Best Sheeted Poems
Beautiful Mystery (English Sonnet)
I heard the roaring from amongst the trees
as sheeted water tumbled from up high
a place where nature lay in blissful peace
exhaling fragrant breaths that gratify
a soul that yearns for stimulative balm.
I looked in silence, daring not to move
at risk of losing empyreal calm.
Who could such wonder dare to disapprove!
Engrossed in rapture I became aware
of a nymph’s presence, by her dulcet voice.
She sang of freedom and of love to share,
but being human I had not a choice
to come into the open and declare
my heartfelt feelings to a maid so fair!
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A Beautiful Mystery Contest
Hosted by John Hamilton
Chosen p.o.t.d. 27 Sept 2018
© 25th September 2018
Savage whims of winter
that bring freezing rain
unrestrained
in a sky re-grouping
flaired forceful with the cold
Ice coated, leaf-less trees that bend
like old men over their canes
Trees from an underworld,
frigid
brutally hobbled by their rich, new coating
Maple trees,
heavy
that seem to weep with worry
Glaze baked into branches that gleam
in sober sunlight
like a church lit by candles
Ice that flickers with sorrow and beauty
a crystal knave
inviting awe and repulsion
for sheeted frost that veils the landscape
Refracted light,
glistening
to fill the cramped chill of winter
Still life stiffened that crackles and hisses
when the wind blows
An icy, lush world that loiters in our minds,
stealthily
to shimmer in our slumber
Poem composed: December 17, 2020
The city streets are littered with sodden remnants of fall,
a chilling wind moans low between brick walls;
my vacant arms enfold my shivering form
to shield a heart grown weary of the storm.
There is a melancholy feeling to damp leaves upon the way
as though some precious spirit has packed and moved away.
The sidewalk's sheeted puddles reflect the faces that I love
peering through the golden ramparts in God's city up above.
I bend beneath the streetlamp where my face with theirs' will blend
remembering us together the way it will be in the end.
Copyright, November 12, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
angst, body, cry, hurt, imagery, insect, war,
DODOITSU
(A MOSQUITO'S LAMENT)
THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB ©
This sacrificial lamb starts
An aggressive night ensues
Mosquito’s ‘ding’ clarifies
Dinner is almost served!
TAKE COVER! ©
I’m a prisoner trenched down
Under cover of ‘sheeted' white
Less the incoming wine made
Mosquitoes blood bath!
DON’T SCRATCH! ©
Never scratch mosquito bites
Her taste that got me to itch
Her siren call wined the night long
But her bite remains!
THE ‘VAMP’ COMES WOOING! ©
Her ‘vamp’s’ lick plagues me still
She has sucked me dry of blood
I was her menu this night
***** left me an itch!
I AM HER MARK! ©
The insanity of her wine
A war siren at best call
Warns me she is to strike again
She needs to feed to feed young
And I am her mark!
INVASION ‘BITES’ ©
Summers heat holds cries for ‘arms’
Mosquito’s invasion scores
Her sacrificial lambs are’ feed’
Blood she craves for youngsters
Gives them tastes for more!
OH THAT ITCHES! ©
Her mark is dotted on the spot
Her small wounds itch to be scratched
This ‘calling-card’ of her bites
Her return for blood is made
Her young will need feed!
TAKE COVER! ©
Midnight swarms with bloody fare
Sirens are set to wine and worn
Attacks are brutal and stun
No matter what order taken
Bug spray, slaps, or cover!
A SIREN’S WARNINGS!’ ©
Attacks overhead strikes a bite
Spent siren wines forewarning
That gains a mosquitoes’ win
Its advantage strike!
MOSQUITO ANGST ©
It takes the metal out of fight
When over taken by tiny mites
Commandeering from overhead
With intolerable sirens
Before the attack!
It's the midnight dance, last call before the lights go out and the harvest moon glows brightly in the darkness. The room is full with partners sweeping close, hand in hand, floating liltly across the floor, snug and tightly wrapped in each others arms, lips upon their necks. Eyes drift up slow gorged yet wanting then frantic, eyeing every masked face searching for another partner.
Witches grin,
envied green flowing into the arms of passion burned red devils.
Pumpkins glow,
with eerie lanterns waltzing with the Headless Horseman's horse.
Pale ghostly sheeted ethereal spectres,
gently clasp skeletal fingers with dainty delicacy.
Superman tingles the webbing of Spiderman,
with Wonder Woman caught between them.
Batman scowls
at Robin's teenage angst closeted tights.
Scary menacing clowns
throw punches at pocked faced zombies.
A frail wall flower pretty in soft and elegant pink
into the arms of the muscular strong Huntsman.
A piano player plucks the keys in black and white
as the debutante swoons, falling graceful into his arms
and the dance comes to an end.
Somewhere in eastern Oregon
at the top of a long hill
I came upon a sea of golden grain.
The sun was just right
and a whisper of a breeze
made mock flames of the waving grain.
This sea had no end,
it appeared to climb the horizon--
a tidal wave to an ethereal shore.
The sky was a blue I never knew,
and the air seemed mine alone.
