Best Shawls Poems
As heartrose epitaphs
swathe earthly echoes
with swelled up w a v e s
of spiritual sirens,
sea-fairies collide
with honeysuckle footprints,
traced by mint-green manta rays
along aquatic vessel of karma,
pumping a nascent wilderness.
In shawls of raven wind,
my silhouette is a blood moon,
mirrored in mermaid's emerald eyes
'neath dove grey midnight,
flowering from skulls
like love's last smoke,
as sciaphilic pulse evaporates ~
and rusty rains of remorse remain.
Grieving wanderlust
waltzes in my
metallic burgundy veins,
as butterfly oracles flip
and seraph's saga
swirls in a torrential topaz turmoil,
inscribing truths midst
ignited bohemian serenades.
Winding moonlight
around fingertips,
ivory threads of harp
dance in fluid palms
as liquid sun, floating in dew,
melts upon titanium tentacles
of wisteria archangels.
When water hymns
hibernate in silence
and marine prayers
s u r f in surging eagle blades,
I pirouette as
an amethyst-opal whisper of wound
in white-washed warrior skin,
for, every crimson corpse
is a thumping cyclone,
burning within sienna sand.
Ancient memoirs
cascade like
tea-lime a s h drops,
upon shipwrecked lotus leaves
where the third eye slumbers
in talisman petals,
and heartbeats bubble up
as breaths of a
windswept vagabond.
So, in fears of ruby-fire r a i n,
I'm forlorn and found,
my soul chakra is sewn
with stelliferous canopies,
and within dolphin lullabies,
jeweled life gently sways.
Homing perfumed stars
in tulip temple,
I'm Athena's spirit~
a wildflower d a w n,
fading beneath
samurai cloak of
caramel flakes,
unfurled from pistachio sepals,
my honey pink aura
cradles tiger-lily sunbeams
upon eyelashes,
as f a t e flutters...
in timeless,
watercolor wisps.
Bracken breached hawthorn hedgerows
hide teeny folk with tiny toes.
Sheer gossamer wings; shy butterflies
Dew-drops lit by dawning skies.
Sandy hair, blue raven locks
Auburn streaks on chestnut stalks
Valley lilies invert to hats
Wee portabella mushroom caps.
Acorn shoes with resin soles
Lace gartered legs and leafy shawls
Dresses spun from brushed lime silk,
petal pinks, or white as milk.
Impish grins stoke laughing smiles.
whimsy’s sound sets music’s tiles
Curious eyes, small budded nose
cream tinted skin, pink cheeks aglow.
They live near boles of ancient trees
Drink nectar from a hollowed seed
They climb the stems of hollyhocks
They twitter but will rarely talk.
So when you take a morning stroll
pause beside to a sun-lit knoll
The calls you hear mightn’t be birds
and cricket strums won’t mimic words.
The soul is but a vast ocean of vigilance
Streaming with incresent colours towards life
Infinite within its parhelion possibilities
Relentlessly searching, betwixt the everflowing tides
Whereupon all things approach these providential probabilities
Of endlessly prolific visions thus beheld
Within the grasp of pristine pictures brushed and painted
Afore the overtures tubular bells; now sounding
Strewn, beneath the curatives silverish moon
Sirventes tunes, born, within fascinations bloom
These meant to be rhymes, amid Dorothy Gales times
Over somewheres prized amphoric rainbow
Arched imaginations, of fantasias floriferous creations
Breathing their pollinating light, within every breath that they breathe
Escaping the carcinogen caverns through torchbeared passages
Beyond the flesh rent falls and encumbering shawls
Carved crude, these animus meshed jackets
Encased within the chamber once laced
Unto broken bricks of concretes chained
Like Percivals plight....
Unmentioned between the lores, this wondering upon metaphoric shores
While barricaded by the calibrated stone engraved
Until antinomy could devise no more; yet
"If all we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream?"
Scream, and shatter these williwaws window panes
Awakening, beyond their oblique orbs of obscurities, void
To find 'The Holy Grail,' amid incarnadines blinding night
This veil removed, as clarity becomes now focused
Stepping from the shadows of the corners once webbed
Crossing, these sunsoaked sands of sunrises preached
With reaching hands, to touch the braille upon windings trails
Which only led back to the same gruesome pangs
Of a souls once upon a times, bound in maimed
Reading the writings on the wall, as cascading waters broke
The pinnacle of lost, tumbling and crashing to the reef
Belief, of a life breaking free from the dampened day
When faith became submerged beneath the assailant currents of
Hopes castaway possibilities....
