Best Slaked Poems
For the nonce, living soul,
you will breathe in new lessons through our tender tethering
as your seeking thirst is slaked through your skin;
for life's osmosis seeps mortal knowledge not implanted at conception.
Susan Ashley
September 16, 2019
~ Second Place ~
Contest: Arbitrium Divisa 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Gregory R. Barden
*An excerpt from: Odyssey Of A Soul; written June 8, 2018*
What are you thinking of
germinal seed of dynamic animation,
do you still understand all without explanation..?
the colors you dream in are the nuances of Infinite Love
for the nonce, living soul,
you will breathe in new lessons
through this tender tethering
as your seeking thirst
is slaked through your skin;
for life's osmosis seeps mortal knowledge
not implanted at conception
with each culmination of every era
the Enlightenment is cumulative.
Craving to quench a craving quest
to reach and taste
faultless fruits of the Crown of Divinity—
paths' toward perfection perfectly entwined;
human womb but a nutshell
for a mortal plan in place
flesh and blood and free will intact—
your immortal blueprint will always be here
trust
when and while
you remember to forget to remember
recollections will renew
when your mundane drum ceases to thrum
and you flash across skies once more in meteoric rise
donning your glorifying shine from stars-of-giving-light.
In this human lifetime
imperfect being
you will be nursed;
orphan tears scarring dirty cheeks
will not overflow your tin cup
with naught else to nourish you...
those suffering stepping stones
led to the sanctity
of the last earthly lessons learned.
It must have felt like love at first,
The clinging of the ivy vines,
Until his rich red heart had burst.
Her tendrils slaked an ancient thirst,
The tender touch for which he pined.
It must have felt like love at first.
Too guileless to suspect the worst,
She speared him with her soft green tines.
Until his rich red heart had burst.
Her coils so patiently she pursed,
He never guessed at her design.
It must have felt like love at first.
Crazed with cracks, its strength dispersed,
From end to end the wall declines
Until his rich red heart had burst.
So new to love, so poorly versed
In joy, so baffled by her signs,
It must have felt like love at first.
Until his rich red heart had burst.
Be not soft upon the morrow
For the maliciousness it contrives.
The future beckons unending sorrow
To gamely catch the vulture's eye.
'Tis the destiny of mice and men
To be laid waste by nature's curse.
Where foolishness belied of ink and pen
Will by the margins burst.
Persist not in vacuous dreaming
To make bold some vague intent.
Obviate all grift and scheming
To survive the main event.
There are those with want of glory
To lead sluggish minds astray.
With a foreshadow of song and story
For those with one foot in the grave.
These stygian forces stand ready
To make dark such days to come.
They seamlessly evoke some cosmic eddy
Where weathered voices go unsung.
We are pawns to this game we borrow
With our future slaked with pain.
If your happiness lies on the morrow...
You will be despondent once again.
If you're consumed by fear and trouble
With clouds toned a spectre-grey.
Prepare for further ruin and rubble
With a new sunrise on the way.
Put away burbling of blissful leavings
You think the morrow may provide
With the approach of another evening,
You will not long survive the tide.
You may bloviate a ray of sunshine,
Pushing hope where none exists
With an ignorance to the grand design
Where winds of chaos oft persist.
I will grant the morrow stands untainted
With yet no mark on time and space
But remove this cheer you've now acquainted
And forever leave my hiding place.
The End
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your Uncle.
Chased mercilessly
over well- worn tar
palpable loss pushes
a sable brush
dunked in dread
a furious deluge
of fear
oozes out
blackens every inch
of familiar landscape
what if’s
eat through
the still static blue horizon
making a meal
of unborn dreams
slaked only by
hastily grabbed
history
coupled with
ragged spirits
that desperately
haul hope north
safe haven
on strange soil
still dark hours
away
At night the city is full of bones
And they
Are very dry
Beneath the trample of urban feet
They are ground
But to live, these dry bones
Must drink words
Sad nervous me, I stammer
Against those arid limbs
Grinding bone-dust songs
Into scattered fragments spun from raging blades
But realizing so many so, I sputter
Thought-hacked soul-flakes, soaring
Crooked in an angry wind. . .
Though stinted, inconsiderable, I say them
Spit them down the papered street
Into a shadow where the dew will stay
And some anonymous day some
Stray seed will grow on them
And suckle upon a speck of misty bone
And though the nights will continue
To align the humps of an un-slaked dune
Something out of this sand will rise
Small, and secretly original
And I will be part of her:
my bony, blue, and sensual city
I have drunk from the cup of Sorrow,
Yet my thirst has not been slaked.
So I drink from the cup of Pain,
And I have slaked my thirst at last.
For I now bear the fruits of agony,
Because I have drunk from both cups.
I know Pain,
My closest friend.
I know Sorrow,
My dearest comfort.
I can not turn my back to the pain,
Nor to the sorrow.
They are my allies,
And yet, they are also my enemies.
I can not run from either,
But nor can I stay with them.
My heart is broken,
I know true agony.
For my friend, my mentor,
You are now the deceiver, the traitor.
I will walk this earth,
Bearing both pain and sorrow in my heart.
Nothing will ease my burdens,
For now I am the bearer of Agony's greatest triumph.
She couldn't live as a verse anymore,
She needed to be more than perfume on a pen,
more than a lovely dream for a hungry man,
to be touched beyond the torch
of twilight cool inspiration,
the Poet must give Her a body to behold,
to rescue Her from the curse
of a ghost feathered quill,
born of a bold blooded Angel
She will become Muse made warm woman real,
elegant as rose petal feel,
Her ancient thirst,
no longer slaked with ink of stellar burst,
the art of love will live
within the skin that She has suffered to win,
to parade through paradise
with a victor's pulse to survive,
Poet and Muse fused to sharpen
flame to flesh as lovers kiss the forbidden -
J.A.B.
