Best Set Adrift Poems
Become my air,
pursuing my scent
in sweet fragrant fields,
where devouring tastes
of bohemian spirit,
delicately descend
in subsistent sighs.
Distracting the
tones of silence,
from subtle susurrus echoes,
like a tender
sakura breeze
kissing fresh
lavender blossoms.
Set adrift in
shades of yesterday,
dandelions bloom
in flourishing orchards,
prostrating to the
mercy of your grace.
But tread carefully
through
the hall of
dream crashers,
where strange streams
from nightmarish tears,
drizzle down,
composing
somber serenades,
choreographed
from an
enchanted symphony.
For l've seen the
invisible reality,
twinkling across streetlights
of sumptuous stars.
Distance is
an unspoken truth,
just a rainbow
away from roaming freely,
within an
evergreen paradise
above bougainvillea skies.
If this was the last poem,
before my last sigh,
today will be the day,
red of rose will
kill my bleeding ink,
so let lyrical acrolect
of poetry fill your thoughts,
look for 'you' and 'I
in the island of love,
where there's no
thunder without lightning,
nor “sea" without 'waves of us'
These distractions
of desolated dunes
are mere signs
of the wounded warrior
within me.
I'm waltzing through
vibrant valleys of white lilies,
in the hope of finding
lost gravity,
which overcomes trials and trepidation.
l'll always be your
lighthouse on lonely nights,
at the edge of
bioluminescent sand lines.
A haven where your
clusters of couplets,
will transcribe an
alchemist's poetic remedy.
Each verse will portray the
personal poem of my soul,
infused in a
profusion of soothing
cosmic hues.
As raindrops kiss
your face, they'll heal
those lamenting
leather lips-
for you are
the wind carrying clouds,
I am the ripples
crying to touch your sky.
Mirabelle orb ascends,
under clementine and pomegranate skies.
Absent,
in delight of daylight.
Eyes set adrift in dawning daydreams.
Calm heart is an oceanic concerto,
flowing along sapphire tones.
Deep breaths walk upon water,
caressed by Poseidon's piano keys.
Pulsating palpitations beat eloquent echoes,
rousing freely along rhythmical ripples.
Searching for symphonic serenity -
composition of waves, amicably,
pave a path towards destiny.
Hope vibrates like Apollos's lyre and lute strings,
as winds whistle lost tunes from Athena's flute.
Melodies of the silent sea summon torpid tides,
as desire merges in harmony with the harbour -
passionately embracing barren shores.
Aroma of dusk's dew cools in night's velvet sheen,
as sinking sun is submerged into the deep blue sea.
Sprinkling of pearls appear - their reflection
shimmering upon watery midnight blue stillness.
In silent clarity of blackness,
flowing footfalls of fate purify -
awakening mind from its reverie.
The Silent One
6 September 2020
Mirabelle - a plum, also known as mirabelle prune or cherry plum, is a cultivar group of plum trees of the genus Prunus. It is believed that the plum was cultivated from a wild fruit grown in Anatolia.
Poseidon, in ancient Greek religion, god of the sea (and of water generally), earthquakes, and horses.
Apollo has been recognized as a god of archery, music and dance, truth and prophecy, healing and diseases, the Sun and light, poetry, and more. His two musical instruments were the lute and the lyre.
Athena was a talented flute player, as she created it, but others ridiculed her when she played due to her cheeks. In disgust, she threw away the flute and said whoever picked it up and played it would be severely punished.
Upon the twinkling of silent twilight,
tranquil thoughts set adrift,
infatuated in elysian reflection.
The mind wanders,
observing and listening - roaming;
avoiding confusing crossroads
leading into chimerical phantasms.
Overwhelmed by the darkness,
fervent fingers tremble,
yearning to bleed streams of serenity.
Suppressed soul whispers,
exposing sacred secrets,
releasing the mind from its chains.
Ink flows translating the meraki;
revealing a passionate poetic soul.
Empathetic emotions drain,
yet the soul desires to venture further.
Thirsting to dance forever in euphoric eunoia.
