Best Third Poems
A body abandoned
needs to mourns its last breath in death
a heart cast aside
still aches to meet its last beat
and a free spirit yearns for a winged monarch moment
to fly in the spirit of freedom…
opportunity
flares a tongue
snaky and bittersweet.. a flicker
grows flames that twist passion’s kiss with kismet
a chance
to escape on a breath of air
an exhalation;
warm incense offered to vesper -
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
above the hiss of heat
and gasps of air
rushing combustion to a roar
airy mystics spoke in the eerie smoke
w h i s p e r s
urge the purge of perishable pain
unclasping lonely-linger’s grasping fingers
soft-spun knit and purl unravels
as vintage yarn twined with sun and rain unties -
aging rays fail to stave Winter’s grays
and the ethereal thread of an earthly creation
releases its tendril
from the spinning wheel’s weave of circular seasons
from seed to harvest and warmth to chill
vestiges of sisterly hands cup a ceded sigh
chrysalis celebrates destined to re-emerge a butterfly
terminal tremble of a twilight trill is hushed
vulnerability swaddled
cradled by clouds of silver and gold
a mortal’s surrender consummates upon the pyre -
cinders cleansed of tears and cries and vices
but never the dreamy intrinsic colors
of the opal’s unfurling blaze
she ascends
a flash of embers relieved of ash
taking fire to the skies with a tigress torch igniting
molten pools spooning the spine of the western shadow
heralding an awakened afterglow to the afterlife -
lamplight gilds mare’s tails hooking heavens
pathways adrift from the burning thurible
of a trinity on the cusp of rebirth...
incense rises upon a heated atmosphere
riding the riddle of the four winds
beyond realms of soil and salt - reason and logic
yonder the profound truth of the-not-humanly-known
seeing past reflections within mere margins of a mind’s mirror
accepting the enlightening throb of the enigmatic pulse of creation
becoming one with the ultimate mystery
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
fulfilled with exchange of gifts -
the offering of her sunset shroud
for the white mantle of sunrise
He speaks metaphorically to avoid dealing direct,
shows the unknown hand he’s against too much respect,
writes about his bravery though it’s no where to detect
or talks in the third person like this I'd expect.
Going on about himself like it’s happening to someone else,
distanced from reality his distracted mind plays stealth,
deflecting the desperation straying from his fails,
because being himself is hell with his fractured mental health.
You’d think he would try to save it but instead he stays away,
doesn’t acknowledge the slaying, writing on as if okay,
creates a situation where he has the final say,
when really just a coward putting himself on display.
He must have found comfort writing this because it's structured,
a new angle on the old tale nothing more than a distraction,
because as soon as it finishes he's back to a spineless buster,
hiding from conflict comforting another poor reaction.
How long will he go on paving this path of pathetic,
in a dangerous direction purposely neglected,
there’s the renegade he speaks of, self elected,
walking towards death being naturally selected.
But deep in this metaphor he doesn’t change a thing,
in his head it’s someone else or a tale of some thing.
To know what happens next go back where this poem begins,
now knowing what life is when your name is Nick Trim.
Thy Wondrous Life Was As A Butterfly's Brief Stay,
Poets Tribute Series, third poet, John Keats
Poet, where flows tears for thy premature demise
tragic death of thy soft heart, body, gifted soul
majestic verses from a poet truly wise
poems of deep splendor, thy words did so extol.
Thy wondrous Life was as a butterfly's brief stay.
And in thy heart, triumphant was thy sweet word play.
Poet, can praise seep into thy slumbering grave
or upon hearing such voice, does thee seek to rise
and in true caring, thy words again hope to save
by talented hand, let pen scribble out surprise.
Thy wondrous Life was as a butterfly's brief stay.
And in thy heart, triumphant was thy sweet word play.
Poet, does moon's light cast shine into thy abode
as blowing sands of time, thy rest slow ticks away
can spirit, with honor, thy sad story be told
of poet, that Fate's hand, forced thy dear Life thee pay.
Thy wondrous Life was as a butterfly's brief stay.
And in thy heart, triumphant was thy sweet word play.
Poet, not enough we admire from distant time
magnificence of thy genius in golden verse
thy heart once beat in verses heavenly sublime
before death delivered its dark and early curse.
Thy wondrous Life was as a butterfly's brief stay.
