Best Steered Poems
“Only from the heart can you touch the sky.” Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
I am a garden of Monet
thriving amidst
watercolor wilderness,
mourning the death of greens.
In pursuit of peace, where lilies
are tangled in tranquility,
I let my eyes slumber,
allowing my thoughts to wander
through an iridescent landscape
of unnamed orchards,
outlined with moon diamonds~
flickering luminous beams
upon my melancholic mind,
that remains a nomadic sojourner,
traveling through shifting time,
like kaleidoscopic roses,
splattered across the milky-way.
Happiness is more than
just an illusory noun
engraved from electric pens,
by passionate poets in quest of
a chivalrous expression,
intoxicated by ethereal imagism,
woven when life unfolds
a mundane cycle
flowing with razor-sharp regrets,
where we drown, paralyzed and lost
within somber phrases of serenity.
Yet, I refuse to pirouette like
a lamented leaf fleeting
above flowerless fields.
I am an amateur artist, painting
my sadness in captivating genres,
my brush is like an
odyssey of rainbow petals,
steered by a sleepless muse,
selflessly guiding my blushing heart
to sculpt sorrow with periwinkle dreams.
There I find blissfulness within
the butterfly breeze
of sakura sunsets,
falling upon my breathless ink,
longing to be traced
in musical tenderness,
illuminating this spiritual connection,
set aflame by embers
of fervent devotion,
dancing across the smooth sky of
sanguine seas,
where tides of infatuation
rinse away ripples of remorse.
For in this world of woes
I found a lyrical line
and turned it into an
illustration of sensuous sonnets,
emanating love and light
when metaphors have no meaning.
O sage silence,
in your unsung melodies,I found
a haven blooming with honeysuckles.
The sun and moon synchronized
into an amorous ambience.
Now I rest my angst
on pillows of endearment,
embroidered with sweet solace.
You will be the last summer
seeping along cinnamon
strings of my silhouette;
the aurora warmth to
my frosted dusk, forevermore.
We are all born angels but gradually grow
into men;
A few of us, though, do angels remain,
And you, golden you, are the like of them:
You whom Paradise led me to
And back to Paradise leads me daily;
Whom Fortune fished from my dreams to
lay by my side...
If you wish me love, wish me you,
And if I should make you happy, make me
hubby!
Then for a day you’ll be my bride and forever
my pride.
And side by side with hearts, sweat, & tears
entwined
We’ll each day labour at the blessed wheel
By whose fateful spins our home shall be
steered
Towards destinies atop golden hills
That Heaven wills as our dwelling place.
Those memories of her, now bittersweet
Recalling tender moments that we shared
Young lovers' dreams which time can not defeat
Is proof down deep inside how much I cared
My pining heart still yearns for yesterday
To taste those honey kisses once again
Her dark brown eyes that always seemed to say
The love she had for me would never end
But that is where my recollection fades
As fate stepped in and steered her love away
The passing years created such a haze
What caused our love to die has now decayed
I wonder if she ever thinks of me
With fondness, like my treasured memories
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Upon my life your winter still drizzles
Evoking the morns that arose in despair
And nights that steered dreams into sorrow,
As I sit all alone in valleys of destitute
Where memories haunt pitfalls of yore.
Tender and sweet, you were my ruby rose--
In garden of love, essence of fragrance,
Enchanting petals in butterfly dreams.
But seasons soon ravaged resplendent meadows--
Drought of emotions dried up the crops,
And red-robins left, abandoning empty nests,
When you relinquished the vermilion dawns
And chased sunsets in twilight of sundown
Forfeiting the sunrise that illuminated past--
You heard me there, but said nothing at all.
As arrival of fall marked the summer's end
A budding rose curled-up in travails of desires.
And dreams that cherished revelry of night
Confronted the day that endlessly rained,
When you roamed deserts tailing a mirage
Leaving behind lotus-pond, full of white swans,
Claiming of dissonance in nightingale's song.
Yet, I keep hanging on to visions of spring
Wishing for rivers to rush down from mountains
And blossoms that faded to host a new growth.
But in memoirs of yesteryear there is no tomorrow
For sometimes my dear, love just isn't enough.
