Best Take Shape Poems
(PoetrySoup Format)
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While your name is being traced beside mine, as I speak,
your words seem to take shape and then rearrange my breathing.
The second I am lost in the maze that is you, eagerly searching,
the wind finds your whisper of, “I Need You” … and I become weak.
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Longing for your touch
~A romantic scribble ~
Sunday December 19th, 2021- Poem of the Week
There you are being conceived in your mother's womb.
Before you know it you will be born in this world
real soon.
As you develop; you start to move around. You take in
your first food as your mom gobbles it down.
Your ears start to develop; behold now you can hear!
You start to move around as the sounds you hear are
weird.
You look around to only darkness. So you yawn and fall
asleep. Look at those precious toes that are taking
shape on your little feet!
You hear your mother talking and you react to her voice.
You start to kick. You start to coo. It seems to make
you rejoice.
I can hear the sound of your heart beat, and at hearing
it I fall in love. I take a moment to see what is now
going on in heaven above.
Yah smiles down upon you as a precious baby is starting
to take shape. Everything seems good so far, but hold up
baby...wait!
A pain hits you hard. You're wondering what's the
commotion. You don't even know it, but your mom
is now having an abortion.
You don't deserve this. You're a precious baby. To be
born is the Father's will. But you don't even know it,
because now you are being killed.
The pain is killing you...unbearable pain, but what can
you do. It hurts too much to say this is what your mom
thinks of you.
Some think they know better, but your life began at
conception. Why do some think otherwise? Is it because
they fell victim to the devil's deception?
Look at you torn to pieces. I'm crying at the sight
of you. But it's a relief to your mother, she sees a
different point of view.
Another child dead. Another life gone. I can't control
my emotion. A precious gift from above is now the victim
of another abortion.
A warring god of wind storms and lightening,
Rudra, rough looking, well built, braided hair
Golden in color, of firm limbs widening
With streaks of lightening and fearful blares
Making nervous with fear all the beings.
But caters medicines to the world with care
The wind God is the breath bringer to all
Perfumes, caresses and senses at his call.
Rudra sired his wife Deeti with a son
Deeti vowed to keep him in her womb for more years
Letting the child be more and more brawny one.
Indra, the chief deity of heaven, out of fear,
Entered her womb and chopped him with passion
But pieces so strong reformed into numbers.
They were named as Maruts, varied Gods of wind
Who lash the world from end to end with great dins.
They are progeny of Rudra, the bulls of heaven,
Radiant in serried rank free from spots and stains
Who drench the earth with heavy rains uneven.
No one know from where they take shape and rain
Spreading forth darkness during the day time even.
Bring health and wealth in noisy way, but veterans.
*"The winds of God’s grace are always blowing
It is left to us how to set the sails flowing."
+++
*Rudra, Maruts and Deeti are characters in Hindu Mythology*
* Inspired by a quote
December 21, 2014
Third Place win
Form: Ottava Rima - Rhyme Scheme abababcc, dededeff, ghghghii
Sources : Wikipedia - hinduwebsites
"Tender Years"
upon first meeting my heart felt a certain chemistry
though I was far from seeking love I vowed intentionally
needed to work and raise my sons as best as I could
being my boss gave me a chance to show my work was good.
a team of excellence we were and business was successful
my life was starting to take shape though times were very stressful
one night you offered me a lovely dinner to escape
surely I accepted not considering it a date.
years have quickly passed so tenderly we fell in love
you were my strong support, my Angel sent from Heaven above
as much as I tried to resist you said we were meant to be
our wedding day in Paradise and the rest is history.
our love balances all the bad and turns things all to right
when I am cold you cradle me and sing me songs at night
years ago I cut and combed your wavy wild black hair
but now you are my sexy Cupid, bald beyond compare.
as every moment of our golden years are cherished
our family has grown so close in love and flourished
and still we work together fulfilling lifelong dreams
I am the creative one and you pioneer financial themes.
these tender years have taught us both about why we love so
God is the center of our lives helping our faith grow
we thank each other everyday for love so faithfully
and the wonderful way you learned to share my poetry.
*For Gail Angel Doyle's Tender Years.
*Written by: Linda-Marie Sweetheart.
*Dec. 7, 2012.
Under a trellis of vines, quite evergreen
This elegant, old lady sits on a wooden porch,
Her veined fingers twist in graceful motion
Kneading hued threads from silken yarn;
As weaves of cross-stitch unfurl through dusk :
How in gentle calm, a floral pattern expands
Thickening its pattern through intricate craftwork ...
I watch grandmother extend those elbows
To connect the dots while loops of artistry
Begin to take shape, her eyes glimmering
Upon moonlit wind: I cuddle this kerchief, now
A prized token of her bridal gift...my heirloom.
