Best Urns Poems
The Goddess Of Blessed Redemption
She gave me a foundation of love's pleasures
complete with wondrous bountiful measures
she a gentle goddess of golden hues,
swept this heart away, vanquished all its blues.
From a verdant forest spring she arrived
relieving me of life sadly contrived.
None other could love and give any more,
she a goddess sent from paradise shore.
When asked why she came to me to now bless
no words came, my sins too sad to confess.
Yet her Light and Grace healed this broken soul
for this world had taken its heavy toll.
Of Asclepius* blood, healing her art,
body, soul and mind, first target the heart,
faithful daughter, resplendent her warm glow
sent to heal and allow this soul to grow.
She freed my body from its scars and burns
from ghosts of past buried in hidden urns,
the mind confused by treachery and lies
and the soul ready to face its demise.
Her enchanted charm revived my delight
to view the world in a generous light,
for the mind to stand firm, no longer wilt,
with redemption free the burden of guilt.
Once a broken man, forsaken lost soul,
I now stand stoutly with a heart that’s whole.
With Apollo’s blood vibrant are my veins,
by lease of life, released from morbid chains.
Verve restored by Aceso’s healing might
with radiance to end my sorry plight.
Healed with love in atonement of past crimes
with kindness I share life’s eternal chimes.
Collaboration by Robert J. Lindley and Teppo Gren
7-05-2018
(1.) Asclepius*, see note above..
(2.) Aceso’s , ( Aceso (the goddess of the healing process )
(3.)Apollo- Greek Mythology -
Apollo was one of the most versatile of the Greek gods. His domains extended from poetry and music, to light and truth, and archery.
His mother was the Titan Leto, whose tryst with Zeus angered Hera. The Queen of the Gods tormented Leto, sending the monster Python to chase her across the whole world so she could find no safe space to bear her children. However, Leto found safe haven on the isle of Delos and gave birth to Artemis and then Apollo.
*****
Note- With deep gratitude I present this collaboration written with my good friend Teppo Gren. A wonderful friend and truly amazing poet. A sonnet master that awes me with every poem he posts..
Categories:
urns, art, beautiful, imagination, inspiration,
Form:
Rhyme
Early in the mourning she rose
She wood fined her boat
Wear she rose across the see two the sure
Their she mustard all her mite
And toad the boat on the beech
Butt if the thyme was write she tide it two a boy
She could hardly weight
Four she nose she will sea her suite sun
They wood sit on a bolder, brake sum bred
Then they eight a hole pair
Her sun called her a deer
He tolled her when he urns enough doe
Ore got sum tacks witch was dew
He wood by her a flour at the bizarre
Witch could be tide in her hare
The cent of the rows wood bee sew sheikh
One knight he said she wood prophet
If she past buy a different root
He new the currant could get ruff
The whether was no longer fare and getting two chilli
She road away into the missed
Aisle meat ewe next weak he balled until he was horse
He trussed he wood see her next weak
Only Homo’s ‘Aloud’ – Jerry T Curtis
23rd March 2015
~awarded 1st place
Categories:
urns, humorous,
Form:
Free verse
The endgame
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
encrypted alleyways
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
Categories:
urns, death, depression, emotions, grave,
Form:
Free verse
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces"
John Ruskin, 1853
We strolled through the formal gardens,
hand in hand, warm in the rare March heat,
taking in the sights, sounds and smells:
flowing fountains full of fish,
twisted and entwined topiary trees,
showy flowers with such heady scents,
Grecian statues and urns.
Ignoring the crowds, I turned to you
and kissed your smiling lips.
Our kisses growing more
and more passionate,
I suddenly remembered we were in public.
An old woman was scowling
as I stroked your long dark hair.
We held on to one another
and I told you I loved you.
Alas, our love didn’t last,
but those memories are still precious.
Sometimes, I revisit the gardens in my mind
and kiss your smiling lips again.
Jack Horne, 23rd June,
written for Constance’s All The Little Pieces
Categories:
urns, lost love
Form:
Free verse
My soul urns for justice and it’s own freedom why is this sh** keep me awake and everything else continuously makes me break I am demonstrating my fake famous traits amazingly entertaining everyone around me they praise me by keeping my life and my name above importance’s and responsibilities. “Wow”, that’s great THANKS for your thoughts of me and about me I guess this will become a memory some day you’ll repeat this to one of your homies. I guess this is some kind of way you are showing some enemy love. Your always talking sh** about someone you don’t even know personally judge me I guess that’s all you even see or heard from some douche bag you met briefly surprised by my drama you rather be Popperazii then even worry about what’s really going on. On the local hometown news station. And really besides that I guess I keep you up at night or maybe it’s your choice in drug use???? Beats me just stay away from me please. I was board today and decided to write this just for all to see. Desperate and cold cruel is what the world turns and shows our lord what he created all of us to be why or how did you even choose this for me? I’m blessed in many ways but what is with my ex you see he’s a never ending STD which I say this cause he gave me twice. And you see he said he has never cheated on me? I know I haven’t ever had time to even pay attention to another man or woman I was always alone and waiting for him to get off work he made good money got paid every week 300 I began to find out this from his family I don’t understand why we are homeless after 8 mouths I told myself it’s time to move on I’m dumb if I stay and waste my big opportunities. He’s cheated on me and still he lied I know better cause I have proof I know I’m not perfect I have had some mistakes too but I can admit mine I’ve told him in the passed that I’ve cheated but you know he didn’t even believe me. He says I’m not a cheater! He’s right I’m not that’s why I had told him before I acted on my actions He’s a back stabber I regret being his ex and friend....
