Best Staining Poems
Hate is an unnecessary need
in the book of necessities.
Love is the key component
within the book of obsessities.
Lust is an unfaithful guide
misguiding towards fake perceptions.
Sincere love is the pioneer
in overcoming deceptions.
Love is that perfect song,
which reminds you of mother's lullabies.
The aroma of an elegant rose,
attracting butterflies.
Picturesque horizons staining the sky,
as birds admire in full flight.
Moon kissing her loyal stars
as curtains are drawn for the night.
An innocent child's laughter
that brings tranquillity to the heart.
A baby's first giggle,
a reminder of God's beautiful art.
Beloveds crossing upon love's path,
as each route leads to their fate.
Tingle of that first kiss,
finally holding hands with your soul mate.
I'm guilty, that's my confession,
LOVE is my only obsession.
Silent One
19 July 2017
Example for obsessions contest
When morning breaks in shades of wine...
with claret skies to blush the dawn...
I will stretch and yawn, and thank the night
for this polished, apple day
I will wait until the sun is high, where dew upon the rose is dry
I'll have my cup, .. with toast and jam...
then, make escape, ..........the quest begins,
to seek my small reward
It happens slowly...
gathering reason from an untamed mind
Up into the meadow where the brambles climb
twisted and tangled, through burgandy vines
while deftly my fingers, will probe the maze
and reach for wild berries,.....warm from the haze
Then, thumping their goodness, one after one
into the bucket, dented and worn
A search through thorns, a prick on my thumb
till my back is ripe, and wet in the sun
Finger painting my faded blue jeans
Knowing my cheeks are flushing in pink
Sucking sweet juice from two crimson thumbs
Who cares a lick, of the thorns or a bee?
I am a bee, buzzing serenity...
plucking small bits of reason and sanity
taking home goodness in a battered tin pail
feeling alive, on a wild-flowered hill
Tonight's sweet delight, is warm berry cobbler,
oozing with goodness of juicy red gems
staining my tongue, and turning lips scarlet
dripping blood droplots onto my chin
Yet never as splendid, or tasting as fine,
as warmed by my smile, straight from the vine
Picking red berries, and freeing my mind
* *
* *
* *
*
*
counting vermillion clouds that are spun
then heading back home, with the red crimson sun
_____________________________________
For Shadow Hamilton's Contest: "Colours"
5/4/13
Resubmitted to Skat's contest:
On a still...ancient horizon,
Massive dragon wings emerge,
To the atmospheric battlefield.
Where two legendary beasts,
Clash for the love...of a dragoness.
A battle of mythic proportions,
Of two stonily serpents in the sky.
Only three dragons remain,
The two wary warriors,
And the dragoness they fight for.
The flap of enormous wings,
Thunders the air abroad.
The fire in the sky illustrates,
That the battle has begun.
Fierce deafening roars,
Rape the quiet Delphi skies.
In a solemn brave attempt,
To win the dragoness’ heart.
She rests...nestled in the mountains,
For the winning warrior’s return.
Strident screams pierce the heavens,
From the vicious violent brutality.
Aggressive attacks resonate,
Vibrating her lair of stone,
As she shivers in despair and wonder.
Sharp talons pierce the scales,
Shredding the tissue of life.
Effervescent mists spray,
Staining the clouds with gore.
A thud hits the landscape,
And her attentive attention reacts.
Waiting with complete ambition,
A second thud thumps the landscape.
Curious eyes creep from the cave,
She wrestles with the thought of extinction,
As both...her warriors are slain,
Laying lifelessly...in a crimson rain.
“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
Chuck Palahniuk
Is there such a metaphor as an avalanche of time?
Each second can be cold, but never freezes,
but we all know a landslide once triggered,
can bury fragile foundations into oblivion.
Sometimes life is scripted into a pantomime of pretend.
Darkness crawls at dawn.
There's a sour stench in the air,
ascending from an aromatherapy of agony and ache.
She's crying again. Her demons smiling.
This is no melodrama,
as crimson discolours the whites of her eyes,
with dripping mascara staining sore dark circles -
as 3am fears are released through a flood of tears.
Her spirit is a malady of misery,
lusting for an end from this state of deadly delirium.
In each tear there is a sign,
an unveiled message lost in silent flows -
as anxiety's asphyxiation grows.
Time has become her nemesis.
Turning her intellect into foolish bitterness.
It's a dilemma creating false hopes,
resulting in broken dreams and forgotten promises.
