Best Vales Poems
There's an obscurity on the threads of darkness
dare I peer beneath the starless shroud of midnight's veil
as I walk through the misty breath that beclouds my vision
in hopes it leads me to the temple of your soul? My dearest
my comfort is there, yet I feel a quivering in the flames
beneath these gusts that prevail through inaudible voices falling
winded in the distance where these shadows walk between us
I feel discernment in memories as these bony fingers reach out
my heart shudders beneath the orchestra of night as it beckons
a samba from the angel of death as it spans its wings before me
I shiver breathless in its cold as the flames grow dimmer
yet this time love, I fear for you as dissolution ascends above me
Muddled mind ventures through vivid vales of scepticism.
Slowly subsiding to my knees under the shadow of moonlight,
crows gathers as helpless hands clench decomposing soil.
Sapless lips gasp for oxygen, shivering in illusory mistiness.
Death's harbinger stands before me, an uninvited hooded eclipse,
holding me prisoner, strangling my soul with naked tree tendrils.
In silent steps he walks towards me, I have no will left to fight.
He has no mercy, content on me kissing the mouth of the earth.
Words hidden behind metaphors, surface upon shores of regret,
flashbacks are like daggers, reminders of unspoken, unwritten words.
My love mourn for me not, as I fall into the graveyards of poets,
in death we still connect, as my words will always live through you.
Silent One collaboration with Sandra Adams
13 October 2019
There's an obscurity on the threads of darkness
dare I peer beneath the starless shroud of midnight's veil
as I walk through the misty breath that beclouds my vision
in hopes it leads me to the temple of your soul? My dearest
my comfort is there, yet I feel a quivering in the flames
beneath these gusts that prevail through inaudible voices falling
winded in the distance where these shadows walk between us
I feel discernment in memories as these bony fingers reach out
my heart shudders beneath the orchestra of night as it beckons
a samba from the angel of death as it spans its wings before me
I shiver breathless in its cold as the flames grow dimmer
yet this time love, I fear for you as dissolution ascends above me
Muddled mind ventures through vivid vales of scepticism.
Slowly subsiding to my knees under the shadow of moonlight,
crows gathers as helpless hands clench decomposing soil.
Sapless lips gasp for oxygen, shivering in illusory mistiness.
Death's harbinger stands before me, an uninvited hooded eclipse,
holding me prisoner, strangling my soul with naked tree tendrils.
In silent steps he walks towards me, I have no will left to fight.
He has no mercy, content on me kissing the mouth of the earth.
Words hidden behind metaphors, surface upon shores of regret,
flashbacks are like daggers, reminders of unspoken, unwritten words.
My love mourn for me not, as I fall into the graveyards of poets,
in death we still connect, as my words will always live through you.
A Collaboration with Silent One~
Harken...those hollowing drums
Over cold vales so beat,
Exhorting a multitude of glistening
Star-tipped spears,
As marching over shattered landscapes
In shinning replete:
Crunch Artumes eternal legions
Across the snow bound years.
Casting down from the mauve
And cloudless heights
The pale witch broods upon her dark
runes;
Chilled breath steaming mutterings
Of meddling spite,
Uttered under Luna risings
Of half waxen moons.
Repulsed from the presence
Of the holy alters sacred glow,
That cuts like a torch
Across Yules Feast of Lights,
She incants of harsh Boreas
To relent his fierce blowes:
Raising high her crystal towers
To breach the walls of stilled night.
Tis now, away from cheery hearths
And the warm fires they keep,
That warring frost tightens
Upon this hardened land;
Happily sated people
Turn in contented sleep;
Motionless vapours are crushed
In the grip of an iron clad hand.
For as the siege heightens
In relentless might
Heavens wheeling sentinels
Begin to slowly withdraw:
Retreating upon spiraling orbits
Fading from diminishing sight;
Ghostly armies embarking
For far frozen shores.
Loosen now the silver longships,
Afloat on tides of drawing moonlight,
For the Red Goddess slumbers
In deep canyons to the west;
Artumes armies sailing
Into grey dawns fleeting respite...
Awaken... Oh Glorious Aurora...
Scattering your foes -
Before Sunrises conquest!!
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
I think I made you up inside my head.
-Sylvia Plath
I see no reason to rhyme,
but an aching heart,
stranded in the midst of nothingness,
as quill rests in a nameless
coffin, like a trembling corpse.
Words woven in tears
glisten like rain,
amidst rustic pages
within a book of bleeding ink.
While
I, the deep darkness,
ponder, would the moon
ever grieve for the sun,
or will she allow waning
stars to abandon
her doleful realm?
As her face
shifts and turns through
phases of changes-
and her soul like
the weary winter,
withers into white-washed wounds.
I am the hazy mirror to
a lunar goddess.
There shadows betrayed
this cruel conscience,
roaming within forlorn vales,
swirling through a woeful wind,
to nocturnal sonatas.
My mind nestles like
a raven resting
at the treetop,
calling your name into
frozen oblivion,
laced in secluded silence,
echoing amidst obsidian fears.
What would they know
of tainted tales,
obscured within the
mellifluous sound of splitting rain?
I am throned to a fallen sky,
drizzling thorns and splinters
upon bruised toes.
Remember, I love you,
through dreams and more,
stretching my fingers
to your silvery spheres.
Now your palette of romance
paints a blurred portrait
of hallowed misery;
dreams forgotten with time.
There’s no perfect
pigment to correct
my insomniac frame
but metaphors to lure me
back to a colorless
castle above satanic seas.
I’m dancing with demons;
as the pain you’ve fed me,
rushes through chained chambers.
Tonight, the storms may seem calm,
like forests awaiting for a trail
of redolent rainbows,
to flicker upon mourning meadows.
Tomorrow, when I slumber
six feet beneath breathing fiction,
will you rewrite cruel convictions,
that stole my purpose to live?
Maybe darkness sparkles upon
rich rivulets of rippling regrets,
so the cosmos would allow the moon
to rise and beam brighter than
the selfish sun.
Let this poem be the last
amulet to sorrowful sagas,
as I untangle your vines
suffocating my final breath,
this is the eternal demise—
I’m dying before your dead eyes.
I am like faded leaves,
beneath my frail feet,
failing your forbidden name
that crushed the petals of
blossoming hopes,
dusted with dark
obsidian nightmares,
enclosed in
seeds of discontent,
sprinkled by sleeping
black dragonflies,
resting on fruitless twigs,
in vales of solitude.
Perhaps nature too
feels the pain I’ve been
carrying when
invisible thorns pierce
my fragile heart,
to leave me bleeding epitaphs,
of dead dreams like
an endless waterfall,
streaming venomous words,
swallowed as bitter truth,
learned through brutality.
Here I am, writing a
letter from the grave;
in a casket of chaos;
like the flower I once
used to be,
lost and withered,
beneath clouds of misery.
But skies are no longer
my comfort, and the moon
has forgotten the
healing anthem.
Hell is empty
and all the devils
are here, strangling me-
mocking the dead,
with fiery chains of anger,
that shackle me,
as I lay my hair down,
on all the blood soaked
daggers that stabbed me.
So let me sway,
to the sanctimonious
rhythm of reaper’s rhapsody,
for pain is my testimony,
that I shall heed,
whilst fallen angels
chant across the
ceremony of betrayal,
allowing my fears
to rest in peace,
no longer having to
look back for a
final bullet from
the familiar faces that
deceived me in my
walk of faith,
as luminescent spheres
are full of astroblemes,
showing me how
destiny is not on my side.
And everything I love is burned
into timeless sands of
scars that still sting.
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
emotion and tears
the voice of a rising star
time stops in its tracks
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To those who love classical. On hearing this 15 year old sing.
Her name is Sislena Caparossa. Listen to her on this link:
http://www.lavozdegalicia.es/video/informacion/2013/05/13/canta-sislena-ganadora-tu-vales/00311368437203459593206.htm
Effervescent laughter blows over vales
then falls soft to glaze new blooms posed genteel.
Gracious stems lift smiles to foamed skies surreal,
riding on sunrays of shimmery sails.
Splendid dreams bubble up from blossoms bright,
a sparkling scene as petals parade ‘round.
Cushioned on spring breeze, love waits to be found;
warm thoughts of you fly then burst in midflight.
Light bubbles join hands to soar through puffed clouds
winking at flowers in latest spring styles.
Their joy christens lands once silent for miles;
orbs popping with flair in breath’s blooming shrouds.
Laughter lifts skyward, an aerated tale,
of bubbles blown high above blooming vale.
3/25/15 for Olive's Blossoms and Bubbles Contest
A dragon's scale reflects the rounds of time
her heart, the subtle beat of love sublime
a secret kept in smoke and ancient bones-
a tale best told in whispered lines of rhyme.
She flies the crystal skies in silent tones
a burning hope of love is all she owns
forgotten visions lost in endless tales
and buried deep beneath the cobbled stones.
Remaining true beyond the mystic vales
her longing for soul's kinship never pales
though crushing eras weigh upon her name,
her eyes still scan the blue where hope still sails.
The day will dawn when once again her flame
will blaze along the sky and one will tame
rebellious spirit, and her heart reclaim
from solitude's dark grasp to light's domain.
