Best Rustled Poems
~
My thirst now deep ~ I long to quench
to sip this periwinkle wine
In goblets cut of harvest moons
impassioned pleas now cast of time
Tender kisses ~ sonnets placed
on fevered lips near rainbow streams
In golden castles made of sand
I've knelt beside you in my dreams
As whispered winds ~ I've called to you
before the dew of morning beads
and sunlight forms the northern star,
in measured breaths of tempted needs
In rustled leaves ~ I've heard your voice
beneath the dark where crickets play
That echoed through my aching heart
harmonic to the light of day
From mountain top ~ my vision soars
‘cross fertile valleys emerald green
In search of perfect precious love
amidst this beauty I have seen
Beyond the shades ~ of here and now
I've felt your breath beneath my skin
I've tasted sweet your tender smile
and felt the longing deep within
For in this mist ~ of moistened glow
the heart reflects on distant wing
In melodies of long ago,
desires silent evenings bring
With opal stars ~ I write your name
in shimmered streaks across the night
Where darkened velvet curtains fall
on windswept dreams of sweet delight
And now we stand ~ together pure
a' glow this jasmine moon above
Two fires of a single flame
among the rhyme of written love
Wishes fly ~ on silver whims
far beyond each silent cloud
As evening finds us lost again
in precious love forever vowed
~
Categories:
rustled, good night,
Form:
Rhyme
Helicopter seeds
from my maple tree
drift down,
swaying
back
and
forth
from the strong branches above.
They all fall around me,
I am encapsulated by the swirling seedlings.
Snug within their warmth,
the wind sends me on my feet.
Dancing with the music of the air
that is rushing through my hair,
I inhale the sweet, mellow essence of what life has granted me.
Then I exhale the words,
"I am thankful for this life and the road, no matter how rocky, has served its purpose".
As I leave this place,
I hum the tune of the masterpiece conducted by the wind
that rustled in this tree.
~5/28/18~
Categories:
rustled, 9th grade, love, nature,
Form:
Free verse
The wind moves
It moves in many ways
How it moves
Like exotic scents of purple lavender
wafting 'neath a harvest sun
and the rise of sour yeast
inside a fresh baked currant bun
It moves like a vernal tea-rose
pollinated by wild bees
in forging threesome
or wood-trush wings
rustled through leaves
in a symphonic rainfall season
It moves like the early breath
of a newly hatched cygnet
It moves mysteriously
like a spinning moon
orbiting my little world
Like descending mist
veiling pearled dawn's birth
The wind moves
It moves in many ways
Like a half -bare shoulder
slipping through your embrace
Like starlit kisses
upon the melanchonic lines of your face
The wind moves
The wind moves in many ways
How it moves
Just like us
Just like me
Just like you
Categories:
rustled, absence, nature,
Form:
Free verse
William Bonny AKA Billy The Kid
A Tale Of Billy The Kid
By Robert Gorelick
“Quien esta?”
Bang! It’s over,
you’re a legend now,
Billy.
Born in Hell’s Kitchen in
ramshackle consumptive squalor,
New York’s crammed gang infected
rat-infested shacks
and alleys.
Amid the iniquitous stench
of rot and the soul’s decay,
in a nation at war,
pulling, stretching, ripping
to shreds the frayed fabric
of its precarious union.
An abused juvenile fleeing west
emerging from the muck
to where a soul and body
may heal, breathe deeply,
expand.
At last—life
New Mexico territory spreads open
and wide, easy to be seduced by cynical
range-war ranchers’ welcome greetings
they pay you well for
every cattle rustled,
then desert you as you flee the
sheriff’s posse.
“Quien esta?”
With a concealed knife
you stab a drunken gambler,
self-defense is no excuse
as the ruffian had
important friends.
You’re set to hang, Billy
in a daring display
you shoot your way out,
steal a horse and gallop
off to your woodland
shanty.
Midnight, your shack’s pitch dark,
there’s breathing nearby,
your Mexican novia?
Why doesn’t she speak?
“Quien esta?”
Bang. Pat Garrett guns
you down.
A throw away kid from big city squalor,
becomes a legend of the wild west.
You’re a legend, Billy
1/8/23
Metrical Tale Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
Categories:
rustled, character, death,
Form:
Metrical Tale
Awake through afternoons and ageless nights,
the poet waits for a muse to sneak.
His brumous mind reminisces,
frantically exploring a galaxy of words.
He looks for a lofty mountain hiding in the fog.
He looks for a crimson fireball hiding in the ember.
Wriggles out of the cocoon,
in swirls of slow steps,
tiptoeing in twirls,
shriveled and fragile, the butterfly beau.
He looks at it in passion...with lover's eyes....
Oh!, the poem is still in a grey stupor state.
