Best Whited Poems
It’s autumn time in America,
the colors are changing ...
(it’s alt right to gasp in whited disbelief)
as poplar majority, quaking Aspen leaves
slowly fall off
the John Birch branches
Minority bad weather report
says with autumnal census certainty,
that the colors are changing
irrevocably
And as such,
the changing of the times
has weed hateful nettle disgust
rooted permanently
Forest green consequences are seen
ever spreading
with solyent rapidity ...
(it’s alt right to paint a Snow White
enchanted cottage fantasy)
As the waxen ruling majority,
manifestly, cope with
becoming the newest minority
These be the autumnal days —
the kaleidoscope, tabernacle feast harvest
befalling America
Changing of the color landscape
is being coldly received,
winter frostily ...
(it’s alt right to fiery bemoan in ash-white grief)
The reaping season of Autumn
has duly arrived in America,
with equinox clarity
Equal time for daydreams and nightmares
demand sober vigilance,
as the latter-day fermented rain
begins to foment fall —
An end gathering of
rainbow intolerance disparaging,
mightily ...
(really, it’s alt right to cry with pale hope rantings)
Winter teardrop flakes of uncertainty
are alabaster doubtful falling
America now ghostly faces
the haunting reality of changing colors,
changing what was to what will be
Autumnal days of whine and wilted white roses:
a nostalgic weep binge of dead leaves ...
Drunken ivory desires
porcelain pining
for past skin demographic superiority
PAINTED IN WHITE
-----------------------------
Plethoras of colors produce pallets
Upon the whited sheet of her canvas
Painting her smoothly in sensational elegance
Making known her venue lavished in vibrance
Solid streaks of red, solemn streaks of black
With swimming streams of blue compiled in one stack
Glowing shades of green, savory swarms of yellow
With morning mists of gray to show she's mild/mellow
Such compelling charades of the most aureate colors
Cascading her piece inside their fleece
So warm/cozy she sits up there
Tantalized with thoughts of sitting bare
Beneath the bliss of her maverick's mirage
A virgin vintage veils herself with facades
Of jolly jubilance coated with colors
Conveying one message, concealing another
Her psalm, she sings so boisterous and loud
As her silence secretes a deafened crowd
Her severed heart bleeds red scarlet streams
Profusely pleaing for one to come redeem
Her and quiet the screams sent from her lips
Then taste/sip the drips of blood
Slipping and sliding like a fountain's flood
"Oh, What a dream of a fantasy
Who stilled the swarming storm
Of cascading colors corrupting my form
At least a hint white has placed the night to flight
OH!!! What beauty it was to have that moment of sight.
WOW!!! What a grand delight to see the sun so bright
For a moment, I thought I'd born heaven's light
WELL!!! Seeing freedom's flag was fun while it lasted.
I only wonder when the hearer of my heart will mast it."
ELocution
ELocution
Diction ENglish grammer proper nouns predicates verbs learn the way the language
works then grow up to be a poet and throw it all away today to make new words to
make poems bleed to make the rhymes the prose doth need. Shakespeare is an
affluance. He rubbed off some on my purple prose. O God! how wonderful are Thy
works! Thou makest the rotting log to nourish banks of violets, and from the
stagnant pool at Thy word springs forth the lotus that covers all with fragrance and
beauty! Sonnet #3,000,745,001 OH LORDy
OH LORDy, howe wondrous is thy working beauty. Thou doth makest the rott sprout
violets from olden logg on water bank nearest stagnant pool whilst at Thy WORD the
lotus springeth forthwith to cover over all the smelling salts nearest hand to hold in
cuppboard bare the bone for elbert Hubbard gone. Hark the light from yonder glaring
glen forsook the frames the lenses now opaqued. Blind to world of beauty winter
paints a white mistaken ache in me. Amid the bones of whited elephaunt skunks
rome near me to harken when the crow calls daybeak come. Caw the raven quoth.
