Best Smoothing Poems
In swoon ‘neath golden moon and sable sweep
let bathe with hues upon my canvas soak
romance a mingle, brush and pigment sweet,
enrapture me your passion’s hungry stroke
explore an aura, fluid colors blur
imbue the skies of empty eyes a soul,
in deepest purple daubs a midnight stir
as lover weaves a dream to make me whole
caress the edge to fuse desire and shapes
lay a layer one atop the other
a throb of contrast, feelings free to traipse,
smoothing over yearnings with a flutter
starlit glaze and silky graze artistic
awaken chroma crave for drama shades,
mood’s aglow, aroused and optimistic
before the painter’s lusty palette fades.
Susan Ashley
April 7, 2020
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand No 1165 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 5
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Standard Contest: Your Fave Poem 2020 Not Written For A Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Snow falling—
Falling.
Feathers escaping from the pillow-heaven
Confusing the air
With the steadiness of a stampede
Advancing, clinging, smothering.
Snow falling—
Settling.
White fleecy lambs atop every protrusion
Sleek ermine boas
Draped upon the naked arms of nature
Bare of their green velvet capes.
Snow falling—
Drifting.
The spatula of wind
Smoothing mounds of marshmallow frosting
Billowy swirls
Of whipped immaculate splendor.
Snow falling—
Burying.
Obscuring the drab tired earth
Her deep wounds of time
Dissolving shadows of other seasons
That Spring may arise again.
Meeting my homegirls Wilma Neels
and Kim Van Breda with shrieks and squeals
hasty introductions and we're on our way
for a night of reading at Poetry Café
We've Yasmin to thank for arranging the meet
with fellow Soupers, a veritable treat
Yasmin the sneak had their names withheld
we're apprehensive yet still by curiosity propelled
My fingers are crossed to meet Eileen
fave poetess mine, the Passionate Queen
dare I wish to meet hamsome Ryerson
not to mention Anne-Lise Andresen?
On first glance the café seems somewhat rowdy
from one of the corners a chorus of "Howdy!!!"
heaven help!! I'm rooted to the spot
all my fave poets from the Souper pot
The Queen of Passion, my special friend
Eileen Ghali, an angel heaven-sent
with open arms and that beguiling smile
that's touched us all over thousands of miles
I spot our Father Christmas, Jackie Ellison
Oh my, mercy me, the hamsome Tim Ryerson
then the beautiful being, Anne-Lise Andresen
and our pretty young doll, Anne Poetess Currin
Andrea, crack writer and popcorn freak
and Nette Onclaud, Madame Linguistics
the talented and sweet Leonora Galinta
oh, for a long time I've longed to meet her
There's the much-loved Reach-Out Lamoureux
a stylish gentleman, delighted to meet you
our very own Linda who happiness spreads
memorable the day as Brown Licia meets Red
He who writes poetry with a golden pen
bestest, fantasticest, hamsomest friend
Rich-Heart Seal-ed Door, my bruv from abroad
by his smile I'm bowled over; by his charm I am awed
I'm jumping with joy at my fave poets meet
befuddled, bewildered; who first to greet?
midst the mountain of talent I'm on a positive high
overwhelmed, I simply break down and cry
This one needs a whole lot of polishing and smoothing
out, but I was too excited to submit it. I'll iron out the
crinkles soon. LOVE TO YOU ALL, LICIA
Today was a good day
Today he walked on legs unbent
And erect spine of a man intent
On stilling the cacaphony of monotony
And smoothing the callouses of convalescence
For today, we both forgot
The wasting rate this cancer's wrought
Today, he teased and squeezed and poked
Fun at his trademark old school jokes
Laughter's remembered warmth evoked
Today he drove his rattling truck
His feet sure on the pedal's pump
And carried boxes of tradebooks and tools
With hands that know weighted control
Today, without a splint or cane
He tamed steps of receding pain
Today, through a briefly calm sea
He is the man he used to be
So today, I can foresee
The luxury
When days like these
Are ordinary.
1/23/21
Often I harken back
to a very wise poet,
how “life is but a stage”
of tender moments
splashed and splattered
by fierce jabs of passionate
heated rage
such opera the workings of
fallible human hearts~ such a
masterful organ still an infant
unwinding with tyrannic-like
stops and starts
Where would poetry be
without feeling words
and colorful flourishes?
