Best Schemed Poems
Bloom Road
Wherefore be this heavenly place?
Untouched by the metropolis'
inhumane demands?
Tis in your heart, dear friend, such
a place be.
Free of political buffoonery.
One must be a bold discoverer of
the heart.
For if not, Bloom Road is naught!
In the sweetest dwelling of your wishes,
Lies Bloom Road, and warm, delicious,
awaiting kisses.
Life is not an accident for those
with drreams.
It's an actuality that's both planned
and deftly carved and schemed.
Be off now, and the hunter be....
Bloom Road and thy keenest lover,
Are at the ready, just for thee.
August 17, 2020
Ride of the Scarecrow Clan
(To: Mittens)
She was born in the corn on a cold misty morn,
the most beautiful cat on the farm.
(I must keep her from coming to harm!)
The most beautiful kitty inspired this ditty
with whiskers that whisper her charm,
wild white whiskers that whisper her charm.
But the angels grew jealous, much too overzealous,
they schemed up a dastardly plan,
that they stole from a bad bogeyman.
They would use and abuse all their magic, so tragic,
and conjure the Scarecrow Clan,
for their devilish dastardly plan.
The Clan owed them a favor for past misbehavior,
behavior so foul and so cruel,
they would ride when moon became full!
When the moon elevated they rose animated
to drown Mitten’s in the cesspool.
As they hunted they started to drool.
Hunting high, hunting low, riding ‘round to and fro,
the Clan frantically searched helter-skelter,
for young Mittens who found a safe shelter.
As they howled and they growled all the air became fouled,
but they couldn’t find Mittens’ safe shelter.
“When we find her, in acid we’ll melt her!”
Could these four scarecrows stoop to even new lows
as they hunt by light of the moon?
(Better hurry the dawn will come soon!)
Long they hunted and haunted but she was undaunted,
she laughed at the bumbling buffoons,
while she purred out some kitty cat tunes.
Curled with grace in a space near the warm fireplace,
for the Scarecrow Clan fears the fire.
(Just the thought of it makes them perspire.)
So they searched and they lurched in the fields near the church,
growing desperate, dejected, and dire,
for the sunlight will make them expire.
Without warning came morning, but there was no mourning,
the angels’ black magic was shattered,
and the Scarecrow Clan riders battered.
Under natural law the Clan turned back to straw,
and their straw o’er the cornfield was scattered.
She'll be safe now and that’s all that mattered.
13-March-2020 (Friday the 13th). First Place in "A Rattling Rhyme" poetry contest sponsored by Nina Parmenter
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see
From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek
The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined
He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be
Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen
The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be
They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise
The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee
My dear, my love, it was meant to be
Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)
Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do
Alone, on my own, with no one to show;
no one to share, no one to care.
My muse, she feeds my hungry craves;
her gifts, are in my notebooks, saved.
My muse, she paints; in quiet space;
reflects on things, within life’s race.
Through time and space, she does meander;
creating schemed, as to her viewpoint, I pander.
Filling pages, with storied delights
and painting dreams, I have at night.
In nooks and crannies, secrets lie;
of course, a few, will always hide.
It’s my prerogative, you see;
and that’s the way, I’ll always be.
Flightless Birds Trapped In A Gilded Cage.
.
Fledgling innocents incarcerated in a gilded ornate cage
Budding pretty flowers
Within the blossoming of youth
Of tender sensitive age
.
Born into an imperial dynasty
By destiny and decree
A view from a palace window
To the outside world
Was all they’d often see
Far from the peasant underclass
Living in the gutter of poverty
.
Each one an individual
With different varied traits
With nothing but love in their tender hearts
For they’re parents
Unaware of their countries fate
.
Ripples of unrest and anger
Soon turned into waves of hatred
For a seemingly
Uncaring despondent regime
Toward the Tzar the affluent nobility
And the withdrawn empress Queen
.
The hungry angry peasants revolted
And stormed the palace gates
And for the Royal family
There was no escape
.
Sewing precious jewels inside their clothing
They were forced to leave their comfortable dwelling
And taken prisoners to a place far away
Where they tried to make the best
Of life in where they had to stay
.
Unsure of their fate lost in fantasy and dreams
The revolutionist planned their fate and schemed
One day they were taken to a cellar
And told they were about to die
They must have been terrified
And no doubt
Screamed and cried
.
Shots were fired at the family
And many bullets ricocheted
Bouncing of the clothing
Where the jewels wee hidden away
But eventually blood was spilled
Sending the family to an early grave
.
Peter Dome©2021.
Scratchy, scratchy, what's that sound,
Atop my home space, high and round?
