Best Show Poems
Listen to the song at the link above on youtube. Sorry I can't figure out any way to put the song tune in this box
Just as the moon rises each night
and even as snow is caressed by its light,
then glowing, I'll rise, becoming your dawn,
your curved sleeping form to smile upon.
With eyes like bright stars, I then will embrace
the landscape of you, each small line on your face.
And surely you’ll mirror my worshiping glow,
for I am your moon and you are my snow.
I’ll keep shining down with each breath you take.
May I blaze in your dreams before you awake.
And softly I’ll whisper, “Keep sleeping, my dear.”
Your faithful beloved, I’ll always be here.
Do not hide your face
Let me see your beautiful eyes
Do not hide your tears
Let me wipe them away
Do not hide your wounds
Let me comfort you
You should know that
you are not alone
Do not be subdued by falsehood
jealousy and backstabbed
Raise your head and be proud
Show me your face your grief
No one has the right to judge others
They must sweep for their own door
15.04.2013
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Narrate you own life's story
and tell you own life's tale
Don't leave it up for grabs
or even up for sale!
Write down your own life's story
before the others do
Wading through words and phrases
that aren't remotely true...
Plan out your own life's story
before it's done for you-
and you're stuck acting out a life
that you despise and rue.
Plot out your own life's story
or at least, Act Two (or Three)
Rewrite your script, if needed
to set your spirit free!
Dress yourself with color
costume yourself with care
Create the character you want to be
and strut with catwalk flair!
Design and build your life's stage
or at least, rearrange the props
and play your role with moxie
not caring if it flops...
Create your own life's story
as producer, director, star-
and then kick back & enjoy the show
no matter how bizarre!
Be your own show's critic
ignoring all other reviews
Lavish your life with praise
acknowledging cast and crew.
Become your very own fan club
awaiting each scene of your day
Taking joy in each thoughtful detail
of your glorious, quirky play!
So long have I harped of regret,
For price of vice is not paid yet,
With rueful heart, Lord, now I pray;
O God, won't you show me the way.
Contrite in careless deeds of yore,
As mindless acts morals abhor,
I seek amends, and humbly say;
O God, won't you show me the way.
With remorse I sail for morrow,
Steer life’s ship through pain and sorrow,
And vow, all debts, I shall repay;
O God, won't you show me the way.
In lonesome past alone I moan,
For blunders made now I atone,
And pledge your edicts, I'll obey;
O God, won't you show me the way.
Though evil lurks, tries to cajole,
While, toll immoral, taxes soul,
From goodwill divine I won't stray;
O God, won't you show me the way.
Written: January 12, 2023
Placed 1st: Revealing Your Soul…Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Soto Poet
Form: Kyrielle (eight syllables per line)
A Look Back at Eighteen Months Here-The Show is Over
When your poems reside in a shoe,
like mine,
pounding the pavement to nowhere.
The onset of blisters isn't imagined.
Those blisters take roots,
hindering your motivation
to move-
and to continue to write.
It hurts.
Seeing those poems take residence
in pity.
Sans the
comfort of
leather and lace,
shine and sole,
all of which would have been nice.
But all my eyes see are my poems,
tucked away in worn loafers,
unpolished,
unnoticed.
Not exactly eye candy.
But eyesores ...judging by the lack of views, here.
And undoubtedly my shoes made of synthetics
and sneakers
to the purveyors of good poetry
and good shoeshine.
I look down for good reason,
defacto
and stigmatized,
no contest wins,
no poems ever in the top 100 (new) list,
no scent of roses (or views),
nothing.
Nothing.
An abyss of sublimity,
save for the white bird
that chirps
to nobodies ears.
To wit.
For he who signs up for this site
got a handful of mixed emotions,
confetti less tomorrows,
a begotten rah, rah,
a ladle of spiel,
poems published ...
and in my case alone footnote
that I was a member
sans the shoe shine.
I really have to admit,
writing here,
eighteen months now,
has taken its toe.
I have no one to blame but myself.
Kind Regards,
connie pachecho
4/26/2018
The proprietor of the show has decided to call it quits, citing mental health issues here. The posse of black bears got to me. The guises, pretense, and hate towards me eroded my spirit. Tell her she can play with my insanity but not my spirit. To my readers, I really appreciate your patronage during this journey here even though the crops are bare and the barn fronts a blank stare.
