Best Shimmying Poems
“and the birds twitter like whispering violins”
Quote by – Constance La France
Whiffs of fragrant breeze propagate tranquility
Kissing delicate roses, blushing amber beauty,
Rustling leaves of willows, as if tenor of music,
Swaying blades of grass shimmying moods of winds,
Sounding lyrics esoteric echoing voice of spring;
Humming softly to rhythms of dancing daffodils,
Quivering golden rays peeking through trees,
Burbling on rivers, rippling giggling tributaries,
Fluttering in glee, whispering to sunlit prairies,
Swinging tender revelry lilting in shadows,
Thrilling meadows budding through wintry throes,
Reviving weary realms, thriving withered knolls;
Grinning from mountains, atop lush valleys,
From shores of Pacific to shores of Atlantic,
Through the mighty Rockies, across Great Plains,
Lyrical, jubilant, exuding aura of happiness,
Enchanted by sweet ballad of robins’ daydreams
Strumming melodies of mellifluous spring.
May 16, 2023
Placed 2nd: Writing Challenge A quotes – Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Placed 8th: Brian Strand Premier Contest
Smile, O spring, smile, upon crimson arc of morning
Grinning through willows filtering golden sunbeams,
Sparkling from eyes of dew, glinting realms pristine,
Reveling through prairies, giggling tenor of streams,
Glistening core of purple-iris, soul of flaxen-pansies.
Waltz, O spring, waltz, shimmying blushing peonies,
Meandering with butterflies chasing nectar carefree,
Bouncing moods of bees from tree to flowering tree,
Elated strumming rhythms fluttering woody-foothills,
Grooving with meadows, humming lyrics of winds.
Sail, O spring, sail, rowing glee of seas-undulating,
Buoyant on spirits rushing from rivers, tributaries,
Traversing through terrains, once frigid, decaying,
Zealous now to venture, to rollicking side of being,
Surfing waves questing summer of sandy beaches.
Dream, O spring, dream, of mythical northern lights,
Glimpsed from garden of sumptuous white gardenias,
Through womb of dawn, hued in lavender of lilacs,
Preening beauty of flora, scintillating dawning aura,
As yonder of skies shimmers motifs of green aurora.
In depth of woods how autumn dazzles, swirling beauty of ornate décor,
Waltzing with ochre hickory, birch; whirling flaxen moods of sycamore,
Gracing my view upon blazing foothills, where vistas gamboge scroll,
Bedecking maples, swaying rhythms, with fiery red of shimmying knoll.
Zephyrs of west rustle demeanor of black tupelo, fluttering leaves gold,
Glistening burnt orange of sugar maple, revelers in sundown behold,
As remnants of gilded twilight beams, glimmer in purpled afterglow,
Weaving motifs of fall in tapestries idyllic, of blushing eventide aglow.
Autumn’s grandeur glows, as crisp frost gleams, mellowing overcast days,
Where gelid winds shudder trees, foretelling imminent wintry malaise,
Meandering with leaves falling gently; carpeting dyed, chromatic meadows,
As the arena of fall’s resplendent show, shimmers in elongated shadows.
Harvest Moon enamors sights, appealing to fervor of romantic glance,
Enthralled watching dance of stars, attuned to tenor of cosmic expanse,
Gliding over a charming night, wooing souls glued to autumn’s ruby fire,
Flaunting pizazz panoramic~ a farewell of fall-splendor, in cerise attire.
Turning life’s pages of albums, treasured memories rekindle seasons past,
Thankful for the abundance of goodwill~ heavenly blessings destiny cast;
As conversations savor aroma of pumpkin pies; buttery, nutty, apple tarts,
Spending time with family, friends; exchanging missives of kindred hearts.
A ribbon of blue snakes through the hills
Carving its path as it meanders along
Rushing and gushing down to the sea
Burbling and gurgling, hear it singing a song
Watch it dancing around with a will of its own
Freely flowing until the end of time
Shimmying over pebbles and rocks
Its unconfined movement is simply divine
It will live on as long as rain falls from the skies
The end of the world will be the river’s demise
I Form Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
02~23~17
Well over a hundred years ago
The illustrious Vincent Willem Van Gogh
A genius somewhat like Michelangelo
With thousands of artworks in his cluttered studio
From the sublime to the grotesque for show
Might have been better off working as a gigolo
Because he died a pauper on skid row
In those days artists had no impresario
To make sure they lived high in a chateau
Dining on champagne and escargot
So it was quite a different scenario
That brilliant artists lived totally incognito
Often exchanging a painting for a meal on a patio
Or selling their wares door to door on tiptoe
Carrying under their arm their impressive portfolio
So it was for Vincent Willem Van Gogh
Misunderstood and suffering from vertigo
Mentally unstable and drinking heavily in Bordeaux
Depressed, impulsive and insane – a tragic combo
Cut off a piece of his ear, his sanity was touch and go
A troubled soul, life for him was a wild rodeo
Obsessive passion, far from living the status quo
His life and work intertwined shimmying like a yo-yo
Feeling the stranger, he shot himself overcome with sorrow
Post mortem everyone wanted to hear the myth of Van Gogh
With his vivid colors of burgundy, ochre and indigo
In his honor every year the orchestra features the oboe
And while the Italians chant magnifico
Everyone else cheers Bravo! Bravo!
