Best Sporadically Poems
How do I praise your influence, oh Rumi?
For you are the essence of my poetry.
Poet's quote.
I was lost in mournful melodies of birds,
until death brought me back to life through your words.
My sleeping spirit now roams in your garden's blooms,
spinning from nothingness against toxic fumes.
Polishing of my heart left me in a trance,
through cleansing of pain, I learned how to dance.
I had not drank wine, but walked like a drunkard,
dizziness helped to forget where I wandered.
You taught; how the beloved lives in my heart.
To let go of those who wanted to depart.
To stop chasing stories and myths from the past.
To break free from the prisons our minds can cast.
When you change with wisdom, your soul recovers,
ascends to the sky in a world of lovers.
Now I have wings and no longer crawl through life,
never raise my words to cause another strife.
Ignore those who remind of disease and death.
That love is the bridge between my sweetheart's breath.
I closed my eyes, fell in love and remain there.
Life is a guest house, so I dwell without care.
The poem is based on Rumi quotes and poems.
Mathnawi or Masnavi is a Persian a type of poetry, originating from the Arabic word Mathnawi, written in rhyming units and which follow a pattern of eleven or sporadically ten syllables without any length limits. This one is eleven syllables per line.
Stupendous
Stimulating
Surreal
Show,
Seducing
Scientific
Souls,
Severe
Supernova
Shatters,
Space
Splinters
Sporadically
Scatter,
Survey
Spectacular
Starlit
Spectacle
21st October 2019
Toutogram poems poetry contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
...speak sporadically in soft sassy syllables
...open opulent overtures to appease my err
...revoke risque rashness of the adulterer
...modulate too many manic memories.
savor satiable sweetly shared sensations,
admire adored avenues divinely alone.
target toxic tones forever together,
why wholly wade, wondering where we
faithfully failed famous fortuity forever?
“Doing what you love is freedom. Loving what you do is happiness.”
Lana Del Rey
Happiness with peace for the masses comes sporadically,
And at times it feels like periods of great prosperity or
Long-lasting peace has come not often throughout history.
Changes in politics or times of trouble or war
Yank away the good times causing for many stress or tragedy.
Oh, how I long for the ‘80’s. Down came a mighty wall!
No recent decade can match it, and I was having a ball!
Written: September 09, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the abyss of night, I'm held captive tight.
Addiction to idioms fuels my Phoebus fight.
I abide, vouching sporadically to escape,
From the clutches of zeal, I can't reshape.
But my quill rebels; it won't be subdued.
It dances on my fingertips, its blaze renewed.
Beleaguered by a kindle of syllables, they persist,
Won't charter me to chime, profess, and insist.
Oh, the maudlin whispers of writing passion,
Entice me; draw me into a bathetic attraction.
I whirl to abscond, to relish some release,
But the chains of my quill hold me in peace.
The words flow through me as a river so fierce,
With every pen stroke, my soul finds its release.
I'm a jailbird of this art, an enthused devotee,
In a realm of words, I rapture my sanctuary.
My heart stumbles, as leaves in the fall breeze,
But the quill snatches them away with grace and ease.
It weaves them into verses, a kernel of emotion,
An effusive love, and life's endless commotion.
I am bound to this pen, this captive quill,
Forever entwined in its enchanting thrill.
Despite my huge wack, I cannot escape.
Inevitably, it leads me back to my true shape.
So I embrace this addiction, this passionate fire.
Within its depths, my spirit soars higher.
I surrender to the rhythm and melody of words.
As they dance upon pages as fluttering birds.
In the act of writing, I find my true self.
Ink flows freely, such as a river of wealth.
I may be a captive to this quill; it's true,
But in its captivity, I am set free too.
Addiction to writing is a powerful force.
It guides me, shapes me, and charts my course.
I may be a captive, but I am not alone.
With every word written, a connection is sown.
My soul has seen the depths of hell
For I have sailed the seven seas of blood
Immortality tortured beyond consciousness
The tears of man begin to flood...
Cataclysmic imagery within the serpent’s eyes
Colossal death a warning to the wise
Shunned from love and happiness
Embracing sorrow with a bittersweet caress
Holocaustic means that man provides
Satisfying needs then subsides
Demonic Destruction building the wasteland
From dust to ashes nothing shall stand
The demons awake from their fiery hell's
With teeth of the Hydra and pernicious smells
The eternities open the doors of time
For a moment their rays of darkness shine
But woe to thee that sleeps within
With running rage and compounding sin
That only Love can save your soul
And thus return you demons to your hellish hole.
