Best Wreathes Poems
THEY graze in beauty on the land
of grassy glades and dewy dales,
and all that's best of tamed and tanned
meets in their aspect and their tails;
thus softened with that tender hand
which Shepherd to mild glen compels.
One fleece the more, one spot the less,
had half-possessed the shearless grace
which wreathes in every woolen tress
that gently whitens o'er their face,
where eyes serenely sweet express
how pure, how dear their ovine race.
And on that rump, and o'er that round,
so firm, so strong, yet elegant,
the baas that win, the hooves that bound,
but tell of days in meadows spent—
a flock at peace with all around,
a drove whose milk is innocent.
Upon the ground
(To be sung to the tune of “As Time Goes By” from the movie “Casablanca”)
In this October mist
I know you must insist
The leaves will fall around
In colors right before your eyes
Upon the ground
The temperature will chill
These sunny days so still
A pumpkin patch you will be found
They grow along a vine of green
Upon the ground
Pine cones and scarecrows
Wreathes upon the gate
Warm sugar cookies
Resting on a plate
Scarves plaid and woolen, oh we cannot wait
For autumn’s wondrous sound
The gardens now are bare
Though still a smile we share
This season always does astound
Our footprints as we walk we leave
Upon the ground
For the: Change the Record Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Lady Autumn lies discarded now.
Her stick- like bones
are on the ground where they had blown.
Fiery colors of her leafy dresses
lie in brown, heaped on frosted icy ground.
Sparkling gossamer that held her hair in ivied wreathes
unraveled by the bitter winds--
almost as if saying
she can never dance again.
But promises of spring, appear
in tight buds on dry twigs
Blowing winds whisper secrets
of summer’s emerald green
Trapped within a stone-cold, kingdom's
dormant majesty.
As Winter makes his stormy presence near,
she looks to fading crimson skies
and feels her spirit rise
~1st Place~
Contest: Standard Contest No. 120
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 10/02/2018
How crisp is the chill of Autumn's wind
that brings a blush of rouge to my cheeks.
It blows through branches dressed in leaves
of chromatic colors, crimson, orange and gold.
Hues that appear in the fall, vibrant and bold.
Beneath a forest of maples is a woodland carpet
and all that remains are empty nests from spring.
But nearby I hear the drumming of a woodpecker.
Clouds are swiftly drifting by as if in a hurry,
and squirrels are gathering acorns. How they scurry!
Faintly, I smell the sweet scent of oak boughs burning.
Smoke from a chimney wreathes its way to the sky.
I'm only able to catch a glimpse of the log cabin,
but I envy who lives there, enjoying nature's charm.
There are pumpkins to be harvested on their farm.
I smile at a pair of swans as they glide on the pond,
swimming together without a care in the world.
Mated for life... how I admire such avian fidelity.
Nature has lovely scenery in each season of the year,
but none as glorious as Autumn's colorful sphere.
Still-Life Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper ~ December 23, 2022
Blue diaphane, tobacco smoke
Serpentine on wet film and wood glaze,
Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes,
Dims the cave of mirrors.
Ghost fingers
Comb seaweed hair, stroke acquamarine veins
Of marooned mariners, captives
Of Circe's sultry notes.
The barman
Dispenses igneous potions ?
Somnabulist, the band plays on.
Cocktail mixer, silvery fish
Dances for limpet clients.
Applause is steeped in lassitude,
Tangled in webs of lovers' whispers
And artful eyelash of the androgynous.
The hovering notes caress the night
Mellowed deep indigo ?still they play.
Departures linger.
Absences do not
Deplete the tavern.
They hang over the haze
As exhalations from receded shores.
Soon
, Night repossesses the silence, but till dawn
The notes hold sway, smoky
Epiphanies, possessive of the hours.
This music's plaint forgives, redeems
The deafness of the world.
Night turns
Homewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleats
The broken silence of the heart.
- Wole Soyinka -
I never did see a more beautiful expression,
as if all four seasons had exploded,
Imploded, eroded all the somber.
A wonder so delicate...an art she exposed,
utterly unopposed is the dancer's heart.
Animations of vibrations move through her,
a Van Gogh of flow;
like aged, cellared Bordeaux.
Wreathes of wind, sun and soul weave
down around her roots through her being,
freeing sensations into the air
as if with Gaia, a divine love affair.
Eyes drawn and beating heart unconcealed
She wields her radical, energetic shield...
The power to heal, to breathe, to love
above the brilliant sun, the stars, the moon.
Oh, what an orchestrated art in tune!
Spirit calls out to her from Earth,
the birth of sound and soul unearthed.
Oh, what an art I've observed...
The true art of a dancer's heart.
Icicles hang like translucent,
Inverted tapers from house eaves.
Seventy-two winters are spent
but now another winter freeze
wreathes my study window with ice.
How many winters have I left?
Three, Five, perhaps if I’m blessed, thrice
as many-- I’ll not hold my breath
as though it were a death sentence;
Hell no! Life’s too short as it is
to think about morbid nonsense
(besides, all things have their finis.)
Yet I’m alive and winters here
I raise my half-brimmed coffee cup
and toast my seventy-third year!
May I see it through; bottoms up!
POETRY POUR
Tangled and tailored mind mines
yielding schemes of lyrics chants.
Epic cadence aide memoires
as fragments inked to stelaes
beginning poetry birth..
Canons animated germs
sprouting better verse meiosis.
Struggles ravel block strong concepts
among rituals to bonny
fountain penned poems.
Tragedy and comedy paint
drama portraits. Infused too
are muses displaying unique styles.