How times have changed for poor Van Gogh
From a mere hundred years ago ~
Read on air by invitation ~ March 21, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2025, 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 15, 2021 for YOUR BEST MONORHYME contest sponsored by WILLIAM KEKAULA - RANKED 1ST
“The wind rides in solitude
In her diaphanous delight.
Her skirts brush eternity
To gather the stars of night.”
Forever the stars she gathers
will magically move in the sky.
Their dance is the style of Glitter-bug
as they shimmy till morning is nigh.
The man in the moon watches them.
You’ll see how brightly he glows
to see those shimmying stars
on nights when his full face he shows.
And we, the witnessing earthlings,
whose eyes on the night’s sky gaze,
can more than just view the beauty
of nature’s most wondrous ways.
We also can live the wind’s joy
as her skirts among the stars twirl,
for her talents extend to valleys and hills.
Over all the world she can whirl.
Poets, look up to the heavens.
With imagination embrace
the dance of the stars in the heavens
while feeling the wind on your face.
May 5, 2021 (using Stanza 4 given by Joseph May for my first stanza)
For Joseph May's Choose Your Form Poetry Contest
For the 'ALL YOURS (JUN 1)' Poetry Contest of Brian Strand
Like the hush of mobile crystals
stilling, inside a breezeless night
Like the echoes of distant stars
shimmying towards the moon
Its like tendrils of gray smoke
wafting through the temples
A silent Buddha contemplating
beneath the Bodhi tree of life
Inner peace can only be realized
through the senses and the chi
You can only hear its splendor
when your sitting on God's knee.
The southern slope kept a secret—
a slight tear where a shadow learns to grow.
I felt the pulse that pulled me in,
past where the daylight breaks,
down to where the cold, clear water flows.
The entrance wore a veil of living lace,
stretched tight across the limestone seams.
My hand caught the web—snap.
A sound like a severed nerve,
a frantic flight of silk in the dark.
A thousand eyes of jet* looked back at me,
skittish guardians shifting in the bend.
They sensed the weight I carried,
the heavy, hollow ache of winter’s end,
and pulled away into the rock’s silence.
I moved the stone, one by one,
shimmying into the throat of the hill.
Leaving the world of coffee and schedules,
of letters never sent and cold, still rooms,
to trade the sun for the smell of wet flint.
The air grew thick—a history held in breath.
The mountain drank the noise of my life,
the schedules, the fears, the static of days,
until the gravity beneath my feet shifted,
as if the earth were re-calibrating its mantle.
Deep inside, it was not empty.
It breathed in a bioluminescent hum—
walls bleeding a spectral, bruised blue.
A path snaked away, a vein of light
offered by a world that had forgotten me.
The cavern opened—a limestone cathedral.
There, glyphs bled from the stone,
a language of weight, of tectonic patience,
etched by hands that knew the cooling of the crust.
The "Litany of Compression"—the agony of eons.
The "Silent Watchers" warned of the breathers,
the map of veins reaching toward the mantle.
I knelt in the dirt, finding the charcoal
the ancients left for the next ghost to arrive.
I did not write a name, or a date, or a prayer.
I traced the suture of my own breath
into the wall, a frantic, uneven line.
My body began to chime with the cave.
Limbs turning to cold, heavy mineral;
skin thickening, pores sealed with dust.
I was lifted to the ceiling, a slow drift,
tethered to a sister-spire of quartz,
the two of us holding up the dark,
holding up the sky of the hill.
Outside, the spiders return to their work.
They knit the entrance shut with elastic silk,
weaving the wound of my entry back into stone,
hiding the secret from the reach of the sun.
The hill holds its peace.
And I, finally, have found my own.
* Jet black eyes of 125 spiders
Kangaroos look funny in horns and underoos
Nothing like the holidays down under…
So many sweets to taste and plunder…
Mistletoe hung over head…
Sweet dreams in our slumbering bed…
The jolly man shimmying down
The hot family hearths
Not making a sound making his rounds
Asbestos underwear protecting his parts
The sweaty old boy in red
Cursing the heat of points this far south
While blimey citizens are snug in bed
Explicatives flowing from his mouth
Merry Christmas to all those down under
And happy New Year a day bloody sooner
Having no snow is a god awful blunder
The whole island should be sat in a corner!
