Best Strews Poems
She isn't beautiful as Nefertiti was.
And unlike Helen,
her face will never launch a thousand ships.
My Maggie's beauty is more open, than entrancing
more welcoming, than enthralling,
more giving, than demanding,
more durable, than perfect.
Perfection inspires no passion,
no lust.
Nefertiti over Maggie?
Maggie, with her woman's body?
Maggie, with flesh where woman should have flesh?
Maggie, with fullness where love and longing
would suffer nothing else?
Yet she strews a careless beauty all about her,
the tender beauty in her gaze
that holds and softens and moulds
a better man within me
than the one that she first knew,
and the bold, brave beauty of her crooked smile,
her smile that tells me who she is,
and who she does not care to be.
Her smile may never softly kill a single soul
but it warms me, softly warms me
as I hold her spent and gentle body close to mine
it warms me to dream dreams beyond my worth
and aspire beyond my dreams.
when the evening wind dies
upon the mountain top,
when cold silence chills the night with her tongue,
when the shadows bid the forest be still;
i will return home to your arms
where dreams hatch
and the world is in a whisper lost.
when the morning sun stretches out the hills,
when nature` s voice charms
the pastoral landscape with tales,
and strews dead leaves upon the paths;
i will lodge between your breasts.
i will suck the honey of your breathe
and listen to the voice of spring
sobbing in the little trees.
when November bends the moon
in deep blue darkness,
when many a midnight star has shone,
i will return home.
i will return home.
i will return home to you by the riverside;
where once we made love
and the mortified waters,so cruelly moaned.
Sucking the gentle light from the sun
fresh grasses
Spring is awaking sleepy universe.
Buds are smiling,
Sky is turquoise
How a fairy this morning is?
Pure waterfall in the middle of green garden
Willow slowly brushes hairs down.
Tulip is shaming on her hairless
It looks like a picture
Some painter made well-known.
When daybreak calls me into garden
When the nature strews all her gold,
When morning dews kiss flowers,
Believe me! I’m the richest one in the world.
Because now this land and sky is mine
I swim away on steamy white clouds.
Smoothes my hairs lovely wind,
Singing a song, in pleasant notes.
In minutes it gets off. Alas my dear
Soon sun shines and comes up to the sky
Having lost their chance of being here,
Sleeping on their beds millions of you guy.
"Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house;
can you hear the whispering? "
Quote by _Constance La France
I suspect that most major cities have abandoned houses.
I have lived in three large American cities, ranked in population,
3rd (Chicago), 17th (San Francisco), and 35th (Sacramento).
Of all the abandoned housing sites that I have seen, none struck me
as sadly as those that I have seen in rural America these last 15 months.
Perhaps my suspicion ascends from my being touched by the site of them
because they represent a history and experiences with which I am familiar.
This write is forcing the question of whether it is better to be abandoned
than to be torn down; to be torn down or to be permitted to return to nature.
The torn-down factor deeply affects me personally, and I am grateful for the
opportunity to share this experience with fellow soupers and others.
There was once a plantation house occupied by my parents
and their family. It was our home where I and at least 10
of my siblings were born. It was a well-built house made
of concrete blocks. We were farm workers and never owners.
After our father had passed and I grew up and went off to
college, my mother was later asked to move.
Some 30-plus years later, I learned that some of those
plantation houses were moved and converted into hotel rooms.
Our house was not among them. Presently, I don't know what
became of our house where so much life was lived and a myriad
of memories were born. Whether brick and mortar or wood and
nails, or asphalt or tin and strews; And whether torn down
or permitted to return to nature, they are now gone to places
unknown to me.
Did our house and the others become a part of trees as some
others I have seen recently, or will the trees knock down
the house? Anyway, their usefulness had expired, and they
were abandoned with no one desiring them anymore.
Indeed, I feel the souls of those who resided in our abandoned
and torn-down house. I feel the souls of Grandma, Mother, Daddy,
8 sisters, 3 brothers, and a dog named Jack. Indeed, I hear the
whispers, the loud noises of children laughing and playing.
Indeed, I house a bank of a thousand memories and more.
052723PSCtest. Constance La France
Contest Name. Writing Challenge - C Quotes -. 2P
My wife, my huntress, rides the Holy Wind,
But still, daisies adorn her thick brown hair!
Her muslin robes blow out, her hair's unpinned,
Let dark thoughts try to chase her, if they dare!
For she outrides them all, strews flowers like hopes
And, with her hunting-dogs, argent, and gold,
She frees all prisoners, breaks all hangmen's ropes
A sure shot from her bow, and - young and old,
The wretched find their freedom come at last!
The hopeless rise and throw off fear's dull chains,
The blinded see the Now, Future, and Past
The horses lead their riders without reins!
Now, through the Night, she bolts like lightning's fire!
A fiery seraphim, who'll never tire!
Behold it's in my heart
Knocks the drums then
With own feathers'
Nightingales moaning.
And over the salty' waves
Gulls fly.
I pay what remain
from the days of joy
Near the heart shades.
Maybe in the midst of sorrow
The poem sings to life.
Maybe amid the clouds return
Winged! accompanied with
Songs,meanings and peace.