September 10, 2019
Poem of the day on September 12, 2019
Placed 1st: Sometimes love is not enough poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 3rd: Your best free verse of 2019 by John Hamilton
Placed 1st: Strand select contest O by Brian Strand
‘Hey stomach,’ says anus,
‘Would you cut the crap.’
“It’s not me,’ stomach says;
‘I won’t take the wrap.
It’s what they’re eating,
So blame teeth and mouth.
I’m innocent,’ says stomach,
‘For that filth down south.’
Brain has a good laugh
At organ expenses,
By prodding infighting
Over false offenses.
‘Are you kidding me,
You two dumb kidneys.
Always a teamed pair
For a fight that’s not fair!’
Roared livid liver
Who was hardly pleased,
That they blamed him
For the smelly feces.
‘Oh stop it now, liver
Just sit there and filter.
We said no such thing;
Don’t get out of kilter.’
‘Tee-he-he,’ laughs brain.
My plan’s working well,
To keep each organ
At odds over a smell,
That they have no power
To change or repair,
And since they can’t think
They’ll stay unaware.’
Hands and mouth kept
Eating junk by the hour.
Having been brainwashed,
They blindly devour.
Long ago brain trained eyes
To focus on the news,
Now it was time for all
Parts, to pay ‘their’ dues.
Bones pipe up, and say,
‘Something doesn’t feel right,
Hey muscles loosen up;
Why do you squeeze so tight?’
Muscles answer and say,
‘Colon and intestines
Are the guilty squeezers,
Causing congestion.
I’m just doing my part
At the request of the brain.’
‘But muscles,’ says bones,
‘It’s causing me pain.’
And after a while
Brain has all body parts,
At odds with themselves;
Over endless bad farts.
Organs, blood, and guts
Could not get along;
They once did their jobs
Keeping the body strong.
But brain has the answer,
‘Let’s vote on what to do.
Either I run the show,
Or you deal with bad poo!’
Yes, brain got them quibbling
And each held a grudge.
All based on false info
That made brain, ‘King Judge’.
So each part gave in
To that sneaky design,
And waited for orders
From brain to assign.
But brain was a liar
And steered organs wrong.
The body collapsed;
It didn’t take long.
Just like brain, most statesmen,
Fool us like we’re tarts.
Let’s not die for their lies,
But stay whole, not apart.
I furl myself…
in au revoir ruins …
within selfish flames
of a femme fatale,
where black pearl roses
weep with the ghosts of gold ~
grounded in the
glamorous requiem
with the grace of glittering glitz,
but in these gardens of grief,
I mourn with
the flawless footnotes
of grim obsidian mirage ~
groomed with faces
that forget
the patronus prose ,
petrified by
soul-stirred sunsets
with purple pigments …
I learned how to live unkissed, until ~
this emotion steered me
to the eclipse of heat ,
raining love riots …
even if it were
my imagination
and the moon tonight ,
were an honest manipulator -
O destined god of my dreams
let me melt in your lucid love-fire -
be the siren for sizzling seashores ,
and wake up with the wave ~
that whispers, whirling the halo
of white crescent wings …
as I need you …
within smooth strokes ~
that worship your
whistling heartbeat,
…and we dissolve
with devotion,
in the delusive design
of dusk-blush maroons ,
fading into
the evening evanescence
as those sun drops
glimmer with citrine stars ~
and I wear this
galactic wine pendant ...
in the paradise
of this dulcet demigoddess
weeping
~ smokes of d e s i r e ~
Before the weary pilgrim, flowed a river fair and wide
The way was filled with danger, he couldn't cross the other side;
So the pilgrim sought another to be his expert guide
With a boat that could take him through the surging tide.
The sailor man was strong and he steered the boat so well
Or did the river bear the boat? It was so hard to tell;
The sailor told the pilgrim of the signs that he might seek
Of the secrets of the river and the message it would speak.
Then the pilgrim felt the peace so he listened and he heard
The murmer of the river and sighs of whispered word;
He heard the river laugh and then he heard it cry
And the pilgrim heard the message as sad tears filled his eye.
