Best Scribing Poems
Where on Earth or far beyond do we poets go, you ask.
My thoughts willingly stretch my imagination with this task.
I would reply...in any direction our ink chooses to flow.
To the light of dawn or to dark telltale shadows of Poe
There are no boundaries that could rein in a poet's mind,
even if we have the mournful misfortune of going blind.
A poet is not harnessed by sight like a horse to a carriage.
From memory our vision serves us in a sort of marriage,
a bond without rings and vows that gives us wings to fly
among stars, or to realms a common man cannot descry.
To know sin's sorrow, we would walk through a fiery hell
if it would give us the insight that living could not quell.
Inspiration is our weapon, feathered arrows we shoot,
aiming for the rhyming words and chasing in hot pursuit.
Though our muse flees, and crumbled pages lie at our feet,
our mind struggles in unrest but will not concede defeat.
On ventured missions, traveling where our hearts will lead.
Among distant galaxies, where we collect poetic seed
to plant in fertile delta land or in sandy deserts on Earth,
cultivating cogent lines, to which our scribing gives birth.
Fathering or mothering verses from infancy to fruition.
Editing until at last, our brainchild is worthy of submission.
We see far beyond mundane realities of life and reason.
Writing from the heart, rebuking the penalty of treason.
We wind through mazes of each personal poetic anecdote.
Exposed is our nakedness in each lyrical line we ever wrote.
June 20, 2022
2022 Marathon Mile 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney.
He
has certainly
perfected the art
of being a smart a** -
a trait that swims like a tadpole
in his father’s gene pool
and nurtured by that very nature..
his tongue swells with sarcasm
his mouth just can’t contain
overflowing the once polite orifice
with a dam burst of wry words
wise cracks snapped! like a quick-witted whip with a grin
..that at once
both burns and tickles me
but
those eyes never change
from my cradle-arms
to a young man
they are still the cyan
of Monet’s Water Lilies
alive with electrical excitement
where voltage thrills the spectacle of imagination;
..as free to be as the aurora borealis shape-shifting
like a neon Norse god..
his horizon the runesmith scribing
upon the midnight vellum
a daydream designed by colors of musical notes..
this sensory rainbow a ribbon tied
to beyond the lip-lock of earth and sky..
a consciousness kissed with creative continuum
full of buoyant light yearning
to take flight across the cerebral airglow
seeking heights of deep space wonder -
a heart charged with cosmic currents
his soul akin to solar winds roaming the galaxies..
aha!
and t h e r e
is where I see myself in him -
yonder side of meager w a n t ...
his mind has wings
and n e e d s to fly!
..and I am wondering
how wonderful it would be
to be his age once again -
to string
my youthful wishes
upon a staid set of stars;
not the tragic magic of stardust
where a comet’s fireworks reigned
till one early morn
when meteor showers rained
my ill-fated dreams falling down -
O Libra
if only you had another chance to weigh
the arc of an outcome
….but then...
what would be of the golden mirror
I see my reflection in?
Susan Ashley
April 21, 2021
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Open Poetry 3
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Last Dance by Darren White
Oh be my heart for me when it stops beating,
My lungs to breathe thin air still far too chill,
My feet to dance the world while I’m still living
As they still want but now no longer will.
Be my two arms and tug me in our tango—
Flamenco palo, wrap your wings around
My lithe frame, chant me our concluding canto
With all the strength in us you somehow found.
Oh sit with me and reminisce those dances…
Pure, perfect passion, smile and lift your head,
Observe illuminated skies above you…
We meet again, we’ll waltz soon in Atlantis.
With you here, there is nothing that I dread,
Do not be sad, this is not an adieu.
May I Have This Dance?
My heart beats a steady rhythm
Gale winds won't take my breath
Your feet on top of mine can dance all ebullient
And if your arms get tired, mine will hold your weight
No wings here-I am mortal
Let our spirits of freedom sate
And soar across the heavens, through the Milky Way
You are a bright lit candle-the flame will not go out
For I am keeper of the lighthouse
Scribing every nuance
Your words shine so, mi Estrella
Living words that sing and sway
Sometimes rhyming, artful placing
Every syllable is etched to stay
So, light the path of your life’s passions
Each word a heartfelt view
Dance for everyone to follow-learn the beauty that is you.
"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words,
after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost,
something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry."
— Mary Oliver
With pen in hand, I readily compose heartfelt lines
filled with aggregations of thought and emotion.
Verses that break chains that bind, setting me free
as if I were a shackled slave in the Land of Goshen.
Freed by my pen, I've been redeemed from the sea,
and each poem a litany, recited on a rolling wave.
Poetry is the seafaring wind that fuels my sails,
navigating me to exotic, faraway places I crave.
