Best Wist Poems
Beautiful picturesque soft glowing light
against the darkness, whilst burning shooting
star catapult through the sky in its flight.
Spinning fine idyllic thread flow, moving.
In mine heart, I evoke the narrative
wist of our youth. An inexhaustible
love; now lost in the waning sedative
silence of farewell and exhaustible.
Once devoured by his fathomless green eyes,
crave the dark blond hair full of spiral curls.
Lost to his ebbing wave of silent cries
left breathless like flittering glint of pearls.
Birds hymn lull mine into weightlessness sleep;
whilst echoes always brings you back to keep.
2/22/2020
Poetry Contest: Writing Prompt - Ten Words 2. Love
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
thread, heart, silence, hair, beautiful, dark, green, birds, fathomless, breathless
The world that once was slumbering
Beneath the quilt of Winter's snow
Is now set free to gladly see
The rays of golden sunlight
He peeks at first so shyly through
The drifting clouds of leaden grey
And then, behold his beams of gold!
A kiss of gentle sunshine
The trees are budding, flowers bloom
And shades of gentle green abound
The birds of spring so sweetly sing
While kissed by rays of sunlight
How father-like the sun looks down
In glorious warmth and light
To see the things his fire brings --
The miracle of sunshine
From east to west he travells on
In grandly royal golden robes
A pilgrim man, that once began
Benignly sending raylets
As here I watch th'unfolding spring
And bask in beams of heaven's king
I think of monarchs, once divine
Whose wond'rous kingdoms once did shine
This sun hath missed not one poor soul
But fondly with a tender touch
Hath kissed the maids that dwelt in glades
Of distant lands now vanished
Now all, I think, once gently kissed
Have sung the praise of heaven's rays
And all, it seems, that Sun hath wist
Have tracked his run throughout their days
His rhythmic climb and equal fall
While heeding Nature's firmest call
His constant change, yet still the same
When once returned from whence he came
A mystery, a miracle
At times a friend, at times severe
But each new day at Dawn's approach
Reveals the kiss of sunshine
In the midst of midnight twilight
Silence gently fades in a cascade
Warm wist embrace of a blazing sun
Tension burst in darken moment made afraid
Roaring voices sounds of thunder
Epic heartbeat tsunami waves break away
Swelling sated of explosion love
Warm cinders soothes the budding moment ray
Tranquil dreams of sorrow
Love like there is no tomorrow
4/2/2016
It was like listening to the music of
Rhapsody in Blue,
the striking of the piano keys
and vibration of wind instruments.
The faster the music got
his anger spewed with an inner wrath,
loud voice and harsh words.
Looking into his fathomless brown eyes
told me the story he was holding back.
In my heart I evoke
the wist of his youth
that I will always embrace for all eternity
ignoring the moment
patiently welcome the quietus of his calm.
3/15/2018
Poetry Contest: Five Words, Please
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
Upon these craggy hills, I sit and in wonderment, I stare
Gods beauty is reflected everywhere
thundering surf crashing below
It's Thomas Hardy's world we know
The limestone rock formations
Millions of years the transformation
Under the sea, they lay until the continents collided
And here they stand in awe, magnificently divided.
The Jurassic coast of Dorset
Lulworth Cove its corset.
On ancient hills, my feet now trudge
I give myself a needed nudge
A little further up the hill
I feel a sudden eerie chill
The ghost of Thomas Hardy in our midst
Least I fool you with my wist.
I walk upon these craggy hills
The ocean below its froth it spills
How much longer, my feet are aching
The suns come out and I am baking.
A little further, a little more
Around the corner awaits Durdle Door
I punch my fist up in the air,
What I see below is rare.
Durdle Door the famous arch
I reached it finally. I am parched.
I snap the pictures in disbelief
There it stands like a commander in chief
The arch looks like a dinosaur
The thunderous waves roar with encore
My eyes hug the cliffs along the coast
The Atlantic Ocean blue, the sky reflecting in its hue
A ship in the distance is sailing
I must make my visit brief Adele and the dogs are waiting
I quench my thirst with much-needed water
I should have made her come, I should have brought her.