Destiny keeps playing games with her spirit,
whilst fate falters like premature butterflies.
Only her heart knows the truth of her heart -
She hides behind a veil of personal poison.
In the molestation of her mind,
she kisses the silence in between each echo,
yet the sands of time bring her no respite.
People keep throwing stones,
bruising her every time,
she has no desire to live as a victim
of broken pieces from her past,
but wounds keep resurfacing.
Tired from drinking venomous embers of elixir,
which pierce like shards of sorrow,
penetrating an eternal hole in her soul,
she cries for healing and understanding.
But In a world full of dark skies and rain,
her sanity slowly fades,
like a paper bag of emotions,
floating in a muddy puddle within a concrete pot hole.
Intoxicated by kismet's chalice of impatience,
she has learned fate has no mercy,
it offers no remedy to soothe her sorrows,
nor heal her horrors.
her life is a metaphor known as an avalanche of time.
Inside this Gothic womb, now but only a cold cavernous hollow
the votive flames steal away in puffs of smoke
as I kneel, atom-like, lost in loneliness.
Alabaster angels hungrily swallow empty space till they break -
bleeding prayers seeking life’s meaning
darkly staining the stained glass windows with nothingness.
Susan Ashley
February 18, 2019
~ First Place ~
Contest: April 2019 Premier 11 (Max Eight Lines)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Tenth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Reflect That Emotion Premier
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Her delicate silhouette still lingers in my eyes,
closer than these arms can embrace; haunting me.
I breathe her in within the lull of a zephyr,
lilac and roses filling the air; forever staining my memory.
Life found her defenseless, silenced by a veil of darkness;
faith clutched tight within her hand,
as esoteric dreams are shattered beneath the rages of a soulless hand.
Frail she emerged, soul hidden, draped in shades of gray.
Sweet serenity severed tragically; incarcerated reality.
Her taunting whispers bleed my heart,
no peace for the buried thoughts inside;
for innocence was laid to rest before dying,
earthbound, intimately weaving in and out through me.
No more saline tears to sate these eyes,
just an expressionless specter in human disguise.
She wore candy apple red the day she left; bright eyes that smiled.
They start thick—
not the polite kind you stir into tea
not the mild drizzle on breakfast toast
but the kind that runs hot
slow
dangerous
coating your tongue before you grasp
the price of its pleasure.
They start golden—
dripping off the comb
sun pressed into their marrow
too rich, too syrupy—
gumming up the gears of your schemes
too luminous for hands that flinch from light
too wild for walls meant to contain them.
You want squeeze-bottle love.
Clean.
No bees.
No stingers.
No buzz.
But they ferment in kitchens
where no one thanks them—
same way their grandmothers did
spooning fire into each serving
stinging their own tongues
just to stay sharp—
drizzling down your better judgment staining
Sunday shirts
unraveling wedding vows
spilling past boundaries
no one asked them to obey.
They get called—
too much.
too loud.
too open.
too shut—
like they were born to fit into your grip
instead of slipping right through it.
You try to jar them.
Slap on barcodes:
Best before.
Handle with care.
Discount if damaged
for quick sale.
But wild honey won’t kneel—
it contradicts logic
defies preservation
reason
perfumes the air
wrecks your thirst for tradition.
You mistook raw for reckless
Reckless for ruin
Ruin for something to fear.
You laughed when they wept—
like grief was a spectacle
like tenderness was weak
like softness
was a defect to be filtered out.
But by the time you realize
she’s the rarest thing
you ever tasted—
she’s already sweetening
the hands that never swatted her
And now,
we sit here—
jars without lids,
spoons still sticky—
trying to remember
what it meant to taste something
that never begged to be caged.
Maybe—
the glass wasn’t meant to hold her.
Maybe—
it was meant to shatter—
to let something wild
and feral
flood in
and leave you
pleading
for ruin.
—it’s a reckoning,
unapologetic,
untamed,
final.
We lived in a crooked house.
Built on a muddy mound of hope with the corpse of yesterday half buried beneath
Sad eyes and smiley faces. A gilded countenance to pair the four walled fiction – Painted thin; only just enough to cover our cracks.
Widening like morning eyes; a mirrored reflection.
Dancing in a zigzag to the tune of the tremors. An ugly soundtrack coaxing ugly art.
Those damp walls. The cracks swallowing torrents from eyes in the sky
Wide eyed boys watching sliding droplets crashing into droplets. Swallowed like pride.
Doors jammed in water seeped jambes. Knotted and gnarled. A need for a greave
Trees weeping at what they witness from the outside looking in. Shedding leaves for tears.
