Best Stoked Poems
Hello there, do please come inside- no need to wipe your feet
excuse the mess, I fear you'll find it isn't very neat.
This place is always untidy, victim of my disorder
from old hang-ups to memories, I'll admit I am a hoarder.
In here hanging like mobiles, noisy, at odds with my feelings
are life's little distractions, niggling, swinging from the ceiling.
Careful with your torch, don't shine it underneath the bed
beneath it there is lurking a dark sprouting creeping dread.
Most people couldn't live with it, a disturbing thing to some,
as it cowers in the corner from the things still yet to come.
Tread lightly in the corridor, just mind out where you walk
you'll trip on my anxiety that bobs up like a cork.
The fire is stoked, the hearth is swept and logs stacked in a heap
my warmth to all well tended (well, except when I'm asleep).
Cardboard tubes in disarray, and more you cannot see-
plans I drew up in the past, none ever meant to be.
Mannequin in veil of black, arms raised as if to dance
with all my past relationships that never stood a chance.
This rocking chair, my temper, that sometimes I must sit in
and you'll notice that the varnish of my patience has worn thin.
My sense of humour's in the loft, protected by my hats
seemed like the right place for it, since my friends all think I'm bats.
That one small window by the beam lets my faith's light shine in
I'm sorry it's not brighter, window dirty from past sin.
Still, I can climb and open it to aim my telescope
for somewhere in the darkness lies the faintest glimpse of hope
that keeps me living here in peace and shelters me from sad;
you wonder why I live in here? Well, out there-
its just mad!
September16th 2015
For contest 'Inside my head'- sponsor John Lawless
Riding off into the Ivory Palace sunset,
in a pitch-black limousine, no less
Hear the heavy metallic chariot roar,
leaving exacerbated fumes echo deplored
Aural palette, enamel pestilent pain
on burnt crimson background grain
Scorching prairie brush fire
was the cruel comfort desire
It’s aghast portrait in pandemic grief,
pyramid scheme exit of paucity relief
The curtain call, pulmonary rating king
is a modern-day Nero
His favorite numbers (violin strumming)
are the printed zeroes
Fashioning a Fourth Reich,
naked emperor be blew Lenin unsound
Ballot dropping the psych,
bosom burning the divided house down
With a teary grift posturing diddle,
Amerikan Nero is playing the fiddle
Rearview rolling one last Rublecon riddle,
carny Fahrenheit was the plucking piddle
Crumbling democracy
was brimstone seen through the smoke
Ash trail of hypocrisy
left an urn nation crematorium stoked
12-29-20
Neither puppy love nor lust, each insists
in its imperfect play. Their hearts resist
both by clinging in its barbaric way.
Youth forgiven. The wolf begs her to stay.
But a commitment is made in marriage.
It is not found in a baby carriage.
What do we know of love - it’s not first sight.
It is the highs and lows - bond holds on tight.
Love’s patient, kind, not selfish nor boastful.
It’s the making of memories - joyful.
To let go of bitterness’ a decision.
Poof like magic, the wrongs are forgiven.
Black and blues, the stumbles and falls, gets up
on the horse - believers climb to the top.
~
Now what of those years, of the worse decrease?
Does the sorrow make the better cerise?
Does the white-gowned wife, handsome groom resume
as if the bond is pruned, roses in bloom?
Yes, the rivulets of tears reverent.
The jubilee melody resonant.
When love is stirred with sugar and nettles,
sorrow’d years melt. Felicitous petals
land on silver hair and wrinkles. O God!
Yes, three cords complete and restore the flawed.
Love protects, hopes, perseveres in trials.
The truth of a lifetime's years in their smiles.
Shakespeare regales Summer’s hot gaze, short days.
Yet love stoked in the Winter’s hearth - O blaze!
