Best Slow Poems
I want to
I really do
I want to walk the walk
But I have a limp
Hobbled by all the things I think
There seems to be more than one missing link
On the beach of life, I try stepping softly but still I sink
I want to
I really do
I want to talk the talk
But I'm afraid, fifty shades of grey times two
How do I know if what I believe is true?
Will it be evidenced by the things I do?
Or in the end will I be influenced by you?
Walking and talking
It's just not enough
I need to relinquish all my inner stuff
Allowing myself to be weak instead of tough
For if God works in mysterious ways
Everything leads to the end of days
So instead of walking and talking my hands I'll raise
With voice and heart I will give God praise
If I allow Jesus to love me
He will guide my walk
He will permeate my heart and the way I talk
My inner softness he will surely unlock
His words not mine will become my rock
it's not about doing
It's more about being
His way, is the way of helping and seeing
By letting Him lead, it will be more freeing
The more I witness the more I'll be believing
Walking and talking but more importantly listening!
Inspired by Debbie Guzzi's contest but not for the contest.
I'm in me bath here, with a box of red cheer,
yeah a box of red cheer, beer's too bloody dear.
Me mind's wanderin twixt big **** and riches,
bein able to scratch at what itches,
without scratchin the bum out your britches.
If they think you got what,
they'd rather they'd got,
mate, hang onto your hat,
they'll bloody take that.
That girl in black tights, so jam-packed with delights,
nights full of delights in them slow movin tights.
She's not, like Jacko reckons, a whore.
Wouldn't lie on me bare wooden floor.
Christ, I did nothin to get to be poor.
And you can't pay what's due
so your creditors sue?
Funny old world, not half.
But good for a laugh.
I can't help but hear next door's shoutin and tears,
all their shoutin and tears, I can hear em from here,
through the stem of me glass on the wall.
Pray to God he don't hit her at all.
I'm half pissed and spliffed and I never could brawl.
But I stand in the queue,
for a place in the zoo.
Heard you shouldn't have pride.
They wouldn't have lied.
A party's upstairs but I can't breathe their airs.
I won't breathe their airs, them there upstairs.
So I fill the bathroom with me smoke.
All those girls shaggin some other bloke.
I just lie here and soak and suck in me toke.
What's it like not to do
what your needs need you to,
to beg borrow or steal,
to make stuff come real?
I hear downstairs' soul hit his lavatory bowl.
That porcelain bowl gets the whole of his soul,
as I wring out the bladder of red.
All the sweetest of girls, Jacko said,
have big whites to their eyes that aint never've bled.
There aint nothin so nice
as those whitest of whites
on rich girls
with sweet arses
in slow movin tights.
We drifted not far from shore -
a delicate night with supple air entire,
black and white until patience sent us grays
that rocked with the boat on the slight swells
which gradually reflected the star colors
azure and indigo, carmine and beryl,
sang to us in laurel and rose
verdant with coral and mint
emeralds peeking between pinks,
sapphires that told us of every prayer
ever whispered to them.
I was coming a long way back
that time in the empty park
where all I had were fears that I'd never heal.
In an instant it was all done and I was found
that day I saw your eyes.
The moon set in silence beyond the land.
A gentle wind turned the boat to the south.
Distant rain sent water washing the earth.
Just for a moment we touched the surface of all things.
I love you.
February 23, 2017 147 words
if every breath taken, found
the harmony of yours,
and suddenly paused
- leaving me
breathless,
like
a melody,
tender and slow
- stay in this silence
while our love does overflow,
into a delicate symphony, as
the composure of us
- becomes soft, sensual
seductive and
low
------------------------
A Passionate Scribble
~ Lingering in Soft and Slow Moments ~
As I slow dance with memories ,
haunting dreams of you gently glide through the grand halls of my mind.
Where you held me close in loving arms, their warmth I did find.
Fingertips play my heartstrings as you told me I belong.
As I slow dance with memories to a never ending song.
Two hearts that beat as one to the rhythm of love soft and low.
Memories of the night pirouette 'neath a lovers moon that glow.
You held me oh so close as our eyes did meet.
Tender kisses shared from lips so warm and sweet.
Fingertips play my heartstrings as you told me I belong.
As I slow dance with memories to a never ending song.
Since you . . .
I go to bed; you’re on my mind
and I can’t sleep a wink
Sun rises, and all day long it’s about
our time together that I think
You smile at me and all my woes
vanish in a blink
My dusk seems painted more now
in violet and pink
Your kisses are the sweet red wine
so eagerly I drink
My body moves next to yours . . .
we’re utterly in sync
With you as my muse, my pen
keeps running out of ink!
My heart so overflows with joy
you’ve brought me to the brink . . .
If your love were water,
my heart would be a wonderfully
s l o w s l o w sink
A Slow Hand, Deep Thoughts And True Pen
Each time I write of my crashed hopes and dreams
mind falls into black-depths, sends cold shivers.
