Best Sloped Poems
On Manhattan's West Side...
You descend ancient stairs
You've crossed the Drive
River Side Drive
Expect to float on air of beauty.
Cherry blossoms pink won't wink
They'll courtesy as you walk, jog, bike
Their fragrance light and airy
Suffuse each path paved smooth
Sloped path leads to arched cemented canopy
As ancient as view
The Hudson embraces you
A garden path with bright flowers
Will warm your heart
The young, the old, those in between
They live for such scenes
Sky, trees, mound overlooking New Jersey
The Hudson River is where I met my honey.
*
In draining sand I trace the line
the tide has made in bubbles, fine,
where scalloped wavelets sloped in foam,
halt the ocean’s wide roiling roam.
Pale seashells shimmer in bright sun
and tiny crabs sport sideways run;
whitecaps dancing, turquoise to green,
toss at my feet a glossed sea bean.
Solitude, loved quiet and calm,
give to my weary soul sweet balm.
The mornings that I stroll the beach
seem like heaven slips into reach;
I pause to rest on driftwood bench
drink in the sea, my soul thirst quench.
Copyright, August 21, 2016
Faye Lanham Gibson
The Footpath
To walk the old footpath with steady tread
Where mists and steep sloped hills obscure the view.
And see, along the way, inside my head
The ghosts of those dear friends whom once I knew.
Beyond aged trees and ancient field’s span,
Hidden horizons meet the distant sky
Where history has trod and changed the land,
To the free wind’s soft song and raptor’s cry
Along winding lane and fast flowing brook
Where playful child once found his destined way.
Age old hamlet or Autumn’s ripe corn’s stook
Where spirited youth spent too short a day.
Long past are those dear friends who trod those ways,
But forever the ancient footpath stays.
08/25/17
Was built a wall of loneliness
The blocks were made of hopelessness
No door, no gate, no openings
A moat within the inner ring
The sides sloped down to emptiness
Was kept away the happiness
With salty tears so copious
The songbirds cried and took to wing
Was built a wall of loneliness
The sky lay down in weariness
Grey clouds did tire of dreariness
So steep the walls no vine could cling
So cold the wall kept out the spring
All hearts cried out in brokiness
Was built a wall of loneliness.
26Mar14
He remembers when his many bolts
weren't ringed in rust,
and his seams weren't blackened
with years of grime and dust.
The post upon which he sat
was gray and weathered now,
and had become just slightly
west of plumb somehow.
The screw that held his little flag
had long ago come loose,
chipped and faded, no longer red,
it was of little use.
The driveway that he guarded
was dirt and deeply sloped,
and halfway down it gently curved
around a massive oak.
Now some might think that he'd be bored,
stuck there night and day,
but he found entertainment
in the things that came his way.
He pondered long and hard on things
before making up his mind,
there was no hurry, he reasoned,
when all you have is time.
He carefully watched a nest of ants
both day and night for weeks,
before he reached the conclusion
that ants must never sleep.
He marveled at the seasons
and loved both sun and snow,
but sometimes he felt beaten down
when the wind-whipped rain would blow.
He loved the feel of bird feet
when they used him as a perch,
and when a truck would rumble by
he'd feel his spirit lurch.
He delighted in the field mice,
and wept with the mourning doves,
was suspicious of the furry raccoons,
with their masks and leather gloves.
Though days and months and years went by,
and he was oft ignored,
his life of perfect stillness
was itself a rich reward.
So as we hurtle past him,
with our tires spitting rocks,
perhaps we could learn something
from our stoic old mailbox.
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
on the edge
of sloped hills
i stand alone
limbs outreached
longing for warmth
as i shiver
within this cold
december breath
i am bare
colorless
and numb
snapping within
from the weight
that hangs
like icicles
from branches
of soulless life
grounded
beside me
my shadow
is falling
more shallow
in these darker days
surrounding me
where i struggle
to flourish
my boughs
almost kissing
the soil
of twisted roots
already deadened
the raven
has landed again
to test the weight
of my faithful branches
only to see
if i will surrender
and succumb
to the valley below
as a lifeless figure
like those before me
i stand my ground
colorless, naked
and alone...
december 22, 2019
I am a tree poetry contest
Sponsored by Delilah Ventura
Venture advances, the future ... occurs,
the White Willow trees, best found by rivers
edge. Salix alba, and 'Tristis' means sad,
hence, 'Weeping', yet the essence seems to add
a picturesque of a draped graceful scene,
nay gloomy but most tranquil, and serene.
The whitish tones of the leaf's undersides
evolved the tree's name. A meter trunk, wide's,
diameter, thirty-meter stretch that
leans caused by sloped limbs that bring its Top Hat
tilted downward. A bow ... accentuates,
or curtsey, being a deciduous
tree, where the flower's genders grow distinct,
genteel parade cascades in white trimmed linked.
I BLEND A TALE FROM HUES
Hue of cobalt blue reigns quiet the sky,
The shining light from the sun
witnesses blend of stories,
sloped half in the solid ground is a home--
once a chandelier of love
shown out bright from jumping hues
painted forepart on the wall of the house.
Some trees lush with green leaves peeps
to this gray man bowing low.
They tell black and white tales that was once here.
Unto the ground are dusts, stones
gathered slow by blowing winds,
They bury somehow some sad memories
this land suffered long ago.
When will all beam a toned thought?
_______________________
Picture #2
©O.E. Guillermo
Contest: East Jesus
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
Placed: 5th
01:12 am, December 30, 2014
Hawk eyes
have never been so starved
heads hung binoculars slung
on sloped defeated shoulders
They file out of the woods and marsh
in silence like a funeral march
shuffling along
gathering at stations
With pause
with reverence
and tears
observing repentantly
the nests from last year
11.09.2019
Elemental dissonance
Poly-plated string guess
Depressive spine edge
Identity description cubed
Waterfalls negative score
Abyssal language drops
Hole numeral planification
Horizontal ship oval dust
Sea’s sloped gravitational
Octagon growth
Lack of facts and matter
Undertone course kaleidoscope
Particular perimeter blast
Empty can tomatoes
Protostar geometric syndrome
Indifferent neurotransmission
Necrotic wavelength voice
Breakfast experience lost
[Stone…stone…stone…stone…]
You wore a green shirt,
as I remember.
It was bright and lit up your eyes.
Your smile scrunched, your eyes narrowed
sweetly, like you knew what you were doing.
You sat to my left, I was scared,
nervous, not brave, but stunned
to a stammer, before I could ask you.
A simple drive, to pass the time;
soft cheeks, funny jokes, it
wasn’t so cold out but
winter hung over us like an outlook.
We hustled along, passed the parked
cars and up the sloped hill.
Honks spilled along the sidewalk’s sill.
I wish it had been you with me, along
the lonely walks I had walked once
alone.
Until you, not showed up, but
rolled in, like the wind does
while the seasons change,
like a green clue subsides to blue
or brown sounds drowning like summer
does to the autumn tides.
The seasons worry me, ‘cause they’re
not the only thing changing, everything
they stand for and bring herds and
burns the sensations left wasting.
They buy tickets and stamps and
long letters that will only get
lost in the translation or the
transition, which brought and formed
at the last meeting.
So I’ll greet you, smile, wave
drop you off, come pick you up,
carry your bags and brush away the
scuffs that you’ll inevitably bring back.
But I’ll be up, sometimes down, by the
corner we walked and talked out loud around.
Your arm over mine in the sun
shine, your face looks timeless like
broken hands snapped off of a clock,
ticking at the reunion that is the
next time we’ll see each other.
Something like one hundred days, nights, weeks,
months, yet less than a year. A
year I could do; without the shouts
we never said.
A year I’ll think about the white sheets
and the love songs, on the window
seat, laughing and writing lyrics with
our hearts. We both say at the same
time we wish it wasn’t happening but
the sad part, not the ending, has us coming
back to the same place, where I’ll see
your face again, walk in and sit to your right.
You’re wearing a green shirt,
as I remember.
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening
To waltz’s, by Strauss. (Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)
His shitter was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights
When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see, what was the matter
So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His ass in a hole
On his forehead, a frown
He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ass
Then flat on his back
His bare ass in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow
Poor Santa had landed
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof
Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night
The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof flaps
Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming
Fly Dancer, fly Vixen
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This ****, Ja was fixin
Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way
Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS by JA 18
“Look deep into nature and you’ll understand everything better.”
Albert Einstein
I stood on the sloped path near the waterfall.
Mesmerised by the sound of falling water.
All around grew green-leafed ferns,
While tall poplars and redwoods provided
Ample shade that covered the running stream.
Tall purple pickerel plants, scarlet cardinal plants,
Everything contributed to a sublime, picturesque sight.
A symphony of sounds emanated completely around.
Frogs croaked in great abundance, jumping in and out,
Of the clear stream where fish swam toward the sea.
And all around, busy bees fluttered over exotic flowers,
Where nectar provided them with such sweet nourishment.
Placed 1