Categories:
urns, abuse, anger, anti bullying,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !
Categories:
urns, allegory, blue, color, deep,
Form:
Free verse
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
Categories:
urns, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
The Test by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
What’s an antipoet:
a trader in urns and coffins?
a priest who does not believe in anything?
a general who entertains doubts about himself?
a vagabond who laughs at every thing
until old age overtakes him unto death?
an interlocuter of bad faith in a dialogue?
a woman who dances at the brink of an abyss?
a narcissist who loves everybody?
a bloody humourist
deliberately miserable?
a poet who dozes off in a chair?
a modern-day alchemist?
a pocket revolutionary?
a small-time bourgeois?
a charlatan?
a god?
an innocent?
a peasant of Santiago de Chile?
Underline the sentence you consider correct.
What is antipoetry:
a storm in a tea cup?
a sleeve of snow robed round a rock?
a shallow tray full of human excreta
as Father Save-the-Earth believes?
a mirror that tells the truth?
a big slap on the face
of the President of the Society of Authors?
( May God preserve him in his holy kingdom)
a warning to younger poets?
a coffin in river rapids?
a coffin of centrifugal force?
a coffin of paraffin gas?
a burning chapel without a corpse?
Mark with a cross
the definition you consider correct.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Categories:
urns, imagery, imagination, poetry, poets,
Form:
Free verse
All Bottled Up
Bottlenecks are one thing driving down the road
Making one late for work is another
Cumbersome, slow and an all time low
Containers made from glass have their ups and downs
Mostly downs we’re told
Their poisons kill aristocrats, the poor, poets known and unknown
Highs and lows are surely going to come
From bottles filled with rum
At first a happy swirling drunk
Becomes laid out sad and dumped
Delicious wine waits for me when I get home
The matter is getting beyond the cork and glass
Such troubles are these things
Bottles simply have no class and make me wince
To obtain the treasure there within
I have to use the cork screw
But bottle with evil intent conspires with the opener
Will not help me or comply to let me in
What’s the use? A hammer will have to do
Other bottles from long ago held potions, magic, and snake oil brew
Fluids ran wild in the old west causing more deaths than cures for sure
And no one had a clue it was the containers that they used
When shipping bottles made from glass
I have to label “fragile” and send them 1st. class
The ebb and flow and pour from every bottle
Illegal in Prohibition times
Caused many alcoholics to cry
I guess that was a crime
Consumers today can fill their glasses free from thought
From decanters, jars and urns that carry their own weight
Someone with a bottle will always be around though
To hit me on my head for something I might say
And if the bottle breaks, someone, (I'm guessing me), will have to pay
5/19/14 Slamming Battle Round 2 contest
Categories:
urns, conflict, drink, history, silly,
Form:
Free verse
I once awoke in a
Storm of color
When the Persian sky of
Scheherazade made lovers quiver and
Table milk
Spilled in luxury over your
Perfected fingers.
It was only later
When the sweet scent of
Decades dripped from my
Gaping mouth and into the
Wanton cusp of
Persepolis’ urns did I stop to
Ponder your
Magnificence.
Trembling still, I did
Swoon
Not once, Nay
Twice in the
Lore we wrapped so
Neatly beneath that first
Sunrise
Traders
Entwined in our
Foreverness and in the
Oozing chalice of
Wine we
Bore to the
Altar
Categories:
urns, lost love, paradise, romance,
Form:
Free verse
Man of the sea, why are you departing, forever away,
touching a sail on the ship that glides, fading as a wave?
Winds of seas only waving, hugging flags goodbye for the brave.
The sails of your ship are shyly caressing wind at play.
Sorrow hymn is soaring and the grief is rising to the sky;
requiem of songs under the clouds, reminiscent of your ply.
Beyond depths of the ocean, you only become more silent.
In solitude your hardship; also love was born, peace, and strength.
Waves are rising and bowing - you on the ship as an island.
Urns with homeland's soil are swinging slowly to the rhythm.
Earth was bound with the ribbon of the water behind your ship.
The birds flew down on us, in your books of imagination;
there presiding, noble is spirit of right aspiration,
vivid pictures, distant lands - true landscapes. Now awaits a grief,
helm is free: forward, forward, guide to safety ship in distress;
flee from rocks under water far, after thick fog is dispersed.