Tempted to falsely praise my misdeeds and schemes
I return to my vow, embracing realm of true givers.
Such leaning towards positive and the good
once was abhorrent, not in my prideful style.
When lightning bolts struck me as they should
I found my life was a massive rubbish pile.
With pen and paper I then sought truth to tell
of life, love, loss and darkness once embraced.
O' yes, I did not hide my parades in hell
nor innocent young life I once so disgraced.
Years flew by and age gave its usual aches
far too oft, I swore to give my poetry up.
Darkness whispered, take well deserved breaks
porch lounge sit, empty thy hot coffee cup.
Ah, but my muse, she heard and was not amused
up she bolted, screaming like a raving banshee.
Reminded me of my past, my life I had so abused
what a coward I would be if I now sought to flee.
Pen in hand and regretful of my wasted past
I write to send some light and truth boldly tell.
Praying some good comes, a few words may last
redeem myself from youthful days dancing in hell.
8-21-2017
( Seek to do good and watch as darkness flees )
Slow hand
Drizzle coats the billboard
sitting on that desolate stretch of highway
waiting for someone to read
or at least hide behind, parked car, back seat
steamed windows, sighs just above a holler,
a collar unbuttoned,
casual abundance with the radio on
seeking a Clapton tune
as nimble fingers
show the difference between a slow hand
and a destined position,
where rain doesn’t matter
because it is just as wet inside
though hotter than an August day,
perspiring in the friction
when love hits the four way flashers
blinkers accelerate, left, right, faster,
names are called, tears are cried
and the road home now beckons
just as advertised . . .
for days unending and hours slow
Where we stand,
these distant shores
beneath a moonlit canopy,
stardust shimmers gather
on hibiscus tides whispering hello
as long walks take soft turns
leaving destined footprints
on my mind,
wandering lost in coastal desires…
I think of you,
toes in the sand,
feeling the waves caressing
this island dream, this wish
for days unending and hours slow
while lips ignite passions
reflecting on faraway horizons,
tempting fingers,
exploring nature’s endless bounties,
bronze skin sensuality…
Enchanted by a smile, a voice
a touch, softly lingering
like the silent surf,
quietly beckoning in amorous patterns
as we lie on cool shores,
drenched in an evening
made for only two,
writing love poetry on a beach
we now call our own…
Good night Soupers
Your eagle-plumed lips breathe:
hold on to my angel-flying heart,
bite the unbroken
bone of my wing,
...and I succumb to your enticing heat,
O, to be free in your feverish flame ~
the humble fall of hope into
the sun-calmed kiss of your sea,
learning to move
and muse amidst the mystery
as I heed the slow sink
of mundane minutes
into splitting silence,
leaving no note of music,
as darkness dissolves
like the deepening daf
of an ancient ache ~
for whirling waves resemble
dervish devotees,
intoxicated by euphoric ecstasies…
But would you, the divinely placed
speaker of light and fate ~
still love my scarred swell
if, perhaps, you saw
the unavoidable ugliness
of unintentional uninterestedness ~
the failure to seek the sun that hides
when wakeful stars scintillate,
perhaps too reluctant to romanticize
anything that warms the sky
besides the saffron of golden dawn?
I am too tired to test the tides,
to see where they crash.
I am too torn to tease
and treat tribes
of tactful treachery with tolerance…
Take me as I am ~
I am the pursuer and the escaper,
the possessor and the possessed,
the wilderness and the peace,
the destruction and the dream,
constantly pushing and pulling,
learning to normalize
being the siren adrift
amidst aquatic angst ~
So wade with me, O oceanic nomad,
someday we will no longer be
just you and I,
but crooning currents
drawn only to the
magnetic magic of the mermaid moon;
we will rise as
Moirai mystics,
dancing with destiny,
engrossed in life’s pulsing peridots,
devouring Pele’s passion…
We were never meant
to conquer the chaos,
but to candidly claim the clemency
of rippling pearl blooms…
I am an island of love
that is yours truly ~
***Inspired by the artwork; The Sea Maiden, 1894
Herbert James Draper
star-swept with
soft blushing blooms ...
this slow sink ,
swathes my henna heart
with deep mauve hues ...