Rlm ‘10
t started with a single itch
On the end of my nose and made it twitch
Then on one ear and in my hair
I started to itch everywhere
Ooh I scratched and scratched
Until I bled fleas were getting well fed
Ooh those varmints were getting everywhere
i started to do a dance a Rumba
And everyone stopped and stared
The pain was just too much in my pants
My credentials felt like they had been bitten by a thousand ants
I was shimmying body popping getting down
Everyone thought I was the best dancer in town.
Ooh I'm itching now are you too.
Peter Dpme.Copyright.2016.May.
I tore a collared shirt hopping a gate
and lost a button shimmying across the peak of a roof
just so I could cuddle in privacy
oh, life, what heights to climb just to float down kindly
on clouds or surfing crowds
the things that bring together others and fill with pleasure
the very emptyness in the sense of experiencing such realities
alone, they say we die alone, but someone told me to fear not
deep thought, carried on with a walk uphill, to find a peaceful place
before the sun showed its face
oh, life, what great fall to take
when tripping on my very own heart strings
playing a soft melody, lulling me to focus my attention
on the things that matter, beyond simply just matter
headland harbored primitive biota abut
mint for exotic sole terrain sustaining
sole terrain sustaining seeds, spores, spermatozoa, ova
seeds, spores, spermatozoa, ova , et cetera gut
preserved within mine follicular pores, sans
I secured per woof and meow wing warp organic matter
heir in to fore shielded from elements akin to thatched hut
aware wrenching kamikaze eradication
of countless critters from many Godaddy longlegs;
creepy crawlers, hops scotching,
shimmying with schmaltz, moon walks, et cetera
lost when germ warfare obliterated vast majority
since advent of civilization ordained Proletariat and Plebeian Primate
(cherishing, fostering, insulating bon mot infinitesimal dot re: future mutt)
dogs and also cats off limits
asper demise of other creatures decimated – tut tut
atop thine noggin housed (within thimble size nut)
rare and near extinct flora and fauna, what
species of plants and animals, whose preserve comprised
equivalent of indigenous village people huddling within microscopic yut.
Thus, this bipedal simian angst riddled at experiences
forced at figurative crossroad
when itching scalping a dead giveaway clue
to lather up hirsute growing via bald faced code
at further expense invisible life forms such action would erode
fast dwindled diversity, hegemony, longevity
i.e. population except *****Sapiens who didst goad
forefingers needed to massage and scrub thine scalp
as like a field getting hoed
sometimes applying solely cold water knob to un load
a healthy plethora, where gushing shower head would send them
down the drain perhaps displacing their meal times,
or feasting on louse see pie ala mode
aware that survival odds regarding
getting thru water treatment plant, premonition aye node
and greater chance to avert total mortal kombat avoided
if I trekked to Antarctic anti pode
so...similar to other occasions necessitating me
to lather 50 shades of gray –
as if subjected to being snowed
quite aware many people would avoid me like the plague
(which reaction eagerly embraced) if knotty,
oily, straggly natural headresss
hence, this outlier surrendered and got gently toad
value of hygience – and lost as if playing tictactoe x/oed.
At first sight of first snow colour
Scrapbook memories stir with folk within
Where spirits of love, caring, and sharing were
Whispers of our life we shared, brings wet tears that blur
Of the old farmhouse toasty and warm within-doors
Stipend oak wood was fed into its heart to burn
Fiery amber, yellow, and reds comforting flames would flicker
Crackling, sputtering sound of burning cinders
Wisps of oak mixed with ma’s cooking would journey
Shimmying up its way through the chimney
Outside world had been cloaked in a white glittery sheen
A heartwarming Snowman was always seen
Decked out in his red scarf and top hat beaming
By the front porch greeting passersby
Red Birds perched and rustle the winter evergreens
Conifer and denuded trees would unfurl a story book scene
We would peek out the window when pa honked the horn
On his 1940s green worn out pickup to warn
He was back with a fresh cut noble fir for Christmas morn
11/28/2016
I would like to remember
what it feels like to dance,
as I shuffle through streets
devoid of romance.
Shimmying and shaking
Grooving and gyrating
Wriggling and waggling
Bopping and banging.
Perhaps I will discover
the rhythm of soul,
the flow of jazz,
the moves of funk.
I may find hip-hop
stomping on a street,
or run into ballet
bouncing to the beat.
Ballroom might chacha
while swinging with salsa.
Foxtrot might samba
while rocking with rumba
I would love to spend
the coming year
dancing around people
without any fear.
Dancing with myself
16.12.2016
I have seen dreams
Shimmying, like
Stars, in dark of night
I have known dreams
Mirroring miracles, that
Flowed while I was awake
I have held dreams of gem
As beam on wheels of time, so
delighted my fancy
I have floated on dreams of mercy
Recurring, causing hope to rise, like
Bloom of rainbow flower
I have dared to dream and believed, and
Basked in warmth of spring rain,
And felt kissed by morning dew.
*