Best Stemmed Poems
Lavish luscious liaison
Orchestrated obsession
Nocturnal nebulae
Gifted graceful gallantry
Secluded sanctuary
Tiffany telltale turtledoves
Effervescent ecstacy
Metaphysical mascarade
Magically manipulated mandolin
Erotic entanglement
Delectable daredevil demigods
Rhythmic romance rhapsody
Openhearted opulence
Secret sensuous seduction
Exquisite exotic elixir
Sumptuous scent of long stemmed roses
AP: 1st place 2021
Submitted on June 24, 2019 for contest YOUR PERSONAL PERFECT POEM PICK sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - HONORABLE MENTION
Originally posted on March 15, 2019
Long-stemmed Promises
sweet babies
need sleep, sustenance and love.
Sounds easy enough.
Ask the sleepless mother
who feels the diaper rash more
than the infant.
Ask the mother whose child
is the bully or the bullied or
the social outcast.
Ask the mother of the child
Hooked on drink and drugs,
the troubled ones.
Ask the mother of the adult
child growing her own
long-stemmed promises.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
November 5, 2005
She lies upon this bed with a rose across her chest, symbolizing all that she once had and will not too soon forget
But his conscience can’t be bothered with her pain, and the tears that stain her pillow one by one they call out his name
She lies in repose of their last lover’s breath, and she clutches the rose so tightly imagining it’s his head upon her chest
She can remember the way his fingertips felt as they danced across her smooth skin, and she envisions for just a moment that they could be this way again
But in her heart, she knows he left this bed forever as she recalls when he last kissed her lips so sweet, and she holds so tightly to this memory that her heart won’t let her stop seeing in her mind on repeat
She can feel his arms around her and feel his lips upon her skin, and she lies there just waiting and wishing that it could have been
She cries out his name into the darkened room praying that where he is he will hear her cry, but she knows that as this rose, he has left her memory to die
How could something so beautiful hold another knowing that it’s beauty will fade? But to her it will still hold its meaning long after it changes its shade
When he gave her the rose, he said he loved her so true, and she gazed into those eyes she loved and could see and feel it too
She knew they shared a love that would never be surpassed, and as she lies here all alone on this bed her heart repeatedly asks
“Why wasn’t it enough to make him stay?” “What changed his mind?” If she was all that he had ever wanted, why can’t they go back in time?
She wonders sometimes if he can still feel her that way that she can him? While he is lying beside someone else does he ever pull her close and pretend?
Or does he sleep soundly without a thought of her ever crossing his mind? To hear him tell it he moved on with his life
But here she lies as though she is strapped to this bed, clutching onto a single, long, stemmed rose with the vision of the man she will forever love in her head.
We were once bejeweled dolphins frolicking
within the starry glitter of a spiritual sea
our freedoms were gilded and fathomless
then eyeless ogres of mayhem and madness
steadily parched our happiness and peace
tempered our smiles, muffled our clicks...
until there was nothing, but blackness left.
They've molded us into skittish goldfish
trapped us in their rose stemmed glasses
feeding us a few rancid flakes at a time.
dictating, we should be forever grateful
to be in the shadow of their pseudo shine
for their plastic sextants and jagged kindness
thinking we need them to center our lives.
Dunking these vote centric peckers is paramount
now kick back, smoke a blunt, watch the buzzards drown.
I’ve turned the corner, finally gone around the bend
Was a long learning curve, brought me here to no end
And now looking back I see, a spiral staircase descend
Followed blindly into a hell, where this poem was penned
By
David Kavanagh
QUAT-RO your four line Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian strand 19/11/2020
No placement
"she spoke of him quoting others.
Were his quotes of stories, might I call him
a storyteller.
Were hius stories of Ballets, might
than I speak of him as a songster.
Then he speaks of unknowns and
sceince: so then shall we call
him and unknown sceintist.
Then who's works are these? Thus we
stand in the confience of tommorrow, to
have the blueprints to the future!"
from Doctor Wufgang Sinsier