The snaps and video will have to do
I loved my trip down the Jurassic coast and so will you.
WAR OF LILIES AND OF ROSES
Lilies white, blushing with red roses sweet
A lily-rose fair, unstained, Rome's virtuous Lucrece
Of beauty so strong, even in desire, men doth retreat.
Sextus Tarquinius vile with the lust that men enclose
Defiant, would defile, such a flawless rose
Unable to repose his swelling desire
Enraged by her beauty, to merely admire
Nympholeptic he, to acquire
Lucrece of the rose rubbed cheeks and lily white face
In lust Sextus Tarquinius wist wilt and debase
And force open lily white thighs
deified
he
defiled
she
To wrench such peddles enclosed
Ravaging such a sacred lily, rose
eros
sore
bled
Till white stained red, both thigh and bed
Leaving such a sweet flower torn, alive
So, polluted, no longer chaste, she with dagger neat
Did drive sharp between her bosom's blossom, sweet
Which did anoint red the sheet
Roses spilled; lilies retreat.
Death be sweet and release
Rome's sweet Lucrece
Finishing Line Press. Book FAREWELL TO THE DUST, by C. S. Leaf avalible March 2008
www.FinishingLinePress.com
Bailey's an marmalade whisk my eye glare
Smiles of a man marry and skill inner fairy
Frawn stance, a lore france, erewhile recite
Like memory life afore him forby and touch
Then clepe that soft pure white coat skin
Mirror his eyes and gaze to wist mere lips
But no I called not, I named not. I just saw
October now is on its way;
November mists are here to stay.
With mornings dark and damp and drear
The wintry blast is ever near.
Welcome to November.
A mournful mist entombs the trees.
All is still – no hint of breeze.
Like soup the mist lies in the vale;
All colours bleached, pastel and pale.
Mysterious November.
A melancholy haunts the wood
As desperate thrushes hunt for food.
Sadness drips from skeletal twigs
And blackbird in the dead leaves, digs.
Deep and dark November.
But sunbeams slanting through the mist
Bring joy and hope of Spring, I wist.
Three months to bear the Winter's worst
Before the first Spring blossoms burst.
Hopeful in November.
The “dainty lady's” lost her gown,
For every leaf there's only down.
The beech mast on the forest floor
And hedgerow bright with hip and haw.
Time of change, November.
Such stunning colours, rich and mellow :
Deep red and orange, brown and yellow.
With “mellow fruitfulness” aglow –
Sweet chestnut, hawthorn, spindle, sloe.
Colourful November.
I tried to tie, I said, I said,
some rocks to billowed clouds.
In this I was a fool, a chump!
For rocks, as is both well allowed
and widely wist,
pass always through these vapor stumps,
and gathered mists,
and won't be bound with lumps.
So all I’ve really done is stone the earth
with quarried things that loud ker-thump,
become the cause of people being
sore bereaved with grievous bumps.
Oh no! Look out! Please mind your head!
And look out poems!
Gazelles upon you tread.
Venture into a world created by a computer
Immerse yourself into its surreal sphere
React to the input of its digital aurora
Twist and turn to its commands, is it real
Under its spell, you react to its stimuli
Abstract concepts unraveled with images cast
Limitless possibilities in this parallel reality
6- 25-2024
Augury tones spoke of omnipresence,
placed their own conception for world became.
Begotten mad. Begotten mania.
She watched the mad, the mania for years.
Empty devotion behind their death-masks.
"Betwixt the moon the yonside
our prayers wist light."
"Betwixt the moon the yonside
our prayers wist light."
One day this desert will bury them all.
Oh, but this Tower? All but this Tower.
Prayers.. Full on mirages. Full false hopes.
Watching over. Flesh pushed-through on top the tower.
She there, immaculate conception.
Buried the chanting the chanters in hold.
Incandescence beshoned raw exposure;
their masks rendered into flames, skin, blood and bones.
All for the sake of famine and remorse.
*Image of Outer Space by EIR.
