Best Sheens Poems
Our Midnight The Unseen Within
( Collaboration )
Silent unto our sense, yet musical
With eternal harmony, they move
About our darkened vision, the beautiful ones,
Angels of destiny.
Pale with the dawn, sun-golden with the noontide,
They mingle with our moments;
There is no sadness that they do not share,
No night they are not near.
Even as flowers that scent the roving winds
With fragrant incantations, - flowers unseen,
That loose the largess of their beauteous dreams,
Even so are they.
Bequeathing endlessly for our delight
The gifts we spurn, the secret revelations
Would make us in our needless misery
True kindred of the Soul,-
A holy kiss to marry us with light,
These sheens where cherubins loose their waxxen wings;
Shear the shadows where fear is oft found,
And quell doubt like a startled imposter
A righteous device to lead us home.....
A wanton wind to soothe the wayward ails;
A flame-cold but bright to illume every wan,
We sleep unbeguiled, where angels tread
What secret shadows skulk to maim?
Strip our bones to sudden death?
Move they winnowed and tarried -----
Helpless to the winged, swift eye
A keepsake (say many) beat of feather;
Hope gives us peace in those hallowed hills,
Where the angels sing like larks and cry a tear of love:
(Our midnight)
Robert J. Lindley and Keith O.J. Hunt,
2-21-2016
Note:
First 16 verses written by Robert Lindley
Remaining 16 verses 16 written by Keith O.J. Hunt
Into this night for my love I went,
for all its splendor and lush wines,
and majestic tapestries that unfold;
velvet sheens, sheets soft with each other...
the world is lost to her heart held near,
and the breath of her curious kisses...
It is this moon silver-rayed I pledge ---
without her I cannot walk this world naked,
raped of who I am ---
but a thing to serve her,
lest I roam this desolate landscape as a prodding ghost;
a great fever of torrid emptiness...
what is this which grips me?
an ancient enemy ---
but my friend it bestows a fearful kiss;
between the twain I cannot choose...
Do I trust to give this heart of mine,
into an untrustful night?
To lay all that I am at her feet? ---
what a fragile flower my heart does sing ---
wondrous things,
though wild I do not know ---
that which I love,
fruitless ---
I am less a thing than love,
but does my heart tell me so?
She ---
the greatest good,
for it is without mine own love,
she does give;
that which none shall fulfill,
I tear into this night,
and its dark ---
fearful of being unafraid,
will it stay my doubt ---
my heart for her to hold?
Into this night for my love I went,
what comes, I do not know,
what prevails in thine song of love for me ---
for you my love I go,
even unto the shadow of things
(I need you so)
what comes I do not know,
Into this night for my love I went...
Twisting and turning on tides of laughter,
we rise and roll with wild abandon.
Through sparkling sheens of summer rain,
those gentle gems of glistening, gleaming drops,
we fly freely upon this flamingo feathered carpet.
Happily we ride along the heights of heaven,
Gazing deep into galaxies that glow far beyond.
Saturn's seductive rings slowly pull us forward,
When suddenly we drop, diving low, dipping back into
the darling glow of our moon.
Then sweeping past the stars, smiling with delight,
we sail off in the distance, shouting our goodnight.
Now all the sights that we've seen shall swim within our dreams.
Come take my hand as I take yours and we'll fly off toward tomorrow.
Tanya Harrington © 07-30-2012
Inviting ~ Poet~Destroyer, Let's ride!
For Skat's Magic Carpet Ride Contest
All round the ring of Kerry’s highways, people point and cry
It’s 4 o’clock on the very dot and Mick’s rig is passing by,
It has glistening sheens of yellow, with cinnabar spots in red
Rich lozenges of orange complete the livery, as this butterfly forges ahead!
She’s kissing those dew damp breezes, on a morn like an Irish dream
As the sun’s rays like golden spokes
Steal silently; through oaks of emerald green.
lighting up a meadow’s buttercups, that border a hillside stream.
She hauls her load of butter, fresh from the herds of ‘Kerry’s spreads’
To sweeten the taste of a million slices, of European bread!
She’s making good time this morning in passing the various towns,
By 9 am she makes Letterkenny, to lay her cargo down.
Mick checks his trusty wristwatch
He needs to be back in Clonakilty; to make a special call
For by, begosh and begorrah ‘tis Father’s Day ‘n all. and
His sweet Molly will be waiting there, by an ancient rock built wall!
So he spins the painted lady round, to take the south west route,
Tooting to folks he recognises; as along that road he shoots.
