immature, but they can fill.
Eight months, all sharpens, gets refined;
You’re on alert, you know the drill.
It’s nine months now; she’s quite confined.
Delivered, breathes in, and unwinds.
Flesh of your flesh, though quite her own;
Distinctly her, you’re intertwined.
The Four Seasons…
It was spring and I was young when I had wine.
I was singing and dancing and doing fine.
The wine was so divine, made my blossoms glow.
The spring is for the youth, makes everything shine.
Summer came and I was older, full of joy.
I was in love, and love taught me to enjoy.
I was flying, kissing, dancing having fun.
Didn't know that the end is there to destroy.
The autumn was yellow, tired, full of pain.
My garden was there but flowers lived in vain.
The nightingales departed, my youth as well.
I could not see the way, clouds were crying rain.
Now is winter and winter promises cold.
I am there but alone, with no one to hold.
The garden is barren, empty, no more youth.
The only thing is there, is me that is old.
10/24/18 Haloo
This poem is in the form of "Rubaiyat", it is the plural form of Rubai. Rubai is a quatrain with rhyming of AABA. Each Rubai is a book by itself, it starts and ends within the quatrain, but when it's in a form of Rubaiyat, it follows the single theme with the same meter throughout. Poetrysoup has a good explanation of this format.
Why should one wish the days to pass
Of lush and verdant meadow grass
And butterflies with stained glass wings
Which autumn's burnished hues outclass?
A summer breeze revives the mind
As worldly cares are left behind
And gentle waves of lapping seas
Coax weary bodies to unwind.
Await the golden harvest grain
But may lips linger once again
On luscious strawberries' sweet delight;
Resplendent fruit of summer's reign.
Life's hourglass is finely planned
Why hasten on the grains of sand?
Let scented roses fill the air
And summer's splendour take its stand.
03/10/18
The dog days endure contest : Sponsored by: Gregory R Barden
N/A Second Chances N-A Poems From My Contests Only Part I Chantelle Anne Cooke September 2020
Come and go away with me
and join me in this fantasy
to distant lands beyond the clouds
where we can share a life so free.
no storm clouds looming to disrupt
no one close by to interrupt
just you and me beneath the stars
as solitude let’s life erupt
beneath the stars we’ll spend the night
while bathing in the moon’s pale light
just clinging close until the morn
enjoying moments of delight
and in the morn a bright sun rise
as purple pink lights up the skies
the morning mist lifts in the air
revealing beauty to our eyes
into the air the sea gulls soar
and wing their way along the shore
just floating on the ocean breeze
we’ll soar with them for evermore
the ocean breeze blows in our hair
our skin sun kissed, our feet are bare
our footprints in the pure white sand
while strolling on a beach so fair
on pure white sand by ocean blue
beneath clear skies our lives renew
as all our worries fade away
we’ll spend forever just we two
so won’t you come away with me
and join me in this fantasy
to distant lands beyond the stars
where we can live forever free.
October 3, 2019
glass-like smooth of even's yawn
just I, myself, with one cob swan
trace cursive paths upon the lake
for we’re both OF the earth, not on
so sets the sun to blow a kiss -
in hushed glissades of feral bliss
cleaving surface - gentle wakes
o surely heaven’s much like this
swan and I, we share these eves
in feathered white tuxedo sleeves
he follows while I row the skiff -
my chaperon as daylight leaves
I think perhaps he's lonely, too
a-searching for a soul-mate who
shares his love of blushing skies
and parting mirrored lakes anew
the water's darkened interludes
reflect both images and moods
hopes we held of love this morn
are put to bed as day concludes
ere we meet when dusk is drawn
I’ll say a prayer that he'll be gone
that one of us shall find true love ...
for we’re both OF the earth, not on.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 9" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ the "Beauty Of Solitude" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Your Choice (7), Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Diamonds
We all have so many diamonds that we own,
but we think of them as glass or bits of stone.
We often sell them as cheap pieces of junk,
but yet always we think of them as unknown.
The diamonds are the youth, your health, and no pain.
Making love with your love, not much to complain.
A thousand laughs, a thousand ways to enjoy,
Getting old is the pain, no need to explain.
My days are darken since my love, she is gone.
The nightingales are calling me to hold on.
The light is leaving me keeping me in dark.
