Best Shrieks Poems
Her smiles of valor encase her agony--
her fiery scars pound against her sanity
struggling in twisted ropes of silent screams.
A wounded Athena, she is a woman in chains
staring at her shattered reflections.
Her shades of red, they haven't seen--
tender shrieks buried under forced arms,
blurred visions of screaming tyranny.
A trampled magnolia, she is a woman in chains
rotting in her Carmen of morose ember.
Oh woman! You embrace scars with dignity,
ethereal flow of progeny in your hands,
your banished desires in shriveled ages
survive in spiral cobwebs of festered veins.
Her miserable existence in labyrinths--
she simmers courage in dried paranoia,
a streak of red blood, no longer she'd fear.
A goddess flickering amber lamps of hope
her essence flows through mankind.
Oh woman! Feel the celestial powers
preserved in your gracious bosom,
your afflicted pain nurtures patience
strong enough to bend heavenly tides.
A wounded Athena, a trampled magnolia
A rotting Carmen, a goddess she is..
The woman in chains pours forgiveness
filling oceans from azure exuberance,
her selfless heart of mellowed love
permeates Satan's abode with virtue.
The woman in chains wears sacrifice,
her gossamer veil embraces men's follies,
she carries the elixir of compassion,
ripples of hopes for scarred souls.
Oh woman! They oppress you in madness,
to your sanctity they bow in agitation,
the woman they know, the goddess they don't,
until you dust your timeless wings to fly again.
(Dedicated to one of my childhood friends)
You were one of those charming lilies
that bloomed, so fresh, in my springtime pond;
when my homesick wings of longings flutter and soar,
and my mind alights
on the periphery of the playparks of the past,
I reminisce all the little fun we had
along with our other friends -
as we strolled through the narrow trails
in the verdant flowery meadow
that sprawled near our school
during the tender years of our lives.
The giggles and the laughter
the chuckles and the chatter -
those shrieks and the squeals
that baffled even the needles of time
to forget their own pace
and hop and waltz along with us.
Then roads diverged, new air we breathed
as we took new paths to pursue our purposes in life.
Years later, you arrived once very near my place
yet we could not connect and get ourselves to meet.
That day when we talked on the phone
and I heard your voice after a very long time,
my mind leapt for joy and soaked for some time
in a summer drizzle of rainbow memories -
of those I had long forgotten
as you reminded them to me in our chat -
they linger on like pleasant petrichor.
Later, I tried to recollect and sing our childhood songs
rhyming it perfect with the
unrhyming clamor of our choruses.
When commitments in work and family responsibilities
seem to have rusted the gate to my nostalgic dam -
your call was the key to open it - and when creaking opened
wistful emotions gushed forth
to form an ocean of yearnings
to be a child once more.
You revived the puddles of my mind with paper boats
that carry leaves, stems, and flowers of fond memories.
I felt like a gleeful kite in the vast blue,
fleeing for a moment from the humdrum day.
You will forever be the same charming lily
adorning my little lake of most treasured blossoms.
My bestie, my soul-sis.
I
ask
you to
mind our
earth, heed
our existence
upon it, care for
our lives and all that
will occur if we cannot
consider beyond ourselves,
if we are guided by uncertainty,
when we fear the unknown, when we
shun those who differ from us in skin color,
in sex, in persuasion, if we turn our eyes away,
when we dance upon the hidden strings of politicians
or cunning puppetmasters, when we swallow the lust of war,
when poets languish in isolation, without ear or encouragement,
when we torture, when prejudice blinds us to the humanity of another,
when our deluded misconceptions will go public with ready trigger finger,
when we mistake violence for the solution, when we fail the worthy person,
when we won't bother to look past the wheelchair and to whom he really is,
to say his real name, when the most expected thing we will share with him
is discrimination, when we forget that here in space we are in this together,
when tomorrow is the day that old and young will die in roaring explosions,
in quiet corners without notice, when people are driven from their homes,
when women must live in fear, when we steal identities, when evil hides
in anonymity, when we rest in apathy, indifferent to the pain of others,
when our fellow creatures are in chains for our profit and amusement,
when hunger and hatred are accepted, when malice shrieks loud,
when we cut baby girls due to generational gender inequality,
from psychosexual ignorance and hard superstition;
when we deny justice to one lonely voice,
our world falls, stretching itself
into a teardrop.
December 26, 2016
For FJ Thomas's contest - 'Concrete Crush'
Meeting my homegirls Wilma Neels
and Kim Van Breda with shrieks and squeals
hasty introductions and we're on our way
for a night of reading at Poetry Café
We've Yasmin to thank for arranging the meet
with fellow Soupers, a veritable treat
Yasmin the sneak had their names withheld
we're apprehensive yet still by curiosity propelled
My fingers are crossed to meet Eileen
fave poetess mine, the Passionate Queen
dare I wish to meet hamsome Ryerson
not to mention Anne-Lise Andresen?
