Best Whose Poems
The worldliness within the sphere
reflecting morning light,
as poignant as a single tear
idea bright is crystal clear
and frames the heavens in her sight
though soft the fall through night.
Settled 'pon a leaf flirtation
awakens dreamy mist,
sow the sweetest need sensation
clings a kiss in wild elation,
and though short-lived the earthy tryst
a reason to exist.
But rendezvous a bitter binge
though gentle loves cajole,
for soon the feel of daystar’s singe
O lifting dew from leafy fringe
no matter of the kiss they stole
the cosmos in her soul.
Deep the tender-hearted flower
whose muse elusive dew,
look how she shines this golden hour
evanescence is her power
as rays do make such moments few
alas, the mourners coo.
Susan Ashley
June 18, 2022
~ Fourth Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 7
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Dewdrops
Sponsor: Angel L. Villanueva
*Required rhyme scheme: ABAABB CDCCDD EFEEFF GHGGHH
*Required syllable count: 868886
*rhymes checked: rhymezone
*syllables checked: howmanysyllables
*idea: 3 syllables per howmanysyllables*
Whose voices, whose memories are these
That warble in trees, exalting my breeze
Applauding the daybreak's cerulean grin
Where amber ocher designs are floating in
Is that your echo from the cobalt blue sky
Wondering aloud about dawn's tepid sigh
As the morning evoked destiny's knowhow
And birdsongs lauded the blessings of now
When rays of romance in day's golden start
Painted my vistas, charming your heart
A smile you adorned on the saddles of arc
Reminiscent of the past, igniting my spark
I recognize the appeal your passions reveal
In intimate presence that meadows feel--
From way back when in allure of moonlight
Sensuous lips we kissed of an indelible night
Though it was love, it was never expressed
And those feelings afire never got blessed
So they arise to voice what could have been
Augmenting the dialogue of battles within
April 21, 2019
Poem of the week for the week beginning 4/28/2019
Placed 2nd:What was left unsaid contest by Line Gauthier
HM: Your choice (5) contest by Brian Strand
Whose got the money honey?
Raining debt is just not fun
Have you got the money honey?
Rebecca's farm no longer sunny.
Whose got the money honey?
Could it be the Easter bunny?
Whose got the money honey?
Whose Reality
Reality is the new
fantasy
of perception
as reality.
It matters not
what is seen.
What matters is the
perception
of what is seen.
Every observation
must be “photo-shopped”
through the lens
of desired perfection.
It matters not
what is said.
What matters is the
perception
of what is heard.
Every word
must be sanitized,
cleansed in the acid
of political correctness.
It matters not
what is done
Each action
will be examined
for intention.
Judgment will be passed in the
silent darkness of inaction.
Reality laid to rest
at the feet of
perception’s
fantasy
5/18/2016
submitted to –Reality – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron
Blackness Engulfs Rare Beauty Whose Soft Heart There Holds
Blackness engulfs rare beauty whose soft heart there holds
she that pretty flowers envy yet still dare to adorn.
Emerging as a rare butterfly from cocoon's deep folds,
her light will grace all and never her heart be torn.
As darkness seeks its wrapping gulf of shrouded gloom,
her beautiful glow breaks upon dawn's sweetest light .
Dark clouds can not give their wretched pain and sad doom,
for her pure soul radiates greater than the darkest night.
Such loveliness shines even in the simplest of her rooms.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-16-2016
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 12 14 14 12 0 12 12 12 14 14
Total # Syllables: 116
Total # Lines: 10 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 88
By the snap crack clackings of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes
In robes of finest silk did it dine
and found our flesh most divine
A creature who wore the cloth
In life did it spit upon the cross
To eat the flesh, and consume the blood
And many have drowned in it coming flood
Long, lean and sheik
It's gaze can make many a man meek
Teeth of bright white
Polished to hide the deeds of its night
Upon my house did it knock
Pray sanctuary with the blessed souls
Standing beneath our clock
Did it ask the toil for it's stroll
Clad in its finest Black cloth
Book in hand and cross over chest
Did it read the Lord's Prayer over our broth
Little did we know it was our last Prayer under our family Crest
It dined that night upon the flesh
It suped our blood while it was fresh
I watched my loved ones dies one by one
Wondering when it's deed would be done
Awashed in chilling foresight
That this will be the first night of many to come
It approaches me and picks me up as you would a doll
Then rests me on the table near it's bowl
Smiling down to me as if it was in delight
It shows it blood stained fang enhancing my fright
It pets my head tiding my hair
Speaking to me as if it offered me life, does it truly dare?
Good evening, young Hostest.
One so full of life, should never be fearful of one such as myself
The table you set I must protest does not suit my palate so I took matters into hand
And as such I must offer more to you for going out of my way
would you join me and my merry band?
Let me be a guide for your weakened heart
And show you the warm sweetness of your own blood
I shiver and shake, lost in the dark
Do I tread the mud filled waters of this demon who took all from this fool
Now in all the ends of days do I ask
Did I die that night,
Or is it you that died?
AFFILIATION TO WHOSE LAW
If I was law unto myself
What would I be?
