Best Rudiments Poems
For holding things, two arms have we -
two arms with hands with which we have been blessed.
Two only – we’ve no need of three.
Two arms to reach with or to cross beneath our chest,
and in two arms of someone special we can be caressed.
Although with our two arms we can reach out,
some things we cannot reach; they are too high!
Our arms perform their functions. But what if we could sprout
wings like angels have, permitting us to fly?
Perfection it would be to touch the sky.
With wings we could do so much more.
As with arms, with two wings we also could enfold
those special people we adore,
yet rudiments of wings (two arms) are to be extolled,
for with two arms, we FEEL the flesh of the ones we hold.
Feb. 25, 2022
Entered March 14, 2022 for A Brian Strand Formed Poetry Contest
It’s impossible to fly:
and yet, you kept on trying.
Of late, a tear in your eye
tells me that you’ve been crying.
Time’s stolen your youth; that’s true,
but there’s naught that I can do:
that’ll help ease that loss for you.
Once, you contemplated clouds;
were comfortable in crowds,
and never spoke of death shrouds.
Yet now, you gaze at the sky;
and forgo dreams of flying,
as rudiments of wings woo
a spirit, sadness enshrouds.
What makes us take off, off in flight. Our wings, wings upon our back. Each beautiful feather, makes up each of our beautiful wings. With our wings we can fly high or low, we can cover you for protection. You will find us in all different sizes, we are your loving guardian angels.
Date Written:2/13/2022
Time is exhausting…
It lays in wait
to provoke you
pinches that part of you
that hurts most,
tears away
at your ambition,
laughs at
your inability
to stand up
and fight
futile battles
that bury you.
Try to escape,
but like that
little hamster
on its wheel
you will go
nowhere.
2-20-22
This or That, Vol 10 Poetry Contest~N/A~
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
The Rudiments of Wings
Can you feel your wings?
Can you see them, do you even
Bother to wonder about what
They are for?
There, growing from your back,
Growing since then when
You looked up at the skies
And realised that humans
Are mere particles of dust
In a yet to be explained universe!
Why,
If Love is in the Air,
Then, wings are meant to be used
To fly high, soaring up upon the waves
Of existence as confidently
As are mermaids in the depths of the oceans,
Aware that love always emerges pure,
Winsome, true and makes of itself
A planet hidden in a treasure chest!
From the rudiments of wings we are to
Understand that life is meant to be lived
By flying, at all times,
And even by helping others, stuck in oil spills
By cleaning them up and showing them
How to open their own wings and shout out
Joyfully,
When the winds would smash across their face
And mess up their hair!
Then, someday,
We shall use them,
To fly towards there where the one who gave us this love
Dwells, and like peaceful doves,
We shall sing in His garden,
Songs enunciating of how sweet existing is
When sculpted it is, with His poetry!
Written on 20th Feb 2022
For Contest This or That, Vol 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
From predawn birth, you dwell alone,
Preferring deep shadowland over light.
So much easier to conceal what is shown,
Nascent ember forelimbs that daunt your sight.
With growth in undying murk, and wings in flames
In brilliant reds, yellows, golds all blazing.
Flying is hopeless with birds of other names.
Passions rage from wings, arresting, so amazing.
Oh firebird, searing, sizzling, soaring, scorch,
Torrid your dazzling, craving fiery force.
You blister iron night like a blowtorch,
A fuming, fever unleashed from an innate source.
Transfixing terror, tormenting trusted truth,
Firestorm fervency awakened in sleep zones.
Fire wings of lasting, lusting, lingering youth.
Each breath covets and dreads your roaring cyclones.
Your infernal dance, your ardent limbic rapture
Descending, curling, exploding, and unfurling,
Brassy, flammable breeze is dream conjure,
Ascending, arcing, igniting in fine sterling.
Oh firebird, you rise from rudimentary wings,
From embryonic burnings, and larval aspirations,
From timid beginnings to radiant pinion waving,
with Inspiration, you bring her brother, Trepidations.
Date: 02/24/2022
Title: The Rudiments of Wings Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
"Every secret memory, every experience in life, and every
thought can be written within the words of a poem."
Quote - by Constance
my writing is rudiments ... of planning ...
it is undeveloped ... and totally imperfect ...
in the beginning my poem is basic
needing more elements and some nitty-gritty
more guts
and a lot more heart
~ storms shake the ocean of my sleep
I dream of wings fluttering, fluttering
of eagles gliding on whispering winds ~
I must make a foundation that is strong
dig deep into my soul for the right emotions
laying the groundwork is essential
finding the right words and right poetic voice
then rewriting and rewriting my poem
~ clouds sail across the sky in my imagination
oh, my heart is a temple of withered memories
and my mind full of the gauzy feathers ~
I write without stopping
the word pouring from my pen
I do not hesitate but I do linger
and then I take a breath and read my creation
sighing, I read it again and again
checking the grammar ... the 'poetic voice' ...
and it is beautiful
~ so like a mother I cherish this poem born
I hold it to my heart ... then I send it on wings
to fly and soar ... in the world
...like an eagle gliding ~
_____________________
February 18, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/The Rudiments of Wings
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1331-105-18
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Theme chosen- The Rudiments of Wings
Written for the Standard contest This or That, Vol. 10
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 03/02/2022
Second Place
As a grey dove, nestlings are taught
The Basic Rudiments of Wings:
if one falls, it cannot be caught
First, learn to fly, then how to sing.
