Best Unwrapping Poems
A unicorn took flight with brilliant, rainbow wings
ascending from the heart of a joyous poet.
Dark eyes shined like jewels, smiling from high,
parting dark clouds and unwrapping gifts of
love and friendship. Words of light and purest
energy reached to heaven on a spiral staircase
where blessed angels extended hands of healing
to a poet's heart. They know her well, her hands are creators
of many a masterpiece - sharing, befriending, inspiring, encouraging -
soulful in words and action, passionate in her artistry,
selfless of her time...see how her admirers crowd around
as the unicorn descends once again from her rainbow flight?
All wait with feet on the ground, sharing prayers, asking the angels
to sing so she may feel and know she is not alone.
Never, ever alone in the fight. Too many of us have been
where she has been, felt the darkness pierce our hearts.
With hope and faith, the sun will shine again. The angels will sing.
She will ride that unicorn again and share her poetic heart again,
smile again, laugh again, teach and inspire.
She is more than just PD, she is Linda -
friend, daughter, mother, grandmother, nurturer -
The darkness cannot have her. She is needed in the light.
for Shadow Hamilton's Fighting Depression Contest, 12/1/14
Ambling in the charm of Tidal Basin
We hold hands with a lilac morning
Long before it pleads with the sunrise
To sparkle the view of a purple dawn
Saddled in the daze of hazy fog.
Strolling under gleam of a starry night
Along the trails of romantic banks
We handed the new-day to misty sight
Coating the blooms in lavender hues
Seducing the motifs love subscribes.
Dawning deterred by thick overcast
Defiantly rises on the golden skyline
Unwrapping monument's foggy attire
Shimmering beneath the lowly tides.
In awe of its luster we lose ourselves
Hanging on the vertex of rising flame
As a passionate kiss of avid romance
Attunes two hearts to infant-daybreak
And the horizon blushes end to end.
September 17, 2018
Poem of the day on September 19, 2018
Placed first in Late September Standard Contest by Brian Strand
NOTE:
Sunrise at the Tidal Basin in Washington D.C. The photo shows cherry blossoms with a purple tinge and the partially covered monument in early morning fog.
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
and once in my bed,
no visions of anything
danced in my head.
The night – uneventful -
no kids bothered me.
No sound of small feet
rushing out to the tree!
My husband lay snoring
at least until ten.
I put on some TV
just waiting for when
my daughter, her spouse,
and their kids (older now)
would show up for dinner -
the meat from a cow!
No turkey, no ham.
I much prefer beef.
My son-in-law’s vegan.
I’d feed him a leaf.
There’s not much unwrapping
of gifts any more.
It’s more likely gift cards
that teens all adore.
Gift cards for movies
or things at some store
and inside of envelops,
money galore.
Gone are the days
of wrapping all night
toys for the kiddies,
and I guess that’s all right.
It sure took forever
to have to exert
energy wrapping. . .
it made my back hurt!
But in a few years,
wee girls and wee boys
(great-grand-kids) I’ll see
ripping wrapping off toys!
Dec. 2, 2019 for Joseph May's the 'The Night Before 2' Poetry Contest
He poked the sleepy fire
Then sat back in his chair
Removed his reading glasses
Brushed back his cotton hair
A quick glance out the window
Wishing for a reprieve
Hoping someone might drop by
On this lonely Christmas Eve
He heard some people caroling
Strains of "Oh Holy Night"
Gave his dog a pat
Eyes watered at the twinkling lights
The fire crackling, glowing red
Tired eyes of a similar hue
He drifted off to sleep
To the silent late night news
While the old man slept
An angel came a calling
She lightly kissed his head
In dreams the snow was falling
He saw a little boy
In pajamas all excited
A Lionel train circling the tree
A new bicycle parked beside it
The stockings hung the night before
Were stuffed with candy and treats
Everyone was unwrapping gifts
Their love providing the heat
His mom was there on the sofa
Her face so young and pretty
His Santa Clause dad, passing out presents
Trying to be joyful and witty
He saw his brother and sister
A long ago Christmas day
Sharing an old fashioned Christmas
In their family old fashioned way
As he dreamed he began to smile
The angel was standing by
She bent to kiss him again
A tear escaped her eye
The old man sagged in his chair
A big smile on his face
There would be no more lonely Christmases
They were together again in one place
by Daniel Turner
Unwrapping you
With pure delight
Placing you in my mouth
Velvety smooth
A subtle seduction
Melting effortlessly
In the heat
Of my oral ******
An indulgent treat
So succulence and sweet
An addiction or temptation?
