Best Stomps Poems
tempest stomps her feet
as she shakes her liquid skirt
knee deep in N'awlins
3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Flat,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
Pacifiers included
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
…
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
(SMASH!)
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
In this castle
Created in my mind
A tree,
This tree
A scar
A jagged one
Still healing
Blood dripping
Forms a path
Two watchmen
Chipping away
Away at it's skin
Creating holes
To suck out blood
Warning others
To follow the path
The path
A constant path
Almost invisible
Leaves an endless highway
That will not be seen
From
Far away
it forms a thin
Long and Knotted trail
Small black dots
On this pathway
Twisting and turning
Around the tree
In this castle
Created in my mind
None have wondered
Where this path goes
They follow the crowd
The sounds
Constant sounds
Almost silent
Leave prints
That will be heard
Far away
Calluses, Sores, and scabs
Created
From the non-stop endless migration
The rhythmic pecks
The perpetual stomps
Of these creatures
in my mind
Forever
Endless
As it seems
When will one
break through it's sea
The truth
An unknown truth
Can be turned into
Lies
The destination unknown
Cannot be reached
As it is
So
Far away
There is nothing with so much life as a Christmas snow
The crisp air is still as little dancing stars float to the earth
Strong old trees become burdened with drifts of white upon their bows
But seem honored to be dressed in such finery and appear almost to move
In fact, everything has come to life to watch the snowfall.
Then everything is quiet
There is a whisper in the air
It ripples through the trees
See the birds, they are the first to recognize the whisper
As the Masters of Chorus, the birds know it is a song
They sit as true musicians memorizing the lyrics and rhythm
So, the snow speaks, the voice is old, like it has sung this song many times
As the squirrels could tell you this is a lullaby, and they begin to search from their
perches in the trees for the newborn
And life and love has never felt as strong as now
A horse in its pastures stomps his foot disturbed
Though he hears the song the birds do and the lullaby the squirrels hear, he,
along with all of the worlds creatures, could swear he just heard a cry
The squirrels chatter with laughter, knowing they where right and the birds take
up the snow-song to welcome the child they heard cry
And then they stop and the world is silent
The snow has stopped falling
The cry was only a memory from Christmas long past
The child, a child of time whose
Voice comes with the Christmas snows,
To give every soul the chance to hear
The song of joy and love and beginning,
So it is never forgotten;
The song of the Christmas Snow
Stomp, stomp, stomp,
Scream, scream, scream,
Before the stomp, stomp, stomps,
He, she, they screamed screamed,
And screamed, at I,
Scream at I which the thoughts,
Of comeback come near, near, and nearer,
Stomp, stomp, stomp,
I hear the stomps, they come closer,
And closer and closer,
Stomp, stomp, stomp
My heart beating faster, faster, faster!
The room, spinning, spinning, spinning!
Times going, gone, gone!
Stomps coming closer, faster!
The screams getting louder, louder!
Stomp, scream, stomp!
Nothings more worse than when you see the,
He, she, they behind the stomping of the stomps,
The screaming, of the screams,
The fire, hell, saddened in the eyes,
Is what hurts most, rather than the,
Stomp, stomp, stomp,
Or the,
Scream, scream, scream.
Autumn surrounds the lake
Vibrancy vivacious, romantic
Blue in the rippling eye
Dark speck, a boat
Grows bigger and bigger
The laughter
Her auburn hair thrown back,
Her subtle loveliness
He stares at the landscape of love
Day bellows in briskness
And a tartan blanket
Smoothed on her lap
A sporty arm around her shoulder
Shadows falling effervescent
Sweethearts head for home
Trees retreat into dusk
Crunch of falling leaves underfoot
Spark of embers dying
Flame of color extinguished
Except for her lips
Pressed into his memory book
Soft, blush, frolic
Of a burgeoning wish
Small leaf adrift on tranquil waters
Occupier eyes the couple with jealousy
A miniature copy, this sister a faerie
Speckled toadstool over her head
She conjures a rainstorm
To get goody two shoes wet
But she slips into his arms
He asks
Rainstorm pulls the lovers along
To make a permanent hitch
A flying leaf, a faerie aboard
Stomps her teeny tiny feet
Wipes away her tears
Gives in, wishes well
For their happily ever after
11/18/2020
Beer Head
Can't drive my brain into gear
my thinking right now is not truly clear,
a headache may come is what I do fear
I should not of drank all that beer.