A perfect lesson elders bring.
A human babe, on other hand,
is often caught before he stands.
So, as life goes, if he should fall,
expects a catch before he lands.
He needs to learn how to forestall.
THE RUDIMENTS OF WINGS
Barely stubs,
these soul nodules,
not yet protruding the surface,
still part of the wormlike me.
The force of metamorphosis
thrusts hard against filmy chrysalis;
meconium pulses, dilating miniscule veins.
The terror of change soon will cease,
bring release,
to the rudiments of wings.
February 24, 2022
The wings of dream soar high
to capture the rainbow rapture,
wrapped with chromatic charisma,
weave the tapestry of seraphic life
with the hued ribbons of passion,
design the elemental latent lattice
of self-seeking fervent syndrome
that fails to force out fantasy haze,
lurking behind the cloud of delusion,
for it has hypnotic leverage of trance
to blow my mind away in the wind.
Wedged by the splitting bevel
of the slashing time of reality,
the frail fragments of failed entity,
I feel framed for the irresolute life,
dispersed deranged on the path,
fading in the horizon of nowhere,
not yet leading to the rainbow
that lies dismantled in the debris,
disappearing in the deep dark sky.
Aspiring to retrieve the derelict dreams,
I configure the rudiments of wings to fly.
___________________
February 18, 2022
For Brian Strand's Premier Choice No 1188 Contest
I loved you …
like water -
dove, swam, immersed
drowned
like breath
out, in, saturated
gasping
unseen
but essential
impalpable, yet vital
my sea -
deep, boundless, capricious
blue … terrifying
my sky -
vast, moody, dazzling
blue … and dark
you … were my
element - oxygen for my fire
breeze to kiss my cheek
a stream to
cool … and christen
the expanse to cast my sails upon
you …
were my aliment -
manna from the heavens
my sustenance
and I …
devoured you
for ‘til that moment
I’d never known
the meaning …
hunger.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, October 27, 2022
ones lifetime pursuit
mind and heart are in dispute
faith not absolute
now arrives moment of truth
trust in god or parachute
This or That, Vol 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Tanka form PS 5/7/5/7/7
02/19/22
An empty auditorium, echoing with the voices of those long past
Life’s stage, we the characters, parsing the script in a caricature of truth
Phantoms of a thousand different productions, acts, scenes leave the frissons of their presence
We strive, strain, stretch for the higher, brighter, better, betraying verity for vanity
Etchings in dust, the drive to impact the path we’ve trodden
Power like water within the grasp of a clenched fist
Clasping, gripping, seizing, you find nothing but droplets left in your open palm
Ignominy strikes the weakest souls, stretched threads of consciousness reaching vainly
We long to fly, seek to ascend to the forbidden, transforming into what we were never made to be
Transcendent, elusive, suffusing our epic odyssey of alienation
Logic is a casualty of success, empathy a victim of independence
Careening along a runway, the test flight, hoping for the rudiments of wings
2/21/22
"The Rudiments of Wings"
for "This or That, Vol 10" sponsored by Edward Ibeh
At dawn I gazed at the kaleidoscopic canvas,
stars still blinking,
uncanny hushed night
somber nebulous sky
a few white pristine clouds floating,
a strip of the silvery Moon still glistened!
A gush of lavender emotions ran through my veins,
This indescribable solemn sight…
felt like a surreal dream!
I found a purpose
The emotions ignited my saffron imagination…
spread its wings and rise to the unfathomable
ruby-red horizon!
February 23, 2022
For "This or That" Vol. 10 Poetry contest
Theme: Rudiments Of Wings
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
“As I watched the seagulls, I thought, That’s the road to take; find the absolute rhythm and follow it with absolute trust.” ~ Nikos Kazantzakis
RUDIMENTS OF WINGS
O child, your seablown hollyhocks— recall
of Kilmer’s tree. So rapidly your heart
‘tis wild, carefree.
Sweet child, your cherry cheeks are mountain peaks
in Field’s gingham and calico The Feud.
You soar on swing.
Quill and ink — unflappable raven wings
of Poe’s haunting ballad stir up feelings,
never receding.
Dear child, out in the lonely woods of Frost,
harness bells shaking in the snowy woods—
effervescent cold.
The Lord is my shepherd, Psalm twenty-three.
Lovely solemnity— a poem-prayer.
Schooled in scripture.
Rudimentary poetry in flight.
you hold onto each illumined feather—
the inner child.
2/19/2022
This or That, Vol 10 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh