Best Signaled Poems
Once driving home, I did defy
A deluge from the darkened sky.
The bluster lent a tinge of fright.
But God is good, and all is right.
When soon my house came into view,
Southward was cerulean blue.
And to the west an orb shone bright.
Oh, God is good, and all is right.
Voluminous the sun did rest
Upon a mountain gleaming lest
I look away; miss more delight!
But God is good, and all is right.
For where the azure sky met gray,
A rainbow over my house lay.
With peaks to east it did unite.
Oh, God is good, and all is right.
This finite sight I need to store
Inside my mind; when troubles pour,
I'll think on it. And so I write
My God is good, and all is right
For Giorgio Veneto's Beloved Poem Contest
By Andrea Dietrich in Rhyme form. I suppose
you could say Couplets but they are couplets
inside quatrain type stanzas, so I am just calling
it rhyme.
*This is a beloved poem of mine for the simple reason that it
was one of those rare poems truly inspired by reality. A lot
of my poems are based on pictures or challenges or things
I see in movies or simply from my playing with words. This actually
happened to me. I had just begun writing poetry in my life, and these
words were going through my head as I beheld the beautiful
rainbow that signaled the end of the frightening storm! When
I reached my home, I immediately began jotting down the words!
I sat quietly and waited, making the noises he had come to know, calling him in his newly given name. His face would appear, cautiously calculating my intent, he would approach. The promise of food and gentle touch too much to deny. And so we did the “Little Prince’s” taming dance, each aware of the other and the possibility of betrayal.
cold eyes, empty heart
frost forming on life’s edges
winter’s numbing kiss
Our meetings continued, less cautious greetings, more welcome contact, minimal conversation. His coat was becoming more ragged in spite of attempts to keep it up, his gait slowing as our good-byes became short walks together. He could not leave his place, his home, even though it had left him – alone, to fend for himself.
hoarfrost in retreat
sunrise gently awakens
friendships warming blood
He withdrew – I would wait, quietly, whisper the name he had come to know, make the sounds that signaled “all clear”. I searched for him, stood silent and listened for his weakening call, shed tears in the cold rain of November. His last call, a feeble attempt at good-bye, led me to him. Alone, cold, hungry, he lay there, rolled his eyes as I cradled his cold and fading spirit. He shivered – and left.
winter’s cold cradle
ice encasing a friendship
a thawing of hearts
10/20/2015
submitted to – Creative Haibuns – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
The Haunted House
‘Room to Let’ the signage read,
and though it looked run down,
I’d found no other place to stay
since I was new in town.
When I knocked upon the door,
a voice called out, “Please enter.”
“Hello,” I answered in reply.
“I’d like to be your renter.”
A lovely woman greeted me.
She had a toothy smile.
“It’s nice to have the company.
It’s been dead here for a while.”
Outside a wicked wind blew forth.
The front door slammed with a crash.
Just as quickly every window
fell down in their sash.
“I guess a storm’s a-brewing,” I said,
covered in bone-chilling sweat.
“Let me show you to your room.”
replied the shapely tall brunette.
“Some steps here may be rotten,” she warned.
“I urge you to beware.”
Moaning fell with every step
as we climbed the creaky stairs.
The room she showed me looked quite sparse.
Inside was just one coffin.
“Please excuse the dust,” she said,
“I don’t come in here often.”
She wiped away the cobwebs
once we got inside the room.
“It really is quite cozy here.”
Then pointed out the tomb.
“If you like the chamber,
I suggest we both get started.
No other soul will bother us,
They have all departed.”
I laid inside the casket.
It was a perfect fit.
“I believe I could be comfy here,”
I hastened to admit.
“No one here will vex you,”
She signaled with a wave.
“You will find this haunted house of mine
as silent as the grave.”
“I’ll need a small deposit,” she said.
Then, bent and bit my neck.
As she sipped away I asked,
“Do you take traveler’s checks?”
“I’ll take this as collateral.”
She said after she drank.
“There’s no need for money here,
I have my own blood bank.”
