Best Veined Poems
"Blind Man Turns"
Rest easy in my lull, Love
Love
is not the gentle goodnight, Love
in the beguiling
silence of Lost Lovers' Woods
It is the war we
all wager
reflections
in each other
We run from it
We run to it
The Labyrinth
we all are
striding fresh
through greener than green grass
roads we never thought
we’d journey
futures like bruises
bruises like roses blooming
bruises like sunsets fading
War torn
We All are
the softer, truth seeking and
the fallen, sharp metal shards
Love runs harder
than war
Love runs towards
you with its arrows
Bleeding slowly
Bleeding fast
Love
Heads or
Tails
Hearts
saved
Heads
rolling
Tongues
dry for a pass
wanting wet
trysts for duelling
tails short and long
tales to be read
to the dreams
that once in the past
were futures
formed like a sprouting bean in the belly
from
Love
Falling free and hard
short lived butterflies
wings transparent
veined in vanity
are
the Brave
waiting for
the burn
Love
bleeds hot
bleeds fast
Poets kissing soft warm bellies
whispering breath over sensual hearts
where the hot
holy see parts
singing
“this will last”
The Golden Grail
shining
waiting
for you
door
open
without
chain mail
holds a heart
bled and worn
An offering on your short
spare alter
never entirely yours
but always mine
blind man turns
his heart ripe like an apple
open and
star seeded
Light Burns
waiting to be tasted
a swallowed soul
without feathers
born again
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Discarded cotton t-shirt shrunken and stained
on the side of a street pot-holed and veined
pants sagging low with no shoes on his feet
headphones blaring to the latest hip-hop beat
Heading down to the corner looking for a score
the old 76 filling station with the boarded up doors
how times have changed in a mere forty years
youthful exuberance gone now nobody cares
Flash back we go to the days of my youth
hard work the requisite as was the truth
running on empty our roll was real slow
clean-cut attendant with bow-tie for show
Service with a smile, thank you and please
gone is simplicity and enjoying the breeze
As strangers to this virgin land
succumbed to the impossible
we are numbed by grief for what is gone
Astonished by the solitude...
We gaze, without a breath, nor voice
upon the blue veined world once loved
A home we've left behind!
It seems so weightless to the eye
And out of the chill of marbled sorrow
We weep for countless lost tomorrows
Although our eyes might be deceived,
from here, the vision is a lie,
yet remains so beautiful in the sky
We stand wide eyed, upon new shores
And look from here, to the earth so far
How fragile, is our earth still spinning
As we grasp at new beginnings
How precarious a world, untouched, can be
Have we learned, from where we've been?
We must recall,.... recall it all
Look how it spins, against the stars
Oh God, ...so fragile, frail and small
Let me turn my head,
I cannot bear to watch,
I must close my eyes
before it falls....
_____________________________
Circumstance encompassing around and flowing as the mill race in turbulent rolling curls,
Surges.' Forth to flow; and fall, visions issue with or without portent,
to my observation and my limited discernment.
Also fate makes it s call and then falls a power,
as do the oceans rearing ramparts downwards smash
On sand or shingle strands by night, by day, and twilight hours,
whilst magma as incandescent fire spouts and high hurled, red
In-veined opals show a pastel field green & blue
glistening inside more verdant hues, liquid colours flow as golden day
Ignites and shines, faint breaths of spring essay its designs
then retreat as the atmosphere chills, to threats of snow and sundry ills.
©Joe Maverick 18-2-2011
He speaks in broken English;
It's interesting to see my language this way-
Spread out like pieces of shattered ceramic,
The edge of each word tossing off glints of meaning
Like bits of light, illumination; a kaleidoscope
Of light or sound dancing in the air before his lips...
At times he seems embarrassed, pausing before he speaks,
Like the boy who tipped over his mother's favorite vase-
He knows how I love words- and scrambles to piece back
Together the fragmented ideas, hoping the cracks might
Be overlooked; the result of his efforts is often unconventional,
And yet... impossibly lovely too...
It's a picture puzzle of a lonely landscape rearranged into a flower
It's a mosaic; the pieces don't have to fit to make the image radiant
It's a kintsukuroi bowl, the language veined through with gilded passion,
More beautiful for having been broken
Scarlet and golden etched,
autumn leaves reflect summer's apprehended glory
incised in deep veined images.
Released, they sigh earthward like final breaths.
Sharp pungence ripens , musty tang,
a piquant vaporous mustard milked
from forest loam's black breasts
beneath life's heavy kneading tread.
Sudden, determined winds attack
raping writhed skeletal remains;
stripped spring's green clad darlings.
Feigning innocence,
the gray storm fiend curtains guilt
beneath pure, snow white overlay.
Copyright, August 2, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Silhouette of trees dressed in chiffon prints
Oaks, pines, maples tossing their hair
I trail along their rumba curve
way down to where glazed bushes nestle.
Above roasted sail of Laguna River
crossing a moat...today, foliage begins to seethe
on flamed leaves amidst summer’s embrace,
as more timber follow a float
where mauve petals kiss the air.
The bronzing of glens and wheezing of mist
reach a coaled ember of summer fire,
cluster of moments drapes veined trunk
with sniff of earthy scent, reminding me
how lush the branches swell against heat
of August ‘s coals when two pairs of arms
brush the stars with paint of reveries.
Warm the meeting of palms fondling the barks
In a dizzy sketch of romance, and then,
Like a curl of ambrosial boughs in rumba dips,
Trees hold passion’s charade, until...
Charlotte Puddifoot's Vibrant Verse 2 Contest
- new poem
Under a trellis of vines, quite evergreen
This elegant, old lady sits on a wooden porch,
Her veined fingers twist in graceful motion
Kneading hued threads from silken yarn;
As weaves of cross-stitch unfurl through dusk :
How in gentle calm, a floral pattern expands
Thickening its pattern through intricate craftwork ...
I watch grandmother extend those elbows
To connect the dots while loops of artistry
Begin to take shape, her eyes glimmering
Upon moonlit wind: I cuddle this kerchief, now
A prized token of her bridal gift...my heirloom.
.....................
~ New Poem ~ 2/28/2019
Cross Contest of Carolyn Devonshire
Faces of older ones may be wrinkled, I confess,
but with many years of life they've been blessed.
Each smile and helping hand they have offered
is returned to them by memories in their coffers.
My heart is saddened by those who speak ill
of grannies and gramps with words of ill-will.
Do not mock fragile hands that cared for you
because their gray hair is now tinged with blue.
Though their eyesight grows weary and weak
gentle words of love they continue to speak.
Kindness still lives inside hearts beating slowly
But do not treat them as though they are lowly.
Place a sweet kiss upon an elder's upturned cheek
hold a veined hand instead of giving a rude critique
Spend a little more time with those who need care
and remember one day you'll be sitting in that chair.
Show respect for those who have reached old age
have patience with them instead of venting in rage
One day you will wear those wrinkles on your face
and you will welcome the arms of a loving embrace
A gathering of whispers travel from breath to breath,
much like trains picking up chattering gossips along its
route. With breath held, they stand and wait to join the
last exhale of the wretch standing on the hanging platform.
Whilst a judge washes the atrocity from a hand that held
a vacillating gavel. Forced into a considered judgement,
his conscience is clear. Much as a whip of feathers
forces the killer into killing more. Whilst the birds
above scream a lurid act of contrition for the return of
such pathos, their miniature thoughts oscillating between
current events and the feeding of hungry chicks. And hubris
carries a last meal beneath distaining eye, lost to nature's
sight, as it nears a fading gaol door. And whisper's finger
crawls around the corner, ready to cosette a neck held within
a gallows noose; hanging bulged against the fibre of its hemp
curtain call. Like a veined muscle strains against the skin.
And so, black in thought from the final deed, whisper
reaches its sanctuary hole, shaped long in the ground.
And whisper's voice, watching the earth worms preparing
the way for the soft flesh to come, speaks one final time
'Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine'
And an earth-harried soul is finally released
"Necropoleis"
Naked and invisible
strange weather
has transported
me through the
dark violet
Necropoleis
towards the
eternity that
is You
Floating like a
leaf, cold-veined
To another life
Fire, that is You
I am falling
into You
Naked and invisible
strange weather
has transported
me through the
dark violet
Necropoleis
towards the
eternity that
is You
Awaking slowly
I am falling
into You
Floating like a
leaf, cold-veined
naked and invisible
transported through the
dark violet
Necropoleis
Falling
into another life,
FIRE
towards the
eternity that
is You
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
“Strange Weather” / Anna Calvi feat. David Byrne
https://youtu.be/nulQtD5-emU
Necropolis/singular
Necropoleis/plural
Photographer: Bill Henson/Australia
https://tolarnogalleries.com/artists/bill-henson/
(1) Bill Henson/Australia
https://www.broadsheet.com.au/sydney/art-and-design/article/after-seven-years-controversial-photographer-bill-henson-makes-his-long-awaited-return-sydney
(2) Bill Henson/ Australia
https://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-03-09/bill-henson-model-alice-heyward-defends-controversial-photograph/8338430
(3) Bill Henson /Australia
http://www.australianreview.net/digest/2008/06/valentine.html
“Waiting in the Soul Electric”
We all drown
in the red madness
sometime
Crying oceans
of saltwater
we tear
Like torn pages
we rise rebellious
on all the blazing currents
floating on a thin simile of Life
kissing the Bluebird’s Wings
as innocent as an angel sings
confessional as a demon swings
pirouetting in our flaming
feathers of freedom
we joust like eagles
that dare with such hunger
for the most important things -
for the most important things,
are not things...
