Best Where Poems
_________
The sun-yellow house seems smaller somehow,
viewing it now, after all these years...
The street seems narrower, and the trees have grown tall..
And where once open fields spanned both sides of the road,
there are small tract houses, where fences have bloomed.
Neighboring orchards have all disappeared
But, somehow we knew the house would be there....
As if seen from a distance, edged by seasons, yet clear
There's the path that we laid one hot summer day,
in the yard of this house that sits at the bend
near the end of the road, where the sycamore grew....
Someone else left their footprints that lead to the door
There's a rusty-red bike, and a skate left behind
by the squeaky old gate, that tomorrow will find.
As suddenly as wind will spring from the dust
thirty years fell away, and flew into in the past
And quickly alive, all the memories rise,
like a whirlwind of leaves, in a springtime of lives.....
_____
...Our first Christmas trees, and our first holidays...
Anniversaries we spent with just pizza and wine
The place where I cried long into the night,
as the child in me grieved for a mother who died...
Long, starry nights, I was bathed by the moon
rocking my babes to a lullaby tune
_____
Yes....it is all captured there, in the small yellow house
Our very first house, with the snow-white trim
Strange, it may be, but I'm glad it's still yellow...
Still wearing the face of the warm summer sun
The sun- yellow house, with a flagstone path
Where old slate stones bring the sun to the door
It's a path we laid on a warm summer day
in a place that we knew as our very first home
Just a small yellow house, with its snow-white trim...
that sits 'round the bend, where the sycamore grew...
The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.
He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.
This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.
The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.
With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.
His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.
The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.
The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.
November 25th, 2013
where crystals gleam
i want to lie
where the scented lily opens
reveals its stamen
tender as babies breath
as unavoidable as our sun's and moon's provocative union
as desirable as a cooling whisper on a hot humid day
as necessary as the blistering heat
a dream yet to be dreamt
in my wanting
an explosion
an us reality
you are the joy of laughter
boxed, wrapped, gifted
all the gems of no monetary value - priceless
moments absorbed fully
womanhood sings
and i respond in kind
climb beyond frozen minds
where pianos open
radiate warmth
cradle purity
my will nestled in the notes
where crystals gleam
i want to lie
July 25 2016
Maurice Yvonne
Ink of life cannot bleed for eternity,
so I place dried petals in between,
crucial chapters of my memoirs.
When we stop breathing poetry,
our crestfallen pen, left in silence -
where do we poets go?
Is there a special place,
where the ink flows forever,
like waterfalls of mercy -
where thirst quenches
through poetic potions.
Releasing unspoken words -
can you hear the messages?
Floating in the tepid breeze,
brushing against your face,
forming goose pimples.
When our spirits make love to poetry,
we radiate like rays of sunshine
warming the world.
We do not speak poetry,
it whispers to us,
like spotlights in the sky,
soothing scars upon the moon.
When we cry poetic tears,
we pour like raindrops,
refreshing seasonal blossoms.
Our muse battles storms,
like lilac lilies in the snow.
We illuminate like a timeless rainbow,
absorbing all spectrum of vibrancy.
Glistening after clouds clear,
from red to yellow to green.
We the word collectors,
soul connectors,
forever weaving like
spiders spinning cobwebs.
What becomes of us
when our pen's shadow
no longer appears.
We may never write the perfect poem,
but poetry reminds us we are alive -
as our words become immortal.
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 November 2020
A transparent melody paints the walls
in the coloured scent of fresh linen.
The changing of sheets in the morning air
can not erase our dance from evening last.
Outside a late spring asleep too long
with no blooms until June, awakens.
Fully opened September flowers
perfume late night conversations.
Looking outside reveals
only one set of footsteps in both directions.
The days when I would watch you walk,
lagging behind with a smile.
The moss grows wild in the forest...
trees surrounded by families of mushrooms.
The word "family"
so I...
An I for an I
and soon the whole world will be in love.
How I long your hug,
your body encompassing mine.
God exists
no greater proof...
With a single tear I
lay flowers where you bloom...and I
i think of you.
March 20 2015
Armand
Where on Earth or far beyond do we poets go, you ask.
My thoughts willingly stretch my imagination with this task.
I would reply...in any direction our ink chooses to flow.
To the light of dawn or to dark telltale shadows of Poe
There are no boundaries that could rein in a poet's mind,
even if we have the mournful misfortune of going blind.
A poet is not harnessed by sight like a horse to a carriage.
From memory our vision serves us in a sort of marriage,
a bond without rings and vows that gives us wings to fly
among stars, or to realms a common man cannot descry.
To know sin's sorrow, we would walk through a fiery hell
if it would give us the insight that living could not quell.
Inspiration is our weapon, feathered arrows we shoot,
aiming for the rhyming words and chasing in hot pursuit.
Though our muse flees, and crumbled pages lie at our feet,
our mind struggles in unrest but will not concede defeat.
On ventured missions, traveling where our hearts will lead.
Among distant galaxies, where we collect poetic seed
to plant in fertile delta land or in sandy deserts on Earth,
cultivating cogent lines, to which our scribing gives birth.
