Best Wearies Poems
Come to me and lay down your wearies,
In the bed of rose petals rest appease.
The soft voice of siren will send you in to bliss.
'Til you close your eyes and start dreaming in peace.
Dance with me, I'll take you in heavenly place.
Where angels and fairies singing a song of praise.
Fly high and touch the ceiling of sky.
Feel the pleasure within of nature's lullaby.
written: 5/21/2014
Contest name: it's all about nature #3
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Denial is a can of peas
whose contents
should never be indulged
beyond the expiration date.
Yet there I stood,
evidence screaming reality
at my eyes, their gaze steadfast
upon the wailing baby girl
before me in her bassinet.
My mind then confidently knew
that what lay there
could have never come
from briefest self-indulgence.
Still, my heart wouldn't listen—
And rightly so.
I turned and faced
a solitary window,
which framed a cold and gray
November day
that froze as well
the unrecorded moment.
Though soft upon my parted lips
came unbidden words:
“I love you, dearest child”—
knowing all that was yet to be,
for here lay an open book
in which life would write about
a young girl’s timeless, playful mirth,
but also test her brazen dreams
and tireless hopes alike.
On life’s other end,
my mother wearies
of her endless days
and puzzles
over life prolonged well past
these ninety-seven years—
asking with familiar eyes,
undimmed by age,
the reason why,
which none can answer,
and which none tries,
and silence reigns.
Then, soon enough
both memories and questions fade,
their cycles now complete.
Mark B. Peterson, Any Poem/Any Form, December 26, 2013
OLD HOUSE
built in 1905
before i was born
i wonder
what were the owners like?
shadows are quick to reply
some nights
as i watch the tube
quick shadows tell
i am not the owner
am but a house guest an intruder
winter wearies
with the same old view
out my kitchen window
how many others before
how winter weary?
Dave Austi
I dwell in a pretty home
Filled with fragrant emotions
Beautiful days pass as foam
Endearing enchants our fashions.
Home of ours, built with hopes
To dine without any unpleasant worries
Every brick earned of hardest sweat
Tied us with love, without wearies.
Sand and bricks blended with water
To give life to our family home,
Emotions enchants in our blood
Spreads love in the wind and foam.
We share our sorrows and pains
As our love filled in blood and veins,
We dwell under one roof of love,
Fills our home with pleasant sounds.
We lack in earning but not in love,
We cherish our joy with earnest smiles
We are the jewel of our little home
Delighted to live in our HAPPY HOME.
There are days when I wonder why it matters
To have existed at all in this time and space.
My presence here is like a sound that clatters
Then fades to silence leaving not a trace.
Was there some point to being cast in this coil?
Was there a measurable difference to make?
What is the significance of the sweat and toil?
Have I existed merely for existence’s sake?
I’m trying to make sense of my mortal bout.
When the blood is still and earth is my cradle
Will I ask—could I think—what was that about?
And why did I drink from that toxic ladle?
Faith endeavors to answer my queries,
Admonishing me to know of One on high.
But there are times when one wearies
Of believing what is real in an unknown sky.
THE UNIVERSE ALWAYS SAYS YES
I had to be
Because
I am
She said no
The no was ignored
He carried on
As it was meant to be.
She lay still.
Thus, was me.
Did not come from the earth
Nor will I be committed back to it.
I had to be.
Because I am.
I said no, no, was not understood;
He said yes, and a new sun was born.
I said yes, but he said I cannot.
She came through the storm of my womb.
He is because I am
They are because - he could.
Determined to be.
She was because I was.
In the beginning, the universe said yes:
Yes, to child fifteen.
A tired womb, a womb wearies from childbirth
She did not say yes- She did not say no.
She knew the answer was always yes.
It would always be that way for them.
He loved them- She loved them…
She survived them -She endured them.
They had to be, because.
The universe always says yes,
the stars always shine
The sun never says no.
the moon always says yes.
So, I had to be. So, they could also be.
I said no. but the answer is always yes.
No protest heard is ever heard.
This thing called procreation.
This act so forcefully committed,
Or so passionately rendered
Mostly without consent.
Sometimes without love.
What must be, will be.
The answer is always yes!
Yet the cycle continues.
I see all these grand-little ME’s
And I know now and understand.
Why the no is always silent.
The ******** of correction stands firm.
And what will be, must somehow be.
The moon cycle said yes.
To the womb of water that was provided.
By the seed, I was conceived.
If not for him, I could never be.
So, I will never go back to the earth.
Nor be committed to the ground;
I never touched the ground.
Until they put me down to crawl.
I stood instead and walked at 7 months.
Days later, I heard a beat-drop, and danced;
The rest of the way.
A fragile Force
O’ year after year, and even day after day,
I come to grasp the grandeur of what is at play.
The importance of the LIFE that is available to all,
The significance in rising after we fall!
I am sure that every man once had a great dream,
Every woman given the freedom will talk to extreme.
