Best Submits Poems
Traditional Format
Compassion’s finger strums another note,
he listens as the angels start to sing,
recalling lines from what apostles wrote,
indwells the spirit held by Heaven’s king.
Succinctly spoken leaving soul in tune,
the gifts we need are never under trees,
mosaic mustard seeds lit by the moon,
aspires our gaze and prayers on bending knees.
Submits himself to love and sounds of grace,
mistrust no longer drowns and mutes his heart,
united song with Christ, him to erase
so many sins in mercy to impart.
In essence, life and hope beyond today.
Contrasts the world, as it dissolves away.
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Acrostic Format
Compassion’s finger strums another note,
He listens as the angels start to sing,
Recalling lines from what apostles wrote,
Indwells the spirit held by Heaven’s king.
Succinctly spoken leaving soul in tune,
The gifts we need are never under trees,
Mosaic mustard seeds lit by the moon,
Aspires our gaze and prayers on bending knees.
Submits himself to love and sounds of grace,
Mistrust no longer drowns and mutes his heart,
United song with Christ, him to erase
So many sins in mercy to impart.
In essence, life and hope beyond today.
Contrasts the world, as it dissolves away.
The wait seemed eternal to feel inspiration.
Minutes were mountains as each one ticked by,
my hand poised grasping a pen, and then
seated without hitting one stroke on a key.
A closed mind submits nothing, zero and zilch
in a life that's been deeply anchored
in the annals of an abyss shrouded by opacity.
Somewhere between midnight's noirs
and the misty grey flow of morning fog,
I'd fallen into a cavern, deprived of light.
I'd built a bulwark fortress that fenced me in
and the key to my cell... held in my own hand.
I brandished a pen that became a sharpened sword
that hacked and sliced at my every written word.
My dreams were gone, along with life's sensation.
No wonder I could not find a cause for inspiration.
A poet who doesn't write is of no use, none at all.
I stood at the edge of a cliff ~ should I jump or fall?
Sounds of laughter caught the attention of my ears
and through eyes blurred by tears,
I saw children running along the water's edge.
Hesitant, I decided to watch them from upon the ledge.
I sat atop the cliff with legs overhanging that day,
wishing I was a child of ten again to join in their play.
"Well, poet," spoke my muse. "Are you a withered bloom?"
A scolding for thinking of naught but notions of doom
A flurry of fussing she threw at me, hassling like a Harpy.
Exactly what I needed for living in doldrums of gloom.
"Now, see what you've done," she was decidedly terse!
"Your burden is that you always begin in free verse
but always end up writing lines ending in rhyme.
You continually do that. Time after time."
My laughter was louder than the children at play
who stopped traipsing in the surf to look up my way.
A wave of my hand and down to the beach I ran.
Inspiration filling me like waves crashing upon the sand.
" The change of seasons lessens the pain of a loss, but like stars it touches those we love leaving memories no one can steal."Quote by Poet
October Fall submits to December Winter
With its grounds elegant powdery dazzling snow.
Kissing out tears of November rain to enter
Its final arctic breath and pinch of mystic glow.
No two snowflakes are alike upon window sill,
Or wind rhymes that tumbles love unforgotten times.
I search past recollections on curtains lace frill
Bring back bright times as grandfather clock silent chimes.
Memories of things like falling leaves or snowflakes
Evoke a pleasing loving embrace then crumbles
On the anniversary of a loss, does wakes
Utter helplessness as the numb heart beat stumbles.
Winter leaves with no smiles as it makes it its own
Taking the world in its embrace leaving its mark.
Please to see Spring beauty and birds melodic tone
And watch the clouds unfurl across the pressing dark.
October Fall submits to December Winter.
No two snowflakes are alike upon window sill,
Memories of things like falling leaves or snowflakes
Winter leaves with no smiles as it makes it its own.
12/11/2020
Rhyme Pattern -
4 stanzas, 4 lines of abab cdcd efef ghgh,
last verse repeat a, c, e, g lines,
12 syllables per line
LOST SOUVENIRS
Your distant gaze flits, nearly bare
Like a mist that smothers the road
Windblown by chill; here, everywhere
A promise ending as breaths explode
My heart trickles as dew submits
To a quivering that grieves,
For our tattered love now wilts
As sullen face of moon retrieves.
Oh, cloudbursts wrap hours’ deep pining,
Traces of ardor become one;
And souvenirs no longer bring
The charmed laughter and its reason.