How much darkness there is, I’ll die before dawn.
What if life is a bowl, in there, full of pain?
The pain is there to drive you and me insane.
Remember when we were young bursting with life?
My face is wet, is it from tears or from rain?
There are only a few days that you are young,
on those days you believe that life is unsung.
To be young is a dream no youth ever knows.
No one is here to hear me what I have sung.
If you are golden and like gold full of lust,
Or maybe like the kings, you live and you must,
You may have all the things all big and all small,
At the end of the road, you will become dust.
8/2019 Haloo
Note: This poem is in the form of "Rubaiyat", it is the plural form of Rubai. Rubai is a quatrain with the rhyming of AABA. Each Rubai is a book by itself, it starts and ends within the quatrain, but when it's in a form of Rubaiyat, it follows the single theme with the same meter throughout. Poetrysoup has a good explanation of this format.
The painting is called " a reminder". It is acrylic on plywood.
Revelation…
How do I know that what is divine?
What does he do now? I need a sign.
I am uncertain what the truth is,
All the prophets or a mouth full of wine.
I am like a fish; live in a bowl.
To live in the sea it is my goal.
What if the bowl is the sea I seek?
The sea and I are one as a whole.
How can I trust you on such and such?
How can you feel it without a touch?
Eyes are so blinded; how can you see?
Your blessed divine is much too much.
I am a divine as good as him.
Once, I was shining, now old and dim.
I did not come from Adam and Eve,
I live in a bowl, ready to swim.
If you want to find it, go within.
Break your cage and let your life begin.
All it is is good and all divine.
We are here to play and not to win.
If the thing you seek is everywhere,
How can you see it is here and there?
The books were all written long ago,
Is there a divine? I do not care.
Maybe my darkness lights up the world.
I hope that our world will shine like gold.
No more killing that, what divine is,
What that I had said had to be told.
I will live my life ready to fly.
I'll be part of Earth the day I die.
There is no heaven; there is no hell.
When the time is here, I’ll say goodbye.
11/11/19
It seems that time...is calling out my name
As raindrops beat ..upon the windowpanes
While scanning through the pages...of my life
In a book...where empty pages...still remain
What, I ask?...will be the final ending
So many pages...so in need...of mending
Now...with so little time to write the wrongs
And find a title...for a cover pending
Tattered pages...the story of my life
A beaten trail...of harmony and strife
A tale...more strange then fiction...in reflection
With paper pages...cutting deeper...than a knife
So many pages...yellowed by the years
Words lost in faded ink...and salty tears
As I read...and re-read...each page again
With voices...from the past...ringing in my ears
For years...I put these pages...on a shelf
This endless quest for truth...to know myself
Went on to write...so many poems of love
And a book for children...all about an elf
The past...I thought...I'd finally put to rest
Thought I'd finally sent those demons...to their death
But a restless wind...keeps calling out my name
To write the ending...before my dying breath
I can offer you sympathy,
try to feel you through empathy.
But if you take it for granted,
silence will be your remedy.
Remember the seeds you planted,
when unnourished will bloom slanted.
Hearts yearn for balanced devotion,
like birds sharing what they chanted.
When there is too much commotion,
tears seem to fall in slow motion.
Will you give my soul an embrace,
try to sense its deep emotion?
Ego only portrays disgrace.
Some actions are hard to replace.
Judgement is harshly negative.
Selflessness should be your showcase.
When the conscience seems tentative,
your heartbeats become expletive.
But if you've helped quench someone's thirst,
the thoughtful become sensitive.
Before the heart and soul immerse,
the eyes observe compassion first.
Awareness brings sweet harmony.
A purpose that should be well versed.
