Best Startlingly Poems
While November pleads with the heart, a sense of pure praise stills the light, comforting the rising rhythms of trembling beats, the cadence of autumn seeping into winter… by poet
In the doorway of November, still and quiet
Listening for the first flakes – silent
Soft and feathery snow, motionless on the night
While the bursts of stars peak and wink,
Beneath an enchantment, so startlingly white…
In the entrance to November, healing
Each heart wrenching burden,
Urging the freedom, blazing with eloquence,
Pouring out hope on the purpose of a winter’s
Knowing, bursting with frosty whispers,
Melancholic and remembering…
At the start of sweet November, softly
Breathing out the poetry, the psalms the praise
Arising in the fiery moments before words
Know the promises, the promptings, the pieces
Of a heart, a soul, a spirit…
Arising on the starlit moments, wishing
On stars, glistening in the skies, heavens alive
Like the alabaster sighs, rising, rising…
In the heady grace of a November day,
Blazing like the pangs of grief,
Stifling the wings of a poet’s need – starving
For the way to say what needs to be said…
Pouring out feelings, blessings, regrets
Meanings that remember where we were,
What we said…
Before November started to bring her rest,
Before she cried, before she begged
From the music of a teardrop, startling
The easy flakes, blowing in
Winds of light, wings of faith, on slivers
Light, wispy as crumpled patches of snow,
Falling, blowing, blessing away the drifting
Griefs, the seething, burning
Echoes of moments before November spun
Out of control and startled the heart,
The feelings, the belief….
That fated moment when November sees
Light falling, blessing, erasing
The gray and soundless echoes
So we can see… the still, cool grace
In November’s presence,
November’s p r a i s e … praising the Creator
Of all those November days!
For a friend
I rise, on my strong wings
On breezes of summer night
Gales of early morning
Soft breathes of late afternoons
Gliding on this wide kite
Rustling of feathers
My eyes everywhere and nowhere
Seeing it all, observing complexity
Nothing, nothing can bring me down
Make me fall from heights
Highs, my Shangri-La
Euphoric in my invincibility
This cyclone hits startlingly hard
Reduces proud wings to fringes
But never, ever will bring me down
My heart beats its heart every time
***
January 24, 2017
What does autumn sunshine gloriously reveal?
When the sun sets too swiftly in the west keel
When a breeze said, "Sweetheart, I admire you."
Now moan the dying chords of the gloomy view?
The cold that begets each blurred leaf moans,
It clangs inside the veins and blisters the bones.
I loathe the mellowed tones of the clock thrum,
The hallway of time strikes a brilliant hoodlum.
I'm ridden that the fig's fallen leaves can't be undone,
I queried, yet has been unfit to mend the core bone.
Those dreary addenda appear to float on the vein,
And reflect my adamant dismay to me within.
He was fraught before dying startlingly,
A load of the burden of debt is crushing loosely.
Then, he learned a lot from this position,
Judge people who have plaid in fiscal coercion.
Hide behind the fig leaf, in the shadow,
Hide behind it your heart's calm to follow.
Never trust that fig leaf; it has a bark
Snack and taste from my oozy limp mark.
It's the fabled stint to delve into the spurts of life,
Lacking a fig leaf, you might swap bare in strife.
None left after the last leaf fell on the ground,
Also, each one saw it clearly, but no sound.
Written: March 28, 2022
1ST Place Contest Winner
This or That, Vol 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
3.
Or down yet another city street,
This Way down that grand Hiway,
That Third Eye opened:
Random patches of dandelion manifest,
Climbing the overgrown commons by the road;
Disappearing out of sight -
By the cracked, sun-blanched sidewalk;
Golden and deep emerald green dandelion
Over the smog-choked horizon.
Humanity on the brink,
Sliding down that proverbial 'slippery slope" -
To the proverbial abyss of our insouciance, to
Our bourgeois folly, infernal cruelty fed by witless greed,
The more mundane, mere surface of all things, as they may be.
But again, surely, this can't be all that is: So mean, so toxic.
