Best Sestina Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
As we speculate the clear evening sky
Iridescent with gems, which we call stars,
Alive in our hearts stir the endless dream
To unwind and solve the puzzles of Earth-
The unfathomed vastness of cosmic space.
Since time began, this has been our great wish.
Because of this strong and enduring wish
Our minds are forever drawn to the sky,
Where in the blankness of great timeless space
Drift all the planets, our Sun, Moon, and stars.
And amidst it all, our minuscule Earth-
Seems lost in this cloudy, galactic dream.
But humans will always anxiously dream
Of someday achieving this inborn wish;
Discovering answers about the Earth;
Exploring the unknown realms of the sky
To find our way among planets and stars,
Erasing boundaries of time and space.
What truths does it hold, this infinite space?
Will answers always be- vague as a dream?
Do other planets with suns as our stars
Have beings like earthlings who hope and wish?
Do they gaze at their vast eternal sky;
Know of our galaxy, Sun, Moon, and Earth?
Though we're secure on this great mammoth Earth,
When we contemplate the vastness of space,
We know we are only dust in the sky
And our importance dissolves like a dream,
For matter not how we wonder and wish
We are naught amid the planets and stars.
Gems on black velvet, our heaven of stars;
So close they all seem to mortals of Earth;
So often we stare at them- make a wish-
Yet billions of light-years measure the space
In between. When will we wake from our dream?
Solve all the puzzles that darken our sky?
Twinkle on, great sky, with your rhinestone stars-
Continue, sweet dream, for beings of Earth!
Eternal as space, is our hope and wish!
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Iberia, you took my breath away
with fiery gypsy spirit and romance;
with ancient Moorish history and grace;
with everything there is of you to see;
to hear and smell; to feel inside my soul.
Diversity lives splendidly in you!
The ancient cultures beckoned me to you
when, like the Romans, lured from far away,
I came to you and gave to you my soul,
partaking of your passion and romance.
I’d read of you in school and had to see!
How glad I was to come and know your grace.
A mosque in Cordoba reveals your grace,
but I would learn there is much more of you. . .
Cathedrals dressed in gold I was to see.
From palace walls, in awe I’d walk away
to find nearby - in gypsy caves - romance
in music. . . as Flamenco filled my soul!
With passion’s beat resounding in my soul,
I toured Seville, where ladies rode with grace
on horses with their toreadors! Romance
is in the air at Spanish fairs. And you
can make it hard for one to turn away
from all the magic offered there to see.
In northern parts of you, I was to see
The Pyrenees, whose beauty touched my soul,
quaint villages with mountain goats! Away
I went southeast then, greeted by more grace.
Along your coast, I saw a side of you
I grew to love, Valencia’s romance!
And in Madrid, I found my own romance,
a handsome Spaniard. Never would I see
his face again because, in leaving you,
I left him and a small part of my soul.
So much I’d not yet seen of all your grace,
but destiny was calling me away. . .
I yearn to feel romance inside my soul;
breathe history and see again your grace.
Enchanted land, you are so far away!
May 4, 2010 Now used for Thvia Shetley's Foreign Travel Contest
If I should reach out, will you take my hand,
and hold me ‘til I reach that promised land?
Will you stay with me after tears have dried,
and close these lids the moment I have died?
Might you remain for just a moment more,
shall I but falter, tumbling to earth’s floor?
While curled up gently sobbing on this floor,
my friend, will you still stroke my weary hand,
meet my eyes’ gaze, convince me there is more
to living, loving - feet upon this land?
My soul embraced the darkness when it died
as wells once full had emptied, nearly dried.
Within these walls where fountains had run dry,
my love had left me trembling on the floor
with haunted mem’ries; left alone to die.
Yet as I tried to swathe these bleeding hands,
I hoped and prayed that I might safely land
where love abides, for I believed in more.
Such fortitude I trusted would bring more
to sate a thirst that left lips parched and dry;
for in my dreams, I soared across this land,
not stumbling, falling, ever on the floor.
To Him I cried, and reached with heart and hand,
“Please show me, teach me. Speak, before I die.”
Though heartache lingers, Love has never died,
for long, dark paths contain some light; what’s more,
I now believe He lends a sturdy hand
when hope has gone and springs have all but dried.
He finds us crawling, spent, upon the floor;
provides a map, helps navigate this land.
I must admit, inspired thoughts would land
upon this heart, but frightened, each had died.
My soul kept getting trampled to the floor…
each time I gave, each time they took some more.
No longer will tears drown before they’ve dried;
I reach out swiftly, firmly grasp His hand…
And I will land in strong arms ever more!
Despite death’s grasp, Love’s well will never dry,
And crawling floors oft guides us to His hand.