Sucking eagerly
Seduction of the senses
Devouring
All I can have, in this moment!
The wetness of my tongue
Searching, my sugar sweetened lips
For the ever lasting remnants
Of a 'Hershey Kiss'
Comes now the hush of white flowers
as borealis crawls into the night,
my spirit enfolding light
of incandescent earthly bowers...
clayed marbles tint the hours
dazzling me with budding sprite,
comes now the hush
And to feel sand and air in a weave
the unwrapping of moon is bright,
my breath and fire swoon to recite...
"dear inner god, grant me reprieve,"
comes now the hush
For Contest No 210 of Brian Strand
Repost/ Sept 24, 2016
-----------------------------
*Rondaine form: rhyme scheme
of a.b.b.a.a.b.R. a.b.b.a.R. ( similar to rondeau)
Being a bountiful Coffee tree
I have a privileged status in my country
Aside from being functionally free
I’m sought-out as Christmas fixture for December glee.
Every year, I’m a decorated Christmas tree in an Orphanage-home
And I’ve witnessed love, exercised inside compassion’s dome
Along kindness with packed gifts upon comfort’s foam
For youth who once in the streets did wantonly roam.
Delighted am I to behold blessings shared and given
Making abandoned kids receive provisions in their new-found haven
Merrily unwrapping presents tied with care, constantly proven
From donors contributing cheerfully, verily joy-driven.
In my commitment for yuletide holiday's celebration
I stand with the conviction to serve my purpose, full of jubilation
Doing my role that in my beauteous fortification
Special children courageously smile midst their difficult situation.
“Oh, Christmas Tree*…” I hear such song addressed to me with prayer-ray
An ode acknowledging my usefulness in blissful triumphant way
Not only as a Christmas celebration-display
But most of all, to honor the Creator in my tasks every day.
*Judges 9:9 But the olive tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honour God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?
December 12, 2018
12th place, "Screwed XIX" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Rob Carmack; judged on 1/2/2019.
I notice the single placemat within the circle of noise,
Placing my phone on the cluttered side plate,
I can feel the Christmas spirit resonating through,
The crowd of extended families unwrapping each other’s joy,
A tear drops onto my unused napkin,
My mind races with memories of family togetherness,
The phone reminds me of the unsent WhatsApp messages,
I spot the waiting team slalom through the chairs,
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a waiter offering me the red, white, or rose wine,
I must have blanked out for a quick second or two,
As for some reason I chose the red wine,
I’m not a big fan of red wine,
I notice something unexpected,
A noise behind my ear struck me subtly,
Hesitantly I turn towards the surprising situation,
“Would you like to join us?” A lady to my left asks alongside her children,
Tears flood my unconscious shirt,
“No-one should be on their own” another added “Join us!”
I graciously accept after they make the decision for me,
They share that they are from Lincoln,
As they collectively lift the small square towards their table,
I can’t believe the surge of care that I’m being shown by strangers,
Stories were poured as the red wine wrote the words to a great Christmas Lunch,
I laughed to many a tale about their previous Christmas trips,
Smiles simmer in this cauldron of enjoyment,
The red wine even produced miracles,
Overcooked beef became irrelevant in the cape of chuckles,
To be included in such a positive way, real and not in a forced manner,
Opening the door to showcase the missing piece on the mantle of Christmas,
I’m glad I chose to go down the stairs,
I felt a little overwhelmed by all the morning family togetherness being showcased,
But my faith in humanity has been restored,
As long as the flickering light within the hand of Christmas remains,
I will try my best to rise to most challenges,
As today a small gesture had a hugely heartwarming effect,
A large impact that will not fade in time.
Every year with Christmas coming in a park near Forest Lake,
the Lion’s Club and Rotary Club help to add to Christmas cheer
by organizing something special for the district to partake,
along with all the different church leaders mingling with us here.
There are many, who like me, that never see the inside of a church,
so there is rarely any contact with the folk who speak for God,
but on the special day of mingling, nobody has to search
to find any church’s leader or junior members of their squad.
And when I was in a lookout that held a calming water view,
as well as glancing back upon a loud and happy Christmas crowd,
I could feel what a Christmas means to all these gathered folks I knew,
and to be amongst a combined throng makes one feel a little proud.
I was joined up in the lookout by a chuckling jovial pair,
who decided here with me was quiet enough to lunch and swap a tale.
They introduced themselves to me as Rabbi Spitz and Father Hehir,
before unwrapping their sandwiches and pouring tea that looked like ale.