1/30/2021
What Is Love
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Hybronnet is similar to a sonnet, can have a variable rhyme scheme,
does not have to be iambic meter. The poet is given liberty to choose how to structure the rhyme of the Hybronnet poem into a combination of rhymes be it slant, feminine, masculine, etc. or apply it in any design deemed appropriate
Oh for pity's sake put some clothes on,
the bracing air will steal your breath..
and I need you to stand and stay strong.
Cold comfort thrills from your chill touch
help me recall why I adore you so...
A chin of the ages rests on my shoulder in sweet affection,
two arms encircle my world in every direction.
Redtail hawk riding a thermal looks down..
what caught its gaze I wonder..
Will the day lend a hand through a pestering cloud,
or roll its eyes in thunder?
Such a fine firebrand you've stoked,
as I shave my face and call your bluff.,
Wishing the once would last forever..
though once was more than enough.
Just breathe with me, its okay
our affection can live beyond pain and distance,
just breathe with me when you need a good kiss,
just breathe with me when there is struggle to be stoked,
just bleed with me when nothing else matters,
just smile with me when star light touches your face
let your heartbeat dance with me across time and space...its okay
J.A.B.
Song of Love and Joy
What tune is this that stems from heart,
The voice of soul love-vibes impart
To light that flame before too long,
Before love dies and passions part.
Sing now, sing, of her love stoked song
Let her feel, how there you belong,
In her domain that strums romance,
Where lyrics of love laud lifelong.
Waltz with allure of graceful stance,
Spin with tease of her stolen glance,
Stand not still as your dreams pass by,
Lure your life to a gracious dance.
Smile with the dawn that thrills blue sky,
Watch it thrive donning crimson dye,
Wear your joy while you trumpet life,
Snatch her before love goes awry.
April 5, 2023
Placed 1st: Free Submission Premium Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Placed 9th Brian Strand Premium # 1209
Eight syllables per line (HMS.com)
Form: Rubaiyat
Rhyme: aaba, bbcb, ccdc, dded
The man stumbled on, wanting to get as far away as possible
the sights he had seen and lived through too terrible to contemplate.
How could another human deliberately inflict such awful things on another.
He could see a gentle stream of smoke arising from the distant chimney
and headed for the shelter it offered, staggering on until he reached it.
It was a pretty cottage nestled deep into the hillside and isolated.
He tumbled through the door and collapsed on the floor.
Mistily he drifted in then out of consciousness unable to focus
aware vaguely of a gentle touch that soothed and replenished.
He drank from the cup pressed to his lips and then let go.
The old lady shook her head at the follies of mankind,
and set to work bandaging his festering wounds.
She made a drawing potion to clean out the poison
that had taken a fierce hold racking him with fever.
Then she covered him and stoked up the fire.
For three days he lay in a coma muttering about the war,
not an ordinary one, oh no, this war caused carnage.
Evil stalked the land every hand turned against the other.
Sons killing fathers and brothers and to what point?
A simple disagreement about Creed had started this.
Weakened by the ravages he was slow to fully heal
yet he learned much from the old lady causing him to rethink.
To look at things with eyes a-new seeing the other point of view.
These new values he took with him when he left thanking her gratefully.
He set out on a new route, his task now to heal and bring peace.
Standing a-midst the crowd on a small hillock he taught them new values
not by preaching as such but by parables that showed the way to peace.
After all he would say; Pause and Think, For What are We without hope?
Everything gone by can be changed, all we have to do is care and act.
So lit the small flicker in your heart and fan up a healing blazing flame.