Where? Without reckless splashes
on canvas wall and trampled over
floor – saturated flamboyant
brushes ever mixing and dabbing
seeking and grabbing smoothing and
rubbing out fillings satisfying
while definitions left
spatially wanting
for the poet draws as he writes
from wells deeper tributaries distant
less regulated winding streams of uncoagulated self
seeing one's soul somewhere between ignorance
and all knowing ever greater for its never finding
ever seeking ever flowing
Indeed “life is but a stage,”
every breath a potential scripted
unscripted page every exhale a new dissolve
for the air to take hold of and fly with
Never cheat ambient emotion
of heights and potential lows
Never set passion wastefully adrift
let the spirit give full body a heartfelt
push into uncharted always somewhat
perilous yet marvelous revealing lift–
yogi comes first
my old companion burr-backed hearth-warmed
his peat-dark spring fur shedding summer’s presence
he lies on the fireplace rug squirrel-dream naps
muzzle silvered as a frost-split hickory post
a soft whine mute devotion
shadowing me keeping a keen watch
honest kind sportive soul
glued to my side even in sickness
another briar-choked ridge
to crest
hunter and chocolate lab
and then gurty
sovereign aloof moon-milk calico-born riddle
velvet paws and stealthy grace
a small Athenian goddess of the numinous
who appears vanishes wistful-eyed
moon fragment star-salt morning breeze
she prowls each rooms edge dust-mice
soft-footed serene indifferent
granting affection, rationing light
withheld offered only the queen knows
a small sheathed killer
making the world right
by choosing not to strike
between them household diplomacy
two philosophies sharing sunbeams
a duet of difference
two cultures thickening smoothing
yogi with his fawning tail-drunk joy
gurty with her vigilance her whisker-quiver
reading each moment for oneness
he presses close
she circles observing rubbing
a synthesis of presence
unconditional
i have seen her groom herself
in the soft ritual of sandy-tongue washing
and him pause trustful patient
her calm steadying him
i have watched them soften
the sandpaper-and-silk
collision
become friends family belonging
where the good life abides
night settles
they lie in parallel lives at my feet
yogi breathing his gentle snore
gurty a moon fragment curled in thought
and i smile loosen breathe
mercy can curl or bound
love a dog’s warm flank-heat
a cats purring sovereign gaze
and the small miracle
of both choosing the same rug
in the same
deepening hour
sweet yo-gurt
Feeling the desolation, of smothering air
Hemmed in by crowds; the obliqueness of fear
Throng of the city and no sight of the sun
Incessant noise and the desire to just run.
And I drive.
Arterial routes clogged by metal and wheels
Schizophrenic drivers living others ideals
Neon and lights sizzling the sides of the streets
Marketing signage, greed’s consumer receipts.
And I drive.
White picket fences, roses, and manicured lawns
Ridiculous box housing, erected for ludicrous pawns
Playgrounds, big supermarkets, cafes and parks
Sprawling suburbia with its pools built by sharks.
And I drive
Warehouses dispensing the needs of the hordes
Industrious factories like cash castles of lords.
Sawmills busily feeding more desecration of land
Refuse collection sites completely sterile and bland.
And I drive.
Ten-acre barons on frivolous bundles of dirt
Escaping urbanity in the unproductive outskirts.
Postage stamp fields supporting ponies and kids
While toffee nose parents sit in ultra posh digs.
And I drive
Paddocks of cattle dispersed through productive farmland
Shiny new tractors with men toughened and tanned
Marshmallow hay bales pimple the face of the ground
Irrigators urinate on earth until drowned.
And I drive.
Magnificent mountains covered in beckoning trees
Clear running streams and whispering breeze
Wild flowers gently waving as robins flit all around
Radiant true colours and smoothing calm sounds.
And yes I am home.
Footsteps
Footsteps
On the ground…..
Lightly
Stepping
Without a sound…..
Tears are
Falling
As oceans sigh…..
The sun is
Descending
In her eyes…
The waters stretched their surrounding arms
Caressing her precious prints with their saline charms
Smoothing her past—an exhalation at last
As legacy lavishes the flight of her path
Withering and draining, absorbed in the sand
Are the tears she once shed—no longer does she stand
In kneeled acceptance her deep pulse unwinds
As her melodious voice falters in the plague that binds
In her serenest solitude have I kept her close
As those streams do crash upon my heart-burdened coast
I listened to her sing—as the sickness rose
Like the tide’s sudden descent, oh how life suddenly goes!
Footsteps
Footsteps
Heavy now……….
Carry her
To bury her
In the ground……….
Oceans
In motions
WAVES//COLLIDE
…..Someone beautiful…..
…..…..now has died……….
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Ave-Maria hymns lift you in flight
to Heaven’s gate apt angel does ascend
and follows lantern's light predawn of night
on glide of song and blessings she does wend.
On April morn in skies of blue as you
besprinkle crystals from your seraph’s wings,
by mourning noontime snowfall does ensue;
a smoothing swaddle soothing harmed heart-strings.
In diamond-dusted frosted filigree
so sparkles soulful kisses you bestow
for scintillant reflective reverie
your glistened gift you send in silvern snow.