On first glance the café seems somewhat rowdy
from one of the corners a chorus of "Howdy!!!"
heaven help!! I'm rooted to the spot
all my fave poets from the Souper pot
The Queen of Passion, my special friend
Eileen Ghali, an angel heaven-sent
with open arms and that beguiling smile
that's touched us all over thousands of miles
I spot our Father Christmas, Jackie Ellison
Oh my, mercy me, the hamsome Tim Ryerson
then the beautiful being, Anne-Lise Andresen
and our pretty young doll, Anne Poetess Currin
Andrea, crack writer and popcorn freak
and Nette Onclaud, Madame Linguistics
the talented and sweet Leonora Galinta
oh, for a long time I've longed to meet her
There's the much-loved Reach-Out Lamoureux
a stylish gentleman, delighted to meet you
our very own Linda who happiness spreads
memorable the day as Brown Licia meets Red
He who writes poetry with a golden pen
bestest, fantasticest, hamsomest friend
Rich-Heart Seal-ed Door, my bruv from abroad
by his smile I'm bowled over; by his charm I am awed
I'm jumping with joy at my fave poets meet
befuddled, bewildered; who first to greet?
midst the mountain of talent I'm on a positive high
overwhelmed, I simply break down and cry
This one needs a whole lot of polishing and smoothing
out, but I was too excited to submit it. I'll iron out the
crinkles soon. LOVE TO YOU ALL, LICIA
Atrocious affliction trembles voices of anguish
Brewing vile horror in death of tomorrow
Fearing for the newborn, women, and children
For yesterday’s massacre killed her husband
And the war-torn town screamed in agony
Wrapped in rags of shattered hopes,
Quivering hearts of disassembled valor
Incapable to assuage a hapless mother’s sorrow.
A lone crow caws atop heaps of rubble
Amplifying appetency for affinity of life,
Abjuring the blood thirsty hiding in disguise
To rob any remnants of civility and pride
From dismantled lives, walking shoeless,
Upon splintered glass littered in broken paths
When pigeons too left the desolate grounds.
Dreams once auspicious acquiesce to nightmares
Within awry silence of a burning dawn
As the allure of a new day inconsolably cries
When her only surviving child dies in her arms.
Divinity won’t absolve them of despicable sins,
That echo from playgrounds, shuttered bakery shops,
And the shrieks of families mingling in market
Where aroma of fresh bread once permeated air
And warmth of hot tea glasses greeted the day.
Wary footsteps march slowly to the other side:
It’s a bit safer there where a wedding is planned--
They don’t yet know, the young groom has died,
In a senseless war lost in poverty of thoughts.
Written: October 15, 2019
Submitted on 1/22/2023 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Placed 1st: Crazy A’s poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Required words in the order included in this poem:
Atrocious, anguish, assuage, appetency, auspicious,
awry, allure, absolve
Placed 3rd: Strand choice poetry contest by Brian Strand
I am being told to let go
By almost everyone I know
Release, let it out, let it be
Plunge into passivity
While I cling to bitter beauty
My bruises bloom a thorny tree
Guarding roses of agony
This pain is mine, it belongs to me
My torment is my blood, it breathes
with every breath, it beats with my heartbeats
Within my tears, it weeps
It shrieks, uncoiled, beneath my skin
Where the sin of suffering begins
It is my fertile fury, my hellish choir
My savage soul, my cathartic fire
It is large and lush and livid
Conquering and vivid
It is too precious, too valuable, to trade away or wallow
in trinkets, or flimsy platitudes, or empty cliches, or hollow
promises of unfulfilling fortresses to follow
Their learned words I dare spurn
For to recover, I must burn
So I will keep it, for I know its worth,
even if their unsolicited, unwarranted, intrusive,
Questioning and questionable, inconclusive
Unadvised advisors do not grant it girth
It is here I find
What I want most
Where rage of kindness blinds
My grieving ghosts.
06/06/20
Entered in 'N/A Rerun 7'
1st Place
You won't find a yard like this anymore. You'd think it would seem smaller now that I'm an adult, but it doesn't. It's still enormous, stretching far beyond the house like a grassy sea. The hills roll like the tide, dotted with patches of melting snow that remind me of cresting waves. All around me, the gardens wake from a wintry slumber.
tiny buds
cling to naked branches--
a robin sings
Time stands still here in Nana's garden; the ghosts of childhood haunt every inch of the yard. There's my brother, climbing the ancient apple tree, throwing crab apples at my sister as she plucks daisies. Even as she dodges apples, she plucks away - asking no one in particular if she's loved or not, leaving a trail of petals in her wake. And there I am in my grass-stained skirt, twirling and twirling, falling dizzily to the ground, oblivious to my sister's shrieks of protest and my brother's triumphant laugh.