At 1 o’clock he’s made it back, and parks the painted lady up
He wanders up the dusty track; just a Dad in working gear
Straightening an aching back, now his destination’s near
He searches the milling kids all around, many colours their faces show
And then he picks out his Molly. as those raven curls she throws!
She runs to greet him at his call, raising her face to be kissed
And she had chosen a painted lady, sure.. He felt how he had been missed!
He swings Molly up on high and they head back to the farm
She showers him with sweet butterfly kisses
As rabbles of the creatures unravel, in clouds and colours of charm!
NB the Painted Lady is an Irish species of Butterfly
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
Linda the queen of Winda is in the swing of moods
She keeps the little dove on swing, on her eggs she broods
Little dove gives her a letter
God has written “you’re go-getter"
And soon you'll be better “the dove's eggs are your dudes"
The weeny dove goes to the queen with the full of beans
Eggs are brattling love is crackling and the dance begins
Dovelets jump to the queen's lap
Sweet queen Linda, you’re not in trap"
"Snow is melting; God is pelting love at your sheens"
Queen of Winda, sweetest Linda sits on a satin
In the light of candle her tresses glisten in preen
Dovelets dance around Linda
And Maramba and Bellinda
With a kinda smell of river Linda goes to teen
Contest: Fighting Depression(poems for PD)
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
03rd December,2014
AFFIRMATION
WE ARE PRAYING FOR LINDA.ALL ARE PRAYING FOR LINDA.PRAYER HAS CONCENTRATED POWER. THE PRAYER WILL MAKE LINDA OKAY.WE ALL LOVE LINDA. LINDA IS LOVE. MAY GOD GIVE HER INNER PEACE. SANTIH SANTIH SANTIH
Art Gallery. Museum. Parks. Zoo.
Cultural Events.
Glazed like raku pottery
In charcoal rainbows warbled all dark
On pidgeon necks
Like hell’s angels, dumbed,
Blowing smoke through your mind
In a haze of dreams
The city is made of a giant fractal wart
On a witch’s cheeks there’s blush.
Movies. Games. Bars. Clubs.
Cultural Events.
Maybe she’s singing a hymn
With forked tongue
The green fires burning gold and money
Into the skies pitch red
Flirting and skirting sale-priced
Fashion iconography. Architecture
Sophisticating the simple desires.
You’re lost.
Foreclosure. Lawsuit. Divorce.
Cultural Events.
Emblazoned with some valor
Flags of the dead days
Killed like a haiku short-lived
Plopped one by one
Your teeth fell.
Bankruptcy. Fired. Laid off.
Cultural Events.
Brightly darkly the shiny sheens
Of sweat they bubbled in blood red and iron
In that champagne of success
Guilt. Acne. Alcohol. Headache.
Cultural Events.
The feather dust flies and the smell of tar
Rubber in your face
We have drug solutions for your
Unhappiness.
Cancer. HIV. Vaccines. Death.
Cultural Events.
Beer gardens, beer babies, beer bellies,
Beds, homes, and wined babes
Pretty victims and voices they make
Cultural Events.
The city life careened my poetry
Towards those
Crazy wronged right fools
Still swimming the street in search
Furtive, arms afire just fighting
Firing, fleeing into those chains.
Claims. Refrains. Drowned Voices.
Cultural Events.
Silent unto our sense, yet musical
With eternal harmony, they move
About our darkened vision, the beautiful ones,
Angels of destiny.
Pale with the dawn, sun-golden with the noontide,
They mingle with our moments;
There is no sadness that they do not share,
No night they are not near.
Even as flowers that scent the roving winds
With fragrant incantations, - flowers unseen,
That loose the largess of their beauteous dreams,
Even so are they.
Bequeathing endlessly for our delight
The gifts we spurn, the secret revelations
Would make us in our needless misery
True kindred of the Soul,-
A holy kiss to marry us with light,
These sheens where cherubins loose their waxxen wings;
Shear the shadows where fear is oft found,
And quell doubt like a startled imposter
A righteous device to lead us home.....
A wanton wind to soothe the wayward ails;
A flame-cold but bright to illume every wan,
We sleep unbeguiled, where angels tread
What secret shadows skulk to maim?
Strip our bones to sudden death?
Move they winnowed and tarried -----
Helpless to the winged, swift eye
A keepsake (say many) beat of feather;
Hope gives us peace in those hallowed hills,
Where the angels sing like larks and cry a tear of love:
(Our midnight)
First 16 lines written by Robert Lindley
Last 16 by Keith O.J. Hunt
Cotton candy pinks and marshmallow whites
flaunt iridescent sheens buffed by the sun.
And colored clouds, lined with mother-of-pearl,
hang in the sky like a prize fairly won.