September's Star
Vespers of the North Star,
Prithee August zephyrs,
Abides thy cobalt crown,
Pirouette effulgence,
Thy northern lights renown.
Vespers of the North Star,
Wist indigo twilight,
Van Gogh wouldst captured thee,
Thy freshly framed canvas,
Old Master's devotee.
Vespers of the North Star,
Of late Dutch Boy in blue,
Textured in porcelain,
Slept curled in the wee night,
Translucent artisan.
Vespers of the North Star,
Aurora's breakfast tea,
Cozy midst remembers,
Fond farewell bidst thee thine,
Albeit, September's.
2022 August 24
There is something about eighteen wheelers,
For most of us can only wonder.
A trucker is respected to the up most,
From the east to west coast.
Oh demand to get to their destination,
Wist no hesation.
Only the strong will go the long haul,
They have no time to stall.
The endurance they have to keep on going,
In order to maintain what their hauling.
Keeping the peddle to the metal,
Across plains, bypasses, and meadows.
The sparkle you can see in their eyes,
Trucking is what they enjoy in their lives.
Meeting new people on the road,
While hauling that heavy load.
Oh what stories they have to tell,
And do it so very well.
For what I say, is what I have seen,
Becuase my husband is one of these.
A wife who knows the truth in their heart,
Someone that's been there from the start.
Never to tell how alone and scared I maybe,
Trucking is what they love and desire that's plain to see.
So for all those truckers out there,
Stay alert and aware.
Theres someone special waiting at home,
Calmly waiting by the phone.
Families who love and cares for all of you,
And ask the Lord to be with you too.
A raw communion wafer in my hand
A hard wind melting the castles of sand
There is an anger roaring through us
A surf thrashing on the rocky shore
An inebriated old incubus
Its wist binds our Samson to the floor
It butters the children dry bread
Broke hole in my mother's shoes
Turn blue, silky skies to lead
And print morning and evening news
I saw the pale infection
Coiled like a whip on a Great House floor
The master of the plantation
The tears of children on a foreign shore.
I OPENED A DOOR OF GOLD AND SILVER.
SOMEWHAT SURPRISED AND SOMEWHAT BEWILDERED.
FLOATING IN AIR AND TURNING SLOWLY
GAVE IT A PRESENCE OF BEING HOLY
THIS WAS A SWORD OF BRILLIANT DESIGN.
I THOUGHT TO MYSELF "I WISH IT WERE MINE"
FIVE FEET IN LENGTH AND TWELVE POUNDS IN WEIGHT.
I EXAMINED IT CLOSER TO DETERMINE A DATE.
A GOLDEN THROWN ENCRUSTED WITH GEMS.
DIAMONDS AND RUBIES AND PLENTY OF THEM.
ENGRAVING. EMBROIDERING AND MAGNIFICENT WIST.
THIS WAS CRAFTED BY A BRILLIANT GOLDSMITH.
CEREMONIAL OR RELIGIOUS I ASKED MYSELF.
WAS THIS CREATED FOR SOMEONE OF WEALTH.
A HEAVENLY VOICE STARTED TO SPEAK.
MORE LIKE A TEACHER WILLING TO TEACH.
BORN IN THE YEAR FIVE EIGHTY EIGHT,
ELIGIUS GREW UP AND WENT ON TO BE GREAT.
A MASTER CRAFTSMAN, THE GREATEST GOLDSMITH.
CRAFTED THIS SWORD YOU SEE EXIST.
HIS WORK CAN BE SEEN ON TOMBS OF SAINTS.
CAPTURED ON CANVAS BY CHRISTUS THE GREAT
HE WOULD GO ON TO HELP THE POOR.
HE FOUNDED CHURCHES AND SO MUCH MORE.
AFTER HIS DEATH HE WAS CONSIDERED A SAINT.
SHOWN AS A BISHOP BY THOSE WHO PAINT.
THE LECTURE WENT ON, LONG INTO THE NIGHT.
I FOUND THAT JOURNEY TO BE A DELIGHT.