God forbode a man, that an Englaisman should tell or act a lie, neithor the Son of
GOD my Jesus, that He should feel repentance or compunction [for what his Father
has promised]. Has He sayeth, and shall He not say on? Or has He spoken and shall
He not make it gooder. Oh LORDy. For the reasoneth He stays upon His bethroned
placement is quite evident for iff GOD were to walk the Earth as a mere man in sight
of all this assembled Heathorns even for just one day twold make us all so jealous of
the miricles in the clay. For Jesus could open up his hand wiht a plott of dirty clay
and make a violet blooming say. Oh Lordy.
Who am I really?
Lover , sinner , saint?
The outward faces that we show,
are only coats of paint.
Everyone goes about the expected way,
and plays their little games,
never realizing , that they all spread the pain.
The ones we thought that loved us best,
tell the most vicious lies.
And all the time they hide behind
a mask of perfect smiles.
A world full of glossies , and whitened bright veneers
passing by those they deem less worthy,
and causing them to fear.
Left with wondering what we did,
to make them feel such disdain?
People we once trusted,
now just turn the other way.
False friends , and broken vessels,
is all there is to say.
Whited sepulchers on the outside,
inside death and decay.
Love is in air, as sparkle eyes cherish their meet
He sat at the beach leisurely painting the bay
Blues and purples he mixes with touches of gray
With melody of music, he dances his brushes along
Up out of story book tiptoes a beautiful lady in a tong
His heart skips a beat at the triple treat
She shaped her red fabric as she took a seat
It was a beautiful sunny day on her face
Everything about her was perfectly in place
What are you painting over there mister
Her voice, lying on a pillow, soft as a whisper
Oh, I'm a painting a beautiful picture of us
As he whited out his canvas with his brush
She smiled and liked his confidence and desire
He painted two hearts intertwined and on fire
She grabbed his hand for every rhyme and reason
Cupids arrow touches them both this valentine season
Angel dust replaces the sand at their feet
Love is in air, as sparkle eyes cherish their meet
The last line the couple joked, on their play on words
Off into the sunset they flew, like two lovebirds
connie pachecho
1/7/16
non contest entry
Day-248 “Winter’s Wrath”
From out of the north
The cold winds blew
Hell’s inferno turned blistery cold
The Devil himself all
Bundled in ice coated steel;
His snarly, crackling laughter
Piercing the barren air.
His staff, a brazened fork,
Pierced all who ventured out
Searing holes in sockless shoes.
His razor sharp eyes
Turned pathways glazed
To monstrous graves.
Eternity could not be worse
This inferno from the north.
From out of the south
The warm winds came.
Across the Heavens,
In a chariot of golden sun rays
Pulled by a hundred whited steeds
Apollo took aim.
Over the plains they clashed;
Spears and swords took many a soul
White sheets covered the deadly fields.
The north wind hissed.
The south wind kissed.
Apollo cried out
“My blood runs hot
Forsake me not.”
From his scabbard a diamond blade flew
Cutting the breath of that mighty
South bound wind.
He ripped the armor
From the Devil’s redden skin
And turned it to dust; then
Took that angry man’s staff and threw
It to the sea.
With that the skies began to calm
And the wind turned warm.
Above the plains
In the setting sun
Selene stood proud.
As she glazed the sea
With an orangish glow
A smile on her face
For Apollo her man,
Boreas he tamed.
Lon 2/16/2021 #351
Whited again by a wintery mix
on this cold and bleak February morn;
it’s been nice, then again we get this
and we wonder how much more is in store.
We find it best to be content
as our fretting won’t change a thing.
Warmer days soon enough will be sent
and we’ll bask in the warmth spring brings.
As for the days that yet remain to us
of sleeping and white painted lands,
we’ll enjoy these days and learn to trust
that all good things come from God’s Hand.
Consistency was never a word for dad.
He was like a painter’s wheel with squares whited out
so nothing ever flowed quite the way it should.
In fact, there was something foreboding
about the concept of color coordination
and alphabetical order
that he always seemed to avoid.
Things have never been in constant pattern
nor have we ever viewed a schedule in our house.
I can’t even list how many times
we’ve been just barely late.
Someone once said my dad wasn’t a good one
because he doesn’t always lay down rules
or make us stay in on school nights.
“There’s no sense of order! Children need a sense of order.”
But there is something no one understands
and that’s that even though it isn’t perfect
and there are things that could improve,
There’s consistency in where it lacks.
