Best Unheralded Poems
"Uncircumnavigated"
Just Around the Corner ...
How did you write
your way
into my story?
A Wolf
and
a Fox
Blitzkrieg.
The rompers
romp in…
This is unprecedented, unwanted,
Silence is Golden
I walk to the beach
and back breathless
cool
you;
me,
debating always debating
internal
within
the uncircumnavigated tracks,
feral white rabbit
marks his mark
Clocks His time
in
Time
the city skyline,
recalcitrant, shading, delicious
Light in Dark Night
winks back
ridiculously knowing
winks back
How did you write
your way
into my story?
When I had already written
keys and locks into
the Chinese Puzzle Box
locked
locked
locked
and then,
unheralded
inconsequential
YOU
bourgeois
gauche calculating intellect
breeze in…
Hornet bites
honey bee
Gold
dribbling
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2019)
"When" / Elysian Fields
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
As flames of summer’s infatuations wane, a new love,
Unheralded yet undaunted, arrives,
Transforming and maturing until, like trees windblown, though
Unclothed and trembling at winter’s onset, remains
Moored in a strength of devotion which does
Not burn out like summer’s lust.
Love in autumn, mellowed,
Overspreads. . . and though the deepened russet and
Vermilion hues of fall eventually are touched by frost, its
Essence will ever endure.
Written and posted 9/5/11
"Why is it", the donkey mused, "that horses get all the glory?
Seems throughout the ages its the same old hackneyed story.
We go unheralded and are treated with utter disdain,
While horses bear king and emperor about their vast domain!"
"Though we are somewhat ungainly and will never win a race,
We've born distinctive personages with extraordinary grace!
I'll tell you of unnamed heroes among our humble breed,
That will outshine the acclaim of any blue-blooded steed!"
"Mister Ed the talking horse has nothing on the donkey Balaam rode.
She saw an angel of the Lord in the way and promptly left the road!
Balaam cursed, the donkey talked some sass and was beaten thrice!
The angel was about to slay Balaam had he not heeded her advice!"
"A donkey was in the stable when the Prince of Peace was born.
Later to Egypt they fled - on a donkey Mary's Babe was borne.
For entry into Jerusalem, He chose a donkey, a borrowed one at that.
Hosanna! Hosanna! God's Son it was! There he regally sat!"
"We've had astride us preachers, desperados and hardy pioneers,
And have been accused of stubborness driving mankind to tears!
But when all is said and done, we provide reliable transportation,
Getting you slowly but safely to your ultimate destination!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
"Open Skies"
The Sky
is now wide open
Good morning
Sunshine, he says
She
recalls
a dream
in abstract
In clouds, not white
when hearts are darkest
Love arrives
unheralded
on a harsh cold
dark Winter's night
the Sun arrives
promising benevolence
sounding sharp trumpets
a different kind of music
ants scatter under
strange coloured lights
stunned
and love frightened
hearts are opening
in common alliance
caught up
in the open skies
now being earthed in
this epic romance
The dream is silent
egg shell blue
it is cracked wide open
kyrie eleison
a Mass in
Exodus
snow on tongues
burnt manna turns to ash
Rapture arrives
in different colours
In clouds, not white
when hearts are darkest
the
unifying
colour
is -
Rust.
Love
arrives
unheralded
nearly all but forgotten
Prophetic communion
All Souls seen holding hands
hidden in their vessels
of different colours
The dream is silent
egg shell blue
it is cracked wide open
kyrie eleison
Open,
Blue Sky
arrives
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
The Orb - Little Fluffy Clouds
https://youtu.be/8Ecdn5SGT1E
"The hero is one
who kindles a great light
in the world,
who sets up blazing torches
in the dark streets of life
for men to see by."
“Let's go."
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"We're waiting for Godot.”
"Veni Sancte Spiritus".
The word Kyrie is used in the Septuagint, the earliest Greek translation of the Old Testament, to translate the Hebrew word Yahweh. In the New Testament, Kyrie is the title given to Christ, as in Philippians 2:11.
"Angelic Code Sound Healing"
https://youtu.be/8eFoJHjLmyU
"Veni Sancte Spiritus"
https://youtu.be/_m_6Fp9Va0w
Upwards you gazed, poignantly painting me
like no one had before, nor has done since.
Concentric white and yellow circles. Free
of any common bearing or pretense.
I'd seen idyllic villages before -
The steepled church in sacred echo of
the cypress, looking down in fond rapport,
as olive trees embrace the town with love.