Beloved mother, sainted entity
you hush my cries with snow’s serenity.
Oh how I do love November,
that magic month that outshines September,
where I look upon the face,
of the Twinkle Fairy in all her grace,
as she blesses the leaves
falling from shivering trees
to dance in air and come to rest,
upon Gaia’s soon to be, blanketed breast.
She dances in her wispy blue coat,
and sends the crispy leaves to high afloat
upon the autumn breezes that roam
throughout the countryside by my home;
oh how I can hardly wait to espy,
Zerelda as she comes, twinkling by.
I saw her once, patch a deer’s nose,
it was chapped and swollen so,
her fairy dust on it, she sprayed,
it glistened in the sunlit rays,
like glitter sprinkled on the floor,
smoothing out the skin and pores.
My cat, Eleazer,
he will chase her
and as usual, there’s no doubt,
he won’t catch her but he’ll pout.
She’ll reward him for his game,
his frustrated feelings, she will tame;
Upon his upset brow she’ll thrust,
a wand-wave full of fairy dust.
Then she’ll turn to me and say,
I know you’ve watched me on this day;
but you are kind to fairies like me,
so here’s something for you, free.
With another wave she’ll gift;
a fairy song, she’ll set adrift.
11-13-19
November Twinkle Fairy Poetry Contest
Caren Krutsinger
You say I need a makeover,
that I'm not the man I could be
You say I'm too rough around the edges,
a little smoothing out would polish me
To you, I'm too straight ghetto;
I got the right mind,
just tilted a little wrong
Instead of saying: "I'm leaving,"
I say, "I be gone"
So let the makeover begin,
but I don't know what
will be different when it end
Will my family recognize me,
will I need a new set of friends?
A bad vibe is arising,
trepidation is setting in
Now I'm willing to make this sacrifice
to satisfy your insecurity
But once the makeover is done,
will you still like what you see?
In due time, no doubt you'll learn
this one immutable reality:
You can take me out of the ghetto,
but you can't take the ghetto out of me
Although you may refine my speech,
to talk in a proper Elizabethan tone
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
I will tell it like it is,
I will only come strong
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
A tribute to my beloved brother Joseph
My mind and heart will never be friends.
Sworn enemies, they wrestle and box
for control of me, the battle never ends
like the tick tocking pendulums of clocks
I ask my mind when it keeps me awake,
"Tell me, what do you think I should do?"
It growls and huffs, "Oh, for goodness' sake.
If you heed your heart, it will lead you askew!"
It went on to tell me to slow down to a crawl,
and I shouldn't hurry to make a quick decision.
It compared me to Humpty Dumpty on the wall,
headed for a fall and on course for a collision.
I'm weary of refereeing their constant scuffle,
especially when it concerns falling in love or not.
I keep smoothing the crumpled feathers they ruffle.
When they argue I'm the one put on the hot spot!
When I ask my heart, " Will you lead me astray?"
I can feel it ache as though it's crying deep inside.
It replied, "My emotions are not easy to convey,
but from love's fervor you should not choose to hide.
Falling in love is a risk and a big decision to make.
Your mind may be a sage with words and thought,
but there's much to lose if real affection you forsake.
No mind can feel the love that lives in your heart."
An unresolved dilemma, so I petitioned my soul,
but it remained mute, mind nor heart did it refute.
"Which one of you should I trust with control?"
That became the cornerstone for another dispute.
Mind: "Heart, I knew to your whim she'd concede."
Heart: "She chose to love and fulfill her great need."
They were a carpenter's hands, calloused, yet so soothing,
Freely offered to those whose burdens needed smoothing.
He forsook the carpentry trade, His Father's will to keep,
And clasped a shepherd's crook to tend His precious sheep.
His hands blessed the children when others turned them aside.
His hands calmed the stormy seas causing them to subside.
His hands touched Peter's mother-in-law, her fever disappeared.
At Cana His hands blessed the water, miraculously wine appeared!
His gentle hands healed the lame and they were made to walk.
His tender hands caused the deaf to hear and the mute to talk.
His folded hands blessed some fish and several loaves of bread,
To multiply this simple fare for the thousands to be fed!
His hands reached down to rescue Peter from the roiling sea.
Healing hands caressed their eyes. Behold! The blind could see!
His hands touched outcast lepers, their diseases He erased.
His hands upset thieves' tables when His temple was debased.
Alas, His loving, compassionate hands were nailed to a tree.
There He suffered and died for wayward sinners such as we.
He yet offers steadfast hands to guide us o'er perilous strands.
His invitation is everlasting - we need only to grasp His hands.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
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.
grandchildren weasel into heart wrinkles
smoothing, soothing, and loving
revitalizing you