as I fall into the frostbitten lake
mispronouncing ~
the marmoris of metaphors
that were meant
to burn with magic ,
where the soulmate of poetry
breaks within the tears of sunset ~
sipping sighs of sorrow
from the crystal sky ,
that leaks loneliness
through the cracks of
liquid lilacs and lavender light ,
because there seems to be
no translation for the
language of love
that weaves woes
from warm wisteria
instead of blossoming
in coffee-scented chiffons
moulded into origami orchids ~
without any creases
and I wear no name
in the absence
of your ablaze august ashes …
read me swiftly
orchestrating in
the blackcurrant tattoos
breathing ... in tributaries
stretching to
the silent traces of trauma ,
twinkling with
turquoise and turpentine
for, I am not alive ~
but the seas still crash
the swollen shadows in my ribs ,
kissing the fallen sun …
that ebbs and flows …
through violets
of vaporising violas
like an incensed inferno ,
uncensored with ultraviolence
escaping the delirious doom
within driftwood dreams …
I want you ~
to not speak to me
so in affection
in this sparkling satanic siesta,
because poetry
has forevermore been
my saviour and my slaughterer ~
that leaves me …
drifting with the flow ,
in exile … evermore …
chained with
moonstone cobwebs
of confused consciousness
and conversing cryptics ~
befogged with gaslit goldens
laced with forest greens,
where verses wander
like a villain ,
withering
in emeralds …
listen, O velvet ink,
longing to be
r e
s c u
e d …
Little as a mountain can be,
near waters calm and an idling breeze.
Inland wheatfields sun on ears,
expanding 45 gallon cans suppressed echoes hear.
Semi's engine drone all day to the railhead clear,
sweat running on flesh like honeyed tears.
Sweet and fetid the elder scent
canvas hats the horizon swimming and bent
mealy lung invading dryness thick,
creaking timberd floor and a rustling''quick''
then quietude..as a sunbeam falls,
on wheat shed door and cobwebbed wall.
Corralled Beneath A Slow Sink Of Half-Moons
{ After: Section LXIX of Memoriam by Tennyson}
An angel of soft and wanted touch,
she delivers, serenity in tow;
can this sunken vessel proclaim, as much,
agreeing to lift the pain from my soul!
Will this humble plea root within your heart,
shall acceptance grant the gift of joyous song?
Chilled, my spirit dreads another false start,
corralled beneath a slow sink of half-moons?
My angel, my heart, I have deep desires.
Could you deny that ever blessed meal
by roasting my frailty upon hell's fires-
would your beloved healing, hands, my soul feel?
Hearing now this saddened desperate plea,
fearing not, your hand reach to comfort me
Robert J. Lindley, 2-07-2016
Debbie Guzzi's , 6/6/6 Challenge
First poem, Beginning of the Line Rhyme Sonnet.
Note: A new sonnet dedicated to this short excerpt--
In Section LXIX of In Memoriam, Tennyson dreams an
allegorical angel who may or may not be the transformed Arthur Hallam:
I found an angel of the night;?
The voice was low, the look was bright;?
He look’d upon my crown and smiled:??
He reach’d the glory of a hand,?
That seem’d to touch it into leaf:?
The voice was not the voice of grief,?
The words were hard to understand.
You are a mild hesitation, generating bold question.
In your bed, under cover, you become a distracted lover.
In your heart of emotion, say -- am I your slightest notion?
A simple walk with you endangers my penciled, perfect view.
With fists, I attempt holding all that uncertainty flies
before looking in your eyes of such vague, scattered tries.
Am I your any place … does my touch leave any trace?
Gray skies, sad sighs and sensual thrills vary heat of will.
My desire to see truth yearn, stretches to see you turn.
Gentle lavender-laced, fancy dreams hang on low rafters.
They offer ease of capture - now winds may lay them blown
cause your cupid air dancers twirl aloof in passion’s cologne.
Do gray skies, sad sighs and sensual thrills tarry now to kill?
In your heart of emotion, do you stir honesty’s notion?
A simple walk with you endangers my penciled, perfect view.
Am I your any place …. do you see precious on my face?
You are a mild hesitation, generating bold question …
and, baby, I’m a slooow burn, baby,
I'm … just a slooow burn.
Ripples shadow-sway across waves, casting gray over days.
Vague gauze designs play tag inside multi-mazed blinds.
Feeling comes and goes, slides and grows, I’m tossed ..........
you twist, but -------
..… mostly I’m a slooow burn.
My summer break. . . I’ve slept in late;
I wake to find a yellow glare
of sunshine through my open blinds.
And night of rain has left me heir to lethargy,
for once I’m dressed,
I barely make it down each stair.
I trudge out to the patio
to lounge in my umbrella chair.
I cannot sit there very long.
My clothes stick to me everywhere.
Humidity has made her play
for Mr. Sun, and their affair
is heating up to maximum.
Their passion now has robbed my air.
Listlessly I rise to strip
down to bra and underwear;
I figure since the yard is fenced,
what the heck! My top I’ll bare.
I set the sprinkler on me too
and sit, eyes closed, without a care.
I hear a sound; next thing I know
my eyes meet those of a frightened stare.
Giggling comes from above my fence
while I grab a shirt to hide my “pair.”
In air so slow, the boy runs fast,
and as he flees, I’m well aware
that I just played a major role
in neighbor boys’ Truth or Dare!
(by the way, pure fiction, did I fool anyone?)