And we wouldn’t change him for the world.
by Sarah Rosendahl
In a house of butter, sleep, solaced by an arcane gold
Lined with velvet carpets coy in lavish modesty.
Dulcet tones elapsing past the sundry finished chambers
Forever home though you know not, in all its bogus truth.
Sine qua non until by storm one’s armor will be melted
A bullion sham of hope and loss that weeps through losing eyes.
Open doors and draining light—then death!—but life as well—
Rebuild with oozing bricks will you, or venture, start anew.
The sun will set, the moon will rise, by pale light you must march
Trekking through the vast unknown, too cold, lost, unaided
Stumbling over roots and stones, desperate, but for what? For what?
As endless space goes stretching on, and you, along with it.
By night rain falls and dark turns black and hunters feed on light
By day you skip and smile through a sea of watching eyes.
Drink your fill from dried up ponds that give you no reflection
Find your way by shards of stars that grant no light, you think.
Labored steps, a fall—no rise; on tip-toes you must bound
As string unravels endlessly and lives go flying by.
Groping through the boundless night for what you can’t obtain
Dragged across a rough terrain, keen prisoner of faith.
But the human eye will change, and adapt to the dark
So the rain need fall no more and rise the sun need not.
Yet you still fight, endure the pain for what you call your good
Filing through with head held high, gold glowing at your feet.
But after war the proudest soldiers turn to rubble dust
And under whited sheets you lie, bile victim of the grippe.
But by the sheets by death you live to see another light
And rest on haunches weary feet to look up at the skies:
I think I saw my revelation dancing in the stars.
I wrote a letter just last week
I went and bought a stamp.
Tongue cut on the envelope
and awful writer's cramp.
My handwriting was, let's say, 'quaint'
no flourishes, no fuss
but looked like it was written
on my lap on a moving bus.
Speeling mistakes all whited out
like a carpet of fresh snow
and ink smudges similar to
a pair of fighting crows.
Aunty praised my poor effort
and was grateful that I sent it,
and where I'd scribbled 'lots of love'
she knew I really meant it x
The faces of the tom-toms were sallow,
So was the face of the sun, dark-visaged,
Red, and starved through a pogrom
That assaulted the peace of the beasts.
Darkness spelt the names of diseases,
Each pronounced through stiffened tongues,
Whited by the scourge of hate – a common
Figure, cadaverous and laconic, but incestuous.
Grieving rivers sought ways to be rechristened
Or rebaptized by holy rills with less fetor, as
Long as riparian languages were still spoken on
Breaths of brooks, broken, but gathered in bits
By hands that leaned on fermented soot only.
And darkness persisted, perspiring from hostile
Beats of hollow drums when fire reaches them
From tormented skies.
One truth loomed: the truth of a disvirgined
Destiny, clothed in serrated raiment of grief.
On its crown, shredded petals of holocausts
Form toothless thorns shaped like lightning.
Death was prominent, dispirited, and hung loose
On strings smelted on anvils raging from heinous
Rape of a blooded land. Shores wept with humour
When our frightened coasts sneezed with mirth.
I speak of Biafra where the land still bleeds
I recall that vision, of a crowded city,
Where signs were hung in heaven,
Where voices were muted by the colour of bold words.
You ask indignantly, why must I go there —
mucking around ... bumping up the sound
You say I’m just trying to be a troublemaker,
and you place a sure bet
that trouble is all I’m gonna get
If I keep playing the race card,
playing the race card
Keep using the black spade,
digging up dirt in the legal courtyard
But, I must use the race card,
use that black spade card
Getting to the hidden truth buried deep is hard
What have we got to lose, we were told
It was a hard speech,
` given what my people is owed
We lost everything:
our native home,
our native tongue
Our God-given name
Whited bones of human degradation
lay in this cemetery of history
Beneath that rotting soil,
somewhere lay my stolen heritage
For truth’s sake, I must know where it’s hid
So I went and searched —
Behind a plantation house of cards,
buried beneath the slave quarters ...
my race to the truth has led me there
Why must I go there?
If you were holding the same
losing, marked card I’ve held,
would you then care?
