Best Swaths Poems
Believing in you is
Being just you, the simplicity of you
Embracing each twist and turn
Stepping outside the confines of your mind
Revealing truths and bringing clarity in chaos
Engaging in the art of the here and now
Changing dark unnecessary innateness
Diving into each brushstroke, swaths of colorways
Letting the moment paint a masterpiece uniquely yours
Freeing up the shackles of the mind
Feeling compassion of heart and soul
Taking a voyage to the center of universal reality~
Shedding many prejudices indelibly embedded in thought
Unmasking anxieties that do not change the world,
serving only to distract causing mental coil
Trusting your instincts is your compass
Off putting, although valuable truth may be
a diamond amidst pebbles
Experiencing every morsel of life’s banquette
Astound me with visual auroras
swaths of rainbows in chorus
that leap across lofty skies
strange intriguing patterns that rise
iridescent visions of midnight forests.
Mind bending colors turn sinister
haunting hues no longer minister
I awaken from dystopian dreams
seeking solace from simple means
I bask inside sunlight’s perimeter.
Written on 3/17/2018
Swaths of purple ripple, breeze blown,
down the hillside to the water's edge
as the early morning sunlight splatters
her span with scattered diamonds.
Majestic, as old as the granite outcrops
surrounding her, she shimmers,
'til the weather takes a downturn.
Afternoon thunder and heavy gusts
whip her to a frenzy, as the mountain
goats and hikers hurry to take shelter,
her complexion now grim and forbidding.
The storms disintegrate, the evening sky
turns red and gold, and peace resumes its reign.
This princess, both petulant and calm,
assumes a sheen like polished glass,
a stillness, a silence, in absolute darkness,
just waiting for sunrise to sparkle again.
Are those tears of sorrow or pure wrath,
God’s anger at mankind
Put on earth to tread his path,
Just to see us stumbling blind.
Little knowing, quite uncaring
Of our world so full of life,
Wanton damage truly glaring,
Callous actions clearly rife.
Have we suddenly forgotten,
Is our arrogance that strong,
That we too were once downtrodden,
But a cog in nature’s throng.
Now we act as Lord and Master,
Spitting sentence with huge swaths,
Destruction fostered ever faster
Life’s fabric swarmed by human moths.
Time to pause, soak in the wonder
At Earth’s bounty in all it’s forms,
Embrace God’s gift and stop the plunder,
Live our lives by Nature’s norms.
Written: January 06, 2024
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Shimmering swaths
of cerulean sea
ionize comely light
purple-tinged sand
strewn with tattered shells
during low tide,
summon imperial thrones,
tartly lovely youth
amid sparkling Tyrian swells,
whilst peering
solace amid
vibrant splendor
of landscape,
as serene slopes
and lucid pleas prevail,
I wait with ebbed breath
for an ethereal grace
to ignite a spark
of hope.
We haven't touched yet,
we're just syncing
over ariose love song,
as warm rain and clouds—bow
"Salut d'amour",
violins string opalescent tones
that rise and fall in pitch,
as a link to ink
an iridescent origami doodle
of a jewel-lit song,
summer nights of
ochre acrylics—a plethora
of fairy flickers and fireflies
amid a flurry of filigree,
to inveigle her into playing.
We draw on our kinship
as we float freely,
over crestfallen ocean
a pen swayed in time,
with an Elysian rim
on my horizon,
I whirl my love whims
and swirl the walnut wood
in disconsolate loops,
In a spice grist mill
sprinkles to spice my life.
Keys and gaunt codes
to demure this dalliance
served with Mirabelle tart
and for the sake of Muscat,
as the breeze tickles
those are my shutters
I fantasize about lying,
over her fastidious breast
as empyreal lee of
a sun-kissed knoll,
should she ever grasp
my hand and our
lips converge,
in an esoteric way
would we fit snugly?
as a dovetail joint in unison,
or would we plummet?
to our deaths
in shattered light?
8th place contest winner
See her reach 'cross wide swaths of green
Magic fingers, droplets ~ rainbow's sheen
These shifting poles, I sit and ponder.
As flocks of birds fall from the yonder.
But I have dirty clothes to launder.
I have no time for this.
Some Beetle's killing all the trees.
and something's swatting swaths of bees.
But I have to take care, or my pipes will freeze.
I have no time for this.
So cows eat corn instead of grass.
Some heavy metals in my glass.
I'm in a rush, I'm late for class.
I have no time for this.
On Fossil fuel we so depend.
In 2012 the world will end.
But I have frozen drinks to blend
I have no time for this
These things, they come as no surprise
As we blaze a trail to our own demise
As I sit here writing, I realize.
I have no time for this.
(Metrical form of writing worthily represented here in this poem composed by Giorgio Venetopoulos, had remained unpublished.)
The maiden's form diffuses neath the rain
and beautiful she steps around the sage
The mists embrace her dream on this domain
and vernal age.
The autumn raindrops fall, forever thin
They sing the maiden's song that lingers high
She fled to college winters that akin
have gone awry.
She fled above the plains where women sing
The heartfelt painful songs of love that stings
The iron bells of Sunday callings ring
for queens and kings.
Above the castle's walls the coldness casts
and dancing snowflakes fly to years before
where trees saluted his departing masts,
for e'er ashore.
Forsooth her shape outlined above the field
Where flowers blossomed in the air and smiled
The quiet dusk her heart sedately healed
descending mild.
Across their Summer lay the swaths of scythe
the mowing ended and a wedding song
two wraiths recite, thus on the wheatfield lithe
for e'er belong.
© Giorgio A.V. & Gautami Phookan 10-18-2014, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic pentameter - Iambic dimeter)
Here I stand in this godforsaken corner
under a forgotten, sun scorched land
beneath an expansive, desert sky.
