Best Talking Poems
Lovely golden red-tinged leaves seem lost in conversation,
Eloquently rustling as they flutter to the ground.
Autumn’s breeze is whispering to them a revelation.
Vanquished they are soon to be. Vanished – they will have no sound.
Eerily the evening creeps, its shadows enveloping the trees.
Stirring in the wind, the leaves now hiss as November’s grieves.
Trembling are the leaves that on lush boughs once brightly swayed.
Ashen is their world; murmuring with fear, crestfallen they lie,
Longing for the green of summer,
Knowing they soon will fade. . . .
Inglorious is our end! Can you hear their forlorn cry?
Now the wind is quiet, and the leaves have all grown still.
Gone is Harvest Moon. First snow falls with a silent chill.
Come with me to the Talking Tree
a place where spirit and nature can be.
Where science of the forest couples
with ancient traditions of the land.
Where indigenous people learn to live
with trees mindfully hand in hand.
Listen to branches rustling hymns
through silent sounds in their limbs.
Mighty Maples murmur in the breeze
sweet tales of syrup drawn to please.
Trees converse, they do care
sending forest messages everywhere.
Through the air and underground
signals pulse from floor to crown.
Quaking Aspen is known for being
the earth's most massive living thing
these trees united by one root system
the world's largest superorganism.
Trees often act for collective good
doing exactly what they should.
Sometimes they will reset their mast
until the attacking danger's passed.
Internal rhythms set their pace
slower than the human race.
Tree's daily burden that they bare
is they process the world's air.
Did trees learn survival plans proven
in the 360 million years pre-human?
What do 7 billion humans foresee
as the fate for earth's 3 trillion trees?
Fallen trees again live too
vessels that life flows through.
Their wood relives deeply in
buildings, books even violins.
So stand with me in equanimity
and listen for lyrics patiently.
Wait to hear beneath this tree
poised to the sound of "poetree".
I sit with the wall against my back. The wall refuses to move despite endless requests.
The door opens and closes its mouth, it wishes to say something, but nothing comes of it, only its letterbox chatters ceaselessly and without any deep meaning to it, drops hints every now and then.
The wall is annoyed with the door, but I am fed up with the noise. I stand to try and look out the window, but...
This place hushed in shadow. If only I can remember where I went this night, they did throw me in, away from light.
I roll up the walls like a Persian rug, smother the clatter of the metallic letterbox that tries to say goodbye in a thousand words. I hear its muffled apologies. I see a hundred neatly white, folded paper sheets fall at my feet, covered in coloured sentences.
I throw shadows at the wall, words at the door, colours at the ceiling; demons increase my estrangement in the small room, then the walls suddenly turn soft and white, my arms are bound behind my back.
Fog dissolves in faithful whispers. Demons grow faces and white clothes. Mouths with broad smiles talk in tongues (heard, understood), carry syringes and multi-coloured pills.
And day begins.
***
May 1, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
I was dreaming of a hunting quest,
feral, wild and untamed in a land strange;
then, outside my fluffy fur there was a change,
the bright sun was shining into our nest.
Yawning wide and on the bed my claws- pressed,
I am soft grey and a pet of one;
I like to prowl pretend mice that in the house run.
Oh, on my mother's lips a kiss I have pressed!
Well, I think she is my mother, anyway,
and I see her eyes flutter and she does stir;
MEOW! Is she going to sleep all day ?
So into her right ear I loudly purr,
I am forced to stand on her chest and plea;
Oh! Do get up and make our tea!
Then, she hugs me close to her heart with love,
and she calls me her little turtle dove!
Now, mother is walking towards the kitchen,
I zoom past her sliding on the wood floor;
yes, ready to do my part- to pitch in,
I know mother what dwells behind that door !
That's right, make the tea and in my bowl pour,
yes, in my plate my yummy food place;
and when I am all full we can play chase . . .
so, sorry mother, didn't mean to break that vase!
