Best Transfiguring Poems
Alone and weary ...
she dangled toes o'er the mountain ledge -
the late-October night was clear
and bitter cold, yet as still as death ...
rare were such even-tides
when not a breath of keen altitude
moved among the peaks.
Far below, thru brumal wisps
the tribal lights shimmered in warmth
drums of ceremony echoing
like All-Hallows heartbeats ...
a lone conch-shell horn
moaned woefully, and somewhere
a wolf answered.
The harvest moon
swam thru the bright Milky Way wash
like a silver doubloon ...
swallowing stars in its wan gullet
and transfiguring the sharp-shard ridges
to proud porcelain gods
arms stretching heavenward.
She had made this
calm-but-keen sojourn countless times
each late fall, in careful anticipation
of this very night ...
but never before had an evening
trembled so tenderly
or shone as bright and bloodless.
Life had been full ...
with loves and adventures and aches
but she longed for rest and sleep ...
the bare, lonely mountains of ancient autumn
and crisp, dead leaves hushed it to her -
the prayer of welcome ... the prayer
of poignant endings.
She smiled at the thought
of those she loved, now left behind
her heart swelling with a sad, soulful contentment.
As her people's farewell chant rose faint
sweet with the smoke from campfires, far below
she breathed, deep and dear
the magnificent night ...
And stepped softly ... off the edge.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Fall Into Fall" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
transfiguring, adventure, appreciation, autumn, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
...inspired by 'Portrait of a Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally in your heart,
you cannot break the bond, the sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings pure to art.
Your friends are true disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the screeching of the violins,
the humming of the basses and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the bass drum then begins
to pound a loud crescendo of its own.
I listen, is there something out of tone?
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our differences didn't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and follow its eternal yearning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay forever in the cold.
Categories:
transfiguring, hope
Form:
Verse
it feels foolish
these rain prayers
deeply pondered
stranded in our shared heat
is there some unimaginable space
where prayers drift to?
free from time, reclusive
rain wishing
its pulsating pop that jumps up from pavement
a life force
puddling weeds from cracks
washing all, slick and sloppy
rain that settles a hot vacuum cooler
transfiguring gardens, a floral fanfare
rambunctious ramble
with carved trumpets of open orange lilies
in a retiring heat
we watch-wait for dark clouds in pinball collision
a meditation on living
for rain to bud the morrow, green
in a kettle drum beating
Categories:
transfiguring, angst, environment, nature, rain,
Form:
Free verse
Call me what you may
Call me what you may, A dog, a scavenger
Or even the dirty pig, but that is way too far
From transfiguring my appearance, call me
What you may even the worst pun but ado
Comes on and change my affectionate deed
Call me anything that cross your minds and
Able to pronounce, even the most unbearable
Creature you sort crawls on earth and see if
I die for it won’t be affecting my breathing in
And out... the routine will still go on and on
It is most than injudicious to call me a wild beast
Whilst everyone witty calls me THE ADONIS ONE
I won’t blame you for calling me a nitwit for your
Brains are too weak and needs a fully qualified
Mental practitioner to examine its functions awry
Will they not call you a dead mental deranged
One for pointing tosh on a figure of classy calibre
How happy I am to meet a nefarious fool, who does
Not praise what is worth just like the fool in the
Beauty and the beast who takes his life for a shot
I do not even mind to living in the same galaxy
With a dirty minded day dreamer who always see
Bad over good deeds and spoil my benedictions
Of splendid manners. Just call me what you may
And check if I will hate you for your blind minds.
Robert Musiiwa Mharadze
Categories:
transfiguring, allusion, anger,
Form:
Free verse
BEYOND
i am so helpless
beauty i cannot describe
drives to very soul
haunted day and night
music so transfiguring
spreads a love all round
conscious illumined
in arms of brightest angels
i will fear no more
…………………………………….
On hearing/seeing Wauldtraut Meier sing Isolde’s Liebestod (love-death) from Tristan und Isolde
Categories:
transfiguring, inspirational
Form:
Haiku
As the bitter, piercing cold flees north, as the opaquely white snow makes an elaborate stratagem, a tortuous plan to revitalize next year, the viridescent grass begins to flourish and prosper, bringing an end to the biting winter. The juniper green leaves on trees begin to reinstall on the once dismal branches and the hibernating ophidians start to abandon their balmy, sheltered dens, and immerse themselves in the Sun's ultraviolet radiation and rejuvenating heat. The chirpy, sprightly birds perch themselves on the limbs of trees and ebulliently carol together and rejoice, for wintertime has vacated and the Sun has emerged from the billows of clouds. The cunning squirrels depart from their shelter, burdened with acorns. They scamper down the bark of trees and gleefully frolic and play in the grassy taigas of Siberia. The ravishing daisies begin to blossom, flaunting with their milky white petals and canary yellow pollen. As these plants and animals benefit from their transfiguring environment, gaiety and jollity radiates, for the somber subdued season has dematerialized and withdrawn from this ever-changing landscape.
Categories:
transfiguring, spring,
Form:
This is the day that flattened the city:
shock wave, clothes burnt off;
“This is what they have done, tell everyone.”
Radiation penetrating into sickness
> sterility.
That was the day when all was laid waste.
This is the day they stood up on the mount:
awed, as His clothes shone.
“This is my beloved Son, listen to him.”
Radiance transfiguring, three with One worshipped
> fruitfully.
That was the day which uplifted mankind.
Now is the time for faith to hold on:
declared to be heard;
“This is the light of the world, behold Him.”
Vesture of truth shining, penetrates, conceiving
> fertility.
Now is the time for peace rising.
Categories:
transfiguring, christian, jesus, peace, religious,
Form:
Verse
...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.
Categories:
transfiguring, lost love,
Form:
Verse
Tonight I call
a certain woman
who spreads her scent
of fragrant dianthus
into my night
so silently...
The way she
speaks my name
almost mocking me
making gentle fun...
Because of her
modest style of love
I look to her
my evening star
behind orange clouds
over ocean horizon...
She possesses
the highest summit
of my heart
she the poetess
the moon goddess
transfiguring kaleidoscope
in sunset towards the west...
Categories:
transfiguring, beautiful, beauty, lonely, love,
Form:
Free verse
From Birth to Hearse
‘Tis said that we are sinners - all
before we ever rise - we fall.
Is there no way to beat the curse
that follows us - from birth - to hearse?
For we are bathed in living’s dreams
darkened halls with violet themes,
the orange maw of changelings hue
transfiguring through greens – to blue,
windblown brushstroke-fashioned clouds
move about in eerie shrouds
opalescent shifting reds
glistening through tartan threads.
Witness, as in the timeless nest,
the crimson golds of sunrise – set,
cling to horizon’s blue-edged lie
that colors – separate - the sky.
Distorted by the muted browns
the shifting dunes of opal gowns
flowing in chimeral white
across the darkened stage - of sight.
‘Tis said we are and will be dust
colors changed by living’s touch,
beauty that reversed the curse
that follows us - from birth – to hearse.
8/1/2014
For Charlotte Puddifoot
Vibrant Verse 2 poetry contest
Categories:
transfiguring, beauty, courage,
Form:
Verse
TRUTH
Truth:
Transcendental
Reality
Universally
Transfiguring
Humanity!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
06 JUNE 2013
Categories:
transfiguring, philosophy, truth,
Form:
Acrostic
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Categories:
transfiguring, love,
Form:
Verse
The beautiful Alexandra butterfly
It beautifies its native New Guinea when it will fly
But there is different type of butterfly
That is even bigger and more amazing as it transverses the azure sky
That butterfly has transfiguring symbols on its wings
As colorful and enchanting as sonnet of hues that angel sings
He is more graceful then king of kings
His powerful exuberance cannot be chained by chains or rings
He is the Extended Soul
That edge of abyss has under control
I hope one day on Earth his seed will fall
To free us all
For when he drops the seed of dreams
The people will fly without wings to spiritual extremes
The sleeping knights will awake for them new world beseems
The shot out soul much greater then prettiest sun beams
Categories:
transfiguring, animal, nature, spiritual, butterfly,
Form:
Rhyme
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Categories:
transfiguring, on writing and words,
Form:
Verse
Depression, like the pits and ditches of my heart,
With clear water, like that of blood, does life impart;
Adorning the environs like valued jewels,
Dear lake, how clearly clean cool water in you pools...!
Treasures of art, architecture and ancient tales,
Cultural congruence is hidden in your veils;
My valor, values, and vibrant vivacity,
Draw their vitality from your mortality...!
Within your chilly waters I cheerfully play,
Like an elephant or hippopotamus stay;
Within your womb are ponds, streams, springs and glacial mass,
Serenity, calmness, and composure en-mass...!
I swim, row boat, aqua cycle, and kayaking,
I refresh my bored life with soul-skiing, sailing;
You bring within me optimism, love for nature,
Capable, confident, and love for each creature...!
How I wish to visit countries highest in lakes!
I desire to relish these and forget my aches;
Tracing, transfiguring, and transforming, our drives,
O lake! Perpetually you prosper our lives...!!!
16 March 2023
Writing Challenge - 'L' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes Checked At: Rhymezone.
Syllables Checked At: Howmanysyllables.
Categories:
transfiguring, life, nature, water,
Form:
Rhyme