Best Unvarnished Poems
I open the cemetery gate and walk a winding path
the ancient trees sway and reach out for me as I go
I pass mazes of headstones
like time feathered in stone
there is an unwritten absence within me
so many unspoken words
unvarnished words
there are things isolated within my heart
things I need to express
but I feel in my soul that you already knew
how I felt and loved you
though I did not say aloud
I reach the place of tears
the stone that is engraved with your names
I always find the experience spiritual
and feel an otherworldly magic come over me
names and dates in stone
but nothing of the people and bones recorded
we are in different realms beloved
absent from each other
yet connected by a love that death cannot remove
afar, distant, and separate
oh, hope you know how much I loved each of you
each soul unique and beautiful to me
my words are not written but verbally uttered
absent of ego
so, I sit on the grass for many hours
and speak my authentic words
sometimes, we are silent
and I weep with long woven emotions
oh the memories like daggers sting
as birds sing me a beautiful unending symphony
and the wind whistles in the trees
and the leaves murmur as they swirl and twirl
such a peaceful place to rest in peace
I feel your tranquility sublime
I will be with you one day
it is the natural progression of humanity
dust to dust and birth to death
earth to heaven the journey complete
home at last . . .
~ Bygone beauty - the spark still pulsates ~
- quote by poet
Antique and retro
junk or culture?
I bought it
way too expensive at auction
Aging and rusty
Useless
you're probably thinking
A rustic lantern
from the time when kerosene lamps
was the best one had
Timeless design with
soul, charm and uniqueness
Brush and rub
Of sentimental virtues
the need for mercy,
nursing and care
in the hands of love
The beauty is temporarily hidden
will soon regain its former glory
The history of the lamp,
- the unvarnished truth
Brush and rub
03.04.2023
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- 'R' Words - Poetry Contest -
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1st place in the contest
Exposed and bare,
stripped and stark-
a body without a soul is nude...
an unclad essence in the dark.
Unvarnished and unsettled,
raw and unprotected-
me without you- defenseless...
an overt still rejected.
Within my natural modesty,
I've found a reason to be prude-
a manifestation and oddity,
I'm more hidden in the nude.
November 13, 2016
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
In our heads are
two voices.
One is
deceitful,
judgmental...
You're not good enough.
You're not beautiful enough.
You're not strong enough.
You're not lovable.
You're not worthy.
You will fail if you try.
Laugh off these falsehoods
and listen to
the other voice within
that tells you
the unvarnished truth...
You are enough.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
You are lovable.
You are a trophy to be held up high!
You will succeed, every time.
The preposterous fictions many
profess to be unvarnished truth
warp the very fabric of our universe --
cause those long dead to walk among us
through the spectral midnights in our minds.
The bone dust of those past millennia
films our eyes, coats our shelves
of sacred primers, those missals
unquestionable in their catechistic
authority -- so we become
the acolytes of those controllers
who have themselves always been
instructed, conditioned, and suppressed
by generations of such teachers --
through example, reward, or punishment.
Think! Open up your mind!
The truly free do not fear to question
and to decide the truth or falsity
of any proposition, any statement
or assertion and to declare
what they have concluded to be true.
Or false.
I live in a city of a Indian state
where you can discern refreshing greeneries, that accommodate
the kingfishers,Rollers,peacocks,snakes and white cranes
Although rice is the major crop,black lentils,sugar canes
corns,sunflowers and groundnuts are the seasonal crops
Since it is a rainfed area,the agriculture rely on rain drops
Pongal,the three days festival is celebrated in mid-January
for the year harvest,as a thank giving ceremony
The Brihadeeswara temple,inscribed on list of world heritage
along with airavateswara temple,surviving 1000 ages
have convoluted stone carvings and intricate sculptures
reveal our ancient cultures and they are our treasures
I am talking about the beautiful city
Even though it is a city,people's behavior
pretend you to feel like an unrivaled village
The people are more generous and obliging
No religious gap among us,Christians go to mosques
Hindus to churches,Muslims to temples,we are unique
People came from different regions and communities
Nayaks,sauarashtras,marathas savvy the value of unity
and we are living examples of unity in diversity
we follow all the traditions without ambiguity
Tamil is our official language,the name
of city reveals the unvarnished fame
(The Clock and The Reaper)
Time, the adamant adversary
of all that breathes
and all that can be personified
but meets perish
at the end of an arduous linger,
The crowns of eminent royalty,
the sweat of the blue collared,
and the blood of the encumbered poor,
are made equal, and remain
as docile as a sigh within a tornado,
by the unvarnished will of
destiny's most capricious assassin...
Thus all are abated by the face of a clock,
a man made object that mildly frightens
its creator, for it is not the apparition known
as Death, but rather the pretentious beacon
which deftly admonishes his existence, to all
who wish to prelude his inevitable convocation,
Yet none triumph in eluding the bullet of his
touch or the chill of his paralyzing presence,
for he is a being untainted by remiss
Together, the clock and the reaper,
are bound by nature, a mother who
bore them within the same breath,
and binds them without ramification,
for once one is piqued by a name,
the other is given purpose, thus the verve
of the artist, and the scientific mind become
nothing again, and the sanctimonious platitudes
of the churches, are silenced,
along with the indiscretions of the sinners,
Therefore, as time and death are capacious
beyond infinity, neither will rest until starved
by an impasse, thus the parable remains pertinent
to all, cherish each minor moment of life,
live with the dreams of adolescent imagination,
and love with a degree of unforgettable compassion,
which can never be made mortal, and by definition,
shall forever remain impervious to death's hand,
and always pass the test of time.
