Best Stemming Poems
Sensing and yearning allure of daydreams
My musings amble in meadows of themes,
Sometimes wowing ebullience of dawning,
Sometimes luxuriating in moonlit evening
Gazing lambent skies of stellar twinkling,
Inviting me to echo my inner most feelings;
Of whispers romantic when love is courting,
Of giggling streams and blossoming springs,
Of resplendent autumn’s falling gilded leaves,
Of fate unkind, bawling, in throes of grief,
Of pristine joy beaming from mother’s eyes
Jubilant in delight of child’s innocent smile;
Of ebb and flow to life in seasons undulating
Spurring me to attribute form and meaning.
So, I write verses stemming from core of soul
Striving to capture essence of elusive words,
Exploring assonance, even in rhymeless prose,
Attempting to inspire spirit of wordless woes
As thoughts-poetic heart’s rhythms compose;
Of chromatic sunsets and scintillating dawns,
Of starless nights hosting tenebrous bygones,
Of tales strumming romance, of fables forlorn,
Of ideas enthroned, of paradigms bemoaned,
Of boundless expressions, of passions I own.
August 30, 2022
Placed 2nd: I Write Because Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Winds were among first to notice
Fragrant air blowing fresh breeze
Stemming from your pristine vicinity
Extolling prospects of your visit,
Announced by the birds in flight
Message circulated far and wide
Into the emerging scenic twilight
Pushing far away the opaque skies,
Cotton clouds then adorned charm
Scattered in ways of scenic art form
In orange hues peeking from blue
Amid aerial vistas painted for you,
Sprinkling rays on mosaic colors
Layers of fabric spun florid display
Anxious for you to take your step
Into this arena of majestic stage,
But all that passion suddenly erased
Prompting egress of darker motifs
When sun plunged below horizon,
Dismayed that you never showed up.
April 12, 2018
Placed first in contest 515 by Brian Strand
line count and word number are equal in this selection....
"Make It Count"
by: Eric L. Boddie
A
Man may
Come to play
But if you say
Oh no baby, not today
Do you think he would stay
Or would he go so far away
In search of another lover he could lay
Doing everything associated with rolling in that infamous hay
And if push came to shove, maybe he would pay
To relieve all the stress stemming from your hips' distant sway
Because something must give, there are more than fifty shades of gray
That's common knowledge to the freaks and all those upon which they prey
And once you learn them all, I promise your lover will never ever stray
But if you miss just a single one, then you may experience that dreadful day
Where you lose it all so try to find True Love and remember to always Pray
In this field of plantation;
Where I walk and plant various
parts of myself around this
world;
I sometimes look back and notice
the trail;
I recognize the lettuce of charity
I’ve grown constantly through the
years,
the tomatoes of kindness which
resonates red to the world,
For as the blood flows within my
temple,
Kindness will always be found
here;
Also my celery of respect remains
long,
And continues growing as much as I
do;
And yet for all these positive elements
I’ve learned to express to my
environment;
Occasionally I plant a bad seed which
poison’s the essence of my entire
being;
And for that, I apologize.
Although a perfectionist in small doses I
am not perfect,
And as a result my garden of Eden
contains more infamous fruit then I
would want,
Stemming from lack of growth in my
maturity plant;
While a few of any negative offspring
have cultivated,
None have been more consistent in growth
than my deception seed.
Unfortunately as I’ve grown into
adulthood,
So has my subconscious lying,
Sadly after a while you don’t even
realize that it still sleeps in your
field,
And as a human constantly harvesting
you learn to accept it;
However evolution never grows
old,
And even a perfect saint contains a
lifetime of imperfect downfalls,
So while I’m familiar with deception,
It is those virtuous seeds that grow
within me,
That are parallel with my height
and with that, I’m content.