Branded into their eyes, by the father of disguise
But no more as the clock struck three, and inversion, began to flee
Awakening from a dream, where nothing, was what it seemed
Dorothy Gales amphoric rainbow, draped upon a cross ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Percivals Promise!?
When farthest fields of tall
grasses are dry and harshly mown.
Then, wildflowers to the wind fall
where beauty had once shown.
Wren and robin in mourning call
with songs of somber tone.
Men who are proud at nightfall,
laugh in haughty baritone.
Penning truths, poets wrap shawls
over spirits who moan.
Again, through the season’s squall,
a poet cries alone.
Glen of glowing words comfort all
on path from birth to stone.
Written 6/30/20
Contest - Triple Rhyme
Sponsor - Beth Evans
In a land torn by evils cruel hands
where innocence once thrived in golden sand
echoes now haunt barren torched lands
of children lost, tears fall in graves of pain
Fourteen thousand souls, too young to know
caught in the crossfire, victims oppressed
their laughter silenced as dreams cut short
in a horror of genocide where all limbs bleed
Babies cradled in arms, so tender and small
now lie cold and lifeless, victims silent in white shawls
their tiny hearts, once filled with hope's embrace
now silenced forever in a merciless disgrace
The army's march such ruthless crimes
leaving devastation in its tide
families torn apart by Israels cruel wand
as they mourn the loss of those they held fond
Oh, may their memory be a solemn vow
strive for peace and harmony, lets end sorrow forever now
for in the wake of such unfathomable hate
lies a plea for humanity to erase this state
Across from this municipality by the bay
I silently stand here
Looking deeply upon the open waters
Currents that make there way
Beyond the moon reflecting tide
The colourful lights....
Stillness drowns, the sounds all around
What a pretty montage, the skyline seems
Before my searching eyes, these images....
Turning inward, toward the depths of my mind
This quietness of floating, through time
With these metal laced wings
Weighing my spirit, to this place!
Caught within a world that I have never belonged....
But oh how it looks so lovely
Such portraits upon the wall
Except for these ones here
In black pearl frames; blank....
Center stage; as they stare back at me
Fireflies with fangs, swarming above the waves
On their way atop the jangled, turbid turquoise sea
Towards the glitter and the dreams
In the nighttime....You stand there?
Until one day you finally find
Reality....
Is but an illusion
Played amid varied and disappearing shells
This flicker of light; this vapor of sight
Beautiful chords of enticing pastel shades
Vanishing behind, a fog shroud mist....
These turning currents; which sweep towards the dissertings despair
With invisible brush strokes; charcoal
Splattered upon this absorbing canvas
The crimson crawl; changelings, like a disease
Clingling shawls....
Turning bright to bitter red
While the concerto plays on, its joyous song
And metal laced wings, fall from me
Beyond the skydome, of tangible tides
As poison basted water lilies....
Beckoned beneath the solidago; smiling
Pointing to all their pretty pictures
Before the fireflies with sharpened fangs
Hung their veils....
Upon the black pearl frames; blank
Chanting their songs, alluringly, to them all
As the splash of fallen things, fell; set my soul free
A new tune to compose, that shall never fade, away
While looking across the panthered purple waves, towards the city
Tides turning from arcane blue, unto another hue
Now rising....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Red Rabbit!?
In pounding Summer, our love is restless,
like daffodil dreams immersed in hot wind.
In the vapor of Winter’s reign, our love rises above,
reaching the glaring mountain’s lips.
If skies cloud red with war, our love exuberates the fight,
two hearts gazing at the wisdom of the sun .
If thunder pangs our heart in static shocks,
our love shawls the sound, refuging the embrace we won.
When the buds of Spring bloom, our love emboldens,
like the yellow petals on a matchless rose.
When Autumn sings its death, our love silvers,
the harvest beckoning our works to fall and resolve.
From the Hour of Languishing to the Day of Settlement,
our love will continue to strengthen.
From season to season I love you always!
My one, my only, my Brightest Star.
Night's silent shadows softly fall
from moonlight's muted, mellow glow,
that shroud the land with sunless shawls
on cold ground glazed with glinting snow.
Tree branches, seen with broader breadths
by shadows that bestow their form,
splayed stark atop the snowy depths;
by wind, they swirl like snaky swarms.
Small bushes sway between the trees
to shadow snow like ghastly ghosts
that dance deceptively to tease
and harrow wary human hosts.
Pure, peaceful pageantry at night;
such lovely landscapes, to be viewed.
But, sometimes shadows strain our sight-
with varied visions misconstrued.
