Best Waxed Poems
in the uncoloured tint of another everyday
amongst the spit polished waxed apples
tightly packed in burlap bags
they walked like minded
in their own burly wrap
oblivious to the irony
to their similarity
of the markets round red fruit
unaware of the tragedy
the horror of events yet to come
it will rain metal shrapnel
as human minds grasp
with the purpose of their existence
as in their ignorance
they understand their worth as human bombs
with a belief the heavens will open the gates
with a fanfare and a promised blessing
for their divine act of unquestioned belief
the clay shaped bricks
the black iron metal stairs
the drum sound of engines
then the lull
not after
but before
before
the pulse of the storm
the rain of death
yet this moment captured
this photograph
with man and child in hand
smells sweet
you wonder
bemused
why?
the world travels
aimlessly
singularly
no one
nothing in the universe
suggests
exposes
even a hint
even a glimpse
not a clue
that would lead
reveal
an answer.
life in its contradiction
like the proverbial apple
offers both
the miracle
the curse.
09/23/2014
She sits and rocks, so gently back and forth
Her chin leaning heavily on her chest.
In her hands she cradles, one flat waxed rose
And sighs as pain is swelling in her breast.
Her long grey hair, now tied up in a bun
Is what I see when entering the room.
I helplessly watch, her tear drops flowing,
They look like dew, upon the lonely bloom.
Slowly she looks at a picture nearby,
A glimpse of a smile creases her face.
Granddad with her, stand on their wedding day
With red roses, and a dress of white lace.
After the wedding, she said with a smile,
I took this one rose and waxed it back then.
Granddad had laughed at me wondering why.
I said, for the special memories when…….
And now this old rose, I hold in my hand,
Precious memories kept in my drawer
I pull it out remembering the day
When granddad loved me, and I loved him more.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
11.25.2014
Contest: Encounters with Flowers
5th
By the early years of that ancient decade, the 70's,
I'd tired of my obstreperous tomboyish games:
kickball with the neighbor kids, sledding in the winter,
desecrating the peacefulness of our street's grave yard
with our bike races, tag, and hide-n-seek.
And I tired too of the pastimes of my season preferred:
chasing siblings with a hose, giggling and gleeful,
swimming at Weed Park,
and my perpetual swinging through those long, sweet sunshiny days
longed for during classes in my school.
Old friends grew up.
Boredom anon crept upon the remnant of my childhood.
At times - through infancy and beyond -
I'd been beset by a feeling of loss
over something not yet sought.
It was something kin to loneliness, but no. . .not that.
More a sense of gloom - a sorrowing for what?
I still don't really know.
Despite the days of inexplicable forlornness,
I grew more and more cavalier
throughout the days that came
between those odd forlorn days
because my old timidity, in fact, had waned. . .
Another face, fairer, appeared.
It waxed and glowed - assured -
until those “days - in- between”
had finally surpassed the melancholy ones.
I learned to stifle monotony and squelch the blues.
I became a "doer" of too many things to name
as I went gliding through with the Gibbous moon.
Soon enough, a fullness had arrived.
And now it must disseminate.
In the years to come, I'll be wondering this. . .
Will the shining face I show the world wane too,
and will my youth's strange darkness re-emerge,
eclipsing what light remains as I drift,
having come full-cycle,
into my final
crescent phase?
5/21/14
Submitted 3/30/16 to PD's Any Poem # 38 Poetry Contest
A final ugly bellow followed by the front door's slam and then. . .
the natural and sweet respite of silence.
She remained where he'd left her
and faced a pair of stony eyes staring back at her from the bathroom mirror.
Stoically she stood, anger-fingers pressed to the inside of the basin's rim.
A gall of indignation clutched at the inside of her throat.
Her whispered curses waxed into a scream, "I hate you. You bastard. I Hate You!"
Moments later. . . sad, kindred eyes met hers,
asking what they always asked, "How do you support this all these years?"
She gazed at the only one who truly knew and felt a rush of utter desolation.
Concentrated rage was channeled to a river of self-pity.
It spilled up and into the bile of her throat, erupting in her helpless gasps,
transforming into hard and bitter sobs,
and with this lament came gushing tears.
Nothing else existed but the woman in the mirror and the grief.
Some moments passed. She sniffled.
Further weeping now would take some effort.
