Best Whorl Poems
Grace-full is the lily born of virtue’s milk
Inspiring me with petals pure in my hour of need -
Vow and vim of passion vivid and empowering as I
Imagine the strength of soulful surrender while three
Nails were driven into a suffering so great -- selflessly You
Gave Your mortal life so I may live despite thorns and thirst
Grateful is my blossom watered with Your blood and tears
Opened with a faith unfurled by Light I venerate
Devotions trumpet from a callous soul once solus - jubilant the
Lifeless root that stood futile in fertile remorse before I
Yielded my yoke to the hands of merciful Love; please Lord
Grant me the fortitude to face my sorrow - Your
Resurrection reminds me of the sacred sacrifice endured
Accepted with the courage I strive to possess -- though I
Cannot conceive.. I believe in the circle of contentment; the
Essence and embrace of God’s white whorl of salvation
Susan Ashley
June 1, 2021
~ N/A ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 16
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Tenth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Giving Godly Grace
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Squabbling with words; spats in opposition
can bring about discord and suspicion
Christians should be able to live in harmony
or their accord and union will atrophy
What kind of world must humans think to mold
in bringing warmth and not a chilling cold
fashioning traits with kind words of diction
not spawning hurtful thoughts, causing friction
Antagonism unfolds to reveal hostility
ruining mutual trust and tranquility
With staunch optimism, I faithfully pray
that no chasm of rancor will whorl my way
For as long as the risen sun casts mornings in glory
we will not bind our souls with fear and worry
Each night a profusion of stars shine from above
I pray one day we will all share brotherly love.
Ah, the fortitude of a circle
the circular wisdom
of spring to summer fall to winter
the spinning wheel’s twist of threads -
at once both self-reliant and reliant
my soul to embryo seed to seedling
the mettle it takes for the genesis;
for my poppy pod to wake and break
a tiny speck of matter a fleck of duality unleashed
I surrender my dormancy to the earth -
roots reach deep like pale squiggly fingers
..for my kernel was laid to rest to bustle to life..
while my headstrong head pushes up through the soil
I come to be.. like a new idea taking shape
a physical being grounded
while seeking the realm of the Sun
the source of spirit as essential
as the dark womb from which I emerge
with a heart budding with the universe from nothing
I sprout as a sprig from a rounded grain
conceived in a gold-dusted flurry of furry buzz..
a bumblebee's dalliance with the center of a whorl
a mote of pollen so mite-like -- but
m i g h t y
in purpose potential and power
woven together in the art of creation
wind-driven autumn rains and sips of melted snow
..mother’s milk during the passage of time..
sweetly feeds the gentle needs for my tender birth
daystar’s dabble-dance with shadows
charm the chill from the cradle of the garden floor -
warm ginger dapples flit to find me between
canopy gaps in swish and sway..
mini-spots mirroring the disk of the Sun reminds me;
the image of what I’ll become
when my solar heart shines in a petal-chalice of flame..
rapture stirs the layers of humus
penetrating my essence with a ripening
stoking my fortitude to fulfill my destiny
to break free of that which holds me down
and reach ever higher inspired by a promise;
the golden circle of solace.. the bull's-eye in the sky
whose glow does kiss and grow my soul -
my inner space of bright sure to blaze
in a blossom cup’s confinement
my soul to embryo seed to seedling
sown to assure my flowering
my earthy ascension fulfills Nature’s cycle of nativity;
above the loam I rise to unfurl
and lift my airy leaves’ uncurl up high
in praise of the light
as the end of a gray season curves
into the festive yellow equinox of resurgence
What in the ink whorl is papièr churl going on?
Ill quill vapors are trying to victimize me,
vex prose don’t belong
Word saber player haters trying to stick it to me,
throwing cursive stones
Their coarse paper tone is so digital angry
Blog blots got their writes all wrong
Sore spots ... ink stains
Rotted crease stroke brains
always wanna bring paper cut pain
Plenty briquettes blurt-y wanna dance dirty,
a-many ugly exchanges ain’t squid spit purty
If coal paper meet a diamond pen,
Crush Groove is gonna tango win
Counterfeit clone muse
using plagiarist, copy printer tools
Blank scroll troll fools
didn’t learn Poetry Slam old school
Any lip ink unwell with a lying spiel,
gets the clean-up Truth erasure deal
Epithet tongues liquor epitaph envelopes,
gin up troublesome, scarlet letter tropes
But when this Iron Will pen
meet their forged paper
Pallbearer finger caper
gonna press an eulogy send
Writ smack weakies think they’re grit summon strong!
