Best Whisks Poems
wind whisks smoky veils
sun’s dust on spidery silk~
gossamer dreamscape
sky undresses gold
filling the air with roses~
an opium kiss
trees adorned in brown
mirror the silent corn moon~
fallen escapade
as a child,
I perceived
the wonderment
of Clouds.
and elders
likewise contemplated
the curious celebrity of them
the solemnity of shape-shifting skyships
their charity of rain:
encouraging fruit
greening hills
irrigating joys
keeping
watch
around the earth
in as enviable
a perch
as the risen sun
or mystic moon
that guides tides.
sun runs
apace
moon whisks
its baton away
but Clouds
stay high,
perpetual
imprints
covering Space and Time.
Could
Clouds
be God's eyes?
***
when I was
-abecedarian-
counting from one to three,
I licked my lips
at Clouds
reckoning
I'd catch them
like docile butterflies,
and discern the flavors of miracle floss:
must be rose-white sugar
some barley flour
lamb's fleece and goose feathers
the elders, lofty and wise,
disparaged my foolish games.
I tugged
on the edge of their mountainous faces:
wispy chins
transient strands
billowy beards
closest clouds
I'd seen
Proximal nimbi
and their dust trail
of ginger, onion, and clove
pulled pork, frizzled cod, light ashtray
lingered...
I caught
those crazy hairs
so hard
candy-coated
raindrops
fell!
*Past silver groves of willows weeping near a crystal stream,
I move with an excitement flowing in my vibrant dream.
Those colors that I take for granted in the concrete world
shine brilliantly like buds of roses that have come unfurled.
Ahead there is a field of daisies - wild yellow in bloom.
I’m feeling golden; such enchantment whisks away all gloom.
Atop a hill as bright a green as Ireland’s emerald isle -
as day’s last rays of sun shine down - is where I’ll stay a while.
Inside my dream appears white parchment; in my hand a quill!
Across the sky there splashes splendor; all the earth grows still.
A white swan’s feather dips into a hue of cobalt blue.
As sky bursts crimson, I am painting all this dream for you!
*Past silver groves of willows weeping
is a line I borrowed from Heather Ober's "Into the Gloaming"
For Richard Lamoureux's Pick a Line Any Line Poetry Contest
She tiptoes in quietly, pushing out summer.
There is a hush in the corn fields.
Even the crows are silent.
Scratch. Scratch. Everyone is readying themselves.
Full corn moon, autumn’s magic lady.
Bringing marmalade ideas to the farmers and the corn.
Everything needs to be harvested except the pumpkins.
They are still half way grown on vines.
Harvest moon silences us as she whisks past the combines.
Showing her sweet side to the forest, and her smile to Grandmas.
In the wee hours, as they stare out their windows
Frying bacon, fixing take away lunches with homemade biscuits.
Autumn moon smiles back, knowing her minutes are numbered.
It is four a.m. in Iowa. People are getting ready to harvest.
Harvest moon enjoys these final days of September,
Announcing a mighty winter. He will come in and rub her out, in
a cold fury using snowflakes, frost, and gusts of pure angry winds.
Those who say that Death is vile,
Know Him not like I do.
He mends my heart that once was two,
And triggers satiety with His smile.
He whisks away those with all to give:
To save them from this Earth.
From its horrors He gives them berth;
Harbor from the wicked who live.
They stagger onward, praising Life,
Oblivious to Death's comfort.
Unaware that there's no more hurt,
While those now gone are blithe.
Death, He is my grandest friend;
Eternal and ethereal.
At His feet I'll always kneel,
And for Him, hasten my end.
Sounds of an acoustic guitar..
Sounds are literally out of this world..
Strings of a guitar..
Deep and joyful..
Penetrates the soul
A soulful magical experience of pure delight
Transendence occurs..
Attributed from vibrations..
Our ears devour the opulent sounds of a guitar..
Speaks to us..
Shoots right to our hearts..
captivated by the music..
Sounds..
Dance..
As we sway to the beat of the guitar strings..
Whisks us away..
To a different time..
