Best Wanly Poems
Note: Norwegians are proud of many things, but above all, they are endlessly proud of Sissel Kyrkjebø, the Voice of Norway! International singer.
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I live in a deserted chapel,
Buffeted and corroded by harsh winds,
And yet to me it is a godsend haven
Away from hazards of fellow men.
Dry from incessant downpours
But cold and damp and forlorn,
I rest in a forsaken sheltered corner,
As my thoughts linger on you.
For I can never forget you
Though you prefer me no more.
Instinctively I rise from my sad corner
Hobble towards the broken altar,
There I light a candle small
In loving memory of you.
Its feeble light shines wanly
A lonely shadow it throws
Down to the depth of my isolated soul,
A little faint flame of hope.
Soon a turbulent wind violently
Blows its way across the plain.
Like a horde of evil demons
Sweeping all that's in its way,
The candlelight is snuffed off
At least for this desolate night.
Is love so fickle that
It can be stifled so quickly?
Is love so petty and trivial
That it's comparable to a candle wick?
But such a light can be renewed,
The wax ignites into life once more.
So let the gusty winds blow
For I know deep within me,
My love will never be stifled
That I should lose all hope.
When the morning light,squeaks through the vanes;
of wooden casements and windowpanes.
When eyes glued shut,from night time fears,
are opened wanly to mornings clear.
That’s when in the corners of my mind,
thoughts of you rush forth to find;
Soft smiles, open arms and a warm heart,
You know I’ve loved you from the start.
Stardust smiling and bright beguiling
Rainclouds rebelling and sprinklings surprising
Misty mountains and full fountains
Darkening dreams and sentimental streams
Moonlight mourns and wanly warns
Faded feelings and dreadful dealings
November nights waltz into Winter
Alliterisen - 7 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
October 30, 2021
Ah, my birth month’s time is nigh.
September’s blue asters soon will bloom,
their scent lingering in the sighs
of melancholy breezes,
and still I will hear the whispering
of ephemeral late summer
as she smiles wanly
through clouds in azure skies.
I will watch sweet summer
wander off into
vibrant violet sunsets
which will appear earlier and earlier
after the autumnal equinox arrives.
I bid farewell to Damsel Summer
once the trees have adorned themselves
in crimson, gold and persimmon.
Perhaps even lovelier than summer
is Lady Autumn
as she paints the dusk
a fuchsia pink.
A Controlled Reply to a Skinhead's Brain
Just when I thought some real evolution
Of moral thinking
Just might be taking place these days,
I run across this Neo-Nazi piece of crap
Masquerading as a poem,
Shrieking wanly in an open, small-press 'zine.
This fool blames the ills of the world
On "World Jewry" - the old, rusted-out line
Of his Volk.
Ah, well - simple things for simple minds.
I'm glad I finally got past actively hating your kind;
Why give you fuel to feed your blindness?
Now you just excite my pity,
You wastes of skin, skinheads.
Sorry you ejected your brains,
Like seaslugs, who don't need 'em;
Sorry that you choose to live on the bile of your hate,
Sorry for your infantile pains,
And sorry that you can't appreciate
This free society
That lets you parade your ignorance
For all the world to see.
ignoble head low
dark eyes glance up wanly
feathers softly fall
Throughout the night distressed, unblessed by sleep,
I turn and writhe and toss, and vainly watch
The seconds and the minutes slowly stretch
To hours; and long since done with counting sheep,
Despair of morning. All alone I pitch
And sweat and wanly see the clock-hands sweep
Inexorably on. And so I keep
Unwilling vigil, condemned to spend such
Nights of restless exile. For I worry:
They’ve sent you overseas, and now you fight
A foe implacable and alien…
Stars and moon speed overhead, and teary
Spells will increasingly become my plight,
While anxious waiting is my regimen.
This Petrarchan sonnet is a variant on the model -- some half-rhymes and a scheme of abbabaab cdecde
The half moon shimmered wanly as she wrote
“Dearest, do you realize how much I miss you?
How long will your trip abroad take?
Here I am in empty rich, luxury mansion.
A hovel with you would have been better.
Or perhaps you do not love me anymore?”
Thus the letter arrived in my posh Rome hotel.
I could not help but let a lonely tear drop down
And smudge the words written there.
Why can’t I find the courage to write a full letter?
Only fragments have I written, not worth sending.
The show goes on and all around me were the so-called friends.
Yet I have none, absolutely none. One day I’ll disappear,
Leave Rome and go back to my home sweet home.
the Father visits his son in the dark of day
The son is abed, pale in the light of night
For the sun and moon are witness in this hour of twilight
But the sun is not heat and does not shine as bright
And the moon is not rigid rock
The sun is a warm hope, fading ever so slightly
The moon is softness, the dark is soothing
The son is abed, covers sprawled over his listless form
The son is restless, he doth not sleep
The son is ebbing, his heart does weep
and his Father lifts the covers up tight around his chest
and kisses his brow;
The son blinks wearily, smiles wanly, whimpers meekly
Sleep my son, the Father whispers
But I cannot sleep - Sleep eludes him
I want to play - Rest prances about him
close enough to want, just out of reach
And how can I sleep father? - How can he rest atop this fated bed?
