Best Whirs Poems
You unfold the mantles of paradise in my eyes,
As I, ambassador of beauty in curtsy arms, rise!
When I stand from the deck with awe and wonder,
I wish our ferry flies and soars high like a bird.
All charms I see are truths of songs I’ve heard,
As whirs of zip wires play like violin over yonder.
While I stroll the landscape to explore and wander
I’ve glimpse of the moon peeking behind a day cloud curd.
moonlight smiles with sun
as bright foliage unfurl
pirouette cold gentle breeze
adorn forest field
eyes dance on green lake to shore
sun-moon ballroom I sojourn
October 19, 2016 11.50am
Copyright2016Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
First Place
Contest: Three Style II (Couplet, Sedoka, Free Verse)
Judged: 10/22/2016
Sponsor: Poet Laura Loo
I like it when she talks
I like the way her hands fly through the air, animating, orchestrating a ballad of colourful characters, each word coupled with a swoop or sway or swing or charade.
I like the way her face vivifies as she speaks;
I like the way her eyes ignite, wild flares of delight, a world brimming with bliss behind each hazel iris.
I could gaze into the welcoming warmth of her eyes for an eternity - I would if I could.
I love her voice, but as I listen it soon fades into a sweet symphony of soft nothings, and before long I'm lost, lost in the dreamy embrace of her face and her eyes, and space and time is frozen in place, sublime,
and I like it.
She pauses, and I'm found again.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
Then her dimples appear, summoning a chorus of giggles, and my skin wriggles and tickles with pins and needles. My stomach knots, brimming with butterflies, and as they flutter and fly my mind whirs in stuttered surprise, my heart pounding, my lips dry.
Because her laugh makes my mind fuzz, and her touch makes my skin buzz, and when her cheeks blush I get goosebumps, and if I speak there's a chance I'll mess this up.
So I say nothing.
I answer with a smile, and she replies with her own, and continues her tall tales and anecdotes.
Her hands resume their dance, and I'm lost in my trance of euphoric romance,
Her eyes revitalize, back alive, enlightened, a gateway to hazy horizons and shining diamonds.
And she talks.
And I listen.
And I like it.
Open eyed I stare at the simple setting
waiting for the day to start,
the bread-baked scent of morning warms.
The grinder whirs and whirs,
beans fly, grounds brew, cream chills,
will you come?
Rose nails tap, finger wish to wrap
arms to bend as heart shaped chair backs
about the trunk of you, my Valentine.
Will you come?
Ah yes, you come, croissants in hand
reclaimed from the waiter, pull back my chair,
lay down a single rose. And we sit where love is wrought
encased in iron, all motions chaired by Cupid's bow.
2/2/14
Contest Café Musing
Poet Debbie Guzzi
Down the Primrose Path
Beautiful and pleasant summer evening
away from the madness among the yawing
breath of brilliant sunset. Slow ease moving
lilac mood of twilight, welcomes me dreaming.
Lost in my steps, neglecting to listen to
my inner wisdom, knowing the view.
I had walked through mingling hues of colour and fragrance
of the sprawling botanical gardens, before in silence.
Under a shaded distance, on a wooden bench, I had sat
and watched people interactions, it got to be a habit.
A bit insane forgetting the through unseen
hush whirs. It flutters its looks among green
ivy's deepest hollow, while lamppost light
cast shadows in darken absence, till morning light.
To be lost in steps, led down through a primrose
path clutch, to many unspoken crimes among those
that have happened within, not one knows.
2/6/2020
Pick A Title, Vol 13 - Lyric - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
3. Down The Primrose Path
A fervent fairy
In romantic dream
Holds a watering
Can, flitting over
Her daisy sweetheart.
Morning sunlight
Obscure bee whirs,
Round fair-haired face
Tease twinkle toes.
Mice clamor,
Hedgehog rolls
Heather blooms.
Weaving
Spider
Hides.
1/6/2021
Bedsprings crochet bones together.
His back is sutured to gripes
stitched to gummy joints.
In the toilet, avoiding the mirror,
humming softly,
shunning conversation with himself -
the ceiling drips a sump of memories.
The park --- Frances revolves confused.
"I don't understand."
A phrase with self-winding words.
A slight miscalculation,
a turning away at the precise moment
she turned towards him;
an error of timing really.
Frances whirs on "I don't understand."
Later he understood she overdosed.
He imagines this lethal power
over her life to be his.
Time whittles cavities with calcifications.
Softly the spine of a storybook breaks -
where one stitch patches a sorrow
a spur prods and rips.
When he listens to the hollows
between the long vertebrae of his life,
he hears a theory crumbling away
under slowly grinding cogs.
in seeming silence heart yet stirs
expressions of life pulse innate
bliss bubbles never do abate
thus hum of silence always purrs
to which vibrant presence concurs
nonchalant to outcomes of fate
as long as nodes within gyrate
joyous as soul star chakra whirs
we would take a consciousness leap
flowing with ease as does the breeze
becoming a flicker free flame
to which end we swim in the deep
each heartbeat embrace and release
whence God Himself fulfils our aim
Staff Meeting
At my desk each morning,
over my first cup off coffee,
I call the staff meeting to order,
a gathering together
of my various bits and parts
that scattered in the night,
each to its own devices,
be they terror,
notes on that yellow legal pad,
erotic fantasy,
unrepeatable indecencies
uttered in an unfamiliar patois,
a mélange of whirs and clicks,
whooshing breaths,
mah jong tiles scattered in patterns
I don’t understand.