August 17, 2018
Sponsor- Dear Heart
Contest- The Haunted House
Title your poem - The Haunted House
She Never Smiled
“There are many 'cures' for depression,
some of them are drugs from a pharmacist,
and others are creation by a loving God.”
_ Prompt by Sponsor
She never smiled, we should have known
her heart was lifeless as a stone.
But still, she went about each day,
fulfilling all in her own way.
She spoke thoughts in a monotone;
she never smiled, we should have known.
A spark was missing in her eyes,
like clouded-over rain-filled skies.
Each day she seemed to get through fine,
for nothing signaled any sign.
She never smiled, we should have known-
and felt depression in her tone.
And then the shock that she was gone-
and not a clue acted upon.
To seek God's help, we could have shown-
She never smiled, we should have known.
A happy day.
You were the sun.
I was Earth.
Nothing could disrupt the gravitational pull;
Nothing could stop physics,
Our law of gravity.
A cloud breaks rank, showering
Me in damp moonlight,
And I see your face
Align in the stars.
Is this you with that
Last goodbye
And last kiss,
Or
Is the night simply fooling me?
You had only said those words of
Nothing at all.
You had only signaled a meeting with
A kiss
Which felt so penultimate.
The sun has already passed now,
That night has come.
I stand here.
Near the pond where you’d
Taught me to skip stones,
I realize I’ll never see you again.
You have left it to the night to break my heart;
Silently invisible wind is the love I always felt,
Chilled grass is the heart in my chest,
Each beat scared of vulnerability.
You had only dampened those words of
Nothing at all.
You had only drenched a meeting with
A kiss
Which felt so penultimate.
The sun has gone now.
That night has come.
Everything I knew of you is now
Buried within these raindrops.
The sun has gone now.
That night has come.
I have tears.
Beyond the Door
When the Angel of Death arrived, I submitted to the passage
as he signaled me and lured me to his carriage.
Mighty black steeds pulled us. The trail became a tunnel;
I stared steadfast at the light, hoping energy to funnel.
Memories upset me and sharply I felt the pain
of each person I had harmed pursuing my own gain.
In this tunnel I revisited every moment I’d spent on Earth.
Flailing in self-imposed hell, I doubted my life's worth.
As we came ever closer to the eternal tunnel’s light,
my soul was overcome by a sense of great hope, not fright.
When the carriage stopped before a luminescent pearly door,
cautiously I disembarked onto a fluffy white floor.
It was then that peace engaged my heart and I heard their voices –
soft words of those who stood by me regardless of my choices.
Turning the knob, I entered the realm where those I’d loved lived on.
Although I’d been a sinner and believed the best times were gone,
I found that hope and forgiveness waited on the other side.
In my heart hymns of angels restored and amplified.
entry for Old Christmas Poem Contest by Constance LaFrance
"Christmas treasure? A baby's worth is so complex
God can use all those things we'd mark off with an " X ". by Poet
Twas the night before Christmas, the manger's convinced,
it stands ready to cradle a Savior and Prince.
The no vacancy sign caused men's wonder and doubt,
manger's role is a pivot. God's working it out!
As we gawk, looking on well-known scene from the past
deeming inn-keeper's choice of a manger - miscast.
Though the stable was clean, men have questioned, reviled
why this ignoble place to birth God's only Child?
Host of animals set, angels' message is heard
in the Bethlehem fields causing sheep no small stir.
"Give all glory to God, there's no reason to fear,"
Lamb of God has come down; 'tis the season to cheer.
Time elapsed since the manger, a star claims the scene
in fair Bethlehem town, we find kings have convened.
The star signaled their hope in the easternmost skies
God cut short anxious Herod's deceitful disguise.
Those three gifts that kings brought were the promise and fee
this young family needed when God said to flee.
Christmas treasure? A baby's worth is so complex
God can use all those things we'd mark off with an " X ".
December 17, 2021
What is this sense of being?
That I am, I have been, I will be-- is it a blessing
to ever feel time's razor edge, gathering its moments in my
memory as a squirrel hoards its seeds and nuts for winter,
food I will eat when my youth has long since melted down?