Could there be one self-served mouse,
Schemed to steal my sweet, dry house?
No, those sounds don't seem that soft,
For some such small rodent, there aloft.
Could be, large birds of prey thus wait,
To bring me sure, their sweet, sad fate.
Or maybe, through some so-bright sky,
Dark clouds have come to weep and cry,
Thus pattered, loud, my walls and roof,
To make this day quite rummage-proof.
Or maybe, perhaps - oh, please let it be -
One bright red squirrel like me, but she?
I'll listen and wait, and quite quietly hide,
As my red squirrel heart beats fast inside.
For all I can see through the door in my keg,
Is paper and a puppy, and a little boy's leg,
But a home is home, and I'll hold mine tight,
Praying for a she-squirrel, wrong ... or write!
Written and submitted on October 18, 2019
For the "Realism Art" Poetry Contest
Eve Roper, Sponsor.
( I chose Norman Rockwell painting/illustration number two. "Write" in the last line is mis-spelled intentionally, as reference to the boy's activities )
Part I: "Shadow of Intent"
Beneath the blaze of summer skies—
A couple met by fate;
She lived where marble towers rise,
While he bore fortune's weight.
His lady, clad in blue-white dress—
He walked a stranger's path;
A train carved through the wilderness
Towards her manor's hearth.
She yearned to pierce his somber shell
Behind that shadowed gaze;
She longed to mend their fractured bond
Through love's enchanting maze.
Through valleys deep and mountains high,
He chased his haunted past;
A fleeting shadow caught his eye,
As truth emerged at last.
Part II: "Crimson Revelation"
The manor stood, a ghostly frame—
Its walls held whispered woe,
Of wealth amassed through deeds of shame,
And lives laid low below.
The blade he bore, a justice grim,
Yet in its weight, hearts ached;
For vengeance sung a hollow hymn,
While souls remained opaque.
His lady trembled, reading truth
Within his hardened stare;
Memories surged like tidal streams,
As terror filled the air.
"My wings you clipped, my pride you stole—
Now witness my reply,"
His sight dissolved in shadowed fray,
As love collapsed to die.
Drenched in anguish, veins did flood;
The killer's blade gleamed bright:
"To thee, whose greed stained kinship's blood,
Your debt is claimed tonight."
His vengeance sealed, yet victory hollow—
Alone he stood at dawn;
As twilight claimed the fading sun,
His final act was drawn.
With steady hand and solemn grace,
He turned the blade within;
His blood now stained this cursed place,
To cleanse his mortal sin.
Part III: "Twilight's Release"
Upon the earth his form did rest,
Now freed from mortal pain;
His spirit soared at death's behest—
Two souls joined once again.
Ethereal shapes took form above,
His cherished ones of old,
Who suffered noble's cruel design—
Their tales left yet untold.
His lady dressed in white and blue,
A child of gilded shame:
Her bloodline plotted, schemed, and slew
His family's final frame.
Thus he exhaled his one last tear,
Before the void descends;
And there he lay, his purpose clear—
A peace that never ends.
-
When I was a child,
horses raced across my consciousness
like storm chased clouds.
They sprung from my crayons
onto a blank pages,
horse words filled reams of paper
in my exercise books.
Every book written about them was worn,
read and re-read,
stained with dirt from my grubby hands.
I schemed,
prayed to gods-indeterminate,
to have one of my own.
On screens of black and white,
their images smudged, movement’s jerky,
manes and tails flying,
hero’s rode into myth.
They were magical
in an un-magical world.
A world of loneliness,
an earthquake world,
where each step
might lead to nothingness,
a gray concrete world
of uncertainty and pain.
The dreams of a little girl
who would seek them
at fairs and carnivals,
where poor ponies stood patiently,
look for them along the road
during our many moves.
Would find them in any town
we stayed in, however bleak.
Would work all day at a barn
just to smell or touch them,
joy of joy to be able to ride one.
I knew that each one was a safe place to be,
to hold all the love I could give,
with my arms around their neck
my head on their shoulder,
not once rejected.
Impermanent and fleeting as it was,
I knew that they were a safe haven.
(Esther 5: 2)
The King Held Out To Esther
The Golden Scepter
That Was In His Hand
She Was His Queen
The Woman Who Fulfilled His Dreams
One of The Most Beautiful In All His Lands
But It Was Persian Law For All
That Those The King Did Not Call
Would Be Struck Down Where They Stand!
Yet Brave & Beautiful Queen Esther
Whose Godly Faith Never Left Her
To Save Her People, Entered As Planned
Because There Was A Plot
Devised In Anger So Hot ...