Winged Steeds of Mist
Out in the vales of freedom,
of rippled hills and plunging canyons,
there is nought but wind
to carve through the wild horse
Light mane, nostrils flared,
veins like sacred rivers;
heart with a hawk spirit
flight strikes music from
bright pinioned hooves
Coats of shimmering autumn,
pied shadows, blinding snow
Time and mist have scribbled fear
into the sinews
Winged at the first breaking
sounds of intrusion
fear of capture awakens a scream
far older than the sound it emits
escape,escape
pound,strive, wild horse
snort fire and acquire
the secret of flying
Autumn teases the last cinnamon leaves
clinging to branches with amber fingers.
Seasonal change awakens Nature's thieves,
a wafting breeze that doggedly lingers,
stripping trees bare; a scene that sadly grieves.
Fall sings in a rhythmic glissando voice
announcing it's time that she takes the helm.
We acquiesce, given no other choice.
She reigns over Indian Summer's realm,
painting meadows and vales as we rejoice.
Acorns are gathered by hoarding squirrels
who scurry to find the tasty jewels,
cherishing them as valuable pearls.
As north winds blow, the temperature cools.
Chimney smoke drifts in white ribbons and curls.
Time for harvesting ripe apples for pies.
Halloween pumpkins are put on display.
Carefully, we watch Autumn's sullen skies
Clouds grow heavy, in shades of nimbus gray.
A gaggle of geese in migration, flies.
Autumn dresses herself in wrinkled gown.
Ruffled skirt in hues of crimson and gold.
Bodice in ochre, trimmed in walnut brown,
a russet cloak worn when a chill takes hold,
woven from wizened leaves that tumbled down.
July 13, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 1 Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Originally posted in September 2021
"It is almost impossible to watch a sunset and not dream." – Bern Williams.
The spacious vales shimmered in crimson hues
The tired, reddish-orange sun tinged the sky,
As it yearned for rest and descend
Into the darkening horizon below.
There, the soothing river flowed, calm and serene.
No boats sailed the tranquil, gentle waters.
Some birds drifted on its current; others flew above.
Not far away, a dilapidated bridge crossed
From one side to the other, where a person
Stood still, eyes fixed on the cerise horizon.
Along the dark river bank, green trees
Seemed to sway slightly in the light night breeze.
A picture of calm portrayed the scene.
And so, I painted and dreamed.
Placed 1
In 1890, cowboy Bob Womack found gold at the base of lofty Pikes Peak!
In short order a ramshackle town was founded called Cripple Creek.
Hordes of gamblers, 'soiled doves' and prospectors hopin' to make a buck,
Heeded the call of 'Pikes Peak Or Bust' and fled west to try their luck!
This 'peaked' the interest of a young Hoosier feller named Oliver Pence,
Who ordered a shovel from the Sears Roebuck Catalog for eighty-seven cents.
(He called Cripple Creek, Cripple 'Crick' since that's how Hoosiers speak!)
He strapped the shovel to Fred his mule and headed west his fortune to seek!
Oliver staked his claims and his shovel left many a diggin' 'long the way.
His shafts and holes in the hills and vales can be seen to this very day!
He'd found a few nuggets and a bit of dust but didn't 'mount to much.
What he did find he'd blowed on gamblin', whiskey, wimmen and such!
Often, he'd lean on his trusty shovel and muse 'bout his fate.
He talked to the shovel, sayin, "We ain't had much luck as of late.
We'll winter in the cabin and come spring we'll continue our quest;
I'll strap you on old Fred and we'll head fer them hills to the west!"
Seasons came and went and Oliver wasn't seen 'bout town much anymore.
On a cold and dreary day, friends found him stiff dead on the hovel floor!
They dug his grave with the shovel and buried him outside the cabin door.
Six feet down the old shovel struck gold - the lode he'd been a-lookin' for!
My spirit flew away to far off lands,
travelling over hills and vales,
o'er seas and deserts dry,
until it arrived high
on a cold chain of ridges,
where soft winds caressed my face,
freshness embalmed my inner self.
Perhaps that's why I saw her there, alone
lying on her back, gazing up at the sky
savouring the exquisite joy of silence.
For in that treasured tranquillity
dreams have room to spiral
from the depth of her eidetic memories
renewed and revived, never forgotten.
Out of that quietude she heard
the soft voice of her essence,
reflections of her life,
the joys of motherhood,
the fulfilment of love,
the pangs of parting,
the pain of illness,
the weakness of humanity,
the dreams and emotions
that ebbed, flowed and ebbed again.
I knew she left her home town
deserting her desolate living
renouncing all the humdrum of city lights.
No wonder she flew away
seeking refuge on a mountain side,
above a cascade of water,
lying on the sweet grass
that bordered the lonely stream.
For here she was at peace.
Relief tears trickled down her cheeks:
she could never really forget.
My spirit felt for her for I could feel
that deep inside her was beauty never bound.
I knew despite her tears,
she was happy there:
oh, that she could remain
on that pretty mountain nook
holding tight to hope:
happy amongst the heather
near the tumbling brook
for ever and evermore.