.....................
~ New Poem ~ 2/28/2019
Cross Contest of Carolyn Devonshire
Random thoughts flutter across a page
And take shape in verses of expression
Reflecting the notions of the poet/sage.
While the actor repeats upon the stage
Phrases acting out playwright’s impression
Random thoughts flutter across a page.
Both painting portraits of love and rage
In concise words, the writer’s profession,
Reflecting the notions of the poet/sage.
Visually the reader will absorb, engage,
Theatergoers easily observe the passion
Random thoughts flutter across a page.
Poets create images like a bird in a cage
Their poems coming in and out of fashion,
Reflecting the notions of the poet/sage.
The value of writers the public will gauge
Sometimes without the proper caution
Random thoughts flutter across a page
Reflecting the notions of the poet/sage.
Written May 13, 2022
#51 on the BEST POEMS LIST
June 12, 2022
Wolf And Owl Take Shape
Smoke and red cinders rise together in retrograde simplicity
On counter rotation, winds sing through birch and oak
Marbled moon remains sour yellow through the ecliptic edge
Cryptic night, where owl and wolf find warmth and cover
Nestled in the coarse blanket warn by Tabitha, the young one
Her tribe sleeps through winter
She holds them in her mystic spell, mild heart and smile
They breathe cold mist together in history hallows
Unfolding cold reveals their open eyes
Reaching out into the distance as wolf howls
Unknown mysteries of life feel their kinship
Heaven opens up to them crisp on the fire light
Wolf moves his wool but only slightly in a twitch
Owl takes flight, returns alarmed
Back to the blanket and young girls arms
It rests with comfort feathers by her heart
Wolf and owl take shape, Tabitha smiles
They all take one long last breath and hold it in
Wait till spring to release it again below the mystic stars
10/17/14 Free Verse, Prose Poetry, haibun – Poetry Contest
The mistake made in word association is thinking that an associative word should fit
normal patterns. Normalcy isn't always consistent with creativity, therefore, the design may have to change so the poem fits mind frames. In regards to mathematics, I was told seven was perfection. Six imperfection and although eight was enough, biblically it means resurrection. But added all together, twenty-one represents man's wickedness so how can we have imperfection, perfection, resurrection and end up with wickedness in the same story line? We were perfect before words entered the equation. There was a knowable number of stars before we ever opened our eyes. Enlightenment became entrapment and religion authorized this. We gave up unbelievable wonder for a light like no other. Here's the crux of my prose, if sun is God's splendor, I just need you, the smallest sliver. A divided light beam barely bright, but giving so much insight. The way a little light seeps through eye lashes and lids when eyes are stuck together. Your darkened outline begins to take shape the more pupils dilate. With very little light I begin to see a dream coming true - awakening to visions of you. Mathematics was the word that had me monetizing how I could get paid loving only you.
Ordinary Precious Stones
Buddha saw it first
but as is his way never let me in on it.
The stones, rough, unfinished,
ill sized tribute to chaos, beckoned.
I closed my eyes
It started to take shape in the mist.
Each stone should have its place
separate yet dependent on the others.
They should not attract attention for themselves
but become a part of a greater beauty.
I touched each stone, listened to its passion,
rolled it, positioned it so the sun would
augment its finest facets. Allowing them time
to adjust, to relate themselves one to another.
When each stone hummed in wind coaxed OMMMMM
I rested, placed the Buddha in the midst
of these, now precious, stones.
Each morning I look out on the Buddha
in the midst of his rock garden, see the
sun creep over his shoulder glancing off
the facets of those most ordinary
precious stones.
Submitted to – Precious Stones and Gems – Poetry contest
Sponsor – Anthony Slausen
11/14/2014
How to build a spaceship
A large cardboard box,
Massive amount of tape.
10 toilet paper rolls…
It’s beginning to take shape.
A creative little mind,
Crayons of every hue.
Help with little scissors,
Grandma, pass the glue.
Imagination going wild..
That’s what yields the fuel.
Our spaceship ready to depart,
Fun the only steadfast rule.
heaven ...
is my prison ...
that dreamy, white tangle of
percale where your
limbs and mine weave sweaty magic -
a moon-daubed canvas of
pyretic passion, public ...
no shut-door, drawn-curtain modesty to
confine or make sacred ...
the danger of chance discovery is
our brush, our pigments but
blood ... water ...
