Best Swan Song Poems
When the time is right
one again will walk with you unaided
in an eon of age,
where promises are made
not to conform to life’s illusions.
Only now this earthly spirit
will not last forever,
the journey has been long, now weary,
and this pen is spent
needs to fade
into one’s own mitigation.
Yet your smile your poetry
one will gladly hold dearly
with in one’s heart forever,
as life blends with in
one’s terminal sunset
before methodically melting
into the golden horizon!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
she meets
her final moment
with a swan song for the ages.
the theater is packed in like sardines.
a cynosure of all eyes.
her own stitched shut
as she starts to sing.
her face, baring
tracks of trickling tears,
flush with searing passion.
her voice, quivering
with raw emotion,
reaches a crescendo.
a final bow
amid a thunderous standing ovation.
sustained cheers and whistles
from a captivated audience
a celebrated soprano
rings down the curtain.
the end of an illustrious career.
goodbye kisses abound.
red roses catapult
to the stage.
a swan song
to remember.
Submitted for...
Strong Emotions Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Date written: 08/07/2022
~ Swans tell stories of eternal love -
the hymn of the earth ~
quote by poet
A flock of swans sings duets with the wind
where the shadows fall at an angle
Their beauty is an eternal spectacle
sealed by divine sanctuary
Evening sky burns - almost incomprehensible sight
Exiting autumn
Gentle winds whisper
Foretelling snow storms
As last days wither
In songs of winter
Dry trees shudder
In frigid nights
Dreaming of spring’s
Blooming flowers--
Though at dawn
Pink sunrise
Warms up hearts
Birds are
Flying
South
December 26, 2019
Placed 2nd: Pick a title, vol. 12—Diminished hexaverse poetry contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
December’s swan song
Placed 2nd: Strand special 12 by Brian Strand
There’s beauty in the midnight feathers of a black swan so divine,
as euphoria illuminates s t a i n e d sanctuaries~
where stars long to drown in your still train of thoughts,
for there’s a p o e m ruffling through lakes of ancient runes,
too d a r k for the blind who refuse to see beyond color,
amidst the swirl of sorcery… emanating magical wavelets of strength,
to stand out in a world of dwelling dullness..
Remember, life goes on, with or without
the veil of validation..
You’re more than a silhouette on a blank page….
I see through those scratched windows
of your sunless eyes,
where manipulative monsters
make a foolish king out of your soul,
whilst morals of yesterday’s
drown in poisoned puddles
of contaminated cruelty.
Yet we still hope celestial roots of eden
would sprout through barren grains of time,
as hostile hands weave paper petunias,
to color them in shades of shallow shadows,
which glimmer amongst salmon skies,
enveloped in airy blue lace.
Perhaps, a touch of an empath may
reawaken the light of life that has been
dimmed within the fogs
of your narcissistic ego.
Or maybe there will never be a release
nor a remedy to relieve your
lethal fangs clutching my breathless lungs,
constantly feeding me infected fruits on the
furnace of malevolent magnanimity.
But, I’m no longer the naive target that
falls victim to every shimmering knife you throw,
aiming to blind me with your crystal color coated trickeries.
So take all your weapons wielded
of manipulative mantras~
forged from the hells of insecurities.
I am not the mistress meant only to move
in motions of your designed gravity.
I am earth and fire,
more than skeleton and scent.
I am stronger than every storm I’ve sailed through,
when sinister seas screamed in angst.
One day you’ll realize my kindness
was never a weak vessel to be misused~
whenever your greediness finds the need to
steal wings for your own malicious delight.
The last time my Mother sang to me
With delicate high notes, powerful and sweet,
Pushing through tremors with courage and pride;
How could I know, it was her swan song?
With delicate high notes, powerful and sweet,
Remembering each verse, she had rehearsed;
How could I know it was her swan song?
Putting challenges aside, she wanted to shine.
Remembering each verse she had rehearsed.
Pushing through tremors with courage and pride,
Putting challenges aside, she wanted to shine;
Where recollections of days long past, reflected in her eyes.
Pushing through tremors with courage and pride;
Her fragile fingers clasped in reverent prayer,
Where recollections of days long past, reflected in her eyes,
The last time my Mother sang to me.
The darkness extends
As the sun descends
To partial ellipse
And deep cold now grips
Penetrating core
Skeletal trees’
Dark silhouettes
Against pale sky
In waiting sleep
Burst of lights
Signal makes
Indicates
Old year
Comes to
End
39.December 2019
December’s Swan song
Sponsor:Edward Ubeh
Strutting with swagger while singing along.
I am the epitome of arrogance a hundred percent strong.
Trying my dynasty to destine the cause,
I formed a voice of expression.
Walking in mediums to speak to the crowd,
My poetic mien capitalized.
I am a Diva now.
This demeanor was everlasting as I learnt the score.
I epitomized to be discovered.
