Best Seasoned Poems
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Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snowcapped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
January reigns brutal, subzero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
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Written from memory…no winter here. : )
What, if any, shall my love be; if tho is not there in the meadow of our season? Will our love wilt as flowers do in the burning sun without thy water to sip into its roots? Shall we not meet by the tree in the meadow of our love? But, if it is not ordained, how so may it go forth, in the bloom of the day of our meadowed love seasoned? I do miss thee, when we are parted from us, in our meadows; seasoned love.
Separation of a Seasoned Love
Our love is, but, just a separation,
For just a bit longer from one another.
For our souls still,
Danced in the moonlight of our season of love.
Oh, how I've missed our time
Spent physically with one another.
The anticipation of us again in the heavens,
Exciting the taste of our beauty we had the chance to live.
My love, until we are reunited;
I shall count the seconds till our harmony;
And, is together, and once again regained.
My love for Him is forever eternal,
Faithful, as the love that once lived here.
Rest my love,
May our Lord shine on our beauty,
And again, by mornings dew;
Shall we be together again?
I've been meaning to write for a long time.
but sometimes
my words willingly remain hostage
in my heart.
Not wanting to be heard.
Covered and crumpled.
I cannot sink in
I am 18.
it's frightening,
Getting old
my mind is somewhere between
the land and the sky,
wishing to fly,
but fears the fall.
what if I am longing for the sunshine
but chasing the moonlight?
I am waiting for roses
but is it not all thorns?
what if I mistook 'mistake' as a failure
and stop moving on?
There it goes.
Overthinking.
A frequent visitor,
who barges my house constantly.
Full of impertinence.
Making it abysmal.
One simply writes down
the beautiful and the doomed
Until they manage to safely coexist
And somehow this dilutes the pain.
Such a beautifully paradoxical thing is Mind.
"You have a magical way of unearthing summer in those dry Decembers.
And of all the things you need to grow
you've chosen roots
So that one day
you can touch the skies"
it said.
I remembered how
I've always had this inaudible need,
Deeply persistent as the ivy
To reach for something beyond
The roots of my capabilities.
This number can't be an obstacle.
Eighteen is too nascent to be called seasoned.
And that's what keeps me going.
Then my heart pulled softly
the ends of those tears
releasing my fear like a ribbon
Coming quietly undone.
The universe might be showing me
That grey and white lies ahead
But today I am all ready
To show it how colourfully I can bloom.
I used to claim, I'm just getting old til
a friend said, "no, seasoned", with a gentle scold.
It does sound better. I must admit, but am still
pondering which spices fit?
Was I seasoned by the sea with its salty air?
Am I spiced by my anger which at times flares?
Was I peppered by my individual journey, and all
of those people who influenced me?
Are those milder spices acquired with time, like
a touch of coriander, or a pinch of thyme?
I'm hoping to acquire a taste for sage as I
could certainly use some at this ripe old age.
A nonchalant twist of an age
freckled wrist
The cast finished in the stance
of an archer
A long languid shimmering line
slowly slips
Arcs, hovers then drops on the
water
The Seasoned Commuter
On The platform for ten to seven
No more trains if I get to heaven
Coffee and paper held in each hand
Bought a new ticket, cost me four grand!
The train is on time, not running late
I need three hands or maybe a plate?
I’m near the front so should get a seat
I hate to stand, packed in like meat.
Here comes the train it seems so slow
But it’s just the start of my daily woe.
The doors fly open and in I rush
A dig in the ribs and a poke in the mush!
Just keep going, just hope and pray
I want my seat for the money I pay
Made it, got it, next to Tim
Bit of a squeeze but he’s not so grim
An hour and ten if we run to time
And I’m going nowhere, this seat is mine!
She used to think she was too thin.
Probably because everyone referred
to her as skinny. Her older brother
called her bony butt, to her chagrin.
If.......if only the curves would come.
At sixteen they surreptitiously arrived.
Curves on curves that brought too
much unwanted and embarrassing
attention from the male population
to a shy young woman who was just
discovering how to ascertain who
she was and how she fit into the world.
While walking down the street, she
nearly jumped out of her skin, as a car
came up behind loudly honking at her.
Sometimes they even wildly leaned
out the window making lewd remarks.
Her brother finally had to cease calling
her bony butt. He changed it to Miss Priss.
Now looking back on those pure formative
years through a seasoned nostalgic glow,
a smile crosses aged lips when a horn honks.
© Connie Marcum Wong
He sits under the trees of the garden,
As unto the voice of his maker he hearkens,
A pillar of light is he as the world darkens,
Declaring the gospel's true pattern,
Humbled,he stands in the courts of his accusers,
Smiling at the fowl word of his criticizers,
As he diligently speaks the searched scriptures,
Stone hearts, soft he renders,
The joy of a saved soul keeps him going,
As pure desire keeps strength flowing,
Salvation is his aim as he is daily sowing,
For in the vineyard new souls keep growing,
Full is his heart's joy,
Working relentlessly with the speed of a child's toy,
Walking steadfast in temptations toil,
As he returns with companionship of the spirit's coil,
There’s nothing so fine as a bright April Day
A light breeze blowing through the sycamores
The backyard squirrels have come out to play,
An adventure kind of day I can’t stay indoors.
Chores to be done, but spring fever has struck
The meadow beckons for an afternoon stroll,
Then to the riverbank where fish are jumping
It’s clear the past winter on most took its toll.
Sickness and quarantines difficult, to be sure,
But we’re learning how to live with this flu --
Surely, they’ll come up with a permanent cure,
In the meantime, there’s nothing better to do,
For I am rejuvenated out in the warm April sun
Life must be seasoned with some old-fashioned fun.
FIFTH PLACE WINNER
written April 19, 2022
"Anything You Want" poetry contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
We boomers, as our generation’s called,
have lived through two seasons, considered great,
during which our values were overhauled --
The Summer of Love and Autumn of Hate.
Both brought us together and gave us hope.
In the face of injustice, both were staged --
the first, a celebration with free dope,
the other a tragedy that enraged.
We were innocent in ‘Sixty-Seven;
we saw world violence and were appalled.
Our attitudes changed by Nine-Eleven;
we sought revenge, though we were shocked and galled.
While Winter of War passes, may we find
The Spring of Renewal and peace of mind.
Vibrant fertility;
bountiful guardians adorn your embrace.
Fallen soldiers;
lay limp scattered on the firm ground.
Naked abandonment;
vulnerability exposed for all humanity.
Reawakened hope;
dewy beads spring new beginnings.
Written by: Diana-Marie Bombardieri
January 08, 2012
I tuned into yesterday's presidential debate
where neither candidate came across great.
Two seasoned horses at the gate, one will
determine this country's fate.
Too many problems on our plate and they
began to argue about some thing innate..
The borders, inflation, and two wars in our
lap and these old blokes discussed which
golfer has the better handicap!!!
seasoned blossoms
wilted in the garden.......
new lines in her face
____________________
6/9/17
her face is a quilt
ridges wrinkles and age spots
seasoned warrior
A SEASONED SONG
rose,oh rosemary
sweet aroma to me,
fragrant,my thyme with thee;
lovely lemon balm
ope'd hand is my palm,
mark! love's finger print,
indelibl'd with mint;
hold sweet basil at bay,
hark! these sage words I say
my evening primrose,
see my ardour grows
aside the mistletoe.
Such is this feverfew
in my lovage for you
Listen to me read this poem on youtube under the name ichthyschiro