1/7/2017 Nicola Byrne's Poet's Choice-
End Of The Road, Just Friends
The eddy pulls hard against my torso
panic rises and surfaces, my vsion starts to zigzag
I swim harder in the strong currents of confusion
How did my life become a battle
My father once seemed to love all his children
Now where is the love?
We have to be the dictator to prevent suicide/murder
Begrudgingly he submits to the will of the family
Unforgiving, ungrateful, rebellious
time has the last laugh, my son shouts
I hate you, I never loved you, you are so mean!!
My father shouts, you don't love me, you just want my stuff
You are so selfish!
Tears fall....A heart breaks!
Will this trial end?
Mother says, my daughter has not been to see me in so long, I want to see my baby.
Mom I am here, I was here yesterday! I brought you food! don't you remember?
Life cycles around the eddy, swirls and swirls with no end...
Through scientific perspective, they are paranormal
With whimsical understanding, such can be magical
Some philosophers consider those as metaphysical
Unearthly, ethereal, mystical, transcendental…
But my faith in God declares miracles, supernatural.
Biblical creation exposes omnipotence of the Almighty
Forming something out of nothing, producing great beauty
While sustaining the universe as well as its majesty
To others… such is paranormal certainty
Yet my trust in the Lord accepts the facts of divine reality.
Scriptures’ revelation of divine historical blessing
Genesis’ flood and its aftermath events’ pressing
Exodus’ narration of Red Sea land-crossing…
Though paranormal in finite minds’ appraising
They affirm my confidence in the Creator I’m praising.
How about Christ’s incarnation?
Especially His resurrection and ascension??
Showing power to calm storm against malfunction???
Feeding multitudes with supplies’ production????
Beyond paranormal are they… highlighting God’s action!!!
Cognizant of miracles beyond human understanding
My spirit submits to my Master of wise leading
To HIM believing, grateful to His compassionate guarding
Surpassing the paranormal with His care, bountifully exceeding*
While reaching-out by His love constantly extending.
*1Timothy 1:14 And the grace of our Lord was exceeding abundant with faith and love which is in Christ Jesus.
December 15, 2021
4th place, "Paranormal" Poem Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Robert James Liguori; judged on 12/29/2021.
Under cold lights, dark air and the still,
All is quiet, nothing spoken no sound,
Hangs the softest of rope from the hardest of beams,
Hanging in a straight sort of proud,
Reaching right down to the black and white rose,
The rose standing ready for more,
To raise her like a dancer in the moment of yield,
And display like a trophy of war,
And her hands are bound tight, legs are tied back,
Shoulder, head and hips cannot moan,
And her hair is secured out of the way,
She hangs defenceless and naked and owned,
She lives for the love of these cold vivid nights,
Obeys what the rope will demand,
She relishes the play of losing control,
When she submits to her dominant man.
Forest undergrowth,
Submits to the rising sun:
Rays of forgiveness.
Honeysuckle blooms and between my teeth, I tease it
like nipples on a lover's chest, so sweet though milk
is long gone. Salt and sweet the breast, my tongue flits
amongst love's sweat. Her skin fluid as Chinese silk.
Her juices flow; the ripest mango slit submits
as tears fill the hollow of her throat. None are her ilk,
but I, Mars, know She who has rises from the foam.
Worship her who causes worlds to writhe and moan.
Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words,
and not necessarily my reality;
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing
You can be who you want to be on any level
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys, or places that some don’t even think exist
They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses whether they are just cases,
or me in the absolute right here
My words exude positive intentions;
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections
and reversed dejection
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul
and temptations
Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect
according to divine order
They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time
because up until now,
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside –
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words
A time is reached in life if one remains
Alive to tell the tale: those certain things
He once performed routinely, ascertains
The notion, habits must desist which brings
About awareness: His mortality.
Employment ends; Retirement is here.
The monthly saving wanes. Frugality
submits to lavish tastes. The thirty year
Installment loan is paid. But now he’s glum.
He now forbears purchasing bananas
That are unripe for fear his death may come
before they ripen. Shakespeariana
Unfolding: Final act that yields a frown:
The man’s demise, they ring the curtain down.
