Best Teems Poems
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Clement weather is often just my dream.
I don’t mind wispy white clouds way up high,
or marshmallow ones topped with whipping cream.
Alas, brooding nimbus are drawing nigh,
I yearn for azure skies and one sunbeam!
Raindrops fall, I hear them pitter-patter,
then hail stones bounce upon my brand new car.
I daren’t go outside and watch them batter
my garden, too. Ice storms are so bizarre
and their crashing makes such a loud clatter!
Rain still teems down, it’s been pouring for hours.
Where’s the warm sunshine, and vivid rainbow?
Torn to shreds will be my lovely flowers,
trellis of sweet peas, just starting to grow.
How I loathe these sudden April showers!
Dark clouds start to lift, a rainbow appears.
Sun’s peeking through a minute patch of blue.
Prisms of colour, I’ve so adored for years.
I’ll venture out to get a better view
for such a welcomed sight moves me to tears
With thoughts aligned within my mind
the poetry I hoped to find;
and dreams refined, angst left behind
by words forever redefined.
This symmetry was meant to be
please share with me your poetry.
The words within your heart begin
to make my head so softly spin;
with thoughts of sin I start to grin,
as goosebumps form along my skin.
This symmetry was meant to be
please share with me your poetry.
Your beauty beams and fills my dreams,
and takes them gently to extremes;
my mindset steams with wily schemes
as deep within, my passion teems.
This symmetry was meant to be
please share with me your poetry.
With bright array your words display,
and form within a bright bouquet;
these thoughts will stay with me today;
your poetry takes me away.
December 25, 2019
Poem of the Day - December 26, 2019
**** Would like to preface my return, and many apologies to fellow poets who may have missed my absence. Though I did not have much luck in love this past year, this poem was written years ago; I think it is a fine poem though sad, which some may know my attempts at sweet-sorrow have well pleased many. The poem not only reflects tragic romance, but spiritual matters; the instructive distinction that its the soul or heart who remembers things of love, rather than the mind; I think of my passed loved ones in my view with my heart felt memories rather than a mental memory, for example. I find the 'idea' or notion poetically at least interesting and pertinent to romanticism, which is the poem's theme.***
How honeyed her perfume pastille
imbued many a god from their tower
Shook all the gloom which lonely men feel
she some mistress of darling power;
teems she the night with sweet mist
desires she all the allure of nymphs
She has strolled my garden many a time
forgotten I, the devil's music playing in the hills
and the sad forsaken tresses ---
weeping as a child;
or the dying swan and all her lamenting trills;
how many faces of God to touches of love
how many more gods,
though there need be but One?
How femme she-so-fatale and not enduring
with soft, she pecks my cheek
and all the universe her eyes ---
so sweet her kiss as worlds fade in yearning
to cinnamon lips, she of eyes wandering and wild;
twas her soul I wished to hold
with curves, lingering delicate
and never cold
Death shall take her to the lonely-wood....
from me shall fade the petal most crimson
about the night no more a-roving I could
nor velvet embraces with she my love;
the temporal love shall fall to heather
the winds blow, and the tempest's trumpet
roars about her whisper;
but in the deepest dark I roved the delve;
twas my soul which remembered
(Scarlet)
Heaven's furry sheep
Grazing the light atmosphere
Bares blue the sky's bloom
Clouds were made to weep
Not paint portraits on blue air
Trees without perfume
The virtual sea
These Jason's sail, hides nothing
Except death's surprise
The eyes graze the deep
Visions of the mind, what fear
Like frosty waves leap
From the hearts dark sea
The wind of thoughts in rags bring
Logic's cold demise
Love should not regret
The fancy of the heart, wing
It, denying death
For clouds' sheep are dreams
Dream's love are clouds, the blue air
With new magic teems
Rainbow spectrum hue teems; colour path beams
Flow among the streams; forming back, white dreams
Fantasy within seams; fey air it seems
A life with themes; verse quest forward in reams
Go forth with loud screams; sublime self-esteem
Taking sunbeams; blessing our Lord’s supreme
1/9/2016
Rhymers delight- internal monorhyme - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Dust dry winds that leech and parch,
Skeletal soldiers that endlessly march
O'er barren sand and rocky crest,
Examples of nature's cruel jest.
