Best With Patience Poems
Roots and Dandelion Dreams: A Mother's Heart
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
Roots and Dandelion Dreams: A Mother's Heart
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
At dawn's first blush,
milkweed pods,
burst with a sigh,
A feathery shower of,
silk sending secrets...
on the wind's soft cry.
Yesterday they wore a crown of pink
Today they are set free;
like dandelion dreams floating on the vast sea
a thousand wishes taking flight.
I see you spinning gracefully
on dandelion fluff.
each strand like a
glowing thread
forming a halo.
Your laughter flows like
a babbling
brook over stones.
while your tears resemble mist
clinging to ferns in
the whisping breeze.
As twilight falls and fireflies twinkle
like scattered stars,
a new constellation is born.—
a flickering dance in the dimming light
as transient, as a summer evening.
In your eyes wild irises bloom
reflecting the evening sky as
they search for their fragrance.
Amidst meadowlarks songs
welcoming the dawn in morn.
my heart remains intertwined
with yours like a nurturing vine
that delves into the soil
forever connected to you.
You write the poetry of life
moments full of freedom.
Like a ballet of butterflies
a child experiencing wonder,
both wild and free.
No need,
for preaching!
just the melody of the wind
whispering through
the pine trees.
A communication,
a connection that binds eternally.
With patience engraved
in the face of mountains
I stand as a protector.
a sanctuary in this forests
intricate beauty.
While shadows dance in a transient
vanishing performance
My love stands firm like
a redwood sentinel enduring
all challenges.
In the settling of dusk,
where fireflies sparkle,
My presence is like a meadow
where bluebirds dream.
For you,
my child,
are a hawk,
on the wind's caress.
Soaring on thermals,
a spirit,
etched upon your face.
My heart,
a beacon's steady fire,
guiding,
through the unknown,
In this life's,
choreography,
bathed in your,
boundless exploration.
Mother
Sheltering, strong
Branches rustle tales
Roots grip the earth deep
Child
Monsoon mornings are like a seedless vase filled with paralyzed petals.
I sit reminiscing, the fleeting frequencies of his ancient clock,
now cloaked in coal cobwebs composing skeletal memories;
a timeless token of unblemished innocence,
when tiny fingers, tattooed with henna butterflies,
awaited the dawning strings of golden kites.
I ponder if shadows of the moving moon still caress chiffon curtains, forming a crescent spoon,
resembling five marbles of childhood that played hide and seek,
to his virtuous voice echoing down hollow hallways~
homing a trail of tender heartbeats from the swings he made for us…
For the empty room of a wise man is never soulless.
It shelters fearless footprints of futuristic art, painted with patience,
when fairies of twilight forget the lyrics of starry lullabies.
Tonight, I trace whispering wallpapers,
listening to the sound of my grandfather’s perennial promises~
that linger forever, embalmed in sandalwood serenity,
while nightingales croon eclectic elegies to the mourning sky.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and I didn’t care;
I had dozens of latkes I had to prepare.
The menorah was ready, with candles to light,
Waiting there by the window, a wonderful sight.
The presents were wrapped and I lined up the dreidels;
The soup was a’bubble, with floating knaidels.
The applesauce waited to chill in the fridge
In a Chanukah bowl. (Yes, I tasted a smidge.)
The cookies were baked like my grandmother taught,
(So much better than any that anyone bought)
Shaped like candles and dreidels and six-sided stars;
There were plenty to fill cookie platters and jars.
When I suddenly sensed there was something the matter.
I raced to the kitchen – the oil was a’splatter!
For while I was fixing the festive display,
I should have been frying (not quite my forte).
The first batch of latkes was burnt to a crisp
And smoke filled the kitchen (much more than a wisp),
But tying my apron for take number two,
I ditched all the burnt ones and knew what to do.
I lowered the flame and reheated some oil,
Plopping spoonfuls of batter I wouldn’t let spoil.
Then I conjured my childhood and Chanukahs past,
When I had no idea years would fly by so fast.
And I pictured my nana and grandma, as well
As my parents, my grandfathers and Aunt Sydelle
And my brothers and sister and cousins galore
And my uncles and aunts I’ve not mentioned before.
While my latkes were frying, so crispy and gold,
I remembered how Chanukah used to unfold,
When we played with our dreidels and gathered our gelt,
In our family’s embrace and the love we all felt.
So I cooked the new latkes with patience and care,
Knowing that with my kids and my grandkids I’d share
All the pent-up emotions I’ve hidden inside
With a platter of latkes, now perfectly fried.
And to all who will celebrate Chanukah time,
I do hope there’s a lesson for you in this rhyme –
For the very-best feelings our childhoods instill,
Through traditions, our hearts and our bellies will fill.
