Best Spectator Poems
Skyblue oh skyblue
Everlasting seer of all
Yet a spectator.......
the hour late, I hesitate
to lift the shield of isolation
the walls lean in, as if to hear
they make believe, by breathing hard,
as if they sleep,
but I am wise to them, I am...
I know the sound, I know of eyes...
these walls have souls that live within
the air is solid, the light is dim
beyond my window, summer stirs
a sleuth that leers... , absurd it seems,
but watching me, I feel the burn
it shuffles in, with shades of black
a muffled step, through restless leaves
I catch my breath, ......yet strange, ....at ease
the curtain pants, with pulsing veins
I brush my hair, step out of clothes...
wait one moment to compose...
slip on a gown,
holding close my other self
the one who never dares to take a chance
I want to dance the seven veils,
for eyes that dwell beyond the glass
beyond my dream, ....they look at me
two eyes,they watch in black and white,
I feel the burning of the night
the suddenness of who I am...
she has no name
she has no shame
wanton, willing in the dark
it's sliding in the crisp black grass
I douse the light.........and step up close
to look again, through window's pane
no questions asked
the eyes aren't there.....
in black and white.......and by the gate...
nothing waits....
becoming clear
but I don't care......
in isolation............the walls are falling
and have old souls
I know they stare
I'll dance for them
I know for certain
they are there
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Resubmitted for Contest: Premiere Contest # 10
Sponsored by Skat
Should I here ...
Knowing full well ...
Whatever such phrase as this can mean ..
Yet I contemplate
That you may have no teeth for it
This in me a sudden swell
To tell and tell and tell
Without the telling of a tell
I can see you now
Trying to see me
More than I am
I shall not let you crucify my mind
Purging the bleat of the lamb
Yet here I am
Arranging sound upon a paper
Writing a nut without the shell
Making you think
What is he doing today
He is broken down
His words scattered like stones
From a former wall
And perhaps mad as hell
But to be polite
Just say insanity is our knell
I saw a poem today
The yolk of the egg not gold at noon
But white as nothing there
This blazing incandescence of air
And I did not write it
Could not write what had no words in it
Just images that could be tin foil
Cut and shape a certain way
But it was more than that
For congruent cells were in it
Bundled in the sensibility of my skin
And beneath them, way beneath them
The crows like a triumvirate of the sky
Circled the expectancy of death
Wating for either one
The planes to invited to tragedy
By the hubris of our genius
Or myself, precarious on time
Expired like a line
The punctuation forgotten without meaning
Where do we get all these words from
In which we wrap memory
Like things?
All these distinct borders of things
And their familiarity
Shadows of time, perhaps
When the planes are gone
Just gone, where I do not know
The buzzards remain
Twisting from light to light
Against the sky
Strand by strand weaving me
Upon their expectancy
Such a poem has not tense
No right
Except me, willing things be so
And yet none of us know
If all of life is ever so
Is ever so.
Words emerging from your quill,
Blazing with effulgence,
Capering and crooning around,
In harmony or in dissonance.
Rhyming in a golden cage,
Flying around in splendid colors,
Or, in a greenish meadow,
Flying away in divine freedom.
The beads of words will last long,
In our minds, if threaded strong
Whether structured or unstructured
As I know, I’m your spectator.
Honorable Mention in STRAND no 650 any form any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Shooting stars, like arrows from a bow
A Cosmic romance by heavens design
I am but a spectator
To loves common denominator
The sun, eclipsed of white to reveal night
A master plan, fate and destiny dealing cards
I am but a spectator
To loves common denominator
Celestial voices whispering
For the present and the past
To loves common denominator
I am but a spectator
Moonlight Shines, like sunlight on water
Astrological plans, by the hand of God
To loves common denominator
I am but a spectator
One has a pair of wings the other none,
both possess a different shade of beauty.
That bird’s able to fly the man can run,
to each the other’s life seems so easy.
The man can relay ancient stories spun
as birdsong jams decorating the Sun.
Both will capture the spirit of nature
while enjoying the role of spectator.
The Spectator
Like, once I said
I watch
You climb the ladder with steps made of words
And once you wear the crown
I’ll still be watching
Smiling and applauding
Among the audience
Wishing goodness
Deep inside that corner of my heart
-puvi-
(9/9/2016)
0ctober 17 2012
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Hidden away from any light
Hides a spectator, awaiting to fright
He lives in the room-in the closet and corners
He waits until there is no light
Frozen with fear-it's going to be a long night
Whispers, creaks, unexplainable noises enchant the darkness
Forever haunted by this unseen enmity
A mass of darkness never to leave
And alone-always alone I sit and grieve
The spectator watches in the shadows
I know he is there, but I choose to ignore him
But the candles are starting to dim...
Weeping and tears for the dead hero
It was when mother watched a film true
So big eyes when watched
Same one in next fussed
Asked," How do the dead come to film foe?"
February 25, 2023
Put Your Best (ONE) Limerick Forward (be like Rico Leffanta) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
windowframe allows
seasons to change, seen through it...
a mute spectator
24.7.2020
Rising
From the sand
Modified glass
An unusual spark
Passing over
A shifting wait
Leaving a trace
Open incite
Spilling out
A whisper
Rising
Wets
The
Lips.
The moon, she dips behind the hill.
She hides from me, and always will.
And in the glass I see my eyes
Two ghosts of love and empty lies.
The road is lost beneath my feet
As I keep watch where heavens meet.
And signs instruct: Avoid the Ice,
Keep your Distance. Good advice.
Spectator Game Theory
I Often Would Rather See
A Blow-Out Over A
Squeaker...
The Good Kind Is
So Hard On My Nerves...
Either Way.
-Gray Squirrel
05-30-2025
I see love.
I see betrayal.
I see everything—
yet no one looks at me.
I stand alone, watching,
feeling things I shouldn’t.
I wish I were hollow—
then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.
I touch. I feel.
Yet still, no one sees.
The warmth of life brushes past,
and I wish I were dead inside,
just stone,
just silence,
just stillness.
He’s seen all the hopefuls reach for the sky
walks down aisles and anniversaries, how they pass by, as he fills every crowd with a presence so empty, minces his words and questions each syllable.
He’ll attempt a joke like his life’s on the line
(he gets it wrong, most every time)
The air is so thick, unmoved by the silence that falls when speaks, like he’s crafting a science but with everything that he’s seen, and every person he’s been, how has he not perfected the act?
That mask never sticks, it slips and they see it, and that’s when they start to step back. A life on the sidelines, that’s the life that he owns. A life not so giving, a life of stunted growth. He’s tried to escape it, more than once or twice, but he ends up just watching the world pass by.
As the children grow up and leave birthright towns, or when teenage lovers adorn wedding gowns, his place will not change- to all that is clear. He’s a seat filler through time for all the years that he’s here.
A spectator does not take centre stage.
A spectator, he’ll be, in every age.