Byword People (Came By Way)
Pitch black was the day after
the nightmare before
When the blue wails
washed upon the sunset shore
Dark journey’s end for the castoff children,
who were unspoken for
Idol eyes resting carelessly,
got sin windswept upon a western breeze
Towards a bitter labor colony destiny
An ancient reign of tears soaked the New World red soil,
as reaper grief tainted the replanted spoils:
Sepia souls who were unspoken for
The auction sound of the gavel pound
had such an ugly skin tone ...
Wavy echoes of the ghastly row roar
from the trapdoor chained oar
Emerald moan exertion reverberations
of better beryl days bygone
Fear numbed by the cadaver drone —
That sea-whipped unfurling
of the dreaded skull and crossbones
We of the byword name,
came by way
of the Middle Earth dark passage:
Ivory cold Purgatory
“Abandon all hope”
was the living death sentence message
Byword we came by way,
tossed and driven by Hades’ fury —
Gale force hellbent
on making a false profit delivery
Our byword name
was bawdy mocked at the loading docks
Precious Nazarene locks
were talon prey sheared from the flocks
Our byword shame
was put on lewd, bare buttock display
Scarlet letters written
on wooden stocks ~ hope rotting away
As fresh oppression became
perpetual slavery
And His story whited out
our erased ebony glory
Byword people came by way
of the Middle Earth dark passage:
Ivory Coast gold pirate foray
Forged link pain, so galley below demeaning,
was our Ivory cold Purgatory
Until us bygone disgraced
accepted our Gospel heritage retold fate —
That blessed Second Coming message,
we freely bosom embraced
Byword people,
with the cursed byword name
Cast on the Niger river ...
spit given the extra G, we derisively came
Over fortune fading empire time,
we byword people were scornfully blamed
Pitch black was the day after
tomorrow’s scapegoat nightmare before
When the sky blue wails
whitewashed upon the ruby sunset shore
Old Covenant eclipse began for the captivity children;
who, tho’ New World sold,
were Golgotha crossroad spoken for
It will be evident too
much in our sober
confidences,
Trusting all we needed
and to our little yatch
turns,
Making room for so much
creativity and learned
respect,
Grace for tommorrow
and our hope's needed
leaps to be in reality's
endform,
The signs are true...thus
the times were hard.
Above earth's schemes to
life,
Placing mysteries in little
"Salient-Natural-Things"
that came-by to salute a-
halloo and
balloo,
Pacingly..Here is what we
call thinking Old eyes...Still
thinking...
"Salient Minds"....Reality
linkings,
A Dreamy Phase...A
Dreamy Phrase...A Sinking
Haze,
This dreamy paraphrase.
Lets "Rock" on Basses
and Sambas,
Lets lighten on Cymbals
and the Guitars,
Lets level on "JAZZ and
SALSA",
Lets happen to travel on
pure white Dragons and
More,
The fumes of the
Lotus...Say while travelling
along with salient minds
along the banks
of Tommorrow in whited
yatchs and more,
Jack's bean stalk and
sundry linkings,
Cleanliness another fitting.
Sarcophagus beetles gnaw on these bones
buried in the catacombs
They still have zombie feast needs of me
long after I’m gone
The scratching on the whited stones
of the sunken mausoleum,
brings the chorus of the viol worms to life
Crawling through my empty eye sockets,
planarian pleas are unsightly ... dirt given
with an inaudible drone
Whither doth the wind blow
this nether dirge song?
Why canst the cold, October tarrying rain
not replenish the dead root thoughts
that once sprouted strong?
And the ravens sing with the crows;
atop the barren autumn trees,
ready to wear their bleak, winter coat
As my body lays stripped naked
in the lowest part of the shipwrecked boat
Foggy, drunken indifference
was the cause of the coral reef crash
The muffled screams of the ghastly drownings,
haunted the fear-stricken survivors’ sleep ...
it seems like forever
Whither didst the wind blow
tragic notes
of how it all went wrong?
Why canst the gathering dark clouds
not warn others to forbear
trying to travel through the tight rock bowels,
which are peril prone?
I wonder doth the night owl ponder my fate?
Her shrill, wail hoots asking the full mourn moon:
Will my dead mariner thoughts
ever sail stern strong,
with the wind to my back again?