Best Smolders Poems
Heroes
When need arises they rise up in every town
No matter the toll it takes, they just carry on,
But not everyone will recognize who they are
For heroes of the town don't have name-tags on.
No one sings their praises in course of their deeds
To make a difference quietly they proceed
As if the music to their song is not yet composed
For lyrics, though written, have not been disclosed.
Don't search far and wide to see this phenomenon
Just look at human actions in their simplest form,
Like a mother who wakes up at stroke of every dawn
To care for her kids since the day they were born.
A father who toils daily to send his kid to college
Waiting to hug his child on the day of graduation,
And a teacher who delivers gladly gift of education
Working for low wages never seeking recognition.
Fighting fires in the neighborhood or in the wild
A fireman saves a child's life but dies before his time,
And a policeman who dies at the scene of a crime
Leaves young family behind at height of his prime.
A doctor who spends all night to save a man's life
When no one is at home to care for his sick wife,
And a brick layer who works in the heat of summer
To construct a pathway for the rest of us to walk over.
A child who didn't know how to use the phone
Saves grandma's life getting through the dial tone,
And a captain in the army dies to save fellow soldiers
While his young family left behind silently smolders.
Heroes everywhere fight challenges that are rife
They reside among us uplifting every walk of life.
November 20, 2017
Placed 1st: Heroes
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Strand choice V contest by Brian Strand
Imagine someone watching you
who wants you for his own
Imagine in the catacombs, a secret plan is honed
It echoes with a wounded heart
of someone so alone
He hides his shame behind a mask, that smolders, but is cold
Look beyond the chandelier that blinds you in the eye
Can't you see him lurking there, while waiting in disguise
If only you could see in him
a face that isn't cold
Behind the mask he wears for you,
a man has lost his soul
Search beyond the mask he wears and look into his eyes
Be wary of the rendezvous that he will fantasize
If only he was more than just a phantom of your dreams
If only you could find in him a promise to believe
Don't be betrayed by what appears to be for you alone
But be afraid, a million tears are hidden in the stones
He'll tell you from the very start, to search beyond the scars
He'll hide from you that you are meant to be his secret star
Sing to him your aria….. But don't forsake your heart!
If you believe he'll set you free, he'll tear your dreams apart
Sing to him of love, Christine! Sing to the rafters high
The chandelier will shatter then, into a million cries!
If you plead to him of broken dreams, you'll need to tell him lies
Sing about another love, but be prepared to die!
Sing your song of love, Christine,
it is sorrow you have found
Sing to him your aria…….. then, slowly watch him drown
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11/17/16
Contest: "Phantom of the Opera"
Sponsor: The Seeker
Poor Little Boy Lost plays a game of peekaboo
Pretending everything in his world is well
Spoiled was his plan for organizing a coup
and now he hopes none of his friends can tell
that he's been evicted as some had predicted
Biding his time, twiddling his thumbs in a cell
The entry door is locked. It's safe and secure
He's a cast away... on the outside, looking in
How much longer can he possibly endure
Is Little Boy Lost maybe missing kith and kin?
No one is listening to his babble and prattle
He wears the sorrowful look of sad chagrin
There was another sighting, just yesterday
when again he knocked on the playroom door
Not being allowed entry is the price to pay
for returning seeking praise with another encore
Bitterness smolders inside the blighted apple
where the wiggling worm is rotting the core
He was dragged off stage by the dreaded hook
No longer can he read his script in the limelight
because of the low road and wrong turns he took
A playground should not be a place meant to fight
Kiddies there have been getting along very well
Apologies, Little Boy Lost should be made to write
Words in italic by Angeline Lim
Words in regular font by Timothy Hicks
Hydrangea blues
blooming in seven colors
versatile at heart
Storm clouds in a tantrum and yet
the rainbow
Gently wipes away a facade
reveals a layer
hidden within
Pretty just like yesterday
red-hot pokers
Playing fireworks
on lovers' palates
scintillating senses
The shared spaghetti noodle
growing shorter
Sunlight fading
into a sweet dream
aromatic Osmanthus
'tween the slits of enclosed fingers
flashes of a firefly
Smolders of passion
unfolding within
Chrysanthemum mysteries
Instead of the bee
her tender touch
Frozen fixture
all the yellow once in the field
now in the moon
Aesthetic display
of a crystallized Rose quartz
The snowy hills
at this time a strange warmth
morning blush
Purplish Crocuses
pop their cheerful heads up kisses blown
Thinking himself
to be King Arthur
startled butterflies
Surprised Tulips
opening lips with an exclamation
August heat!
there goes the evidence
of the snail
Spiraling down a Corkscrew vine
into a time portal
P.S. Haven't been on lately ... hope all is well with everyone :)
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
Her red dress
Pressed
To that beautiful black skin,
She looks like a forest fire
Racing up a mountain top
Burning up
She cannot stop
Her wild curves
Engulfed in flames.