She sighed the sigh of familiar resignation.
Glancing at her consort, red-eyed, in the mirror,
she turned the faucet on and dabbed a tear-streaked face.
The telephone was ringing, so as she went to get the phone,
she steeled herself
in case the flood had not entirely ebbed.
For the Catharsis Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
September’s almost coming to its end.
The shining green that clothed the trees in June
Has darkened as the shorter days impend;
Their battered leaves will presently be strewn
Beneath the boughs, which tremble in the chill
That rushes in where winds till now waxed warm,
With Summer's swelter weakening until
We sense the Equinox's looming storm.
Because for all its beauties and its joys
No Summer can persist resisting change—
When held too long, what first creates, destroys;
And only then is born what’s rich and strange.
For Autumn heralds Winter, which will bring
The frosts which in their turn give way to Spring.
October 2, 2019
Previous title: "Summer's End"
Revised October 15, 2019:
The second quatrain originally went--
Beneath the boughs, which tremble in the chill
That rushes in where winds till now blew hot.
The days fly – they inevitably will—
Still, that is inescapably our lot.
But the second sentence seemed to me to be too weak and even bordering on the trite, so I rewrote it as above. Apologies to all who've read it to date!
THE CANDLE
candles gulp and flicker
in a new altitude
old caves of crazy
waxed out warning
stars
plummeting to their
dark new address
less stressed
than before
in absence I revolve
shrouded in my resolve
of deceitful sheets
a constellation
shattered rainbows
and chandelier
antiques
© Kim van Breda
Inspired by Victor Buhagiar’s romantic writes.
GLASS SLIPPERS
He sees their shine -
on his knees, he’d kiss
her glass slippers.
The ballroom floor -
first date jitters,
diamond waxed.
The newness of their faces,
skintight with anticipation -
illumination of the mirrors.
The crystal chandelier,
like a tall tale;
simply a fairy tale.
Arising like the North star,
he dares to sit -
she’s vulnerable
like her glass shoe,
still breakable,
but before she can entertain
her timorous thoughts,
his lips warm hers, like apple cider -
hot cinnamon elixir.
The gears in play,
puzzle pieces find their match,
a stone’s throw from the hearth.
Her glass slippers so shiny,
shapely heels -
he thinks, ‘what if she lost just one?’
‘Would I find her and remove the other one,
too?’ Such thoughts make him blush.
Her red lips amuse his thoughts.
Illusions of cologne, polished hair,
a hand held out for a waltz -
her pulse in the dream.
He’s swept up as her gown
whirls around and around,
hypnotic and his knees
nearly buckle
as her spray of sweet-scented hair
spreads to his heart.
The cyclonic pull
of the storm
renders them both breathless.
The eye
is hard to find -
they waltz in the air.
12/7/2021
Sure as spring-ebullient cedes to summer’s escapades
In vagaries of time a budding flower parches and fades
And the sweet sound of hatchlings abandons its nest
And autumn’s gilded leaves perish in throes of decay
And dethroned from its apex, sun-glorious as well sets.
Much alike nature, as life unleashes unsettling events
For some, its turbulence triggers hysterical blindness
And esteem that waxed to full-moon begins to wane
Akin to a sunny day that darkens and suddenly rains
Or flame of desires extinguishes in lovelorn marriage.
Purpose and meaning no longer wield a special clout
As soul of vigor confused harbors despondent doubt
And sense of self deteriorates into endless distraught
Till a beloved hand of compassion lovingly reaches out
Reconsolidating its ego, letting spent passions sprout;
Spurring momentous days, seizing thrilled moments,
Un-remembering yesterday, rejoicing bliss of present
Knowing tomorrow’s fate isn’t as assured as today’s,
Cognizant of transience and impermanence of being,
For now is real as can be, for tomorrow may be elusive.
October 6, 2021
Placed 1st: This or That, Vol 7 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title chosen: Hysterical Blindness
A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
Her face was a constellation of perfections
She was ravishing; beautiful beyond condemnation.
Her voice was like many water
Yet, it's coo whenever she sputtered.
Her gait was just so alluring
No wonder men couldn't help but kept gazing.
She trod on her pathway like a goddess -
This woman I saw was priceless.
Even her dance step sent signals to heavenly bodies
The immortals were mesmerized - she was more than a novice.