This poem was written in my early twenties...and was the catalyst for my poetic prison lol...then I left poetry alone for some years...writing sporadically here and there...until the soup a few years ago...the rest, as they say, is history...
June.25.2017
The Poet's Heart - Contest
Sponsored by: Greg Barden
Originally posted:
(April.21.2016
For Contest...OWN IT!
By Cyndi MacMillan)
At the foot of the Elbow,
just above the Bow,
an angler drowned
his feet caught
in a shopping cart
split-cane rod still
firmly in his grasp.
On the Grand
just below the Gorge,
another died
opening weekend,
high water
few details are known.
At the Whirlpool
below Niagara Falls
bodies surface
sporadically
but few are anglers.
When I go, I hope
it’s in my waders
but miles of rivers
remain before
my rods pass
to you.
Too long have I been staring at this cruel blank page before me,
My crazed, hysteric mind screaming and imploring
I know there is a message that's dying to come out—
I need to fill this confounded page without the slightest doubt!
It's a simple predicament to manipulate,
Into a mass of thought
A futile attempt to insinuate,
Weak hints are left with naught
I sit here in silent desperation,
What can fill this page?
I slap myself in indignation,
My eagerness becoming rage!
Like roaches sporadically running from light
My thoughts are but a haze
The words I write just don't seem right,
On this cruel blank page!
Sun-kissed sand seeping warm softness through loose fingers
Gritty bits of sea worn shells clinging to sweaty palms
Endless stretches of churning salty skirts, swirling soft sand offerings
Timeless routine unless confined to an hour glass; then time defined and depleting
I will stay here, one more day, in this moment with you
Billowing wind toying with chimes dangling from a hook outside the window
Weather-worn strings attempt constant purchase on their prized pipes
Hollow tubes and smooth wood dance as if marionettes
Called to action without self-will; blown and battered sporadically to purpose of
sweet note
I will stay here, one more day, in this moment with you
Fragrant formed wax with wick in need of trimming
Sagging brittle edges from last burning yearn for more pliable state
Called to illumination and guardian of the very flame that diminishes
Beauty invoked by warm flickers as shadows dance; knowing that soon it will only
smolder
I will stay here, one more day, in this moment with you
Precious kisses on soft skin and caresses on tiny fingers
Confused pleas of tears and unformed words when communication is elusive
Nurtured as if a fragile rare flower, coaxing to bloom and thrive
Rooted and reaching for the sky; so soon to spread limbs, absorbing and obscuring
the sun
I will stay here, one more day, in this moment with you
Heady thoughts of desperate need, wanting skin and souls to touch and mingle
Uncharted and unrehearsed voyages across deep waters and over daunting cliffs
Strengthened or broken by attempts to fly; stretching wings in unison to keep aloft
Long sought destination reached, realizing now that the journey’s purpose was to
find you
I will stay here, one more day, in this moment with you
With tender heart we live alone
Void of noise and stress
Two miles each day we walk for health
My doctor seems impressed
Sporadically we change our view
And travel to the park
To watch the timid critters play
Stirring my listless heart
When one day, along the way
We startled a feeding hare
The frightened bunny jumped to run
Which caught us unprepared
My tender heart began to bark
Excited and alert
He caught that bunny awkwardly
To steal a dance in the dirt
The accosted bunny kicked and screamed
Sounding like a child
My tender heart let it go
Wagged his tail and smiled
Daniel Turner
Kristalle aus Eis und Salz
überziehen den See rot
im Abendlicht.
Am Horizont erstrahlen die Anden
im Mantel aus Purpur und Gold,
Eldorado der Ewigkeit.
Die Andengipfel hüten ihr Eis
wie wertvollen Schatz.
In der Hochebene am See
suchen Flamingos vereinzelt nach Nahrung
im Algensee.
Weitab in der Ferne
am Horizont
sprühen heiße Quellen Fontänen
in vor Kälte klirrende Abendluft.
Nur einige Vicuñas
treiben ihre Spiele
zwischen reifbedecktem, spärlichen Gras.