I published my poetry in a philosophical style,
A rhetorical performer renowned writes about religion, politics, and life.
Quixotic philosopher orates to down-to-earth people today.
Fulfilling a void that may have manifested via slavery.
Palpable to mind, body, and soul as the words she speaks inner cores.
A Poetry Diva and a voice -
A political powerhouse has been a canon among us.
Her swan song is in perpetuity.
A s
S tandards suggest
W e must live life to its fullest
A s
N oetic beings
S o we can form vision to explore
O f life and of recourse.
N oesis possess.
G odspeed we are within.
______________________________________________________|
Scribe August 26, 2015!
His skin was like loose Saran wrap
that no amount of topical
cream could smooth away its wrinkles.
His skeletal bones creaked, muffled
by an old squeaking rocking chair
he gently, rhythmically rocked
to singsong poetry he wrote
nearly fifty odd years ago.
Each iambus spoken aloud
curiously matched his rocking:
the short syllables went backward
the longer ones ever forward.
Suddenly his recital stopped
and the chair went still and silent.
A frequent visitor is Mary Anne,
Who first did come before the bloom of rose
As tiny bud before it fully grows.
I blossomed too. A pattern then began.
I came to know when she would call again.
Though first she came as not a guest I chose,
I'm ready now each time she does impose
herself on me, and that has been the plan.
She comes. She goes. Late summer has drawn near.
I backward look. How every year did flee!
I forward look with something kin to fear.
I think that it a sorry day shall be
(A time I know is very nearly here)
When Mary Anne no longer calls on me.
(an oldie written some time before "Mary Anne"
left me forever! Seeing PD's blog the other day
made me think of it! If you are still confused, here
is a big hint: She only visits women!!)
Lovelorn;
My love,
Breaking my heart,
Left me forever to
mourn.
Forlorn;
I Lament,
Singing the blues,
My pining heart pleads:
Return!
Dr. Ram Mehta's "Longing" contest.
The calendar announced today the first day of Fall,
But the weather in South Georgia did not hear the call.
It is near 90 today, and Fall is in hiding.
It is Summer's swan song, and it keeps on smiling.
Late September Standard Contest
Brian Strand sponsor
primrose,bluebell
black briony,
sleep well,my flower..
'til Spring,will be
Swan Song
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have thought, said this before !!!
It is time to let go, close that door !!!
Reminisce no longer, think of Her no more !!!
All the evidence leads to one conclusion !!!
I have been living these years in an illusion !!!
Could it be ?, the evidence is just confusion !!!
I do not want to open my eyes,
wake up, have to accept, realize
I have been living in a world of lies
hoping, once again, she’d be my prize.
All my beautiful dreams seem to be jaded
pieces of a tapestry, who’s images have faded,
to undiscernible flakes of time before this eye,
as the years have imperceptibly drifted on by.
In the end, will my own words, I hear ?
Will I pay heed ?, let go without any fear
that my last great love will no longer be near ?
B. J. “A” 2
January 3rd 2016
Here I am
Stranded between this and your goodbye.
You,
Whose thatch is a-glow with fires of Beauty
That burns my heart,
unkempt and wild,
Sits atop a countenance borne of a thousand fantasies
Of angels and fairies and their adorable air,
That underneath the obvious purity
Lies some hidden childish naughtiness there.
And though there have been wonder
Like those seven shades that wipes the sky of its tears,
Or the earth blushing by the sun's appearance
At dusk or dawn, as a lady does when meeting her lover,
Or the sight of evening stars on a cloudless sky
Like jewels sparkling spread on velvet,
None has stalled a heart
As your entrance to a scene;
As if pulchritude was conjured from adjectives
To a breathing thing
To which nothing has been of equal since.
Yet here I am
Stranded between this and your goodbye.
Perhaps it has gone unnoticed
At every opportune time,
Irises have prayed to be blessed
To be reciprocated.
And Heavens be thanked! Heavens be thanked
When favor is given, that completes a day.
What more if engaged in a conversation
Nay, more, fortunate enough to be bestowed
With a couple of words
Such as a greeting, or a calling by name;
Then I would be lost as a child would be in a jungle.
Unnerved, devoid of the facility of expression,
Frozen as would be a dead tree in winter.
Yet here I am
Stranded between this and your goodbye.
For every moment that we stood before each other
Face to face, there dawns a discernment
By this day and age
A dozen or so faces have come and gone;
Faces that have caused the heart to prance wildly
To a rhythm unintentionally syncopated.
Faces that have shaped the perspective
Of the panorama of future days.
Faces that if they were modelling clay
And by some miracle were shaped to a single mold
The outcome stood before me, face to face;
Something I have never thought
Even in the wildest imagination possible.
Wild-eyed with wonder, a child witnessing the delicate
Subtlety of a magician's handicraft.
I only wish I could have told you of these.
(continued)