Best Stances Poems
Is it simply just a wooden music box?
Charming the human soul, with its melodic undertone,
What a hypnotic melody it so plays, enticing the listener
With its delicate waltz' sweetly strumming, exposing it's
Mystical quality of the supernatural
By its spiritual essence attractant, I'm thus so memorized,
A ballerina dancing in step, with the spell cast upon me,
Thus do so I spin, on this stationary pedestal, unable to move
On my own volitional power of chose and free will,
I've be consumed utterly,
By the haunting tune, compelling me do its evil bidding.
The notes grow slower, unwinding until perfectly still,
But I'm not in a daydreams nightmare, I suddenly realize
This absurdity is reality, has become real.
I'm that tiny figure within a child's musical box,
Frozen in stances freeze, unable to cry
Out for help, for made of wax am I now.
Then the lid is gently shut upon me, and in the
Darkness a sadistic voice, heckles and mocks
Me, speaking in musical notes it sings a deadly
Lullaby, rest eternal my beauty for you belong
To me now.
I've become a play thing to be tormented,
Languishing within this jewelry box.
Caught in this land of giants, whom wind
These musical chimes, to join me as a
Prisoner's collection, of a thief called music.
Whom orchestrates this symphony of the demonic?
I dare not ask, for the voices anger would
Ravish what little is left of my humanity,
So I smile, and I dance at its pleasures
Whim, but within my soul a flickering
Ray does burn still, and it is called hope.
The music screams in terror's disbelief,
For the giants house has caught in flames,
And now he is the prisoner captured
Within a wooden tinder box.
I do so smile as I myself melt away,
Listening to the voice begging for help,
But no one comes to aid such evil as he.
But I am free at last, and except death
As a comforting friend's reprieve,
From the beast, is it just a simple?
Wooden music box.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Left alone, the abyss of failure
closes in,
for days it seems like weeks,
though months are now reduced to counted minutes
Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade
which surrounds my hope
in picket lines of untrained defectors
I claw at its lid,
thrashing mightily to my sides
as collections of miseries
flood this chamber of my coerced sleep
“I am here!” I shout,
hearing my words
echo in distance dance halls
two stepping on my memory,
spitting above where I lie
Here - a relevant term
as columns of disbelief carve themselves
from my mind.
Forgotten, left for dead,
erased from the blackboard
by the firm swishing hand of fate…
reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)
Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,
none can be found here,
where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here
My brain circles the skyline in desperation,
the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me
sleeping off my drunk
in that Frigidaire box
“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?
...............................................
Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,
beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,
now layered with orange crumbs and fingerprints
maybe someone will see
maybe still forgotten
As the morning breeze springing sprightful fragrance
Stolen cleverly when he kissed the soft colourful petals
I woke up into a new fresh delightful daylight
To taste once more my honeyed life and my blossoming day.
From my flat laying lazily at level six
I was contented to watch the sunrise
He rose with all his fervor and might
And I wished him a happy day out.
The sighing wind called me to look down the streets
Where I saw people in masks treading hastily
Like ants rushing here and there in hurry
Never they wish nor smile to any other faces.
Stand alone in bunches they waited for their turn
In buses or cars which ever halted to pick
Like strange samurai soldiers flying to a war zone
Never they wish nor smile to any other faces.
Fearful glances and rushing little steps
Even the whisking dresses frightfully heard as sneezes
My heart cried and burned seeing those pity stances
Oh, dear little creatures, stop your playful bounces.
The mighty human race moving towards a comess
When like weird aliens, Covid trying to invade
But tomorrow we will rise from our burning ashes
To tame you and make you a story for our coming cradles.