Variance spells beauty and magic
Freedom of speech spread in cruise.
Now... Anything experience
by the senses may cradle
lashing wreathes of new verses
Awaiting! Just awaiting
to be written and told.
A pen and paper at hand
or ipad to scribble words.
Conceiving poetry
to be labored on and on.
Beholding and moving man!
Author one, two, three and more.
Don't hold back! let it go!
Capture this one through...
Make it happen! Let it flow!
A RAINING POETRY POUR!
________________________________________
10: 24pm
September 19, 2014
Who am I?
A bleary image through
rain streaked windows,
a wish devoid of substance –
lost on dandelion breezes –
a sigh in the ears of the deaf.
I crack my lips with
unspoken questions and declarations.
I am complete stillness, for once
silent.
I am the thirty pieces of silver,
enclosed in frayed
betrayal, sitting coarse beside ten-thousand
glittering bricks of solid gold.
Still I call to you, through
wreathes of inferiority –
still I reach for you, through
misty veils and storms –
still I plead with you,
rosy with hope and
unabashed in confusion.
Swirling With Rain
Misty vapor fog line the lane
Pockets of rain poke throw the clouds
Dew collect on tree and grass
Downpours tap tap tap onto rooftops
Drizzles of droplets drip down the drain
A wailing whimper weep
Woes of wretchedness
Withered willows washed down the Waterway
Wind wreathes and worms wiggle out the earth
Hearts and stick figures drawn on the steamy car windows
Starless, shadowy silhouettes
Storm the street with shield and screen sure to shade in the stream
The storm lasts for but a moment
Whimsical rainbow arcs stroke pavements, swirling with rain
Marckincia Jean
Alliteration
10/07/19
One hung stocking overflows
with a child’s treasury of
brightly colored gumdrops and
hard, sweet-filled candies.
Sugar cookies peek out from
the top of my treat-filled sock:
angels, stars, wreathes and snowmen
painted with frosting!
Catching my attention is
a movement from a stocking
beneath the tree, and I hear
a wonderful sound.
A whiskered face emerges
with a tiny meow and
staring - wide-eyed - right at me . . . .
The best gift ever!
By Andrea Dietrich
Written November 6, 2011
For Russell Sivey's
Christmas Stockings Tribute Poetry Contest
Surrounded now by wreathes and satin sheets
awash in tears like crystal coursing down
your ivory visage stirs thoughts of Keats,
the onyx black of ringlets 'bout your brow
amen, but that was then, and this is now.
Tonight in forget-me-nots, you'll be crowned
with all the foppish roses thrown to ground.
Forget me now, adorned in widow's weeds
an angry form forlorn for you have gone;
recall me when your touch filled me with need
amongst blue flowers in a summer's field
as first love bloomed and passion was its yield.
Small tokens, these, the blue forget-me-not
to anchor you to me upon that spot.
And, when I close my eyes in daily prayer
an image comes of life and loving days;
smiling, but blue, I'll dream and you'll be there;
touching my cheeks, kissing my eyes ablaze,
and death's cold hand will vanish in the haze.
In ecstasy not angst will we sojourn
as from the gates of heaven you look on.
Charcoal cloud clutches the marooned moon
The sky stifles behind the dark shroud
The nubile night breathes the music of breeze
Rippling in the sound of silence.
The ocean wreathes with surging surface waves
The water at cold depth is fathomless serene
Respires the breath of dense darkness
Flowing in the sound of silence.
The tapestry of life torn by torment
Searches deep within for the lattice of quietude
The smothered mind soaks the breath of solace
Drifting in the sound of silence.
The captivating cacophony of materialistic life
Suffocates the consciousness of the absolute being
The secluded soul is suffused with the breath of bliss
Wafting in the sound of silence.
In the endless journey of the insensate essence
Across the seamless landscape of the ultimate reality
As we be breathed, feel the breath of Om
Vibrating in the sound of silence.
(Om is the sound of sacred spiritual symbol in Hinduism, signifying the essence of the ultimate reality, consciousness, or Paramatman. (Wikipedia)
August 19, 2021
Contest : As We Be Breathed
Sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
his final journey
in a huge black limousine
death comes to us all
the funeral cost
he won’t have to pay the bill ...
grieving relatives!!!!!!
I know the florists
make a 'killing' out of death
no wreathes when I'm gone!
I don’t want any
floral tributes when I die
give me flowers now!
I would much prefer
charitable donations
Hospice benefit!
10/18/18
See how Christmas fete on earth
Indians will walk to the mass
Enjoy curries and sweets enmass
Australians hang wreaths girthed
Here Santa gives rest to reindeer
Changes dress for less ”hot” with cheer.
Chinese light streets and stores with mirth
Santa is called “Shen Dan Lao Ren”
In shops only the grottos plain.
Yule logs burned in French hearth
With food left, the logs burn all night
In case Jesus comes in the night.
Russians fast till first star rebirths
Then break fast with Kutia eating
For good luck throw some up ceiling.
Ways and approach differ on earth
Call him Christ, Gud, Gott, dieu,dio, God
Ishwar, Allah, he’s the same lord.
See how Christmas fete on earth
Australians hang wreathes girthed
Chinese light streets and stores with mirth
Yule logs burned in French hearth
Russians fast till first star rebirths
Ways and approach differ on earth
++++++++++++++++++++++++
**This is my maiden poem in form Constanza**
28-12-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form:Constanza
Motif : Epic
Sixth Place win
Contest: Impress Me III by Giorgio V.