Best Spectrum Poems
Autumn's arrival, ushering once more a door His harvest moon ? Dressed of pure..
Gold honourable's daughter her queen from Ophir virgins these, companions; entering
The King's palace glorious ? Arrayed be beauty their children; ten billion stars as she sings
Rejoiced true hearts love's patriarch; timbrels and flutes a nomad whom knew ? In Winter's
Glittering lights an infant's eyes His harps her chorus; Angels ? Divine, besought time's rosy cheeks.
I am myself, however, I see me.
The logic others go by cannot bind me.
Who I am is what I shall decide.
It's not easy but that's how I'll be.
Now feeling fabulous
This is my life,
You can watch and stare!
This is how I'm gonna be,
Being the color of the rainbow.
I just want to live my truth.
Because my truth is fabulous.
Like glittering sparkles of gold.
I work on a spectrum and define who I am.
I am who I say I am,
Not defined by another's logic.
For I'm fabulous,
Like a glittering rainbow
or sparkles of gold.
Being who I am
Choosing to live my life.
Having pride in myself,
And that's what I decide!
appears in the sky
forming seven coloured arc~
by water and light
7-5-2020
~DEEPA~
Note: *A Haiku with Movement -
Nature themed Poetry Contest*
Sponsor:Tania Kitchin
Bathing in rainbow bubbles of gratitude,
To be alive and be able to write beyond platitudes.
Oh, a popular poet, assuredly, I shall never be!
Just so thankful, God created and extraordinarily, blessed me!
I know poets here experience this, too.
The joy of being alive and prayers~ they humbly do.
My family, friends and Irene, my cat, mean so very much to me.
I think of them often, leaning under my beloved aromatic pine tree.
February 14, 2020
3:45pm PST
Autumn spreads latticed spectrum,
trees absorb the color burst,
paint the leaves gold as they wilt,
fall on blazed meadow.
October 2, 2020
Syllable count : 7/7/7/5
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Writing Challenge-Dodoitsu
Sponsor : Constance La France
This tanned wee white child of Welsh-English
With a bit of American Indian flowing
like a creek running through the meadow;
p-h-y-s-i-o-l-o-g-y spelled out loud
Daddy was proud of his four year-old girl
raven haired, black eyes flashing with pride
feed sack dresses in pretty shades of pinks
the only thing country about me
other than pinto beans corn bread and iced tea.
I grew to be sixty-five inches tall skinny as a rail
committed to serving the Lord as a nurse
I’ll go where you want me to go. Dear Lord
On some far away mission field—
Didn’t know where
Just a dreamin’ and flutterin’ butterfly
Touching one beautiful spot then another
Where He leads me I will follow…
I’ll go with Him thru the garden
Just knew it would be by a hospital someplace.
Mom wanted to be a nurse but wasn’t
maybe she passed on her thoughts like
a momma bird feeds her young
bit by bit each day until full growth taken place.
Finally I was a grown up Registered Nurse
Running down the halls like a racehorse at times
Taking care of the down and outs or the up and ins
all of them had the same needs whether black or white
man or woman – they all had needs
I walked proud – white in white
Shiny black hair only contrast.
I wanted to be a nurse
crying when crying needed
laughing when laughing came
praying to comfort or praying to make it through a shift
helping as best I could
to make all better –
Ebony, white, red, brown or yellow
Mankind’s color wheel
generation following generation
hurts, healing, sorrow, gladness
rotating compassionate care
Through the stages
Throughout the ages;
A butterfly touching lives
Gently
hushing the cry of a newborn baby
Lullaby and Good Night
closing the eyes of the dying
Near to the heart of God
ray of sunshine --
the spectrum in the dew
on a leaf
Some folks love doing their thing
And it brings in money and bling!
Just let me make hay
The conservatives say
Even when it gives others a sting
Do people all have basic rights?
Are some blown away like lost kites?
It seems there’s no end
Of a bad mess to mend
And liberals take on these fights
Author's Note: When the right to make a ton of bucks interferes with other rights that people have--watch out. I get particularly offended by people who exercise their freedom (and by doing so) interfere with my right to clean air and water and freedom from intrusive smells and noise. This argument can be extended to a variety of situations. Where do your rights end and mine begin? This is the tip of a massive iceberg (which could be melting due to global warming).