Die schleichende Nacht
bricht herein
mit frostiger Gewalt
------------------------------------------------
Crystals from ice and salt
cover the lake red
in the evening light.
At the horizon shine forth the Andes
in a coat of magenta and gold,
Eldorado of eternity.
The Andes summits protect their ice
like valuable treasures.
At the plateau near the lake
flamingos look sporadically for food
in the alga lake.
Far away in the distance
at the horizon
spray hot springs fountains
into freezing cold evening air
Only some Vicuñas
play their games
between rime coated, sparse grass.
The night is creeping in
with frosty power
Sporadically
individualistic
communication
Some promptly left and didn't return,
Some chose to stay with concern showing.
For a finer life perhaps the first did yearn,
All building lives as families were growing.
While additional left and later moved back,
Renewing friendships, letting memories churn.
Having tasted life the other side of the track,
Sporadically, for School Reunions, others return.
We've now grown older and some have passed,
We now have fewer possessive things to crave.
Our hair is graying and our eyes are glassed,
As our steps grow slower this side of the grave.
But we've lived life by no means just half way,
Wherever we've been we remained in God's sight.
For without His grace what would we be today,
Just old Haskell Haymakers but still in the fight.
I held the strap taut, bowing down at the dirt,
six feet or more, the rectangular hole,
no sweetness or welcome, just earth on the lid
where resided the bones of the previous soul.
Lowered with care, my brother and I
and two other bearers toiling behind,
the cheap gleaming wood decked with cheap plastic brass,
to a standstill of rest, to an end of a kind.
“The Lord is my Shepard,” we murdered off key
as the wind blew accompaniment over the hill;
ravens took flight to the overcast sky,
rain fell sporadically, spattered with chill.
I remembered her photos of when she was young,
spread on the frayed pinafore there in her lap,
a patchwork of sepia, white and grey dreams
she no longer remembered, her mind set to snap.
The scant recognition then blurred in her eyes,
drained simian brown, no more clear and blue;
her head wisps of silver, mere gossamer strands,
adrift and unkempt, no light shining through.
Her sad loss of reason, the slump of her spine,
the cloud-bank rolled in with no instant of pause,
the stealing of dignity, ravage of time,
the theft of her life, of the woman she was.
I cried her no tears, assigned her no grief,
brushed the rose in my pocket, the flower I hid;
when no one was looking, I bade her farewell,
dropped the rose and a kiss down onto the lid.
When asked about tributes, the family replied,
“She didn’t want flowers, so we’ve done as bid,”
I sat there in silence, bit down on my tongue,
for I knew, from one person, she did.
I am the writer that you think I am
Sad words written on a lonely page sporadically through a sleepless night
Alike to
Tasty words poored out like savored wine that was aged for the same occasion
I don't like to drink alone
Cheers
I write to do battle with my demons
Like an army collapsing upon itself fighting for power
The speeches given by the soldiers in my head are screamed the loudest
But those angry words fall to the ground
And they are trampled on
Back space or crumple
It's a civil war that needed to be fought
When I write I find myself
I look amongst the ruins, focusing only on the first fire I need to survive the night
Slim hope made fat by a narcissitic design
And I am warm
I write because I believe that even the human race in itself was a heart felt expression
All of us have a spark of life more valuable then the flesh and bones around us
The sun, the moon and the stars
The waters, the food we eat, and the air we breathe were all made to cradle this creation of me
Of you
And we are a creative species ourselves
Gravity is not a prison
But where else would we go?
Telescopes as far as the robotic eye can see!
And have we seen a better more beautiful world?
We go to the moon and even send machines to Mars
We bring back rocks as dead as the blackness that goes on forever
It makes me think we are favored here
On earth a vibrant sun is rising non-stop
A flower blooming with only hints to the growing masterpiece
The sun is setting somewhere else upon calm waters
A bird has sensed it is his last flight south
And time slows down
The season greets him with open doors that never close
He feels every feather he ever had and remembers everything he ever saw
He leaves with a song on his lips that still gets sung to the first dawn that finds him missing
I write because I can take the world and see what I want to see
All across the surface of this place there are many spheres of life
For every set of eyes that digest the same one
There is different music to every ear that interprets the same song
And a differrent ground to walk on for every foot that treads the same path
It is true a picture can say a thousand words,
But I still want to say them
And so I write