I shake my head and the vision clears. Now the garden is empty - still overflowing with trees and shrubs and flowers, but lacking in laughter, mischief, and innocence. Innocence has been replaced by wistfulness.
two robins
glide across the sky--
a door creaks
"Tea's ready, dear."
I glance over my shoulder at Nana. She stands on the back porch wearing her favourite apron and my favourite smile. Like her garden, she hasn't changed. A few more silver strands in her hair, a few more lines around her eyes - but she is still the same woman who took care of us, tending to us just as she tended to her gardens. She smiles at me now, as if she knows that garden has cast a spell over me.
With another glance at the apple tree, I follow Nana inside the house - and I swear I can hear echoes of laughter behind me.
The night like clouded charcoal scorched,
A sea of trees with starlight torched.
A night where laws are sound asleep,
Anarchic prayers running deep.
Alone I hear the wretched screams
Of screeching trees... or so it seems.
The cries protract into the air,
Without a sound they disappear.
The shrieks have bartered now anew
With sounds of meat and boney chew
Discharging from the faithless trees
And snarling with my memories.
But creatures' gruesome growlings drown.
I smell the gunpowder and frown.
The waging sounds of war advance
In battle stance with gun and lance.
The sounds of bleeding men enhanced,
The sounds of fate and time and chance,
No sooner do they cross the trees
Than fade as all their voices freeze.
But worse than bombshell sounds occur;
The storms, the winds, the thunder stirs.
The roars that shake the forest's roots,
The flowers, soil, and passion fruits
A rainy resonance restocks
The grass the air the woods the rocks
And washes with its dancing tingle
All the sounds that intermingle:
A dreaming forest in the night,
And trapped within its fanfare fright,
It chokes me in its thunder thrill
And hangs me in the silence still,
And hangs me in the silence still.
Why, the greatest enemy of man is man
for man has subdued everything else
Fear not the tiger, fear the murderer's plan
Just hearken well to what history yells!
At times twas jingoism, at times a rancorous desire to do harm
Fear just man's malice and his ugly evil
If his dagger blow fails, he'll get you by black magic charm
His heart and mind alone well shelter the devil.
For how many fall prey to lions or snakes
one could even count them on fingers
Man invents a cure for smallpox but missiles too he makes
and he mercilessly kills without harbingers.
Man invented as many things for his destruction and harm
as he did for his benefit and good
He's inventor of bombs as well as tractors on the farm
And doesn't he detest acting as he should?
Man alone is behind the bloodiest of bloodshed
The angels too had foreseen his wars and battles
From the gory battlefield to the humble homestead
with the shrieks of murder our earth forever rattles!
Close your doors and your home secure
not to deter beasts, but to lock out the robber, the thief
For no greater danger than man lurks there for sure
Fear not the fierce bull, that you can turn into beef!
Wild beasts might be known to gobble us up
but isn't man as well found to be a cannibal?
Gosh, humans too on human flesh do sup
Man tis far more fearsome than any poor animal.
The greatest enemy of man thus is man himself
How much blood has he ruthlessly spilt of his own kind
Look out for the bottle of poison on his shelf
Till the deed is done, no knowing what goes on in his mind.
The poor young lady refrains from venturing out at night
How now, what does she so fear?
She fears nothing but assault by man's might
so rarely is she stalked by a grizzly bear!
Fortunately for us, this ain't how it always ends
man can always be the best of friends
So we can still count more on buddies and cronies
instead of focusing on foes and fiends.
For man he can be a hero and saviour
if judicious he is about right and wrong behaviour.
Besides religion as I know, infact does actually foretell
That the end of ALL killers and murderers
is that inferno of divine wrath we all know as hell!
This sacred soil that once resounded with the musket's rattle,
Imbued with mingled blood of Blue and Gray spilt in brutal battle,
Now stands serene with only whisperings of the restless ghosts,
Of gallant men who sacrificed their all among the frenzied hosts.
Are those the sighs of vagabond souls heard with each subtle breeze,
As zephyrs rustle the dancing leaves of stalwart, guardian trees?
Is that the winter's wind that shrieks about Round Top Hill,
Or the screams of dying troopers, their fatal destiny to fulfill?
Are those the moans of men left to die, their laurels won,
Or the boles of ancient pines groaning 'neath the searing sun?
The wind wafts tall grasses that on The Wheatfield grow;
Could this be waves of spectral infantry, advancing row by row?
Lightning flashes and thunder echoes across the rolling sectors,
Reminiscent of once roaring cannon, now long-silent specters.
The battle was o'er with the repulse of daring General Pickett;
Thousands of souls lay dead on bloody field and tangled thicket.
Lincoln's powerful address yet echoes o'er that hallowed clay,
To honor heroes, no matter the color of cloth they wore that day.