The cows fight with the pigs, and bacon went to waste. One thing I take is the seed in me to aspire elsewhere, which I've already planted at HP under the name Logan Robertson. Thanks again. Wish everybody the best.
~
The fog, it clings the heavens low,
a damp and murky sight
Where creaking branch and fears bestow,
this chilly autumn night
The path it winds, a serpentine,
a' slither 'long the way
As shadows dance a drastic scene,
in silhouette array
My heart now beats a rapid pace,
cold shivers grip my spine
Escaping breath, no steps to trace,
don't even know what's mine
A rustle neath the thicket dense,
it scurries past my feet
I stop and turn, in my defense,
now praying for retreat
Oh why, I wonder, have I strode,
this eerie, ghostly way
A shortcut to my own abode,
I’ve traveled on by day
When then above, the faintest glow,
appears behind the mist,
The moon, now full, begins to show,
“Not now,” my screams insist
My skin it rips, expanding burn,
I howl through sharpened teeth
Long scraggy hair, a hungry yearn,
my soul of no relief
With eyes, now such a larger size,
much easier to see
And ears so huge, it's no surprise,
I'm hearing perfectly
On fours, I crawl, through forest thick
when then, a blanket thrown
A trap, I yell, a dirty trick,
come out, I say, be shown
A granny's quilt, that's how it feels,
so heavy, woven tight
It's thick with dust, it now reveals
that something isn't right
I toss the cover from my head,
a ripping, tearing, scream
Its then I tumble out of bed,
my word, it’s just a dream
Well, that’ll teach me, teach me good,
this thought I’ll have to keep,
Do not read, “Little Red Riding Hood”
before I go to sleep
Written for: Scary Stories Cash Prize Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Crystol Woods
Sky covers her nakedness
with the raiment of clouds
Stars array in circular patterns
to stage a group ballet
Amid, sits queen moon
in silken robes and a silver diadem
bathed in garish light
with a flash of amber and a blaze of gold
like a halogen lamp
Soon clouds will make way for
the royal maidens’ ramp walk
across the long isle of the firmament
Keep your eyes raised
for the spectacular show
Shove your way to the dais
to get a better peek!
October- 16.2022
~ Placed Fifth~
For Brian Strand's Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
The cold sun’s anemic arc,
skirts the day with crystal frill.
Prancing just above the pines,
sun dogs wag their tails.
14 Jan 2022
If you want to succeed at poetry, start off by showing your work.
Be proud of what you’ve created, even when others will smirk.
Focus on what is important, take a chance and write what you please.
Always stay true to your form and remember the a. b. c. ’s
Never be afraid to fail, get back up and follow your heart.
What you think is masterfully written, others will rip apart.
There are many types of poets, together we are never alone.
Follow your own set of rules, nothing is set in stone.
Don’t worry about comments, or how many hits you may get.
There is a reason why you write, so please don’t ever forget.
We all have to start somewhere, ignore the bullying jerk.
If you want to succeed at poetry, start off by showing your work.
Oh, pretty little butterfly, flitting all around.
You can flash dance colorfully even with no sound.
Hummingbird, I see you too. You flap your wings so fast.
You super duper flapper, you are having such a blast!
Bumble bee, big bumble bee, your buzzing song is rare.
Few insects sing the way you do while dancing in the air.
Oh, katydids and crickets, I hear your soothing call.
It is the song of summer time when night begins to fall.
Oh, nights of summer I don’t want for you to pass me by
without the flicker lights I see from the firefly.
Oh, firefly so talented, no creature is like you.
Your flash dance is amazing as darkness you pass through.
Refrain:
Watch and listen, everyone,
whether beneath the moon or sun.
Nature has more skills than you may know.
Sit back a while and just enjoy the show!
Oh, deer that prance and lambs and colts gamboling in play.
I also love to hear the tunes, like the donkey’s bray,
the lowing of the cattle and the baaing of the sheep,
and even baby chicks when they go peep peep peep.
Mammals of the wild, how you howl and how you roar -
You’re a jungle orchestra that tourists can’t ignore.
Oh, birds that strut, your mating moves are so interesting
along with all the pretty songs so many of you sing.
Water’s music rushes as over rocks it goes.
Ocean laps a lullaby; with rhythm each tide flows.
Breezes make leaves dance; I sometimes hear wind croon.