And in thy heart, triumphant was thy sweet word play.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-28-2019
Rhyme, ( Tragedy of the death of a young genius and truly brilliant poet )
Imagination nude
liquored and lacquered lips
ember-breathing phoenix
..lighter fluid magic
when let loose near a flame..
combustible thigh-highs
when moonshine-high is nigh—
the moon she bathes in dreams
I have you both in hand
my tongue slick and sleek seeks
to taste the fruits of fields
intoxicated snake
oh! my lust a slither
a quiver serpentine
squeeze innocence with sins
revive the withered vine
anthurium’s shield leaf
your phallic sword unsheathed
exotic frolic fire
in heart-shaped bloom I burn
fire-water-pulse untamed
grabbed by the mane restrained
—unrestrained dreams unleashed
tequila genie free
sassy-frassy lassie
a parasol in pink
frilly and unfolded
beholder beholden
to climb aboard and fly
feminine flamingo
through shaken sky uncorked—
liquid-libido rains
as thirst and thunder reigns
just drop the reins and ride
bridal sweet bridle free
yah barefoot and bareback
yes! drain the bottle dry
free way ticket three way
trifecta perfecta
primal energies spoon
la belle ‘Bianca’ blanc—
wine-skinned mademoiselle
Strange thought just entered my head
What if I critiqued my own poems
D'ya think I'd really be tough on myself
Or would you detect a slight bias tone
Tried using the criteria of accepted norms
I'd be down at the bottom, no bones
But for humorous verse and originality
Call me Oliver Wendell Holmes
First I followed time honoured patterns
Of poets that have gone before
But that's not what makes a poet of note
Originality is what raises his score
So go ahead and break all the rules
That have been in place forever
Develop your style of creative writing
And be proud of your endeavour
she is the shield
slaying i
i might just die
***
Love bites took me to a new place
tiny teeth marks I can't erase;
Laid back you looked for my entrance,
passing third base, passing third base;
Hungrily you nipped at my soul,
ripped the lace of my camisole;
Whispered on my skin 'Keep control..
stay in your role, stay in your role.
I lived in Shenzhen, China, for my 6th and 7th grades - China was AMAZING.
In China, blond hair is unusual, I stood out like neon and touching blond hair was considered good luck.
In a train station, if I stood still, I could draw a curious mob - especially in the provinces like Heubi and Shanxi. I was in more than a few selfies but people were polite and respectful.
China is much more advanced than the U.S..
Everything is new, clean and modern - the Internet is faster. Most trains are bullet trains that travel 325kph (>200mph). There are more than 10 new, gleaming cities larger (and newer) than New York.
An App called WeChat (used on your phone) runs the world. Imagine Facebook, iMessage, PayPal and Uber combined - with that one App you could do anything.
At restaurants, you paid your bill at your table using WeChat from a QR code that the electronic corner of your table displayed. You even paid street vendors with the app - no one used cash.
Cameras are everywhere - if you break a law like jaywalking and BBBZZZZ you get a text and the fine is deducted from your WeChat account - all automatically.
Public TV screens, located on corners, show recent violations with the perps picture and the fine they paid - again, automatic.
Does this sound Orwellian? Well, maybe, but Chinese police don't kill people - or even engage people for minor offenses.
America, you're broke and on the edge of being a third world country.
Yeah, yeah, I know that China is free-market-communist and certainly imperfect - but if you saw China, you'd be impressed and you'd know the ugly truth - America has squandered it's wealth on military macho and forty years of war. China's last, small war was in 1980 (With Vietnam who they beat in 3 weeks and 2 days).
Middle America looks almost bombed-out with closed businesses (even before the pandemic) - but in China, you can’t look anywhere without seeing building cranes - like a forest of trees. A physical illustration of Americas loss of wealth.
I LOVE America - it’s sad to see. We've gotta wake up.
June Second at the beach we played scrabble
He protested the use of “ode”
I told him of the “Ode to Billy Joe”
With friends we laughed the entire way home
And when they left, Daniel proposed
He tied a string 'round my finger, said it would be replaced by a ring
It was the Third of June
(another sleepy, sandy Florida day)
When Daniel picked me up for a dip in Dog Lake
I suggested we swim across
He was reluctant, but swam anyway
Reaching the middle of the lake
“I can’t make it,” he called to me
“You’re kidding,” I laughed, turning to see
Daniel splashing futilely
Although I tried to pull him to shore,
We crossed underwater plants
He must have thought they were snakes and broke away
Dark water with tannic acid
Where did he go? I screamed for help
The search was underway when paramedics arrived
Linking hands, everyone walked into the water
But it was Daniel’s friend Art who found his hand
“It was like he was reaching out to me,” he said
Of course, it was too late
My sweet man had met his fate
And I made a vow
Every June Third, I drive out to Dog Lake
Remembering the good times we shared
And praying Daniel found eternal rest
*Entry for Joann’s contest. True story.
The crazy befouling animalistic urges
Life beyond character
Carton of sulphuric acid
A calm third gender walks out
A person called Chex
Female, Male and Chex
Chex are vemonous
A creature or (person) of infinite ability
Not manly
Not feminine
Just the perfect being
Not god of course
But the third gender
Not a confusion or a mix of both
But the Perfect Gender
Who makes this third gender?