you want to know a secret
when I write a poem and it's perfect
i dont share it
i bury it
deep inside of me
where no one else can see
i mean its perfect
not like this shift
it's elegant, poignant,
simplistic, bueatful
trucking perfect
its not erotic
but i read it
mentally masterbate to it
a euphoric chorus
straight form thesaurus
its just that great
im not being egotistical
if read, it would become universal
a meter tethered in clasical measure
a rythmic flow
with many metaphoric undertows
an iconic harmonic tonic
to make you feel like an embryonic hedonic youth
im not being napoleonic
its an actual truth
factually accurate
high in heaven
it produced a tear in the eye of god
who proclaimed
not a single flaw
not a single flaw
and he only saw what i wrote
well, because hes god
me being me i like to tease
allow me to be inclined to share a few lines
blow your mind
redefine your collective defective perspective
realign your ineffective respective connective tisue
"all my cows milk is homogenized
all my crows are well organized
all my sheep like to stare and creep
like to stare and creep"
but you'll never see
the rest of my secret poetry
that only exsist inside of me
cows will always moo
crows will always ka kah
sheep will always go baah baah baah
and the perfect elagance
of my literary inteligence
will die with me
never being seen
qouted, memorised or plagerized
as i will say with my last gasp
the next line being twice my last
all you super-duper-soupers can kiss my ***
ok all you super-duper-soupers have been slammed. if you want to slam me back just a few things. make it funny. make it a little nonsensical and definitly make it over the top
and if you do slam me back send me a soup mail or leave a comment so i can go read your slam.
Seems like I could be on top of the world.
I think about poetry like my tongue is pearled.
Just the other day I wrote a poem to honor another poet.
I spun around in a spin to unfurl to the Soupers whorled.
I know they think they’re the bombshell.
They are big headed and believe their words cast the spell.
They vortex puts us in a whirlpool.
They billow swells.
Soupers let’s keep it real.
The universe zeal.
We entertain each other with our thoughts.
Poetry is our appeal.
We write to regale.
Anything else considered is to no avail.
I laugh aloud.
Soupers the advantage is a tall tale.
I am here to share-out.
That there is such a thing as an amateur in the house.
I know many fill the title of a poet professional.
This is where real skills are grandeur and profound.
Soupers, the truth expose.
A writer’s right shows.
Angstrom to a wavelength, the brain thinks and the mind depicts.
As a Poetess, here I throw it to the wind; that it is you with the *******.
To the Souper who asked for a rebuttal to his slam.
__________________________________________________________________|
Penned February 18, 2015!
I'll drink tears from my ancestors in silence
From history's cup of their defiance
I'll sit in darkness where my soul is torn
and quench my parched thirst of self reliance
To understand their hell and be reborn
Remembering iron shackles, blood stained, worn
My mind reveals stones from a slaver's wall
Crumbling through years from a past I mourn
I carry each stone to the master's wall
Pulled from stoney fields with blood as a shawl
I'll stand among ruins of an anguished time
With memories of tears, feeling them fall
I touch every scar as history is blind
Reach my hands upward, my spirit will climb
and free my caged soul so a healing comes
I'll drink tears from my ancestors so they remind
contest..Writing in a Black Perspective
2/25/15
Mother Nature..
I see a mountain; wake me up there.
Tired of dreaming, no time to spare.
I will be flying soberly drunk.
I am just living, don’t ask me where.
There will be some light full of delight.
I am tired of darkness and night.
I will be drinking, drinking the dew.
Thanking the sunshine, shining so bright.
I am waiting and waiting to see.
Watching your sunset under a tree,
Seeking for wisdom, seeking your path,
Flying toward you, dancing with glee.
I am so lonely, the sky is my friend.
Talking and smiling, so I pretend.
I will be seeing you in my dreams.
Waiting and hoping how this will end.
Tell me where you are; I am abused.
Lots and lots of pain used and misused.
Tell me what to do; I am so lost.
It is no wonder I am confused.
4/16/2017 Haloo
As flower to the sun, I look to you
As thirsty grass that drinks in drops of dew
As river flowing down to waiting sea
I live again with you a love that's true
I’m lost to life when nestled in your arms
Your lips, your eyes, your body full of charms
I enter softly in your shrine of dreams
My vow to wait the scent of you disarms
Your breath upon my body, how it thrills
Your mouth my hunger with your tongue it fills
I gasp for breath for I am overwhelmed
Your pilgrim hands have reached the sacred hills
I faint with pleasure as you touch inside
My fantasies lie bare and opened wide
You speak to me in urgent whispers low
A plea to let you taste of passion’s tide
Intense becomes the rhythm of our love
Your eyes devour mine from up above
I hold to you as both our souls break free
A blazing flight of eagle and the dove
As flower to the sun, I look to you
As thirsty grass that drinks in drops of dew
As river flowing down to waiting sea
I live again with you a love that's true
Eileen Manassian