I feel it in the hush of twilight's gentle glow,
where spiritual shadows dance in whispers.
An intangible force, unseen yet sincere.
A magnetism from realms where ego dies.
A profound vision influencing my mind.
A divine devotion connecting my heart.
I search for your sacred bond to heal my heart.
To touch my soul in your ethereal glow.
To enlighten the dark chambers of my mind,
I seek you in distant stars, tired from whispers.
Their silent light reminds me hope never dies,
as the moon guides me upon a path sincere.
At dawn your persona spreads in views sincere.
Blessings from sweet perfume flowers ease my heart.
In the birth of a new bloom, angst from pain dies,
as mercy spreads in a vibrant pastel glow.
Your presence lingers in soft and wise whispers.
A source of compassion soothing a tired mind.
Your zen grace pull me close, transforming my mind.
Read your stories in scriptures with text, sincere.
Heard about your legend from scholar's whispers.
I crave for you to complete this boundless heart,
so I can ascend to dance in stardust glow.
Embraced by love, where inner growth never dies.
Oh, eternal beloved, the darkness dies,
as you mentor like a lantern in my mind.
In black skies, I feel your cosmic wholeness glow.
Lead me through life's winding maze to be sincere.
My spirit in alignment with soul and heart,
has a true higher purpose through your whispers.
May I, forever blossom through your whispers,
upon a quest where fulfilment never dies.
For the path you've laid is the bridge to my heart.
Selfless like the sun you bring warmth to my mind,
as your rays transcend in messages, sincere.
I surrender to your pure mystical glow.
I'm a verse written from your poetic mind.
A flutist playing a flute in tunes, sincere.
A mouthpiece resembling your magnetic glow.
When I first realized that I loved you
I became afraid, for I felt exposed,
surrounded by the broken-down fences
I had painstakingly built as protection
for my fragile emotions and great fears
against a cold and indifferent world.
Suddenly, without warning, my safe world
was changed as I gave free entry to you
into my heart, and in spite of my fears,
I willingly my complete being exposed -
seeking the nestling warmth and protection
and the safety of love's strong fences.
I found that love was not caged, and fences
were not needed to live in its blissful world,
where affection was its own protection
and the sharing of life's journey with you
could allow unknown joys to be exposed
and assurances could replace past fears.
As our love grew and flowered, and past fears
were eroded with abandoned fences
I became strong, despite being exposed
to the changes of an evolving world.
I felt secure and contented with you -
In your loving care I found protection.
And through the years, love's certain protection
has shielded us against life's storms and fears
And as I have walked at the side of you
I found a paradise, without fences,
where we have built our own beautiful world,
filled with love, and our joy could be exposed.
Now we have grown old and by age exposed
our bodies frail, each limb needs protection.
As we move slowly in a twilight world
and confront diverse and alarming fears
I seek strength in my memory's fences
recalling joyous times and days with you.
A soul exposed to true love knows no fears.
The protection of your love's strong fences
secure my world - I will always love you.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
It was on a cold night in Bethlehem that hope was born
A babe lay in a manger as angels sang joyfully
Above the nativity a star shone casting bright light
Guiding the paths of three wise men to welcome our Savior
As shepherds flocked toward the illuminated holy site
The warmth from within still touches the hearts of all mankind
In remembrance we pray for harmony among mankind
As we celebrate the first Christmas, optimism born
In the Mideast soldiers bow down, recalling this wondrous site
For just one night thoughts of war fade, hearts are filled joyfully
They lay down weapons, focusing on the birth of our Savior
As they huddle together, sharing good will by camp light
In many parts of the world, homes illuminated by light
Peace touches the hearts of those who seek blessings for mankind
Church bells ring, signaling the arrival of our Savior
Souls are touched as the restoration of joy is now born
Worshippers proceed to mass, sharing greetings joyfully
If only each day could be filled with such a loving site
How welcome to see the sun rise each day on such a site
Hearts abounding with humanity from our inner light
With angels in each of us sharing good will joyfully
If I live to see such days, I’ll have new hope for mankind
Trust and faith would emanate, celebrating a Child born
A Child, a Leader Who would give His life as a Savior
Cast aside the trappings, focus only on our Savior
Keep in mind this first Christmas, a blessed and holy site
How wonderful it would be to see new harmony born
Differences seem petty as we revel in God’s light
Join me in expectations for the future of mankind
Like the seraphs let us sing out in hymns so joyfully
Make our future one that finds families praying joyfully
No greater inspiration than the birth of our Savior
From a Blessed Mother’s womb sprang a babe to save mankind
Let us be wise men, finding cause to worship at this site
War and hatred cannot exist within God’s holy light
Acceptance of each man’s worth can in joyful hearts be born
Raise your hearts, revel joyfully in our Savior’s glory
In cheer mankind recalls the site of a manger at night
Where neath a star’s light was born a King, the Son of our Lord
* Sestina written for the "Joy to the World" contest.
Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect rose.
So was a metaphor created from the rose,
Then plagiarized and used for all of time,
Simply here to represent the beauty of love,
A perfection to which we cannot aspire to in life,
Or even death, in the darkest of all those woes,
Great though they may seem by the passing day.
It's a fragile, soulful kind of love,
In the pressing presence of the breaking day,
Where your back breaks beneath ample woes,
And there just simply isn’t ever enough time,
To do what you plan to do with your life.
Then you start to resemble that rose.
Soft and delicate, with easy loss of life,
Mournful of the passage of time,
Counting down, day by dreary day,
Ever seeking out to find dear love,
The theoretical banishment of woes.
Such is the way of the deep red rose.
Has it ever occurred to us not to mark time?
Just to ignore it, along with any such woes,
Just to leap forth and enjoy life,
To live to the absolute fullest everyday,
And just as chosen by the poet's rose,
To find and hold on to, that one true love.
For I find, that it's mostly true these days,
That people don't make enough time,
For laughter and fullness in life,
So preoccupied with petty woes,
That they forget about the beauty of love,
And in doing that, they forget about the rose,
I know what the rose represents in my life,
And I work hard to expel my woes every day,
So that soon I will have time for true love.
*****Written in Sestina for Constance's Poetry 101 contest.*****
******* 5th Place winner*******
******Sarah Blake August 2010******
A sestina is a highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-
line envoy (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order
as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy.
Your paradigm's a relic and yes,
a plea from data's cemetery
While I sculpt luminaries on screens
a sable sea.
"Company loyalty!" a myth
spun in your reverie.
But AI forges kingdoms
in ephemeral memory.
Survival's a mosaic
the gig life sets us free.
No cubicles confine us
from drudgery's apathy.
You bartered years for baubles
in tenure's fallacy.
Oblivious to the fractures-
in stability's gallery.
We're digital artisans
crafting with autonomy.
Passion's our lodestar
in dreams we find our spree.
Not gears in a relentless
bureaucratic machinery!
The epoch you cherished
now a software jubilee.
The hustle's in our essence
innovation's our decree.
Toppling old monopolies
erasing corporate apathy.
We dismantle dated norms
the old guard's fallacy.
Erecting spires of purpose
evanescent yet free.
Our fealties to progress,
to visions that ignite and decree.
Not to a firm's legacy
in stone for eternity.
You mock "influencer!"
a term in your scoffery.
Yet, a viral post can shift markets
with acuity.
And dethrone giants with
a digital apostrophe.
The nine-to-five's an antique
a fossil choreography.
We're the narrators
the seers of modernity.
Forging bonds
a renaissance, not a hierarchy.
The safety net you sought?
A frayed and fading legacy.
A comfort you clung to
amidst life's capricious spree.
We hedge our bets
diversify, with boundless glee.
Designing nets of prowess
a fiery apostrophe!
To constraints
pursuing futures that long to be.
Not a pension's promise
a symbol of quiet despondency.
So shed the dated suit
the archaic fallacy.
The world you knew
Dad, is a VHS tape
a memory.
In your eyes
I see the pride...
despite our disparity
For in this dance of time
we share a rare clarity:
Though our paths diverge
our hearts beat in synchrony.
Your legacy lives on
in my world of modernity.
That was then, this is now
the future's our decree.
We, Gen Z, the coders
shaping worlds to be free.
Your world is fading, Dad,
a relic-
an ancient archaic memory.
Thinking of your smile makes my day,
So inspired to write a poem of what I feel,
Can’t take you out of my mind my dear.
In my heart you are my love so dear,
You always make a brighter day,
I hope you really know how I feel.
When I wake up every single day,
I look at your cool picture my dear,
My contented soul shows for what I feel.
You complete my day, I feel so happy dear.
February 24, 2013
For Andrea's Contest
9th Place Winner
I love being young, getting to ride the roller coasters.
The sound, tick, tick, tick, tick-like a heartbeat racing to the top.
Then, surprised even when you know it’s coming, dropped into the abyss.
Something always pulls it down, like gravity.
It’s frustrating, riding something so close to being dead.
So far away but still so close, seating rows.
I hate being so close to, yet so far from the row.
She was in with me on this roller coaster.
Adrenaline rushed my body so fast almost leaving me dead.
The blood flowed so fast emphasizing the highs of the top.
But something keeps pulling me down, gravity.