By That Prideful, Wicked Prince Haman
To Kill All Esther's People
Haman Schemed So Evil
But The King Didn't Know Why It Began
... Or That Esther Was A Jew
In The Line of Hebrews
Who Worship The One GOD So Grand
But There Was No Hesitation
In Ahasuerus' Heart Designation
Towards This Woman Who Stood Royal & Serene
She Held Ahasuerus' Affection
and Did Not Suffer Rejection
As She Humbly Walked In, As His Queen
I Imagine All Got Quiet
Waiting For Swords To Riot
And See Esther's Head Roll Across The Floor
But At The Sight of Her Dignity
The Scepter Pointed Implicitly
To Grant Esther Whatever She Implored
And Oh, The Interplay
of Emotions That Day
Between This Woman & Her Loving Man
When The King Held Out To Esther
His Golden Scepter
... That Was In The Power of His Hand
* * * * * * * * * * * *
(Part 2)
Oh, And That Wicked Haman Was Hanged
And His Family Shared The Blame
But Esther's People Were Saved From Judah To Benjamin, To Dan
( Walk-On Hadassah - Walk-On ! )
Written & Copyrighted ©: 9/15/2013
by: MoonBee Canady
I have always loved the story of Queen Esther ... This is a love story that has it all - - a lovely-hearted, modest girl, (replacing a vain and arrogant queen) ... then getting royally pampered, massaged in expensive, perfumed oils, lots of clothes and jewels, winning a beauty pageant, finding true love, conflict and suspense and lastly the heroine saves the day (and oh, did I mention that she was an orphan?) ... 'Com' on Movie-Makers - we could enjoy a lot more of this ... MoonBee
Find I you, not musing in bliss of love.
In reverie crushed of silent lament,
Pray, let me hear the rant you gave thereof,
of love’s self destructing ensuing bent,
within the hall of whores, how the young doves
who were slain in the prime of their youth spent
purity and goodness without repent.
Your chastity is questioning its trove?
Perhaps you alone should decide the deed.
The time and place, flavor of the choosing.
We can put off the wedding if needs be.
But a mutual loss schemed in musing,
which fulfills a vow that you both shall feed
Shall last longer than the actual deed.
Ethel Hurst
1889 – 1918
I saw the town rise up
Like a single blade of grass after a spring rain.
I played a multitude of hop-scotch games
With my best friend Hannah on Penn Street.
And sipped a hundred ice cream sodas in the Mercantile at sunset.
My mother took me to Jacob’s Grocery every Monday
And it was I who picked the plump oranges
From the big rickety crate.
On Saturdays we worked the fields at Strong’s Ranch,
Harvesting the pampas in the walnut fields.
And on Halloween I was the girl in the moon-face costume for five straight years.
When Christmas brought its luminous lights to the town,
Mother dressed me in red with a bell on my bonnet.
And father sang the carols with a guitar and a tambourine.
I graduated from the big high school in 1907
And in celebration,
Rode my bicycle to Bassett
Still in my starched graduation petticoats.
Jesse Forbes,
He being five years younger than I,
Was the love of my brief stay on this earth.
But when he ventured to steal a kiss that day in Black Canyon,
I used my calloused hand to convey my stern disagreement.
But what wild regrets I’ve entertained since Jesse drowned that day.
In the wild currents by Pio Pico’s crumbling Adobe,
His body bobbing like a sea bird
In the punishing plume of that old deep river.
Beyond the muddy banks and the wild flowers,
Jesse Forbes left this life with a surprised frozen grin.
Why Jesse? Why?
You never knew the truth, my love.
You never really understood what I meant
When I said nothing.
I said No to you when I said nothing that day in Black Canyon,
But I really meant Yes.
The influenza incinerated my heart and soul
With a 106 temperature in the winter of 1918.
Twenty nine years I dare say
Is nothing in terms of eternal life!
I had so much more to do!
I had so much more to dream about!
I walked and talked on the streets of my town,
And on the funeral-dark avenues of my innocent days.
And I planned and I schemed
And all for nothing!.
Indeed, I felt the pulse of fleeting time
And the never-ending,
Ever-turning circle of endless days.
But now I rest here in Clark Cemetery… a virgin corpse
Flirting shamelessly with the bow-tie worms,
Still wild with regrets.
And forever haunted in reverse
By the same recurring memory
Of Jesse Forbes holding a rose.
Under the old oak tree in Black Canyon..
Deep in the dungeon in the back left corner
Was a mere shell of what was once a man.