Third Place in N-A re-run 7 Poetry Contest sponsored by John Hamilton
Canvasing the world as we solder metal bandages to wooden wings
We attempt to cover pain by silencing what our scars sing
A noted tension with a vulnerable assist
Showcases hope and a life we refuse to resist
The porcelain skin that encompasses our ceramic hearts
Shatters with words, fragile from the start
We attempt to grow strong and bring misfortune to rest
Never acknowledging our torment in life’s daunting test
Powerful stances and barricaded walls
Provide the illusion of safety from the inevitable fall
We torture our minds with grace and self-worth
A future and freedom promised at birth
Together we provoke sanity and justifying results
But solely we fail due to committmentless faults
Pressure is applied for us all to do right
Causing the misery to show only at night
We lie restless, we toss, and we turn
Contemplating all failures and lessons we learn
Memories and dreams driven by desires and needs
Pose as the trough through which our fiction feeds
Obtaining the most out of life is what we all want
Hoping when we die it’s not viewed as a meaningless stunt
Is it simply just a wooden music box?
Charming the human soul, with its melodic undertone,
What a hypnotic melody it so plays, enticing the listener
With its delicate waltz' sweetly strumming, exposing it's
Mystical quality of the supernatural
By its spiritual essence attractant, I'm thus so memorized,
A ballerina dancing in step, with the spell cast upon me,
Thus do so I spin, on this stationary pedestal, unable to move
On my own volitional power of chose and free will,
I've be consumed utterly,
By the haunting tune, compelling me do its evil bidding.
The notes grow slower, unwinding until perfectly still,
But I'm not in a daydreams nightmare, I suddenly realize
This absurdity is reality, has become real.
I'm that tiny figure within a child's musical box,
Frozen in stances freeze, unable to cry
Out for help, for made of wax am I now.
Then the lid is gently shut upon me, and in the
Darkness a sadistic voice, heckles and mocks
Me, speaking in musical notes it sings a deadly
Lullaby, rest eternal my beauty for you belong
To me now.
I've become a play thing to be tormented,
Languishing within this jewelry box.
Caught in this land of giants, whom wind
These musical chimes, to join me as a
Prisoner's collection, of a thief called music.
Whom orchestrates this symphony of the demonic?
I dare not ask, for the voices anger would
Ravish what little is left of my humanity,
So I smile, and I dance at its pleasures
Whim, but within my soul a flickering
Ray does burn still, and it is called hope.
The music screams in terror's disbelief,
For the giants house has caught in flames,
And now he is the prisoner captured
Within a wooden tinder box.
I do so smile as I myself melt away,
Listening to the voice begging for help,
But no one comes to aid such evil as he.
But I am free at last, and except death
As a comforting friend's reprieve,
From the beast, is it just a simple?
Wooden music box.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
beauty, blessing, January, magic, moon, sunset, winter
A SEASON’S GLOW ©
‘Bastille’ winter-lodes wait anticipating the reserved and affected invasions of the sun’s setting rays, to lay its' mark upon her surrounding ice-capped winter hood---
Fortifying ‘arms’ now stand saluting at attention to the expected deluges to carnival delights from the setting sun….
Applause from ‘knightly’ lances carry a shadow-display, when brought to arms;
'toe-elbowing' their stances to a light bright multiplexed review….
Eventide’s soon to reach cosmic nighttime ceilings and is brought momentarily to stands aside, to hushed warnings off snow iced platforms gaining cheery fire-light at each kissed by-pass retreat….
At devotion ‘arms’ stretch their winter façades 'drawing' close their 'painted' ‘four o’clock’ shadows; that mark out each stance---
Alas, the playhouse ‘adieus’ end with sad commendations; when staged dimmed lights snuff and flicker out to blackness.
Nighttime slants and an interval is at hand, for waning sun’s rays, to dismiss their stationed sentinels over to moonlit beamed doom---
Night plagues with harmonizing rhythms; as ice-tinkling ‘icicles’ from branches high salute the night time, sky-faerie's lite and dance upon a new stage!
She steps up to the plate –smiling
The smile that fills you with hatred and embarrassment
When so often it is present.
This is no laughing matter.
The unliked by the team,
But still the needed captain.
The field is watching, waiting.
Bat up, she stances.
Eyes narrow.
The players tense –mechanically.