I knew i was previewing paradise.
I lingered to lengthen the moment
buoyed by this landlocked sea.
I saw it ages ago, but it is alive and free.
In reverie, the grain is still sheeted gold,
a breeze still fashions the grains as flames,
and the sea yet ascends the horizon.
The scene forever changes me.
The Wind howls and the rain pours onto the Perspex sheeted roof
The rain seems to be chasing me as if trying to find proof
Proof that this day has finally arrived with no escape route in sight
My life, My family, All under the heavy and bright spotlight
The last few days have been tough and sometimes grim
Sometimes it feels like I am drowning and unable to swim
Your breath ripped away by the tide which is fueled by gods wrath
How can life be so cruel, is our god we speak about a sociopath!
Its then I remembered why we are all standing there in the wet!
The memories are strong, good and I will never forget
The world suddenly seems brighter, no escape route needed
The seas are calm and gods wrath soon becomes unheeded
The final march of your blessed life is today
I have all been lucky to have been involved in your hysterical horseplay
Stories of you playing football as a child to the one with the tractor tyre,
You and your friends up the mountain pretending to be guns for hire
Yes, the rain will fall today and on future days and the seas will rise
But these found memories of my bampi will help me survive
My last gift to you bamp, is to make sure you get to the church on time
And for us all to support your wife, my nan, as she begins the steep climb
Brian Strand - 'STANDARD NO 120,ANY FORM,ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 20 lines' Poetry Contest
She thought of herself as Dorothy
tornadoed into an unknowable oblivion
winded she rises,
fetal curled about an umbilicus of she
a shattered reality lays before her.
Shards of past self's pirouette, prisms
released from the boxed frame of sash
and nested frame of sill,
she rises.
The crisp whiteness of a slip sheeted reality
anesthetizes the tumult of pillows
and comforters left behind
she is trampolined upward
but blown inward,
no out lay.
Unpierced by cut glass
chin tucked, bookless, fairy groomed,
the she child exists within the blink
a flash frozen riser.
The sun rose slowly over the horizon and fell,
We are the giant of Africa,
Relying on the neighboring and international dwarfs for economic and socio-political development,
A situation for the angels to weep over.
Corruption, marginalization, favoritism, nepotism and insecurity hung like wet blankets,
Families are crying, children are dying,
The government remained silent as the sheeted dead,
A total impression sickeningly pathetic.
All that's beautiful drifted away like the waters running downhill,
No one is talking about poverty eradication and youth empowerment,
The valorous activists that once voiced out where assassinated,
The gutty and lettered are currently on the run.
Anxiety and uncertainty hung like a dark impenetrable cloud,
The only people feeding fine are those who can lie and steal,
Religious groups, correctional agencies and the leaders have lost their worth.
We are doomed.
All our thoughts, hope and future are running into tears like sunshine into rain.
Our lovely mothers are now competing with whores on the streets,
Just to make money to support our visionary, jobless and hopeless fathers,
The youths have resorted to crimes for survival,
Our citizenship has turned to a curse in broad daylight.
Choked by a rising paroxysm of rage,
We advocate for a revolution.
The rubber soles of my sneakers scrape along the sidewalk
as I go down the streets of my small hometown
with only a flashlight and the dim streetlights to illuminate the darkness
I walk my way through piles of scattered dead leaves
jack o' lanterns smile brightly as they sit in window sills
hanging in trees, white sheeted ghosts are stirred by the chilly night wind
paper cut-outs of black cats, witches, and jointed skeletons decorate doors
my vision is distorted by the eye holes of my mask
I can see just enough to find my way to a house
my sneakers thump up the wooden porch steps
with a cold hand I reach out to knock or ring the door bell
I say those three words which earns me my first treat of the evening
no harm done, you will get no tricks or mischief from me
then it is on to the next house and the next welcoming porch light
as Halloween night nears it's end, my bag of treats starts to feel heavy
my feet are tired and sore, yet there are still a few more houses to go....
I hope I can relive these sweet memories someday, with my own children.
A floral blanket of silence
Lies out across the desert
Nothing moves-not air
Nor trees
Nor blades of grass
The ogre’s breath is held
Suspended, then expelled
Stomping his feet,
Flashing his eyes,
Grumbling, the ogre
Blows
And, grumbling, cries
Fat sheeted tears –
Trees quickly bow
Shaken green heads as
The silent blanket erupts
In oceanic waves
Of startled grasshopper minions
Crimsworth Dene
Light relieved land stamped down and raised mounds and hidden folds, revealed the valley’s follies, farms and sunken rivers.
The bright afternoon eye-level sun painted radiance on the dead leaves’ shimmer, rainbowed the waterfall’s joyful spray, and drew eyemotes floating into dancing stars against the sheeted blue.
Outward away past the framed horizon, the sillhouetted church, the tiny Pike, crepuscular shafts healed the broken air and the shining clouds glowed.