Refreshed, one looks again, looks with eyes wide open with
New Saving Knowledge.
Now the patches of dandelion seem even more startlingly
Alive and vibrant.
They seem, somehow, almost "more real than real".
Illumined, they appear hyper-real, dazzlingly brilliant,
Appear preternatural, mesmerisingly coronal, and
Opulent, yet as though man-made, like ethereal origami,
Like the sun itself, another Saving "Point of Navigation" to
the Hidden Infinite Divine Source behind all things mundane.
*****
"Jesus said [to Judas Iscariot], 'Come and I will teach you ...
about a great realm and a boundlessness whose measure no angelic
race has comprehended. In it is the great Invisible Spirit ...'"
--- The Gospel of Judas 10: 1 - 5
"God is one's very 'own'. It is the eternal relationship. One realizes Him in
direct proportion to the intensity of one's feelings for Him. Don't be afraid.
Always remember that somebody is protecting you."
"He who is really anxious to cross the ocean of the material world will somehow break his bonds. No one can entangle him."
--- The Holy Mother, Sri Saradamani Devi, the divine consort of
Sri Ramakrishna
"Mary [Magdalene] said [to Jesus Christ], 'Lord, is there a place which [lacks truth]? The Lord said, "The place where I am not!'"
--- From the Dialogue of the Savior
"God is a dyer. As the good dyes, which are called 'true', dissolve with
the things dyed in them, so it is with those whom God has dyed. Since his dyes are immortal, they are immortal by means of his colors."
--- From the Gospel of Philip
The Missing Season
27/07/2020
Whiffs of summery air grow startlingly unfresh
Dying like a withering dream yet almost deathless
Ruffled by an impasse of a senescent, uncrossable viaduct
that goes beyond my knowingness, beyond my conception
Of an unknown poison instilled merely into my air
Blossomless springs, rainless winters and sunless summers
Yet the missing season is still an untold story of a tired self
Trying to winterize itself for the soon-to-be winters ahead…
All of the un/randomness -of wintry possibilities- maddens
She, all the same, awaits for thousands of summers instead
Away from the insufferable stuffiness that strangulates her
She willingly remains afar yet unwillingly she goes further
Not in the dark does she detachedly dwell, nor in a beacon
In a semi-dark room of her own, she scatters her thoughts
to get drowned into their boundless, unfathomable oceans
toward the innerness of thoughts she steps back and forth.
Dreamless nights very drearily resemble her dreamy nights
Those of the dying birds. On her own she fancies the Quail
That reminds her of the once brawny nest by the mountain
One season with an orphic symbol is still forever unfindable
And the pretermitted leaves remain rigid though shriveled
Unwilling to be vulnerably wept, they embrace summertime
A summer of their own from the figment of their imagination
Softly it drizzles upon their souls, and again they are revived.
Chopping wood sounds like shots - gunshots.
If they are done right, and these are.
Chop. Chop.Chop. Shot. Shot. Shot.
I am outside, writing in the sun.
My hands are startlingly warm.
A sense of well-being surrounds me.
A pink aura has me in her grasp.
The wood chopping sound gets my attention for a second.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I look up at a weird angle and there is a rainbow reflection in my glasses.
The sound has stopped.
I thank God that it is not gunshots. It is only wood chops.
I hear them during hunting season here, and I guess every two weeks or so at school.
I do not want to get used to them.
It is bad enough that my students have.
They no longer look up.
My grandchildren are growing up faster than dandelions on a summer’s day.
One second they are pulling themselves up on couches,
and falling on their diapered bottoms.
The next minute they are going to the mall with friends.
They grow startlingly quickly.
You drink a sip of coffee, and they are graduating from high school.
Cherish every single moment with your children.
Apologize for every infraction even if it is not your fault.
Grovel, debase yourself, ask for forgiveness no matter how crazy this sounds.
Throw your ego to the wolves.
Do whatever you have to do to spend every second you can
with your grandchildren.
So they will know you.
So they can love you, and you can lavish them with grandparent love.
They will get married and move away before you drink that lemonade.
