Best Sheers Poems
Voices choral, chimes of clay ring out
oh so merrily to a wintry sky
And earthen sounds once silent, still, now shout
in harmony and majesty, they cry.
A brightness sheers the air as metal sounds,
long cylinders of brass clink in the breeze
like childish laughter each fresh note abounds
a thankful note the past year to appease.
In churches, mosques and temples they sing
as clappers sound the tone around their rims
forged of metal, or blown in glass, they ring
resounding as the hours of this year dim.
Rejoice, rejoice a New Year has begun
Goodbye they toll and sing here comes the sun.
~
Whispering apricot beams shine upon frilly sheers,
lazy shadows dance in daffodil dawn colors,
pirouettes of pleasured moments,
silently flowing on smooth brush stroke walls
You breathe, softly, the sweetest sonnet,
rhythmically exhaling beneath satin sheets
symphonic…bringing a grin to the sunrise,
blushing clouds hide behind a bashful horizon
Placing a gentle kiss upon rose petal shoulders,
you stir ever so slightly…eyes flutter like chiffon wings
hugging the pillow wistfully, floating within,
cascading between dreams of us
Exploring the mesmerizing curves of your body,
my lips touch warm porcelain skin,
the faintest sigh escapes, a smile appears
as your wispy fingers seek my own
Probing gentle folds, serene recesses of silken slivers
sipping the morn’s perfect elixir, ambrosia,
seeing your eyes wide open now
and falling once more deeply into their hypnotic beauty
Hands fondle my hair, wavy lengths, grasping
tickling heated embraces, melting into the warmth,
maple syrup cravings, sweetened stickiness in
pleasure flavored temptations
Sunshine illumines the room with sparkled effervescence,
writhing deep into the blue sky destinations,
azure visions of springtime promises kept
and green grass wanderings
I rise with you, fall with you…with this perfect time,
mirroring movements in reflective crescendos, rapidly,
as your voice sings my name, feathered pillow melodies,
an ending ovation in hummingbird inspired quivers
And you collapse, tethered breaths, tiny giggles
pulling the sheets tight to your chin playfully
I peer up, cinnamon eyes gleam, twinkle,
rejoicing as brand new day begins…in love
~
It is an unusually cold morning here so
I thought I would repost this and warm
the place up a little. : )
Within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright
shadows twist obsidian trees torment,
the cypress writhe in blood moon’s bright delight.
The hunter hides his nascent lust for might
and so the doe flees by man’s bow unbent,
within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright.
The cypress writhes in blood moon’s bright delight,
bedevil not the finer soul, repent,
the destined deed, must feed, man’s plight.
With deadly skill, fletched shaft sheers frosty night.
The horned hart does fall in wonderment,
within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright.
And torment flows in drops of crimson sight,
distorting right and light with man’s intent.
The cypress writhes in blood moon’s bright delight
Into the holy water blood rings light
for life is all and death is but dissent,
within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright,
the cypress writhes in blood moon’s bright delight.
A tad over three blocks down Merion Lane
on the left is, an idyllic Cape Cod.
I must've passed it a thousand times
my own picturesque, perfect, postcard place
couched in the right light, dappling rays
fresh-painted, white fence, ruby red front door.
Never once did I not try looking in,
a golden kickplate, bright brass knocker ring.
Begging to be seen, this family within
lotsa plain pane windows, no blinds, no sheers.
There it still stands proudly these many years.
In deep snows that had filled front walkways
in warming, romantic, radiated, lustrous light
hearth hues burst through the panes beyond the glass.
One spring, I saw a fine fetching lass run
across this closely manicured front lawn with her
bouncing blonde, long locks, glowing gleefully.
I mused as I passed by half-staring;
we'd marry maybe, wishful pairing!
And have a dreamy storybook Cape Cod too.
That fall, our family moved far away.
But was I not to see her, who's to say?
Still, I remember that house, that dream
I might've married her, my crazy scheme.
Last night it snowed. Drove that road again.
Five years later, that same house was still there.
On the outside, the front door now lime green.
Inside, a fire burns brilliant like before.
I saw this striking blonde while I gawked.
Startled, the green door opens, she walked
across the snowy street, without her coat.
Poised, she stood there and said straight to me,
"Aren't you the boy who used to stare?",
through my window I gush, "Why yes, I am."
She said she'd wondered about me,
even though they'd never known my name.
Star-crossed, my illusion had dreamt back!
Those private affections landed somehow:
illusions can come true, they often do.
Left my car, took her hand, then went inside;
over a cozy cocoa we chatted.
No longer a star from afar - so near.
New worlds would now open for us right here.
Lost love came home to the house down the road.