The pitch from empty space,
Creation of the batter’s mind,
Carefully crafted to tie the game.
The crowd groans.
She swings.
And off goes the game.
She motions to first.
The ball whizzes through the air-
First the infielders –chasing –running –pacing
Staccato across the red.
But they are no match –the ball continues.
She accelerates to second.
The inner-outfielders, the bridge, take over,
As if squeaks and honks can stop it.
They chase, to fill the empty space, but relent.
She crescendos to third.
The far-outfielders, at last,
The most important players of all.
Long, deep strides cover much ground,
But they cannot compare.
The ball is gone.
She made it home.
There is silence in the field.
And the crowd goes wild.
(In 8th grade, I really didn’t care for my band teacher, but loved band.)
WE ARE POLLUTION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the beginning, its said we were just dust,
Conjecture or, simply words I don't trust.
Even the big bang theory is not a positive must.
For the truth in all manner of things, I do lust.
I know it's out there, we've just scratched the crust.
I would bet a fortune but, unfortunately, I'm bust!
Gasses condensing along with dust compaction,
Probably planet earth's initial nuclear reaction.
Nuclear fusion in the raw, a non-fatal attraction.
Initially molten, cooling, a hardening contraction.
Still many millennia before life saw any action.
Abiogenesis some 4.2 billion years ago, first life!
Understanding self-replicating, still causing strife
Once instigated molecular life became common, rife.
Evolution in reality, fast, look, now man and wife.
Are we happy, we are the pollution, have we gone too far?
the door to self-destruction now open, well slightly ajar,
The not too distant future will climate warming will mar?
Most scientists researching nature, all life's chances,
suggest stop pollution, change ourselves, adopt new stances.
The end of life as we know it, total mass extinction,
I, and I wish all of humanity will find the lust.
To help nature right our wrongs, she needs our interaction,
stopping pollution now right now might just suffice,
else planet earth might end up looking like a star.
Let's all help save planet earth with great distinction
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
01/26/18: Amended punctuation and the date composed, 0900hrs 01/26/18
Entered in the MINUANETTA - Poetry Contest sponsored Gregory R Barden.
Venom resumes X 3
Suryas out of his basket indeed,
Even good boys are naughty, Sajni,
elevation creatonism,
mantra stance style,
the sun moons life,
he locks his eyes for an eternal rain dance,
chaos enveloped in tears from the sun,
cosmic comic stances that are silent,
the venom stillness of life,
under thunder blast compliance,
encounter my intellegence,
my imperfections,
venom resumes X 3,
vision,
prime modal,
infentile,
Surya is out of his skin,
he pees freely, and poohs slowly,
cautious very friendly,
screams X 3,
shout X 3,
venom X 3,
resumes X 3,
venom resumes X 3,
don't mention tantra to mantra,
Chandra,
everyone is listening,
even good boys are naughty,
even good boys go bad,
Chandra,
tell Rajni not to say any more mantras,
the town is out,
people are watching,
the sun will shout,
Surya X 3
Surya in gujarti means sun.
Chandra in gujarati means moon.
Rajni is name of an Indian man.
Tapasya means to run away for enlighnment in a jungle as pennance for bad deads in order
to aquire enlightment.
Dipped in frenzied simpatico
as easily as tango's release
the lyrics changed course
toppling over stances
notes were stacked
against the flight
stomping on horizontal
chaotic dancers,
music beating shrillingly
off key serenades
wafting midst dark leather & feathers
tripping edges' rapturous chants
of deep bass in the chest,
giving off sultry chills
covered in heavy cloaks of jazz & finesse,
strutted neath the pallor
of indigo moonlight
teetering on ledges of flimsy
tightrope convictions
holding no culpable meaning,
floated til whorling muses stumbled
to inevitably crash & burn,
whilst same tunes bellowed deafening
guttural melodies injected
into symphonic lures,
played like a fiddle at
chords of quarter tone sharp,
complicated steps spun 'round & bout
faltering over harmony's concerto,
cacophonous symposium brought music
to a screeching halt,
all that remained was silent applause
I learn to swallow
From despicable horrors
Churned out from fully hollow words
Not sieved and almost always shallow.
