Best Unwraps Poems
All the fingers wait
raised, spread
and the flexes start
the bends
the creeps and crawls
All the fruit laid before you
the knife cuts
uncovers concealed
scents and flesh
All the linen,
folded in crisp creases
your all-seeing eye
unwraps ruthlessly
one crumb grounded
in one corner
one drop of red
One snowflake carries
so many crystals
inifinitely perfect
They disappear
before you decide to dissect
they don't fear the sharp
but the time
it takes
to slice
***
July 18, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Women in my family
are a poetic bunch…
they are in trance at glimmering sky when
only a blazing red dot visible at vermillion dawn..
they feel mesmerized with
trilling and twittering of homecoming birds at falling dusk.
when darkness descends on mountains, evening breeze
lulls the lustrous petals of purple,
and pink, yellow and maroon flowers.
when fireflies scintillate like diamonds in tiara,
crescent moon inspires them to fall in love..
heart fondly caressed by memories
of untainted youth..poetry of nature unwraps
layers of their
soul
June 15, 2022
For "Women in My Family" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Inspired by the poem of Ellen Bass
One of the many things I love about working in a bookstore is how, every now and then, the magic of the store unwraps…Like the other day when a mother sat in our big chair reading a book…with her daughter seated on her lap.
It reminded me of when I was a little boy sitting atop my mother’s knee…and how the world became a magical place…when she would read to me.
I smiled thinking how, like me, this girl is in for a wild ride…just because of the time her mother took…to introduce her to the wonders…inside the pages of a book.
She’ll learn how a mouse can run up and down a clock…she’ll meet a storyteller named Mother Goose…she’ll learn how a cow can jump over the moon…and what to do with three mice on the loose.
She’ll learn about three pigs…their houses…about some scary brothers Grimm…she’ll learn about a boy who kept crying wolf…and all the trouble that followed him.
She’ll learn a monkey can be curious…how our need for heroes will never end…she’ll learn to say good night to the moon…and how a spider and a pig can be friends.
And the day will come when from her mother’s knee…it will be time to say goodbye…The day she’ll take what her mother has taught her…flap her own wings…and fly.
I imagine every time she opens a book…opens to its wonder, its laughter…its mystery…she’ll smile remembering where it all began…atop her mother’s knee.
So on this day and every day remember…its never too late to start reading…
for inside each book a magical world awaits…
and herein lies the beauty of reading a book…
because…it’s also never too late.
Nocturnal creature signals calm
A tender night that's sure to bring,
The rising scent of dew-laced balm
Where Eagle Owl reels on a swing .
I listen how it yelps again
Through silhouettes of moonlit trees;
From leafy spades along the lane
To pivot ‘round in looped trapeze.
Eyes ebon guard the sky homeward,
Breaking the dark with hushed effect
In changing flight, more than a bird
As feathers sweep like ruffles flexed.
A sight that in my mind I lock
Till night unwraps light dusky shawl,
While I am charmed by whispered gawk
Sweet owlet trills, pervading all.
November Standard Contest, Brian Strand
Reflections of Love
Where are we going, for love we chase
To places unknowing and cannot keep pace
Sometimes fleeting, others at length
Always defeating our will and our strength
It spins like a feather on whirling pond
Fixes no tether and guiles the beyond
It falls from the sky, erupts from the sea
It does not ask why and is never free
It is all around, waiting to link
Not easily found as we may think
A shoulder it taps, direction it guides
Sensation unwraps but destiny hides
It’s hit and it’s miss, so often it tries
With mystical kiss, we don’t realise
Where we are going, for love we chase
A place never knowing, yet long its embrace
For ‘Reflections of Love’ Contest
Poem written 4 March 13 by R D Seal
Sweetheart, a cerebral woman I respect
Enchanted by her month when all life awakes
Smiles from childhood lovingly resurrect
Morning dew, tulip scent, warm days, birthday cake
Italian squeaked from mom, in exciting tone
Delay the kisses and gifts till Dad gets home
Sweetheart- unwraps bows in absolute rapture
Yearly this feeling she attempts to capture!
Love you my Sweetheart-
A. Green
Return Of The Tyke
Tyke, tyke, tyke' they’d chant to bait the bairn.
But insult hurled at Yorkshire folk is water off a back.
Take it, use it, grind it through the crank
As fuel for the fire, grist to mill.
Man as boy the tyke unwraps his bike.
Ride a mile, another ten. No stopping, pumping into the blood.
Cycle, eat, drink. Eat, drink, cycle.
Life’s biggest problem, darkest mood, cured in the turn of a pedal.
Through God’s own country
A yellow jersey pulls a golden thread.
Up fell down dale, through Yorkshire’s warp and weft,
It’s cruelest contours purled,
A bright new yarn weaves into the fabric of the hills.
Past mill, past gate, past pit-head dead, history’s milestones marked.
The ride is metaphor, the towns tell out my story.
Otley, Ilkley, Asgarth, Hawes.
Mum at factory, Grandma, The Black Bull - still standing.
The first sip of warm beer.
Mallerstang, Fleet Moss, Tan Hill.
Simonstone, that teacher, my Dad, Wensleydale and Granddad Thompson.
The Scar, the Cove, the Stang – part of us in every crevice, crook and corner.
Muker, Reeth, Masham, over cattle-grid, up the switch-back,
Buttertubs - Buttertubs - Buttertubs.
Suck at the air, tramp on the pain, tyres spit rubber, spit grit.
It’s all about the climb. Locked in battle against the gradient.
She’s out to hurt us, here to make us suffer.
