Best Tiled Poems
In those bleak fields that so quietly lie - stilled as graves,
Between where the thin wind creaks and upwardly heaves,
Unseen feet can sometimes be heard
Shuffling through the old woods discarded leaves.
For i have seen those strange distant lights
That detach themselves from heavens spilling crowds;
When dropping over the blindside of the little ridge
They rise to leap from cloud to cloud.
Impossible angles of inexplicable darting momentum -
Inwardly gyrating wheels now ingeniously turning;
Marvelous these the strange crafts of unknown design...
Yes - I have seen the night skies burning!
For well i remember as a reckless child
How i stole out to ascend that one forbidden hill:
Cast deep plans, set the clock ticking accordingly,
Rose, wrapped myself against Novembers raw chill.
Deep inside the Beech-hanger the Plough was struggling,
And over the despairing holt a devisive breeze...
As, of a sudden, on the edge of swirling darkness -
Showered particles upon vapourous ethers so violently seized!
Oh the hissing bolts of sizzling electrons -
Brilliance of colours like a dying meteors last rites!
Anti-Graviton paradox of mastered equational conundrum
Igniting the latent freeze within winters sharp night.
Radiant orb held aligned by polar-opposites forceful lines,
Spinning upon a singular point with such consummate ease;
Roaring furiously liken fabled dragon of Arthurian legend,
Hot breath licking across lines of illuminated trees.
Momentary seconds that crept alongside an age enraptured
Amidst tumbling thoughts of - "Just another Alien abductee"!
Then, gently tilting starboard, accelerating smoothly away,
Vanishing over the stacks and tiled rooftops of nearby Walton-Lea.
Often have i wistfully pondered in ever hopeful, watchful years:
What was it so witnessed as it hung before me in suspended flight?
And - with many cramming thoughts - groping for answers sought -
Recalling the wondrous moment of such an awe-inspiring sight!
The night lingers, yawning,
Stretching its limbs across the sky;
It lies there so silently, so languidly
As if awaiting the early rays of morning
To come by- I wake-
I wake to the sounds of silence and
Like the night, I linger in my bed.
Nothing appears to me but darkness-
Darkness that twirls a million times
‘round my head.
Upon these cold, air-conditioned tiles
I find myself walking so slowly, almost
Crawling into the darkness.
I hear my head talking- talking so loudly
Even amidst all this silence.
How am I to know- how am I to know
Whether or not this whole night is but a dream?
A mere dream so trivial that it almost wakes me
And makes me part of its darkness.
From my window I see the night-
I see it lying there, painting all other
Windows with dark threads of sleep.
I even feel my eyes getting heavier,
Yet something-
Something endeavors to keep
Me awake through this night.
I continue to stare outside my window
Still listening to the haze of my thoughts.
How come all that is should be? And
Why are you, you and simply not me?
It seems that this darkness is not willing
To part away from me.
( Pause)
A voice- a voice recites its calmness through
This night and slowly approaches my
Window. I see it- I see it coming
My way, touching
My window, stroking the
Darkness away.
My thoughts once again begin to bellow
And say:
How come all that is should be?
And why are you, you and simply not me?
I succumb to the voice, regardless-
And deem my thoughts forgone.
On my window it slides- the voice-
Almost so artistically drawn. I stand upright,
Facing away from the night which has now
Become withdrawn-
I slowly kneel down, whispering prayers to
The cold-tiled ground
And finally it comes- Dawn.
Inspired by a Al Fajr Prayer which is the Arabic for Dawn.
By my red tiled house stands a mango tree
Beneath it I cherish my treasured memories
Where cows merrily roam and cattle graze
As morning sky scintillates in marigold rays
Face of innocent days I spent in tiny village
Amid rice fields gracing serene landscapes
Watching crops grow from seeds to harvests
Playing game of cricket and idling in silliness
From dawn till dusk, ambling with friends
Venturing out coyly, exploring night’s secrets
Walking dusty roads holding kerosine lamps
Strolling like silhouettes on dark river banks
Floating young emotions on giggling streams
Stealing kiss of love, choreographing dreams
As we told stories spinning moonlit wizardry
Listening to wilderness strumming wild music
By my red tiled house, under the mango tree
Where eternally lie my childhood memories
January 13, 2021
Placed 1st: Your choice (44) contest by Brian Strand
Placed 5th: Good old days contest by Mystic Rose Rose
I dream of the old house, five thousand miles
away, across the sea, high on the hill,
the garden where the rhododendrons shade
the black and white tiled steps up to the door.
I enter, walk from room to room, and see
my mother on the balcony; she sits
beneath the tumbling vines and reads her book.
My dad is in his study playing chess.
The house smells like it always did. Each thing
still lives in its accustomed place. This is
a journey back in time: I am a child,
was gone a little while and now am home.
The light falls through the windows differently.
The trees have grown, obscure the view, and hide
The house from outside glance. Mom’s hair is white,
And father walks the stairs with halting steps.
I hope there will still be a few more years
For me to make this journey. Far away
Are home and childhood, and the church bells toll
The hours relentlessly.
7/11/2017
EIGHT
A deliberate surprise
A shove from the back
while creating artwork
in my second-grade class
Perhaps an ocean scene
A distant angry memory
of my eight-year-old
consciousness
The broken waxy blue crayon
in my right hand
Before me the ripped orange
construction paper and
a scattered image
Girl bully momentarily
reigned behind me
her face encircled with
frantic spirals….
a golden mane
My neck flashed heat
and then a cold sweat
I challenged her to a fight
In the girl’s bathroom
that day
Pale turquoise tiled walls
screamed at me
as I entered the ring
Staring up I saw a field of wilting flowers….
wads of scrunched up soapy paper towels
hurled up at the ceiling where they clung and
appeared as corpses threatening to fall down
on me at any moment
The pungent thick air of girl
bodies surrounded me….