God never asked for our field to be
perfect,
But to show progression,
So that it could display many of lives
lessons,
And as my life continues adding up,
I can promise the world that my
dark seeds subtract simultaneously;
But yet I understand we’re all human,
And we must reap what we
sow,
Therefore I’m hoping that my seeds of
empowerment in the form of black eyed
peas, fall into my neighbors field,
Thereby enriching their lives for yet another
season.
Whispers of talent are carried on New England breezes
Dickinson, Hawthorne, and the Irvings’ son Washington
Though I sense a special connection to all of these
None inspired more than Edwin Arlington Robinson
Three Pulitzer Prizes were displayed on his mantle place
His childhood in Maine he described as “stark and unhappy”
Though he went to Harvard, academics he’d not embrace
Arlington’s style was unique and his cadence snappy
“Miniver Cheevy,” displaced soul, longed for Medieval years
To Miniver I could relate, felt I was born too late
Wishing I’d ridden West with America’s pioneers
But at least my dreams alcohol will never desecrate
For his depressed brother Herman, “Richard Cory” he wrote
A handsome man who appeared to enjoy the perfect life
But the turmoil in his heart, his exterior did not denote
Richard shot himself in the head to put an end to strife
Edwin, your character studies touched something deep inside
Struggles you described of common men gripped me, made me cry
People whose dreams and accomplishments did not coincide
I, too, watch life’s play from backstage, feeling like a standby
Though I seek to display wit, tragedies pour from my pen
And much like my muse, my life seems filled with loneliness
As poets we reach out to touch lives of men and women
Hoping to find comfort as troubled feelings we express
* Written for Jared's "Ode" contest
Edwin Arlington Robinson (December 22, 1869 – April 6, 1935) was an American poet
born in Maine who won three Pulitzer Prizes for his work. His brother Dr. Dean
Robinson died of a drug overdose, perhaps inspiring Robinson to write of the
alcoholic dreamer “Miniver Cheevy.”. It has been speculated that his poem "Richard
Cory" was penned for his other brother, Herman. E.A. Robinson’s poems have a dark
pessimism stemming from dreams gone awry. The style and themes of many of my
poems seem to emulate Robinson, who often wrote in rhyming quatrains. “Richard
Cory” can be found at http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/richard-cory/.
To read “Miniver Cheevy,” go to
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robinson/12640.
Cuckoo Dancers
Discarded dusty beer bottle lying dormant on the tracks
Commuters await their carriage
Adorned in business like macks
Trees sway in gentle breeze
Capable of more tension,
Performing their shedding of leaves
Far too many to mention.
Pigeon jumps on pigeon
Mating season for all to see,
Another squirrel scurries across the tracks,
Across leaves and debris.
Solitary heron surveys the scene,
The dance of the platform,
The cuckoo dancers ensue.
Discarded shower gel lies half empty on the tracks,
How this could have got there, no one can tell
One person steps forward to check for his train,
Another steps back with woeful refrain
This pattern continues to emphasise my point,
Stemming from this anxiety a new dance I anoint.
Discarded crisp packet bounces gently across the tracks
Reminding me very much of a man on the moon,
Station clock shows the train arrival is now late,
Man grunts, swings his brolly...he is clearly irate.
Discarded cigarette pack fades gradually on the tracks
Whilst woman fixes make up, man kills time by playing with his phone,
Amazes me how people just can't leave them alone!
Man lights his cigarette in a reluctant fashion,
His car has broken down and he hates public transport with a fervent passion.
A multitude of people are gathered here today,
Business attire the name of the day
A brief case, a brolly, a black bowler hat,
And in some extreme cases
A flasher mack and a comedy 'tache!
Suddenly in the distance
A growing light appears,
A communal silent sigh of relief
As the train begrudgingly nears
Man stubs out his cigarette
As the train makes its approach,
In anticipation of his selection of coach.
Discarded Autumn leaf floating lazily across the tracks,
The platform is now empty
Awaiting its latest cuckoo dance!
Copyright
S Rose
love like in colour
a silk rose
lasts but is not true
Caress of grace sublime, shows on our face,
of peace that surpasses understanding;
a jigsaw puzzle others cannot lace,
our aura both gentle and commanding.