"Do not feel Lonely the entire Universe is inside you." Rumi
With endless microcosom's curl
both inside and out of man's swirl
of atoms and world's spins
each as lovely as a pearl.
For God's has formed, so many worlds
each in a perfect whorl.
Attach, connect, be playful, free
open arms and hearts by His decree
bless the large and the small
with grace and camaraderie
together birthed in harmony
harken all to His call.
Carnelian and crimsons orchestrate eye music
Ornate as orange oboes that blare a fiery woo
Loud in the hills, flaring flutes of maroon thrill,
Oscillating in burgundy trills of a breezy banjo
Red rises in volumes that the silent trees hear,
For they farewell warmth, in sun-setting relief,
Undulating in vermillion wavelengths an adieu,
Lingering long in mellowing yellows, autumnal
Free leaves wind-whorl a gold saxophone-puff
As apples blush in whistles of a taupe wisteria
Looping branches bare-brown in tuned annual
Love-fest festooned in earthen melody eternal
(9/14/18)
Images surge through April bold, a magical thrill I do behold;
Across the earth a glorious rite, surpassing human delight.
Clouds descend with minty air, their luster beyond compare ;
This tableu...a prelude call, as peaks of my soul's climb enthrall!
Such grandeur holds out its charms, when crest of nature's glow disarms,
And her pomp explodes on skies that resonate with my sighs...
To bask within this flaming scheme; earth reaches its height, supreme
As ecstasy fills the whorl where mirth and magic unfurl
A canticle rings out so soft as ingots of stars flick, aloft...
finally the view is set in one fire glow I can't forget;
sweet the acme of divine core as my exultations soar!
Upon the nuclear metropolis,
the very navel of the soul;
there lies the balance between what exists
outside the axis of control.
An understanding that transcends
between the virtues and the flaws
combined, condensed at either end
with all the weight that each have wrought
A pivot between Time and Change
on coiled point beneath the plane
where Chance and Choice are both arranged
and mingled products are contained.
The vortex draws a Life in steady grade
with every trial and result.
The constant whorl becomes crusade
and when it's balanced naught can halt.
The plane may teeter, it may shift
and alter rhythmic atmospheres
and life might stall upon the pith
or race the corkscrew track of years.
And in the helix of maturity
once equilibrium has been engaged
the spiral spin up through eternity
can not be ceased by fragile age.
With poise maintained when crisis knocks
and accord within every spiral breath;
a balance is redeemed when scales might rock
between the points of Life and Death.
whorl
of gig,
seasonal
festivity ~
shapely, forested feast,
fairyland of colors.
scarlet, gold, and pumpkin,
reddish-purple notes ~
serenade of
surging gale’s
lavish
spend
9/7/2021
Sponsor: Malabika Choudhury
MERSE - Beauty Of Fall
PS syllable counter used
gig - job usually for specified time
"Winter breath flutters to an exhilarating dance on nostalgic moments, giving way to beauty."
Quote by poet
The bursting sun, a flower of gold radiance,
An idle footprint of time. A sweet, warm, healing
Friendship, spiced with the rhythm of nature's affection.
It weaves perfection upon longing hearts and souls.
Brightening the world, toying upon the window.
Spun frozen dewdrops glisten under the sunlight.
A walk in consolation, about hopeful fields,
A rebirth exhalation to marvel and sigh.
Rainbow shimmer of magic grackles and ravens
A perfect partnered dance on naked tree branches.
Leaves in downward whorl upon the latent carpet;
Cheerful, awe-inspiring as squirrels wobble through.
The
enduring
Shasta daisy—
Easy to grow,
Invasively spreads in the
garden.
With little or no encouragement
it will take
over whole plots. Standing tall,
flaunting a pure white flower;
nothing eats it.
Luther Burbank took some
fifteen years getting the purest
white color he loved by old
fashioned genetic engineering
of four species.
Look closely at the flower's
gorgeous, yellow center. See
the perfect whorl. Count the
petals. For my flowers I often
find thirty four. Could Luther
have counted or would he have
cared? Fibonacci—biology.
The world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake malleable, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations’ unseen to the denizens of land, disregarded in man’s wake.