She smolders
In a corner
Of the ballroom,
My eyes,
Like two emptied water glasses
On a tray,
Gliding by
On the shoulder
Of a much younger waiter.
You knocked, and I opened the door of my life
The welcome mat to my heart took in your first steps
You crossed the threshold and my strong foundation weakened with the weight of your words, your touch, your kiss
When you held me, all my broken pieces melted together
As we entertained the thought of being together
An emotional bond built on trust fueled a desire we couldn’t deny
While storms raged outside, threatening to wreck our world
I lay in bed wondering if you will come back to me
Two lovers denied the night, stealing moments in their days
A fire still burns inside of me, the glow of passion smolders deep within
You occupy the rooms of my soul yet I feel so abandoned
A house whose walls hold secrets not meant for others to hear
We left the doors and windows wide open
The breeze whispers through, echoing your name
The clock on the wall still chimes as time marches on
If I could stop it, I would, just for one more moment with you
It’s a place I visit often, but it’s not the same without you there
Beyond the skills of escorts
and the appeal of other playthings,
smolders the need of the soul
infused to best every man.
Twelve years have taken
the scars out of the memories,
from the last time I was
up and through
just to come down and out
to find every fairy tale
extends it’s hand
to some tragedy.
The odds don’t warrant
the time of practical effort.
Too keen to the liabilities,
always calculating ends.
It is not the demands of over
or having to start something new
rather, better to remain alone
than to be let down again.
But now I see you,
and it makes me pause
so still, with the whisper --
Are you sure?
Falls into a deafening singularity
forbidding even a scream, it’s escape.
I sit and can only see
the touch of Heaven
reaching across the Caribbean
to color your face.
As your smile holds the songs
of every dawn’s temptress,
under the soft disposition
of your eyes
rests a divine spirit’s symmetry,
smoothing features
while lensing each strand
the perfect frame.
That once moved a favored King
to murder a man, only to bring
the sword into his own house.
Enabled an army to take
a strong city with just one horse.
And enslaved the envy of Venus
to sharpen leaden arrows,
but fury slipped her hands
and bled her wrists out.
Blood clotted on the cold muck
of her grave, a suffocating cocoon.
Immersed the viewer becomes,
and timeless the window
of the heart that is God’s craft,
denying the deceiver’s forgery
of any singed carnality.
As if proximity has been given
within the mist of your perfume,
in just this one picture
of your face.
Hate Is Not A Crime
I have hated
still bear the scars
that caused the hate
and the scars of hating
those who caused the hate.
I know the darkness
of my hate, its futile
longing to be freed
from it’s sordid legacy.
I fear the demons
it holds at bay
in a molten ball
of raging regret.
I have honed the edges
of my hate, cast the sword
heavenward into
an empty sky
Yet the forge still
smolders, new blades glow
reddened-hot
in the flush of feeling’s
lingering lunacy.
My hate gave power
to too small hands,
purpose to an
uncomprehending mind,
fever to a dying spirit.
The healing power of hate -
the purified
cauterization of
un-healing wounds.
For hate was all I had
and hate is not a crime.
5/19/2017
submitted to – Catharsis – Poetry Contest
Born of winter's snow and gentle spring rain
Remembering Willow Pond, where our dreams begin
Where wild geese swim, then fly away again
Beneath shaded coves, where other lovers have been
The fragrant smell of earth, green moss and peat
Where tangled grass and weeping willows lean
A crumbling bank, where cattails wash their feet
Our blanket spread upon the meadow green
Our campfire glows, playing flirting games
Ashes drift like feathers, smoke curls into the air
Burning embers, teasing flickering flames
And love smolders warm, a kiss in the evening fair
Trees sway and swoon along the bank
Leaves flutter in gentle evening wind
With each breath of warm summer breeze
It brushes my cheek, as daylight ends
Willow pond, the place where love came alive
We loved....under the stars of the twilight skies
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Water/Earth/Fire/Wind For Barbara's contest
Laying stiff inside the dark-
Unseen terror makes its mark-
Coming through the silent pain-
Happy aura now to drain-
No reaction left to scream-
Only horror inside this dream-
But hold my hand and I’ll take away-
All the pain I promise won’t stay-
And give you peace through embracing arms-
And won’t give in to Satan’s harms-
The world now lays on your shoulders-
Broken embers inside you smolders-
From head to toe makes you tremble-
Hopes to make you break and stumble-
But hold my hand and I’ll take away-
All the pain I promise can’t stay-
And give you peace through embracing arms-
And I won’t give in to Satan’s harms-
Now hold my hand and come away-
In this place we don’t need to stay-
Let’s share our peace through our embracing arms-
Away from the world and Satan’s harms-
Written: September 26, 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 39 Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
“However authentic the feelings of love, the dalliance was only ever meant to be a beautiful fiction” - Esther Perel.