Written 2/19/21
Dawning Desires
Whispering apricot beams shine upon frilly sheers,
lazy shadows dance in daffodil dawn colors,
pirouettes of pleasured moments,
silently flowing on smooth brush stroke walls
You breathe, softly, the sweetest sonnet,
rhythmically exhaling beneath satin sheets
symphonic…bringing a grin to the sunrise,
blushing clouds hide behind a bashful horizon
Placing a gentle kiss upon rose petal shoulders,
you stir ever so slightly…eyes flutter like chiffon wings
hugging the pillow wistfully, floating within,
cascading between dreams of us
Exploring the mesmerizing curves of your body,
my lips touch warm porcelain skin,
the faintest sigh escapes, a smile appears
as your wispy fingers seek my own
Probing gentle folds, serene recesses of silken slivers
sipping the morn’s perfect elixir, ambrosia,
seeing your eyes wide open now
and falling once more deeply into their hypnotic beauty
Hands fondle my hair, wavy lengths, grasping
tickling heated embraces, melting into the warmth,
maple syrup cravings, sweetened stickiness in
pleasure flavored temptations
Sunshine illumines the room with sparkled effervescence,
writhing deep into the blue sky destinations,
azure visions of springtime promises kept
and green grass wanderings
I rise with you, fall with you…with this perfect time,
mirroring movements in reflective crescendos, rapidly,
as your voice sings my name, feathered pillow melodies,
an ending ovation in hummingbird inspired quivers
And you collapse, tethered breaths, tiny giggles
pulling the sheets tight to your chin playfully
I peer up, cinnamon eyes gleam, twinkle,
rejoicing as brand new day begins…in love
Good morning Soupers
~
here, within the heart’s dreams,
passion gently tugs the strings
between heaven and earth
destined quivers collect
at the corners of reality
when flesh is kissed lightly
and moonbeams through parted sheers
illumine azure eyes pleading
day becomes night
as promises wished for
satisfy in the grasp of your hand
softly caressing senses,
wallowing in the seductive scent
where warmth on a cold autumn eve
neath woolen sheets
and down feather whispers
melts upon longing lips
as wandering fingertips trace
moistened folds, chenille glistened curves,
silhouettes of desire
amidst silken sighs echoing
and eternity is more than
measured time,
but ingrained in the moments
spent as one
in the arms of love
~
The children that played
On the stairwell that night
Were giggling and laughing
At their little friend’s fright
For while they were jumping
And playing on beds
She walked down the stairwell
Alone; then she fled.
She knew that she heard it.
The sound was quite clear.
Only she on the stairs
Along with her fears –
No one believed her.
They laughed; and she sighed.
Then, ran to their mother.
And told her wide-eyed.
The mother said softly.
There’s no need to fear.
The ghosts in this house
Are not real, little dear.
When at last she was calm
And went back up to play.
The children were ready
There were pranks on that day.
Upstairs in their bedroom
The lamplight was on
The window was open.
The breezes wafted by.
A Barbie doll taped
In the lamp by her hips –
The other girls giggled
Each one smirked tight-lipped.
When back with the others
They were jumping on beds.
Soon huddled together,
They pointed with dread.
The curtains were moving.
Subtle puffs of the wind.
Shadows on sheers swaying,
“We saw a ghost, there!”
She swore as she screamed,
I’ll never come back!”
“This place is haunted
And that is a fact.
No adult reassuring
Could undo her fright.
She stayed awake and watched
To the other girls’ delight –
When the party was over,
The children went home.
The others still laughing
About the joke of the night –
It was three years later
In the darkness of night,
I walked down the steps
And had the same fright!
Shhhhh!
Happy Halloween.
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
October 24, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest Ghost Stories
Sponsor Kelly Deschler
My greatest inspiration comes
in the darkest of rooms.
My bedroom holds no lamps,
my windows covered with shades-
Fear not…
for I am content when
the sun descends and the
twilight rises.
The beauty of my opacity resides inside
the meaning of my existence.
I was born at three a.m.-
in complete murky darkness.
There’s elegance in the dim-
There’s clarity in the loss
of light.
It’s cold,
yet warm when I enter the shadows.
It’s noisy,
yet quiet in my head as I wallow in
what some may call prison,
but not me, I call it my fortress.
I find myself in darkness,
for the light bears no witness to
my shame-
I hold the fear of a fallen angel,
and yet…
the darkness rises above
to relieve the pain of an ignited kindle.
Shroud me in sheers and shield me
from daybreak-
Lightheartedness shines
when darkness radiates-
Euphoria prevails
when shades of black beam.
Dusk instead of dawn,
black instead of white-
Blind instead of perception,
Darkness instead of light.
March 18, 2017
Wet skies
Grey dawn
Blankets the coast.
Black rocks
Sea foam
Triggers the most
Atlantic applause,
An encore to those
Just hearty enough
To make a life on The Rock.
And to answer the call,
Between stone cracks,
Moss roots,
And squalls,
A garden was planted
Where nothing
Had grown
Before.
Before...
Before the Gardener came
The coast was a love-lettered painting,
A bouquet to the sun,
Orange, red, and yellow flattery
Through living imitation.
"Seek ye first the kingdom of God,"
Said the sign
On the gate
At the edge of St Johns.
"But I think I've finally found it,"
Said the man
Creeping silent
With his too sharp sheers
Cutting flowers
Uninvited. -
- Everyone's front lawn
A memory
Of what united
Them for two score years.
Bloody hands dropping pedals on his way to the shore,
"Don't worry," said the man,
"I don't want to come back,
With any luck," he said again,
"I think this should be enough."