From the diatom, to the whale, from the single cell to the open hand
from the sun, to the stars, to the mushroom bomb, we’ve light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light,
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, as throngs rise asking for hand
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood has ended, the tell-tale snake does wake.
Death’s rattle will subside, as the head eats the tail of depression.
Communication will become the global antidepressant.
Natives in aboriginal huts and Inuit in igloos will see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide for hand in hand, each cell wakes.
No longer can knowledge be withheld. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the tit will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, the tyrant and the saint juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant communication, shall scrape the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of finger tip to key shall depress
and ignorance will flee, freeing the hungry
for the way out ,the way up, the key, light-heartedly
heads bowed in prayer, we shall revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of rods depressed
rods magnetized and charged with lightening
for we all hunger.
Each evolution a revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.
The Wakening World
A new world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations unseen to the denizens of land, left in man’s wake.
From diatom, to whale, from single cell, to open hand
from sun, to star, to mushroom bomb, we have light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution;
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, throngs rise asking for hand-
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood ends as the predestined ouroboros wakes.
Death’s rattle subsides, as head eats the tail of depression.
Communication becomes the global antidepressant.
Aborigines in Australian huts and Inuit in igloos see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide, for hand in hand, cells wake.
No longer can knowledge be held. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the breast will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, tyrant and saint will be juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant contact scrapes the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of fingertip to keyboard or keypad depressed
sends ignorance fleeing, freeing the knowledge hungry;
showing the way out, the way up, the key. Light-heartedly
heads bow in prayer, the we will rock you will revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of nuclear rods depressed,
rods magnetized or charged with lightening
will energize the populous for we all hunger.
Evolution brings revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.
The lure of untainted flower,
Its sweet perfume encased in a whorl.
Alas! That which I await is scarce.
This memory will be banished tomorrow.
Tomorrow ,
I must satisfy her.
My labour waits for her belly:
The weary days
The sun
The rains of my struggles
Bear fruit tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
She said, “I will come tomorrow”
Her many delays must end tomorrow
‘cos her quest for vanities are fully spent.
Our wedding shall be tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
Her lust shall be feted
Her feathers of courtship plucked!
The downs, I know, shall be not be rubied
But tomorrow we shall deceitfully walk to the altar.
Tomorrow.
I bid you, wait till tomorrow.
She goes home now to break her bond
With him that was in her dreams only yesterday.
I, shall wait till tomorrow
To make her drink from her fountain of lust.
Her secret desire of a ride to a far country
On her lover’s back, a wish not penny can grant.
Tomorrow.
I must nurture the wounds and scars of another
And regret I never made the first cut.
Yet, she must do it again as before.
But we shall start tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
She shall dance like a maiden untouched;
All her lovers in the pew,
Mocking my folly with unspoken memories of their voyages
And I, a victim of blemished womanhood,
Ready to fool the world in “unholy matrimony.”
Tomorrow,
When she parades foolishness for fashion
Then, call her not my wife.
When she fights on the street in rage and fury
Oh, call her not my wife.
When she slips into darkness to drink from the cup of a rival
Please, call her not my wife.
When the stench of her reputation chokes the neighborhood
Then, remember her not as my wife.
When she regales her mates with tall tales to my hurt
Please, call her not my wife,
When she wraps herself in fineries yet uglier than a mummy
Please, call her not my wife,
When godliness is exited and the fear of God abolished
Please, call her not my wife
Think no shame on me
Then, when she becomes a Matron over innocent children.
But, I must marry
Tomorrow
Be it for a day before I die.
In a flash, coals of darkness strike the night,
her teeth grating... pinched by a rage
screaming on walls that resound from her lungs;
her face spitting out a whorl of madness
in a verbal lash of ten or more whips,
mocking all the way down to the veins…
A furnace of rage disconnects her from some
sense of reality: the raw edge of irreverence
at every turn... panting, cussing, and cutting
sliced words like broken glass, as though
her heart is unaware of her sense of duality.
She taste the tears of both wrath and liberation,
plunging down the sunken pit in a hazy blur;
until she hears a voice,” it's alright, girl”...
for her borders cannot see the difference
between another time, another place,
where gentle sighs and harsh language
cannot blend as she hardly responds.
For John Lawless: Minced Words Contest
6/24/2016