The flexibility of her body was as a swift wind
It moved so fast, it could not be filmed.
When she sang, it was like that of an angel
Kingdoms let loosed: heaven, earth and hell
In her eyes, you'd see paradise
In her world, great men and women did arise
There was ample concinnity in her kingdom
Everything was cloudless, no entrenchment of freedom
She also spoke with authority and with great audacity
Owning to her greatness, she created a brawny fraternity
Loosed men and women longed to have her by their side
'Sorry, I'm not your type' she did chide
They tried to restrain, but they were so much in love
Her being angry at them only waxed their hearts together in her glove
Men of great status came to have her
They were with their luxuries - they came from afar
The splendour of her beauty got them sprawling to the floor
The radiance of her look made their visions blur
In her, greatness was defined
There are so many traits of hers which can't be outlined
She kept her statute; she was a woman of virtue
Her works were known, they reached their plateau
Of a truth, this woman is a goddess
And this makes me remember the game of chess
At the end, the king and queen are brought to rear
So also is this woman I saw. Her name is Nigeria.
Flickering in the night, a melting’s texture of regrets afterglow,
Candlelight’s waxed drippings staining the white laced table cloth,
Yet in the black and white photo album of the timeless, it is a
Pressed flower of remembrance, never to be forgotten,
In the days of wine and roses.
As champion kisses are exchanged between the
Youthful hearts of the innocent, another cork
Is popped, in this cozy interlude of memory’s repast,
Shattered lies this tempered fragile glass, smashed
Against the fireplaces inner mantel, leaving a frothy
Foams liquid behind, causing the crackles embers to
Burn higher with passions flame,
In the days of wine and roses.
Hand cut floral arrangements, plucked apart
Then tossed asunder, a petals trail to silken sheets
Of pleasure, sorrow’s bedding is lined with feathers
Down, angel wings tender sheathing to protect the
Wounded child of innocence, curled inside perfection’s
Illusionary dream, evolving into a flowering silhouette of
Womanhood.
In shad’s refection of repose, she weeps thus diamond
Tears that float away amongst the Lilley thorns, within the
Rippling pool of the timeless,
Oh those were the farewells for-get-me-knots,
To those days of wine and roses.
Valentines shaped boxes shredded into confections confetti,
Thrown into the air of clarity at the ticker tape parade
Of the broken heartbeat, as it explodes into a zillion pieces,
Tissues spent candy wrappers used to wipe away, moistures
Sorrows of regrets folly, thus the tender reed bends into
The winds of emotion,
Behold the tokens price of loves devotion,
Back in the days of wine and roses.
Vintage bouquets of elegance, tarnished with age,
Yet still retaining lusters shine of everlasting beauty,
The faithful clinging to the shadows of the past,
Hopes dreaming romantic, waltzing in rheum with
Memories of illusion, showered by petals of color,
From those days of wine and roses.
Flickering in the night, a melting’s texture of regrets afterglow,
Candlelight’s waxed drippings staining the white laced table cloth,
Yet in the black and white photo album of the timeless, it is a
Pressed flower of remembrance, never to be forgotten,
In the days of wine and roses.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUN
Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.
Sand in sheets
scuffing skin and reminding
last nights attire reaks like bonfire
a hundred days like this
a sea of endless laughs rolling
like filmreels infinitely looped fantastic
Their cars rolled in, shiney and pretentious
personalized plates waxed clever wit
crowding this small town to gloat in sand-side castles
Yacht club yucks shelling bucks like bayou crayfish
condescending, fun loving, brash Chicago touristas
Bless their daughters who filed in sassy
chin up, chest out trustafarians
scents of coconut lotion and clinique perfume
wafting through our warm lake breeze reality
Giddy and loving our rough edged style
intending to slum with townies, like we minded...
smiles glowing in those bonfire nights
mischievious and promising...
Every action thereafter defied catholic school education
...benificiaries of repression rebellion...like we minded!
Lake Michigan was paces from my bedroom window
These sparrow serenaded mornings..