He heard the drums of war in the torrent of the rain
And the awful cries of anguish that he never could explain;
Was there a reason for the crossing, or where the river ran
Was there another reason for the journey of this man?
He heard the sounds of death, he heard the sounds of mirth
But nothing that he heard gave tribute to the earth;
The sounds were fused together till they reached a common goal
And the quiver of his heartbeat found a cadence in his soul.
The river lost its birthplace and embraced the open sea
And the pilgrim gave his thanks on reverent bended knee
He opened up his eyes as the sunrise slowly died
But the sailor man had gone and the boat rocked on the tide.
The river filled his veins till the two at last were one
While the tide rolled on forever and earth went round the sun;
The pilgrim was the river and the boat and sailor man
Were the journey of the song, the singing river sang.
This is my adaptation of "The Ferryman" by Herman Hesse
His family had lived here all their lives untold and he had too.
His father had died when he was young and he vaguely remembered him.
Mom tried to cross the busy street which she had been warned.
She had instantly been killed as her family watched with horror and fascination.
No funeral just sadness as the machines whizzed by but the last of his kind remembers.
As a youth, he had run and played in these fields but steered away from the machines
as he had been warned.
The machines are fast and you must always watch for them and be clear.
The woods were loved as he chased the young females until they let him catch.
He had two of his own children but they had died at very young age.
And soon after, the big trucks came with the men that would be vilified.
They uprooted one hundred year old oak and built twenty homes.
Across the road where the field was, forty more were taken from his youth.
The last of his family had all been married out or were dead until he was alone.
And as he walked and looked, he was frightened and filled with grief.
He saw his mother standing gracefully at the top of the house filled field.
His brother and sister played until dusk when his mother would call and recall.
He ached where he ran and still he searched.
As the tear rolled away with those distant memories and the pain.
Slowed by the ache he laid his final time with grief.
And he knew he was the last and his youth died with him.
The last deer
As genial cheers weave spells in your presence
To enchant our eyes with jubilant scenes;
For conservative ways do kindle wonders
Though few will say, all is not what it seems.
Yet the stars beam in joyful contentment
Crowning eighty years of Elizabeth’s time,
Guided by old rules yet loved by her people
Who offer flowers and wishes sublime.
For London today brims with warm faces
A moment in June while voices bellow;
“Long may you reign for England, may you reign!”
Till history peals of decades that glow.
Dear Majesty, when hours entice you back
Remember your dreams will always be steered;
For this kingdom is blessed by life’s devotion
While endless fjords whisper your name, revered.
6/5/2015
Judy Konos' Long Live The Queen
Secrets,
now memories,
piggybacked through summer.
On handlebars, calloused fingers
steered dirt bikes to an emerald kingdom.
Two boys, on tree stump thrones, ruled worms
unearthed with splendid crowns
of sundrenched leaves,
carefree.
Written 2/27/17
Time travel has always fascinated man
Could UFOs be steered by human hands
Consider this premise before you say no
So called “grays” resemble human embryos
Evolution proceeds, gene pool depleted
Mind power expanded but bodies weakened
Future man looks back in a quest to erase
Effects of the technology we embrace
With smog blocking sun’s rays, skin has turned gray
Bodies thin as meat exits the food parade
Reproduction is challenged by low-grade genes
Sad Earthlings search the past and like what they see
Tan, healthy bodies adorned by hairy manes
Fertile women who suckle innocent babes
Men of great strength who clear forests with axes
Strong immune systems when a virus attacks
In sore need of genetic material
Large-brained grays devise a means for time travel
Abductees are beamed to aircraft by bright rays
Frightened while forced to donate their sperm and eggs
Time travelers say nothing, perhaps ashamed
To be stealing from ancestors in this way
Capacity for learning greatly enhanced
But the grays know nothing of sex or romance
When farmers find signs of mutilated cattle
Such evidence should not provoke a call to battle
If future man’s life is genetically revived
Meat may be required to keep humans alive
Don’t hide in terror when you see colored lights
Spinning in circles on chilly autumn nights
Close encounters, but abductees’ lives are spared
Returned to their homes by captors who care
Consider the fate of new generations
If you’re called upon to make a “donation”
Experiments grays perform may seem absurd
But they may be trying to save our own world
Dedicated to My Son, The Bedtime Kissy-Keeper Giver
Like a virgin to stressed messes surging,
I struggled with bridges on parental ridges
when I wore both mom and work britches.