My body and eyes all a blear
to many I drank to toast a cheer,
clinking my booze to whoever was near
to each and everyone - an equal peer.
Dance moves controlled by my beer puppeteer,
my feet stomps the floor like a ready charged deer,
shout singing the songs - not a cool look they sneer,
wrong words song sung sang, heard in the jeer.
My voice is hoarse an a ringing left ear
only to realise in my right I cannot hear,
panic sets in falling awkwardly on my rear
only to flatten my new expensive headgear.
Broken remains took me to save for a year,
self-pity pours in - I even shed a tear,
sober I stay and will do adhere
if not, beer just may ruin my career.
31.08.20
I think we are all drummers –
of course, drum musicians know
that drumming is not just pounding
on the skins (well, vinyl these days) –
there is also, soulful brushwork, and
finessing of symbols...not everyone a crash;
drums breathe -- all parts -- from outer
shells to inner resonance; influenced
also by surface temperature, humidity
of the room, and the echos of their
wall enclosure or freedom – not so
different from the maker: our hearts
are echo-chambers...especially our
minds, the garbage in the garbage out –
we echo love or the discourse of the
environment – we are beat spirited
rhythms, shuffles and stomps of feet –
tasteful entrees and all that a desire
can eat – seeming devils at times,
that only our surrender to God can
defeat – Yes! God is a drummer: no
moving instrument of being without
its core sound – a universe of timpani,
some quite square, but really, all is
round – the universe a lively Topsy,
a swing and a shout – we leap and
twirl in time – knowing time, not
gravity, keeps us down, shuts us
in, or keep us up and highly
out. Even at my age, more apt
to honestly, sweat-fully gig, than play
under any, pretentious, perfumed
wig.
I am sitting in hovel writing nothing
For the hovel has taken every last drop of energy.
Hey, wait. Is that an ant?
An ant in the winter?
What is she doing?
I get out my magnifying glass of course.
She is wearing a backpack full of something that has a sweet smell.
Pardon me, I say. Can I have a tiny taste of that?
You would take the food out of the mouth of sixty ants? She asks me.
Lucky that I talk ant.
I back away.
Trixie walks over and kicks my hand.
You are horrible! She tells me.
I had forgotten I was supposed to wake her when I got up.
There is nothing more exasperating than an angry muse.
Thought you’d write something without me?
Well, yes, um….. I am stammering now.
We kind of have a little rule.
She whisks away and stomps off.
Out of all the muses in all the imaginations
in all of the universes, I developed a female muse?
Hmmmmmm I have to ponder that.
But not right now.
The ant is doing a tango and her backpack just flew off.
I've been waiting for someone to shed some light,
To take my hand and lead me back
Into the arms of the earth.
I've been ankle-deep in frost-kissed puddles,
Wishing for the welcome mat to sweep me
In out of the rain, and into their flame.
Are you the flame
That I've been looking for? You make my head light
In a way that isn't amatory, but in a way that makes me
Wonder if calling it love would make you send me back
From whence I came, and lick me into puddles
Till I seep straight into the earth.
You beckon me to your earth
Like a lantern's flickering flame,
But you're not burning out. You illuminate the puddles
That used to be my oceans, battle my dark with your light.
You gain ground until I am naked and taken aback,
Because the exposure does not strip me
Raw-- in fact, it envelopes me.
We've got our feet planted firmly in the earth,
Neither scaring easily nor asking for our words back.
And I beg how long it's to last, this flame;
Upon that subject, I squint away from the light
Expecting you to tread through me like puddles,
The way a child stomps on rainy street puddles,
Finally turning on your heel to flee me.