Meraki eruptions have no fear that
each drop may exhaust the pen.
For invictus ink is a valiant virtuoso,
calmly conquering consciousness
to drift towards selcouth land.
Every muse lusts to manifest in meraki,
yet it is no miracle - it's a natural phenomena.
The Silent One
27 November 2017
Meraki: The soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work. This Greek word doesn't have an English counterpart.
Chimerical: Created by unchecked inspiration; fantastically visionary or highly improbable.
Elysian: Creative or beautiful; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.
Eunoia: Beautiful thinking. Shortest English word that contains all five vowels.
Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvellous. An Old English word and can be found in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe from 1814.
Invictus is Latin for “unconquered.
My life spirals ever downward...
The grave taunts me with its laugh.
Death's bony fingers are affixed my throat
As the jester of my unmerited epitaph.
My angst at my ever-flounder appears
Well-earned and justly placed
Where the rabid minions of an avenging God
Will no doubt make bold of my disgrace.
Have I lived too long a life so plain
Where my soul was too confined
And any realistic hope of eternal bliss
Seems mere folly at this time?
To live too long is an old Man's curse
And bound to evoke some industry
Where best intentions are set adrift...
To partake sweet ecstasy.
These stains that commemorate my Earthly Sins
Are laid denuded for all to see.
I drag them unceremoniously into an afterlife
That may not wish to bolster me.
But who among us hasn't stumbled
With Death's foot ajar the door
With temptations strewn like pearled oysters
On life's repugnant shores?
The righteous path is straight and narrow
And a vehicle for all those bold and brave
But only appeared crucial and strategic as
I stand with one foot in the grave.
How happier were those days gone by
When I was young and free from vice.
If I had only maintained such vernal guileless
To insure a place in paradise.
But I have come to this conclusion
As Death's whisper slakes my soul with dread.
Too much time has been my nemesis and any
Last minute burbling is better left unsaid.
So at this hour... this late late hour...
I now confront an awful truth.
I might have had a better chance at Heaven...
Had I perished in my youth.
The End
Ever-flounder: A bad situation of one's own making.
*I wrote this poem from the perspective of someone who fears their sins are
too heavy for God to bear.
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your uncle.
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
Across the dance floor, your soft sashaying gown flew
with its bright waving gleams of silver dust and blue;
within that blessed gaze, lonesome heart jumped a beat
seeing those golden slippers on your dainty feet,
feeling love's welcomed arrows shot by Cupid's bow
knowing that most treasured gift would forever grow!
That cool June night we walked under golden moon's beams
with your heart and soul gifting love that so redeems;
this man that had lost heart and walked a blind path
death long ago condemned this soul to darkest wrath,
torn asunder joy in life that had been a gift
chained this spirit upon a black-ship set adrift!
Loss of my beloved I once lived blind despair
wading through this evil world's black pits without care;
her sweet love reminding me of Hope that was lost,
found anew when your destined path with mine was crossed.
I saw the world with open eyes but could not see
Faith, till sight was laid upon fair beauty of thee...
Your rosy warmth danced with grace thawing my cold heart,
seduced by rousing rhythm never would we part.
My heart began to waltz and pallid pulse did race
as I saw charmed moonlight caress your angel’s face,
I longed forevermore to tilt your chin and kiss
your promising sunrise lips of heavenly bliss.
That early summer’s eve I took a leap of faith
willing to let go of my haunting lost love wraith,
I found with you the heart to fall in love once more
and glissade you in my arms ‘cross life’s ballroom floor.
Alone in love’s spotlight of golden moon beam’s glow
you have my whole attention for you stole the show.
Robert Lindley and Susan Ashley
(a collaboration)
June 27, 2018
Poet’s note: Yet again, it was my tremendous honor and privilege to collaborate with with you, Robert. There is an abundance of beautiful poetry overflowing the banks of your heart and soul, my talented friend, and I wade in the lovely flow of your poetic words.. Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of being your writing partner and for generously sharing with me in these wondrous poems of love, romance and hope; always hope - the common golden thread that runs victoriously through the weave of our writes.. With appreciation, thank you for another exquisite poetic and artistic experience, my dear friend.