Human kind
My cousin and I were dismayed
By the kids who were in her third grade
They had no answers to tell
Though they spoke very well
And knew how impressions were made!
They earned an A+ for endurance
For displaying remarkable effluence
They could babble all night
With no fact in sight
Nor any sign of congruence!
Oh, how wise we thought that we were
We could see their minds were a blur!
But now, mid-elections
And selfie confections
We see why they were so sure.
The spirit or third eye is the center to see the world
Without it there is all pervading spiritual darkness.
We are truly spirits who occupy physical bodies
Without bodies couldn’t be a part of physical reality.
Boosts functions of perception, intuition, visualization
Its element light, the seat of the Soul, color indigo
The ability to see within and beyond the physical
Between eyebrows the tenth gate of inner realms.
In Hinduism one of the Lord Shiva of Trinity is three-eyed
It symbolizes spiritual knowledge and power or wisdom
Left eye the moon, right the sun and fire the third
Known to annihilate the evil activities in the physical world.
====================================
To reach nirvana
Poet paradise
You have to reach the third level
It's a journey to forever
It may take some their whole lifetime,
and others may never get there
It's a quantum leap
fraught with uncertainty
First it takes writing skill,
then an inexhaustible will
and finally, untapped creativity
The first level is easy
Most anyone can do it,
you simply write what you feel and think
It requires no linguistic coordination,
no moral obligation,
just the courage to dive in, unafraid to sink
Some people drown in their own words,
no sense of it all can be heard,
just a rapid ride on their stream of consciousness
If you make it through the first level
with pen still in hand and curiosity still intact,
you can further elevate and explore
But a lot of poets, sadly, become satisfied with where they're at
The second level is much harder
Not everyone can do it,
exploring themes not from your own personal experience
It's a precarious climb
melding a vicarious mind,
leading you sometimes to places that you never sought to find
Some people can't handle it, they cower away
when facing the daunting realm of the unknown
Unanchored from their familiar world view, their confidence be gone
If you make through the second level
with sound mind in place and determination still undeterred,
you can shed the constraints of time and space
But more winnowed poets, regrettably,
haven't the creative stamina to finish the race
The third level is the most difficult to reach
Only breached by a chosen few,
who were born to travel to the farthest dimensions of the mind
They breathe unexplored air,
they speak with authority of being there
Poetic pioneers fearlessly going where others are not so inclined
They are chosen ones who enter a hidden sacred space;
transversing the treacherous depths of the heart, facing come what may
They are timeless souls searching beyond the veiled gray
They've reached the third level
Nirvana
Poet paradise
The nexus of every imagined possibility:
they will be faithful to observe,
faithful to record,
faithful to write all that they see
call it what your will . . .
third eye, mystical invisible eye, mind's eye, inner eye
it is my rusty gate to inner realms
and spaces of higher self
in Zen . . . I tune into life's flow and vibrations
to journey on vision quests finding imagination and awakenings
and my unblinking third eye is purple
the color of wisdom, healing and truth . . .
though my physical eyes are closed . . .
my third eye is this unblinking window beckoning
and through meditation I travel far
into a spiritual world of enlightenment
I see my aura as an infinite violet veil above my head
and I see my heart is green hued like the forest
and my throat is aqua blue like a calm sea
my words falling tranquil and serene . . .
"this third eye is my window into spiritual awareness"
________________
July 13, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/Unblinking Third Eye
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1473-390-13
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Theme Chosen #3 Unblinking Third Eye
Written for the Standard contest, Pick-A-Title, Vol 31
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 07/31/2022
Third Place
Sharp The Edges, Of Poet's Pen Turned To Fight,
( New Dawn,Third Battle And Final Slash ) -
Part Three
From within, a gifted calm brings a tranquil peace
to poet's soul that searched and found a new lease
and with foresight decided to take pen to write,
about shadowy black beast, that stabs in dark of night.
Now massive strength that old poets's pens often yields
succors heart and grants victory on battlefields
new ink hones blade, gifts poetic words that destroy,
that savage beast that sought to make a whipping boy!
From poetry comes a Light that, gives true powers
which destroys wicked beasts, lurking in dark towers
by shining wisdom from classic poetic verse,
to cut those, that such illuminations do perverse.
Lo! Be aware what may be found seeking true Light
Sharp the edges, of poet's pen turned to fight!
Robert J. Lindley, 10-19-2019
Sonnet, ( The Third And Final Battle-- Part Three)
Conclusion- Three Part Series..
Note: This is the last to be written on this subject in regards to
this specific incident. I offer this series for the hiding fool,
the worthless opponent to come on and try to refute.
nuff said... old poet, Still writing...