December 7, 2022
Immigrants why do you come?
Whether you are spiritual or mathematical etc. This is our Karma:
Isacc Newton’s 3rd Law
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—Sir Isaac Newton
Tact is the art of making a point without making an enemy—Sir Isaac Newton
I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people—Sir Isaac Newton
Dangerously nearing a very steep precipice –ran by the shadow in thy kings tarnished soul, he proceeds with his paper kingdom—I Am Anaya
Do not be fooled by the power
of the king, by the shadow he’s enveloped
Open your eyes to the shadow
He pokes, pricks, and stirs the fear inside
Drowning in remorse, regret, and sorrow till
nothing remains but the hatred
Hatred has the king for his paper kingdom
A tyrant evolves
Fragile like the house of cards
Tis but origami paper
meticulously folded
with patience,
is his castle
Immigrant why do you come?
Immigrant you must have dire reason
You’ll only find division, malice
and disfunction
So many dwell under a rock
blindly leading blind
Toward the precipice
Tis this charade! The king’s been tricked
As he parades his symbols
Dangerously close to the precipice
How do we choose
Who will vie for king?
Riddled by the law
not founded on solid ground
after all
The two dimensions
The jack-ass consistently
kicks the lion
discombobulating him
Heretical in families
misjudging the way of the world
Nothing ever resolved
In his paper kingdom
how should society work?
Whose ethical ideas?
Whose ideology?
Spectrum such as the left,
the centre or the right
In the manicured meadow
of woeful weeds,
where hope sprouts amidst
forlorn fragrance of frozen seeds,
I dance to the hypnotic breeze,
hanging on saintly strings with
cosmic eyes, unraveling the
emerald iris of sacred skies,
orchestrating songs
of sonorous seasons,
searching for rhythmic revelations,
as spring-butterflies
flicker peacock promises,
gliding above rippling
star-jeweled visions,
like prominent parachutes,
symbolizing pearlescent presence~
of sanguine scriptures,
shimmering as ethereal radiance,
within this enlightened heart.
I refuse to let egoistic entities
enter my perennial sanctuary
blossoming with
halcyon hibiscus hymns.
For within lunar-glazed lentils
magical magnolias hibernate
in mere mindfulness~
unfolding a voiceless
poetic gallery
of chromatic colors,
bursting with incandescent flares
of iceless moonstones,
resting between merciful tremors
of unwavering faith,
counting tears that fall like
golden streaks on the
roof of charismatic creations,
eagerly adorning the horizon,
as pristine prayers ricochet,
to the impotent tunes
of immaterial repentance.
So tonight, I’ll allow
graceful galaxies to
sprinkle blissful-beams,
laced in lotus love,
perfumed with patience,
as my pen perseveres,
with persistent passion,
to sincerely seek
righteous refrains,
of divine magnetism,
letting ego perish,
when heat of worldly lies
suffocate the soft skin I wear,
yet they remain
unaware of inked henna herbs
of violet devotion~
I’ve designed in kismet zest,
through linear lines floating,
with vermilion verses,
in charming cadence,
to the alluring anthems of
an unbreakable dawn,
while silhouette
of my psyche swirls,
spellbound by the
enthralling influence of
celestial zephyr.
they are unusually soft inside
with a smile that flourishes
at the sight of you
they take everything in stride
nothing is ever a crisis.
With patience and pluck,
they go about their lives
touching here, touching there
making others feel special
they are often kind
and love is never a disguise
people who feel like hugs
are much aware of your soulful needs
beyond compare and often rare
people who love people,
feel like hugs
every time
Like many precious diamonds,
Good teachers are hard to find
Yet sometimes one can discover
A rare and priceless kind,
It’s not like all the others
For it out-shines the rest
You know as soon as you see it
That this stone is the best,
A good teacher is that special gem
They do far more than teach
They make you feel, through learning,
There’s no star you cannot reach
In Art, they help you see differently
From new angles, not straight up and down
They make Geography an adventure
As the world you travel around
In History, they make you feel
You’ve lived and breathed the times
And Math is not sums, but puzzles
To stretch and tone your mind
In English they encourage you
To not just write, but feel
So that each one of your stories
Will read as if it were real,
If you ever have a question
You call and they are there
With patience and understanding
Your problems are theirs, they care
There’s usually one in every school
Superior to the rest
For they’re the ‘Star of Education’
And as such are totally priceless!
