Best Splaying Poems
Colors dance on the canvass of my life
In an intricate interplay of hues
Intensifying and weakening at different stages
Fluid colors in constant motion
As I age, different colors take precedence
While others slowly recede
Still present, yet less visible
Some colors are all time favorites
Ever strong, ever making their presence seen
The color of Beauty forever captivates me
I immerse myself in this hue
Letting its brilliance ravish my thoughts
Beautifying my life in every way
Truth is another color that graces this canvas
For without it, I cannot live
I need to see broad strokes of this hue
For it revives my heart
The brilliance of the color of Compassion
Pulsating with emotions of oneness...
With the world, with all that inhabits it
It ever moves me to reach, to feel, to belong
Hope, the color of dreams
For my dreams are saturated
In this vivid color
That makes the canvass spring to life
Hope, for a masterpiece to be
Passion, the most prominent color
Seen splashed everywhere on my canvass
The color deepening, ever deepening
Dark and rich, drawing the observing eye
To the wet colors that never dry
Always freshly painted
Bold, brash, audacious, alluring
Pronounced color overpowering every other shade
Passion, shows off her true self
Confident that she is the artist's most loved color
And then there is the color of Love
Capricious
Flitting
Transient
Erratic
Inconstant
Gracing the canvass now and then
Lightly splaying itself across the painting
Bright splashes of rich Gold
I try to focus my eyes on this hue
Wanting it to be evident
In every single image
In every single stroke
A tinge of gold
And yet I know
I know
The color of gold
Is “the hardest hue to hold”
I know this to be true
For my eyes brimming with tears have seen
The “dawn...[of love go]...down to day.”
On this canvass of my life
This truth is clearly displayed....
“Nothing gold can stay.”
Eileen Manassian Ghali
A variation on the poem by Robert Frost, Nothing Gold can Stay
revelation of revelations!
an ordinary morning til..
discovery of discoveries
brittle chrysalis
upside down, branching
breathing, pulsing
I pause and
inspect the
pupa’s fortress
tight and hard as
childhood memories of
milkweed pods
splaying, splitting, dropping
fragments into the
pungent soil beneath
My birth sac
splits apart
Baptismal waters
run down my legs
he’s going to be a
football player the
doctor predicts.
one last push
spills my babe
onto linen’s
glaring whiteness.
oops, he’s a she
and so beautiful.
A parallel universe
repeats, reflects, completes
an ever changing
life cycle
sunshine dries
black and orange panes
tiny filaments of gossamer
wings shimmer silky white
against the opaque sun
Dad’s car delivers
mom and babe home
their newborn squalls.
her tiny fingers
curl in a tight fist.
each digit is a
prayer bead
chanting its presence.
I gaze in amazement
my mind awhirl
wings and elbows,
antennae and toes
displace space now that
seconds before was
unknown. unclaimed.
The Story Of The Cruel And Dark Queen That Feeds On Souls
She that exists to eat innocent souls and this world's vast wealth
A dark goddess, splaying her straggly long hair with wilted roses
Pretty, brazen, wickedly heartless and damn to hell soulless
Even far more beautiful, glowingly fair than is Lamia
Artists and poets seek words to describe her deep darkness
Souls of artists, painters and reprobates toiling for her glee
Thousands enslaved in the mirage of her horrible essence
She that holds me locked into her enticing horrid imagery
As I toil like Hercules to break these impregnable chains
Such that morning holds no beauty, sky is devoid of its blue
These many months pass and pass, O' my spirit is wilting
I seek the gold moon at night but find only darken shadows
And absolutely no human pleasures ever do I know or feel
I that exist in this raging true hellish world of deep evil pains
Pray for dearest release that I may one day die a free man
And if gifted our God's sweet mercy, shall enter the Pearly Gates.
Robert J. Lindley, Verse
APRIL 11TH 1971
Old Note: Age 17, this is one of my early dark poems, no rhyming.
I rarely ever do just plain verse....
New Note: Well, I still rarely ever do just verse. May have have written 15 or 20 poems that were just verse.