Through the trees overhead pokes a sweater sewn of light
That soothes the permafrost into a softer earth
When the sun's flame
Strokes its back.
Should I hold this back
On the tip of my tongue, till the words form puddles
In my mouth? Or would it be better that the flame
Consume me?
I could live out my years masked by earth
Or brave the touch of light.
I heave my hopes back with me,
A dam oozing puddles, white-knuckling the earth.
If I let go, will the flame leave me a shadow, or a light?
"The Resurrection of Writing a New Book"
Insular, a new world begins
from the inside it serves its Saviour
reconnaissance is the betrayor
incesscent it speaks non-stop
in cloudy roadmaps it stomps
unstoppable
the regiments read on
instructions they march
unhindered reviewers across
what is seen on a tethered cross
translation cuts
it throws its shining arsenal almighty
from the crowned heart
where the sharp thorns bloom
it writes its illuminescent stories
across sorry lips that try to speak outwardly
the synopisis is parched
the mind with arms outstretched
looks upwards for heavenly relief
upon the rolling hard edges
of burning Wormwood
where forgiveness is peaced
the measure of compassion
is largely pierced
confessions are heard and lost
on the brevity of a dead end
and that is how the Light gets in
dreams like this
are the resurrection
for writing a new book
the new exit strategy
before it is too late
dreams like this
are the resurrection
for writing a new book
before it is too late
dear Poet of The Day
Candide Diderot. ‘25
"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding"
Khalil Gibran
There I was.
Inside a crowded Toys R Us
On a mid-Winter’s evening
Abrasively loud 5 year olds
And depressed fathers
Ready to throw their “angelic” brethren
Into life-size Nerf basketball hoop
(Because it was on Clearance)
To embrace sanity’s madness
I was simply here to search for a porcelain doll
For my darling 8 year old angel
To match her serene complexion
But, toddler stomps & red-faced pouts
Equivalent to octaves of Hell’s 5th circle
Could not stop the strut that suddenly coated my foggy nerd glasses
There she was.
Her 5 foot, 10 inch majestic walk
Performing exorcisms on corrupted tile floors
With each
New
Step
My ear canals
Swimming in the serenity of
Her olive-coated curves
And violet-auburn shaded, shoulder-length curly locks
Left
Right
Left
Sensual witchcraft was placed upon my resilience
Chipped away by her Hazel ribboning pupils
My heart’s atrium, flat lining, with laughing hyena smile
Frozen by igloo’s revenge upon madness
“Excuse me, sir”, she vehemently moaned
(At least, in my head)
“Hi”, I expressed with pre-pubescent coarseness.
“I’m looking for a porcelain doll.
But, I’m a tad lost in this maze.
Could you help me find my way?”, she whispered with demure smile
With my tongue pressed against seconds’ icy arm,
Locked for dear life,
I inhaled with Olympic stature
“It’s 9 isles this way. May I show you?”, I confidently declared on sanity’s edge.
With constellations aligned by blue moon signatures,
“Yes, please”.
As crux of evening’s audible stresses
Faded into final curtain’s epileptic sunset,
The winds of Yahweh curtailed all foggy affirmations
Into palms of bliss
Because
On this night
I proudly took the long route
Slow dancing with magnificent silence
To the isle
That was only 2 steps to our left
I believe we both discovered our porcelain dolls on this night.
©Drake J. Eszes
HEAVEN'S NATURE WITNESS OUR DREAM
Outstretched maternal skies
bleeding slowly as the sun smiles,
running golden rays
fugue flux flowed by,
frozen bear-shaped clouds
extend their arms to hug the beams.
Charmingly, the light meets
the earth with a tender embrace...
Escaped warmth escalates,
it raise the speed of roses blush,
dew caressing snake-grass dried in flash,
gold-and-black striped wasps kiss---
the red apples chin and oh how sweet
even the nestled mistrels began to sing!
Skirt-lair of violets and lilacs puff
luring scents, it populates the atmosphere.