Hydrangea Influence
Pull of gravity drawn on the senses, hydrangea scent
Fragrance bliss, orgasmic burst, flowering forth
Explains beauty one petal at a time in naked white
Flavors come on nasal whiffs in flight
Fragile buds nod to blossoms under the glacial moon
Delicately delicious invisible friends seen once again
Spread up ahead on garden paths
On wings of spring
Past the river, nature at its best begins
When growing wild in the woods
Blossoms form, born perfect just in time
Birth of aroma, breath inhales, forgets to let it go
Love on the stem and leaves fill up imaginations
Displayed on gray days, nature dances, pollen laughs
Garden mesmerized, on its knees, satiated under breeze
Earth submits, to the tease, seasons color strokes
Memory knows flowers from the dirt
Moves the Earth to drink it in
Discerning, blown open, flirting with the wind
Without a voice without a sound on softer ground
Spoken only on the breeze in leisure
Tranquil undergrowth abounds
Honey layered, thick as lust
Purer than a woman’s womb
Thrusting forth perfumes
Hydrangeas fill the need of spring
Shimmer under moon light in naked white
Light up mid night for those who want to know
Aromas are not allowed to lie in flower beds
They seek out noses on their own and spread
Hydrangeas know exactly what to do
While filling up exhausted souls, exhaling truth
Before the beauty, love comes first
Continued from Part 1
The trees, they hang in time and space around me –
trees, which in time before had swayed,
so gently tugged by ocean breezes,
trees, which in time before were lightly lit
with emerald tinted leaves,
trees, which in time before had reached to space above
with twisted tangled fingers,
grasping fingers,
fingers drenched with golden tears
shed by the Mighty Eye.
The trees, they hang in space and time,
benumbed and frozen motionless around me
chilled with rooted premonitions of the void,
their branches clutching darkness
and their leaves foreboding doom.
The muted winds begin to whisper tales
of many frightened things,
which, with mournful apprehension
have hunkered down behind the haze
and ceased their joyful play.
And all the while dank shadows gaily dance
a dismal dance,
for their time is soon to come.
The fitful shore lies suddenly still.
Unfeeling stones and hollow shells,
are paused a little,
stalled,
and dropped haphazardly,
midst their mindless random journey,
now abandoned by the sea,
for fickle waves have slipped away
to greet a falling prey.
And as the Mighty Eye droops lower,
laminated molten lips
are pursed and pucker higher,
sucking in the sky.
Within a trice the Mighty Eye
submits and squints, distended red,
perhaps tormented by fantastic thoughts
of imminent demise,
or else of being lashed beneath a lid
of distant faithless waves.
And as her dying flash dissolves,
two lurid lips arise,
three lusty lips -
a thousand parted limpid lips
which asudden,
though with little haste,
consume the Mighty Eye.
EPILOGUE
The trees are now but lurking shades
amongst the murky shadows.
Relentless fog slips slowly by -
her floating tongues drip silence
as they slink like snakes in stealth nearby.
The lacerated faithless lips have once again returned
to kiss the vacant vapid shores
in a brief eclipse of time.
END
Potato Mountain
I will arrive
an habitual escapee
from the rabbit warrens
of central planners
By ferreting north
in search of
breaks in the maze
rifts in the grid
I will follow
a stream beside
the climbing track
and yet higher
To a saddle below
the great ridge
southward along
eastern slopes
To a fine summit
of long vistas
and white gravel-skirts
exposed to sun
Exposed to eyes
sweeping round
the slow wide circle
of arcs in passage
Years to degree
degree to century
century to millennia
beyond human sight
And my own frail
footsteps in iron soil
blown to oblivion
by winds now shadowing
My identical track
passed beehives
thickets and copse
up the potato
To a summit
of concrete pylon
red dirt
and folk art
Where unknown infidels
posed the creative
issue of their
anonymous fancy
In the form
of starch-fat tubers
affixed with parasols
to shade them
And toothpicks to
give them arms
and bay leaves
to make them hair
Hats to render
them style
atop bald and oblong
pates of brown
Wings of sumac leaf
sleek and waxy
to impart mottled skins
flights of fancy
But they cannot fly
like chaparral birds
fitted to wind
and wildness
Unmoving the potatoes
await their fate
on a flat stage
above the world
Three days pass
their number reduced
in gathering erosions
and mathematical decline
Four days
the mule deer
has found them
yet still proud potatoes
Pass from deer
to lion to
slow beetles
upon the soil
And there the
once magnificent
and well-arrayed
vegetable host
Submits bravely to
mechanical escorts
in the brief free fall
to worlds below
She rolled down her silky sheer stockings
gives him a saucy sexy look,
imaging his hands there instead
gently coursing her trim figure.
Feels his eyes following his hands,
as she submits to her passion.
wishing that he could lay with her
as they transcended to heaven.
Alas it could never be, for he,
was only a marble statue.
Crafted by her, in memory
of the hours they once had shared