__________________________
March 12, 2022
Poetry/Personification/I Think She Is My Mother
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1439-290-12
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Brain Strand Formal
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 03/12/2022
First Place
Poem of the Day - March 14, 2022
I like talking to the stars
They are the best listeners of my wars
Excellent keepers of my secrets
And so we know each others traits
They Comes every night to celebrate their height
Me being an audience lost in their show of light
Stare at them, get connect with them
They show me their game of shine
Some Twinkles, bright and dull as pine
All them together teach me a sense of life
Some shines some twinkles and some shoots
It isn’t mean i am less than you, it’s just i have my own roots
It gives me peace
It blows me down
It been soothing
When no ones around
Lost in them
Draw in them
Make shapes, faces or nothing
Feels Wonderful being drown in them
I like talking to the stars
They are the best listener of my wars
Sometimes we play hide and seek
When they don’t show up, i be a meek
And when they with their unusual friends
Let them call the clouds and so
Playing with my imagination seems to be end
Stare at them get connect with them
Ask them to dance in the sky again
They say today let it be mundane
Warm and humidity can be seen up there
And then i feel restless every where
Watching them, resolving their riddle, playing with them
It gives me mind
It makes time to run slow
It takes me away from the world
Where I always find me
Where i always love me
Where I don’t want to get disturbed
And where i love my life the most
I like talking to the stars
They are the best listener of my wars
I wait throughout the day to turn dark
So then the stars would glow
Cool breeze does flow
All that makes my mind blow
Smiling face and closed eyes
Dreams of heaven where i fly
Despite all dark I can see what i am
Fascinates me how i feel under the sky
Beneath a sparkling roof
All alone on the mat yet Never make me feel aloof
I do like talking to the stars
I do talk to the stars.
Seagulls talking
what's the matter?
fussy squawking
seagulls talking...
Waddle walking
pavement patter-
Seagulls talking
what's the matter?
Birds discussing
“Took my breadcrumb!”
Angry fussing
birds discussing
seagull cussing
“Hey, I want some!”
birds discussing
“Took my breadcrumb!”
The alarm clock brushed my teeth and then forced me to drink orange juice.
As I looked out the window, a cement sky was pulling down the corners of my mouth.
The newspaper on my front steps was wetter than a spitball. Trying to read it was like trying to page through baklava, just not as tasty.
The coffee grinder handed me a bouquet and asked if I would like some help with the corners of my mouth. I cradled the steaming mug so I could feel the rays of sunshine in my hands.
As I headed out, the wind surprised me by throwing the door open and kissing me. Her lips were cold, but her breath was very fresh. I was mad at first, but must admit, it did feel good.
When I got to work, the building was talking trash to me, and I talked trash right back,
reminding him that I was close to retirement. That shut him up! I paused and then tightly grinned, knowing full well that someday I will miss them all.
The seasons change with time,
picture mother nature
as a fashion designer
who can't make up her mind.
Talking to the trees:
Ok, everyone, everyone,
fashions for fall.
Green is no longer in,
let's try red.
yellow.
and brown.
Oh, never mind
let everything
fall to the ground.
I know!
Why don't I let you trees go bare?
you’re not bashful,
it’s not like you need underwear.
*I've been called a 'shrew,' told I am self centered, petty, and a few other rather insulting and invective names, so here is my rebuke.
Who plays the straight man for the one known as 'Schmoe?'
It's the Jester who juggles where ever Schmoe tells him to go.
Then there's Mr. DoGoody who seeks the spotlight of fame,
reproaching PS poets by pointing his finger at them in shame.
Three fatuous figures who lie in wait for Poetry Soup blogs
Croaking like three pompous bullfrogs in criticizing dialogues
Verbal abusers, slanderer of a nation, and he who prances
hoping to give Schmoe, his bro, the stage... the lackey dances.
It's a tragic case of fools rushing in where wiser men never go
A disease suffered by the egos of DoGoody, Jester, and Schmoe
A threesome pretending they're Red Barons in control of awacs
but they're just three old wacky muggins, Poetry Soup Quacks.
Ask a question and see what nonsense they will spew at you
Swearing their intent is righteous, and their cause is true blue,
but the more they protest, the deeper the holes they are digging.
A misguided clique always zagging when they should be zigging.
So if you bother to read what they write, just consider this...
the underlying meaning to their dribble shows what's amiss.
It's a game they play...one where they often make mistakes
Nuts have to be added to the batter while making a fruitcake
Now if you're thinking I'm just as guilty for some name calling,
I'm ready to be under attack with their whining and squalling.
I've already been accused by DoGoody of talking behind his back...
So here I am, you're all unblocked if you want to talk more smack.
I guess I’m more accustomed to the modern sting these days;
the one that comes by e-mail or the phone.
