Best Tirades Poems
Abigail’s Spring
Beneath the shelter of winter’s barren arbor
My winter abused heart
Watches the day’s light linger in the sky resisting darkness -
Begging to play a little longer every day –
Pushing twilight away at arm’s length with pink and brilliant orange
Leaving wispy trails of color in the sky;
Urging empty branches and shivering wheat
Lift up their eyes from bruising rains
And crushing chill of wilderness storms;
Seeing here howling tirades of blizzards
Trade places with long sunbeams stretching slowly
Across my sun starved shadow, warming the winter’s wildness -
Coaxing pale green shoots to peek timidly at meadows
Covered with patchwork quilts of blue and yellow -
Orange scattered across arching hills –
Welcoming the face of spring with arms spread wide;
Listening for the bleating of black faced sheep
When they shed their fleecy coats;
Not looking back into the breath of moaning winds,
Longing sighs transformed into shouts of laughter
Chase themselves across the plains in children’s games;
My spirit, once wrapped in hibernation, feels the changing of the wind
Running up the road – knocking on the gate -
With a moveable feast born of abundance;
Stone cold frozen heart beats again in rhythm with gracious blessings
As the simple sparrow teaches
Her young to fly with the morning light
Rejoicing on warm nights filled with songs of mourning doves –
My face turns - embracing this greening valley -
As spring sprints breathlessly up the path.
April, 2020
Contest: Personal Favorite No. 2
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
5/16/20
Contest: Poetry Marathon Mile 13
Sponsor: Mark Toney
30 Lines
First place - Brian Strand Your Choice B - 5/17/20
Number 1 Best New Poem - 6/13-20
Poem of the Week - 6/20/20
First place - Brian's Choice G 6-21-20 - Brian Strand
First place Your Best Poem of 2020 - John Hamilton
Top Ten, #10, Poet Destroyer 11/7/20
Chosen for publication in PS It's Poetry
CITADEL AND CONSTELLATIONS
The green leaves in rugged moans;
The tall bushes in rumbling groans;
The roofs train creaks-- their fugue
blow cobwebs hugging branches below,
such are precursors inviting darkness lair
for stormy clouds before crowd the days.
Yellow horizon seem unreachable honey
as in my life's ocean, balloon billows I bear.
I-- surged in every swell to skirt yet still
lashing waves dashed pushing me sometimes to despair.
Again, cataclysm walk unheralded casting loose
my arms lift upon the glimmer of silver lining from afar
somber shadows enshrouded me in a mist of struggles.
Ounce of strength I have, I try to juggle and juggle
yet, curses fell from hearts and lips parched of love.
All these came, one and all --
the flowing light has flickered flash and gone
but beyond all these you stood -- my sentinel...
You hushed the bad constellations hanging 'round my world
like a lighthouse guiding a lost ship to his home.
Yes! You are my beacon, a promontory amidst
cyclic onslaught brambles and chameleons,
a rock to cling in the wind's creeping fury,
Staunch and firm, my ñhero fighting the torrential
cascade of tirades and reproaches: MY CITADEL. . .
_____________________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name Your Favourite Old Poem #2
++Placed 2nd++
***Sponsor Justin Bordner
Contest Name How You Make The Stars Hush
++Placed2nd++
©O.E. Guillermo
06:37 pm, February 24, 2015
They call you the fallen one,with short tuffted curls
the one responsible for the chaos in the world
you may be the cause,as we live the effect
but your time is near,as you continue to infect
Like an invisible predator,you prey on the weak
like a pride of lions,you pounce on the meek
false pride as it is,your rebellious tirades
the lamb shall arrive to expose your charade
You've enjoyed this sadomasochism way too much
mad puppeteer with an unseen touch
unconscionable,incorrigible,shameless you believe
disgraced by your own doing,from tricks up your sleeve
There are some whom believe,even you have a purpose
hard to conceive,as you delight being murderous
ravager of souls and the misled conscience
fantasy and fallacy are amusements fictitious
But I...
Sheathed in light,resistant to your malice
filled to the brim like a holy chalice
illusory charms deflect from the scene
impermeable am I,to your vicious deeds...
especially,
how you conduct your kangaroo court......