All children ought to be shown unconditional love,
And every good gift is from the Father above.
Moreover, every word spoken has some sort of meaning,
Some communicate joy, while others anger and weeping.
Likewise, every action has its own repercussions,
And relationships grow through heart-felt discussions.
I gather that everyone always wants to be right,
To be appreciated is such a beautiful sight.
Constant correction sure wearies the soul,
And everyone needs to accomplish a goal.
I believe the heart is strong, yet a fragile force;
When it is broken, who can know its course?
Some look for love, some really get violent,
A small number forgive, while many go silent.
Who can determine what makes a person tick?
How the magnificent brain will choose and pick.
Without a doubt, what I’ve learned the most,
Is that to the sinful flesh, the heart is host!
It is only by grace that the heart can survive,
And only through Jesus, a man’s heart revive.
Without his grace, oh, who can be saved?
Not even one, For the road has been paved!
Written By:
Stacey Brown
January 26, 2019
Scripture references
John 14:6, Proverbs 17:22, James 1:17, Romans 10:9, Proverbs 18:20-21
Enduring love in a letter box
for it wearies not with age
neither does it fade in time
It forever lives on every page
Oh I know it all to well
love comes and go's like the tides
but here within the letter box
just read then close your eyes
You smell it don't you?
the scent that makes you swoon
that taste, a touch, the memory
as those words of love consume
From the heart with which they were written
in ink it sings most tender song
rewind it's only direction now
as if love would never go wrong
Preserved before doubt
in a holding without hurt
when hope surged and passion burned
yet there in lies the lessons learned
Of fire as it blows in the wind
so quickly it's path rescinds as it clings
I too believed loves fire never dimmed
but chasing fire is not for those with heavy wings
Oh the sighs the letter box brings
the miles it's traveled with me
time spent with it seems a perpetual Spring
and for now it's the comfort I need
Ecotone
I did not plant the prairie tickseed that appeared among
The cultivated flowers of my garden and quickly dominated.
It seemed to say, “We live, still!
My house sits in a tension zone, an ecological “no man’s land” where
Tall Grass Prairie and the Cross Timbers, vie for control.
Here the vagaries of weather assure that all who enter are mistreated.
Seasons turn through the Zone as Fall, Winter, Spring,
And the Heat. The moisture-prickling Heat, like a visit from
The in-laws, comes early, stays long and wearies the endurance.
Rainfall is the fickle arbiter of the Zone. It befriends the trees
Almost; the grass too much. Legions of plants, playthings
Of climate, contending over millennia for land suitable to neither.
They were not untended. Cultivation by wild fires, twisting winds, floods
And drought, performed acts of purification and renewal; encroachers purged,
Minerals recycled, seeds scattered, and the arena reset for the endless contest.
But gone now are blades of Blue Stem and pickets of Post Oak.
Red subsoil overlaid with Bermuda sod is my “Sooner” system;
An inanity to the Zone kept on life support by irrigation and fertilizer.
Bermuda minders are hungry yet grow heavy with time
And plenty. They seek order amid uncertainty, and
Shelter from risk, yet cast their lot in a tension zone.
Their dis-ease stems from attempted breakouts of the Cultivators
Struggling to wrest free of human controls. (They who are said to have
Ears to hear a wildfire in its death throes claim it hisses, “We live, still!”)
They are not alone. Homes of the coastal naïf become
Mere tender for Chaparral fires as those of a floodplain
Are flotsam for the river.
Like mallards returning to the same pond
After each thinning by hunters, the unwitting
Rebuild as the Cultivators whisper, ”We live still”
Copyright Paul Thomson 2017
As you walk
without hesitation
without gratitude
Seemingly,
without fear
As you walk
back to your place
of power and privilege
You still
require her to smile
As you walk
past the place of humanity,
brokenness
shrill echoes
of shattered glass
You still
require her to smile
As you walk
back to your place
of power and privilege
Her silent screams
and muffled dreams
are washed away
By the vault of indifference
that slams behind you
she is resigned
to a slow sifting
hourglass of isolation
Yet
you still
require
her to smile
She wearies
of the preparation
of submission
a mask that suffocates,
her pretense of desire
But she is
the
entertainment,
the
meal,
the
pleasure,
the plaything
Her belly aches of
raw foie gras, figs
and Bergerac
It no longer matters
that her soul
is absent from this feast
She gathers her body
stained and sweaty
from your momentary
remembrance of her
The violation
puddles
in quiet places
She submits
to a place
of self-loathing
She knows
that
this
is not
the last
of green men
that will require her to smile
Much to my consternation,
I see poems, lacking punctuation!
It would seem my poetic friend,
the latest and modern trend
is to write without indication,
of a poet’s true inclination.
Pray how, ask I, can we
understand what we see,
without capitals or colon,
full stops - the list goes on,
including commas and queries?
This reader often wearies
in his effort to understand
lines written out of hand,
without such an accessory!