Across farthest hills, silent moonlight spills
To wash away the dark, to overflow
With golden rays splaying the land it fills
And paints every plant in darkened meadow
With clouds below a crumbled curtain hung
To filter soft moonlight that fall and flow
Through every limb this gentle string is strung
This flickering vine lays still, crawling slow
A rising orb, this gentle yellow moon
Will fill each searching eye, where romance lives
And contains a wish, where love's dreams commune
To caress the yearning soul, that moonlight gives
Beneath this gold moon where heartbeats find breath
They'll hear a melody from moon's celeste
THE FLOWERS WELCOME THE QUEEN
Spring returns to my garden and the Golden Queen
Once again warms everything she touches.
A little girl comes barefoot into my empty garden one day.
Her hair floating in the wind gets caught on my thorn hedge,
But she pushes past the barrier, and makes herself at home.
She passes by my roses and her tiny fingers make daisy chains.
She leaves my pathway and her unprotected feet mark my soil.
Somehow my garden is filled with her presence
Now moving in the grass green growth -
Meeting morning’s sunny face, my little girl’s growing -
She’s planted there, showing more roots each day -
Helen - in my garden of wild flowers, their leaves
Enfolding her tender years. My adored daughter,
My child, running through the deep butter meadow,
Young knees yellow with topaz dust, marks my soul.
She gazes at all the smiling saffron rays-of-sun petals.
A field filled with dandelions’ bright amber glow;
And bursting with energy she chases a butterfly and tumbles,
Giggling, into a crowd of elegant marguerites, splaying their
Neatly-displayed petals in their starched ruffs :
The heart of whiteness shining in the early flower of life.
She bends to count the spots on the ladybirds climbing
The stems of the coltsfoot. The leafless coltsfoots, in greeting life,
Offer their radiant lemon fingers full-spread
To welcome back the Golden Queen of heaven.
..................................................................
Waiting is the greatest pain,
Though most of me remains slain;
Legs propped up on iron heaters,
In my mouth spins an egg beater-
Roughly, duct tape holds it there,
Wrapped around my crimson hair-
Holding in the spinning end,
Tearing so no one could mend.
Will my torturer return?
I cry to think of all I've learned.
Even through the scars he burns,
He says there's more for me to earn.
Waiting, gurgling, and praying,
Burning, yearning, burnt legs splaying,
I can't conceive what could come after,
I resort to insane laughter.
Though I choke on blood and teeth,
Through the smell of my burnt meat,
I laugh harder, my mind flees
Closer toward insanity.
The deadbolt slides, I hear the door:
Creaking, scratching on the floor,
He walks through, I smell him now,
Expensive cologne flows down.
He leans in, I feel his breath,
Then his hands upon my chest,
He whispers one last sick goodbye,
"You won't be the last to die."
Duchess, a brown chestnut Tennessee Walker with a
long flowing ebony mane, frolicked non-stop along the
fenced pasture bordering the corn field. She had the
whole eighty acres to herself, kicking up her heels as if
she was still a yearling. Fall was nearing its peak and
winter was just around the corner; for Duchess, it was
just another wonderful season like spring or summer.
The dark gray skies indicated a storm was approaching
and with the nights changing temperatures, a dusting
was evident. Dusk slithered in with the north wind,
suddenly- whirling fallen leaves and whipping cold-
needle- like rain pierced her huge brown eyes. Duchess
bolts – and like the wind, wheels her slender muscular
body in a joyous dance. Hoofs thunder intensely on
hardened cold soil, uprooting clumps of grass, sending
them flying along with her splaying tail. Oxygen
saturated nostrils swell as she canters poetically in a field
of crystals. The snow now picks up pace as does her
slow stride; turning into a gallop. Steam pours from
swollen lungs through her soft muzzle, she feels alive
but exhausted from the sudden burst. She gazes across
the open field and watches the tiny crystals collect on
evergreen along the hillside, gradually transforming into
puffy white flakes. She knows winter is here.
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Second Place Winner ~ "Horses or Snowflakes or Horses
and Snowflakes” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance~A Rambling Poet~
Nov. 8, 2010
The smell of autumn on the breeze
make's me feel so serene
Colored leaves floating down
lay a blanket of beauty on the ground
When the sun rise's up
splaying out it's radiate light
touching dew covered leave's
Red, Gold and Green
A faucet of tranquill reflection
Creating a scene to be seen
Wrapping the heart with gratefull intent
Relaxing the mind from all life's extremes
Leaving behind all the stress and bad dreams
Blocking the toxic seeping of noise
There is only me and the tree's
and the smell of autumn on the breeze
There’s comfort in conformity,
The dry herd steps forward to give
Filed sighs, an enormity
Of purpose, peppered like a sieve
With empty space, paraded fast
Through love and loss, to lie and live,
Splaying bones to yawn death at last,
Our time to pass, we won’t forgive.