we are harm and hatred
all the wasted years thinning
all the mirrors useless
facsimiles shattered
hearts that were frozen
become quills royal veined
writing bonfire vanities
keeping scores
burning, we are hard steel
we do not melt
in the hot air up there
we do not open
we are closing doors
windows blinds drawn
Invisible dissolves
the ink tattooed
on all our tongues
What is read
is not seen by eye
nor heard
Inside us
there waits the truest
crown sensate
there ignites the real meaning
there Love finally opens
the pearled gates
waiting
in the soul electric
ultra violet, cool it burns
bathed in light, soothing
open arms patiently waiting
like a parent
alone
waiting
for you
to melt
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Romance in the Reflections of the Steely Green-Eyed"
Romance is in the
reflections of the
steely green-eyed
time stolen and framed
bars to freedom
champagne dreams remain
the prisoner’s heart ignominious
kept safely in a treasure box
poetry lies laconic in the lap
kept criminally magnanimous
a hand gently caresses
a missing mind
pulling out unheard
singular words
famished and ravenous wings
flying off the transponding
power lines
black-feather quilled
screaming
a life sentence
singular words
sautéed in three lines
missing in milky moonlight
softly floats spectral
room to room mute
engaging the unaware
passing through
all the eternal years
damned alongside
all the voiceless hosts
tapping fingers like a ghost
S.O.S. morse code
on windows glassed over
lackadaisical and frosted cold
on the outside
we dance Munch mime
trapped in the
History of a Wasted Mind
solitary and confined
'til death do us part
dark and stormy vilified
electric veined
cold silver heart
feigning tame
kept on a dangling chain
a pendant looping
like an aerial display
haunting blue sky’s
moth-life tiger coiled
sabre toothed
calculating and refined
Romance is held hostage
in the reflections of
the steely-green eyed
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
“Me Time” / Paloma Faith
https://youtu.be/8YXudiBR1oY
https://www.navy.gov.au/aircraft/de-havilland-tiger-moth
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garden_tiger_moth
The whittled worries and fears shred my nerves like ants on glass, sparkling red. I notice and bow to the glitterati in their fine silks and cuts of cloth because they pay my wages; they care little for the red-cheeked fellow in the silly hat, whose spring step is more right-right than left-right. I’ve become the cheesy blue veined odour curdling on the edge of the plate, readying the silver bone china scrape.
I don't belong at this party with my ill-fitting garb and my eyes mercilessly seduced by the bejeweled beauties beset with jouncy bouquets, spilling colours fountain-like, their exuberant price tags hanging down unembarrassed, soliciting the eye to not deny the wealth. The verdant green will see two-stepping tonight, to the tunes in my head. I am the entertainment, yet feel like the booby prize no one sees. Must I sing for my supper in my red striped specially selected boating hat, or should I croon like the scolded cat serenading the moon.
That's when I saw her slinking and jingling, a charade slipping its mooring, her face dreamy, floating on a tide of lilacs and honeysuckles, and like a brazen queen-worthy vessel, she parted the waves to meet me on the floor closely followed by a scrum of sweaty-faced boys that up-anchored and waddled in her wake. I sang a croon for her ears alone, to imagine dancing with me under the crescent of the moon, in our garden filled with cents and honey and songs to set the traps with money - but all that this did achieve, was nothing but the wish to be elsewhere, somewhere a little less funny.
Rooted on a moss-banked hill,
its branches spread far and wide.
By Summer's end, leaves veined gold and crimson.
Then, Autumn’s hand brushed them with russet paint.
Twas the time of year the elm tree despised.
Wind ruffled in their last days,
leaves danced as if burning flames,
until gales sent them tumbling to the ground.
Barren, as though in malaise, the elm stood.
Blame was cast upon harsh Winter weather.
Weeping for its naked limbs,
on a moss-banked hill it grieved.
For the change of season, it held loathing
and contempt for Nature's wrongful doing.
For surrounding its roots with drifts of snow
But on cusp of Spring's advent
tiny buddings will appear.
Branches will be clothed in fulgent raiment,
an umbrella agape, providing shade
for trilling songbirds in need of perching.
Reigning from atop the hill,
Ancient elm, regally frocked.