Finger-tantalized tendrils of hair
stroke repeatedly the whistling wind,
gently I clap my hands:
an accompaniment to thumps and stomps
of the two children laughing, dancing 'round and 'round.
Beside me, I hear his heart, beats! Beats! B-e-a-t...!
Beating like a little butterfly fluttering greet,
he planted a silky kiss atop my head.
Under the windows of gigantic trees,
the heavens witness the fruits,
we long dream.
When Cupids arrow land
finally hitting the right hearts:
"Imperfect but perfectly matched"...
Love mimics the tone of evergreens,
the sadness throbs tearing twang
it will be readily forgotten,
unmindful of the questions: how and why...
_______________________________________________________________
***FREE VERSE - other term "vers libre", a form that doesn't use or follow a specific consistent meter; a regular rhyme and a particular number of lines. It is based on normal pauses and natural rhythmical phrases as compared to the artificial constraints of normal poetry.
***I love this poetry form because it allows me to write artistically; pattern;incorporate;narrate and include a bit of everything about other poetry forms: rhymes, alliteration, personification, metaphor, prose, rhythm, sounds etc. I as well can limit two lines with its syllable count to achieve beat and intensity. I alone can limit my pen.
Lastly, it underlines POETRY FREEDOM and POETRY EXPRESSION not limited by rules.
***For the contest: Poetry Writing #1
Sponsor: Broken Wings***
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
1:16 pm, December 16, 2015
SWEATS and SWEETS
Shooting sighs and moans we fired last night still glows
As tangoed silhouetted shadows hungered love dancing
Peeping breeze outside match our whispers and calls flow
Desiring to dip and sway like leaves our top wanting
Our hands and lips pastel strokes to light brushes show
Two bared torso's touching amidst silken sheets warmed
Daring palms to fingertips send fevers upon hungry hips
Heartbeats stomps and thumps like bass drums stormed
Thrusts and pumps to nerves draw carousels of round trips
Stirring sweats to trail slow on curves adorned
Sweet scented heart lips in nonstop loving caress
As tempos rising aplenty voice fusion fueled cries
Torso's now blossom blessed by their loving impress
Gyration waves ebb after reaching heavenly skies
Legs twine, breaths calm, sated souls fall finesse
______________________________________________________________
©J. A. Fraser and O. E. Guillermo
17.14pm, May 24, 2015
Emotional tension fills the air...
Lights and laughter everywhere
A fiesta audience waits eagerly for a night of passion.
The dance of Spain and a sensual dancer
The Andalusian Gypsy dancer
El baile flamenco tonight…Ole!
The guitarist enters…masterfully
Displaying his unique musical talent.
His music controls the dance
Finally, bailaoras, the great Camille, enters
More than beautiful, she exudes sexuality
Dramatically, her aura intrigues and mystifies
The Flamenco, some say, is animalistic
Elegant movements of the flamingo birds
So, much like the dancer's stance…
Camille points her gold slipper like a prima ballerina
Music begins--- she does not move…poised as a statue
The audience sits on the edges of their seats.
Motionless, no expression in the start
When she feels the rhythm, she responds
Camille claps loudly, steadily
As her emotions build, she begins…
Her back, arched and dignified
Arms elegant and poised
The flamenco begins torridly
Gracefully but fiercely, Camille stomps---
Golden shoes with their percussion sounds
Bedazzling her admirers,
No one knows where the dance will go…
That is part of the beauty of the flamenco
Her passionate moves romance or comfort her admirers
Thus, the greatest joy of flamenco dancing
Climatically building as a heroine in a play
Camille has no equal…
Astutely, the castanets click in her hands…
The difficulty of the dance emerges…
Hands and feet working not in synchronicity
But against each other
Her mother taught her well…
The dancer is the accompanist, moving her body
To the flying fingers of the guitarist.
Ultimately, the music ebbs away
Camile picks up her fan and looks at the guitarist
Both dancer and musician are spent...
Audience stands up, cheering and clapping.
This is the spice of life in Spain!