They might hurt the pocket with the modern scamming ways -
but Mother Nature’s stings bite to the bone.
I’m talking ‘bout a paper wasp,
or the angriest of bull-ant;
perhaps a hornet or a bee,
and that Queensland stinging plant.
I could be in the scrub casting out a fishing line,
or relaxed while I stand beside a tree
without a thought, but ignorant to a home that isn’t mine,
and its residents who start attacking me.
I’m talking ‘bout assertive spiders;
that little blighter jumping jack.
Damn mosquitoes and march flies,
and scorpions sometimes attack.
It may be every few years, but there does come a time,
when backyards need a bit of cleaning out,
so there will be disturbance that is not a pantomime,
and lackadaisical is not what it’s about.
I’m talking ‘bout stinging nettle,
or prickly pear annoying hairs.
The European Wasp and chiggers,
and white-tail spider toxin scares.
When fishing in an estuary; the beach or in a bay,
you never know what bounty it can bring.
You’ll always have a fighting fish trying to get away,
and some of them can give a nasty sting.
I’m talking ‘bout butterfly gurnard;
the torture of a sand flathead spike.
Feeling of pain after sunset,
and a victim when biting midges strike.
Some might be quite obtrusive - and some a fine-looking thing,
but they all come with a warning - I’m talking ‘bout the sting.
He called me a fat stupid old sow
Said my **** was the size of a cow!
So now we’re not talking
In fact, I am walking
From his life … I’ll go pack my bags now!
N/A in Leaves talking Contest
Submitted to any poem that got an N/A in September
Sponsored by Janice Canerdy
09~16~16
"TALKING TO GOD BY A BOX FAN"
hi God:
it's 3:33 in the morning and
I don't know what to do.
everything is upside down.
there are red eyes sitting
over the kitchen table and
they are all laughing and
eating and singing.
I haven't slept right in weeks
and you wake me up in the
middle of the night to write.
I just took a pill and I'm
waiting for it to put me down.
no one is around.
they're out and silent.
I have my own out and silent
and it's in this room.
they create a heart inside a
man and let him sink.
I need a knock on my door
from an old face.
why is it when a man is soaked
in love the rain never stops?
why is it after they create
a heart inside a man they
leave him to write poetry in
bed at 3:33 in the morning?
By: Chicano Eddie
When he's chalking trouble deep,
He'll be talking in his sleep,
If you peep, then you will find
The fear that creeps in his mind;
Grunting and groaning in pain,
You'll hear him moaning again,
Those mutterings won't be clear,
His stutterings seem severe;
He pours out his dreadful dreams,
A sudden shout, as he screams,
That cry of shock wakes him up,
His sleepy talk shakes him up.
(7 syllables per line)
01/18/17
Whether you love me
Or just love what I do for you
You are a blessing.
You are a legend
To me you are an icon
I don't know if I know you
But you are an inspiration
To this generation
I might like you or really not like you.
I might love you or rather just hate you.
Approve you or just disapprove you.
Get you close or just distance you.
Tag you or never mention you.
But you, don't really need mentions.
You have got those eagle wings.
I know you can fly high .
High above the horizon.
To you, I know the sky ain't no limit.
You can defy the odds.
Though a lot of situations get into your path.
I don't know if anything can stop you.
You have got the heart of warrior.
That spirit of hustler.
The patience of a butler.
Courage of a lion.
The mentality of a champion.
You have got to put your crown on.
And never let it fall off.
Even when you dose off.
A little faith is just enough.
In this game, I know you are the best.
You play it so well.
You can win with your eyes closed.
You mastered the art flawlessly.
You paint the picture with compassion.
With marks and edges not known to my eye.
Creating a desire I can't resist.
I love your determination.
Whether you love me
Or just love what I do for you.
You are a blessing.
A born fighter and a winner.
TALKING WAVES.
The sound the waves make on the shore
Seem like they’re trying to say,
“I’d never seen this rocky beach
Until I did today.”
“Before that I was out at sea,
Miles and miles away,
Racing with the ocean,
To talk to you today.”
“I’ve seen the cliffs at Dover,
And the road to Mandalay.
I even passed Australia
To get to you today.”
“I’ve seen the gentle humpbacked whale
And a giant manta ray,
I even saw a penguin
In a cold Antarctic Bay.”
“But now we’ve had our little chat
I really must not stay,
I’ve got to talk to someone else
A thousand miles away.”