I squint in the melting sun at high noon
my proud, deeply tanned face is lined
like a road map, carved and etched
from years of exposure to the elements.
A hot wind swiftly lifts and carries
large tumbleweeds across the dusty
roads of the reservation.
I can see old paint peeling around the
edges of a trading post sign,
rusted out cars with their hoods open
gathered like a weary convention
along the arroyo canyon,
and a lone roadrunner scurrying
among the saguaro cactus.
My ancestors were a proud people
once roaming freely over this vast
country. They loved the land and
respected it.
When the white man came, we
welcomed them, until we saw they
wanted to take our land from us.
Then we fought like warriors, but
were soon outnumbered.
Now we have been relegated to
these largely barren swaths of land
on the outskirts of society.
Here we languish, yet we will
rise again once more.
I am a Native American and
I have been put in the corner.
Written on 3/25/2017
Today I stopped along a roadside path,
Drawn to swaths of gold and blue.
A calliope of yellow mustard, with hues
Of purple vinca, and wild sweetpeas too.
Harsh winter rains lay this hillside bare
But nature’s will the landscape overcame.
No artist’s brush could best this scene
This painting with a grass-green frame.
My burdened heart beat with hope anew,
I felt the dark and troubled day recede.
Perspective gripped my tired soul,
And gave peace to a heart in need.
A weed that’s known as Queen Anne’s Lace
Is here and there and everyplace –
Along the highway, in the fields,
Deaf to every sneeze it yields.
Tall and straggly, it’s beguiled
Flies and bugs where it grows wild,
Lured not by its scent outstanding
But its flat top, great for landing.
Humans, though, don’t like it much
For like dandelions and such,
Its profusion proves, indeed,
That it’s just a lowly weed.
Oft, I rush to weeds’ defense;
This time, though, I’m on the fence
For swaths of land might lose the race
Against the spread of Queen Anne’s lace.
…waiting’s knife
slices time in broader swaths
stacking jagged moments
chaffing minutes raw, in existential unease
…one second snags the next
…the knife dulls
moments fray and shred
tomorrow folds today; time’s teeth - rounded
memories meld a transcendent balm
deeply rubbed by fading voices
a hospice hallway dims…
one light - grows brighter
Sunshine undulates across verdant plain
casting dark shadows ushering twilight zone
ringing athwart tree trunks
invigorating, joyously kickstarting,
and plenti revitalizing
bountiful nature buzzfeeding
vim, vinegar and *****
caressing, massaging, and palpating with
soundlessness inducing bub bully giddy,
and sudsy spongy schmaltzy
harmonic livingsocial kerplunk
also intoxicating this perk o' late
ting teetotaler, no longer ginger
who doth oft times ale
with melancholic funk,
whereat imbibing nectar
of the Gods with fulfillment
temporarily quicken ends euphoric,
albeit 'pon firm meant soberly drunk.
Ah...nothing more uplifting
than (Anita Bryant raisin eyebrows)
plugging sunkist orange treat,
this sensate being privy,
sans front row seat
agog at orchestral, festival, viz
choral paean courtesy sweet
flora and fauna feat
bequeathed to Mother Earth,
a requiem pulsating with heartbeat
pitch perfect exultation
glorifying spring days soon obsolete
ethereal, ideal, and
sensational tonic to gin
prestidigitation, qua
natural psychological helpmeet
pleasant distraction with intent to read
temporarily placating, needling craving
for Pete sakes daily
fix this news junkie,
trembling when complete
awareness he doth accrete,
where quite glum, how
civilization didst mistreat
planet, hence feeling downbeat,
especially haunting ghosts of
Native Americans drumbeat
signal harbinger debacle
i.e. environmental doomsday
soon fated extinction
sealed and complete
inexorably inching closer to reality
necessitating superman to defeat
global warming rendering vast swaths
uninhabitable as Gaia global
temperature packs tremendous heat!
Toddlers teeter on the hollowed trunks and sport with juts of ice.
'Cross boulder bridges, flouting rapids, hop the agile blond and beige.
Yet in close chase, for or found, and on uneven ground, they’ll slip.
Clots in black and rose bespatter tans and whites.
Though clouds may cope the flights of cubs and fawns in torrents spirit laden,
steps shan’t be erased, where o’er plight’s edge they’re furrowed.
Would least the cliff lay lad to nestle upon drifts of pedals fallow
or as cradled by green swaths of summer blades.
For if to hope, the whelp when bade need but renounce a bed of clover,
might a father’s beckon stern retrieve the slain.
But scolds can echo no reprieve where o’er forever’s precipice
the yearling brown has left the seasons scarlet stained.
Though with the day’s advance, a glance would chance the fact all tracks do fade,
in the havens gray, in every trace, we dawdle.
It’s the cleft that blanched a mother’s face. Bereft, her tears are gained.
And blood ‘s been shed till never, like the rains.
A weathered watchman witnesses
possible perils passing through the skies
at the dawn of daylight.
His eagle eyes are alert and attentive
ever attracted to the unfolding horizon
that hovers over his head.
He glimpses an aggrevated glare
a red raged, colored temper tantrum
a telltale sign of trouble approaching
from afar.
Soon the sinking sunlight succumbs
to sinister swaths of bold, blackened clouds
as pellets of rain begin to pound downward.
Heaven’s guard hurls down a litany of lightening
crackling upon the earth’s crust, causing
the thirsty terrain to tremble in anticipation.
As the skies unfurl like a didactic drama
driving its point home purposefully
a sudden shift of shadows allows
the sun to once again regain its
glory in the skies.
As the freshly scented dew descends
upon the land, a radiant rainbow rises
like a multicolored river in the air
and the weathered watchman smiles.
Written on 3/23/2018