Utopian dreams of HALCYON days are blind to devilry.
Where OPULENT wealth with SONOROUS, grandiloquence,are feared by JEALOUSY.
PENUMBRA casts it's shadow dark, so prying eyes don't see the Light,
And DESULTRY whose changing ways, distracts observant eyes.
EXUBERANT spirits are deluding, masking minds from clarity.
CREPUSCULAR, earths twilight night, and eerie shades of dawn,
Where evil hides in virtues guise, as Faith then Hope and Charity.
Those VISCERAL feelings deep inside, are lampooned by pasquinades.
These sarcastic, CYNICAL tirades, arranged by evil to avert, the devil in disguise,
Who tempts with promises he will not keep, beware, be very wise.
1/ 30/ 2016.
Decades of a formula that only he knew about it and drew,
Cascades of his artwork came to a head in his last years,
Glissades of a swan in a lake that only a handful had seen,
Tirades made its mark on him, distant from fellow peers.
~~[Van Gogh]~~
Impressed of his art garnered some interest in his style,
Oppressed, a constant companion only he can befriend,
Obsessed by what he drew insanely violent he withdrew,
Distressed he found salvation in asylums to not descend.
~~[Wheatfield With Crows]~~
Crows, black gawking, feed in a meadow ache for harvest,
Know that art needs to be made, scheme food for thought,
Those sinister birds, a murder of crows festering the grain,
Throes a fit mocking 'em, flys, pained him more than aught.
~~[Starry Night]~~
Bleak sky of blues, stars gave rise to a miracle been made,
Streak of a sprawl unfurls his heavens tethered madness,
Speak not lest he loses his concentration, maintains focus,
Meek town his groundwork, lofty jewel amidst the sadness.
~~[Bedroom At Arles]~~
Red, that laid on a bed, table, chairs, paintings on the wall,
Said was where he severed his ear, water bowl mirror hung,
Head bandaged where he bled, he does a self-portrait of it,
Deadman walking, Gauguin part ways, no song to be sung.
~~[Self-Portrait Bandage Ear And Pipe]~~
Drew closer, when they were both young, be such friends,
Few friends Van Gogh had, Gauguin was at that moment,
Grew apart after Vince shaving Paul, Vince wanted to hurt,
Knew time together was getting just a bit grave and potent.
~~[House At Auvers]~~
Return to Arles made Van Gogh happy for good times there,
Upturn spirits was a rarity, too few and far in the middle,
Discern with him was questionable because he's unstable,
Concern for his good, art kept him busy, else is second fiddle.
~~[Doctor Gachet]~~
Fields back of the house, a pistol, he plans to shoot himself,
Wields his pistol, shoots, nobody hears, years gun lays hidden,
Yields his brother Theo to his side as doctor aides him little,
Shields truth futile, his art was world-renown, dies bedridden.
Beauty bows and surrenders at her bare feet,
The gold glitters jealous of her glowing skin,
Her bright eyes light embers of passion within,
Men yield to her will!
Warriors clang their weapons to fight to die,
Flags with horseman fly, write history again,
While sat in emerald throne, she rules their minds,
With potion of love!
Is there a poison more deadly than such love?
A woman to whom the Roman empire bows,
Juice of poison berry* she put in own eyes,
He who loves her - dies!
Mighty Caesar or Anthony were like clay,
Their tirades, history fade in her presence,
They lost in war, lost in her love, end by knife,
She put Asp to breast!
Sapphic stanza Poetry contest
Sponsor Edward Ibez
Date 08/July/2020
Cleopetra used poisonous berries or the deadly nightshade juice( medicinal name Atropa belladonna) that yields Atropine which causes dilatation of the pupils. Was used in her time to make the eyes dreamy, innocent and beautiful! Hence the name “Bella = lady, Donna= beautiful)
Within Hellish Abyss, Sounds Serpent's Hiss
Some tales he admires, considers so great,
in that clear vein, he does not hesitate.
Writing as madman, pen splashing hot ink,
there his mind and his poetic heart sink.
Sometimes fast and furious as pen flies,
born of deepest pain, as huge tears he cries
Despair, verses come as if from master Poe
then his joy arrives, his art starts to show.