They grow like dandelions on a summer’s day.
PRECOCIOUS IMAGES
power
to astonish
primped& glistening
closely engraved
in a
narcissistic
preciousness
subtle
laced with
arrogance
substantial
boasts
engaging conceit
in structured
fantasticals
initially
an
aptitude for colour
in a
complex tangle
touchingly
inscribed
with a typical
contemplation
of
startlingly
delight
with
prodigious
curiosity
which
lingers
in the mind
so
palpable &
infectious
in
subtle
ingenuity
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
I smother my face
In the coolness of the nighttime breeze,
Gently chafing my cheeks
Singing its nocturnal lullaby,
And the soft creaking of my rocking chair
Adding to the melody
I watch
As what remains of the warm amber glow
Gradually begins to fade
Into the darkness
Of indigos and violets
I then start to notice
The routinely chain of events unraveling
From the corner of my eye
Brief, minuscule bursts
Of bright green light
Infiltrate the air, grass and trees
All around
The indifference
Of a thousand chirps
Emanate from the encompassing world
Advising me to give in
To my arising slumberous tendencies
I obey.
A loud rustling
Jolts me from my state
And I awaken, startled
As a vast shadow
Startlingly bursts through
From, precisely, nowhere
My dazed self,
Now petrified by
The utter incomprehensibility
Of the moment,
Fails to notice
The stern gaze
Of the newly present owl
Observing me
Hesitant in my movements,
I timidly turn my head
Towards the beast,
Its eyes burn yellow
With the simple notion
Of true reality
I gaze back,
Intimidated,
The creature’s knowledge
Utterly overwhelming
I soon realize
That I needn’t to ask
A thing of it,
For it carried the wealth
Of a million lifetimes,
It knew
The answer to every question,
Any ponderous thought
That has ever been inquired
By man
This singular creature
Apathetically diminished
Any sense of superiority
But
From my first blink
In what seemed a fortnight,
It vanished
Along with
Its looming insight.
Sister Mare, here is one last tear in your honor, coughed up indignantly
Without a bit of sanctimonious thought or belief that you might care
You, my poor choice sister, have long ago abandoned us significantly,
I had lost concern and caring, but you have a faithful sorrowful mother, Mare.
She pines during the days, and defends your honor when I whisper
My big brother feelings were never important to you, and maybe not to her.
I will give you one last tear, in your honor, and I will shed it little sister.
Today, feeling dead, in front of your plain grave, I stare through my tears, that blur.
Mom could not come to your service, for she is not well these past ten years.
You have no knowledge of this, keeping yourself numbed with the drugs.
She would drowned in unhappiness if she knew the culmination of her fears.
In lucid moments she prays for you, and lives so you will give her final hugs.
Yours always meant so much, for they were great, when you were in your mind.
In recent years, you have been a stranger, living merely one town away.
Sister, a sadder tale in our family, I could probably never find.
Startlingly white clouds are smiling upon your resting place today.
One last tear, and then I have to go. I have a family now, a wife, and two boys.
They do not know about you, and I will not ever burden them with your story.
One last tear, and I am dropping a last gift, your box of childhood toys.
Maybe someone will come by, and pick them up and praise your undeserved glory.
One last tear, but then I go. I have a life …
Things I fear
Bobcat’s cry, toddler’s sniffle, quick run of a mouse
Startlingly startling
Things I also fear…
IV pokes, trying when you have no clue.
Going blind.
No basis for some
History on others.
Lance was a drifter, a gypsy, a loner, a lone wolf. Proud of it.
Not a highway man, not a flim-flam man, but a man who had traveled and knew things.
He had never settled down.
Or so he thought.
Until he met Lucy.
He recognized her instantly.
A blue-eyed, dark-haired gal with a personality that preceded her into nightclubs.
She had the best laugh in six counties.
A girl with a song in her heart.
A woman who had no idea how startlingly pretty she was.
She captured him instantly.
When Lance turned and looked into her eyes,
He knew he had come home.
He would never be a happy drifter again.
He had met his world.