Plants that bristle with vicious quills;
A land that teems with ancient ills.
Cursed and blighted by gods unknown;
Loved by bandits and rogues alone.
Loneliness that echoes the land's bleak need;
A cancer that grows like an unholy seed.
Twisted remnants from an age long past;
Memories linger, but nothing lasts.
Broken spires and crumbling sand;
Fading ruins on every hand
Of once proud cities gathering dust;
Abandoned dreams now choked with rust.
Shadowed lands now harsh and bleak;
Drained of life, of decay they reek.
Blistering heat to sear and scorch;
A land benighted, the sun its torch.
Mountains loom high on every hand;
Timeless sentinels o'er the broken land.
Yet in this desolate, deserted place,
Life yet lingers, if only a trace.
Lizards, snakes, and scorpions abound;
Cactus blooms and birds give sound.
Reminders to all that life will live,
And survive on whatever nature will give.
A wasteland it is, and yet it is more;
For it harbors secrets of forgotten lore.
Lessons of serenity, hope, and trust;
Covered in blankets of alkaline dust.
Across Mind's Fertile Fields New Seeds Are Cast
Across mind's fertile fields new seeds are cast
Oft spread onward by an innocent flame
If, if only, youth could forever last
Death would have to abandon its dark game.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Across flowering meadows oak trees grow
Near the lost graveyard where childhood once ran
If, if only, in June's heat cool winds blow
And more pretty girls show off their dark tans.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Across this great earth, life dances and teems
Sun rewards casting its bright golden rays
If, if only, river gifts cooler streams
We in our youthful zeal may pass our days.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Across mind's fertile fields new seeds are cast
Oft spread onward by an innocent flame
If, if only, youth could forever last
Death would have to abandon its dark game.
Old age would vanish with its dreaded pains.
We would not be looking at sad remains.
Robert J. Lindley, 1-25-2021
Rhyme,
( Memories From The Southern Meadows- 1968/1973 - to- 2021 )
Note:
Tis a terrible thing to look back and think of the time that
one once so wasted. Yet as noted- we are what the past has
made us. For better or worse, I survived much and believe
there is a reason for that survival. Perhaps could be as simple
as my writing.
Poetry has been in my blood firmly- as an addiction
- since age 15 - in 1969. The same year that my father died.
Now the ink that courses through these old veins.
Recalls the beginnings, youth and the wild years.
Life was crazy- living , loving, O' the pains.
Poetry cries, yes ink out those tears… ink out those tears.
The crimson moon bawls on his flight
Doleful to be condemned to night
His samba partner teems with life
Yet he hangs listless filled with strife
Whilst craters pock his dusty face
Her smooth profile glows soft with grace
Waves splash coyly along her skin
As parching drought afflicts the twin
Halo membranes caress her soul
While he claims little to extol
He’s locked away from that embrace
Like a buckle upon her waist
Sequestered on his lofty perch
He ponders how to end his lurch
He tries to shake his mantle free
So he can float with meek debris
Just as he starts to drift away
He hears whispers begin to play
Prayers hailing romance twist his ear
Until he melts away from fear
Maybe those folks below can see
Just how lonely the moon can be
Words purify to help him heal
His love for her shall make him real
To see you flash a smile to blush
Small twinkle in your eyes of green
I look and want for that scene
Watching from my hidden brush
I think I might have a crush
My heart overflows and teems
Can this lust ever be weaned
I settle on your desk like dust
An inkling you must have old friend
I’ve seen the way you stare
I’m trying to look back at you
Reciprocate what you send
Glancing back, am I that fair
Pasdiin is always a dare.
A lifetime of waiting, stacks of National
Geographic half as tall as me, piled on
every step. A girl with nothing to do but dream.
The yellow-black jackets buzzed, I flowered
as I turned the pages. The relics of Tutankhamun
fascinated: gold, turquoise, lapis and the slaves
in mud-brick houses they live in still.
I longed to be the Pharaoh’s daughter;
I kohled my eyes.
Egypt called to me. Pyramids, deserts baking,
heat mirages, and oases of palms with still blue water.
The twenty-first century’s reality is far different.
Cairo teems with discontent, Mubarak’s campaign
posters hung from each lamppost.
