Best Sedately Poems
(Metrical form of writing worthily represented here in this poem composed by Giorgio Venetopoulos, had remained unpublished.)
The maiden's form diffuses neath the rain
and beautiful she steps around the sage
The mists embrace her dream on this domain
and vernal age.
The autumn raindrops fall, forever thin
They sing the maiden's song that lingers high
She fled to college winters that akin
have gone awry.
She fled above the plains where women sing
The heartfelt painful songs of love that stings
The iron bells of Sunday callings ring
for queens and kings.
Above the castle's walls the coldness casts
and dancing snowflakes fly to years before
where trees saluted his departing masts,
for e'er ashore.
Forsooth her shape outlined above the field
Where flowers blossomed in the air and smiled
The quiet dusk her heart sedately healed
descending mild.
Across their Summer lay the swaths of scythe
the mowing ended and a wedding song
two wraiths recite, thus on the wheatfield lithe
for e'er belong.
© Giorgio A.V. & Gautami Phookan 10-18-2014, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic pentameter - Iambic dimeter)
Fair as ever he doth ride
Alas to meet his gal
as she prepares to be his bride.
He draws back a drink with an old pal
they discuss their days gone stall
time drifts by, the bride feels faintly
in worry, her grooms last prodigal
A man who's thought most stately
On clock tower's side
he glares in wow
to realize what time passed by
he thinks of lies, of where and how
he decides to blame the herd of cow
"they just stood there so blankly"
he thinks to himself, ok, no worries for now
A man who's thought most stately
Up to her abode he doth stride
she rushes to him in the snow
"You are too late" she shoots his pride
with her most powerful blow
"No excuse for you not to show!"
"Our wedding day? you forgot and left me there sedately"
"why I oughtta feed you to the crows"
A man who's thought most stately
Prince, not so
for this young man, here lately
for he was sent, and told to go!
A man who's thought most stately
Celestial sphere, a moon of coral hue
an empress of my universe, it lies
so cloistered deep between the curtains, veiled...
serene and quiet till it's brought to life
when sought and fondly wooed, she starts to blush
and moves sedately out of hiding place
caressed and gently kissed, she comes to life
and pulses strongly, moon-like drawing tides
eclipsed is everything except her wish
to stir the tempest of awakening love
and when my ravished soul is on the brink
she brings release and lets the storm abate
you know her well; you know her every mood
and how she will succumb to loving play
this earthly sister of bewitching moon
abides her time until she's called to bloom
Eileen Manassian
Ain't nothin' like a steamin' cup o' coffee to greet the early morn.
It'll calm yer nerves and git you goin' just as sure as you wuz born!
With mixin's added to suit yer taste, it must be scaldin' hot,
Decaf, regular, chicory-strong or mild, it really matters not!
Some folks prefer a styrofoam cup, others a massive mug,
But those proffer an indelicate way to down a gulpin' slug.
Others, a dainty cup and saucer, pinkie sedately bent,
Sippin' delicately so social faux pas one is sure to prevent!
I hear it ain't acceptable to dunk a donut in yer mug o' java,
Or pour coffee in a saucer to cool, tho' it's hot as flowin' lava.
But I ain't concerned about it bein' a great big social blunder,
As folks disdainfully stare at me as if I wuz some alien wonder!
Docs debate the merits of caffeine, whether it's healthy or not.
Let 'em bicker, I'll decide what to percolate in my coffee pot!
My dear old Dad had his daily caffeine fix, livin' 'til ninety-four.
I've done the same fer years and I'm approachin' nigh four-score!
Nowadays, fancy concoctions are brewed for the discernin' taste;
Expresso, mocha, cappuccino, even Irish whiskey laced!
Such exotic ambrosia to others I'll graciously defer.
I'll keep on slurpin' an ordinary cop 'o joe, which I much prefer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Shh, surrender silent sorrows.
Subconsciously slip into stillness,
sedately surrounded in serenity's song.
Slumber satisfied, slithering softly between
silky soap scented sanitized sheets.
Soak up summaries of summers spent splashing at
seashores, sandles sifting through salt scented sand,
as sapphire skies shine splendidly.
Scores of silver seagulls soar stunningly
above saltwater seaweed scenery.
Suddenly snorkeling with seahorses,
you somehow become the studied subject.
Swimming in submarine schools, scarcely secluded,
you become someone's significant someone.
Spryly spinning synchronously side by side
someone special, sprinkled in sentimentality,
speaking shrouded sounds,
you shift seamlessly into sound sleep.