The drums are playing long, in your honor, quiet requiem song.
Requiem pageant, dark covered in silence standing, all aboard.
Your noble urns of rest are anxious - saluted with the gong.
Enlighten, we shall carry your thoughts to the sides of the World.
Categories:
urns, tribute,
Form:
Verse
Lucidity (A Weavers Sonnet)
My eardrum bounces words like tennis balls,
and gathers urns of grief with mournful walls.
Why must I wrestle with the weight of sound,
why do they lie there like a graveyard mound?
I yearn for substance in selected scripts
designed to frame and fix a furrowed brow;
I pull forth words to rest upon my lips
and dare to harness nouns or verbs to plow.
Yet somehow tangled meanings still occur.
Until the heavens’ gates are flung apart
and every star agleam begins to blur
may lyrics wrap themselves in action’s chart.
Artistic wings may wake a sleeping cur
and stitch the yarn in every reader’s fur.
Categories:
urns, words, writing,
Form:
Sonnet
People come & go, that’s the cycle of life
One minute you know them the next they’re a stranger
Different me’s come & go, that’s the cycle of strife
One minute I know myself, the next I’m a stranger
Lost in limbo, I can’t discern which way to turn
Got 1,000 old me’s on my shelf in different urns
Whippin’ up a new me in my schizophrenic churn
You could say I’m like most things, still to be learned
I don’t think I’ll ever live up to my expectations
It’s just too easy to fall into these temptations
How many of you have felt these frustrations?
One minute I’m a genius, the next I’m an idiot
Every single days a struggle to live deliberate
Maybe I think too much, maybe I need to acquit
Maybe not, I’m just trying to make it all make sense
Where are you, God? I’d love to hear your two cents
I have a lot of questions for you; I’ve been on the fence
Did you create yourself? Where did you commence?
And what’s your thoughts on killing in your defense?
These days, isn’t war in your name just a pretense?
Will we ever understand? Or is it just too immense?
If life was my landlord I can’t say I’d renew my lease
My biggest fear? I’ll decease before finding inner peace
Wish I could go back & hear Socrates & Plato in Greece
Wish I could go back to Galilee and hear Jesus teach
Wish I could go back to 1963 and hear MLK’s speech
Why’s the hardest part practicing what you preach?
If only there were some kind of conscience bleach
Swear I know the right way but still I choose wrong
These inner demons have been at me for oh so long
Maybe I was born in the wrong time, I don’t belong
Lost in trivialities, searching for a way out of the throng
I’m looking to the stars where the Gods sit thru my telescope
I feel small but yet infinite, it helps cope and gives me hope
I like to imagine God’s looking back thru his microscope
thinking: face your woes, they’ll follow you around the globe
and all there is to know is within you, you just have to probe
even the righteous suffer, didn’t you read the book of Job?
and life’s what you make it, a lucid dream, no frontal lobe
Categories:
urns, anxiety, confusion, creation, culture,
Form:
Rhyme
I comprehend the days when rays do shine and Ra does set
When inner soul and façade connect, 24 hours in one day gave me breathe, that’s 1,440
seconds closer to death rather than oxygen left. Aspire to build that dream shape that
atmosphere, win a Nobel peace prize, become Man of the Year
Build homes in the smog inner city ghettoes, where blocks and countenance of lost souls
decay and rust, maybe spread poetry and love as well as a monumental philanthropist,
raise seeds that spread, root, bud fruit, then trees, then yield juice to saturate the Earth
with only sweet organic humanity
Turn impossible into “Can it be” then push shriveling raisons of doubt into the fathoms
of Davie Jones’s locker, to the depths of no man’s land where oxidation and sea level
pressure crush submarines into aluminum cans, cans where can’t conforms to can,
starve doubt and feed your faith, slow and steady wins the race, but more than
anything,, remember without tree-shaking fear, find that passion and equilibrium, killing
opposition and the antagonizing meniscus, swiftly remember that life through birth is not
a boomeranging discus, life never comes back so dream, execute, relax and become
life’s subtle screenplay until the script and its cast wilt into debris of cremated urns
holding dreams, aspirations, and the well worked remains of me.
Categories:
urns, inspirationallife, , cute,
Form:
Rhyme
Within the streets the bodies burned;
No human hand available to put ashes in urns.
What lead to this state was fear, hate and violence.
Rendering everything, normal and known, to utter silence.
Why did this happen? And how could this be?
All that flourished is now decimated, pertaining to society.
Those who ruled shunted their power and that all prevailed.
Bequeathing metal and chemicals to air, the sky and earth were assailed.
The eruptions, aground, incinerated and seared;
Within these milliseconds, Lucifer leered.
Betwixt his lips issued a whisper,
His tongue lolling about in a serpentine slither.
“Mere men need no malevolent coercement,
For evil lurks within their conscious contentment.
The destruction was bestowed upon them and their land,
Not by mine, but by their own hand.”
Categories:
urns, war,
Form:
Rhyme