It’s not that we don’t share but few can pair,
with the road map that leads to joyous bliss,
stemming from soul’s inner light, self-aware,
borne by pure love of Divine Mother’s kiss.
Symbols we use, interpreted by mind,
are in truth addressed to the heart centre,
so it’s best we leave all knowing behind
and simply allow bliss mists to enter.
Resting counsel of ego deceptive,
clear truth is known to pure hearts receptive.
Clear truth is known to pure hearts receptive,
whose life purpose is God search in earnest,
cognised by soul’s mindful eye perceptive,
allowing love seeds in our heart to nest.
Love is not a pretended emotion
and therefore we must first choose to be still,
distancing ourselves from thought commotion,
dwelling in silence, till voids within fill.
All that that comes and goes is unreal
and with this understanding we begin,
living in the moment with zest and zeal,
weeding away cravings that lead to sin.
When such emptiness becomes our soul’s choice,
we begin to hear whispers of God’s voice.
We begin to hear whispers of God’s voice,
when we hold steady resolve and focus,
upon which we feel nodes within rejoice,
moving in form along the bliss locus.
We may call this Holy Spirit or chi
but leaving labels for the time aside,
what happens is for the first time we see,
that the God we sought resides deep inside.
Beholding God in clear sight, light soft white,
we see that our soul’s made in His image,
pulsating within with unbound delight
and with this knowing, we become a sage.
Having no mundane, earthy goals to chase,
caress of grace sublime, shows on our face.
h e a r this h e a r t …
as hurt hangs low
with cursed fidelity
of fame-lit fakeness,
attached to expectations ~
as wraith-leaves coil
around my neck,
under the veil
of mockingbirds,
wearing a cape of blames
and futile boldness,
caught up in
the hypocritic hisses,
where life is tangled
in a sprawling spool
of moon-moths ~
dwindling in
dreamless desires
where materialistic
monks lilt away
in fatal laughs,
and your crimes
remain lethal,
mummified like a
feather-dressed devil,
taming the loyalty
that laments
without the lustre
of Lucifer
in calcified flames …
lifeless … I lurk ~
in the estuary
of dyslexic dialects
running across
those spinal clusters ~
stemming aimlessly,
from the
kryptonite backbone
of kohl-kissed sky,
these headless
accusations
cannot kill me
with the haunt
of telepathic terror,
because, I am
massacred till the
apocalypse of ashes,
pressed between
barbaric petals
of sunset sapiens
and sea-smiths,
one amongst the
awakened dead ,
feasted upon
and forgotten ~
by those
opportunistic
omen-keepers
roaring in the
carcasses of
vivacious vultures …
some skeletons
do not weep
waning fossils ~
within fondescent tombs,
rather, they
metamorphose
into a twilight-
tipped tree ,
bearing the burden
of unblossomed
spirits who refuse
to let go ~
of their delusional
weightlessness,
as they remain
a shackled souvenir
of satanic inflictions,
that the reaper
could not obliviate.
so, you cannot
set me aflame
with aries eyes,
for, there … uprooted,
I am the Madonna ,
the skull of a
hopeless sorceress
left abandoned ,
as an obsidian oasis
of the femme fatale,
shipwrecked
in your deserted heart …
for, this horizon is nothing,
but a vessel of venom,
a framework
made of bones
and stardust frost ~
where poets perish
pulse by pulse ,
and souls lurk
in osteoporotic caves,
like ticking grenades
in the monet of time …
" but I wish,
if only my satanic tears
could be touched by painless paint ~
unafraid to the horror ,
of the artist's frozen eternity … "
*** Inspired by the artwork ~ Ghosts on a Tree, by Franz Sedlacek, 1933.
Let it be recorded
my wish to live
where I can sleep
in good weather or bad
on a beach festooned
in the bric-a-brac
of the ages.