He was shackled to the wall of his own design
By the love of his lady so fair, and divine
The queen of a land so far away in time
With a king who held her ever so dear
Locking them away alone from peasant's view
None of his subjects gazed upon this mentally ill king
He had a smothering love for his queen,
Abusing her in every way
Never there for love, but only in his mind
She hadn't felt his touch in years, other than abuse
Then one day her knight came in on his white steed
They loved under moonlight each night in secrecy
Hiding their treasonous affair from the evil king
Until one night he caught them
The knight dueled injuring the king's ability to speak
The queen fearing their treasonous death
Plotted and schemed as not to be beheaded
To the knight's chamber they carried him
Dousing the room in oil laying him on the floor
Dropping the lantern the knight held
Flames rose in the chamber, consuming him
The queen screamed to the subjects for help
All the court came running to douse the fire out
The knight and queen really started
The true king was unrecognizable and couldn't even whisper
The knight came forward as her husband the king
The queen burst into tears,
Explaining how the knight attacked her,
Setting the room ablaze
All his subjects bowed before the knight, the changeling
I am sorry dear king, the subjects said
As the knight pulled the queen to him,
Ushering them to take him away, to the dungeon below,
Shackled, and chained, in his own kingdom
In the dungeon the king waited, to be beheaded
The knight secretly became the king instantly
Taking his spot next to the love of his life, the queen
No one suspected a single thing
She visited the king one last time before he died
Telling him how she loved him, stroking his cheek
Watching the next day as they beheaded him,
Hiding her head in her knight unknown
Her dark side she displayed
The day her knight became her king
And her king became some subhuman thing
He had truly always been
The knight now the king with his lovely queen
Ruled for many years, having ten children
Of tainted royal blood, but no one ever knew
Their secret love and darkest treason ever committed.
Those far off days from way back when
My age was five, or maybe ten.
No matter what, i was carefree.
When i grow old what would i be,
A lion tamer of renown
Or maybe just a funny clown.
As mountaineer, the very best.
To climb and conquer Everest.
Sometimes when mum did not agree,
I schemed to run away to sea,
And earn my keep by scrubbing decks
Or diving deep to search shipwrecks.
These fantasies would come and go,
Much faster than the melting snow.
As wizard now i waved my wand.
A frog appeared beside a pond.
Then deep inside a dragons den
I pulled his tail, he roared and then,
Breathing fire he closed his eyes.
That's when i caught him by surprise,
In outstretched hands i held the frog.
That turned him into next doors dog.
But dreams don't last like once before.
Reality means much much more.
It's freedom from those apron strings.
Cold water and those razor stings.
But growing up, sometimes it seems,
It's better living childhood dreams.
8/ 19/ 2015.
I dreamed and schemed through all of my life,
On how to end this miserable strife.
You caused my life to be sheer terror,
But you were twisted, and that was your error.
You kept me bound in chains and rope,
While you and your man took trips on dope.
I suffered daily, the violence and pain,
But it was your life that was going down the drain.
Never once did I give up my only dream,
Although you were winning, or so it did seem.
Then along came my savior, an angel by my side,
He found where I was hiding, and he gave me a ride.
We watched you from his home, the one on wheels,
We watched as you were making all of those deals.
We watched you go back, looking for me,
We watched your luck run out; finding Bryn just wasn’t to be.
I had a vision in the dark of the night,
The darkness soon would become very bright.
I heard a loud noise, it sounded brash.
It was, in fact, a fiery crash.
You lived your life quite selfishly,
But I’d like to think you died for me.
I prophesized you would ‘Burn in Hell,’
And now that it’s done,
I am Free! I am Free!! I am Free!!!
And All Is Well!
Copyright 2016, Worth Working For Enterprises
From my forthcoming novel
"The Girl at the Rest Stop"
before the first man made from clay, you caused the seas that toss today, also the
earth you made by hand, it bring forth fruit you did command! arrayed the heavens
sun and moon,.
With living stars the voids festoon.! or perhaps this fame is all undue? a
fallacy a lie untrue! and many people do such expound, that this is so! from
what they've found:)
For they can and will explain, that the elements state it all so plain, and that from
these alone all life came forth, yet in my ignorance I’ll say, in a vacuum case
these things could stay." and then times-plus they should be able to show
how life was formed the way they know.! and yet.! and yet.' I must confess.! And from
what I’ve seen I must digress.' for some women & men,we have been told, with, scientific
apparatus have so to say struck gold.! they planned and wrought, schemed and thought
And brought forth life I do believe." having thought about this quite a while.."
And though my instinct finds it vile; they’ve proved one point... To me past doubt.!
CREATION CREATION... Their deeds shout out..!
© Joe Maverick 23-10-2010