Do their fretful spirits yet roam, wondering if they died in vain?
Rest in peace dear souls - because of you this nation rose again!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 the Fraser/Devonshire "Dazzle Us With History" Contest - Jan 2011
Appreciation:
A big thank you Silent One for your splendid narration of this poem.
THE GANGSTER
Through foreboding, whispering, wintery air
A woken Heron shrilly shrieks somewhere
Reflective iridescent gem in a gloomy stream
The gangster with a poetic heart dares to dream
A living testimony to deviates and lost souls.
Where seedy worth defines unsavoury roles.
Perceiving her as a quintessence work of art
Fantasising a new start could transform his path
But his formidable foe of unbeatable might
Silently rejects him from her soulless sight
Scheming secrets spill, in the ruthless thrill,
While Angels weep for innocents who sleep
Nearer to his mark, prey to her game
Shame, oh shame! Like a moth to the flame.
Though only murder glows in her beauteous glance
The man gambles chance at a shot at romance
The bar reeks of treachery and strife
Trust is sporadic in a gangster’s life
Romantic interchange in hidden codes
Not charmed by romance, a single shot explodes
In this world of corrupt nights, where the energy dips
Between Jack Daniels sips, those sensuous red lips
The Reaper is the dealer; Destiny seals
Every gangster bends to the very last deal
An Art film
Art films often "bear the marks of a distinctive visual style" and the authorial approach of the director. An art cinema film often refuses to provide a "readily answered conclusion", instead putting to the cinema viewer the task of thinking about "how is the story being told?
Maria Williams©2024
Ears pricked at car door closing in the street,
and focussed on the footsteps through the gate
she stepped into the hall, unsteady feet
they bounded forward, welcome couldn't wait.
Two forty pounds of fur, and sixteen legs,
four eager snouts and tongues shot through the air
her hands held up fruitlessly as she begged,
they brought her down, smothered her face and hair.
A canine/human ball rolled on the floor
propelled by laughter, barks and sudden shrieks
of love and longing, bottled up before
the time has come to leave, and no-one speaks.
Chorus of barking, followed by the whines
the front door closing for the final time.
R.i.P Angela Miles, passed away today but was allowed home
to see her Huskies last week for a couple of hours.
The old rusty gate CREAKS open,
I hear the blowing wind WHOOSH and HOWL,
blazing autumn leaves waltz MURMURING
stories from a forgotten past,
The lonely owl HOOTS, SHRIEKS TU-WHIT TU-WHOO,
rain falls DRIP-drop…PITTER-PATTER
A door shuts BANG somewhere
making me SHUDDER!
The desolate staircase is dusty and empty -
lamenting for footsteps of CHATTERING, GIGGLING
children playing hide-and-seek,
dry leaves CRUMBLE under my feet in the orchard
which once smelt ambrosial!
The place WHISPERS an exuberant childhood…
my heart FLUTTERS to recollect
the HUMMING music of the quaint hamlet…
bees BUZZING around the colourful flowers,
butterflies flirting with roses and dahlias,
birds CHIRPING melodious tunes which
serenade to far-away RIPPLING streams.
The swing has stopped, birdsongs are gone!
The rusty gate SQUEAKS open..
July 3, 2021
"Onomatopoeia" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
23 Onomatopoeia words (In Bold) have been used.
22 Lines
THIRD PLACE
Black Powder Dreams
Vast o’ the seas carry forth desperations
Lives cast aside in the faces of war
Rotted wood planks, salted skin aspirations
Wind tattered sails bound of endless explore
Black powder dreams aft the end quarter season
Cannons at wait, closer still to the bow
Manned by the weak, none in need of a reason
Chilled to the bone, never wondering how
Darkened the depths beckon angry waves crashing
Bound to the rail by a pitch and a shove
Visions of loves and the homeland a’ flashing
Prayers slowly drowned before floating above
Scar rippled flesh, leathered treachery flailing
Shrieks in the night causing laughter below
Tethered by fear o’er the desolate wailing
Shadows await harbors safe to bestow
Compass point dangers adrift in the distance
Forced to push on to the end of the fall
Death shrouds belief in a fractured resistance
Down on their knees longing nothing at all
Endless the journey for pittance bled wages
Deaf to the thoughts found alone in the screams
Forever lost in the unopened pages
At the expense of their black powder dreams
11/7/18
Written for the: Black Powder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
The zephyr breeze disturbs the leaves
through pristine forest trees,
and water gurgles over rocks,
while coursing to the seas,
disputing shrieks beyond all sight,
as if there is a riot,
yet with the gloom I left behind,
this does become my quiet.
Thunder bolts though distant now,
are carried on the cloud,
a rustle made in dying grass,
can be a nervous loud.
Sombre tones of crackling fire,
may well fill the night -
where natural balance poises,
this quiet I will not fight.