Young years adhered pleasure steered twitches
but grown changes sewed pressure stitches.
I changed to a day and night striving
female getter-doner; an energizer twit-nit
who conquered to-do lists into done bits.
I became every weekday employee,
pay postured towards green seen garnered.
I was more a get-byer than I was a
future green funds keen accumulator.
Nightly, I morphed into dinner’s meal cooker
still dressed in work time's pantyhose stress.
I dreamed of a pajama seamed frame
before next becoming a kitchen mess cleaner,
homework tutor, tub time clean scrubber and
loving night-nighttime book reader.
I found no awakes take was sweeter
than my child’s beddy-bye kissy keepers
and prayed my son’s most precious styled love
would counter the stresses that I was made of.
In time, all men must come to terms with dreams
to cast off all they craved that true life stomped
yet still hold joy’s sure seeds in hope lined seams
lest all their heart holds dear just fails flat chomped.
We do and should build dreams in life with zeal
with care to then bind them with prime ground ties
that will not lose or bruise the dreams pitched feel
but hold our soul’s core glow where good light sighs.
Some dreams are as flight trips our minds need take
to keep our thoughts from scenes that rip our hearts,
then there are dreams we wish for earth’s own sake
where peace and love may paint their best toned starts.
Some dreams are meant as heart sheer, mind reared sways.
Some dreams are meant as heart cheer, mind steered stays.
He deems the ways and dares to understand,
a measure of a love that went astray,
from libelled forces, which compelled his hand,
to lies, and morals left to slow decay.
No one forgo or risk refute her right,
a stubborn choice is seldom steered by sense.
To cease callow mishaps from leaving blight .
sound case to aid her act of self-defence.
Yet, who can purge despair from a man’s soul,
who boldly baulked against such mortal deed?
His choice dismissed as outside his control,
no matter pleading creed, indeed, his breed.
Such anguish will forever convolute
because abstracts are never absolute.
06.27.21
You are free to choose, but you are not free to alter the consequences of your decision
– Ezra Taft Benson (politician)
THE CRADLE OF MANKIND.
The archaeologists of this era
Were about to excitedly find
The Cradle of Mankind
Where the origins of humankind
Had been found, the news was about
To be revealed to the whole world
And so the ears of our globe were glued
To their radios in 1947, they heard,
About this mammoth remarkable finding
Painstakingly excavated , it’s evidence binding.
Mrs Ples’s skull was found,
And with carbon dating,
Archaeologists were rewarded
Most certainly worth waiting!
Estimated to be 2.3 million years’ old.
Mrs Ples (as the archaeologists named her)
All this time had been hidden
For many a year
But there is still more to hear!
It is said that she is the missing link,
We may each think what we want to think!
Archaeologists were about to discover
Other unbelievable phenomena,
Which supported the belief of evolution,
And steered many into total confusion!
God is omnipresent, and
The Alpha and Omega, He has been
Looking down on earth for millenniums
From the beginning of time,
He is omniscient, He believes in me,
And I in Him, He is the Divine!
The Sterkfontein caves are now famous,
Planet Earth was listening, this story was big!
In 1998 archaeologists discover
Yet another important find,
This boggled the mind!
They laboriously dug in this one excavation
Over twenty years, Layer upon layer of ground
And thus Little Foot was found!
He, some say it’s a she, was gently assembled,
And lies in a Pretoria museum,
Together with Mrs Ples,
Archaeologists still dig,
They insist, that there are still hidden treasures
And take great measures,
To work carefully and diligently
Excitedly say there is much more to find
Underneath and beyond the Sterkfontein caves,
Patiently, waiting to uncover
Yet another, one of a kind!
I believe with soul, heart and being
In The Almighty, maybe He even lent the
Archaeologists a helping hand, we cannot
Ignore these finds, they are not fantasy but real
Furthermore we were given the gift of logic,
And ultimately the archaeologists will kneel,
And praise and thank God Almighty!