A gentle tickle belies the sadness
as the corner of my eye swells and my vision blurs.
The beauty and the joy fading from my mind,
the "what was" and "what could be"
but longing memories and lost dreams,
like fading shadows, of a wasted life,
and all that is left is the loneliness.
Lying alone lost in somber reverie,
the welling in my eye inches ever closer
to flooding past the impenetrable fortress
created by my, now, tightly shut lids,
the specters of my past slowly filling my unseeing eyes
with visions of all of the special moments
and the caring caresses that we once shared.
My lashes quiver and moisten as I breathe in deeply.
The words of love we breathlessly whispered
now only wisps of meaningless expiration
hidden among icy, broken emotional shards,
a million pieces of sharp frozen feelings
piercing so deeply inside of me, freezing what remains
of you in the deep crevices of my broken heart.
The tingle sharpens as the dam breaks,
one forlorn drop escaping slowly down my cheek,
meandering, lost, in the creases of my aged face.
I reach up to wipe it away, but can't
for everything I am, everything that is me,
everything that we were and could ever be,
I've set adrift inside of that tiny, tickling, forsaken tear.
06/19/2017
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
She said, if I correctly recall,
That, for her, a sustaining love is an
Absolute prerequisite for what
Would be a total commitment of the
Coupling bodies...and all that
Constitutes the essential parts of the
Eternal Soul;
And I not so assuredly competent
In this - the practice of such a higher
Art!
Adding, some little time later, that
Being so chained, in what she described
As an unfortunate consequence of a
Most regrettable thrall,
To a domineering Harlequin who,
When mindlessly exercising the upper
Whip hand, had neither modest restraint
Or any amount of unimpassioned
Self-control,
Was, in fact, just a flagrant excuse
For a base lust;
Of course this was not to be confused
With the laudable and gallant actions
Conceived within the inner workings
Of a steadfast and more openly honest
Heart.
And was I convinced that I was indeed
Sincere in all my avowed pledges?
And did I truly understand that all her
Troubled life she had tirelessly
Searched for one such as I purported
To, somehow, seemingly be?
How I instantly can bring to mind
Those obscure and doubting mutterings...
Still carrying upon an ill wind I
Should not wonder;
I think of them like the songs of the
Naiads: what woefully remaining
Sounding endlessly above the glassy
Tinkling of a mystical lakeside's
Stiffened and shuffling Sedges;
You a modern-day Danae, infant Perseus
Clutched to your swollen breast, your
Little box, in all its abject
Loneliness, now set adrift upon some
Desolate and open sea.
What turned out, in the end, to be a
Pointless charade. Perhaps; but that
Which, despite shortening periods, whilst
Enduring felt almost timeless.
Then of course this shared guilt...
That will, shamefully I fear,
Forever bind us.
On a path laid as a snake,
Trodden down a winding wake,
Curls and slithers into night,
To thrones of ever-dimming light;
I hold still and gripped with feeling
In a mist that wraps concealing,
And I glimpse her flicker by
From the corner of my eye.
Heartless granite fissures break
At prayers to God of souls to take,
In their vessels bled to white,
Shells of failure and of blight;
It snares and snags as ivy veins,
Upon the brickwork, grasps and strains,
And I catch her ribbons fly
From the corner of my eye.
Set adrift in this domain,
The dead volcanoes that refrain,
Never smoking nor erupt
For the end was sharp, abrupt;
I feel the ether of despair
Envelope skin with frosted air,
I spot the crystals melt and die
From the corner of my eye.
No space for sorrow to explain,
To tell how love was savaged, slain,
The stir of breath can bare disrupt
Or wall of silence interrupt;
A fear of days, in truth, compare
With nights that always hunger there,
Unguarded moments, her I spy
From the corner of my eye.
Today, I fell head-over-heels in love,
beyond happiness, I'm soaring above.
Love's gentle, and yet harbors such power,
that lingers, like the scent of a flower.