The ancient ruin of a farmhouse still holds the ghosts of lovers that once longed across the valley’s gape, forbidden to cross. They rest somewhere near, whilst their dreams still fall towards the river where today, the clough throws its soul-drops over Lumb Falls. Follow the water, and the stream for an instant, becomes brief despariing citizens of the beck hurling themselves, flying and dying to join the river-republic of the hereafter and tumble on ecstatic to the sea.
The central beam, the backbone of the farm, cracked and snapped one day and still rests piercing the floor, now boggy grass. Where the foxgloves towerin early summer, the moss has taken over the lease and the sheep shelter in what is left of the larder and the parlour. Somewhere under the boulders, the bedroom continues to rot , and where their passion lived, the sun now lures weeds towards itself, rising and falling through the centuries.
Castles surpass fireballs of the sky
Where I forge through thought and pen, I the hermit writer
To fool the giant and steal the golden goose
As I carve and climb into my comfort of ivory tower
Passion masquerading obsessions counterfeit to wisdoms of this mind
Suicidal arrogance blind, tools to craft this lofty throne
And thus to sit, script and ponder
A poet, wig and gavel judging all alone
What need have I for these pathetic emotions to feel, suffer or love
Master of the dominions in this cosmos, creations but a will
Bestow my talents and splash them with quill upon the whites
And thou heapest praises, green confetti falls into the tills
And thou dost laugh out loud labeling insane, while others shed tear to my uni-verse
Unlike thee I travel the worlds, magical lands from this royal stool
Where does thou journey, fom wretched job then back into own
While I meet kings, queens and fight wild beasts, dear sir now who is the fool
‘Tis this justification of my solitary jurisdiction
That I be sole author of my exaggerated worlds and exalted words that I to, begin to
believe that I am above those beneath
More than a human being, a god perhaps, or do I drape myself within regarding titles, afraid
To discover I may be a shrinking violet underneath, a piece of moss or a speckled toadstool nestled
somewhere lost, high above within a tree
I leave thee to ponder this decision, of who I am or who I may be
As for me I shall continue to write and parade these words as well as entertain
The pedestal, 'tis not so bad with meager companionship of my trusting pen, transforming
this lonely spirit through ink onto sheeted realms.
Thus if through recital or reception of the read, thy spirit wanders lost then all of
this, the life of mine has never once, been in vain
Dedicated to all maddening poets
Found It Hard To Believe
Backs of others Trump liked to stroke
Sold us down river when we went broke
Went down an avenue to play in a park
Supporters were eaten by a loan shark.
With himself hard time trying to grapple
Said people in Phiadelphia who ate scrapple
Were found drowned in a swimming pool
Which was all full of mush loose stool.
Local loser supporters gathered around
To hear New York accent an awful sound
King Kong was seen on Trump Tower
Wanted his picture taken by Matt Lauer.
(Also, we heard that Trump went bonkers;
Tower must be transferred to Younkers.)
Trump liked his food served localized
Fell on floor and server was severely criticized;
Trump as usual really had been bluffing;
Us with turkey crap he started stuffing.
We finally arrived at rear end of story
His blood and guts were in their glory
From superfluous sinful stories he told;
Were so many blamed them on Manifold.
How do you fold up a manifold sin
without being short sheeted? Good
question.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Proverbial Retired Veteran and Poet
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
To the Invisible Friend
The dredging decades have floated by like drifting clouds in the beckoning western sky.
Hello dead friend of my distant youthful days under these erotic jacaranda blooms.
It is my firm hope that you are satisfied and settled inside your deep and cozy earthen confines.
We spent months hours and minutes tangled together in a passing parade of exquisite time.
We ate a plethora of flailing foods together inside the old quaint cafes in busy Uptown.
We talked unceasingly under whirring ceiling fans in the yellow eating breakfast rooms.
You and I drove in suspended romantic time down the Harbor lanes at prying midnight.
You pressed your tresses and closed your eyes upon my shoulder into the late kissing night.
What has happened to your young voice and your shy waves to me from the darkened distances?
We have moved away from each other in decades gone by like skiffs in a crescent watery breezeway.
We have left behind a thousand inter crossings and a hundred by crossings with suspended ecstasies.
So sorry that had to happen to you that morning in October when the sky hi jacked your future days.
Look to the west behind these eucalyptus trees that now cast long August shadows at twilight.
Look to the blue-laced north now and rest your tilted head upon my shoulder as it leans westward.
Sorry you’re dead now as you sleep in your grassy bed of jealous roses and wailing wisteria.
Sorry I had to see your white-sheeted body on the evening news lying there amidst the tragic landscape.
But now dear dead ghost whose faraway voice I can still hear even now from talks in the old evenings.
Did we not take long strolls on old cracked sidewalks under a curious canopy of jacaranda blooms?
Did we not seek and grasp great silver moments in the green-drenched darkness of hot skin and tears?
You and I know of those secret dances with the music turned down low in the swallowing darkness.
You and I remember the long floating ride down the deserted boulevard at prowling midnight.
We were irresistibly falling in love with the idea that this sensual drama in the dark would never end.
Goodbye dear dead friend of my distant youthful days under these erotic jacaranda blooms.
It is my firm and final hope that we’ll meet again outside your deep and cozy earthen confines.