Their banter was relentless as they tore apart each others habits,
and mentioned hidden skeletons that would curl the devil’s hair.
I learned that Priests are only human and Jews can breed like rabbits,
before debating turned onto a sandwich that sat on the table there.
Father Hehir opened up one sandwich before he taunted Rabbi Spitz,
“this smoked baked ham is delicious, you really ought to try some,
but your religion won’t allow that; pick up some in your mitts;
you don’t know what you’re missing; go on, it won’t hurt you to succumb.”
But Rabbi Spitz just shook his head, and left the Father babbling on.
“I can’t understand your thinking, smoked baked ham is beyond compare,
so Rabbi, when are you going to reject, your religions con?”
Then Rabbi Spitz smirked with a winner “At your wedding Father Hehir.”
The indelible stamp
of my favorite aunt
my birthday gift arrived
seven months late
Yet unwrapping the newspaper
was well worth the wait
Though the fruit cake was moldy ~
The ‘London Times' was first-rate
Unwrapping the Hershey's miniature
semi-sweet dark chocolate
longing for the delicate taste
remembering how the last one tasted
and then
love like chocolate
taste sweet
sticks around
and lingers upon the lips
I'm not sorry
For what I do
I'm not sorry
For saying #!&% in public
I'm not sorry
For speaking the truth
I'm not sorry
That you can't handle it
I'm not sorry
For just saying that
I'm not sorry
That I can't always please you
I'm not sorry
For speaking my mind
And standing up for what I believe in
I'm not sorry
For being too loud
I'm not sorry
That I will never quiet myself for you
I'm not sorry
That I will never fit into your box
The perfect little package
You wrapped yourself
So I would look prettier
I'm not sorry
For unwrapping myself
And showing everyone who I really am
You see I'm not sorry
For standing here vulnerable
Completely open and unapologetically myself
Sharing my story
I'm not sorry
If if makes you cry, laugh, get angry
Or if you don't even react at all
I'm not sorry
For anything I do
Because the moment
I start feeling sorry
Is the moment
I stop making a difference
It must have been around 1967, a Christmas that
feels like yesterday. Funny thing though, I don’t
remember unwrapping it, I don’t remember jumping
for joy, but I’m certain I did. With five children we
didn’t think of asking Santa for more than one gift.
Oh, there were always more gifts under the tree,
ones from our grandparents and of course mom
and dad. But that one, the one you wished for
was never knitted socks or mitts or anything
you wear, it was something special like
a toy or game. This one year the gift of all gifts
came to me. We always visited relatives and
good friends and I remember taking it with me.
I see it in my hands as I sat with my very own
transistor radio in the quiet corner listening to
the Boston Bruins playing hockey with my
hero number 4, Bobby Orr. I had a ten year old
girly crush on him and I was in heaven that night
every time the announcer said his name. Many
Christmases have come and gone since then, but
the memories of that radio with an antenna and
two turning knobs I will never forget.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
11.30.2014
Contest: Hush of Christmas Past
1st
Unwrapping both a blessing and a curse, extracts
Love’s essence painting souls and framing them abstracts.
Too brazen into Jung’s collective we were when,
Our fists were punching holes up through the floors of Heaven.
We knew the fools from those among the wise who cherish,
But that denying harlot Fate, had to be selfish.
Now under burden of this heavy and cruel loss,
Pain’s pressing pitch to blacken the abandoned cross.
Among the broken pieces that will fall this way.
The mausoleums that will be cap stoned today.
In paper coffins lay the letters of their last,
To reconcile this day, or others from the past.
Possessions that become departing gifts to friends.
A rotting, cold corpse they will be, when passed again.
Those stalking zombies out of reach and courting hate
Caressing defense of an unforgiving state.
Must they forget the lover’s pages bled in ink.
Escape in substance high, and falling drunk in drink.
As desperation quickly fills their beds with drones.
The futile chains attempts, when weakness is alone.
To look again to see the gift from ending’s split.
A testimony of a truth embracing it.
For what this life has taken, in return, it gave.
Event Horizons welcome us beyond the grave.
Some morsels kept out of the ruins of our dreams.
A loving Christ’s hands will to heal and stitching seams.
His wisdom and his patience walking me still slower.
His ways are guiding me, in these, the years to over.
The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant,
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.
The old New Hampshire Red was up last night,
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops,
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.
Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria;
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore
before morning forage,
and gaiety commences.
Brown skinned pickneys,
like the color of the Balaclava clay,
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names.
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.
Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies,
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas;
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown,
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain.
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.