Perhaps a vanishing glow
far to the south
all that is left
of that common pestilence
known intimately
as a lifetime
of earthly dues
Now I am leaning with shoulders leeward
still eyeing the reef submerged
a ship's pilot
steering his vessel
beyond the shoals
victorious
to the open sea
From breath to breath
I exhale the plague
once tyrannical
against every stemming cell
once dominant
over every
pulsing heartbeat.
The sea now
lives inside my cells
where time itself
tunnels the sun
through woven matrixes
a surface below
tethered skin
I can only hope
as I fall into sleep
that I soon be awakened
to sea birds squawking
at something of interest
in the tumbling
surf
What creeps in space beneath the Elder trees
where time exists unfettered misting shore
that haunts and howls yet never says what for
as unborn twins that rot in garbled seas?
Whose breath turns stale an autumn mystic breeze
then speaks of life remembered ripe with gore,
of lust and death all stemming from a whore
who swiped a card to pay her selfish fees?
When rolling fog turned damp the summer air
while moon-lit skies exposed a mother’s tomb
then infants torn in half made heartfelt pleas
that fell on deafened ears which didn’t care;
The slain that rest now freed from Satan’s womb -
What creeps in space beneath the Elder trees.
In the delicate heart of the loving, no other can compare to the
Soft tender spirit of the one known as mother, what a cherished
Rose of tiffany glass, fragile, beautiful but in strength’s resolve,
A timeless piece of elegance in brilliance to outlast, and endure
Beyond any stars’ shine amongst the heavens!
Yielding, do these mystical rose petals of the heart fall, unto age,
As a sheer fine crystal teardrop, sheading leaf by leaf of
Emotional devotion given without a moments hesitation,
Unto the child she’s loved, nurtured and protected always!
Delicately pressed within the family photo album of remembrance,
Is this everlasting exquisite blossom, ever tenderly placed, between
Memories soft moments of self-compilations reflections,
As if a stilled pond suddenly disturbed by a careless hand of
Forgetfulness, behold the silent glass tear rippling on the
Waves of memory, awakening your childhood laughter
Shared together, or her smile shinning above thee,
This woman for whom you called mother, ever enduring!
Inspirations geneses of origin, the soil from which your
Very roots were so placed within richness garden of purity,
Sunshine’s warming influence, and moistures quenching healing
Well spring from which thou’est sprung, give thanks unto she,
Your mother the blessed, who gave birth unto thee!
In clarity’s bouquet of beauty’s perfection, no other flowers
Blossom with such kindred opulence’s, as these clinging
Vines intertwined within each other’s deepest souls,
Spiritual beings of affections devotional feelings,
Daughters, sons and loving mothers!
Within shelters protective cove called the heart of
Humanity, their lies a sea worthy craft made of redden
Mystical petals, rose slices, textured layers of impassioned
Emotions, courage, strength, and tender loving,
These are a mother’s true legacy!
Prides monumental keepsakes treasure, these glistening
Gems stemming from a mystical roseate, clarity’s crystal
Tear droplets, shedding’s emotional petals, tenderly falling,
Behold a mother’s loving heart, always to be remembered!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO MYSTIC ROSE
Dark thoughts and desires are just that for a reason...human beings are prone to irrational thoughts, and we all carry secrets that drip into the blackness of our bleeding souls, extending downward below our fetal positioned graves.
Caught up inside my morbidity, concealed the mystery of my subconscious,
sinister stemming from evil, inside my dismal grim, I choked on regret and fed off your disconsolate lies and I believed them, as much as you believed...
I wanted to live...
depths bleed into hell
shared defeat only for us
morbid and alone
Living is nothing but a curse, stitches on my wrists, and spirals down into the oblivion of hell. My contradictions are breeding with my veins as I prepare for the longing of your misery....
...your misery is me.
I am your distal demon, sucking the life from your brave intentions, my weak intentions reach a depth, so far I can not see without hearing your screams. Your shadow's are killing me, but I'm needy for the weightlessness you throw at me daily...nightly...daily...non stop recurrence putting me to sleep, way too young...I tied myself up and kicked away your chair, left with out breath, and still, no one to turn to...
the fiend within me
sleeping in our graves too young
your curse inside me
There are two of me...