When I wish to wake? - When his heart doth weep restlessly?
the Father wavers, he caresses the son's brow, but not his heart
For the heart is within, the caress without,
Rest my son, he says, rest and forget
The Father, gently, lovingly, pulls the covers up, tight around the son's neck
But father, father why
My heart will not sleep
Five more minutes? Just five.
Sleep son, the hour is late, the time is neigh
And the Father, always lovingly, he pulls the covers tight over the son, and lowers him into
the ground.
...a true story
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
standing apart, the other houses still intact
with painted jalousies and window curtains.
She must have fallen asleep, the cigarette
still dangling from her arthritic fingers;
I never saw her without one.
She told me of her life in Poland during the war,
but not her suffering, she never spoke of that.
She smiled wanly as she showed me old photos
of her family and friends taken on holiday when
she was younger, long before the ravages of war.
TV was her constant companion along with
her nurse and her beloved Pekingese,
always sitting on her bed. We'd talk for hours.
She was always interested in my schoolwork,
and why didn't I have a girlfriend?
Now she lay in hospital small and silent;
there was nothing I could do but hope and pray.
When they drew the sheet up over her I felt an
emptiness, but no tears came. Fourteen years old,
my first death up close. When I got home to mum
and dad, only then in their comforting embrace
did I sob my heart out.
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
**********
In memory of Dr Elizabeth Haubold, a Paraplegic,
whom I visited in her home for company,
conversation and errands. May She Rest In Peace.
...a true story
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
standing apart, the other houses still intact
with painted jalousies and window curtains.
She must have fallen asleep, the cigarette
still dangling from her arthritic fingers;
I never saw her without one.
She told me of her life in Poland during the war,
but not her suffering, she never spoke of that.
She smiled wanly as she showed me old photos
of her family and friends taken on holiday when
she was younger, long before the ravages of war.
TV was her constant companion along with
her nurse and her beloved Pekingese,
always sitting on her bed. We'd talk for hours.
She was always interested in my schoolwork,
and why didn't I have a girlfriend?
Now she lay in hospital small and silent;
there was nothing I could do but hope and pray.
When they drew the sheet up over her I felt an
emptiness, but no tears came. Fourteen years old,
my first death up close. When I got home to mum
and dad, only then in their comforting embrace
did I sob my heart out.
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
Next to the road’s trough
The cosmos flowers bow
Down and curtsy
As if to royalty
As we pass by
Waving wanly as they die
The road is wrapped in misty shrouds
Trees hugged by earthbound clouds
Cosmos petals dripping tears
End of season, end of years
Before frost falls all glory lost
Browning leaves in crusted frost
Before they die a last hurrah
As courting bees made each a ma
And as things die down at last to rest
Seed in soil by God’s Word blessed
Waiting patiently, silently, sleepily
Until frosted mist warms oh so weepily
Announcing spring in early rays
Of shorter nights and longer days
To raise a head through soil so dead
To live again as God’s Word said
So we too grow and flower and die
But no need to wail and cry
As we too a seed becomes
Until our Lord on cloud crown comes
This is my song
Come and sing along
For it is a love song
We all sing songs
Tunes from all life’s walks
Sing them all folks
Some melodies ring badly
Their stories finish wanly
And their singers end sadly
What song are you singing?
What strings are you strumming?
And what tune are you humming?
For I have to share the sweetest song
And you can sing along
Only if Jesus is your song
...a true story
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
standing apart, the other houses still intact
with painted jalousies and window curtains.
She must have fallen asleep, the cigarette
still dangling from her arthritic fingers;
I never saw her without one.
She told me of her life in Poland during the war,
but not her suffering, she never spoke of that.
She smiled wanly as she showed me old photos
of family and friends taken on holiday when
she was younger, long before the ravages of war.
TV was her constant companion along with
her nurse and her beloved Pekingese,
always sitting on her bed. We'd talk for hours.
She was always interested in my schoolwork,
and why didn't I have a girlfriend?
Now she lay in hospital small and silent;
there was nothing I could do but hope and pray.
When they drew the sheet up over her I felt an
emptiness, but no tears came. Fourteen years old,
my first death close up. When I got home to mom
and dad, only then in their comforting embrace
did I sob my heart out.
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
...a true story
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...
standing apart, the other houses still intact
with painted jalousies and window curtains.
She must have fallen asleep, the cigarette
still dangling from her arthritic fingers;
I never saw her without one.
She told me of her life in Poland during the war,
but not her suffering, she never spoke of that.
She smiled wanly as she showed me old photos
of her family and friends taken on holiday when
she was younger, long before the ravages of war.
TV was her constant companion along with
her nurse and her beloved Pekingese,
always sitting on her bed. We'd talk for hours.
She was always interested in my schoolwork,
and why didn't I have a girlfriend?
Now she lay in hospital small and silent;
there was nothing I could do but hope and pray.
When they drew the sheet up over her I felt an
emptiness, but no tears came. Fourteen years old,
my first death up close. When I got home to mum
and dad, only then in their comforting embrace
did I sob my heart out.
Her house was just a shell, a burnt-out ruin...