I learn to swallow revealing, raining hard words
Displaying raw thoughts
Detested speeches
Scripted stances
Polished ethos and make-believed pathos.
As I swallowed my own spit
I learnt that the age
The time that we are living in
Couldn't stand this in-your-face assaults of millions by millions expressions.
Would I continue to swallow
When I knew that the bubble is about to burst
And the vile bile spewed on-screen will remain fixed
Imprinted permanently inside my bones down to the core
A social crisis is definitely brewing
Ignorance reigning to a greater height
And Easter Island is reliving its glory all over again
But this time through virtual monstrosity at a ridiculous immensity
Honking geese and loud barking dogs
An impolite disturbance just before dawn
There should be no morning traffic, or so I thought
Until a flock of Ansers declared, this is our spot
Escaped from their wetland, to my courtyard lush green
Tropical vapors set the scene, the overcast sky composed
The script, collaborting with the Northwestern spring
Golden retrievers barked again, the geese blared loud
Spreading tuxedo-ed wings an array of feathers cream and brown
Positioned in stances exposing thier pure white down
Honking vocals chorused by a few, who brazenly announced
We’re just passing through, their unscheduled performance
On a cool misty morning, turned the mundane into quite interesting
Poetry Soup, The foundation where I’m planting my roots,
Lassoed by a rope that’s never loose,
Always bringing me back,
I’m here, ready with no fear, high jacking minds causing post traumatic panic attacks,
Ya no match for Quincy Mac! Always attacking while on track,
Was once a street rat, intellectually faster and now your poetic master!
The Rhyme Advancer with the answers,
With deadly sexy stances of grammar,
Aggressive techniques you don’t seek, seen as dangerous, so you lag and stagger,
Dancing with words bringing this banger,
Too advanced, for the ignorant class, who lack comprehensive swagger,
Picking up my spanners, I assemble transcendental concepts making you tremble,
Majority blessed by their synthetic environment, so minds are simple, worthless like a pimple,
Needing popped, shocked into trauma, so you wake to the storm of the west,
Always assuming ignorance is an asset,
A threat to ya well-being, intelligence tells us we should want to know about everything,
So learn to THINK, in sync with observations that interlink with the missing link,
Quick, question your sick social rank, thoughts go blank? No one to thank for wise principals,
I perceive myself as a human individual, home is earth, but cursed with feeble people influenced by evil,
Been told I’m on a different level, NO! Believing this will take hold of my ego,
Instead I write with flow and send out these writings to your brains radio, So turn it up!
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow I pickup bombs of ammo,
As I undergo experiences growing my vocab to blow minds,
The Knowledge Mastermind, of good and the upheaval of fallen thoughts of evils,
Painting life right now, in this domain claiming a divine easel, that equals more than worldly rules,
Prepare ya tools, Reassemble your sanity from all the insanity and ball,
**** in the air, frequencies of fecal matter disrupting what you think, to you its nonexistent and nothing,
Writings encoded deeply, not for the sleepy, hard to put together like a double sided puzzle,
All or nothing, no trouble, with balance keeping an eye on my surroundings, while under my angels wings.
Quincy Mac
Date written: 11.6.2016
(Obama: 'Trayvon Martin Could Have Been Me' ABC News , July 19, 2013. The President suggests that we judge people not on the color of their skin; but on the content of their character.)
We all wear clothes of different colors
to protect our skin from the elements.
We all wear skin of different colors
to protect our innards from the elements and our clothes.
Our color choices reflect our ancestry,
our moods; or life stances.
We all are the same inside:
We have muscles, and blood and bones
which serve the same purposes.
And we are all different inside:
our minds, our experiences; our souls
which record our lives and help us survive
Hopefully we can use them to find common ground.
Little kachinas
Poised in their native stances
Stories of the past