Best Thickly Poems
The path you walk I adore.
Seeds I’ll scatter around,
Then from earth, blooms will pour
to grace your precious ground.
A highway I shall lay for you.
Sweet violets I shall sow.
Where blossoms spring into view,
Darling, sweetly go!
Pretty heads will thickly spread.
A carpet it will seem
of amethyst you tread
as if inside a dream.
Among those flowers we shall meet.
We’ll lie on that soft path
with happiness replete,
reveling in love’s aftermath.
Written April 2, 2017
POTD 23 Mar 2024
THE PATH WELL TRAVELLED.
Two paths diverged, and I was thrown by doubts I had never known
To my left, thickly overgrown, was a path to dismal dimness prone.
To my right, a lovely sight-fragrant flora flamed in light
Forms so graceful, beauty rare, a wonderous vision beyond compare.
Both seduced with equal right, torn was I between dark and light.
Resisting limits of time and sight, a liminal border of cosmic might.
Hesitancy rapt with fear and doubt, the pondering heart beat aloud.
Tempting was the path so grand, but instinct cautioned of a treacherous hand.
A feathery touch, a breeze stirred, and in its sigh, a voice I heard.
Was it Hecate who whispered?
"Take heed. Beware, for each path leads to a different lair."
Crystal clarity knew what I must do, and with a heart filled with valour true,
Joyously, I strode wild and free down the well-trodden path ahead of me.
The leaves, like frisking lovers, played as I embarked my chosen way.
Future paths ~ So many dreams ~ Each a thread in life's grand scheme.
Though true discovery lay in paths, I'd roam ~
The one well travelled always led back Home.
By Maria Williams ©
Greeks worshipped Hecate as a guardian and gatekeeper who could ward off evil forces. She is often represented carrying a torch and a key and standing on the liminal border between one place and another. She bears three heads and always has a dog by her side.
Inspired by Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken', I chose to write an alternative version.
'The Road Not Taken' is one of Robert Frost's most famous poems. It's natural and understandable that many readers take the poem to be Frost's statement of individualism as a poet: he will take 'the road less travelled'.
The metaphor of the road is one that immediately evokes a journey, not just of the local or day-to-day kind, but of the life-defining sort: life as a journey, with many roads which we must travel along, and with many alternative paths which we must choose between.
POTD 23 March 2024
Anchored by its feet hangs the carcass
Butcher removes brisket and strings it
Chuck steak diced for stews and pies
Dark well matured silverside rests
Entrails give the dogs a royal feast
Flank minced for spaghetti bolognese
Gullet chopped into stock pot simmers
Hanging meat swings as the butcher works
Icy still from the blast chiller
Juicy steaks thickly cut are parcelled up
Kebabs skewered, placed on display
Loin of beef neatly lined up
Minced steak patties for burgers
Neck used in both stock pot and stew
Offal set aside for pate and pies
Perfectly roasted beef ready to carve
Quick flash fry of rib eye seals in juices
Rump not too trimmed dribbles on grill
Sirloin anointed by a king sizzling
Tongue gently braised in gravy or stock
Utensils casting shadows on the wall
Venison from red deer's makes tasty things
Wing rib rubbed with hot spices waits
Xhosa cattle graze in pastures green
Yellowed meats set aside for soup
Zibeline hides scrapped and cured, nailed up
8/27/2015
contest Any Poem written in August
Chaste and more graceful
Than the white canvassed Dhow:
Reclines sweet Nefertiti
Upon a Blue Nile breeze.
Fabled entity more whiter
Than the purest white snow
That thickly blankets
And folds over the wide Pyrenees.
Dipped is thy beak
Into a harvesters August sunset;
A Bohun proper,
Gorged and chained with a crown;
Tipped Argent quills
Thus scrawl across royal warrants:
Plodding, punctilious creature -
Of high born renown!
Proudly thy trumpet Lancastrian ascension,
Emblazoned on a Heraldic shield;
Pomp and indignation
Paddling alongside contemptuous scorn;
Sinuous neck of Serpentine undulations
Tensioned as if a Longbow -
On whose plaited strings
The sturdy Yeomans Bodkins were drawn!
And did Columbines mask
Ever hold such indignant eyes
For whose feathered heart
The diligent cob did attend?
His sedulous efforts
To court within impassioned grunts
When intertwining throats
Do abouts and lovingly wend.
O, Cygnus olor!
En monde bosse - glittering Dunstable jewel;
Pen and immortal verse
Chart beside heavens gilded streams.
For under old mariners discarded stars
And above silvered byways:
Whoop the beat of dusted wings
Inside slumbering clouds wandering dreams.
My Mothers home made white bread
warm from the oven
thickly sliced and smothered with
rich, creamy butter!
Baking scents the air
Comfort food
Bliss!