"Speak some sense slower," some seahorse shrieks.
Sensibly speak shrouded sounds slower, softer,
so she can sleep sometime soon.
2/9/2020
It was a mediocre and bearable day.
I had sprinkled and smeared tiny fibers on my head to camouflage the humiliation.
As I sedately wandered down the avenue I virtually blended in with the common folks.
All of a sudden a fierce breeze hit me hard.
My cover was blown away. A barren field of desolation was all left.
Dear Lord, what treacherous move did you just pull on me?
People noticed me as I stood there bare naked.
I panicked and impulsively decided to flee away as rapid as possible.
I thought I was gonna be okay but then some men in black suits tracked me down.
They abducted me.
Shortly thereafter I was transported to a goverment concentration camp for miscellaneous Incels.
I was to be recycled for experimentation.
They sprayed my skull with some sticky elixir from a flask branded Minoxidil.
This was probably the animal testing phase where I was the subject.
It seems that these chemists where benevolent, chunks of my
abolished humanity started to gradually restore.
Unfortunately the progress wasn't worth the effort.
I was thus banished back to my cellar.
Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship,
where my soul simply breathes
beneath my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly contentious
and both loudly out
and quietly in
content.
Home unveils life's liturgy.
This home wherein I was conceived
and born
rebirths me each dawn
and decomposes all my dreams
where I grow up and out,
where siblings moved away
from whom I married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.
As my body houses identity
my home houses body.
While home and self-identity
I can distinguish,
one self from other,
this is never a benign
or wisely severe discrimination;
better as a distinction
without prospects today for contented difference;
dishearted separation.
My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any profanely alien place,
without power or even hope to return
to more sacred memoried space,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.
My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly
on my backyard river of memory,
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as shades of sympathy
not entropy,
sad self-isolating apathy
from my heart's dismembering womb.
Lavish price for a new bodied home
invites sublimating new constructions
with best familiar practices and intents,
artifacts of golden memories from past days
and life
and loves
reframed by unfamiliar
but grace welcoming
trees
and birds
and a few persistent weeds.
When we wake at dawn
Languidly and Longingly
When we part for a time
Avidly and Ardently
When we make love
Passionately and Powerfully
When we fight and Make-up
Vehemently and Vigorously
When we lay in the dark
Sedately and Serenely
We move through the day
To come alive
When our lips touch
A granny in a brightly lit flower frock is neither a spinning wheel or a basket of multi coloured wools. Multi coloured wools are very very useful indeed for wool wafts wonderful warmth. And warmth is great when cold so never mind the harness in a three wheeled bin in the artic. Oh the whorl of semantic accolade is an issue for a tiny tissue and a tiramisu partying on a giant cliff face. Squarking squirrels sending signals swimmingly secretly sedately swift. A cloud worshipping a beacon is a beanie in a bun but not while the bun is sleeping. It needs peace and quiet you see and tantalisation can often christen the rite of passage in in even the mist tightest of skirts, shirts and dressed crabs. In a salad. Overtones of a butterscotch pantry never belittle a momentary pickle. Miserable money making mongrels make marvellous man made moons. And a jingle jangle.simmering on a stove is a one time initiation starting ship to a nonlethal Atlantic cruise basin where crudities are neither cuddles nor cute and anarchic apathy is swamped by an adjudical nun in a costume from the fourteenth century castle of the espionage for espionage is not a experience it is a an exact evenly economically excellent ecliptic eccentric eclipse. So all go hail the ring of the bell from the cooker. Ding dong ding then. Right isnt it? Playing football in a dough ball of glue is preferable to hand gliding in gloves of concrete. And a forthright pair of gloves are always leather in outlook and forward drive like a medium in a trance. Trembling trees throwing turnips thrice turning tormenting tortoises. Hahaha the time tick tock tick arguing with a baseball glove and a hat and a microphone stands with a bacon trolley. Hahaha missionary mishap makes many mingling monsters. Oh left heel clock clock right heel click. Great. Fantastic isn't it? Xxxxx evolutionally z z z z z
it starts underneath a small table
near the entrance to a motel lobby
and grows with great speed and sprite
quieting the house-guest at the counter
as it flows - muted down the hallway
glass doors opened with dampened yawn
and it streams across the parking lot
as sedans and pickups suppress
carbon-laden coughs to sit sedately as
breezily it blows stilly past the
man mowing his lawn, now silent
to a Parish church down a block
with its burked* spire bells
silently it presses over covered acres
of rural pasture and time-laden wood
a great enlargement of un-din
no bovine low, or snap of twig
creeking waters without gurgle
flowing past, and around, and over
people, individually and whole crowds
without even a whisper of apprisal
covering vast space at un-supersonic speed
oceans without roll or roil of waves
still, it moves on over island and isthmus
continents languishing on quiet molten
their ridges and troughs without groan
as the entirety of sphere becomes hush
no noise, no sound around, surrounded
without the slightest sound instilled
in ear, in mind, in thought - in me
in my own near-deafness, I wonder
is it to be peaceful, tranquil, or
silence too vast without coo or cry?
