Best Wreathe Poems
Fly me to the moon
And let me play the stringed tunes,
The nod-nod head of a lover’s hoot
Let me dance among the stars
The tap-tap feet of a chivalrous heart...
When my gaze beheld you-my spouse
In our heart true passions doused
Draped like silk, a face with love soused
A new home in you I found.
I saw in you a beautiful wife
A flashy rectitude that brought new life,
That ravished me with sapphire eyes so fine
Fitted in your pearl socket, not of swine
You have triggered the jubilee of sunshine valentine
Now torch me with the kisses of your lip so bright
And swing me with the noontide delight I delight
Tangoing the tango of moonlight
I woo you with a honey tongue
Like silly doves we coo this carol song
In the sonority of your voice is compassion
Borne in a roomy heart for sacred fun.
… Fly us to the (honey) moon
Play us the bedroom tunes
In a solitary nook,
Let’s twirl this ballet as David in jolly mood
And wreathe in celestial honeymoon cocoon.
Prince Agba.
Dedicated to those who are facing diverse marital squalls in their homes, may God
mend your broken hearts and homes.
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
"At Times I Wonder"
By M. Taha Effendi
(Nazam)
At times I wonder what life would have been worth
Spent cloaked in soft shades of your sable tresses
If ill-fated darkness that shrouds my wrecked hearth
Was slayed by vigorous radiance of your eyes' recesses
Oblivious to earthly callings would it be so unfair
If I remained in your mesmerisms so eternally engrossed
Your heavenly allure my parched eyes would ensnare
On the fabrics of your existence my love I embossed
When plagued by the bitterness of life's onerous race
I would drink the glacé elixir upon your crimson lips
Bury my distresses within the calm of your embrace
Build my sanctuary in the shade of its eclipse
Sigh! This traitorous heart pounds even in such dismal state
I breathe with no hope of mirth nor a word of protest
My vacant eyes resigned to this inescapable fate
I stand unwilling to rebuild my plundered nest
Clasped perforce to my bosom the agonies my love bequeath
I heave my wounds through accursed corridors that adorn
Deathly shadows that loom, daunting horrors that wreathe
Where every step garlands me with camouflaged thorns
With not a course in sight, neither a goal nor any thrill
I trudge with bare feet across the scorching earths
Dreading the inevitable plunge from edge of sanity and still
At times I wonder what life would have been worth
(Finalist - International Poetry Soup Contest 2012)
Silver floats the moon and boughs slender sway,
fleeing on her trembling breath
her light feet braves.
Rising of the lea in the dappled grey,
As she wore her verdant robes,
on her vestal form in surging waves.
He shielded her beauty in his embrace..
Her golden showers 'tween their stillness clasp,
as she lay glistening in his sighing grasp.
Stars shine in sheaves amid the elven shades,
that linger upon her fair brow,
hemmed with crystal strings and golden flakes.
His bride to be ne'er,
nymph of forest glades;
heard afar, beyond the hills,
her lone whisperings,
his yearning heart is left on her braided wings.
His love sweet fragrance with each breath endowed,
to wreathe the laurel with his words avowed.
Inside her heart she felt, his eyes' commands,
beneath the curling hair in misty wake,
that floated rough, untied about those lands,
his breezy handsomeness enhanced, and ache.
And she accepted him, at dawning break,
upon her nape then felt, the greening sea,
his vows proclaimed and triumphant heart's spree.
3rd Stanza in Rime Royal
©3/01/2014.Giorgio Veneto,Gautami Phookan.All rights reserved
For the luscious pure air, I breathe,
My life story hang round a wreathe.
Bed so soft to curl up and sleep,
Fragments of my life within, deep.
A gift of family outspread,
Closeness of love and joy so led.
Even tearful moments of grief,
Of loved ones, yet though time was brief.
My children were and still a lull
Feeling, my life never stayed dull.
Life I'm living I am thankful,
Not in my words are unthankful.
It's blisteringly faithfully rot,
it's intangible as it's deserving of all,
so many signs,
and signatures to boot...
The wreathe in the sky,
the tree rotation eye,
end of all eagerness,
dredge of the forced peaceful bliss..
The honorary code time'd and then aged like the rot,
and an evening star,
and a really far far...
Autumn Haiku
for your eyes only
as leaves fall upon teardrops
nature in meltdown
The Last Act
Leaf of life mutates
to waltz within winds of change
woodland stage awaits
Autumn's Way
nature's erosion
wreathe of gold yellow and red
death for to give life
© Harry J Horsman 2015
for Skats contest
all poems inspired by the 10 images supplied.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.
- Emily Dickinson
My search for gold dust glow in harvest moon
depletes me when once fertile ground’s plucked bare.
Yet hope, it rises like a stretched balloon,
and begs of me to rise above despair.
The ripened dreams of youth cannot escape
me though some may be buried, worn, and wrung.
When bitter seeds are all that I can taste,
oh hope, dear hope, you burst just like a grape!
An unexpected, sweet juice on my tongue
to relish like a love the heart’s encased.
