Best Uncannily Poems
Her poetic mind is uncannily artistic,
She can make a long grocery list
Sound like an art of Shakespeare
and still forget the humble Pear!
With her talent she writes poems
She can express the emotions
We didn’t even know we had …
Like crying over a sock losing its pair.
Her goals are so lofty
Even the moon gets FOMO
When you talk about them...
I finally came to know how she
Writes the prize winning poems
With profound artistic acumen,
She probably interviews her pen
Before letting it touch the paper!
Keep on writing my beloved poet
Sure, one day you will be the greatest !
Skating upon Saturn's rings, on the outskirts of gold,
executing my double axel, in the brisk, season of cold.
The sole sound is of ice skates, spraying bits behind;
In rich, purple dusk, of the chaotic universe entwined.
A wide-eyed dreamer, in the red heartbeat of fantasy,
does slow twirls and excited spins, jumping uncannily!
Skating on concentric rings-the adventure of her life,
Stars shining all together, a hundred moons in the sky.
"A Perfect Murder Scene"
underneath the gun metal clouds
two bodies imprinted
splayed bookmarked at the waterline
uncannily close
distance would never separate that twin set
the ocean of tears washing over them lachrymose
the day was extraordinarily ordinary
yet the unanticipated came rushing in surprising
two lives captured, seemingly drowned
carried away on the rip, ripped apart, far from shore
thrown for the risk of running
away from it all
eventually like double dice
the Ocean like a roiling bitter life
spits them both back out, not wanting them,
they are the gamble
rolled back in on the wake, washed clean
like a scene wound backwards
scratched and mottled, 8mm frame
slow motion the prostrate dead they rise like ghosts
wound up, holding hands walking backwards
up the sand dunes
not a care in the world
the guns in the clouds all gone
the sun now shining
reversing down the path, hand in hand,
an old movie to who knows where
smiles wide and laughing, hand in hand
the woman and child
out of frame, in the margin unseen,
the murderer plays his shot
all over again, he loves his bad dream
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Because it was regular film, it was Light sensitive. You had to be very careful when loading and unloading the cartridge.”
scene.
seen.
Beautiful Brenda was bewitched by a man she created in her novel,
Blissfully absorbed in her imagination with this man she marveled.
Boats and the sea were his lifelong passions.
Besotted with the ocean, it sparked supreme satisfaction.
Beguiled with this boater, Dan, the author had imagined,
Brenda futilely fantasized about this blue-eyed man with abandon.
By chance, she was invited on a cocktail cruise with some friends.
Brenda decided she needed a break from her passionless pretend.
Blustery and brilliant, the day azurely arrived.
Brenda was unaware a blind date had been craftily contrived.
Befuddled at first she met this new man called Ben.
Blushing and irresistible, the inevitable dance began.
Ben was uncannily alike the magnificent man in her book,
Brawny, with a sensational smile that required a second look.
Ben was the boat owner, and loved the seductive sea like Dan.
But he was not imaginary, and the romance took off and ran!
9/10/16
Written for "Brenda" Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Awarded 1st Place
Rosy rains still keep dapping on me, rippling into me, trickling in me
My sentiment and sentimentality set into sediment like descending haze
Settled, stagnated, then crystalized into concrete and constant gaze
Gaze from adrift to assured, from timid to fuss-free
Where her long-winded Hebe falls upon my sensuous serendipity
My short-winded romance catches upon her contagious catholicity
Through and o'er million-mile-long cascade of rains
Romance-woven, rose-waved, rushing curtain after curtain
My gaze meets the Grace of Venus' veins
Venus' veins from blear to clear, from confused to certain
Splicing and brightening each inspiring spot
Along each dimensionality of the whole universe
So perfectly the vast vivacity fits into my sensorial slot
That my everything rhymes and roils with its magnificent verse
Far and wide anacampserote describes
Far and wide rosy tides arise
From the perigee of my sights to the aphelion of her skies
From the margin of my mind to the adytum of her vibes
Harking back to earlier path strewn with romances of royal grith
Hearkening forward to future favors featuring our millennial myth
Reachable osculation, ne'er has remote oneirism so uncannily overlapped
Raying reality, ne'er has rainy romance so snugly wrapped.