On mornings that don’t hurt
they settle gently
into orderly arrangements,
designs and lines of poems,
the fabric of my day.
Other mornings,
the more ordinary ones,
they reject my need,
become ash
that I scoop into the urn
of yet another
lost
day.
Making Hay
by
Kevin Fairbrother
…
Gradually winter fades, spring has begun
The ground will warm up, the grass will grow
The winter rains, the spring sunshine, now for summer
This will make the grass grow and grow
…
The hot days with storms and rain
The grass is getting longer every day
Time to prepare the mower and hay rake
And make sure the baler is in ship shape
…
Plenty of grease in all moving places
The knives sharpened, bolts replaced
Machinery is ready for the harvest
Come December and hot dry weather
…
The disc mower attached to the tractor
Whirs into action to mow down the grass
Cutting the grass close to the ground, lays it flat
In the 10 acre paddock on the river flat
…
The paddock all cut in neat flat rows
Will need lots of sunshine to dry it out
A couple of warm hot days be ready to turn
Once turned another day be ready to bale
…
The baler hooked up begins to thump
As the pick-up feeds in the dry grass
The needle whirs and threads the string
The first bale rolls off the machine
…
Hour after hour the baler spits out bales
Soon the paddock is filled with square bales
The men move in with the flat tray truck
Load the bales with sweat and strength
…
The bales carted and under cover
The hay making machines now quite
The men gather around for a beer and a feed
The hay making done for another year
Love and admire someone
Deeply,
Build a castle with him
Brick by brick,
Paint the walls with frescoes,
Draw dreams.
Hold him
When the illness comes,
Cook him chicken broth,
Kiss his sweaty forehead,
Suction his wounds,
Puff his pillows.
Drive him to the hospital,
Listen to the whirs in the room,
Check the lines on the monitors,
Introduce yourself to every nurse
Shift after shift,
Bargain with God.
Sign “Do not resuscitate,”
Watch his chest heave,
Leave the room
When they pull out the tubes,
Come back,
Sense his heart beat
Stop.
Lay your head on his shoulder,
Memorize him,
Lie to the nurse
That you are ready
To say goodbye.
Brush your fingers across his cheek,
Press his bruised lips,
Twist your neck as you
Walk away,
Touch the cold doorjamb,
Write what you feel.
@Tess Harvester 2013
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
The songs of birds can be heard
send a message without a word.
Skeptics say they're just sound
others find them quite profound.
A peaceful call to nature's mind
from winged friends of every kind.
Listen with the ears of your heart -
"Kok...Kok...Kok..." Ravens passing by...
"Twe-u...Twe-u...Twe-u..." Robins about to fly...
Earbirding language from mnemonic sounds -
"Squeer...Squeer..." poke the Woodpecker way...
"Kyew...Kyew...Kyew..." what the Osprey say...
Hope for the rise of the Phoenix -
"Kee-yer...Kee-yer..." the Hawk meets his match...
"Pippit...Pippit...Pippit..." from the lively Nuthatch...
Circumambulating birds circle in ancient ritual -
"Tu-whit...Tu-whoo..." the Owl will do...
"Cau...Cau...Cau..." Crows insist to you...
Your song may be a trilling coo -
"Chirry...Chirry...Chirry..." sings the Mourning Dove...
"Chiddik...Chiddik...Chiddik..." Sparrows sigh above...
There is a call for your new beginning -
"Wee-zee...Wee-zee...Wee-zee..." a Warbler whirs...
"Toot-sweet...Toot-sweet..." the Bobwhite stirs...
Look for Lark, Loon, Grackle 'n Gull
listen to Quail then Oriole.
Cries, begs, rasp and wheeze
songs 'n sounds that seem to please.
Bird words of the inner mind
meanings within hard to find.
She whimpers and whirs
She banters and she b****es
Tired of my abuse
She’s exacting her revenge
This may be my last message…
Look! She just censored my second line!
This is total b*****s, PC!! What the h...
Initialise >
Under that lid
Lies a labyrinth, glistening
Made sturdy by steel
Perched on an alien-like platform
A circuit board, if you will
Weaving in and out of this entangled metal mech
A perplexing network of cables, the forefront of future tech
Where electrons are trapped, stored on an endless grid
They make up the rules, for this systematic procedure
Infinite possibilities, no humanity to hold them back, no morals to forbid
It wizzes and whirs, primes itself during the boot
Archived processes, numbers; everything it must compute
Upon the completion of this Frankenstein operation
For us, it is reduced under our obligation
Phew!! No More, No More!
That internet really works hard for me,
Broadband almost collides with a star,
Races, whirs and displaces latency,
Drives fast as a speedy, sly race car.
Whenever I want information specific,
About something eccentric or opaque,
I get out those long sentences horrific,
For google, to disperse the mystique.
I search using giant, long questions,
And even end them with a question mark,
And it shoots out several hits, locations,
For my personal analysis and remark.