A hungry lion appeared with
open mouth ready to strike
Tightly wrapped around each other
A blur
A blow to my right side
A second to my stomach
Descending to my knees
catching my breath
Rising up I landed an efforted
blow on her left cheek
An explosion within her wild
starving eyes filled with
superpower magnetism
The pounce
The strike
My body collapsed…
the blue tiles hugging me
Sounds of silence
Distant voices of teacher adults
dispersing the crowd
Inside the small stall
crumpled body crying
on the toilet seat
head on my knees
salty tears cascading
Tasting them now
With armor and shield
bleeding …dented and broken
my heart and soul
rejoiced
Could it be love when shadows overlap
Their beings blending, doubling to dark
Embracing tiled or terra cotta floor
Sliding silently as silhouettes of shame
Clinging to the still forbidden touch
Relishing the fevered heat of light
Cast upon this desperate aching need
To meld - a two so lonely - into one
Black Squirrels.....
Leave no shadow
Heads bowed in solemn faith
Cars weaving between stations of the
Cross; and old spanish tiled crypts
A glimpse, then another the casket lowered
The air, acrid with stinging ash of burnt metal; flesh
Fused with memories lost
© All Rights Reserved
09/25/13
A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown throne to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of imposter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
I live in the land
where seas are high
and soils are low
where dikes and dunes
are border posts of
safe and sound
I live in the land
where sea levels rise
and soil levels sink
where boats look down
on red tiled roofs
and tops of trees
I live in the land
where sand and clay
replace the rock
where houses on piles
stand straight and strong
in shrinking peat
I live in the land
where poets have sung
of slow moving rivers
in infinite lowlands
where painters have praised
the grey kaleidoscope above
A coffee bar with orange paint --
Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
A neon sign hangs by the door.
I come here sometimes just to write.
A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
I do not see it as a taint.
Tonight an artist's work is hung
Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
Allows her dreams to have their say.
I like the color in these walls --
A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
A coffee bar with orange paint.
With their last goodbyes, they walked away
Disappearing in the early morning light
Glaring, the pedantic clock leads the way
Warm, wrapped in a gauzy cocoon, tight
Blissfully euphoric, sedated, waning sight
Whizzing on a gurney, through silent halls
Wide-eyed doors open to a curious fishbowl of faces
Swimming in a sea of floating green tiled walls
My consciousness, serenely traveling into nameless spaces
Buoyantly riding in a tunnel of luminous cloudy embraces
Peace and tranquility arrested the restless soul in me
Immersed in the warmth and gift from above
In a blinding light, he stepped forward, so I could see …
My time had not yet come; these words, He spoke with love
Returning me on the wings of a mourning dove
Faded voices, I could hear
The haunting cries of babies born today
My eyes filled with regretful tears
Life on Earth I must live, vowing not to stray
Until my work is done and He calls me home to stay.
Date: April 29, 2022
For: Near Death Experience Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Placed 6th in contest
Retired sweetness paints
a tiled mosaic of
unpredictable patterns.
Black, brown shapes
spatter the
grey concrete of
an underground kingdom.
The fresh ones burn
pink and seafoam
green against
this steely blue
and yellow lined world.
The stickiness clings
onto shining
out of spectrum,
before becoming
another dot
in dark masses.
Overwhelmed
as mama offers a stare
at me.
Behind sleepy eyes;
I watched.
You would lay on the floor,
despite my warnings
You naughty child.
You cant stop snoring
like your father
she whispered
as she watched over
me like an angel
as I lied on the tiled floor.
You obviously
Took both our characters
my priceless jewel.
I opened my eyes
As I said to her;
There is no me without you
MAMA.
Those words caressed her skin
like the freshness of the breeze
after rainfall that she smiled
so softly.
I fell asleep peacefully
filled with stories
my mother told me,
knowing there is someone
guarding me like a god.
November 3, 2017.
A cold wind.
Whatever was here has fled inside
or has curled up in a corner somewhere
out of sight and gone to sleep.
Footpaths are tiled in the wet,
skeletal remains of leaves
and tree trunks have begun to wear
their gray winter coat of lichen.
There is an honesty in the landscape,
the scaffolding that holds form
together is no longer concealed
by a camouflage of color, the eye
is confronted by what lies beneath.
Cover withers away to bare ground,
the earth takes breath, bathes
in the chilly glow of a winter sun.
I also come to this place,
to this stark season of truth
and see myself stripped back
to the bones and sinews of me.
The wind blows through the same
vacant spaces, unpicks the pretense
to let a cold light shine through.
I don't like what I see.
How quickly things can change ...
I withdrew my hand slowly from the water
(the aqua-blue tiled bottom of the chlorinated pool
stark contrast to the black and yellow body of the bee)
slowly enough that the bug wouldn't slip back into danger ...
It struck me as quite odd ... quite contrary
here I was, a leisurely, relaxing, body-and-mind-soothing swim
yet in my hand, an intensely dire struggle of life-and-death ...
is such essence any less a miracle than my own?
I swam to the edge and placed the bee in the sun to dry
making sure it didn't end up back in the water ...
we are constantly surrounded by such mortal battles
yet our own issues have taught us to often look the other way ...
Life is life, is it NOT?