She did not realize.
Had no idea,
but he was determined and he pursued her recklessly.
It became annoying and disturbing.
She was fearful of him.
He became angry.
Another mean woman, teasing him, leading him on.
He never realized he was the problem.
He was given his eighth restraining order, and mad as hell about it.
Just another tease.
What is wrong with all of these women? He wondered.
Never recognizing his smothering, incessant, exasperating, ways frightened them.
Never seeing himself the way others saw him.
Lance, drifter, a gypsy, a loner, a lone wolf, meeting his true love in every bar nightly.
Standing in my kitchen, wearily washing breakfast's congealed dishes
Dreaming desperately of dredging up a dinner delightful and delicious
Late winter's wan rays of sunlight weaving their way through living room blinds
Weakly warming the chill hovel I'd rented since being orphaned in 1989...
Startlingly, a creak, then a tear-stained moan from somewhere behind me
A window opened, blinds parted, a breeze started: delusion--or eerie tragedy?
Whirling around, stifling a cry, I watched in wonder, wanting only to know
What this weeping and wailing thing was, whooshing its way to and fro
And wherefore invisible, as the wind whirred ever faster and faster
Would it cut me down, or would I manage to outlast her?
When of a sudden, I saw it, an apparition, sure and clear
What on earth was my father's ghost, his wavering image, doing here?
A spectral mouth, jabbering jaws, skeletal face bearing the telltale scars
Of my departed father's journey through a universe bereft of planets,
suns or stars
He spoke, this spook; he called my name: "Help me, please, my son.
Ask Him for His pardon; to undo the wrongs I've done."
I shrank from the image, my father's ghost, in pure terror
Surely it had returned to Earth by means of delusional error
I shrieked and hid my face, praying for the wretched thing to leave my place
Whereupon, abruptly, the image faded, whisked back in time
by the Devil's Grace...
The mind's imagination ranges
Far beyond mere celestial zones
Chilling mere human essences
to the marrow of their bones
September 20, 2018
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Scary or Spooky Poem Contest
The Night, what a secretive creature
Dark,
Mysterious,
Eerie,
Each a tantalizing feature
It crawls in, from behind
Like shadow,
Like ghost,
Like intruder,
Throws cover and makes blind
Though creepy, it fascinates
With spiders,
With scorpions,
With serpents,
Resurrects and animates
The firmament, covered with chandeliers
Radiant,
Aflame,
Aglow,
Startlingly each appears
The desert dwellers, I envy
Favored,
Blessed,
Fortunate,
For the starry Night, they see
Maradona, ice palace princess was more formidable than we knew
Her reputation was startlingly modest, said the soothsayer, Lou.
She led the dragon brigade in January, stated snowy owl, a friend.
Her army annihilated the enemy, I mean to a devastating end.
Heaven’s pink angel bird messenger warned us of her arrival.
We wondered if we would be able to thrive, or just hope for survival.
Crystal cavern frost monger told us of her daring and dangerous feats.
Some of the stories were so outrageous, I listened to all the repeats.
She is on her way to winter palace, it has a few powdered blue roofs.
It might still have some dents on it from Santa’s reindeer’s hard hoofs.
Maradona rode on a white burly elk by way of Lebrabreeze valley.
She is the kind of ice princess you do not want to find in a dark alley.
The dragons were snarling, growling, and looking for places to hide.
Maradona is dangerous, she kills folk everywhere including outside.
Don’t be fooled by her fabulous rhinestone-like ice crystals and smile.
She has slaughtered many in this country, she has cunning and guile.
Cats and dogs were hiding in snowbanks, covering up with blue snow.
Guardians of Nostradamus society had barely any place to go.
We were frenzied when white elk marched Maradona up the frosty hill.
Glistening snow was silent, ice crystals adding to this January chill.
Diabolical Maradona can give you dreams, from her translucent wings.
Her pearlized crown is amazing, the envy of presidents and kings.
Her wisdom and whimsy whirls in so fast, you are thrown off your feed.
What else in this world would her sentinels, the white wolf dogs need?