I'm unanchored without the burden of an albatross
tied around my neck when I choose to compose.
While tethered to a pen, I'm safe and kept afloat
in tragic times of mourning and sorrowful woes.
Rhyming romantic Sonnets stirs my sensual blood,
for then I am imagining being someone's treasure.
With the heart of a passionate poet, I take part
by scribing torrid scenes of fervor beyond measure.
Writing breathes anima into the chasms of my soul.
I celebrate my poetry as art, a revered tour de force.
Poetry is my source of equilibrium, joy, and peace
when life's adversities attempt to steer me off course.
*****To the naked EYE, this poem may seem like gibberish,
but I assure you it is loaded with 24 palindromes,
3 palindrome phrases, 1 hidden palindrome phrase,
and is chock full with enormous wordplay...
oh and one more palindrome in this description.
Can you find more? I challenge you word freaks!*****
____SATAN OSCILLATE MY METALLIC SONATAS____
Last night, around eleven or so, I decided to paint a pink castle.
To my dismay, on display, is what looks more like a pink *******.
Picasso would've been so proud!
Today, upon recording nothing short of a colossal debacle,
I've chosen to
utilize the eyes of a hostile apostle.
Tossing docile scribble, I'm scribing.
Describing life like a diatribe conniving REVIVER at a revival.
LIVE EVIL!
Palindrome EYE to the side of my tribe.
Get in line, standing at the hands of HANNA.
PULL UP.
RISE AND VOTE SIR!
EYE
LEVEL
to
NUN'S
BOOB.
WOW!
We OTTO-matically
POP a PEEP at NOON!
DAD got so damn mad he DID the DEED
and split three XANAX with his MADAM and MOM!
(ALA the ABBA GIG way back in them AHA kookie KOOK days)
So anyways...
Back to peek hassle!
Do ya' think he might like ta' take a stab at my STATS?
*****(this was fun as fun can be:
hope you have half as much fun with it as I did:)*****
~JSLambert
In the rain I see clear...
Through the clouds I can hear...
Behind a wall I can write...
Scribing words in the night...
Moonlight shines on every line...
Sunrise brings the final rhyme...
See the world in my view...
From dreams to words it all grew...
Rarely reaching the expansive ranges
Where infinity influences reality changes
With illusion marked stigma stamped impressions
Sparingly accessed acceptance processing life lessons
Voided all non-existent concepts entered into calculation
Subtracting negative signs doubling positive discrimination
Facing minutes handed seconds clockwise directional hour
Provided additional limitations restricting free powers
Lawlessly abiding thoughts trapped scribing under thin glass
Persuaded temptation daily weekly monthly years pass
Beliefs based beyond cellular systematic space
Uncontrollable devolving of our intelligent human race
Technological aspects statistical advancing mathematical rations
Places recognized first second third in numerical fashion
Reality set standards store a suppressed revelation
I am one of realities patients
Prescribing divine elevation
'The Thundering Silence'
The coming summer rain with drops of pain
Our lamenting love slowly slips away
My soul is slain with a thunderous vein
My heart left broken it begins to weigh
The tempered tears will drain as they detain
My longing for you on this summers spray
Thru the summer storm my love will transform
I look to the rainbow a welcome warm...
~~~
Angels in flight within great holy height
Looking for your love a heavenly view
Bringers of light they have you in their sight
My love divine from them is overdue
Scribing angels write of my lonely night
After the storm a rainbows hue they flew
A summer rain remind that I may find
My lost love now a caressing entwined.
Aug.21.2017
SUMMER RAIN STORM
Sponsored by: Dale Gregory Cozart
One Ottava Rima, 8-16 lines
Your rhyme must be abababcc, with ten syllables per line.
YOU KNOW YOU CAN
~~~~~~~~~
Thank you
bless you!
Will you?
Hope you.
For your comment, thank you, bless you too.
I have to ask, will you, hope you do!
Can not,
will not,
care not,
do not,
To say that you can not, will not try;
is it that you care not, do not lie?
writing
typing
scribing
carving
these modern days writing, typing, words
easy, compare scribing, carving sherds!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inspired by Anne-Lise , dedicated to her and Jan Allison!
She sat next to me
and the air
seemed to dance around her,
we traded words,
conversations passing into the night
while the moon
was cradled by the clouds
and that was when
an ember landed on my heart,
burning away the cobwebs
that muttled my creativeness.
My pen sat stagnant for years,
now it’s melted to my hand,
laying verse and poem
on anything that will hold ink.
So for this mystifying sprite,
that has taken the last step,
my fingers will bleed
before I stop scribing.