The falling man, one photograph captured in time
An unforgettable image, imprinted on this mind
He represents us all, weather we like it or not
His faith did not kill him, destiny was his lot
Spiralling out of control, once the planes hit
Acting purely on instinct, not champing the bit
Fire and terror stoked decisions, until overcome
Incinerating heat compels him, never did he jump
This was no leap of faith, Infinitely more than that
A transcendence into agony, he’s looks down at
I try to pen his plight, impossible as it seems
Of a world going mad, upon our Tv screens
I wish it was over quick, that fall to his death
Alas he suffered slowly, until the very last breath
I’m been brutally honest, won’t gloss over the facts
For we owe it to him, it’s with innate honesty, he acts
A picture’s worth one thousand words, some disagree
Falling man, gives nothing away, we can clearly see
My heart’s telling this story, his fall sets the stage
An immortalised snapshot of life, will never fade
For all other innocents, murdered that fateful day
If there’s a silver lining, it’s with confidence I’ll say
Your loved ones cradled you, as the towers fell down
Far across many nations, pain is felt inside every town
Sun and moon appeared together, purposely that morn
Heavenly bodies, bore witness to a new world reborn
And this occurrence, should give a tiny ray of hope
Not used as a tool of glee by Helios misanthropes
Below is a comments box will the Helios misanthrope set foot in it
not a cowardly chance
By
David Kavanagh
..............................................................................................................
Oh - Emm - Geeeee !!!
Who me??
OMG!...I'm gonna wig out, doing this poem!!
A ditz like me writing for a freakin’ contest, no less!!!??
You gotta be kiddin' me !!! Holy fricassee!!
No Way. Jose' !! I'm such a space cadet....OMG !! I’m spazzing out!!
Well...geeze, then..... like, I get this head rush...
I'm getting majorly stoked, ya know?..Like...maybe I’ll give it a shot?...
Still...ya know..., whaddif I, like, totally bombed it!!? OMG!!
I mean, like, ya know how all them other poets?...
Well....like they are so classic...like, ya know?...so awesomely rad!?
Like... say, they eyeball mine, and bustin’ up, they scream…
"Gag me with a spoon?!! CHECK OUT THIS FREAKIN’ GROSS POEM!”
Well,what the hay,.... ..no biggie, guess it wouldn't such a bummer...
yeah......well, shoot, they can call me a loser......who gives a rip??
So, I figure, like ....Whatever, dude!!
Okay, now, I'm totally pumped,...ya know?
Waddif it’s ends up freakin’ sweet? Oh, Pleeeease!!!
Like a win, geeze that would be majorly...rad!!!
I KID YOU NOT! OMG !!! I'm so SURE !! YEAH RIGHT,….AS IF!!!!!
Man, I’m so clueless …hmm. how do I even start this freakin' essay?
so, like....here goes...okay?
Ya' say they won't like it, huh??.. HUH ??? Ya' think??
Tell em to go take a chill pill!!
Duhhhh........!!!!? WHATEVER!!
____________________________________________________
Just for fun!: For the Slang Contest
(and be sure....this isn't how I normally talk LOL !!)
..............................................................................................................
Republicans and Democrats, democracy’s a joke.
Capitalism is the key to how our engine’s stoked.
The rich swap hats and argue that they know what’s best for folk
The corporations buy House and Senate, then they sit back and gloat.
Election laws guarantee the wealthy keep their poke,*
Republicans and Democrats, democracy’s a joke.
We have the vote, they say and so Democracy makes us free
But surely they’ve not bamboozled the likes of you and me.
We know to vote is useless since money’s the only key
Justice takes a back seat to political debaucheries.
Like we believe they're different what do they think we smoke?
Republicans and Democrats, democracy’s a joke.
* Poke - a pouch or bag used by a cowboy
to carry his "possibles" (small personal items).
(Derived from the French word poche, meaning a pocket or bag.)
Also used as cowboy slang for sex.
The young men sat, planted under the overhang
like the pansies and geraniums that surrounded them in boxes,
as the rain pelted the terra-cotta terrace.
The mountain air was sharp with the taste of lightening.
Having bid farewell to the arched shard of a rainbow across the valley,
they sat tensely watching the celestial bombardment of Katmandu.
The lightening stoked the day’s heat,
thickening the early evening sky like the yogurt they’d eaten for lunch.
A home-made rice wine poured freely over their tongues
from an innocent looking water bottle.
Their eyes turned garnet with the harshness of it.
The bottle sat with its tattered label, upon the arm of the white chair.