Where would I go?
What would I say?
Would I in such a way
Be free?
Or be shown a dark
And narrow path,
Which would purposely
Divert my way?
Would it excite me,
To greet each day
With confidence,
That my every deed
My every word, would
Like a sunshine ray,
Light up my being,
Console my need?
Would I enjoy to grip
Reality and face
War and love and hate,
All on my own,
It seems a lonely trip
The solitude of being alone!
Being a law only onto myself,
Would enable to keep the key
To live my life,
I'd choose to never
Have to strife,
For precious little time
We have,
In this fast moving train
Insane,
Happiness, sorrow and pain
Melt into one!
But being a solitary soul
Could be exploited
By one and all,
Should I succumb to a
World that’s disunited,
And steadily begin
My downwards fall!
What must I do,
Live according
To my own law,
A great many think
That this is wrong,
To be or not to be,
Which decision has
The flaw?
I don’t want either
I keep telling me,
The answer becomes clear,
Only with His Law
Will I be strong!
whose bliss is this
when all ye have tranquility
absorbed in meditation
as purified drops of water
are drawn into a sponge
a wild and roving gypsy girl
this pagan wench becomes
and takes me to the byroads
where fauns and satyrs run.
Whose normal – your normal or my normal I ask her.
She is shocked.
Believing we all have the same normal.
My children roller skated in the house, I tell her.
They had swings in the basement. We had pink goats.
My normal might not be your normal.
But that does not make sense! She argues. That is a lie.
I burned down my treehouse when I was smoking, I told her.
I was eight. A pyromaniac. I set fires in the neighborhood.
That’s not normal! She argues.
It is normal if you are me, I tell her.
I am a cannibalistic killer.
She left screaming.
If
By Byron Juno
If women MUST die
Then Atieno would die first
If children were to forage
Then Atieno's would forage forever
If women were to walk necked
Then Atieno's would walk throughout the year
If women were to trade their honeypot
Then Atieno's would donate hers
If women were after money not
Then Atieno would be not
If women were to sell their daughters
Then Atieno would sell to a merchant
The woman from the far away land
The woman with less embarrassments
The woman The woman The woman
Whose legs are loose for a walk
Whose waist never tire
Whose joints are ever green
Whose body children is yummy!
Whose body children say is tender
Whose body children say is fresh
Whose lips has tasted all drinks
Whose eyes have not only seen death
Whose back has sweated on all beds
Whose legs have wiped all door mats
Whose scent even cactus knows
Whose farms lie fallow
Atieno the generous woman
Generous woman who never says NO
Who will guide our young girls?
Who will show our girls the right way?
But she says;
Her husband is jobless
Her husband is ever seated
Her husband is ever sleeping
He wants first born treatments
Atieno! Will you not be buried
On the right side of your husband's house?
Will your husband not be the first
To throw black soil in your grave?
Will your husband not say
you were a good woman?
Will your husband not allow mourners
In his compound?
And so it is
And so it was
And so shall always be
This group of smartly sounding words
Leaves little hope for you or me
Can what will be, be
If what was, wasn’t
Because what is, isn’t
If the truth becomes the lie
And the lie follows suit
Would that make seeking either
A trivial pursuit
These questions seek no answer
They sit idle in a fog
Amused by the lunacy
The tail chasing the dog
I see no numbers
hers is the only figure
she's my addition
Whose child is this, before me laid
A gift of God, from his love made
Two tiny hands my heart embrace
This one who chose my world to grace
So innocent, so unafraid
As each small feature is surveyed
Life as I knew it starts to fade
As I gaze down upon this face
Whose child is this
Oft to my Lord, my wish conveyed
Each evening for this child I prayed
All my misgivings now displace
My emptiness of heart erase
Has He at last my fears allayed
Whose child is this
02//23/2012
Let me review my life, of the many falls
The thinking gets deeper, asking who faults
Sooner is not later of how I impress life
Darkness always argued over life strife
Love cannot sustain the pallor of clamor
Only silent words in a mouth of glamour
Bliss of surrendering and rest in my grave
It may be well to die and cease to be a slave
I trade my body for a plate of food
Difficult hour, alone and seclude
Yet I am still a man with blow if just loosen
Dirty face, weary body with fractured bone
Rain cannot wash the mock that defaced my well-being
Neither do I can think of revealing my freeing
There is no roof against my oppression
Only white cloud that looms overhead has the guilt impression
Now my heart is sore afraid of beating
My smile was captured along with sympathy’s calling
No chance to see the light only heaven will allow
My life succumbed gently into heavens aglow
July 19, 2015
‘t was on a rainy day in Camelot
A knight saw a maid he liked a lot
Before he paid heed
He remembered, indeed
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not
The maid, it seemed, had almost forgot
The words of her mother, whose name was Dot
For marital bliss
Remember just this
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not
The knight with the maid was quite besot
And after a time they tied the knot
She never did scold
He did not grow old
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not
The end of this tale may surprise a lot
Because heaven is not the place he got
Words one day you may recall
Some, but certainly not all
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not