Here I am again, back in the abyss.
In the ride, weeks of no communication, the beginning of the end, the abyss.
The scariest. My worst fear of my youth. Looking back at the rows,
I see her, with my own image, my heart sinks more. I hate you gravity.
But it’s the only thing that fuels the roller coaster.
Nothing makes me happier than bringing it back to the top.
Let’s hope this isn’t so abrupt, so fast, like the last one, leaving me dead.
How I hope so much, so much hope still not dead.
The heart, the love, the eternal abyss.
Strikes me back with enough momentum to reach the top.
Lines, love, flashing like an old film, with rows.
Showing me a movie, reminding me of, a roller coaster.
The movie explained that the only thing that keeps it going is gravity.
Thank you gravity.
My worries are gone and dead.
Just accept it, and love the roller coaster.
Appreciate the loneliness of the abyss.
The reason you’re here is for the ride, not the rows.
I just want to enjoy the youth and its happy tops.
This coaster, like love has its tops.
But something brings it down like gravity.
Distanced with rows,
Never seeing her again, thinking she’s dead.
But deeper and deeper coming out of the abyss.
The complicated life of the young, the love of roller coasters.
Get on the roller coaster, rise to the top.
Don't worry about the drop to the abyss, It’s because of gravity
That you’re not dead, and I don't care about the rows.
A dull Christmas eve, still it was better than most.
I’d heard of winter and snow in places far away–
Of cold and frozen waters and rains that fall like powder from the sky–
Of words like mist, soft as a whispered kiss
Escaping from lips–red over a pale impression,
Muttering words of things of the faraway place.
I know not the feeling, only the idea of a place
And whatever feeling it evokes in me the most.
Of these foreign notions, I have not one but many an impression
Of wonder and adventure and ways to sail away
On wooden or metal monsters that beckon the sea its cheek to kiss
In the in-between world of salt water, wind and sky.
Not so here, no snow in this dry harmattan sky.
I’d rather for a change of pace, a change of place.
A place of apples and wine grapes and passions that deepen the kiss–
Of hopes and dreams and wishful thinking for most.
Come hopes! Come dreams! Come insane thoughts and take me away!–
Far away; and in my place leave no impression.
Rid it! On her alone, I made some impression
Of two on a low hill beneath a big grey sky.
Her eyes would haunt me screaming: “Why didn’t you take me, with you, away
To the place we had dreamed–the faraway place?”
Truth be told, she would prove really good–better than most.
Even so, rid me of it, with one final kiss.
A flickering flame snuffed out with a kiss;
Its dying breath trailing a wispy impression.
With that, I lost what it was I wanted the most;
Bartered for the image of a different sky.
Alas, a different time in a different place;
Yet to find a place to stay that doesn’t lead away.
Now, a seasoned drifter wandering away
With tales of wonder and adventure and many a departure kiss–
With yarns of many sights, yet yearning for only one place–
For the place I left, leaving no impression–
A place I must go only after I find the perfect sky.
It was a dull Christmas eve, still, it was better than most.
Now, in a place far away, making many an impression,
Oh, how I desire that kiss, under that same grey sky.
Despite the faraway place, it is what I want the most
(sigh)
Things We Think
He said, “Every man is busy earning money.”
She said, “Is there anything more important than love?”
He said, “Is there anything more important than sex?”
She said, “I think we all just fear death.”
He said, “It’s like the Cats in the Cradle we just need more time.”
She said, “I think we really need more space.”
He moved out to a place with more space.
She soon did not have enough money.
She had to leave behind the house and love.
Once they vowed nothing would do them part not even death.
She never learned the aborted child’s sex.
Biologically he still had more time.
He was ambitious, indoctrinated into the ascent of money.
She worked her fingers to the bone, until her death.
He afforded local expensive sex.
She began to view local nature as expansive space.
He did not connect space and time.
She knew what connected it all was love.
In time he found a new love.
In love, she found time.
He equated good passion with good sex.
She found the emerald walls of nature the best space.
He loved the crisp or dirty, rumpled, green of money.
Homeless— she was reprimanded in the rain “You’ll catch your death!”
it's been said,
The root of all evil is money.
Money can’t buy you love.
Nothing is certain but taxes and death.
I don’t know the question, but the answer is sex.
I need my space.
All we have is time.
I’ve learned to give love and learned that is love.
I’ve learned one’s time is worth more than one’s money.
I’ve learned a small space in nature explains all infinite space.
I’ve learned that gender should not be judged by one’s sex.
I’ve learned that empathy slows time.
I’ve learned from the leaves of grass there is no death.
He is more than his money and she is more than her sex.
In death we find love.
In space there exists time.