Or is it a curse other animals are spared: to know that
uncalled day will arrive, rudely, perhaps violently--
the one day we are bred to fear?
Yet for some unshared reason I have never feared that cold
day, that day of burning ice--not as a child, when I sensed it
signaled a return to heaven's luxurious playground, nor as a
young man when I thought dying to be no more than oblivion's mask.
Now I know death is only a sleight-of-hand, a party trick
of that great illusionist, Time, who is itself but a vapor,
a wisp of smoke veiling eternity....
His long cane pole limber and perfect,
Patiently waiting, his eye on the bobber
For his prey, he has the utmost respect,
The big fish almost becoming his cobber.
He’d seen it swim among the rocks alone
Unmindful of its nemesis on the bank
The water clearer, he could see the stone,
He longed to hook it firmly, give it a yank.
Four times before he’d watched it feed
Once in the rocks, thrice in the shallows
A great catch it would surely fulfill a need
To cement his place among his fellows,
But the sun now approaching mid-morn
Signaled he was too late to catch today,
Beaming on the fisherman with scorn
No prize catch would there be to filet.
Written August 15, 2022
(Written for Jim Eslinger )
DEVOTION POEM 5, “Unspoken” ***** (for Jim Eslinger)
Young and new to each other,
There was always too much to say.
Glancing around in restaurants, we’d notice
What so many friends remarked on when seeing
Those older couples staring at their water goblets
Or their fingers and never conversing —
What seemed
Not a breath spent one to the other...
Thus, we swore, we’d never ever be like that.
Until now, we are as the telepathy of time
Often does story — full with unspoken exchanges
And kindnesses, like when I want more coffee
And Jim has signaled a waiter before I signaled him,
Or there are things regarding our surroundings:
The commotion and din; or notes about raindrops;
And the phases of the moon; points of quality;
Jabs of conflict; moments of pain; and expressions
Of known love between us. Thus so,
Our lives joined
Evermore outside of dictionaries and essays,
Even overtopping poems...
We speak in being:
Together.
********. ********. ********
(c) sally Young eslinger 2020
Thanks be to God
Autumn, O Autumn, I have always loved you.
Please forgive me if I've not told you so.
From childhood, you have been most special.
Back then, you signaled cessation from labor;
Farm labor that was very hard, hot, and humid.
Autumn, O Autumn. Is there another as
Productive, quiet, and beautiful as you?
Looking out all around, I see your beauty
In many and variant ways; whether it's the leaves
On the trees or the dust from the harvest of grain.
Or a sea of soft picture-perfect white cotton in the fields.
Autumn, O Autumn, you are indeed the great gatherer of
The seed of sowers, promoter of festivity and celebration.
Your voice shouts from the trees, the fields, the white
Clouded skies. Not the shout of noise, but the sound of
Anticipation, the joys and rewards of hard work and the
'Smile of God' upon your bountiful crops.
Autumn, O Autumn, the sun pauses for your entry. I feel
The tame in the atmosphere, the subduing of your presence.
You have come with smiles and not frowns, with lots of goods
To give to all and not take from any. Your God and mine have
Deemed it so. We are grateful for your season and shall be
Givers as you have given to us.
092222PS
After a wonderful late afternoon walk in the park,
my wife and I moseyed over to the Japanese Hibachi Grille for some dinner.
What we got into was some good old fashioned drama down at BeniHana...
You see, I got me a fetish for shiny cookware,
so as the patrons' eyes honed in on the iron chef
dicing up onions, shrimp, and chicken...
mine were busy fantasizing about concealing Ginsu knives
clankin' in the kitchen.
"Brew Silly began his routine with the hot fire volcano bit
atop the flat grille.
In the distraction, my sticky fingers began reactin',
slippin' utensils inside my zipper, for a thrill.
Things started heatin' up as folks were eating up;
Spatulas started flyin'!
Mushrooms were a fryin',
My conscience stopped trying...
tired of getting beaten up!
Now, if I told you I was lookin' at what was cookin'...
I'd be a lyin'.
I mean, I was really tryin',
but the devil had me by the klepto-hands...guiding me.