Two weeks before the Arab Spring, I was there.
The only safety found behind the gun-guarded,
razor-wired gates of the upper class, and even then—
A country espousing religious freedom was killing
Coptic Christians in the streets, and bombing churches.
Cairo’s one poster child synagogue stood empty,
except for tourists—dark, decorative, haunting,
full of tales of Christ’s sojourn in Egypt?
The pyramids rose hen-pecked by pollution
through a surreal orange sky. Masked women
walk the male dominated streets. Women
live in fear in or out of the hijab.
The majesty of yesteryear, the pyramid of Giza
squats like a discard in the ashtray of desert.
Vendors and tourist litter the site.
Baksheesh is the only God in Egypt,
baksheesh and the horded water of the Nile.
First Published in here & there magazine
in the UK
The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.
A bum called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.
Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a schizo titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.
The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with meth.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.
The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.
Old dan, he's drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain till soon there is a flood.
And no god’s there who seems to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.
Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”
Continued
(Lyrics for Peter White's "Life's Story")
Life can be a cruise, a lovely cruise.
There’s no time to lose. Don’t delay this voyage.
Life can be a cruise, so come and take my hand.
We will leave dry land and sail out onto the sea.
The aqua waves are spilling brilliant diamonds,
for the sun I love is out there glittering…. prettily.
We’ll be drifting on those ocean waves.
To the left or to the right,
we will sail both day and night.
Farther out we’ll go, with so much to see
and so much to do. How I want to go with you!
Life can be a cruise, so come and take my hand;
we will leave this dreary land, so please, dear, come. . .
Beneath our boat, the ocean teems with splendid life -
a life that flashes light and color radiantly.
What do you say? Will you come to where the dolphins play?
We will splash into the sea. Like the dolphins we will be free.
Come sail with me. . . Come sail. . Come sail with me.
Interlude (about 30 seconds of the smooth jazz instruments)
Life can be a cruise, a lovely cruise,
but there will be times that the course won’t be so smooth.
There is nothing that we cannot weather!
If we both have love and trust in one another,
then we can face the storms together. . . always together;
we’ll stand strong together.
Come sail with me out to the deep. Deeply we will love.
Let’s take life’s cruise out to the horizon. . .
Come sail with me. . . Come sail. . . Come sail with me.
For "The Poet's Ear" Poetry Contest of Greg Barden. Hear the beautiful melody of this instrumental by listening to the video in my "about poem" box or copy/paste this link to the song "Life's Story" by Peter White on Youtube:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPM8AhLHpPA
We rest together by the sea
In a bower filled meadow on high,
And he shares musings intimately
While a magical breeze teems nearby
sliding through words through breath’s air
That enters my songs ,a beat that glides
As hearts lay bare on moon’s prayer,
For silence knows what love implies.
Durian Fest
This being the month of September....
It is the season made just for tropical fruits lovers...
Given a favorable season of good sunny weather..
Coupled with intermittent rainfall all over..
The daily market place teems with fruits galore..
Abundant supplies of various fruits spill over...
The undisputed king of these fruits is the durian..
A aromatic thorny fruit that has its fans swooning over..
Some just can't tolerate its aroma, it is pungent...
But durian lovers, they are salivating in anticipation. ..
When it is a durian fest with a eat all you can invitation...
Bring your partner, your friends and your family members...
Partake in a merry session of eating luscious durians...
Forget the traditional lunch, gorge yourselves with durians...
If you're there on time, rest assured you all will be feted...
With all kinds of durians, kampung types and hybrids...
Best of all, you each get to test your durian instincts...
Are the durian pips you're eyeing are as good as your instincts...
Nothing could be more satisfying than getting your hunch right...
That those succulent durian pips you're eyeing are just right...
You take a little pause, should you go for another pip....
You feel you've had enough but look at that pip...
You've got to try it out, it has to be heavenly, you bet...
You've had enough, but let's see how is this last pip...
Burp! Burp! I've got to try this pip, though I'm full indeed!
Look at that other pip, please I've got to taste that pip...
Lordy me! I'm so full of durians that I feel I'm bursting..
But look at that newly opened durian, let me have one last pip...
Burp!... Burp!...
Footnote: Google "durian" or watch the following you tube
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2iVY7RCcTY