In sickening waves her sweet call comes to quit, to quit,
To quit this spiritual ascent.
Up ahead, on the tarmac one by one, the giants of the fells swing into sight.
Robinson ‘55, Hoban ’68, doff your cap to Tommy Simpson
And Beryl Burton, she showed the lads a clean pair of heels.
I close the gap and hear them urge: “We too were once like you.
Ordinary.”
My own story is forced out,
Spat through bleeding gums and panted breaths it comes
“I’ll catch you, catch you, catch you.”
In Oxenhope and through Cragg Vale
Spirit generations line the streets “Make us proud son, make us
proud.”
We race by in a flash. As lives lived, as lives past.
One evening,
When final stage is done and life turns back to dust,
Take us back to the mountain top. Pause a moment as the weather turns,
Then set us free in the teeth of a gale.
I’ll call them on, those that struggle through the sleet and hale, soft and
strong.
As I myself, one morning, was called.
© Ben Hodgson 2014
His precious mind she witness
His loving kiss upon his mothers cheek
His eyes as dark and bright as mystery unwraps
A child of love as he holds his mothers hand
A voice every word in perfection of excitment
A thought of every question that he needs answered
The sound of his dreams come alive
The need of protection is so near
The heart that he loves with has no fear
A journey he takes his mother will guide
A moment of doubt she will overide
A time so precious that she will always find
As mother and child are as one
As there love will love
As history tells of mothers and sons
my anonymity is stalking the streets
like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep
into august daylight, filling beat boroughs.
passing the time: digging fake burrows:
motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets:
boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets.
dark corners; alleys; clean and replete.
rowers; faces; kept random, entreat
to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted:
E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted.
marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night
like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight
watching the downpour:
downbeat and worn
like tire-worm whitewalls:
peeling and torn.
the blanched, arched faces
(trampled like elephant’s acacia)
are garnets staring blankly at me
between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece
a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece.
running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps
berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap
from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps.
It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt;
silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.
rain unwraps feelings
exchange of fervent glances
falling in abyss of love?
crimson hued twilight
breeze oozes lemon fragrance
is love ever-lasting? Yes
July 11, 2021
Bite-size Poem No. 17 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
A melancholy feeling flutters in my heart
As raindrops fall gently to nourish my thoughts
As one season arrives and another departs
In a whirlwind of emotions I am now caught
As mother nature changes her mood
Let raindrops fall gently to nourish my thoughts
My disposition changes as I sit and brood
wondering why summer must leave us so soon
As mother nature changes her mood
Autumn unwraps itself like a butterfly from a cocoon
And then its beautiful leaves flutter away
And I keep wondering why summer must leave us so soon
The cool winds of Autumn will soon rule the day
And the brightly clothed trees will then undress
And their beautiful leaves will flutter away
In each season these trees will impress
As a melancholy feeling flutters in my heart
Soon, these brightly clothed trees will slowly undress
As one season arrives and another departs
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Mist veil in haze, winter unwraps,
A rejoice raptures in reverie of spring.
Amber gold touch of Midas perhaps,
Bees and frilled petals in amorous cling.
A mystical harmony of beauty serene,
Magnolia and tulip, hum for butterfly.
Honeysuckle vines, squirrels in between,
Yellows and purple, rose cheeks feel shy.
Like peacocks bloom, begonia and pansy
Palettes of color, lush in vibrant green
Perfumed breeze...cadence lily in daisy
Petunia with marigold, in rollick are seen.
On canvas of soil, lyric paints a picture,
Sprouting prose...to poetry and sonnet.
Sowing seeds of love, Man nurtures Nature
In pride of his sweat, plants glitter on it.
The harvest of hoe, conjures a treasure
In Glory of Garden, life is born to grow.
Landscape of spring, is short-lived pleasure
Maxim of death,.. in summer.., do they know?
20th February 2019
Submitted to Garden Poetry Contest
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Before the breaking, my heart sees
Something beyond my expertise,
And on unknown sunny shores as these
I find my circumstances freeze,
Feelings that make me ill at ease
Wrapped in a reassuring breeze,
A gust that brings me to my knees,
Playing on my insecurities,
World-weary eyes are hard to please;
The wind on my face disagrees,
Unwraps myself and gently frees
The happiness it guarantees.
A chilling degrees,
Paralizing their knees.
Racing to the tower,
That the fire is trying to devour.
Breaking down,
Destroying the town.
Coloring the sky,
As the flames grow high.
The men in yellow,
Trying to help the dear ol' fellow.
That remains trapped,
As the building unwraps.
Heading to the stairs,
Dodging athe burning chairs,
The ceiling colliding in,
Hitting the frightened mans shin.
Dust and ashes,
Giving harsh flashes.
The saviors running through,
Giving the fire something to chew.
Seeing the ash covered man,
As weak as a strand.
Sitting....by the broken down fan.
Taking him over their shoulders,
Advancing away from the fires.
That had the smell of burning tires.
The walls colliding down,
Causing the airs to drown.
Running to the exit,
As the light disappears,
Bringing the outside more tears.
Looking at the flames,
Knowing its just playing games.
Poetry unravels and unwraps my soul in a way
My senses are wildly awake to absorb the sights
and mellifluous sounds of the world reigning my spirit,
My heart opens to the sublime vermillion sky,
To the melody of sapphire waves lapping on the shore,
To the magical harmony of acoustic bird-songs!
My senses are entranced with the chimes of temple-bells,
I am spell-bound, beauty of the Universe becomes mine!