Darkness invades and flesh is cut by blades,
amidst scattering of blacken tirades.
Within hellish abyss, sounds serpent's hiss
all set into a very Poe-like kiss.
Waiting for Poe to cast another verse,
raven curses, his soul sets to rehearse
Lines that eat into dark, its hellish pits
inspiration enfolds his deep inked fits.
World seethes into darkest of evil dark,
nothing matters except poetic marks.
His heart raging in blackest of hard blacks
he writes, before his Poe-etic trance cracks.
Some tales he admires, considers so great,
in that clear vein, he does not hesitate.
Writing as madman, pen splashing hot ink,
there his mind and his poetic heart sink.
Robert J. Lindley, 9-17- 2018
Dark rhyme, ( Dedicated to Master Poe)
Note: When inspired, let the pen dance.
If it is dark and Poe speaks, carry that torch until it burns the poetic mind.
Such is gift, a gem if one embraces the muse and says , ok let her rip..
Once I Found, Once I Woke, Once Love Came
Once I found, that darken cave to hide in
Having no true friends to then confide in
I sank each rowboat I took a ride in
Embraced scenes of glory I took pride in
Created dream realms that I then died in
Once I woke, I found sweet clouds to walk on
In that bliss, found dear subjects to talk on
Enter tirades that my mind could squawk on
Became a fool that they put their mock on
A broken sidewalk no child put chalk on.
Once love came, I grabbed its heart to hold to
Soon begged its soft hands, to be sold to
Sought sweet times, deeper soul to be told to
Conquer enemies, others be bold to
Find havens that could quickly be rode to.
R.J. Lindley,
April 22nd, 1973
Rhyme, ( Dreams, Loves And Other Fantasies)
Note: Taken from one of my private poetry journals. Thought this was one that I'd never share openly but my muse urged me to do so this morn..
Abstract images to the debris of micro fibers.
Down to the Haitian survivors praying for Red Cross donations rather than meaningless
conversations and commotions,
Across tech tonic structures islands break off, continents sides of earthquakes, sizzling
millions of years with a side of ketchup as condiment
Natural bloodshed delicate as a cracked vanilla wafer moving and subduing natural
disasters with a waiver
1st born protected on the doorstep with lamb’s blood, a sanctified remnant of raiment
Oceans swallowing nations in containment.
Countries bruise, ail, and swell.
Broken, body bones, normal day vertical swing parallel.
High land separating bodies of water and 3 sides of the peninsula .
Drowns, in the brown decay of metamorphic rock and hardened clay.
Day after the tomorrow, tirades un-tranquil in sorrow.
Statures of broken individuals in full robust
Feed the struggling souls
On the television reveals reflections of us
You ‘died’
You LIED
I live with my conscious
You live with yours!
You ‘died’
You LIED
I live with my heart
You died with yours!
You ‘died’
You LIED
My heart BEATS with love
You beat with fists
You ‘died’
You deceived the living
I dance with butterflies and rainbows
You drowned in booze long ago
You ‘died’
Along with selfish sins, resurrected
Verbal tirades spewing from devil mouth
Hypocrite from the grave
Note: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
That rule was begging to be broken
Y’know the one about women?
Of conformity for cat calls and
Gift wrapped shoulders and legs?
How about “no” to breastfeeding
How about “whore” for “too revealing”?
I’m sick of these notions, it’s too unappealing.
I am a nonconformist of a woman
The one that daunts you in your wake.
Come at me with your “don’t”s for women
I’ll show you my scars of everyday crusades.
I’ve battled tirades of piercing tongues
Of sharp fingers engraved into skins
I’m supposed to be hidden beneath them
Because I walk like i’m a woman
Because I walk like a human being
But I stomp these woman feet of mines
To tell you “That ain’t gonna be me”
Nor will it be any woman in this world
‘Cause that rule was begging to be broken
When this woman marched for gender equality.