Fathering or mothering verses from infancy to fruition.
Editing until at last, our brainchild is worthy of submission.
We see far beyond mundane realities of life and reason.
Writing from the heart, rebuking the penalty of treason.
We wind through mazes of each personal poetic anecdote.
Exposed is our nakedness in each lyrical line we ever wrote.
June 20, 2022
2022 Marathon Mile 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney.
Seared upon my soul for ever more
That break of dawn upon a summer morn
As I made my way along that rocky shore
Strewn with remnants from a raging storm
When through a rising mist of gray - so forlorn
I saw a badly broken sinking ship
With canvas wings of white so sadly torn
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs
And as that mighty fearless ocean roared
With salty breezy breath so filled with scorn
I saw it rise up from the ocean floor
Wrapped in a velvet coat so frayed and worn
A red, red, rose impaled upon a thorn
Where passion bled like rain from ruby lips
Upon a vivid memory reborn
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs
The wind - it whispered - in my ear - Lenore
As black clouds in the sky began to form
Into a face I’d never seen before
With hollow cheeks that endless tears adorned
That fell in frozen crystal drops so foreign.....
Then from those clouds his face began to slip
And I cried the tears of a woman scorned
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs
Lenore, the love he would forever mourn
That from his pen on page in words did drip
As I read his poetry and love was born
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs.
~~~~
Author: Elaine George of Canada
Written: February 28, 2011
A tribute to: Edger Allen Poe and his Lenore
I followed one day a spring breeze at play.
It seemed not to know where to go.
And aimlessly, I - like a butterfly -
meandered with it to and fro.
Among bright blue bells, it tired a spell.
Recovering, it picked up speed.
Alongside a rill, I ran with a thrill
just to know where the breeze might lead.
My heart filled with song as I danced along,
careening through meadows of green.
And then the breeze dove into a large grove,
the loveliest I’d ever seen.
No longer a breeze, it whipped around trees.
It whistled while beckoning me,
and as it passed through where tall redwoods grew,
I was following, wild and free.
In that beautiful place, it changed its pace
and got stronger, for the breeze goes
where sturdy trees thrive. I felt so alive!
I have been to where the wind blows.
tired from crawling
no desire to walk - bless me with wings to fly
in the midst of melancholic melodies of rain
through monotonous tones of charcoal clouds
take me to a place where eagles soar
free me from those who preach in shrouds
ascending above snow drenched Himalayan cliffs
far from cultural vultures preying on my mind
take me to a place where eagles soar
before sleeping volcanoes, veiling lava unwind
through soundless valleys of wasted emotions
where grave yards have become soulless meadows
take me to a place where eagles soar
to tune in with music - bubbling springs compose
away from seagulls too far from the shore
gliding through Iguazu waterfalls of regret
take me to a place where eagles soar
before my feathers become too wet
flowing from the Nile towards the Black sea
surfing over ripples of wanderlust waves
take me to a place where eagles soar
carrying me to a province our heart craves
against storms where adversity engraves wounds
towards the light where rays of sunshine reflect in golden hues
take me to a place where eagles soar
where poetry meets the alchemy of its muse
among coral lanterns floating in lilac skies
beyond the serene silence of the moon
take me to a place where eagles soar
before a skyline of stars are gone too soon
towards the aroma of my beloved's garden
where my enlightened dahlia still delight
take me to a place where eagles soar
where angels recite poetic rhymes to kiss you goodnight
resting upon ancient trees full of verdant leaves
recalling childhood dreams and that forgotten playground
take me to a place where eagles soar
creating a nest in an abode we can call our hometown
and if I could fly.... would you soar with me?
Darkness Where Now Poe And Raven Reside,
(Part One)
As the Raven cross into the dark pits
Those in torment went into heaving fits
Its shrieking calls, alarms even down there
Far worse its image to dying souls scare
With great trepidation some turned to Poe
Begging, master far away make it go
Poe only smiled, saying, come now my pet
I have far, far sweeter work for you yet.
As Raven lands on Poe's black-stone table
Spits out two bloody and half eaten hands
Asks, does this remind you of that fable
Promising keys to kingdom's treasured lands
Given to a man willing and able
Freeing princess, her captor's sword withstand
Where death's deeds and bloody might enables
Morbid masterpieces of art so grand.
From all around, their banter brought loud moans
From wretched sinners in that dark hell cast
Raven spoke in wicked, evil tones
I toyed with her, to make my pleasure last
Poe commanded, Raven, please no more of that
We are here to enjoy the pleasant scenes
And in our deep joy, grow lazy and fat
Let us not her poor soul thus so demean.
Raven again spoke, come now we need pain
And louder wailing that soothes a black heart
For what good is torture if has no gain
Or tearful pleadings that come as it starts
Master, order yon' demon band to play
For I shall fly above and watch you dance
Let us enjoy sadder cries on this day
With evil's first bride, a little romance.
Poe then rose to do as his pet wanted
Poe laughed and said, Raven dear, please be nice
Let not our blackened pride thus be flaunted
When bit better decorum would suffice.