Oh, birds, swirl on, and dolphins, glide and whistle your fun tune!
Refrain:
Watch and listen, everyone,
whether beneath the moon or sun.
Nature has more skills than you may know.
Sit back a while and just enjoy the show!
vivid green cedar
against winter's bare oak tree
red bird sits alone
©Donna Jones
i am made up
in equal parts of what i believe
and
in equal parts, i believe in
what i am made up of.
you break me down and you've got
equalityfreedomwomansrightsproch
oiceantibullyingantistigma-
herpes.
it makes no difference to
you
what happens when I take my pants
off.
but somewhere along the line I
became a
**** a whore a promiscuous little girl
with no rules and regulations about
who
sticks their dick inside me until I'm
infected with everything wrong in the
world-
herpes.
they sell you protection in the form of
condom boxes,
tied up in ribbons that say things
like,
happy anniversary happy birthday
happy Thursday happy **** me
happy little ***** at the bar i can get
my hands onto.
sex education is
vacant and expressionless and
i fell victim to
don't get pregnant don't get pregnant
don't.
get.
pregnant.
oh **** what the **** is happening to
my insides and my outsides and
please dear god let the burning stop.
this isn't some blame game,
this isn't some speech,
this is a plea and a please stop
satirizing my life
with your late night comedy show
jokes about my ******.
my herpes
not yours
not my next door neighbors
not the pharmacists
not the doctors
not yours.
So get down off your high horse and
try to figure out how
you
will avoid an infection that affects
80% of the population and why
we are all so damn afraid of it.
Herpes isn't hereditary but ignorance
is.
The air was thin and icy.
It was dark and cold outside.
A blanket of snow covered the ground.
The footprints in the snow led the way.
We loaded the bus one-by-one as if we were animals entering Noah’s Ark.
Statuesque beings sat motionless in their seats.
Twenty pairs of eyes half-open stared blankly ahead fixated on nothingness.
Our journey to the unknown was about to begin.
The bus tired spun in circles like a child’s merry-go-round.
Round and round they went like the thoughts in my head.
I felt like a kid at the circus.
Excitement and freedom swept over me like a cool, summer breeze.
The road was long and unfamiliar.
Time passed by so slowly as if the earth’s stopwatch had been turned off.
The once frozen bus was not swimming in a sea of hot air.
Our final destination was a small, almost-deserted town in Upstate NY.
It looked as though a plague had swept through like a giant broom and devastated it completely.
One after the other buses pulled up.
A sea of yellow painted the once dreary canvas.
Girls of all shapes and sizes descended onto the now colorful landscape.
All dressed in tan britches, black boots, and smiles.
The clan of riders filed into the ring like a colony of ants all with the same mission.
This was my first mission.
I was a soldier going into battle for the first time.
The ant colony gathered in a circular formation.
The sign-in table was engulfed and swallowed whole.
Numbers were being handed out, one-by-one.
36, 17, 41, 54, 62, 12, 19, 38…
The judge’s voice boomed over the speaker like the voice of G-d.
Every crevice of the ring was filled with the loud, unclear syllables.
Girls of horseback walked proudly and calmly into the ring.
Horses arched their necks and pranced around as if they owned the world.
Tails raised slightly, eyes beaming forward, chests massive.
Hours passed by like days.
My nerves built up like a roaring fireball in my stomach.
One swift leg-up from my coach and I am propelled onto the horse.
I land smoothly into seat of the saddle.
I am welcomed with open arms.
Together, as one creation, we walked into the ring to compete the mission at hand.
Form:
She doesn't dance like Anna Pavlova
She doesn't sing like Diana Ross
but on this blissful day I am watching
the best performer I've ever come across
She wobbled on her pique turns
She forgot to point her toes
but she never lost her smile
a perfect angel until the close
She might not sing in perfect rhythm
She might not always be in tune
but her singing is so beautiful
it makes this proud daddy swoon
The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority,
Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment.
Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes,
Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells,
Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus.
Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry.
Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention;
Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads.
But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know.
Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere,
Despite their lack of empirical validity.
Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant.
Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons,
Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles,
Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces,
From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons.
And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands,
As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians.
Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds,
Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause.
Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition.
Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought.
Where worlds were once created in cognition,
They're now created in the lenses of cameras.
When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye,
They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.