Color javelins
Flowing passionately
Capturing moisture
I’m greeted by the freshly laundered dawn,
pale slate linen hung to dry above
a stirring city of collective individuals.
I cherish moments like these,
when I can step out in to the drying day
without forethought or agenda
and imbibe a city which has squirmed
beneath the clouds for a millennium.
And what a different place it would be if
the sun shone upon it more often.
What need would there have been for the
gilded Galleries de Saint Hubert
if not to protect the heads of the bourgeoisie?
What drive would there have been for Horta and Blérot
to duplicate nature’s balance indoors in glass, steel and murals
and sprawl sgraffiti jungles beneath damp eaves?
Why would beer need to warm one’s soul and feet
if one’s shoes were not constantly damp?
Where would have Magritte found his clouds?
How would the cobblestones of the Grand Place
manage to glow brighter than Saint Michel’s spire
if they weren’t slickened by an otherwise uncaring God?
How silent and plain the city would be
without colonial djembe undertones, postmarks
from a search for one’s self in clement Congo.
It is a city of grey
from which all colours run
free,
sober,
deep.
Genesis Broad-Spectrum
An ethical grey scenery alert
was roused lenses shuttered,
in hues of Red, White and Blue.
Theorem of imagery collision,
flashed old fashioned—PolaROId,
ammunition developed HumanØ1ds.
In Kew Gardens I feast on
daffodils and swans and honk-
ing geese in turf protection mode
and one spectacular show
from a strutting peacock’s tail,
its color chart exploding
against the day’s gray weather.
On warmer days Kew is packed
with mums and dads and kiddies
running about or being pushed
in prams. Today’s marginal
weather has cut the numbers.
I am drawn to a park’s promises
in crowd depleting weather. .
In youth I’d sit on a bench
beneath a chestnut tree and feel
fully protected from rain
by the natural umbrella
of thick leaves above my head
or, barefooted, tramp through wet
grass after the midday storm.
In the misted gray of not
quite Spring Kew Garden isn’t
in full bloom but I can feel
the promise of warmer days and,
with luck, the persistent need
of a peacock to impress
his ladies with the full bloom
of his magnificent tail.
Love of our times in prism tense
Transcending through space on disparate lands
Canned in white of flickering sight
Split unto fractions in barren light
Bluer than blue invisible hue
Lesser tinge be warmed in view
Meadow canvas of stars unveil
Redder than red unspectral hue
Lesser tinge be passion due
Scorching dreams escape in lieu
When rain meets sunshine colors flee
Cascading shades send forth in glee
Beckoning rainbow arc unfurls
Emitting its glow on our pensive worlds
Immersed in splendor we relish
Sublimed in arc of love we cherish
three tone tinted clouds
azure, orangish and red
at sunday sunset
Across the valley the gentle meadows lay
The lush grass would grow and then become hay
But for now on guard the poppies stood
Their masses formed lakes of deep red blood.
Battalions of olive trees standing still
Stretch across the landscape from hill to hill
In the bright summer sun this sight never stops
Until beneath the horizon the blazing orange ball drops.
The forest stands through seasons galore
Proud oak, elm, ash, beech and sycamore
Naked skeletons of trees are there to be seen
Until their bodies are clothed in shades of green.
Winter’s gloom gives way to the hopes of spring
Mating swallows and swifts soar, swoop and sing
Early blooms are marshalled to answer their call
See bright yellow carpets of daffodils all.
A becalmed ocean to the horizon reaches
Nothing stirs and no sign of any beaches
A cloudless sky touches its watery friend
Thus a rich blue palette is formed in the end.
High on the tops the rugged moors stood forlorn
Then snow and fog are vanquished in the new dawn
A warming sun nurtures the moistened peat
And with it heather casts her violet sheet.
Nature’s colours of red, orange and green
And yellow, blue and violet will soon not be seen
They converge to form one uniform light
For in the winter the land is simply snow white.