She felt his hands so gently lift her hair
Her fingers trembled on the moistened quill
She knew his lips would graze her shoulder bare
Her writing she kept up to mask her thrill
He pressed into her back his angel face
as thighs of steel closed in on rounded hips
Her line of thought she could no longer trace,
for she was lost in wonder of his lips
Her sonnet all forgot, her quill fell down
She felt his hands undo the single bow
that loosely held together evening gown
She smiled at wanton ways she’d come to know
With patience born of love he did undress
She leaned back on his chest till she was freed
His hands sought out her breasts with sweet caress
and in their palmed embrace she sensed his need
She stood up to her feet, and she turned round
to face her lover seated on his chair
She drew his face to taste what hands had found,
for well she knew the pleasure he found there
She watched his mouth and tongue dominion claim
A moan from deep within escaped her lips
She felt herself go weak, and he untame
for grip of hands just tightened on her hips
And soon she found herself on bed of love
Enraptured was her body and her mind
With trembling hand she touched his face above
as he plunged to her depths release to find
As morning light tinged sky in pink array,
she slipped out of his arms and sat to write
The honeyed words dripped down without delay
and soaked the page in rhyme of love’s delight
Eileen Manassian
Your strongest day is standing
just outside your door. Let it in.
Each day the sun comes home to you
it whispers with the wind
calling out your name.
This is no video game.
Life’s a bouquet banquet
made from your reflections.
You do not need directions.
Pick your moments carefully.
Stop and smell the roses,
leave your motor running
for the dangers trust exposes.
Listen to where life comes from
the beating sound of your own drum.
Make the most of music that it brings.
Unraveling all your tangled balls of strings.
With patience Iron out each peace,
holding tight to all you love
with nails and teeth.
Now put your stubby thumbs
through their tiny holster loops
and pull your britches up.
Hitch them high,
and puff out your chest !!
You’ve always been ready for this.
This is not a test.
This is your life.
Do you give or do you grab?
Do you listen carefully
or do you gab and gab?.
Giving doesn’t always have to do
with buying gifts. You must listen too.
Giving time to others will help to keep
worries off your mind.
Rotate consciousness into being kind!
Do you truly love? Or is your love a lust?
Do you give yourself completely?
Surrendering is a must.
Do you feel you need control
of those you call your kin?
If righteous indignation is called for,
temper it with patience and compassion.
Let the love of Jesus in.
Do you lie more than you should
beyond the small white lie?.
Is it hard for you to tell the truth?
Lies can lead to bigger lies.
Being forthright leads to being wise.
In telling what you really feel,
you practice removing your disguise.
Nothing is so freeing as being real.
Be aware that even your doing all these things,
there are people still who will not care.
There are folks who sadly have not learned
the value of giving love and truth,
and they have not learned how to be fair.
Do not let them bother you. Simply know
that peace and unity in this world can come
when rotating consciousness you can learn to share.
Nov. 4, 2022
for Unseeking Seeker's Rotate Consciousness Polarity Poetry Contest
Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!
He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
His face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.
He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.
It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some,
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!
The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.
May 9, 2017
I rise to face yet still more life again
And know my day will be about my age
Through sight that makes all things appear opaque
I hear about each third word spoken clear.
I walk with cane a slow but sure tempo
And get to where I aim without much fuss
Yet still it seems I burden those who care
To take the time to bare my years nonpluss.
Each time I rise to face my life once more
Trumps thoughts of laying still without regard
For pains one takes to move upon this earth
Or see and hear with clarity implored.
I thank my Lord for each new day He gives
And givers who see beyond one’s struggle
With patience and always kind words spoken
Dignity and respect to me maintained.
Perfect purple petals adorn this stunning rose
Sweetly smelling scent drifts gently to my nose
Nestling in my bouquet is this stunning flower
Sheer perfection, I stare at it hour on hour
The rose can hide a secret, a nasty pointed thorn
It can hurt you deeply of this I must you warn
The path of true love doesn’t always run smooth
With patience and love these issues you’ll soothe
A stunning red rose is a symbol of true love
Their velvety petals sent from heaven above
Be sure of your love when he does propose
Cherish your love like this delicate rose
Jan Allison
18~12~14
Written too late for contest:-(
My muse, he comes and wakes me in the night
in urgent tones he whispers in my ear
my thoughts are kissed by him and take to flight
and all the while his words come fast and clear
At times he takes me to celestial heights
with stars clandestine to dance and play
at times he guides me to those inner sights
my cloistered passion shrine, he'll gently splay
each virgin thought that lies within my soul
with patience born of love he will undress
he will not stop until the rhyme is whole
and till release is come, he will caress
My muse, he makes the sweetest love to me
and from his seed is birthed my poetry
Eileen
The Mystery of Eyes
I place pen to paper, look into your eyes,
How to shadow them to show they’ve just cried,
Draw the same circle, a center dark and deep,
I look into them, study, and I, too, weep.
You are so kind, you sit with patience,
While I, an amateur paint with slow cadence,
What is the secret to the eyes’ communication?
When they change not the spirit’s shaped reflection.