I thought that I understood who I was,
until I felt the magic that love does.
I cannot put my feelings into words,
eclipsing the sun, they outfly the birds.
As my trusting heart accepted love's gift,
doubts and inhibitions were set adrift.
Love is an extraordinary feeling,
lifting me to heights that leave me reeling.
I'm afloat, on billowing clouds of bliss,
embracing a dream, love blessed with a kiss.
My mind to arms to hands to oars to lake
I cleave the sunrise glass-like surface, still
With just my lonely friend, a mallard drake
Thus set adrift, my thoughts, upon the wake
So buoyed by the breath of morning's chill ...
Oh, how I long to know the somber deep
To let my weary soul sink with the bream
But I have many vows that I must keep
My web-toed friend and I have loves to reap
And many lochs to row before we dream ...
Yes, many lochs to row ... before we dream.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Standard Contest Number 135 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Rhyme Time II" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Sponsor.
That foolish stranger who had wandered into town
bickering with folks, trying to shove them around
was nothing more than an old worn-out clown.
Beneath Soup Creek Bridge, we saw him drown.
We thought he'd learned a lesson and ran away,
but fate did him in for being such a mean hombre'
Sooner or later the devil always demands his pay.
The foolish stranger couldn't escape his doomsday.
He thought he'd left Soup Creek with a parting gift
that would make some angry, leaving others miffed
but it triggered laughter, which gave the town a lift,
knowing that hombre's ghost has been set adrift.
Foolishly, he tried to dance in the streets of Soup Creek
expecting those he'd injured to turn the other cheek.
With no help from the Beautiful People, once his clique,
the stranger with a mean streak was cowardly and weak
There's a moral to all stories, and this one is no exception
"Treat people like dirt and don't expect a warm reception."
The measure of a man isn't found in lies and deception
That was the stranger's concept, a gross misconception.
No peace to be found in death for one who doesn't behave.
Thanks to Sheriff Koplin, Gambler Milt, and Ranger Dave,
the ladies and the posse who pointed guns at the knave.
Undertaker Tom, time to put that dead stranger in a grave.
Oh how I do love November,
that magic month that outshines September,
where I look upon the face,
of the Twinkle Fairy in all her grace,
as she blesses the leaves
falling from shivering trees
to dance in air and come to rest,
upon Gaia’s soon to be, blanketed breast.
She dances in her wispy blue coat,
and sends the crispy leaves to high afloat
upon the autumn breezes that roam
throughout the countryside by my home;
oh how I can hardly wait to espy,
Zerelda as she comes, twinkling by.
I saw her once, patch a deer’s nose,
it was chapped and swollen so,
her fairy dust on it, she sprayed,
it glistened in the sunlit rays,
like glitter sprinkled on the floor,
smoothing out the skin and pores.
My cat, Eleazer,
he will chase her
and as usual, there’s no doubt,
he won’t catch her but he’ll pout.
She’ll reward him for his game,
his frustrated feelings, she will tame;
Upon his upset brow she’ll thrust,
a wand-wave full of fairy dust.
Then she’ll turn to me and say,
I know you’ve watched me on this day;
but you are kind to fairies like me,
so here’s something for you, free.
With another wave she’ll gift;
a fairy song, she’ll set adrift.
11-13-19
November Twinkle Fairy Poetry Contest
Caren Krutsinger
Alone for for now driffting apon the sea.
You stayed at the shore.
Cause you never found comfort in someone like me.
The sunset is empty when your alone.
Worthless is the kingdom.
When no one is willing to share the
throne.
I was your clown when in shadows I always
found a way to make your spirts lift.
Ive lost all since of direction.
Since you set me adrift.
Was it only a moment something I cold not see.
the heart bleeds still.
From this prison called a memory.
The storm doesnt effect me out here.
Its not death.
But isolation I fear.
The wind is my only friend the ocean my home.
Searching for that which I cannot have.
On this endless quest I roam.
Drawing a heart inside your hand as
through the sand you sift.
From the comfort of the shore I wonder
do you recall.
Are love you set adrift.