In my art I will spread her soul
throughout the Earth,
whether dark or light
I will scatter her sparks with each line,
igniting inspiration in hearts
and comforting
with the gentleness
that flowed from her fingertips.
Her spirit glides above
as our hearts wilt
and the flowers
bend their heads and cry.
Trees comfort one another
with the rustling of their branches
and the wind
touches every back and cheek with grief.
The sun lays its warm hand
on the shoulders of the Earth
and our tears nourish the soil
where they fall,
as we remember her crooked smile.
Light giving soul
Always there to help you through the dark
Unusually compassionate to the unworthy
Resting in a tree enclosed meadow
An enchantment that enspelled us all
Laura Pizzini was taken from us 10/16/09
she will be missed
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
Constant pounding of the Bullmastiff's tail.
I know you are approaching.
You wont speak, I don't expect it. You bring the mail.
The summer's heat is encroaching.
You being here is a comforting thought.
I've been restless waiting for you to appear.
You don't come as often as I feel you ought.
The days are longer now, more to fear.
Oppressive temperatures, I sit near a fan.
Just hoping someone will come.
Scribing out poems as best I can.
Closing the blind from the blistering sun.
I hear you in the kitchen, perhaps making tea.
The dog nudges my door to let itself in. Sits beside my chair.
You haven’t yet said hello to me.
I know you are bringing food that the dog expects me to share.
You will bring the food in soon and tell the news of the day.
You will feed the dog with scraps and maybe a bone.
Then you will say goodbye and be on your way.
And again my son you will leave the dog and I to be on our own.
Don’t know how it started, or how it ends
I’m older now then I will be then; when
I was scribing with quill, candle and scroll
A mind of dubiety, road full of holes
A wanderlust dream, of apples true taste
A destined arrival, from earth to space
Learning my place around the bend
My limbs sinking in the chair akin
To the rustic oak desk, branded by toil
My hands numbing, gears lacking oil
Watching raindrops kiss the window
A top hatted, hunched mans figure descends
He says with a grin, I’ll show you how
To properly command your pen
I pinch myself over and over again
Thinking I’ll wake next moments blink
I said sir, let me sip that ink you drink
Dine from the flowery plate you ascend
With glib he said, the drink is to think
Outside of a realm we transcend
The ink is verve that the heart kindly lends
To our inspired souls speaking
To minds boundless pen
I blink and he vanished
A note left to me holds words I brandish
“Calm eagles yield more then the busiest wren.”
In the Orient it's called Karma,an inescapable butcher of beasts continuously chopping,slicing & trimming the meat of our mentalities,precisely weighed,
Occidentally the official judge of justice is commonly greeted as God,punisher of aggravated appetites,gatekeeper to the blissful & blightful kingdoms,
perhaps there are astral accountants tabulating spiritual treasures of ours,scribing with blood & bones,celestial lawyers indicting us on ancient legalities,
no action eludes the energy of Nature's ear & eye,to sing with no voice or weep with no tears is to try & erase facts from flesh,removing silt from river,
sometimes good fortune arrives in our awry lives,unanticipated & unsolicited like dreams of victory teaching us its possible to outdo the odds,dance on defeats,
however,recompense is irrevocably required by the Divine source as agony is requisite for birth,a timeless tax that gives everything a welcome worth,a value,
a mother who delivers a deformed child,small business owner increasing sales,a professor thats worshiped,pastor of an indigent church,self content poor man,
the purse of Providence is heavy & organic like a full belly always digesting,making space for more & more charity & confiscation,smote with a kiss,
a balance of thefts & rewards,lies that give loss,love that provides learning,poverty that lends perspective,sorrow sowing strength,profits producing paranoia,
justice is a blacksmith that will heat you & cool you,strike you & smooth you,shape you into something appropriate for your properties,polish your planes -
J.A.B. 2010
We hardly remember the truth
Victims of the Great Forgetting
We hardly recognize that history is popular culture
A screenplay of the past written by the victor
Just look at Thomas Jefferson
Author of the Declaration of Independence
With his quill scribing the words, "All men are created equal."
We hardly think of him slinking back to his slave plantation
Grabbing one of his African slave mistresses
and having his way with her
His love puppet
Of which he had a harem
My ninth grade teacher (whom had tenure)
whispered from the side of his face
The only thing Columbus discovered
Was those people he called Indians
Which we now call Native Americans
were savages in the sack
And the only thing he brought back
from the New World was syphilis
We hardly look at the big picture
which is that we are destroying ourselves
We cannot continue to keep living
the way we are living
And not expect civilization to collapse
We are so short sighted
We hardly see history repeating itself
We are Rome
And quite sadly Nixon is our Nero
Hardly a hero
It won't be long before
The clock strikes zero
By: Joseph DeMarco