March 27, 2018
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon
Mile 6 Poetry Contest
backside, front slide
whatever celtic profile
drips into the moon's pool
shawls twirl of mirrors unbidden
phrases and alphabets of waters wander
collapsing around the waist of marbles unturned
shelter me with a thousand
embraces from the moon's blankets
the wind torments me with granite whistles
when mother dusk wails for morsels of biblical mercy
this decadent night crawls with exiled breaths. i breathe.
Across from this municipality by the bay
I silently stand here
Looking deeply upon the open waters
Currents that make there way
Beyond the moon reflecting tide
The colourful lights....
Stillness drowns, the sounds all around
What a pretty montage, the skyline seems
Before my searching eyes, these images....
Turning inward, toward the depths of my mind
This quietness of floating, through time
With these metal laced wings
Weighing my spirit, to this place!
Caught within a world that I have never belonged....
But oh how it looks so lovely
Such portraits upon the wall
Except for these ones here
In black pearl frames; blank....
Center stage; as they stare back at me
Fireflies with fangs, swarming above the waves
On their way atop the jangled, turbid turquoise sea
Towards the glitter and the dreams
In the nighttime....You stand there?
Until one day you finally find
Reality....
Is but an illusion
Played amid varied and disappearing shells
This flicker of light; this vapor of sight
Beautiful chords of enticing pastel shades
Vanishing behind, a fog shroud mist....
These turning currents; which sweep towards the dissertings despair
With invisible brush strokes; charcoal
Splattered upon this absorbing canvas
The crimson crawl; changelings, like a disease
Clingling shawls....
Turning bright to bitter red
While the concerto plays on, its joyous song
And metal laced wings, fall from me
Beyond the skydome, of tangible tides
As poison basted water lilies....
Beckoned beneath the solidago; smiling
Pointing to all their pretty pictures
Before the fireflies with sharpened fangs
Hung their veils....
Upon the black pearl frames; blank
Chanting their songs, alluringly, to them all
As the splash of fallen things, fell; set my soul free
A new tune to compose, that shall never fade, away
While looking across the panthered purple waves, towards the city
Tides turning from arcane blue, unto another hue
Now rising....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Red Rabbit!?
Note: This is not aimed at anyone in particular; surely not humanity!
Moonflower with white trumpet-shaped bloom
Dewy emerald leaves surround in nights gloom.
Cased in rich soil beneath a quarter moon.
Planted vines loosely knit—by my bedroom they sit.
Sweet fragrance they emit— to incense I submit.
Stunning tropic morning glories amaze
Sunlight and moonlight upon them gaze.
Phantasmic nightlamps in jade landscape haze.
Night’s primrose, moonglow calls—unveiling enthralls.
Dangling shadowy shawls— glistening waterfalls
Flowery white faint lavender tones loom.
Oh sleepy Moon by day lucidly lit,
Behold twilight’s glimmer on garden’s walls:
Gibbous Moon’s gleam suspending in a daze.
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
You'll soon be here
It's quiet now, all have gone
Last light
softens what was too bright before
the surf kicks a ball
as if to say
come play
with water teasing my toes
I wait here for you
one bird curiously inspects my wheels
tries to tear a worm away
The sky draws purple shawls
slowly waving in the evening wind
I still wait for you
In last fringes of light
I need to save myself
From floods rising fast
in my eyes
I give the ball back to the ocean
***
July 20, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
November is late autumn's prize,
arriving with its last goodbyes,
to usher in cool, crisper days-
perhaps with flakes, or icy glaze-
as trees will shed their golden shawls
to soon don fluffy, snow-white falls.
With time to stay indoors, surmise-
a cozy fire, a book- while eyes
enjoy the autumn's vibrant blaze-
redone from summer's verdant phase-
create a patchwork quilt that sprawls,
neath whirling winds from mini squalls.
Month-end brings time to aggrandize
Thanksgiving Day! We energize
in sharing feasts, with love and praise-
as kin and friends enjoy the craze.
When days run out, next month installs
more holidays- then, New Year calls.
October 29, 2020
Contest: Lay November
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Lay Form: 6-lines per stanza, 8 syllables per line,
rhyming scheme of aabbcc per stanza.
How Many Syllables and Rhyme Zone used
Blooming since temperate days of Fall
fragrant red roses were frozen
wearing sugar shawls of snow
gelid crimson petals
beneath a blanket
of winter white
slumbering
draped in
frost
Laced
flowers
shrouded in
crystalline ice
swaddled the roses
to preserve the beauty
until frost melted to dew
warm in the renaissance season
when nature gently awakens Spring