The wine within tasted faintly of the gasoline,
yet, they reveled in it, and the freedom from deep seeded societal traits,
it freed them from.
Overhead, the sky was draped in a bridal veil of stars;
as I emerged from the room to sit beside them.
Peel 'em and eat 'em,
All you want.
To yo table straight from da Gulf.
Cooked wit corn and taters
an' sausage dat's smoked.
Buy 'em today while we're stoked.
Paw Paw caught 'em in his lil shrimpboat.
Maw Maw cooked 'em in dat big 'o black pot
outside on da fire dat was so hot.
Tante Rose made some sauce
wit mynaise 'n ketsup.
Den she added da hot sauce to spice it all up.
So y'all come and get you some.
Dey big and dey fat.
Paw Paw's Shrimp Shed is where it's at!
By: Carole O'Terry Duet
Copyright: May 15, 2017
"All Rights Reserved"
Our memories can be aroma-based...
at times not stoked by customary kind.
What some may find offensive, flee in haste,
to others stirs up pleasure in the mind.
Especially when memories are formed
in very young, they often leave imprints
of happy times instilled with smells that warm
to trigger them again with pungent hints.
When in a barn at some country event,
my hubby happily admits with glee,
that he enjoys the stinky barnyard scent...
brings back the fun on farm with family.
To each his own with sweet or stinky smell...
for either one...the memory will tell.
Sandra M. Haight
~8th Place~
Premiere Contest: Stink
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Judged: 10/04/2016
Oh, my Inglenook my Inglenook
a whole life time spent within thee,
my name is Ember
I create patterns
of dancing shadows
a need to be stoked constantly.
I can be an inhospitable harrowing flame
for those that dare to glare
and too hot to the touch,
phantom notions I can conceive
when low and in a mood
and the chill becomes apparent
I die.
It is so cold out there
beyond the glowing rays
of flickering abate,
a need of more fuel to score
or the silence continues
till flame again breaks through
by the fire just renewed.
But one day
an empty fireplace
where life once reigned supreme,
someone to rake
through the spent ashes
to return to where one cometh from
so, the clergy tells everyone.
To the wind one is scattered
no void intended; one’s death
a space for the new born
a tiny Ember renewed
to inherent this inglenook,
the process to start all over again
from spring’s kindling
To winter’s deadwood.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
A few hot-orange embers burn low in the fire pit.
Morning has sprung, evident only
In the vague concrete illumination
of an overcast sky.
Scattered twigs and last night's remaining logs
Are tossed upon the coals,
With a few shivering breathes of dank
October air to give life to flames.
Frost has not yet bitten the landscape;
But the huddled mass of human
leans in, over the kindled fire
For all of its warmth.
The Night's drizzled humidity hiss-boils
and streams from the wood grain of a saturated log,
As the twigs roast and burn.
The starving artist stands firm
In the path of smoke, visible clues
To the heats current passage.
One could inadvertently burn
on the simplest furnace,
Steam rising from sweatshirt and pant leg,
And the moist palm of the hand.
Love, or so it seemed to the dreamer by his fire,
Is like this. A kiss of life
Given openly to the heart's flame,
Fanning the hot embers of friendship and affection.
Once stoked, a glance of chance
Or a lover's touch
Warms the body and sacred soul
Against the icy depravity of an outside world.
And though the cold is most apparent
In the smokey moisture of one's own breath
Hanging in the still air away from the hearth,
The sweet melting passion is best experienced
and not explained or seen.
If the world were any colder
The October sky would crack and precipitate,
splintered and crystallized,
To wipe the canvas clear below
And give substance to a feeling of betrayal
That keeps the lover embracing a modest fire,
Whose warmth forsakes all else.
A dented tin coffee pot percolates
Sustenance into the day's beginning.
Outside the ring of charred-crackling logs,
The world rises up with the gyre of smoke
And is lost to the stone gray sky.
But the fire burns on,
And the hungry heart lays nourished
Within a dreamer's chest.