With that he motioned demon band to play
Its favorite and first great monstrous hit
As waiting victims begged that they may
Have some relief from their torturous fits.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-30-2019
Dark Rhymes, ( As Raven And Poe Both Survive Below)
Part One...
Syllables Per Line:
0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 400
Total # Words:306
They slip beyond the reach of sight,
where thought begins to lose its frame,
into the fabric of the air,
returning softly out of light,
to where no mind can speak their name,
releasing secrets hidden there.
They linger briefly on the face,
then leave what could not yet be said,
caught in the corner of a sleeve,
as something passes from its place,
until the self moves on instead,
To teach a heavy heart to breathe.
They fall to ground or disappear,
absorbed in surfaces unknown,
drawn into dust or skin or rain,
then fade beyond our sense of here,
as time unthreads what it has known,
A cold reminder of the stain.
They surface later, undefined,
as memory reshapes their role,
called grief or joy by shifting voice,
yet never fixed within the mind,
for meaning cannot keep them whole,
Driven by laws, and not by choice.
They alter what the body keeps,
a breath released, a slowing chest,
a subtle shift in inner weight,
so something quiet shifts and seeps,
toward what it is to come to rest,
And forgives the heart its heavy state.
Under a blue moon
He becomes my dream
A secret uncloaked
Emotion unveiled
A mystery revealed
Existence of warmth
between my subconscious
and implicit knowledge
..And it is there
`Neath the soft spot
of this heart
where crimson bleeds
its velvets
upon his bare breath
It is there
where my blushed lips
loose their virginity
Where my fair cheeks
suffuse with rosy glow
It is there where
fiery needs are fulfilled
Fervent desires scorched
Candlelit pleasures beheld
It is there
where alluring visions embrace
my suppressed memory
and take over this barren soul
As his ardent voice calls
in an enticing whisper
and a unique accent
into my left ear
My love...
Mon petite fleur..
Mi amor...
That is a preserved time
An uncloned moment
where my unwholiness
becomes whole
That is the minute
His glancing eyes
capture my own
Only until...
Mr Sandman leaves behind
Dry proposals on wet sand
Early mist envelops the bridge
Aurora glows in new awakening
Last zephyr breeze
fades from my cheek
Then He is gone
Forever gone
A revised repost~Not for the rose contest..but thanks for Vie's Roses contest and wonderful Rose poems
I decided to revise this post and repost,till the muse plays along.
There is a sacred place, beyond the deep blue skies
while living, we cannot go, and where birds cannot fly
a vast, mysterious realm, not meant for human eyes
where strong forces gather, waging war from on high.
A war for the hearts and the minds of our souls
by the enemy of God, that dark serpent of old
who lusts for men's lives, even though he well knows
that Christ's work is done and He sits on His Throne.
The prince of this world does not want us to see
that the power of God can transform you and me
living Word, that can change us within, Spirit breathed
like those birds soaring high, lifting hearts when we read.
There is a place far away, where birds cannot go
yet someday, the saints who believe Him will know
that great haven of heaven from Christ will be shown
a bright new tomorrow, where the river of life flows.
Written 2015
Under a half moon
He becomes my dream
A secret uncloaked
Emotion unveiled
A mystery revealed
Existence of warmth
between subconscious
and implicit knowledge
And it is there...
`neath the soft spot of my heart
where crimson bleeds its velvet
upon his bare breath
Its there where my blushed lips
lose their virginity
Where my fair cheeks
suffused with rosy glow
It is there where fiery needs are fulfilled
Fervent desires scorched
Candlelit pleasures beheld
It is there where alluring visions
embrace my suppressed memory
and take over this barren soul
As his ardent voice call
in an enticing whisper
in a unique accent
into my left ear
My love~Mi amor
That is the preserved moment
when my unwholiness becomes whole
That is the moment
those glancing eyes capture my own
Only until...
Mr sandman leaves behind
wet proposals on dry soil
Early mist envelops the bridge
Aurora rises in new awakening
Last zephyr breeze fades away
and once again He is gone,gone.
In a world where I do not exist
in invisible air my soul roams.
The sun would still blaze in amber light,
the moon and stars sparkle over ebony.
Rainbows and butterflies,
an epitome of silent elegance
would flutter in an abundance of colours.
Rain and snow, pain and sorrow, storms and hurricanes,
winds would weave between ancient trees,
dahlias and roses would still blossom,
but not with my hands,
robins would arrive and then leave,
humming birds still hum their hymns.
There would still be poetry,
just no words of mine,
left behind - would you become a poet?
There would not be no
misunderstood metaphors
nor concern about belonging.
There would be no recollections,
no echoes of my voice,
no memories, no angst, no scars
and that, which died, would not need to survive.
Maybe you would be happier - smile more.
No regret and no remorse.
Do debate about what is worthy and what is not.
No broken hearts - no forgotten promises.
No rage, no victims nor villains -
no turning the page.
No one would need to mourn for me
nor would there be a goodbye.
The music would still play,
but you would sing a different tune,
But in those moments of De Ja Vu -
that make you wonder - maybe that would be me
and would you still wish
to have met me?
In a world where I do not exist
I'm happy not to be born.