(pray, this haughty
consideration of both ... and each -
is not the nectar of veins
more binding?
yet, in all its giving of life,
water - the most earthly flow, abundant -
is exceedingly more precious ...
more crucial in dynamism
to all the Universe
than that which clots for
kings of kings of kings ...
and those who keep little lives in their
pocket, squeezing tears from
a passion's pains) ...
we watch the
strokes of our masterpiece
take shape ...
our fleshy doppelgangers echo us on
strategically beveled mirror ceiling panels ...
an exquisite debauchery - the
perfect pauses in your form
demanding the gaze ...
oh, to waste away like Erised in contemplation of
your provocative pieces and bits ...
torrid,, touchable temples that I build
myself for the spying eyes
we count on ...
wives, husbands, leches, learners -
a grand performance, ours ...
and ...
from the ashes of our
god, do we arise, (blood, tears and marrow) ...
our mortal senses gone, wagered in
feigned dignity or hope, these
buttresses will stand proud for the
sacrifices of character ... and kindnesses ...
or crumble in care for the chaste
as my illicit actress and I ...
burn.
It seems, in truth, that I'm such a glutton,
For a pulsing, lighted or sliding button.
Christmas, for me? An arriving shipment,
Boxes packed full with musical equipment!
Nothing can compare with the digital glow,
Of rack-mounted processors, row-on-row.
Is there no surer proof of a world in order,
Than dancing lights on a multi-track recorder?
And how could you decorate a room any cuter,
Than guitars on the walls and a laptop computer?
Near-field monitors and microphones aplenty,
So, to whet the whistles of music cognoscenti.
Keyboards, amplifiers, drum machines, effects,
Mood lights to decide what track to add next.
Well, it may not sound like YOUR place to be,
But this shimmering scene is heaven to me!
And what's so fine about this electronic roost?
Well, it's a place where musical dreams ...
Are produced!
* SECOND PLACE in the "Meraki" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Sponsor. *
(I am and will always be, a musician/songwriter, first-and-foremost, and while performing is my second love, [and poetry a close third], there's nothing for me like the creative process - writing, recording, producing songs in the studio - laying down the tracks one-by-one, layering the instruments and voices, building and watching/hearing the song take shape, and mastering the final production - in control of every facet ... looking back at the incredible amount of time and work involved, and feeling proud of that musical piece of you that you can listen to and share with the world ... there is nothing like it, and the lights of the studio equipment are, for me, like a Christmas all my own, and the dancing pixies of a wonderland of sound and melody - my meraki, indeed!)
Yesterday I was at the bottom
The dank, dirty bottom.
The rubbish heap
Of wasted dreams
And failed attempts
And hearts depleted of hope.
There I lay
Wallowing in despair
Submerged in sadness
Clinging to the filthy ground
Like an insect.
Yesterday—I was there.
Last night I was in the middle
The vague, vacuum middle
The empty space
Between the beginning and the end
Where you find…nothing
But air
There I was
Hanging in nothingness
Meandering, floundering
Aimlessly searching
For what couldn’t be found
Like a piece of laundry
Forgotten on the line
Neither this nor the other
Just…there
Last night—that was me.
Today I am at the top!
The beautiful, glorious top
Where idle thoughts and fancies
Take shape and become reality.
Where your name is not forgotten
But engraved on stone,
Your words everlasting,
Your face a permanent picture,
In the hall of winners.
Winners.
Today I am a winner
Not lying at the bottom
Of floating in between
But dancing on rainbows
Being free—being seen
Today is for the winners
Today is for me.
A poem, lovely as a compost pile,
One lingers, sifts the elements awhile.
At first unclear, not all is evident;
Sharp images emerge as time is spent.
Though pieces, separate, may cause chagrin,
When taken as a whole, beauty's within.
To mull, to stew, to tease suggestions out
Though time elapses, ere they take shape, sprout.
For oft, a new direction is deduced,
Organic thoughts are grown, notions produced.
A poem such as this is never spurned,
But contemplated often, gently turned.
————-
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the "A poem lovely as a" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Margarita Lillico
Written 03/03/2022
The keen necks in the blue eyes
Looking for the pink goal posts
She was six feet tall at the grassy ground
Sketching the angles and lines of the life
Playing in front of her like the young cubs
Beside her the young brown lad
Standing like the cloudless sun
Holding the firm hands of the dreaming girl
With a lot of maps of the hills and plains
Seated on the eye lashes to take shape
Next to him the frayed branches
Of the skinny old birch tree
Busy with the crimson and grey pictures
Left behind in the tales of light and shade
Crowding now in the pale light of the veins
Of brown leaves resting soft on
The shoulders of the child that
Fondles the dog with its eyes closed in joy
Leaving it the child holds the branch tightly
That sparkles in the waves of the moment
The sunshine holds the hands of
Life in the rainbows of time
______________________________________________
March 13, 2018
Seven-Ten - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet