Best Uncoils Poems
A black cloud dangles
Effortlessly forms
A haunting image
Showers travel east
Daisy hides her face.
A Robin sings
A melody
The sun appears
Once more she smiles.
Grass uncoils
Raindrops dry
Web retracts.
Sunset
Moon beam.
Stars.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Dawn crosses itself through my latenight dreams
The bruised fingers of the skies, me awakening.
Where light was spotted before the start
This gray uncoils from my fist, squeezed with my heart.
Now the breakdown of once shut eyes strain
Dawn is called true daybreak —
With another outward far off shine
She's only ghost according to clockwork time
Morning on glass through ever bonding cobwebs
The dark in its light, still descends.
jostling in the garden
bees and wasps compete
for the flower's favours
perched on a petal
butterfly uncoils its tube
then injects the flower
a gust of wind
the dried leaf leaps up
and dances in the air
A November wind has roared for days.
Dead garden stalks lay bent and frayed.
The proud maple now stands undressed
In drifts of yellow against the fence.
Broken remnants lay on the yard;
A scattered blast of limbs’ discard,
And yellow litter in blissful calm.
A roaring November wind is gone.
The crickets have hushed and gone to sleep.
All nestled beneath the barberry.
While snowbirds busy the hedges to feed
Where ruffling winds misplaced their seeds.
Sadly, the walnut has nothing left to shed,
But an ivy still clings in brilliant red.
A rusted barn roof is left exposed
Where distant arbors used to grow.
And chimneys sew their grey, woolen clouds
For the bleak sky wears a sullied shroud.
The curls of smoke gracefully unwind.
As for me, a pensive knot inside.
To see the snowbird’s round, feathered breast,
And to think. Each year uncoils from the next.
Bright leaves that held such hope in June,
I’ve collected to make a sick perfume.
And piled these treasures in a heap;
Now smoldering and weeping in the heat.
I huddle closer to the crackling flame,
Knowing that winter will come again.
Pessimists leave the art of dreaming
to optimists with a half-full cup.
And whenever I am feeling down,
writing poetry helps lift me up.
Poetry probes the human psyche;
with witty words bandied to and fro.
And helps to hold the doldrums at bay;
by keeping the tides of boredom low.
Magic and reality mingle;
when understanding first comes of age.
And secluded deep within my heart,
hope finds its way to the written page.
Morphing into a cynical muse;
anxiety uncoils in my head.
And yet, a phantasmagorical
world keeps my imagination fed.
I value the little things in life;
like shooting stars etched upon the night.
And I need but gaze at the heavens;
to inspire my soul and give it flight.
Discernment is passed down across generations.
Inside the eyes and between the partitions.
Be that as it may, what's the alterity between them?
How might we perceive both body and soul stem?
My best half, you will consistently have my heart.
The most remarkable princess on the planet.
The sly fire is seething, and it's fetching you.
Endlessness until this man sigh toward the paradise hue.
Shifted symbols that we don't yet understand;
Evaluate the holes between the sheets with an award.
Scrutinize and examine each curving path;
Conceptualism is a solid and wild naturopath.
How diligently you adorned your beauty!
You sigh as you escort your gifts fly severely.
Consume your life and torment your mental despair.
The Platonic anger has faded, noticeable in the air.
Love sighs humdrum around, and endless urn bare.
The flames have frozen your life, and you scare.
The last bow in gold quiver stings hot and cold.
To polish off the last sigh, Love's shade trolled.
I'm excited by the idea of hearing my last voice.
Will it be one you've never seen or a halcyon face?
Where shall I be when I let out my last sigh?
Or, oddly, will it be the errorless reason on that day?
Convey one last glance at the sun and the stream.
The Blue River uncoils at an underground seam.
She sobs she sighs and alliterative name,
"My love, my love, why do you leave me to inflame?
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: August 22, 2021
This or That, Vol 6 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
No table round will ever square the thing.
All knights have equal access to the bread,
Even the stout are adequately fed;
Each squire gets equal pay for equal knighting.
Then Guinevere unsheathes the distaff lightning,
Uncoils her hair, so lustrous and inciting,
Plumps her lips with a berry crushed and red.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
Pendragon is ostensibly the.King.
And normally he doesn't miss a thing.
But Lancelot is naked in his bed
And Guinevere is humping him instead.
"No man above another" has a ring.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
Your death pushed me into this nugatory black hole.
Stinging sorrow whirling long, sadly out of control.
You fought one courageous battle, in deep pain.
Brave in your sickness, you never complained.
Memories of you, humorous, loving and uniquely smart.
This cold sadness slithers foul inside my frail heart.
I grapple with this dark rotten turmoil.
The flickering dread slows then eerily uncoils.
The third of five wonderful brothers.
Your death dims my soul, I will recover.
My spirit tired and oddly worrisome.
I will remember your special hue of awesome.
Raina, who lives next door,
is always tending
her garden after midnight, sipping
milagro straight from the bottle.
Once I watched her from my window,
as she cut out weeds
and thumbed her flowers sans glove,
bottle in hand and smiling hard,
like a woman in love.
I asked her why.
She answered without looking up,
that darkness was her thing,
and wise ones never run
from true nature, that uncoils
to reveal itself
like the unconscious motivations
behind a dream.
(Or something like that)
I laughed at her and shook my head.
Then she said:
A dragon that's kept hidden,
will someday break free to consume
everything it hadn't been given,
as if all doings were left undone,
all words left unsaid.
That's just how it is,
you'll know it well before you're dead.
Then she went back to her work-hum-sip,
that was that,
that was it.
Sometimes I still see her, washed in moonlight
and the soft winds of the Summer,
as she moves like air, and occasionally wonder
what in the hell she'd meant.
Turtle cruises the reef,
turquoise warm in the sun;
tendrils of coral stretch to
sup filtered light.
Butterflyfish and Tang
intermingle amid coral polyps,
that are plentiful appetizers
for this party.
As sponges get their rays,
a seahorse uncoils and jettisons itself
just overhead of a yawning mussel.
I giggle to myself as an angelfish kisses
my goggles and swim beneath the belly of turtle;
awed at the Crayola chroma essence
that delights my spirit.
Sunset skies drape silken ribbons of red yellow orange pink, bleeding.
Crayola colors swirling on the watery surface of Summer’s sweet dreaming.
The soft velvet lips of the kissed red rose closes, bending before the night.
Winds race billowy white bursts across the chilled blue of Fall and the birds take flight.
Ice drips along the crooked edges of the stripped branches, stark against smudged grey,
they are carved black silhouettes fingering the bone white of winter’s display.
Earth oozes around the fertility of Spring, and the scented breezes,
caress life as it uncoils and showers gardens that have been lovingly seeded
Four seasons have passed and each one captured on an artist’s beloved canvas;
Visions to behold as if in a refracted otherworldly light stardust dances...
TOOT SUITE
Alas, as hunters treed their prey
envisioning the feast
gravied meal at end of day
sopped up in breaded yeast.
An ill wind blew
and no one knew
from where it emanated
As sugar in the innards boils
and then - a little toot uncoils
It in now dark.
Talking of exposed genitalia
I go into a terrible shock.
A compulsive deceit
takes hold of the attention.
The candle burns me inside.
Between eyes
a *chakra uncoils, like a Naja.
Strikes ! You are stricken-
with a bulbar palsy.
No haemorrhage. A purple venom
spreads in the whole nativism.
Voices move in half-lit corridor.
The doors do not lead to rooms.
All exits disappear.
A chandelier crashes. You
are awakened from a deep slumber.
A poem is born.
*In Indian thought a chakra is the center of spiritual power in the
human body. They are seven in numbers.
Satish Verma
MARRIED TO A SAILOR
Straight talk, he walks into her heart.
He speaks of submarines and such.
No one could keep their lips apart,
his handsome pair warm to the touch.
But being portuguese, blood boils,
and half corn beef and cabbage, too.
The love affair almost uncoils,
thus driving him and her askew.
Yet being stronger than the storm,
A ring of gold, encircles them,
and seeking God becomes the norm
Of duo gripping this - His hem.
With God impressed the love is sure,
and white redress to keep them pure.
6/17/2017
8 syllable sonnet in iambic pentameter
*Image of Contrary To Popular Belief by Medium.
The End Times
A locomotive train chugs remote wails,
The tempest brews a calamitous stunt,
Falls of exiting steam, moist teary tails,
A structure of ills desires cured a want.
Veil vibration replaced by hissing wake,
Cataract succession cues lined motion,
Some distracted or misguided, opaque,
Soulless of no else deluged rain ocean.
Sullied countenance, mockery furthers,
Epochs and places are just meaningless,
Thoroughly isolated faced earthworms,
Constantly moving, redemption is thus.
Ejected wetness lift drips of sweat mix,
The stench of septic mortal feces foils,
Contour be less as the haunted will fix,
Worker's fast recovery spreads uncoils.
Rally cry register whispers pitch, softs,
Periodic responders aides the crushed,
Posture updated processing kickstarts,
Rancid remains, putrid folks, relief guts.
Orders of ruinous wayward verve shifts,
As shots of waterworks claim offensive,
Soapy lathered bodies recast the stiffs,
Challenging chambers took a directive.
Where'er 'twas is whate'er 'tis to be-be,
My sweatshop is done I will be obeyed,
For I am the Lord master 'tis realms me,
I give to you all of that you hath prayed.
'Tis all you lived, died for it is paradigms,
Earn that you buried a tip for end times.
2022 February 11