Oft trampled floor boards creaking and crying in solidarity with those that walk its back
Whisper and scurry light-footed like mice in a hurry so easily scared by the wall breaching wind
Trying hard not to wake the monster sleeping downstairs - Breath held like tongues, voices low
Like the swing in the garden tied to the tired branch of the hunched tree. Seat sunk in mud. Ashamed.
A tip toe down the slippery stairs; in fear of drowning in the basement swimming pool. A watery hell
Festering in the bowels of this building ever since the burgeoning moat breached the ramparts of this faux castle.
Lopsided family photo frames hanging by a thread. Nailed to crumbling walls. A slipping semblance of home.
The rising cigarette smoke staining the walls like those words from the same pursed lips from the mind so hard to rid
A cloudy plume with no silver lining; an excuse for eyes to water; blurring those family portraits.
That poisoned smog escaping through the chimney. Blown out over spluttering trees aghast at what this house concealed.
The wind once blew from the west. The house had many faces then but when the east wind struck its walls, the face it pulled it stuck. Doubled over, bent and crooked.
The trees perished like dreams and time brought change
But this crooked house remained the same.
Sunrise, sunset, noon.
It meant little to him.
He was completely blind.
Snow fell all around
Hiding the little fodder
That lay around.
The wind blew,
Yet it conveyed no scent.
His antlers were frost bitten.
His body starved of food.
He sensed a rangale of does
With the head stag alert.
The fight would be lost.
In his blindness he had no chance.
So he turned back despite the snow.
Hunters came with arrows.
The blind stag searched for under bush.
He knew his prayers were in vain.
The arrows were precise.
The blind stag fell, no sound.
It was a relief.
The snow continued to fall, staining
The ice with blood.
In ode to all who succumb
through wayward passages
lined of scribble notes
dripping ink’s savagery,
staining cursive patterns
in Sylvia-like depressions
Jarred bells ring
down lost tunnels
around each dark corner…clang
from steeples we chase
and beds we lie
draped in sadness
and shapes of
poetic happenstance
Tear drop vinaigrette
spiced of leftover lifetimes
drizzled on leafy desperation
bids a tired farewell
before time collects
the deserved rewards
As the chandelier dances with lustrous light.
Eras of still slumber awoken...from fluid dreams,
...in the depths of her confines...hibernating..
..fermenting her taste...timeless beauty.
Legends of vineyards past...uncorked.
Poured into existence by a charming present sommelier..
The bubbling prelude enters...a smoke filled scene.
Her sparkling silhouette...emerges on a silver platter.
...of her bottled mystery of decades past.
Penning the inception of empty chapters of glass...
..with her sweet tasting presence...
...nervously sweating condensation.
Fulfilling the myths of bottled beauty of life’s unknowns.
Overflowing the pages...in liquid stanzas
...of dazzling passion.
Her legacy manifests...scripting an ardent saga,
Staining the aura of pleasant reality.
Shining elegantly...while striding across marble floors.
Echoing...soft chronicles of champagne light.
Love, a crimson...virgin berry...plucked from vineyards afar..
...bottled for aging beauty...filled to the capacity of his clear figure..
While passionately...embraced by his fragileness of crystal arms.
...in the ballad of wine and glass.
o there is a place that dwells deep within
it makes warm the sun as new days begin
wellspring of essence that found me beguiled
each wondrous footstep I took since a child
deep shines that spirit, alight as the day
noonday bright luster to fluster the fray
two feet on my path from sunup's first spark
scattering shadows to burnish the dark
it sees me thru day as sun 'cross the vault
shelters thru darkness and fear, to a fault
it lets heaven’s weep give life and inspire
and thru winter's cold, I warm by its fire
but …
like lovers in moonlight, stories and friends
life stays so precious cuz one day … it ends
daytime is joyous, drenched sweet by the sun
yet … moon and stars only beam when it’s done
I pray that one day my words dance on the sky
staining each sunset when evening draws nigh
when, like day dying to set twilight free …
my soul, with the sun, slips into the sea.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Completely Your Choice 3, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Completely Your Choice (3) Any Theme Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Slipping Soul Sunsets Into The Sea" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
It's the only land that you can
get all seasons in one day
you name it UK displays it
all the colors from blue to grey
It certainly has loads of great variety
from sun clouds snow and pouring rain
to hail winds storms and freezing ice
has such a staining effect on the brain
The north is such damp climate
having wet damp miserable outlook
fills one with negative thoughts
when sun shines it seems a fluke
In the south where it's bright
as it's mostly warmer with sunshine
for it's labelled the English riviera
where it matures like a good wine
The east has real mighty gale force
as America's conditions effect the west
when they come across from States
on the atlantic waves full crest
So that's Britain's wayward weather
like it or lump it that's your lot
remember you guys across the pond
don't send everything that you've got!