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Dot dabbles during dangerous dalliance
As souls are enticed by seductive affiance.
A narrative about forbidden temptation.
Shine smolders sway—a sensuous sensation.
A cynosure silver shimmer under the moon.
Flickers of fantastical fantasy foster flow foon.
Two spirits intertwined in a pointless game.
They are fettered by—an overwhelming tame
A vortex of enthusiasm is sparked at first sight.
They can't defy the diaphanous magnetic excite.
Akin to how moths are lured to a perilous flame.
Prance frolicking on the cusp of a lethal game.
Dalliance, desire, ecstasy, and temptation.
For flirtation as feuds on frame of foundation.
Consider consequences and clashes with zeal.
And yet—the flames are often fanned by feel
In the gloominess, they sneak a sparkling touch.
Nimble hearts are trapped in a harmful slouch.
Bootlegged, beleaguered blaze both breaths.
As they succumb to love's intoxicating depth.
Demure whispers of wariness swirl in the air.
But elixir zeal evolves with each stolen stare.
They cognize the danger—the risk they convey,
Yet they cannot resist the love they display.
Emollient hearts hid, akin to vines in the night.
Igniting an afire that smolders ever so bright
Their bodies entwined—they pranced in the gloom.
Strayed sprightliness that swaddles to assume
Realizing sequels and the agony they trigger
But they cannot outlast this forbidden rigor.
They breathe on the edge—with hearts ablaze.
In a world where forbidden temptation plays
But time is a lousy tutor—it can't be denied.
And soon their dalliance will no longer hide.
The world will decry their ephemeral affair.
And their felicity will be furtive, beyond repair.
My limbs unlax,
stress leaking from my body and
collecting like a basin of a
candle’s freshly melted wax;
One inhale of the plastic casket,
which burns judgingly in my back pocket,
is enough to dredge up the relaxation
my dreary, dramatic life has lacked,
smacking me in my temples
with a dopamine-injected hand.
An inhale, a flurry of smoke,
smolders holes in my lungs
until it constricts and chokes
me, until its disguised benignant nature
reveals its true form;
Stimulants create my deliquesce,
allowing my brain much-needed bliss,
but in a fine, descript disclaimer
written in purposefully disappearing ink, it’s
benevolence whispers addiction.
Should I disregard
what other people think or,
balanced on the brink, maintain
a thin-veneered façade?
Where shall I store,
how shall I keep,
the poetry I must write
but cannot show--
that which smolders deep
and threatens to erupt?
Must I lock it all
securely in a box,
store it high upon a shelf
where none are wont to go?
Would it be likely to corrupt
the innocently unaware?
Should I, at least,
pretend to care?
Might not I plunge into the mob,
joining others of this ilk...
should it be my job
to preach, now the day
has finally been reached --
to walk alone in open air,
free from fear of full disclosure?
Would my revelations stir
those who taunt, who hate?
Might not their spate of hurtful words,
and worse, prompt my avoidance of
the fate they threaten,
encourage my reluctance to unmask?
And may I be moved, instead,
in surly tones, to ask
who made them my judge and jury?
Just scrap metal in your bellow?
Is your pedal, mellowed old?
Poor old friend, you've lost your wheels
You dream in color, of rubber burning,...
where coughed exhaust, was left behind.
Now we're lost, two junk yard pals
Relics, that have rusted time.
Just a pile of dented fenders,
suspended… here, in desert sand.
Jammed and stacked, we'll make a pact
perhaps the two of us can make a dime.
A part of you, a part of me.....perhaps they'll make some artsy thing
Snap, crackle, hot and Popular Mechanic,
They should come and fix us up
Woe is you! You junk yard dog,
something smolders in your trunk!
Smells of socks, perhaps a skunk?
Once so dandy, someone's bug
Not so handy, you can't move.
How many horses, under that hood...?
I would push you if I could !
Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours
I'd paint you blue, and paint you bright,
If I could, to set you right
New transmission, lubed and oiled
Anti freeze to make you sneeze
Honest Engine, we'll get our kicks,
I'll fix you up, and grab the stick
Headin' down Route 66........
Get off me blockhead......we are fixed !
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12/10/14 For The "East Jesus" contest: Image number 5
Sponsored by Roy Jergen