I thought the sun
dissolves as a bright disk,
carefully upon the tinsel_days
Then along the distance
Strews the dew on the grass
which in my soul ---
I am shudder now.
Ambiance flourish,
Strews cool odour of spring;
Feelings swing in inebriation;
Dreams too flow,
In the drift of bliss;
All seem awesome,
Feel like life in paradise;
Narcissism blinds our eyes,
See nothing except green;
Veils our mind,
Lurks our thoughts;
Forget there is always autumn,
In the next stage of life;
Veins go weak and dry,
Wrinkles form in face,
Body weakens, heart shrinks;
Essence of love shifts,
From tender age to old age;
Lived own life,
Now it's turn of tender youngs,
Give space so they can flourish;
Watch them rise,
And live for them rest of life;
© Sadashivan Nair
Tuesday afternoon in November.
Well this is, the ending of another day I’m looking out
of the window the road is clean and tidy after rain.
The sun is coming out of hiding and strews golden dust
on the window ledge, it is a sort of thank you since I’m
taking care of a sunray I found huddled behind the gas
bottle in the back yard. It was too cold for it to get back
so I put it under my bed – I need only one blanket now-
so there are times being kind can be helpful.
The sunray, not talkative, hides behind the china I bought
for my daughter’s wedding only I never had a child; it
was a dream I mistook for the real thing; but never mind
the cleaning lady likes to drink tea and pretend she is
a grand dame. It is darker outside than inside so I lit the fire
drink a cup of coffee, at this end of a beautiful day.
Oil Change
I’m not a poet never was, but I like to tell stories
Most of the stories are for my inner ear,
But for some reason my collections are called poetry.
I’m a practical chap, just changed oil in my car and
Filled up the coolant, which is pink coloured.
Later I will drive to the local garage and see if the tyres
Have the right amount of air; and then clean the car.
When I write about carob trees and my special tree
The almond, which in my mind, strews flowers on my
Fevered often walked track, I do so in tenor like oiling
The hinge of a door or hammer a long nail into a wall,
Nothing can be less poetic. In Kaleidoscope once I saw
My future lover’s face, can that be called poetry?
Cold weather front
A few good days fooled us the cold weather returned we thought it was
early spring. I worried if my almond tree had its buds been damaged
and will not bloom and strews petals on the lane,
the illusion of frost, the princes in the tower saw in the fairy tale.
The fire in the grate is exuding warmth the dog no one owns snoozes in a chair,
no, the heart to throw it out
I’m not a tree hugger, but give trees a friendly slap
a sucker for the down and out bought a chicken for a Roma women
begging outside, the guard said, “you must not feed
them” like they should be vermin.
I love my almond tree reminded me of my mother when she was old,
so sweet her face in her frailty.
I, my me,
The identity;
Strews odour,
As floret rose;
Folks judge
By the virtues,
Of my me;
© Sadashivan Nair
What comes after
Nonstop tales
Ugly truth for that matter
Neverending stories that never get stale
It sucks
Unbearable to my ears
Perhaps it is luck
That I am not, to you anymore dear
Here comes regret
Being played in your game
Not knowing your shocking traits
Long before I let my heart beat your name
I have but just one wish
You were that wonderful person I thought I knew
Not the one they said rubbish
Like the sand it strews
Emi, June 9, 2015
I yearn for shades of Autumn and all that it could bring
the chromis strews of redding bricks the chilly burrr
Blushing apples high as kites tied to apron strings
and acorns full of french berets and nutmeg tinted plur
falling down like parachutes with no inter ;
I do foretell the signs of summer's end and so salute
the fury tilts of sapling greens in soakly forest wood;
Those elongated serenades of change with no refute
who can question them beneath God's plentish hood
except his "FIVE" bounteous leaves of cherry wood;
Swiveling down here and there aiming far with dip
the rusky calls of brownie birds as they lose their fur
The cheep- cheep- cheep of a baby's nest, a quip
that zings across the equinox of fall and oft conjures
the memory of an Autumn's tale and sweet procure ;
I yearn for gatherings of pumpkin pies and feast
the shaky janks of corn roast romps
the evening hearth that says "you're truly blessed"
Yes I love the Autumn's bold audacious stomp,
that sells to me its beauty and its comp...
August 24, 2018
Once a Christmas
The sun was blood red looked like a big wound
on the flank of an elephant shot by poachers.
Dripped blood on white, wholly cloud which slowly
turns red as the bandage of a fatally shot soldier
who slowly dies of his wounds?
His eyes turned into a mirror of the cold sky.
In the air is torn into puffs of powder an ambulance
comes to an abrupt halt, a man on the dirty floor
surrounded by presents for his family, his eyes
reflects the absurdity of a Yule decorated supermarket.
His wife will get a voucher.
As I drive home, a bag of night opens and strews its
soothing darkness over the land, but nearby
an anguished elephant has its tusks sawn off by a dentist.
.
Across the windswept sea swaying,
tossing,
sunlight strews diamond dust, sparkling,
dancing.
The din of the onrushing waves
behind
makes the love song that you summon
in your mind
sound desolate, garbled and
fragmented
with the pain of an old scar newly
wounded.
.