Darkness gathers in tattered strands of grey,
strewn across a sky of indigo blue.
And stars glitter as a dying sun shrinks
to a crimson ball with a scarlet hue.
Ebony fingers scratch at the skyline;
like inky tentacles grasping for light.
And as camouflaged greens morph into black;
silhouetted abstracts merge in the night.
Liquid amber burns atop umber waves,
highlighting their frothy, foamy whitecaps.
And golden beams gild glistening waters;
as cascading breakers crash and collapse.
Playful breezes tickle leaves on the trees;
sending laughter tumbling down to the sand.
And as Sol dies wrapped in a scarlet shroud,
time's suspended and reality's banned.
I sit with my feet touching the water
fascinated by a playful otter
near the river's edge, amid evergreens,
rolling along the sapphire surface sheens.
Swimming up and down propelling itself
enlightening up on a bare rock shelf.
Scattered green dwarf saplings I sit and spy
capricious. Once again and it's good-bye.
A breath, filled with, bluebells, lavender bell
blooms bright and lovely, I linger a spell.
Pink and white dance across, and hint of breeze
Plethora of weeds, brown moss grasps the trees.
I dream of pixies, and fairies behind
wild spray of tall dandelions, I'd find.
9/17/2023
I watch her in the sky shining like a diamond chit
splashing her light around in the midnight sombre
she is more beautiful then all other things that orbit
this star, she's an insight to our inner world order
and a heartbeat pulse, I've never known to quit
Watch how she tails her glow above your head
reminding you of halos, sunrises and auric sheens
She's a polished scintillant, never to be misread
a navigator in full throttle a beauteous inbred
even Captains of the sea want her on their team
I remember when I was little me and my daddy
In the backdrop of summer, standing on a balcony
He pointed a finger and taught me about star poetry
I never could have met STARS without his guiding light
So when he died, I quietly sent him out into the night.
3/19/2020
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
"Colorful language is the best way to recreate the incident as it happened and to picture it for the audience". Dale Carnegie
______________________________________________________________
O, colors, enthrall us through their splendor
Infuse the mundane world with vivid shades
Dazzle with hues and send a melody so tender,
No harp plays a role in tunes or serenades.
Lush velvet stains lips and hands with blackberry
Ripe grapes drenched in bright, blithesome lands
A colorful kaleidoscope lies in a flower vase—airy,
A sparkle that imbues the shadows and expands.
Olive and amber—ripening akin to wheat,
Grating upon nerves, a symphony so sweet
I love color, from flaming reds to vivid greens.
Royals flaunt purple, a sight that sheens.
Flaming reds and vivid greens—I adore
Royal flaunting purples, I simply can't ignore.
If I were the color blue, I would sing a halcyon song.
Leave you frantic—recalling your youth for days long.
I hold my breath as sapphire skies spread.
Vast quietude, serene—filling my head
Rainbows, prisms—tinsel glitter galore,
A wheat harvest of yellow—a sight to adore
Ripples and runs—floats and flies,
Subtle shades and sheen, colors that mesmerize.
Crimson and azure—glowing with grace,
The purity of white is a vague oasis to embrace.
A streak of gray brought heaven to earth
Crackled turquoise, vivid glow of calm sea worth,
As a slow hawk stoops—prey in the deep,
The sunflower droops; a lazy wave creeps.
The wind sleeps—swirling in dazzling links,
And loops, creating a symphony that never sinks
The crickets chime their pauseless rhyme,
And the colors run—toward the sun climb.
Before the wind feet, in the wheat, they stun.
The green of elms—a sage discourse troll,
Hemlock green, oaks, and juniper trees spun,
A color symphony, one actor—this world scrolls,
A never-ending show of beauty and poetry.
Crafting a lasting metaphor of beat and symmetry
A magnificent show of shadows and brightness.
O, hues, how you seduce my air with lightness.
He knows
how to see the dancing atoms
of invisibility, how
to look through unlit windows,
as if he were light gazing in.
Sometimes his deceased wife
will open a cupboard
or wardrobe door,
a faint light sheens
as if a window
had opened in his mind.
He doesn’t know what this means.
His hands seem guided
to find what must be found.
She puts worn socks
in the wash basket while he sleeps.
Industrialization,
Urbanization;
Metallic sheens overtake
glossy greens
as acrid smoke
chokes the land.
All would seem lost,
but there is hope.
Vast floods drown cemented corruption,
earthquakes crumble the foundation of greed,
wildfires blaze through the gates of moral slavery.
Though she may be down,
she's not out.
Mother Nature is reclaiming her land,
and this time,
she won't be stopped.