He sews embroidered thoughts...
Stroked in color, the canvas now veiled,
scrambled cryptic, his emotions corralled.
The enslaved bird in his heart, was now a fugitive,
singing a pellucid song of sweet somber notes.
A virgin music now played in the air,
Thrumming hearts rhyming in bewitched rhythm.
Invisible wind nestled the hair,
he could see the poem smiling.
Silent wind rustled the tree,
he could hear the poem whispering.
Like a blind man enlightened in a dark room,
he could feel the poem coming alive.
He could touch the words in Braille,
the cradle of blind love, caressed the poet's tale.
Resubmited on April 1st 2019/
2019 Poetry Marathon Final Placement /
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Written on 9th January 2019
Placed 8th in Chantelle Anne Cookes Favorite Free Verse Contest
Placed 6th in Mark Toney2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 Contesy
Categories:
rustled, art, butterfly, color, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
There was a time when she lit up
in the firmness of youth-- like a rose on an April
morn greeting daylight with a petal-soft kiss.
And the lively wind rustled her orange pinafore...
Oh, a time when she was young innocent .
But life's compass denies a woman
fresher years , amber hair becomes grey locks
of winter— thin as flakes where breaths
succumb to chilled murmurings of discontent;
the summer flame turning into weary longings.
Yet comes another time when the breeze
at last returns, to caress a wrinkled face
and allow her once lithesome spirit to play on,
shrieking giddily, then wailing at flowers
from nowhere: through a realm weightless
this flight back to childhood quickly dims--
those touch- and- go pleasures unknown
by her memory lost, her own name forgotten.
Poetry For The Sake Of Poetry Contest
Sponsor: john lawless 6/2/2018
Categories:
rustled, age, identity,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
We’ve shared the trail, kicked up some dust,
An’ stood a storm or two.
We’ve rode the plains, the wide frontier,
The easy trails were few.
You’ve listened like some wise old sage
To ever thing I’ve said,
An’ as a friend, supported me,
No matter where it led.
I wished I coulda carried you,
The times you were in pain;
Or rustled up some kinda shed
To turn the blowin’ rain.
I’ve come up shy with some your needs,
You gave me more’n you got,
But in your silence, seemed to know,
I needed you a lot.
Compadre, friend, amigo, pard;
I called you all them things,
But there’s been times, I swear to God,
You musta had some wings,
An’ He sent you to care for me
Like no one had before.
If you’as a man an’ not a horse,
I couldn’t a-loved you more.
We gave this ranch our sweat an’ blood,
It’s yours as much as mine,
An’ raised our young’uns through the years,
An’ Lord they’re doin’ fine.
They’re blazin’ trails an’ raisin’ dust,
They’re off an’ runnin’ free.
We’ve taught ‘em well an’ made ‘em strong;
Compadre, you an’ me.
I always knew the day would come
When we would fine’ly ride,
To join the Maker’s round-up time,
Up on the Great Divide.
I sorta hoped we’d share the trail
But this was not to be,
So, you go on, we’ll ride again;
Compadre, you an’ me.
Categories:
rustled, animals, cowboy-western, death, friendship,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
I've been watching you
Since your beginning
Whispering to you
A thousand subtle ways
Throughout all your days
You picked me up as a leaf
You were only three
Clutching my stem in your tiny hand
Long time you stared at me
Gazing at my veins, amber colors
Other leaves rustled in my fall winds
My songs to you, thousands of them
You couldn't listen then
At twenty three with your friend
You laid on your backs one clear night
In a grassy field peering starry lights
My voice was that galactic silence
Too low a whisper for you to hear
Only crickets caught your ear
Now you did hear
In your thirty third year
When your first child was born
And you heard my primal cry
Shook your illusions, you asked why
Your deceptions re emerged over time
Forty years later, no longer aware
Of the cosmic cycle we all share
Still my voice too quiet, too low
My greater voice in a single clap
Disintegrates humanity into smithereens
Think tectonic plate shifts are epic?
My full voice explodes a supernova
A sound no human has ever heard
A mere hiccup for me
I speak through this fragile human
Something of a poet, his intent is fine
Make no mistake, his thoughts are mine
Oh, I have many stories and wisdoms
I could have shared, had you only cared
At your end, we will finally embrace
As your dust clears
And leaves no trace
Listen
Be aware
4/6/18
Nature Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh 5/6/21
Categories:
rustled, humanity, introspection, nature, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
Written: January 03, 2024
_____________________________________
Wrenching writhing
of capacious weeping willows
In a dubious dream vault
I felt spurred to seek safety
from scorching sun
subsequently, in confusion,
I broke into a wide smile
that reverberated within
an inane, jumbled heartbeat,
venous thrombosis.