(Just some thoughts on the UK weather and how it varies so much, also a little quip at you guys in US where we seem to get the effects of your east coast storms but rarely your sunshine. but no matter we love you all!!!)
Flickering in the night, a melting’s texture of regrets afterglow,
Candlelight’s waxed drippings staining the white laced table cloth,
Yet in the black and white photo album of the timeless, it is a
Pressed flower of remembrance, never to be forgotten,
In the days of wine and roses.
As champion kisses are exchanged between the
Youthful hearts of the innocent, another cork
Is popped, in this cozy interlude of memory’s repast,
Shattered lies this tempered fragile glass, smashed
Against the fireplaces inner mantel, leaving a frothy
Foams liquid behind, causing the crackles embers to
Burn higher with passions flame,
In the days of wine and roses.
Hand cut floral arrangements, plucked apart
Then tossed asunder, a petals trail to silken sheets
Of pleasure, sorrow’s bedding is lined with feathers
Down, angel wings tender sheathing to protect the
Wounded child of innocence, curled inside perfection’s
Illusionary dream, evolving into a flowering silhouette of
Womanhood.
In shad’s refection of repose, she weeps thus diamond
Tears that float away amongst the Lilley thorns, within the
Rippling pool of the timeless,
Oh those were the farewells for-get-me-knots,
To those days of wine and roses.
Valentines shaped boxes shredded into confections confetti,
Thrown into the air of clarity at the ticker tape parade
Of the broken heartbeat, as it explodes into a zillion pieces,
Tissues spent candy wrappers used to wipe away, moistures
Sorrows of regrets folly, thus the tender reed bends into
The winds of emotion,
Behold the tokens price of loves devotion,
Back in the days of wine and roses.
Vintage bouquets of elegance, tarnished with age,
Yet still retaining lusters shine of everlasting beauty,
The faithful clinging to the shadows of the past,
Hopes dreaming romantic, waltzing in rheum with
Memories of illusion, showered by petals of color,
From those days of wine and roses.
Flickering in the night, a melting’s texture of regrets afterglow,
Candlelight’s waxed drippings staining the white laced table cloth,
Yet in the black and white photo album of the timeless, it is a
Pressed flower of remembrance, never to be forgotten,
In the days of wine and roses.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUN
In the night's chilling air a phantom figure, drags itself from
The watery edge of the river bank, emerging, rising upward
From beneath the moonlight's illumination, she is free, to walk
The earth's spiritual plain of existence once more.
In soaked layers shifts, of tatters whiten lace, the corporeal
Image moves across the old chapel's courtyard.
Slowly this deaden heart of the betrayed, shuffles through
The fallen autumn leaves, crunching them under the weight, of
Her drenched wedding gown.
The haunted bride, carries a wilted bouquet of for-get-me-nots,
As she weeps, walking down the aisle of past regrets.
This virgin maiden, sounds a low mournful sobbing, that echoes
Against the marble ruins, of a dilapidated church steeple.
Lifting skeletal limbs, step by step, this bride of
Desolation climbs unto the threshold of condemnation.
Her wailing screams grow louder, and louder with each
Movements, begging, pleading for salvation's penitence.
But in the Lord's realm, the haunted bride has violated the sacred
Laws of God, so is she doomed for all eternity, to repeat her final,
Moments of life.
Wearing the veiled shroud of death, beauty's once fare,
Is nothing more than illusion's shadow vision of the forsaken.
A victim of abandonment's fall from grace, for consumed by
Sorrows pain, did she take her own life, in limbo she is the accursed.
Slowly descending in sheer remorse, her tears cascade
Downwards, staining the holy soil therein, her unkempt train
Trails behind this ivory phantom, with muddy green
Seaweed woven amongst the antique lace.
Cold watery waves crash against the murky shore,
A foreboding eerie mist lingers up top the rippling lake,
One last air's stale breathe she does inhale, as again life's
Essence leaves, become just exploding bubbles,
Popping at the water’s surface.
Here the haunted bride so does rest, in a fathom's aquatic crypt,
Beneath the dark abyss of no return.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN