Best Vestibule Poems
one with the music
a vestibule for magic
love fills the night air
Let my aura deep red spill onto the page,
I an instrument in the name of poetic rage,
L
O
V
EVOL...VES
Into a voice deep and vibrating,
with words feathered and lulling.
We are love...
Love!,
nothing and everything.
With you in the serenity of nothing
that my love is everything.
scampers a bright moon
gifts liquid life a lit view
watch them rendezvous
i wrote you a star covered night
built you a sun with a dimmer light
i turned it down warm and low
called it a moon, made it glow
i rhymed you an early morning hush
so quiet you could hear a person blush
i sketched a fully carpeted globe
dressed it in a thick soft robe
i painted it in greens, blues and a palette full
your own flower garden with no weeds to pull
i sung some words, some harmonized notes
strummed you a new world, one that floats
...a pyramid each and every word, romance...
I
do know
my true love
it will make you
light headed but free.
Space is that way, you know
but you'll adjust. A small price
to pay these days for liberty.
A chance to live in a world of ours,
just us together and lives of all kinds.
Maurice Yvonne
There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent
To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on
My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads,
following the same schedule
as the other…identical
She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The weed interrupted,
“Didn’t…don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort
This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,
“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”
Perplexed she climbed upon its back
and flew, holding onto
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…
Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray
She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up
When it appeared, hopping happily
Jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy
Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me
"And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…"
When the world becomes elastic
and you wander past the sky
Standing in the vestibule
wishing you could fly
Searching for a compliment
a napkin in your hand
Cracker crumbs upon your shirt
more than you can stand
As rivers ramble backwards
with trout the size of dimes
And weeping willows laugh at you
pointing out your crimes
You find you’re asking questions
notes in scribbled pen
Conclusions that you thought you saw
every now and then
What you must now remember
about this life you lead
It’s only what you make of it
with every planted seed
There’s always good within a heart,
I know it can be found
It’s time to open up your arms
and spread some love around
The footprints that are left behind
become the tale that’s told
Whispered by your child’s child
when you are very old
So step down from that pedestal
show this world your smile
For what you are will soon be gone
in just a little while
iPhone Maniacs
crankshaft tendencies secure a brace of sly meatballs
truth daggers entice the worm girls with petite pastas
creature lilacs uproot themselves for pink dippity-do gels
white nylon ghost legs roam outer space in latex leotards
metacarpal syringes find porous outcries in the gloaming
crankshaft tendencies welcome the tilted exonerations
iPhone maniacs fondle frothing bananas mindlessly now
demon spiders ooze inside the crawlspaces wanting meat
cross-eyed priestesses suck on wax candles in the vestibule
black-robed choirs sing hangover music to the dribbling
rock music annihilations played by stoned dudes in shades
temples and taverns shake as the truth daggers hit earth
now the worm girls are dancing with the iPhone maniacs
All became purview in her constant gaze ~
eyes that followed, no matter my corner,
nor settee where fleur-de-lis begged recline ~
and, no peace was found in voyeuristic laze.
Even in the vestibule - through the door
she stares
~ her beauty lingers there and captures
daydreams that share this moment in time.
I wonder ~ did the artist love her too,
he, who captured every seductive line
of wanting eyes and impatient grin?
How can one wish they'd never met a painting
without knowing ~ lost love...
The Echo Of Stars
Galaxies away the echo of stars make her bloom
this rose made of warm inside a heated hand *
Fine tuning her soul to the chime of a thousand crystal pieces
she blasts out and planets resound within her Chalice heart;
Resonating inside her, the peeling bells of Notre- Dame
contain her whole Universe...
Tucked safely inside an IVEAN cloak she lives free
no longer part of this global world.
A star of multiple constellations, she belongs only
to One identifiable light, HIS own.
Evolving endlessly in time she reverberates and rings
entering God's vestibule of heaven without a single sound
Wearing the immortal crown of existence she delves
in, a crowning moment of glory
The mirror shatters in a million tiny pieces and all of truth
arrives, making her whole once again.
“it’s not desire per say but the clinging ~
that stifles soul and stops heart from singing
enlivening silence sets our soul free ~
vibrant in the now, joyful and carefree”
Butterfly wing door vestibule builds anticipation
Shuffled, carpet muffled greetings, familiar embraces
Piloted by Holy Spirit, seated hushed congregation
Ritual of ornate cathedral thanks hidden crypt rib cage
Enduring centuries, pliable sandstone testiment
God's following holds time proof tenacity
Flared proud corners, pyramid reminiscent
Honour continues amidst shifting society
Solid oak panelled door on wrought iron hinges
Greets round barrel key bearer with ominous groan
Down four slouching stone steps from street edge
Solo visit in sacred space never partaken alone
Curved bookcases cater for leather bound learning
Volumes of theology define best ways
Nook with desk lets liturgist imbibe God's word
Tall back chair, acorn emblems engraved
Beneath majestic vessel, clay damp chamber
Rhubarb velvet curtain, tassel tied to sides
Strongest entity relies on the Lord as Saviour
With worship's dedication, faith survives
In expansion, searcher emerges at alter, cleansed
Hive of etched arches tribute precision architectural
Vibrant robes, sashes draped, silken beacons
Of preparation, celebration of overcoming, renewal
Pulpit's ingrained memory both daunting and welcoming
Deep set lead light showers sombre pews in intimacy
Haloed Christ holds baby, shares parables with children
Crease covered hymn books strum procedural symphony
Written July 2020 (no previous submission)
Submitted for : Brian Strand
Completely New Volume 23
on 18th August 2020
A super seismic year
Eargasmically one to revere
Sweet pulsating sounds
Bebop starting to slow down
Yes! A new, brand new form from an "OLD"
A new form that is undefined but feels good to the soul
A new direction that's unclear;
Improvisation is supreme with creativity filling the atmosphere
1959
A year so divine
One of a kind
Built to stand the test of time
Feeling "Kinda Blue", so I'm gonna take some "Time out."
Miles and Brubeck delivering now, and fans beginning to see what this is all about
Oh, yeah! "Mingus Ah Um"
"The Shape of Jazz to Come"
Charles and Ornette standing tall, too
Jazzing on a musical flight to a "New"
Liftoff to the 'Birth of Cool'
Flying high and jazzing through music's vestibule
Then there is mighty 'Mambo de Cuco' in sweet and savory 'Sabroso.'
Santamaria serves zesty flavors to enliven the palate, which makes it hard to say no
Yes!
1959
A year so divine
One of a kind
Built to stand the test of time
Doubt is the vestibule,
and in the vestibule are many items -
hats, coats, and walking sticks.
The stick can help you stride through doubt.
Stride through doubt and up the stairs,
with, doubtless, many prayers
to reach all wisdom.
The stick can help you stride through doubt.
At the top is Colton's temple,
and from there look down the stairs
from whence you came...
Discard the stick - you've reached your aim.
4/6/2016
She'd been staring at me since I can recall.
A da Vinci saccharine smile painted on her lips
that I'd traced with fingertips in my youth.
Forsooth wondering, "Who are you, comely lady,
and why does no one ever mention your name?"
Eyes of melancholy, but not a tear had she spilled.
For years now, I'd asked that the truth be told
why she'd been given a place on the parlor wall,
yet no one speaks of her with honor or a trace
of how gracefully she sat on that stiff backed chair.
A fetching look adorned the face of this exquisite lass,
whose lustrous raven hair was released from its chignon.
What sin had she committed that's kept her story hidden
and her name omitted or deleted from the family Bible?
In gold gilded frame, what blame does she still carry?
What thrust and parry duel must she have fought,
perhaps for love. Her presence hangs in oils but despoiled.
Aged painting of this alluring woman remains a mystery
to me, but I see in her eyes, a familiarity I recognize
each time I peer into the mirror on the vestibule wall.
As answers deceive
The questions stand
And dancers leave
To track the sand
Round robin conspiracy
Threatening us all
The letters all lower case
Their finality tall
Butting my head
Inside of the line
“When does it end Father,
Maybe this time”
The black and the white of it
The tall and the short
The poisons the same
One knife for a fork
New action will free
What inaction restrains
To once again, once again
Once again drain
So back to the future
Back to the past
Choose not your weapon
You’ve had your last laugh
The wind’s in the vestibule
New breath in the hymn
Your darkness reveals
What the light needs to win
With seven unsavory
And eight left to roast
The turkey unstuffed
Leaving room for the ghost
So ride away, ride away
Ride away all
The damage inflicted
This hammer a maul
The blood’s in the alleyway
Life beckons on
Death has been slaughtered
—as begins the new song
(Rosemont Pennsylvania: August, 2014)
In the digital kitchen where metaphors boil,
I cast my rhymes into the simmering soup,
Hoping for gold in the luminous toil,
Watching the cursor in a silvery loop.
A notification blooms—a digital flower—
First place! The screen turns into a glowing violet,
I am a giant for one shining hour,
Wearing a crown made of a pristine sonnet.