© Goode Guy 2013-03-17
* http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/burke #2
The resources of India were medley,
the areas were uncoiled from her posture.
We were indifference,
we homage to the dictators.
But they ne'er venerable those words
those were hard vintage for us,
they set about the verb
we started to loose our nerve.
As they recovered their senses,
the life of Indians became limp
the narrow domestic walls were built
the Indians were tireless striving for win.
They founded the way to clear stream of reason
to make the deary deserts sand of dead habits
conditions,of her for achievement.
Spent 200 years under injunctions
twisted by dungeon,
the country was awake
from the gift of sleep.
The foreign lost its way.
The Indians got what deserved they.
They got the unforeseen win.
All the futile one exiled from the country.
The Indians sedately settled in free India.
Everyone started to amble in their own garden.
15.August,1947wasv sealed with amethyst
it got the special amber days.
After the exuent of dictators,
they got their Independence
we became democratic.
This was the 'Story of Independence', we got.
Poet-Surjendra Das (Pen Name- Rudyard Jostle).
The blades of grass, a sea of green
They calm the day and set the scene
The world around me seems to slow
Sedately into grass I go
So in the grass, I lay my head
And daisies like a featherbed
Dancing lightly upon my skin
Thoughts so tranquil with taction thin
A breeze comes by and rustles through
As blades of grass construct a clue
To show the world is still alive
As nature’s rhythm will arrive
And in the grass, I find my peace
With nature's song, a sweet release
The worries of the world depart
Both in the grass and in my heart
The Last Sunday of October.
Vilamoura marina on a glorious October day, tourists gone home
leaving the promenade for us elderly to walk sedately along it.
I saw an ancient lady walking forcefully, using a Zimmer frame,
It looked like she was trying to set a new personal record, and
we gave her space. We saw a once famous footballer, sad really
you see them running around a big green field and the next day
they are dated and forty. In case you ask, it wasn’t Beckham.
Many yachts tied up and their owners are allowed to drive their
cars on the promenade, my old socialist heart was ready to revolt.
Cafes were open and served food for us old at reduced price; still
too expensive, it was as idle waiters were eyeing us malevolently.
The Zimmer lady returned I think she had beaten her old record.
Then it was late afternoon and the sea breeze cooled our ardour;
time to go home and drink our cacao.
Thunderous palpitations upon benign sedaments,
Miscreants vindicate with justice of six cents.
A vociferous tyrannosaurus bursts sickly
Sanitized wives and rodents scurry very
Sedately towards dainty cliffs and heights
Of unforeseeable depths-withered sights.
A Persian rug is spread across garnered grounds
Before touring gypsies which please sound.
Great stories gather precariously on the head
Of a pen sent from hapless flutters in bed-
Sensations traverse a thing called a universe,
Discoursing various travesties as a nurse.
In gambits trained by substantial lapels
And triumphant whores who cast spells
Of priority towards declining propellers.
But, you're right, titanically proportioned cells.
Dwelling in tumultuous storms just to feel,
To melt the ashes of memories, means to heal.
Neglect the skeptic who's late for dinner
Skinning prunes and my meat suit's a winner.
Standard debasement sits beside youth
Stinking of stale sex and sweat of a sleuth
In the waiting room planning substantial
Equations translating to aliens:
We're still here...
Carried by the storks of autumn,
furried charges scattered 'round;
buried by the squirrels that brought 'em
underneath the leaf strewn ground.
The antecedents tall and stately
reach as if to praise the clouds
as leaves like feathers drop sedately -
their fingers stitch a quilted shroud.
Brothers-sisters, hither-yon;
the embryos, both nature's feast
and children of a spring day dawn.
While through Earth's breast their roots release
to start anew a truth foretold,
new life will sprout among the old.
written April 14, 2020
inspired by John Lawless's Last Acorn contest (not entered)
(mixed meter)