Such are truly necessary
to show a poet’s intention.
To add suspense or dimension,
they are a basic fundamental
which is often instrumental
in allowing us to empathise,
with the poet. It’s no surprise
to find confusion often reigns
without these literary reins
that control the words we write!
Without? The results are trite
lines that deny all perception!
Punctuation, without exception
is required, as is every word.
Absent? Results are oft absurd!
If your work you’d have me read?
punctuation is an essential need.
In truth if my lines were without?
The gist of this dissertation, I doubt
you’d get its intended meaning. For me
punctuation is an essential necessity.
Therefore - and in this I’m not alone,
if you have a yen to write poetry?
Ensure it is punctuated, properly,
or with one look - that’s all I need,
I’ll move on, with the greatest speed!
Rhymer. Janaury 2nd, 2017.
Butter Girl
Hey butter girl! You’re barmy in here there.
By that; in my pretty, little brown-heart;
Black boy’s heart. Or brown if you will!
Succumbed by taunting heat, how come you’re taunt ?
If you could do as much as help her out?
How can this gush of passion be not rife?
Why can’t I? Why can’t I? I asked myself.
So often lots bemoan, the fervent lads
Wed not cute lassies, they not being chaste.
This maze, This hassle
I squiggled, I tamed
In sooth, the tamed was me. What can be done?
It wearies me, it wearies lots, the kind
Of lass that cheers the heart and makes it skip;
You see them go with all tom, dick and harry.
Unvirginal the lots of them, not all,
Though many. Makes you Squeamish, makes you sad.
That’s it, that’s life, that’s what’s become of it.
I always thought how being fair could make
Nigerian girls thus cocky, thinks herself
‘MISS UNIVERSE!’ but no offence. I’m right.
You know I’m right, think deep you’ll see how right.
You wish to show some skin, for spotless they’re!
You jolt them men, them boys, at all of jolt
Come randy from the crisp-butter long-legs.
When you are old and grey and full of crease.
And ironing out, not easy, as you wont.
Take down this book and reminisce on old.
Believe me ma’am, had you such venture forth
And get a little closer to thy God;
Past what you’re doing now, you’ll garner Grace!
Bethink the world to come for this you see.
Is not eternal, its ephemeral.
Its your one and only test to Bliss!
And hold the world as the world, beautiful.
A stage where every man must play a part.
And if by chance you’re not a butter girl;
But tan, or brown or black; bethink. Je t’aime!
Glossary
Butter girl- yellow girl
Miss universe- the most beautiful women in the world
Nigerian girls- African girls (Nigerian represents the whole black African world because she’s the most populous and NIGERIA rhythms better in my poem)
Jolt- shock
Butter- yellow
Crease- wrinkles
Wont- used to do
Bliss – paradise (to achieve jannah)
Je t’aime – I love you (FRENCH)
It's insanity, for all is vanity;
It's like spinning your wheels, going nowhere fast.
Getting caught up in things that will not last.
Building your hopes upon the sand;
Wasting your time on an already foiled plan.
One that is ruined before it gets off the ground.
Build your hopes on something sound.
In Jesus Christ there is righteousness;
And upon His bosom you can rest.
The thing that has been is that it shall be,
And an ear never wearies of hearing and an eye of all is shall see and see.
A sea is not full of the rivers that flow,
And a man full of knowledge will still need to know.
More about Jesus and His mission on earth,
And what to the man the mission is worth.
Life everlasting...it's simple and plain,
So let not your living be in vain.
Ecclesiastes - Chapter 1
Oh wow just look at that tower. It is the tower of towels. They are in a queue waiting for the dryer today. The drier is having a manicure so they will all have to just wait. Yes that's right wait. It is the symbolic image of a platypus platter that pleases prawns. They are watching the towels and also waiting. In fact there really isn't anything today that isn't waiting. Waiting wearies warbling wants. And a giant slice of cheese was grabbing a knife in disgust and throwing it at a passing apple. This was then greeted by the arrival of the grater whose response was to shred the cheese with no trial. No trials were unheard of for cheese. Normally there was a process but it did not appear to be the case in this situation. Mrs Roberta raisin raised her glass and toasted the fine actions of the grater whose antics pleased the manner in which raisins were controlled and control is neither a chewing conifer nor a climbing chimp chomping curds. The grater felt honoured and whirled around in excitement. Whoosh whoosh whoosh. Finally after much waiting the drier appeared. It had to wake the towels for they had fallen asleep. And that was dangerous for they must be awake in the drying cycle due to heat exposure. And capturing the baby elephant cup was quite a difficult feat for the sponges today but they finally caught up using a sliding lint cloth. Good. Minutes making mammoths moan. And a little beetle in a wonderful old fashioned coat with breeches sang to drown out the speeches from the straw covered kitchen. Ha x and a z. Epistemological z z znznzn at forty six capital I's to seventeen billiard balls bouncing on a trampoline in long flowing skirts. G f b q z