Touched by nostalgia
Laughter and tears..
A trip to memory lane..
The sound of an acoustic guitar..
happily brings forth a smile upon our lips..
While we are kissed on our cheeks
By pure bliss..
Like the voice of the wolves echoing
their harmony through the ebony night
Your love echos in my heart with
the gift of song
calling me forward to a new life with
a loving voice that melts the winters chill
Your love entices my spirit to take
flight on shimmering wings
like gliding across the moonlit paradise
of the cool blue sky
Your love whisks me away
to places yet unknown
Dancing on the stars like skipping
stones across a sparkling creek
your love ripples through my soul
forever growing, never ending.
It’s such a windy day, what a delight
Daddy says I can go and fly my kite!
We head for the beach to have some fun
Dashing onto the sand I run and run
My kite so blue trails on the beach
I wish it were in the sky out of reach
Suddenly a gust of wind whisks the kite up high
Soon it’s dancing in the bright blue sky
I hold on to the string with all my might
The breeze is strong; the kite takes flight
A tail of red ribbons flutter from the kite
Seeing the kite weaving is a wonderful sight
My legs begin to tire and the wind drops
We head for an ice cream at the shops
Daddy and I have had such a lovely day
If it’s windy tomorrow we’ll be back to play
Contest: Oil Painting 4 & 5
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Jan Allison
11~21~15
From dead sands
a step was birthed
of stone ...
a carved staircase
leading down ... and deep.
Shovels bit,
whisks brushed,
cartouches
led on ...
November
twenty-six,
nineteen-twenty-two,
chisels breached an entrance
and ...
The Boy King arose!
~ 10th Place ~ in the "Yalto Poems Only" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
( A "Yalto" is a form created by Edward Ibeh, consisting of a strict syllable count of 3, 4, 2, 4, 5, 3, 2, 3, 2, 3, 3, 5, 6, 1, 5 syllables-per-line. Verified at HowManySyllables.com )
* This speaks of the re-discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb by British Egyptologist Howard Carter, for George Herbert, 5th Earl of Carnarvon. *
There is nothing left of life
that death cannot resolve,
times velocity spins on stolen lips
and minute pieces of adamantine
pierce the edge of soles
worn with pain
----
Right here,
Where night and dawn merge
the membrane strains
cleaving, as shade blackens blue
for mere milli seconds
Standing in the hollows of night
still, watching forever shimmering
in the shadowed corner of my eye,
I, me, always a curious creature
swallow bricks and mortar
tasting truth
In my head an orchestra plays
the symphonies composed of my life
strings wring my heart with melodies
wrought in pain and self-loathing
shame and eventual surrender
to the beat
But,
in the beauty of renewal
in the peace of your reflections
I've wondered at the universe
memorizing the mysteries unsolved
ever tantalized neurons smashed
awakening ever and over again
Sleep has been a foreign land
settled by the fortunate
longed for by the tortured
spirits of my mind
Yet in these dark magnificent galaxies
when snores softly sigh in peace
or monsters haunt your dreams,
I have watched millennia of mourning
shatter the promise of darkness evermore,
I wondered as sunshine held a drop of dew
and as light of hope captured the ghosts of night
banishing them forevermore, or until nights edge
I am a watcher and a teller of tales
Singer of forbidden songs and tragedy,
downtrodden, I rose to fight again and again
with a schizophrenic mind harnessed
within the beauty of a single star
and the promise of humanity
in the kindness of a strangers touch
Now at the end of all journeys
my final battle lays in that
which I know not, shackled
that foreign land whisks me away
again and again, dreams cease
as moisture rolls from my brow
---
Slowly, slowly, slowly
winding down into nothingness
Gently, gently, gently
I will lay down your cries of grief
My words aren’t never-ending
my breath will someday cease
Yet true beauty and wonder lies
in the wondrous infinity of peace
just look into these eyes overflowing with pain
know !! there will be an end, even that shall ease ...
many fearless nights, I prowled
on rooms of grimy paper dimmed then
lit by this lone wayfarer searching
a gush of passion to feed the words
with some fire, rawness, and hunger...
perhaps my barren soul tarried on to pay
for dues upon a bleeding ink's return;
and now that this antique pen wants
to let you relish my verses, chew them
and swallow fluid visions like a dash of wine,
I feel they are mute: my own instinct
likes phrasings that haunt the senses...
but as twilight whisks, these hands fake
a churning from the bile...I have everything
to lose, except the rush of images
splashing my face with inspiration.