Riling me up.
He said, "Go for one of them Wok's! Do it now Big Dog!
Get yir rocks off! Knock yir socks off!
Quick man...sly like a fox, Hoss!"
My heart said, "No", but my head said, "OH HELL YES!"
Sadly, I was in cahoots with the devil,
bass mixed with treble,
trouble poundin' in my chest!
So guess what came next?-
I grabbed one of them big brass bitches,
signaled Jessie's ass with a quickness,
and started gunnin for the door!
Of course, my good hearted wife started whinin',
"Honey, I wasn't done, now what are we leavin' for?"
"Listen baby, I'll explain later.
Right now it's time to go!"
As we passed the pretty little hostess,
she banged the gong and said real fast,
"AHH, Tank-You Berry Much F'wor Cummean Fwolks!"
We jetted towards the park, but it was getting dark.
My legs began to fail. The cops were on our tail.
We tried to walk and play it off, but it was no use.
We should have stayed and ate our food,
and drank our brews with "BREWS!"
The pigs threw me to the ground,
then began to squeal and bark.
They tossed us in the County Jail,
twenty thousand bail...
____________FOR TAKIN' A WOK TO THE PARK!!!
~"True story ={WinK+Wink}
With women the heart argues, not the mind.
MATTHEW ARNOLD, Merope
1. The stand of old growth Melalucas, graces the lowlands of our farm.
For over fifty years, accumulations of leaves have formed small soft islands.
“With selective clearing,” my husband says, "larger areas of grassland will grow.
More grazing for the cows and less hay we’d need to buy in Winter."
Inwardly, I lament, not wanting to lose the beauty of these trees
with branches that rise like huge broccoli bunches against bright blue skies.
My husband, much harder, by necessity, over-rules my sentiments.
2. Conveniently, earth-moving machines appear early on the first day
of the New Year. They cut a long swathe
but on the dam are left a large row, marked by me,
for sanctuary.
They cast reflections on the still water.
3. The felled trees are piled into rough heaps. Prophetically, the car
of the Inspector for Primary Industries appears.
“You must know, these are protected trees.”
He asks for permits (not granted) and orders a ‘cease and desist.’
His scowling looks are an indictment.
4. For months the operation was on hold
and, then the rains came and the floods—almost our undoing.
Flocks of water-birds occupied the flats, nesting on the islands
formed by the grassy hummocks. When these waters receded,
an overgrowth of young melalucas sprouted, where the old trees
had once stood. A network of roots underground had signaled
a catastrophe. New nodes erupted along all the root-ways.
Dumbly they announced their guardianship of the swampy land.
“Give us back to time,” they said , but the un-relenting slasher
leveled them again, so grass could grow.
5. I go back into my house now, secretly pleased the trees are speaking.
The topaz flames from the fireplace, warm my bones.
The hoary frosts have come. The envelope containing the D P I’s
decision waits on the mantel shelf, propped by a row of grazing, ceramic cows.
From the window I see our cows enter between the Melalucas.
They graze on the new growth pasture.
I warm my hands, as the flames lick firewood.
The scent from Melaluca smoke haunts me.
Suzanne Delaney
365 words
His name was Brown, his face was black
he walked alone outside a shack.
A siren sang across the track
and signaled clear the next attack.
A man in blue (a maniac?)
took aim and made the morning crack .
Like stones around a cul-de-sac,
six bullet holes frame Michael's plaque.
(A Slant-rhyme Sonnet)
As autumn treads across our piebald patch,
she drops her frost to shelter, soft as wool,
but brilliant blossoms curl in moonlight watch
and shrink beneath the snap of hoarfrost cool.
Then every critter lodged inside the farm
begins to hide a hoard of winter chow,
use nature’s fabric fluff to cradle warm
and stash in cache beneath the muted show.
Persimmon limbs are bowed with orange loot
which deer desire if hunger leaves them poor.
The frost has signaled time as under foot
true sweetness swells at autumn’s open door.
I rush before the deer, with knife in hand
to read the seed as weather forecast wand.