One.... broken and damaged...alone and afraid...yearning, longing to free myself from all the hatred bottled up inside my core. Fighting for life beneath the hell of destruction, worshiping black to find my grey..for there will never be white...
Needing you to show me every twisted path I believe should be mine. May your breath crack my bones and your eyes tear my flesh to pieces. Then...I am one who will stand up for your wicked endeavors and concrete sacred thoughts of me not being able to live anymore...
no more life to live
broken you and broken me
no more pain to give
Date Written: December 27, 2015
We are all improbable in our own way,
and who can augur the future?
I never could have laid out my course in advance,
though in looking back it all makes sense,
even if it was me flipping a coin (or if somebody flipped it for me).
Hindsight smooths the probabilistic waves,
and here I sit, having cast the coin,
having had the coin in pocket,
having gotten change at an early age,
the cashier having had a drawerful of metal,
the mint having stamped to its heart's content,
the metallurgists having had their smiles,
the miners having ground fault wiles,
the cosmos having performed admirably, elementally.
Here I sit, tonight's chautauqua taking place in a goblet of garnet, yea - a very phrontistery of fuchsia. Far be it from me to understate the euphonious manner in which the cork leapt from the bottle, the Olympian olfactory embrace, the bathykolpian brand of this elixir. The wind outside the window - what is it telling me? Am I entangled, unawares, in my ebullience, a ptarmic influence in the decoction escaping my notice? Am I blind to the greater reality, my words falling like amaurotic husks to the ground? Or, that given ground, does it emit the mephitic essence? Is this the supernatural revenge of some aspect of the wine's terroir, rendering the drinker typhlotic to the usufruct of this very forum, to an iatrogenic principle at work? Are we held at bay by external sternutatory Influence, all our self-reliant suppositions trumped by errhine externals?
Here I sit, wondering if 'tis no more than the contest of the Ego, Superego, and Id, grinding against one another in tribologic sculpting. Or is a spiteful, chthonian influence at work, stemming from that same terroir? Can the wine be blamed? Can we cry out, apotropaically, to rescue ourselves? Are conscious forces arrayed against us, or are we our own worst enemy? Is there a soil/soul for a wine? And is it only a fancy of Fortuna that I sit here tonight, deterministic tendrils floating around me in a manner that threaten my assumptions? Am I free of myself, or is there no such thing as such freedom? In the end, do all things come to one? Obfuscatory clarity - yes, I know, and peace won't sleep in the transparent bottom of my glass.
The origin of the unicorn begin's in
A time and habitat where we did not live in
In Another Galaxy it could have been in
Or in an unexplored magical dimension
It was a land overflowing with milk and honey
Pure and abundant was it's skillful offspring
Enchanted with a forest that lulls you to sleep
With it's down reaching hum stemming from the trees
The little creatures were cordial and could speak
The streams of life were the preachers of the peace
The fireflies dancing a mild ballet at night
Would arouse even the most dormant soul to sing
But it was unicorns that governed the land
and so to say put everything under one's wing
A unicorn was considered the horse of the God's
It had the chiseled structure of a steeled spartan
It's horn holstered the power of a lighting rod
Sporting a mane as majestic as a mountain and
When it bucked on its hoofs the earth stood still in awe
They spent years on this planet protecting our spot
Behind the scenes in old men's wars they fought
But it was in the hidden rainbows with gold pots
Where their undisturbed and placid image was copped
Now its unfortunate we do not seem them nowadays
mainly because they did not embark on noah's ark
and all the CO-2 in the atmosphere we sprayed
means their world no longer remains and
Now their remains are just horses with no horns
and no potential to fly, so all they do is eat hay, ride and race
and when they die we just assume to make them into glue
JK! Happy Birthday!
* P.D. Unicorn Poem contest