Adam of Earth
The curvature of his smile
A quiet strength of gentleness within the eyes
When I glance upon his face
The waves of his arms flowing to his majestic hands
A profound peace that enraptures our souls
As my hands endure the strength
When he retains me close to him
Never have I been so captivated
By someone before
My surroundings have been opened up to a new light
A different maginitude of life
He has unleashed the insecurities of my path
That I so securely hid within my locked chest
Behind this clown mask
Allowing him to invade the privacy
Of the crevasses in my closed doors
To which no creature has entered before
Still he welcomes me uncannily
Knowing the outlines and graphing of my past
One could never concept an existing life as this
That love not judgement intercedes their eyes
Visually looking at what lies beyond the skeleton
Not halting by faults found
Being blessed with this adam of earth
Is more than I emotionally deserve
Not knowing the extent of my actions
Which generated this unimaginable gift
Humble I am, to have a soul of virtue
For us to be chosen together at this moment and space in time
When true love is sought to be a treasure
A fading quality of life
I will wrap myself around this presence
Embracing the fragility of its worth
Guarding it safely to my heart
And never withdrawing this Adam of Earth
I wrote this poem for my husband...he is my soul mate and best friend.
Bounds
Over and entercircled, grasping tighter and tighter
Penetrating the lines of my eternity
Orbiting to seize all that I have left
Desirous for more
Neverending infliction
No slumber shall I ever have
Until the bounds are pacified
How can I claim what I can not see?
The preference of bounds has no favor
Engulfs the crease of all
Seeping in uncannily
Until it devours it feast
Few can sustain the bounds to a hault
So I, I shall embrace the bounds and and create a solemn place
Cultivating what story I have been given
Turning destraut into purpose
And purpose into distinction
By:
Tammy R. Flanagan
A fiery glow envelops those assembled
A revival meeting, uncannily resembled
The vast amphitheater packed to the gills
Worshipers revel in vulgar thrills
Once the festivities are underway
The skies blacken to an evil gray
Viewed: Prurient pleas for salvation
Heard: Satanic shouts, incantations
As knights of darkness and light take the field
To beer, blood and lust all inhibitions yield
America, in the throes of gluttonous shame
~ forgets that 'Super Sunday' is just a football game
The Inferiors!
The proud and the rebellious!
The Uncalled!
The unheard!
The two nuisances that are overtaking
the galaxy's millenniums presently!
Or the oh so game called ones life!
The uncalled are the ones that
Turn the pages at that supposed wonderful end!
Mislead to the reveal
that the continuations
Cliffhanger or the to be continued
leads to one of my own worlds
greatest curiosities!
In ones mind unheard of and
uncannily
never spoken out by the ones
I name the
uncalled!
The inferiors are the proud!
The Warriors that fight valiantly with swords
air strike bombs
and guns
they breathe only blood and gore
Portrayed in my vigil lights
as my only worlds truly false winners!
That always underestimate the ones
I name the uncalled
This lead to my conclusion
The worlds true winners
Are my own
the ones
I name the
Uncalled.
The truly blessed
Uncalled!
Dedicated for my true friend, Pokey the puppy
I have a friend tempered in anxiousness of speed indeed-
He runs, jumps, and adjusts to my manner uncannily-
A good friend is he who waits, in time and fate, for me in kind patience-
His intent, at times, as I see and unbeknownst to him, is non other than to be fed-
I watch him and he I through our anthropomorphic conscientious percipience-
I ask myself, as always I always do, if he has slight of sentience in self-
My friends form of expression queerly questions my countenance in sensibility-
Which may or may not have some truth, for his truth is held in stealth-
I have over the years attempted to lessen him in art of literature-
Although at times he seems to acknowledge this by peeing on our praised favorites-
By all means I consider him more an emotional compartan compared to my kind-
He never regrets or resents me for unfairly failing notice to my dear friend-
Maybe he ponders events by incertitude, though expressions neither deny or confirm-
Though his actions always denotes incentive aspects of verbs, he chooses not to read
I infer a conclusion that we only differ in level of magnitude of consciousness-
For I know that he knows that I know he has some level of meta-cognition
By Mark Miller, An inner examination into our art of artificial selection.
Johnny MacAlister was six-years-old, young enough still for wishes,
Baby sister, Rosie, was all of three, all giggling and adorable kisses.
With fond, indulgent parents, the family was content in their home,
In a town, sleepy in sunlit day, where a scarlet cock used his comb.
Johnny played with Rosie every day. He loved to get her laughing;
As if a gaudy parade of jesters and clowns, chanced to be passing!
Forget-me-not days brought fast friends, in fruitful times of flowers,
Fuchsia and filled with fragrance, highlighting fun, burgundy hours.
Fair days bloomed where fall had faded, and fortune brought family;
Like festive fireworks of celebration, illuming sunset skies, uncannily.
Johnny lived in the house of joy, and tiny feet, ever pitter pattering;
And of playing, mauve dawn to dusk, like bluebirds, ever chattering.
Sapphire, dusk skies twinkled smartly, beyond their street of scents;
When scanty, pink sun fled, scorching, while night waited in suspense.
With naive, newborn day, came neighbors, for hot coffee and nougat,
In green, noisy days of nearby birdsong, and violet butterfly contact.
'Fairy magnolias' created such magic, and 'hummingbird' blooms knew;'
And hibiscus 'imperial dragon' roared, as eyelash plants, lovelier grew.
Cape primrose 'wow,' awed, while syngonium ‘milk confetti,’ glittered;
And begonia 'ring of fire,' was smoking, while purple martins tittered.
Johnny's birthday wish had come true, he saw when he unwrapped it;
And found a pair of blue, roller skates, like a rainbow, shining for a bit.
But, before he could finish eating, the dreaded rain had begun to pour;
And his childish impatience grew as, instead of less, it showered more!
Yet, Johnny made another wish, magically granted, as skies brightened;
When the rain slowed, midst sunshine, its silvery-gold drops, so vibrant!
Johnny had such fun that day, for all the days of childhood, allow magic;
And never forgot the day silver fell like coins, like an old, golden classic.
'Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day.
Rain, rain go away,
Little Johnny wants to play.'
A Bit of Ares
We begin to number
the defining moments
as we start the slide
into a seeming oblivion
Clawing away our innocence
Sharpening our senses
baring our internal fang
uncannily unleashing the beast
We crouch keenly
surging with passion
roaring our desires
We start to prance
with a reawakened hope
we are prowling with zest
daring our dire yearnings
Summit Times Ja Just Gotta Walk Away...
Excusing yourself as if...
going to the bidet,
an immense water closet
(perhaps the size of
Mar A Lago type getup),
sans human waste
(after flushing)
empties into prez Donald's bay,
where one bum wrapped aforementioned
toilet finely (and finally) enthrones
derriere exquisitely, and, delicately
intricately, chiseled wrought with cloisonne
ah...enjoying simple pleasure ass I say
sipping one after another Red Bull, whence
with one final trumpet of the rump -
(as acknowledgment to angry 1%),
though quite reluctantly did pay -
hitting the custom built in combination
handsome replica Taj Mahal fountainhead golf
course made from clay
baked Adobe bathroom links
(whew...long Atlas) shrugging off
responsibilities, escorted
by migrant compadre
Russian Putin lookalike uncannily
also resembles plucked Kernel Sanders
advocating consuming buttered Thomas
English muffins with oreos can delay,
tending to government, who successfully
playfully, melodiously preaches, sermonizes
and absolute zero values benefits burning
off calories, where couples sashay,
asper square and/or contra dancing,
where the caller hollers hip hip hooray
barely audible above
noisy fracas and fray
of crowded house,
avast throng of village people stomp
louder than a quiet
riot global military foray
anathema to dogma,
karma, persona... of
Jacques Cousteau, or like
minded millennials and/or gray
bearded whelk homed by elasmobranchii.
It’s something we do and something we don’t.
It’s in the sound of the stars and the rustle of the boat.
It’s dramatically ambiguous and frivolously bright.
It’s the beat of the shore streaming across the night.
How vague could I be?
How dark and discreet?
How painfully pitiful?
How serendipitously incomplete?
How familiar, it may seem, the fragrance of the flower,
Yet uncannily forgotten, beneath the yellow star.
Have pity on thy master, Have pity on thy slave,
Because the righteous, that I know, shall never behave.
Behold this beauty, in all her rage,
Behold this tempest, behold the sage.
Beaten by misery, torment and pain,
Beckoned to rule over and over, forever, once again.
BY
Amanda.M.Miller
After it exploded,
death felt corroded,
the ruin landscape,
abandoned corpses
on the street,
shoes ripped off their feet,
women crumpled in blood stained garments,
small shapes of children in pieces,
scattered everywhere,
with the remains of chill and fear
still haunting the air,
brooding silence, everything uncannily still,
everyone died and war had its fill,
soldiers on the front,
their bodies picked to skeletons
by the vultures on the hunt,
senseless destruction,
was its corruption,
death simmers,
life glimmers, as it dangles from a rope,
senseless destruction because there is no hope.