I feel a steady pull within my core
to step from haunting shadows into light.
Lured out by warm winds, seeping through my door,
in sun-steeped clouds, my soul stirs, rouged by flight.
As love, deep love, drifts free with hope on high,
like sapphire stars, together how they burn!
But hope, my hope, I lost for quite some time,
though awe-struck, watched its bough reach brightest sky.
Some nights I thought it never would return.
Some nights I dreamed of limbs on which I’d climb.
Oh hope, dear hope, I struggle to hold on.
You slip from shaky hands, I outstretch wide.
But like a Song Thrush commencing the dawn,
your soft and ceaseless voice could be my guide.
So now I ask of you to care for me
just like a newborn struggling first to breathe.
My drowning lungs feel black and knotted tight.
Oh hope, dear hope, alight on darkened sea.
Give garland from stargazers’ sights to wreathe
around my path in poetry and light.
Written 5/12/22
for: Form O - Ode - New Poems Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Idea
Pep Guardiola
they will wreathe a garland of Catalan cut gladiola
for that pretentious Olympian brow
but that horrid tie and collar - that's just not Arsenal somehow.
Perfect Angel
I ended up having a lobotomy,
Brain won't remain inside of me;
After having had a tonsillectomy
Ceased to exist each one will be.
They already removed my appendix
And made sounds like Jimmy Hendrix;
Now no longer were they ever in site
Am a little lighter which was alright.
Then I would writhe and wreathe
Trying to take out two of my teeth
And for little longer will have to wait
Part of tooth they had to encapsulate.
Then when my twilight started nearing,
They say I had become hard of hearing
And hearing aid forgot to be bringing;
So sounds in my ears kept on ringing.
To have good health had an obsession
Which I then left up to God's discretion;
Voice was terrible and choir tried to strangle
Me to sing songs and sound like a angel.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Tie him down,
Cement his shoes,
We must ensure his promises,
Are never followed through,
For he wages war,
On our house so flammable,
So we'll wreathe his noose,
With his actions so damnable,
Prepare him to march,
The people must witness,
The shame of a traitor,
And the price of resistance,
Pull the lever,
Before he inspires hope,
So that the masses won't save him,
By holding fast the rope.
Yes, maybe you could wear my shoes
Perhaps you’d walk and last all day.
As light relief it might amuse
Skills for my life you may display.
I’m sure some insights you could gain
Perhaps you’d walk a thousand miles.
Grasp sound knowledge of my domain
Then lay judgement upon my trials.
No.
My life is one to live and breathe
To be transported from the womb.
Immerse so deep as if to wreathe
A value buffet to consume.
No simple taste shall ever prove
Nor give a case to disapprove.
*Technically it's not a sonnet with the extra line
Soul - an outcast ?
Soul is an outcast beneath this sheath,
seldom surfacing from right underneath!
Stoic as ever at the on-going spectacle;
intervening wisdom - ever expecting a miracle.
Apprehended and obsessed to thrills that dissipate;
oblivious to the fact that it is the mind that create!
Incarcerated for lives in the past and used to living beneath,
indeed the Soul is an outcast Being beneath the sheath.
Vagaries of thoughts and mind that is given in to - 'oh mate'!
innumerable routes of torments that we take it through and subjugate.
Intoxicated with acquired vices and scruples galore;
will it ever swim across to see the coast in any yore ?
Attempts to flush the Spirit out with spirits will only make it flee;
Nay can you smoke the Soul out like you do the bee!
It will slip out unannounced - thence your time for your last wreathe,
of course the Soul is an outcast, deep down below the sheath!
Find an anchor with nature and character that is debonaire,
to steer through the plicatures and help contemplate on that abstract 'Solitaire'!
Other modes of journey in music, art or any rhythm - for that wisdom,
be pursued with focus and passion to swap for that - ever reverent freedom!
Fleeting time passeth every moment - never to return,
emasculate in vision and mission - looming large and threaten!
Emancipation from all bonds I seek before I finally breathe!
Alas, for my Soul that is an outcast in my own sheath!
Elements Part II-Wind
Sponsor: Brian Davey
Brisk breeze beyond the bluster of the buzzes from bumblebees,
great gusts gifted and granted toward the garden full of greaves.
Coiling curves within curls created contingent upon the current,
tangled and torrential twines taking the sea towards the turrent.
High temperatures are hazardous while handling the blowing heat,
weaving winds will wander with or without natures wreathe.
Abducting air is absent while aligned after its zephyr ablazes,
fire forgives fearlessly as the lightening frees the winds uneven frazes.
~This poem is a mix of Alliteration and Couplet~
~Date Written: March 25, 2016~
O hear, O daughter
Spirit born not of earth and water
Stretch yourself toward His Light
Pardon yourself as He has done
Endure your mini battles under the Sun
For the major battle He has already won
You carry the Torch~ He healed the Breach
You wear the Laurel Wreathe~A Grace-Gift, indeed
Outstretch your Faith to Him as far as you can reach !
Copyright McCuen 2009