The leafless, arthritic branches
of the sycamore and maple
trees stretched their grotesque, naked forms
now stripped by the blasts of winter;
splaying drearily overhead
casting cold, rickety shadows
over recently fallen snow.
A prevailing wind rushes through
the trees and a choir of creaks
begin their rasping rhapsody.
A momentary lull begins
and the wooded composition
in a Larghissimo tempo
ends on a melancholy note.
I wander through a
thicket of broken branches
and dense leaves as
shimmering, silver water
forms a silken slide,
as it descends o'er top
a high mountain peak.
Colors of gray, blue & yellows glint
as they bounce off a bright sun, forming
rainbows against an epoch which
slowly fades into an eve of
pinks and melon hues.
Spittles of water splash
into the air, like tiny diamonds.
Splaying about on soft
mossy mounds of green
carpeted rocks at a
lowermost portion of the falls.
Calm breezes speak
through branches of
trees laden with viridity,
capturing fire beetles
of intense, yet susuruously,
flickering light.
Intense sounds
resonate from below
this spectacular fountain,
as aquatic plants display
their beauty in a slowly
darkening surrounding.
Thus once again, bringing
peace and tranquility.
Leaving one breathless
to an ever changing, dynamical
universe, as my wandering
continues through this thicket
of broken branches and dense leaves......
Crawling upon desecrated ashes,
whispers haunt ~
“You will never make it.”
Vermilion skies rumble over the brutal horizon,
splitting open as a deafening rain pours forth,
drenching an already collapsing body.
Splaying nails rip into hollow earth.
Eerie silhouettes dance in the lightning flashes.
It’s getting harder to see now —
fear surging, lungs straining,
losing control.
Darkness engulfs, swallowing the sun.
Panic sets in; urgency is now a must,
for night brings what cannot be spoken.
Cortisol spikes, muscles spasm.
Faster, he must crawl ~
death is imminent if he cannot find the door.
Feeling blindly through infectious petrichor,
his palms meet nothing but cold decay.
Macabre laughter circles around him.
Praying, he reaches out one more time —
unsuccessfully.
Closing his eyes, red-hot pain
flows over his flesh,
devoured by the very demons
he could not escape.
A wedge of moon
persists in a cobalt sky,
as light fractures itself,
splaying its fingers
through the reluctant dark,
soon to be gone.
Black lace filaments
on licorice black trees
dangle their dainty digits
in a waning wind.
Hushed and shy is dawn
as she adjusts her
flamenco skirts
to brush the morning sky.
Not night now,
but not quiet full of day,
teetering, give - take
until day at last wins.
And in that apogee
that is not one or other,
does time stop
and take a breath, pulling
itself back into
its cycle eager to go on?
Which American does not know great Tony Stark?
An industrialist tycoon like strapping shark;
Born with silver spoon in his mouth; noble bequest!
Lived luxurious life one considered blessed...!
Afghan enters his life; like virus in robot;
Terrorists kidnap him; force him to weapon-plot;
He builds his sly armor; makes his vanish easy;
Plays ploys; Shifts into iron man; tough, yet, frenzy...!
Cocktails and women beauties; Romantic, yet firm;
Juvenile play-boy; yet, strict to mercantile term;
Not lonely though alone; full of fun and frolic;
Midst accomplishment of tasks, he has his rollick...!
Pushed to misuse his invention of iron-man,
Virtuously he dismantles his harm-filled plan;
Splaying bundle of freedom virtues and vices,
Tony Stark is an epitome of guises...!
01 July 2022
Captain America's Friends or Foes Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Ma,
Leaping off the crown of a candle,
A hot bead without hold or handle,
Blobbed as us all on the bee-smell body of a star.
Air,
Shushing from the womb of her shell room,
The leant lung's slow snore looping her loom,
Muddled with the booze which bruised her peaceful as a pear.
Hands,
Holding normal knowings in knot-roots,
Splaying through the spokes of new cahoots,
All gusts must rust and turn to dust ~ as Felixstowe pebbles will wave to wax; fast towed, fed lights, we the festooned elixir of ocean-spanned sands.