...morphing into something amphibious
when the alewives were raked, we lay lazy
Bodies melted into sand~~ sated with sun
splashing back to cool off in sandbars
coolers anchored in those cool waters
taking long pulls off a perspiring Heineken
Beach days concluded with seagulls off to hunt
Squaking as they ascended into pink and orangecicle skies
The water shimmered like a million illuminated snakes
...side winding-mirrored the suns final say
Couples pulled up to Harbor landing to see the show
heads melted into one mass in windshields all around
lovers seeing nature's beauty more vibrant as lovers do...
The sunset brings a new purple backdrop
squaks are replaced with crickets chirps
Bright-then-fading green...BRIGHT-then fading green
Children gathered fireflies in jars laughing
Ice cream stained faces aglow with captive glee
Then to black and star filled, became the sky
we returned to cooler sand pushing between our toes
scurrying through dunegrass seeking driftwood and brush
creating a structure to take to flame...a science for proud boyscouts
There we gathered with newfound gals from cross lake 'burbs
sunrise would end our night tonight...awaking to lifeguards scolding.
Inspired by John Heck's Summer Contest!!
Golden oak, the banister gleams,
its clean waxed surface lightly
touched by her soft, soft hand as she
descends the green carpeted stair,
tossing her lustrous, long blonde hair.
She is modishly dressed, in a casual way
(a green twill frock) and she is
eating an intense red, crisp apple,
which she carries aloft in her left hand,
left elbow resting on left hip.
The apple aroma precedes her to the door
and out, into the bright gold light.
She closes the door, engages the lock,
firmly bites into the crisp apple flesh,
flashing her strong white teeth;
her pink tongue licks a dribble
of juice from the left corner
of her red, red mouth. She shakes her head,
gold in the golden light, and she tosses
the half-eaten apple to the lush green lawn,
laughs at a soaring greenjay, passes (unnoticed)
a flight of fluttering golden butterflies,
and blithely continues on her determined way
to her beauty appointment, her club luncheon,
and the rest of her busy, busy day.
Maidens, bloody maidens, I had me six of ‘em wenches, ye knowest
Fullsome Catherine of Aragon wrought havoc ‘tween me and the Pope
Besought a divorce, split from the church whilst Anne Boleyn caught mine eye
'Twas beheaded whenst in ‘er capacity to produce a male heir I lost hope
Mine affection waxed for Jane Seymour; I beseeched ‘er t’ marry me
Anne’s body not yet cold in the ground whenst Jane became mine queen
But after giving me a son, Jane withered, twas gone in two weeks
For ‘er I mourned two years, afore proposing to Anne of Cleves
Ye knowest this “Flanders Mare” twas not suited for mine royal court
Nay, ‘er domestic skills tweren’t becoming of a stately king’s wife
At mine auld age of 49, I grew enamored of young Kathryn Howard
She but 19 when I divorced Anne and beseeched ‘er t’ share mine life
But Kathryn had eyes for other blokes, made me look like a pompous joke
"Thou dost not deserve thine title," I declared, had ‘er executed
Twice widowed at the age of 31, Katherine Parr I settled for
This wench cared for me as I grew ill, thus is undisputed
Prithee t’ see after six attempts, I finally met mine match
Katherine inherited mine throne once mine body twas laid t’ rest
From heaven I look back fondly at mine spirited days of yore
Knowing that in a regal sense mine first wife twas truly mine best
* For Lisa Cooper’s “I Want Some Old English Scandal” contest
A mortal breath expires drifting to where?
Taken into the mystery of, invisible open air.
To where could that breath have gone?Instantaneously
snatched, unaware. left behind ,bitter tears of sorrow.
In every teardrop a question.While the pastor makes
a healing suggestion.
Birth certificates becomes memorabilia.
Grave stones are visited. The beginning sweet, the end a
bitter cup, No one knows when there time is up.
Many are gone,truly gone, flying to another world,
to be born, again.A life adorned,a loss,a friend
or family member.
A departure we will always remember.
Why now? why then? how did it end so fast?
The only sure answer is death at last.
Take my hand, take my kiss, take my beating
heart. Knowing for sure this will all be taken apart.
Taken from the start connected to the send.
Take all the I lend my friend, knowing soon
we shall face the end .Gone to the great beyond
Where other souls have passed on ,up in smoke.
Waxed in oblivion, gone to a heavenly reward or
not. Don’t fuss and don’t fight for one day or night
My eyes will follow that bright light surround by white.
Written by: Elliott Bowe
To be continued by Vienna Bombardieri....