The poets applaud with binary applause,
My words are like pearls in a silken sack,
Suspended high above the gravity laws,
Without any intention of looking back.
Then comes the speechlessness—a vast, white void,
Another contest, another empty plate,
My rhyme is shattered, a paper humanoid,
Left in the digital vestibule of fate.
The soup is bitter, the pixels turn to grey,
I drown in the stanzas that nobody reads,
Watching my reputation drift away,
Among the respectable mentioned weeds.
I am climbing a ladder made of commas,
Falling into a valley of exclamation points,
Winning and losing, the constant dramas,
Where the screen aches in its digital joints.
The winner is a ghost in a tuxedo,
The loser is a shadow on the wall,
Yet both are feeding the same hungry ego,
In the soup that tastes like nothing at all.
AU COURANT AU FAIT – THE HEART OF IMAGINATION ABREAST
The invention of the automobile is a thing to ponder. In words of the heart of imagination, the temperament wonders why divine providence gave the sense of knowledge of those natural resources that predefined the automobilist. Medical science is even more radical to design machinery that tells about our brain and body. Hardly conceived is their intelligence, the questions are answers hidden.
I imagine that deity would be exposure to another vestibule with biblical emergence.
The status of a country being oppressed is imagine by who defines the Antichrist. We have seen in the time of Joseph Stalin, Adolf Hitler, and now reign Vladimir Putin.
Can you imagine the words to define suppression with the heart of a warrior depicting the coming mêlée?
The imagination portrays the brilliance of today to evolution and the procreation of humankind. What do men seek via Social Science? A world that is no longer divine, but a mind that divides to discovery a new way of life.
I imagine that divinity is vested on earth because of lack of appearance of a known God.
The imagination questions prior occurrences aboard and at home. We are our insight and inspiration via an unknown God.
I imagine that religion imperceptibility will become a theological pre-cognizant of The School of Social Theological Studies, which is demarcated as the heart of imagination discerned by word utilization.
Do you imagine the same?
Are similarities being disseminated?
Facilitated via a school of thought, suppressed knowledge will come forth to take the outer limits to higher grounds.
Were heavens are immortalized.
In essence, these words have been pre-constructed to pre-define the heart of imagination.
____________________________________________|
Penned on October 18, 2014!
W as it just yesterday when
I found a vestibule
R ight next to my goals
E lse something is wrong, which brings
D elineation of a moral code!
I would set the world afire with political desire to achieve and to aspire.
I am going to be a political activist on women rights.
I have step-to-the-cause to claim ownership of my rights.
I am a political powerhouse not to deny.
I have Thunderclap and no response transgress.
Now the world I am within is in a doctrinal arrest.
Transmutation has taken place to transpire social injustice.
Transformation becomes work ethics.
The solidification of a soul is a sensation inner cored
Underlying posture of strength positioned to win.
Bearing the cargoes of a ship those encumbrances of conspiracy,
Insofar, I am the scent of my soul.
Therefore, I am a cannon passing through time not afraid to live for what is right.
____________________________________|
Penned on October 12, 2014 @ 12:11 AM EST!
he rubbed his eyes
and said you just think that way
so you always have an answer ready
which may well constitute
a state of pure entertainment
with multiple jaw grinding orgasms
in a dog lick dog kind of world
at Cathode Ray's tanning salon
so what would it really take
for the union to lay down with the banker
I'm not sure high above the clouds
is the place to find anything
certainly not a mirror to be had
much less a cinema projector
with scenes of domestication
good god Reginald where
do you plan to put that thing
Reginald sneezed his false teeth
into his dinner plate as an augury
probed prodded palpated
looking for the intelligentsia
in the yellow pages
but they were yellow and didn’t stand out
their attempts to overthrow evolution
led to a cornucopia of calamity
at the crossroads of conundrum
traded their thumbs for a reliable statistic
the atmospherics garbled the transmission
and made anyone look like a prophet
left my friends hanging from lamp posts
adulterers heretics and infidels
cataleptics ablaze with legend
trained by biblical harlots
tending their hornet infested gardens
avoiding the irredeemably antique
and inexact to a criminal degree
in the war between belief and certainty
my script supervisor just pulled the plug
he's not from Sesame Street
he's from Bastille Boulevard
the artist is bait and accident prone
opaque as an 8 ball at high velocity
caroming through every nave and vestibule
bladder control found again
in the midst of bourgeoisie panic
a meditation of involvement
I'm going where
the disorder of discovery is tolerated
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/