A dash of wood varnish
A- twiddle-lee-dee
A coat of wood polish
A-twiddle-lee-dum
An Easter red bonnet
A twiddle-lee-doo
We shall be
Like unvarnished wood
Blessed by the carpenters hands
Then, he shall smooth out the rough edges
As each morning goes, I shall remember you,
when life was beautiful and simply unvarnished
I shall remember you when each day unwinds,
with memories of dances among our garden's flowers
As we became lovers through twlight
I shall remember you in each season
when the sunsets change a rainbow's hue
and kisses caused time to slowly still
I shall remember you in times of laughter
when every smile was quickly caught
then woven into baskets filled with love
I shall remember you in quiet gentleness
holding every fiber of life until you left
still holding my hand
I shall remember you each time I cry in the darkness
and open my soul to let your memory breathe
as the days turn to tomorrow and yesterdays wane
As each morning goes, and each day unwinds
I'll remember you
When life was beautiful and unvarnished
when we knew only love
I'll remember you, I'll remember you
Inspired by Pastel Reflections by Kevin Kern
contest Pastel Reflection
sponsor Craig Cornish
A PLACE IN THE SUN
Through each disconcerting walk of life
Till all my explorations cease
All the vulnerability I’ve got culminate
I have lost the kiss of peace.
In a place next to the sun I gladly soar
Hoping to be near God, ending my inner war.
I loathed my ostentatious life
Yearning, in spite of all my fears
Land me safe in a place next to the sun
Where I can purify my eyes with fresh tears.
With every word said and every cruel thought
I atone to those who my cruel deeds had bought.
My heart has been completely crumpled
In vain my love with exertion broke free
Unvarnished truth should be my salvation
Seeking the lost emotions, to comfort Id.
In a place next to the sun I dream of going
Where all past transgressions shall be foregoing.
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
MY SCORPIO CHARACTERISTICS
I don’t believe in astrology these days
But I believe in my wife, and she says
October 25 is in the middle of the stinger’s ways.
Generous with my love, money, equipment, stuff;
But possessive, and unwilling to share problem or triumph.
Jealous and self-blaming - always biting my own tail deadly and curled,
seeking a round unvarnished tale of perfection in this imperfect world.
Intelligent, with brains to burn - combustion-free cogitation.
Intense, I even relax intensively - high-speed industrial relaxation.
Secretive, my left hand knows not what’s in the right hand’s palm:
My agitated mind knows nothing about this poem’s balm,
It was written by the heart entirely calm.
. . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .
NOTE
My birthday is October 25. No cards please . Just send US dollars in large
denominations and large quantities.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck for nette onclaud's Contest ZODIAC ZONES
You're bracing for
the hubristic lecture
it's not here
The crux:
unvarnished understanding
of how blacks see
their outlook for life
Only narrow options:
they can give in, go through
or go around - a predicate path
Try to feel what it's like
to be born black today
soul-deadening suppression
systemically smothers patience
Crime, drugs, gangs,
rebellious pride seem
viable options for those
who may not see thirty
four thousand lynchings in
Jim Crow South till now
do lives matter
Blacks feel the constant fight
Blacks feel identity loss
Blacks feel crime gives cover
Blacks feel numbing is okay
Blacks feel tribal is safe
Blacks feel whites are asleep
Anthropologists say humanity
has Nubian origins
from the beginning we are one
Gandhi, Mandela, King
were proponents of
compassion, forgiveness, love
some whites reciprocate with
ignoring, masking, denial
too few understand
Blacks feel trapped
When mum would talk to other folks about her family,
She’d always speak particularly proudly about me …
Of how I’d gone to grammar school, my bookish ‘steel-trap’ mind.
To hear her, you would think I was a boon to all mankind!
It should have made me happy to have such a super Mum …
So why did I feel sheepish, and fat, and gross, and DUMB?
Why could I never say to any person how I felt,
Or tell them how I wished the ground beneath me would just melt?
Could it have been because I sensed that, under Mother’s pride,
The plain unvarnished truth was, she was never satisfied?
Did she feel that I’d let her down by being fat and clumsy?
Or was it that I loved my Dad more than I loved my Mumsie?
For, truth to tell, that was a fact. For all she wished it other,
I loved my father in a way I never could love Mother.
I do know she was jealous of the love between us two …
She let it slip in ‘chance’ remarks such as “Who’d look at you?”
“Your skirt’s too short!” “You’re much too fat!” and far unkinder slurs.
She saw me as a rival for his love, that should be hers.
She never learned the secret. No, she never found the key –
That he loved me just as I was, not “How I ought to be … “
The tragic thing was, we loved her in just that same way too.
We tried to show it, but poor Mum could not believe it true.
So, after all, it wasn’t me who wasn’t good enough –
No-one could satisfy her, not a soul could measure up.
For Mum had never loved herself: she’d never felt worthwhile.
That was the truth behind the boasts: the tears behind the smile.
She couldn’t let herself be loved. She never could perceive
True love can never be possessed, but it must be received.
I feel so sad to think of how she wasted her whole life
Pursuing love, in such a way all she could cause was strife.
By fighting hard to keep us, she was driving us away.
If only she could let us go, perhaps we would have stayed …
But now I am determined not to make the same mistake.
From now on, I shall give love, and accept love, but NOT TAKE!