As he placed in the arrangement
A note that read,
"Je suis
Désolé.
Bitte fragen Sie nicht
Für mehr."
100 years ago, July 1st, 1916, the entire Newfoundland and Labrador regiment was killed at Beaumont-Hamel, during the Battle of the Somme in World War I. Of 780, only 68 reported for roll-call the next day.
After 40 some years of having no military of their own, they had mustered up a unit of volunteers to support the war effort. 90% of them never made it through their first engagement.
Canada Day isn't just about celebrating.
THE SACRED GARDEN
The hearts love, is the tenderest of mercy's,
Delicate petals of emotion, a rose blossom
Of sheer beauties distinction.
That grows within the inner being, deeply
Rooted in our most sacred garden, of
Pleasures secret desires.
Vines woven intricately, weaving a thick
Tapestry, of the evergreen leaves of texture, giving
A depth of feeling to the creative soul,
Whom dwells within the artist.
Nurtured by inspiration, it's lights warmth,
Feeding the poetic inward drive to thrive,
And grow beyond the lotus structure,
Called the human body.
A pondering mind seeking to reach
Outwardly, to touch the moon and stars,
In the heaven's above.
Oh to cut freely away from my tethers,
The tangled vines of life I've weaved,
To be set free, to float away as a seed onto
A distant breeze, landing in a new pastures
Flowering bed.
But nay, I am but a mortal rose, and life
Can be cut short by the twisting sheers of fate.
Lingering thus my words reach out, as legacy's
Inheritance, my forget-me-knots, for future
Generations to come.
In this my most sacred garden, my words of
Emotions shall live on for them, my youthful children,
The true physical sprouts of my life's labors.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love (hubby) sent to me
12 baskets of laundry
Eleven dishwashing liquids
Ten laundry soaps
Nine vacuum cleaners
Ten frying pans
Nine oven toasters
Eight soft brooms
Seven kitchen aprons
Six sheers for mowing
Five hair netsssssssssss
Four dustpans
Three floor scrubs
Two rubber gloves
And a pretty nanny for my baby
Dec. 14, 2012
By Leonora Galinta Merry, Merry Christmas to All! Please sing with me;))
First Prize
Contest: 12 days of X-mass
Judged: 12/25/2012
Sponsor: My greatest Poet, PD/Linda
KITTY LITTER
Kittens tumble to and fro,
From room to room, just watch them go.
Attack the curtains at first light,
The sheers put up a mighty fight.
Ninja kitties, assassins four,
Quietly steal across the floor,
Suddenly, quick as a flash,
They charge the loo in one mad dash.
The toilet paper is their goal,
In a furious fight they subdue the roll.
Entering I can't adjure,
They've made the bathroom all secure,
From things that lurk within the folds,
Hiding in the tissue rolls.
Four furry warriors, undisputed,
Whose courage cannot be refuted,
Patrol the house in search of that,
Which could cause harm to ken or cat.
What would I do without this troop,
You must admit, they're just too cute.
Judy Ball
(There's nothing cuter than a litter of kittens)
I sit here at two in the morning
with pencil in hand
for the poem I am penning.
The lights are low
save the one on my desk.
In the ashtray
a cigarette is burning.
Gentle spring breezes blow
cool but not cold
wafting scents
of a lawn freshly mowed.
The sheers at the french doors
billow and dance
as the wind puffs and blows.
In the background
the music softly plays,
cascades and flows.
A clarinet, violin, french horn,
and now an oboe
fill my ears
as the fire in the fire place burns low.
Smells of the cookies I baked
nearly an hour ago
still linger and mingle
in and about each nook of the room.
The Jack Russel at my feet
lightly snores
as the cat stretches and circles
for a nap on the hearth floor.
For my public,
what shall I write for them?
What is in store?
Then Bam
a book falls to the floor
and I am jolted from my nap of dreams.
You see
nothing is always quite
what it seems !!
This poem is part of a series including Sunset Reverie, An Evening by The Lake,
Days End, On Comes The Night and Tiny White Canoe
Time slips away
In a brisk flow,
Ooze of nine days
Where writes don't show.
A spinal pain
From a wound old,
Comes yet again
As hurt unfolds.
A pain so deep
As backache sheers,
To disturb sleep
In moments clear.
A fatal step
In awkward turn,
Can set pain trap
In jerky churn.
So much pain hurls
In spinal cord,
A stabbing curl
In sure record.
TCM touch
Has brought healing,
Body as such
With heart willing.
The cure is slow
As trunk repairs,
Day by day grow
A health gains flair.
Time wears a poise
Where mind finds peace,
By profound choice
A new-found ease.
Words now come round
To tell most brief,
Healing now grounds
A silent grief.
Pain travels well
In body whole,
For hurts can tell
Of spacious soul.
Here by this chair
In posture firm,
I sit with flair
As words affirm.
Leon Enriquez
14 October 2018
Singapore
(Note: TCM means Traditional Chinese Medicine
which includes acupuncture, heat treatment, and
bone-setting alignment, as well as herbal medicine
and herbal plaster to alleviate pain and enhance
healing of body injury such as spinal bone and
muscle or ligament injury or misalignment.)