Kai Michael Neumann's Splash Contest
6/4/2020
SERENDIPITY
commercialized like dippity-do
— the extra hold hair gel.
sounds like supercalifragilisticexpialidocious*
so fresh; and clean —
a nonsense word used
when you have nothing else to say.
and let’s not forget serenity now**
yelled uncontrollably
when you need to calm down.
one more, s’il vous plaîs:***
serene, dip, dippity-doo-da-yay!
s-e-r-e-n-d-i-p-i-t-y
yes, i love to play with you
my loquacious love.
defined as: (remember to say it fast and pedantically)
the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable
(take a breath) or agreeable things not sought for****
i close my eyes in a honeysuckle fog.
the scent surprises me, dabs on my pulse points.
!!!!!!!!
i open my lids, and a friend,
i haven’t seen in eons, says hello.
!!!!!!!!!
my husband twirls me about
“serendipity” he says as he whisks me away to Paris.
!!!!!!!!!!
thus, i shall place my favorite word
in your hand like a flutterby,
i mean, of course, a butterfly —
the prism-break of
r-o-y-g-b-p and moonbows.
perhaps... i’ll look into my palm
and see your word placed there.
i draw a breath, my heart races — and yes —
it’s serendipity all over again.
8/16/2019
Favorite Word Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Cooke
*Mary Poppins
**Seinfeld
***s’il vous plaîs - (sel-vü-ple) French meaning “if you please”
****from Merriam-Webster
You might wonder about my use of flutterby.
My brother used to give this word as a one
word clue to get me to say butterfly.
Along the tracks of Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminded me of my early teenhood,
digging the soil to thresh the roots as I buried seeds through its clayed womb.
In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter, speaking to each blossom and naming every new bud after me:
Somehow, I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves...a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I.
And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her fingers wrinkled and grew thin --hiding her unknown body pain.
Oh she owned the moon ; nature was her lavish throne.
Gathering a few truant stems, I hear her banter among vines... a melody so bouyant descending
from God knows where on the horizon:
I smile and sob in reverence at this panoram among the mist and weeds of duskfall.
A pond stretches its loop where ripples curl between my toes; and a festoon of red blooms huddle on its bent slope weaving through the rim of a hill...
The nimble tap of spring grazes my face as I wiggle my palms to relish this moment draped in pristine streams-- achingly alone-- bearing all
the glow of Grandma before an ensemble of birds whisks by.
Now as a midlifer, I trace back my teenhood with charmed fondness, knowing this secret garden is now mine to nourish and harness--
her spirit sashaying across the pampas
with abandon--
until then and until when, I cling to ' now.'
doctor whisks through fast
barely looks at the patient
scared of condition
I am sitting in hovel writing nothing
For the hovel has taken every last drop of energy.
Hey, wait. Is that an ant?
An ant in the winter?
What is she doing?
I get out my magnifying glass of course.
She is wearing a backpack full of something that has a sweet smell.
Pardon me, I say. Can I have a tiny taste of that?
You would take the food out of the mouth of sixty ants? She asks me.
Lucky that I talk ant.
I back away.
Trixie walks over and kicks my hand.
You are horrible! She tells me.
I had forgotten I was supposed to wake her when I got up.
There is nothing more exasperating than an angry muse.
Thought you’d write something without me?
Well, yes, um….. I am stammering now.
We kind of have a little rule.
She whisks away and stomps off.
Out of all the muses in all the imaginations
in all of the universes, I developed a female muse?
Hmmmmmm I have to ponder that.
But not right now.
The ant is doing a tango and her backpack just flew off.