Look at me now, sitting below darkening skies
Cast out from our Highland home
The Clans now is spiteful despise
To the Glens we shall head, us the fortunate to roam
Away from the Jacobite scum, for us they'll continue to comb
These clearances they declare to be right
What gives them this credence this crime
In the name of their false King, once again we'll stand and fight
Soon the loyal to Alba, shall await their very time
To infiltrate, retaliate, in silence we'll strike so primed
The days pass into weeks, nowhere can we be found
On our peripheral they search and seek us
The clever in us, disappear deep underground
You can hear their English voices searching in our lush
Foul mouthed tirades of sectarianism, voiced in hatred cuss
It's now twenty eleven, to this day it beggars belief
That I read about my fellow past Clansmen
And their greed to betray, for ripened grief
Our day is not so far away, when the true Clans men
Shall vote for total autonomy, it's just a matter of when
.
Sergeant Major O'Malley, Seventh Cavalry, had served nigh on three decades.
He rose through the ranks havin' served in squads, companies and brigades.
Second lieutenants were nuisances and he treated them as if they didn't exist!
He took recalcitrant lads behind the barracks to administer discipline with his fist!
You'd better have your horse and tack lookin' keen for Saturday mornin' parades,
Or Sergeant Major O'Malley would sear the ozone with his thunderin' tirades!
He'd escort you to the stables to shovel manure if you ever mistreated a horse!
Sergeant Major O'Malley's colorful lingo left one with a feelin' of remorse!
He had absolutely no patience with the foibles of raw and bumblin' recruits.
Lord have mercy on the hapless lad who failed to shine his saber and his boots!
Should a trooper snooze in the saddle when escortin' the colonel's stage,
Sergeant Major O'Malley would stomp and rave unleashin' a towerin' rage!
At the break of dawn when reveille sounded, he'd burst through the barracks door,
Yellin' "Up and at 'em me lads! Outta them bunks! What am I a-payin' ye for!
Ye sorry excuses fer sojers! Hie to the stables! Them hosses needs oats and hay!
And when that's done, git back here to eat yer grub and scrub this filthy bay!"
Things were different when he dismounted his horse and entered his house!
The one who gave orders and 'wore the stripes' at home was his formidable spouse!
He meekly responded to her constant commands with a resigned, "Yes, my dear."
"Taps" was a welcome sound at close of day in Sergeant Major O'Malley's ear!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
There's a game known as Chess that I learned as a lad
But in spite of the passage of time I'm still bad.
I can not see ahead seven moves like some do;
If you say, "Bobby Fischer" I'll just come back with, "Who?"
I speak French when I must, as in terms like, "J'adoube,"
But it's all a charade, for I think like a boob.
I don't know who invented this mind-wasting sport,
But I'm sure many law books would deem it a tort.
You can find "Chess For Dummies" on shelves in bookstores,
And I once tried to read it, eliciting snores.
See, I'm trapped in the middle, 'twixt Firsties and Plebes;
It is called Mediocre, and it ranks me with Dweebs.
But this thing's got me hooked; I just can't walk away;
It's a weird fascination that's always in play.
I don't care if you trounce me in ten moves or less
When I trot out my Queen in a desperate press.
My intent is to smash you like ANVIL on bone,
But it's not very often that I'm in the zone.
And I have other schemes that I'm willing to try;
GARIBALDI's the Gambit that might make you cry.
When I'm lazy I mimic your opening game;
MIRROR MOVES, my descriptive, alliterative name.
Metaphors just delight me as labels for ploys
To deprive my opponents of all of their joys.
If I were only equally good with my men
I could teach all of you a sore lesson, and then
I would not have to channel my fear of defeat
Into tirades like these that sound like a goat's bleat.
Blustering tornadoes of ire
spin from my head,
the blipping computer lost its net, yet again.
Even the background of rosy sundrenched sea
does little to quell the storm which brews
gremlins of an esoteric bent
skid with ease from flat screen~
~to flat screen attacking the saucy skirt of
the satellite dish next…
Soundless talking heads waggle tongues
tuneless dog tails, tattling tirades~
Green around the gills I salmon toward the kitchen.
going for tea but the gremlins get there first.
The microwave is fried black~
leaving me with an empty cup on my knobby knees
searching for the bone-dry kettle.
Ah well, having rounded the last pedal
of the third clover leaf ~’~
I smile, trouble only comes in three’s!