Imbue a pulse to svelte vessels
I didn't realize when it started
lacking friends and love
shattered heart, rotting core
halcyon recalls vanished
just dying is the goal
It's exhausting to suffer and cry.
Every sound in your name
whispered in the breeze
strengthened our bond
going toward dreams
amid fluttering twigs
I discovered serenity and solace
weeping willow's embrace
wind rustled its twigs as music
quiet fears of long-lost hopes
seeking refuge from the hot sun
I discovered this secret treasure
a vault for memories and dreams
It's a long way to hell alone
life isn't awful, but no one phones
I can stay here until earth scorns
stay with my weeping willow.
Categories:
rustled, analogy, angst, bereavement, care,
Form:
Free verse
Oh how this bodice is dressed in taffeta,
Lined with hundreds of lavender pleats
Spiraling, drooping, whirling
All over my voluptuous contour …
Bare these limbs grinding on soft moss
To tap among rustled displays
From many a lovers’ heat to children’s romp.
I gaze at my long tresses hung by threads
Of July frills, combing the strands
Delicate as clusters in a spin that ignites
The evening air, the lush of daylight’s vine…
And like Kojin in a free-fall prance, I cascade
Through a mantle of grass, my arms floating
Over wisps of mildest pink, of boldest lavender;
Then to curtsy in a prayerful Shinto bow
Under heaven's marquee where my chants
about lonesome tales are hushed in secrecy.
At nightfall, stars circle my lit frame,
The aroma of wisteria's mint huffs
outside my pores and unto an earthy glow;
Young the nippled buds swelling in lusty dusk
Till I gently writhe as a mystical shadow of the woods.
......................
SPRINGTIME STANDARD CONTEST
~ The wisteria tree is packed with an assemblage
of purple blossoms, falling in tapered clusters
to symbolize a kneeling pose of honor and devotion
based on Asian folklore.
~ Kojin: Japanese Tree Goddess
Categories:
rustled, beauty, imagery, tree,
Form:
Personification
I felt the cool of a morning breeze
As it rustled through the poplar leaves.
It may have been urging “come with me”
As it swayed the flowers around my knees.
I tried to discern but could not see
Nor mark its transient destiny,
And if to follow I might have yearned,
But its passing left no void in me.
To exotic affairs I might have turned
Or intrigues of state I might have spurned,
But would I be wiser for all I had learned
Once having departed and then returned?
Categories:
rustled, allegory, life,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
It seems such a waste
Yellow roses on display
In a crystal vase
Not to be touched by warm skin
Or rustled by waning wind
Wouldn't it be sweet
Yellow roses in her hair
Tickled by spring air
Like an overdue reprise
Petals scattered in the breeze
For Rick's "Tanka x2" contest
Categories:
rustled, beauty,
Form:
Tanka
The dragon hissed into the room
as I lie hidden in my niche.
Upon his back I saw his doom,
there she sat, a beautiful witch.
She sang a song of mystic dreams
and becalmed the snake to sleep.
I watched it curl into a ball
While hidden in my closet keep.
The beauty of the song she sang
no words, a simple tune of love
enthralled me with a gentle twang
that rustled my heart like foxglove
The dragons eyes spied me hiding
scared I froze as it approached
through the door it brushes by me
with purring voice it reproached.
Meow it said as it drew near.
The singing stopped, my wife just stares
the look she gives, so very *****,
she asked me, "Why are you in there?"
I close my book and move away
She hangs the clothes and sighs a sigh
I kiss her cheek and whisper dear
and stroke the cat as I walk by.
04/28/16
Categories:
rustled, fantasy,
Form:
Quatrain
Dancing flowers plop at fullest bloom
in the rustled yellow burnt fields.
It sways an echo after the winds
and hits the grass aside who sheilds.
The dawn casts its tangerine color
after the flattery feilds of Daisies,
and a child runs the sunrays of early dawn
to pick a daisy for her Aunt Stacey.
With her white tipped finger she pricks
herself with yellow honey substance
and tickels it under her nose for scent.
She runs out the fields to her aunt in instance.
She looked at her and smiled, patted her head.
Aunt Stacey spoke, "Honey go play for awhile and I'll meet you
back in." And the little girl ran out the door.
She put the daisy in a tiny vase where she admired it once more.
Categories:
rustled, caregiving, family, friendship, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
in shady glens the wild iris bloom
like jewels strewn on dark velvet
in shadows the forest keeps her secrets
life abounds in its silence
the fawn waits patiently
leaves rustled in the wind-early man walked softly
close your eyes and dream
of places untouched by man
the future is now
Barbara Gorelick
written for Constance La France and her contest
4-in-1
Categories:
rustled, hope, life, nature
Form:
Monoku