I loved those trees,
limbs draped in plump wild grapes,
bursting with flavor on my tongue,
while juice stained my fingers.
Tall cottonwoods shadowed
the creek where we splashed—Sis,
brother, and I—and a giant sycamore
shaded Granddad's spring. We slaked
our thirst from the granite dipper
hung on a nail he'd hammered
into its trunk at kid level.
We watched water belch like corn,
rattling a popper lid, and ripple
over rocks in the streambed,
where minnows and crawfish
hid from prying fingers.
Hawk-eyed, we scouted
gnarled branches in the orchard
for ripening fruit, luscious and tangy,
spurting juice to drip off elbows.
Hazelnut bushes flourished
by the back fence; black walnut trees
shaded Grandmother's back porch.
Our uncles helped burst crack-jaw shells
with hand-held rocks on the stone slabs
stretching toward the gate.
I do not envy the children
whose play-field offers brick and concrete,
severe and naked, whose only fruit
blows down alleys and into streets,
as the refuse of city dwelling.
A burning golden river.
A thousand ember dots.
Whose endless waking slivers,
Hide liquid molten knots
A contented purring timbre
Of viscous weary rock,
Caught in eyes of amber
And weeping molten locks
Its ingot rivlet ripples
Wafting whispers in the air.
Its quaking thunder trickles,
Build shaking sunder mares
Brushing one another,
Aurus tears they bleed
Darkened flesh they smother,
In dripping gilded creed
Burning golden river,
A weaving flame no more
Dusty charred banks quiver
Slaked in starlit gore.
7/17/15
the aura, godspeed ahead.
her countenance more than slaked,
it’s heated and apple baked.
fifty-somethings march with time…
sue ellen’s court supporting their queen,
with fanfare tea parties and costumes to preen.
steeped in fanciful color, like a dream at seventeen.
friendship and euphoria, sisters, well-bred
primped in gowns, fedoras and blossom in purple and red.
Limerick : Once Meat-Eater met a Veg-Eater
Once Meat-Eater met a Veg-Eater
And they got along fine in summer
Who d’you think stopped rains
And dried up all the drains
Meat-Eater slaked thirst thanks to Veg-Eater
Then the snows from Kilimanjaro
Blizzard-driven chilled bones and marrow
Rare preys made themselves scarce
Even ants froze their ass
Whose bones Meat-Eater drained you needn’t know !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Near yet so far away from home
Spiced aroma of apples baked
Permeates with rich scent of loam
Near yet so far away from home
Emotions torn longing to comb
Be held close, anxiety slaked
Near yet so far away from home
Spiced aroma of apples baked
Written: January 14, 2015
Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World
Inspired by Rick's contest but not an entry..
the Medicare, an undeserved fund the patients spend,
which seems extremely excrescent,
must be crushed immediately without any mend.
No coverage serves them right! Be they gravely ill or convalescent.
In his favor, all the rules the Capitol shall bend,
prosecution immunity, business chance----each prerogative coming on end.
His flagrance in abuse of power, plus republicans' acquiescence, plunges to a state perversely putrescent,
in consequence, honest individuals wizened while tower of liar and mar-a-lago mire tumescent.
High as the staff's passions hit, perfectly as their patiences fit, more than half at last have to quit.
What has ground away every panjandrum's wit and grit?
His inopportune blah-blah and twitter tantrum bit after bit,
the latter a globe-mocked target and also, often a globe-shocking tool kit.
Atmosphere of allies only too calm and bland,
against them, with his single hand,
he stirs up trade wars amid the entire world's guffaws.
Prostrate shall be the security of homeland,
prostrate shall be the competence of diplomatic corps,
bolt upright frontier walls shall stand----
but stand only in his brain, which constantly bolts out lunatic lore.
Pants on fire, collars on fire, hard and fast is this refractory liar.
Really a refractory and prolific liar, really a refractory and lifetime liar,
boasting his lying score higher than the steepest steeple's spire,
never plans to retire, until one day he has to expire.
Nonsense the globalization trend, nonsense what the majority attend,
abandoning all oversea interests and renouncing all international duties are the cause he shall defend.
And the itinerary of isolationism, his pilgrimage route.
Endorsed by none, would he be alone? A point nothing moot.
Epiphanic from Roman catacombs, arms open, ecstatic and naked----an epiphany non-faked----
Nero comes up to embrace him grinnily, like a kindred spirit in long pursuit eventually slaked
acting as his soul mate cum his sole friend
and escorting him all along to his final end.
His final end, Nero's end, that's who could brazen out the mass hoot.
His final end, Hell's end, that's where he takes root.
When the steam rises in the morn,
sun hot on body like reading ****,
salt cakes on skin that drips and stinks,
it's time to eat fresh crops of corn.
Humid air chokes breath with fire,
journeys plague--the need to pump tires,
the search for shade goes unspoken,
just plop down, read what's on the wire.
Blossoms sag heavy with pollen.
Animals huddle to back pen.
Mint's refreshment settles sad mind
over ice splashed with gin in den.
Day to day drags heavy on bones.
Salt taken with ham and corn pone.
All is slaked by the mental dream
take cash, run away, don't mind loans.
Cool sea splashes and bared bodies
are as soul good as hot toddies.
Climb aboard your board, sole captain.
Surf's cool free as winning lottery.
9/12/2018