But never have I seen hills so inflamed,
nor moon so agitated and insane,
nor indigo sky eddies so untamed;
grappling to find the answers to life's pain.
Vincent, you were art's unheralded prince,
Like no one was before, nor has been since.
(an ekphrasis of Vincent Van Gogh's "The Starry Night")
What if much of life's lost to humdrum world?
To waste get withered when simplest of joys,
Nature's rare scene when finds none of your voice,
Innocent, pure pleasures pass by unfurled—
Beauty of dawns, dusks, daises decked in dew,
Hills and dales crying for our company,
A gentle cool breeze gets when none her due,
And goes unheralded birds' symphony,
Sea bares when breasts to embrace silver moon,
Raw passion peaks of a youthful river,
Clouds play with moon new joys to deliver,
Seasons when change, sun warms when wintry noon.
At home with the ho-hum of humdrum leisure,
Man plays blind to nature's many a pleasure.
_____________________________________________
Sonnets | 05.04.2004, revised Sept 2022 |
Poet’s note: Man seems so much at home with the humdrum of life that he is oblivious of nature’s joys that can excite and inspire him. All he has to do is to be a little more receptive. One gets this impression on seeing the world chasing the ephemeral, fleeting, and man-made joys.
Spring comes
Quietly--
Not with the bleating of lambs or
The tweeting of birds or the
Beating of butterfly wings
Spring comes
Silently--
Celtic through the Neolithic stones,
Unheralded by peering shadow-seekers
Rummaging around on the Second of
February, and unannounced by a
Banner on the front page of the
National Enquirer…
Unpresaged by pregnant April
Showers,
Spring comes--
Alive
Nota bene: This is one of the few pieces of juvenilia I have preserved. It was written when I was at college (the University of Florida), in 1979, when I was in the English Department High Honors Seminar. We had an assignment to write a poem about Spring, but to try not to fall into the usual cliches. I thought it might be fun to mention some of those cliches ironically. We had one-on-one tutorials with a number of well-known novelists and poets; one of mine was with the poet Richard Eberhart. He told me he liked this poem and that it was a good one, so I have kept it these four decades.
UNHERALDED HEROES
Sirens wailing in the night
The scene of the wreck a grisly sight
Wreckage and bodies litter the ground
A small child's toy has just been found
EMTs, their compassion showing
Check each victim, immediately knowing
Not all will make it, they fearfully dread
Some already have been pronounced dead
They continue to work in pouring rain
Their dedication to save lives is vividly plain
As the last victim is taken away
These unheralded heroes kneel down to pray
Across town an eerie glow lights the sky
Flames from a fire are blazing high
Firemen race to the scene in haste
There really is no time to waste
An apartment complex is engulfed in flame
All the haste of the firemen proves to be in vain
As the last victim is taken away
These unheralded heroes kneel down to pray
Policemen are called to a convenience store
Their hearts sink as they walk through the door
The owner of the store is laying dead
From a single gunshot wound to the head
The thief had no concern for the life of this man
Greed was the source of his dastardly plan
As the store owner’s body is taken away
These unheralded heroes kneel down to pray
When next you hear the sirens keen
And the first responders race to the scene
Take a moment out of your busy day
And for these unheralded heroes, kneel down to pray
Curtis Moorman
1 September 2011
Where we are?
State undefined, engulfed in nebulous forms.
Clear Chaos veiling vision – the urge to see beyond.
Amidst life – unheard, unheralded, unadapted.
What are we doing here?
Supposedly seriously defining the dreams.
Disorderliness maintenance or may be paraphrasing togetherness.
Experimenting approaches: didactic, disciplined, distributed.
Why are we doing this?
Passion ignited urge has become a need.
Meaninglessness pinches, thankfully not-numb, 'us'.
Individually juggling – existence, expectations, encumbrance.
Where from here?
Nowhere or the apex.
Compromise undoubtedly cannot be the end-word
To anywhere – without- mediocrity, mid-life, mannequins.
…And so?
Bland paper needs meaningful lines.
Humane words have to rekindle the flow.
The show has begun: destined, determined, devouring.