For contest 'Eat Me'
8th place
We seine them up
like dust
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
determining worth,
profundity.
And like those before,
we toss them absently
into wind—
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
change destinies.
Now,
they seem to flit
to nothingness,
like us—
pale night insects
pestering
opal moons,
infestations of night
thickly settling
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.
Snow
floats down
silently
covering earth
in a white blanket.
Children whoop with delight
dashing to make a snowman,
with a carrot nose and coal eyes.
Suddenly snowflakes swirl so thickly
they give him a scarf to keep out the cold!
Their snowman stands guard in the white garden
Until the sun appears and warms earth.
Slowly, so slowly the snow melts -
poor snowman, his ‘eyes’ fall out
and his nose is dislodged.
The children are sad,
they wave goodbye
to their old
melting
friend
Double Etheree – syllable count 110
Contest: Snow
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
11~15~15
“Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.” Voltaire
In sapphire skies, so soft, serene and fair,
a balloon floats adrift in tepid air.
Nonchalant it hovers without a care.
Over and under clouds like they're not there.
It's mindful not to burn from the sun's glare.
keeping clear from branches, so not to tear.
At peace it seems, wandering unaware,
until a storm forms to cause it despair.
Gruesome gales force it to blow everywhere,
grim rain has no mercy for its welfare.
Breathless, it deflates into disrepair,
plunging, it no longer looks debonair.
The pursuit of life can become unfair,
just like the thickly sown thorns of Voltaire.
I stand here, on twisted limbs
Teetering upon broken knees
My feet stunted, unnatural
Thickly traitorous to motion
I force forward, to meet agony
Blades of pain, penetrating
Through torturous phantom minutes
Of solitary, sacrificial steps
These feet once danced
A tricky beat
Carried the obligation
Of force
And the belief of boldness
Now these feet
Are brittle and indiscreet
Tomorrow is beyond four gray walls
In swirling dresses and polished wood floors
Colors of music, shades of rhythm
For movement to flow, for grace to know
So I stand here
To make it so.
10/12/18
Poet of Perkiomen Valley
discovered aforementioned titled poem
about thirty months ago he wrote
impossible mission critters to smote
chronic issue yours truly does note
years later meaning today
April 19th, 2022
necessitated we allow, enable
and provide welcome to exterminator
actually management did hote
(obsolete) To command; to enjoin
hazard upon body, mind and spirit,
thus ridding apartment b44
visited by said swarming insects,
his expertise sought to mitigate
courtesy applying insecticide.
Insects created dark shadows
analogous brought outer limits
of twilight zone
resembling edge of night
in truth our one bedroom apartment
at that earlier date
affected, encroached, and outsmarted
by massive infestation of
Drosophila melanogaster light
weight winged worst
pests to eradicate
(scientific name regarding
winged flitting nuisance ignite
mentioned in title) besieged,
inundated, and thickly swarm.
dost primp and pretty
fie themselves (to
attract a witty
mate) during their
40 to 50 days city,
or suburban life
cycle long enough
to qualify for this
quickly written ditty
seemingly overnight
a bajillion biz zee
buzzing adults (each
about 1/8 inch long see
their world wide web,
thru at least one
unusual red eye,
which compound eye
of the fruit fly
contains 760 unit
eyes or ommatidia, well nigh
hapt tubby one of the most
advanced among insects,
where Google search
for home remedies aye
didst find to exterminate
these teeny weeny pests,
plus informational pursuit my
instantaneous curiosity yielded
above mentioned
esoteric tidbits,
sans accidentally disc
covered helpful good riddance
material of household ingredients
restraining me to breathe sigh
of dollop, and hope to try
one or more solutions,
which informed
this amateur entomologist -
listed forthright as:
1. Create a trap by mixing
apple cider vinegar
with a few drops of dish soap.
2. Another homemade trap is to
pour leftover red wine into a jar.
3. Mash up banana slices in a jar, and
cover top with a plastic wrap.
4. Pour bleach solution
into bathroom sink.
5. Detonate atomic explosives
as a last resort.
In this haunted room I feel a presence build.
So thick is the air, closing in as you capture space.
The empty chair that was, now your body filled.
Sudden cold spot blasting icy gusts upon my face.
Heart thrumming uselessly in my frail breast.
Pounding in my ears, drowning out the comfort of sleep.
Your shape of nightmares breaking hope of rest.
The black of your image forming thickly and dark too deep.
Your silence leaves open the whispers of dread.
What lurks in this ghost activity straining against the real.
A hand so close it might reach out to my bed.
The fear, overwhelming, lies in what you may next reveal.
Mundane is the car that slows close in the drive
Louder than all it seems after this panic, slowing to turn.
Light blazes through, clashing swiftly into my chilling hive.
I wait to see clearly, such excitement and fear as I learn.
Shadows revealed, nothing I might have guessed.
So clearly I see you in this light commanding dark's defeat.
A sigh passes over my lips my truest fear confessed.
For tonight, just a chair and a badly folded sheet.
www.insiderealhauntings.com
The woods hissed and sn*ggered but weren't without their charms
A ghostly silloette in the distance like a girl without her arms
A floating figure, lifted as if hung down from yarn, puppet like
Blocked out some light as the moon rose into sudden night
A puddle, suprized by the kick of life it was given
Dived over the crimson clothing of a passer by
Not batting an eye the shadow glides an leaps in wind
Approaching a tree supporting a corpse beneath its limbs
The breeze's secretive so it seems the bodies breathin' sings
Arrived. A cloak hides its features, a bag opens, it reaches in
Still speachless in the shower, yet no wet words to greet us
Though now a mouths visible behind work of an expert seemstress
Wild weather beats the woodland creatures deep undercover
All but two inhabitants, the hooded one.. & one other
Our second stood, furred thickly, big teeth in a brown jaw
Having difficulty reading, vision blurred by the downpour
Lit by light the town brought, a poster was just clear enough
''Assassin Wanted! If you catch the killer, fear you should
For finding this foe will bring, not tears, but blood
And a reward of 10 g's for anyone, police.. even Robin Hood'
The final statement sent shivers up his spine, an how then?
The King hated Robin, and the Queen signed the announcement
Heart poundin' at the thought of ten big ones he couldn't wait for
The character reread the paper, rapid fast.. just to make sure
Sure enough the word was good, but the woods weren't silent
A twig broke, someone close quitely worked beside him
The tree sustaining the message had been blocking them from view
The otherside was a hooded person, white stockings an gloves on too
The hood moved......and the disguise unravelled
It was Red Riding Hood picking mushrooms the size of apples
Fleeting light streams through the broken window pane.
Flickering, as the only movement trying to bring life in vain.
The stillness is dense and dust lays thickly as all is grey.
The old house utters the softest moan, resisting evident decay.
There is an aura of shame, that it has been discovered this way,
Yet a distinct welcoming can be felt, its coupled with dismay.
The peeling paper on the walls, its former charm subsided,
The floorboards dry and cracked, beliefs of safety are misguided.
A yearning can be felt, a plea to resurrect it to its former glory.
Neglect has cruelly buried many a wonderful forgotten story.
The old house stands defiant against the storms the wind and flood.
One hundred years ago it was built with sweat, tears and even blood.
From its eaves and rafters to its foundations, it was built with pride.
A murmur comes from each empty room, heard faintly from deep inside.
Tears of its soul are felt. Whispers “rescue and restore me” it implores.
Gone are the wonderful stories, as the oncoming bulldozer roars.
The Aged Man
Authored by Chuck Keys
There is a sadness inside of him,
Draped by layers of heartaches and disappointments,
Insulated with his long beard, thickly white eye brows,
Unkempt brushy long dense white hair,
Dry peeling cracked lips, slightly ajar,
Showing his smoke stained chipped teeth,
Wearing a dark, soiled, bulky long scruffy ankle length coat,
Two buttons were missing,
With a 2" uneven tear at the bottom of its left side stained pocket,
A dirty powder-blue weathered wool and leather hat, with ear flaps down,
It was a long cold night, in mid-January, the month of his birth.
He moves like a man covered with fear and age, and maybe hunger too.
Mornings and evenings are but doorways
In and out of his leftover forgotten soul,
To the long endless days and nights, forlorn and grey.
He meanders about with a slow cautious gait, head down often times,
Eyes more closed than open, squinting even in the dark unlit night,
Torn gloved hands (with a large irregular frayed hole in the palm of the left),
Each hand fisted tightly for warmth,
Arms tightly at his side, stationary, not swaying,
Protectively wrapping himself inside,
Or just holding himself, maybe for warmth or some unexplained reason.
His life is full, the years buried deep inside.
The pounding aches inside, remembers his early years,
Ages ago, wrapped and protected inside his large family,
But never a part of it, not inside,
Always outside searching, for what can't be found, ever.
His own family that slowly left him was remembered,
Material children today, groundless at best,
That have no memory of what was,
Only what is or what will be.
Grandchildren that lacked life inside his hug.
The pounding aches inside; smirks, sometimes,
Knowing time and space, loving and giving, peace,
Remedy for all that ails.
He knows only what he knows,
He loved, loves and will always love.
Even alone, he is in joy, at peace.
The old man walked into his last mile, a short while ago,
His slow cautious gait, one small step after another, and another,
As the gates opened, he turned and looked behind,
Frowned and smiled,
With nothing left to say.
Coffee
It thickly pours
Down into my blue mug
I savor its velvety taste
Awake