My seasoned Iroko
The Olumo rock
Of my spine
The one who climbs
Mount Kilimanjaro
With one step
I salute you
Mother,
Whose face is crisper
Than,
Bright, black stars, gold
And,
Precious diamonds of Africa
I salute you
Mother,
Who fearlessly tames fiery furnace
With bare fingers
Who kills one million lions
In a single raid
Quencher and killer of hunger
I salute you
Mother,
Whose slender arms
Are stronger than
The walls of Jericho
The fearless one
Whose Google
Makes men shrink
Between their thighs
The lone ranger
Who goes hunting
Without a gun
But,
Returns with basket
Filled with bounties
I salute you
Mother,
Kind landlady who nurtured me
For nine monthis
Without recouping rent
How can I forget
Your sugar soothing
Lullabies at bed time
And,
Your caressing, warm, tender fingers
Which,
Like the magic of baobab
Heal me from
Sickness and sadness
I salute you
Mother,
Whose dark, impenetrable wings
Immune me from
Sharp arrows of my traducers
Whose,
Angelic smile disarms
More than a billion
Straying demons
I salute you
Sweet, ebony, Mother,
The greatest of the greatest
The unproclaimed, undefeated,
Unheralded and undisputed
Champion of all heavyweights,
Killer and Quencher of hunger,
I salute you!
Static images are entrenched into my neural bank
The vibrations shift the view of the greatroom
Tree trunks become shifty legs
And I'm off again
Soaring with the unheralded wisps of forgotten letters
And the dust clouds of fallen steeples
The shaman in the sagebrush moves with lightning precision
Leaving behind only the fluttering of air
Nothing sacrosanct to shelf or levitate
Only the knowledge of existence to ponder
The sun has ejected a spiral solar flare
That licks a polarized face
And while taking it all in
I see the inner workings of the atoms within the eye of the beholder
What's gotten into your path
What results do you show from its aftermath?
What product incites your euphoric state
What draws you to unheralded whims of ecstasy?
What can relate? Or instead what can equate?
What stems the tide of common decency
What quells the accusations of degenerate
What keeps your mind transcendent
What substance renders you unrepentant
What spark you ignite, what makes you inflate
What consciously pumps up your heart-rate?
What stands as your victory, yet seals your fate
What formulates your inconspicuous move
What serves as the template for your audacious groove
What obstructive passion drains obverse desire
What coincidental consequences lay dire?
What drowns you in mire? What burns you like fire?
What's keeping you compatibly senseless and wired?
What gives you a motivational pull to insane,
What's screaming resistance, albeit in vain?
What's your fix?
I believe that writing is like spilling blood out of the carotid
Onto a canvas of sponge
This sponge can never be satiated
It takes generations and trillions of miles of neurons
Just to make a stain
My marrow is strained in such a glorious fashion
In attempt to produce even more lovely RBC's
So that I may contribute but just a mere speck
On this ethereal construct
Today I saw a man with hollow eyes buying homes with the skulls of rats
These homes onced belonged to living souls
The money machine came rolling in with the disinterest of a cow chewing cud
Masticating the precious juice from the canvas that once served
As a font of energy, an expulsion of electrons, something sacrosanct
To those who felt alive in a world consumed by dead, ridiculous intentions
Now
All of the canvas-blood-sponges have dried out in these places, and
As a result
The universe seems to recoil back in on itself as if in fear of
The disasterous implications
The dust seems to layer the meninges ever so slightly
Until I realize the fact that by doing so, I allow the miscreants running
This synthetic freak show of media pogrom and unheralded greed,
To stand in Pyrrhic victory
Somehow this is all
Compounded with an unaccountable need to accumulate as much
Material nonsense as possible because it helps fill
The inexplicable void
I just want to keep pumping blood out onto this convoluted stage, and
Scream in the ignorant face of the man arrogantly cutting others off
During rush hour as though where he needed to get to was so much more
Important than everyone else's destination
The disconnect is here
Look into the countenances of those around you
Thankfully there are those rare souls you see periodically
With some light left behind those orbs
They haven't been made grotesque by the modern world
They have been spending time with their canvas
The Parting
Something about sadness persists you know,
tearing us apart, unheralded, ironic
and we cannot leave it there alone.
Carried to the grave and home again
its wounded heart beats strong,
enticingly and aching valiantly
for the je ne sais pas quoi of more.
There is a corollary to the grief we own,
an outrage with a wondrous paradox,
not as nepenthe or to minimize a tragedy
but to confirm a deeper triumph
self-interred, and restless for a voice.
For then it is that sensitivity
imparts its truth, the heart may speak
and with a welcome irony, will yet
perform all sadness with a wisdom
gained through thought--we're made
of restlessness, of glory-seeking
for the sake of it. It is
the heights where we belong,
with all the nakedness we are,
and parting tears enrich,
not drain our souls.
One of them, beloved in life,
in death informed me later
that the sight of God was
in the light that shone upon him...
evidence enough for me
that all the sadness there
is solid ground for joy.
~