Best Wreathing Poems
I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows,
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into
long piles beneath your feet.
I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)
Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before;
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were
scorch marks on the sheets.
We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the
feeling of skin on skin.
Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.
You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that
never passed.
But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.
Night has come, the fog is slowly wreathing
Crying soft, a form is moving forward
Now she walks through mist, 'tween shadows seething
Past the ancient walls she pushes onward
Mid the shrouded stones she pours her sorrow
Crying soft, a form is moving forward
Now she weeps amid a ruined palace
*Starting when the distant forest trembles
Comfort is not nigh to ease her sorrow
In her hands she bears a broken chalice
She that once was rich is now the poorest
Starting when the distant forest trembles
Deep within the shadows of the forest
Wars were fought that changed her life forever
She that once was rich is now the poorest
How could men her castle cruelly sever?
Night has come, the fog is slowly wreathing
Wars were fought that changed her life forever
Now she walks through mist, 'tween shadows seething
Day is dawning
Light scatters shadows
What hope will morning bring?
- *Starting is a sudden motion or spasm caused by being alarmed. -
- The part of this poem that is in Terzanelle form is also Trochaic Pentameter, meaning that it is ten syllables per line and alternating between a stressed and unstressed syllable the whole way through. -
- First place in contest, "Terzanelle Fantasy with a Questionku Chaser".
Past portraits of ancestral knowing
keep our knowing alive through folk lore,
traditional lore is still showing,
habits showing convention before.
Observance comes before each pathway,
bygone pathway shows how we live now,
what manifests now is our new day,
where each day displays what fates allow.
Customs allow us our connection,
our connection to past is esteemed,
ancestors esteemed by protection,
the protection of what we have dreamed.
We achieve what we dreamed at long last
made to last through the rites of our past.
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !
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~*~
wreathing this life's mind's eye - wrenched, gnarled, hit, burked
neurons in diminution - clashed, rammed, slayed
futility tops up canvass of murk
phonemes, words, phrases now frolicly played
heart's lyrical requiem overlaid
poesy - penned, written in woe death's crypt
shrieking the LIMITLESS lines of my SCRIPT.
~*~
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*-* jun-jun villanueva
*-* " RHYME ROYAL " contest
Listen to the wind sweeping autumn leaves,
pirouetting amongst a citrine sunset.
Whilst light rain collects at corners of windowsills,
illumination from a crackling fire
bounces upon unpigmented mourning walls.
Silent weeping occupies microcrevices,
confined within the splintering memories.
The creaking of an antique rocking chair
melds with the restless nocturnal atmosphere,
of time no longer waiting in the shadows.
Sheer onyx fabric draped over photographs—
death came much earlier, not from hate or spite,
but to erase the endless suffering,
of years wreathing in perpetual chronic pain,
locked within fragile bones and a trapped mind.
So do not curse the gods, my dearest love,
nor get lost in voids of sorrow oblivion.
Know peace has now been brought to my tired soul;
I wait patiently until we are one again.
Christmas by Invitation
My dearest Emmanuel – God with us -
Answering your Christmas celebration invitation
Reserving stable Space Via this Prayer
Watching with a child’s delight
Your birth announcement rising up above the snow
Of star dusted mountaintops
As you hang your welcome wreath of fiery silver stars
Upon Heaven’s door
Like candles in eternity’s windows
Guiding this poor pilgrim to your jubilee through bowed mountains -
On a broad highway in a valley raised from exile -
Bringing only a gift of simple love in tallow tapers
Like a holly branch aflame not singed,
No longer with the pacing heart of longing
Across the exiled mystery
In anxious steps of prophecy
Warmed in the radiant light of comfort and peaceful mercy
Then nurtured at the feasting table
Of your sacred midnight silence
Where forgiveness gifts each guest
Through Heaven’s gracious door thrown open wide
To fill our stockings with new confections
Of praise and prayer, parables and psalms
Humming to yourself in chimes
Inside the living holy grail
Of love’s perfection -
Prince of Peace in ploughshares and in pruning hooks,
Wonderful Everlasting, Counselor -
Wreathing garlands of holy darkness
Fed upon the nectar of your sweet spice in nascent joy
My thanksgiving gushing in the dews of nativity
For eyes that see, strong limbs that run, ears that hear
And homeless hearts finding shelter -
Wonder in twinkling tinsels of gratitude
Awakened – rising up - in the first born cry of a baby boy
And closing this RSVP in joy filled anticipation of riding
On a wave of majestic magnetism of Christmas blessings
Flowing in days to come
When we climb your mountain in your great light.
11-28-20
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Contest: Christmas Poetry
Rumbling thoughts crescending,
Beyond knowledge ascending,
Wreathing daze, unfurled,
Meanings twirled…
Outlived incomprehension,
Outlived tension,
Era of delusions,
Era of illusions…
How shall our guile emphasize?
How shall our wisdom philosophize?
A million words alleged,
A million vows pledged,
A million beliefs agreed,
A million creeds…
Yet, life remains an erratic illusion of distance,
For
Knowledge stretches afar our existence…
Homecoming at evening for her and the birds.
They settle in, she watches them, white whorls
on green, wreathing tree tops, as is their wont, until
sentries spot storm clouds, sound an alarm, (word-
wings their e-for evolutionary mail,) telling wary
ones to take flight, find other asylum, though
where is that in open sky? Only the brave remain
to witness wind chimes gone ballistic on a piggy-
back ride without which they cannot reach their climax.
Only the courageous stay to mark wild thrashing
of leaves, needing a conductor for their language. Yes!
trees must have this choreography, this knowing baton
to tell their stories, and she who comes to translate
takes out her pen, calling for Eros, not Erato to arm-
wrestle words to paper. Would that Michelangelo's David
be prescient in all his sculptural splendor, rated A for
Anatomy, or Saint David, patron of poets, as pure as
a saint is obliged to be, converting revelation to writ.
As the recorder makes haste to capture syllables
in the wind, small turtles lift their black arrowheads
asking blessing from their bread-crumbs benefactor.
As to what the poet asks? Who is there? Who listens?
Hold close the moment. No one escapes their
darkness. Therein, a cautionary tale.
most think of hell
as a place we go
when toils the bell
sending us below
Fiery inferno
white hot flames
engulfing us
bodies burning
For an eternity
wreathing, twisting
paying for sins
done up here
The devil claims
us as his due
inflicting torture
tormenting our soul
This is what we
are led to believe
wait, think on,
forget hells fire's
Listen instead
to that voice within
sometimes a soft whisper
another time a roar
We pay all our lives
one way or another
pricks of consciousness
tearing us apart
People pointing fingers
shame of knowing
that we done wrong
guilt in our minds
These are the flames
that burn deep
consuming us
day to day
Living, remembering
trying to escape
from our wrongs
surely this is hell?
An alternative way of looking at hell I just pose a question nothing else
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
And faith, as essential as one's breathing;
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
When suffering and heartache stir the pain
And disappointments pierce us like teething;
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
The wiser soul despises old refrains,
Focused only on heaven’s high wreathing
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
The devil spins his lies for sordid gains
God gives His children a three-fold sheathing.
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
Abide in heaven’s mercies and His Name
And discover grace and trials easing.
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
Great aspirations flow through seeker’s veins,
Unimagined heights and glory seizing-
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
The wind whistles through the lonely crags,
Of the high, barren mountains,
Bringing the tangy scent of sage, down below,
To where there is none.
The sweet scent of pine and fir,
Waft in the breeze,
Sending their scents high above,
Where they may never go.
The richness of growing things,
Are carried by the zephyr,
To sweetly bring memories of growth and life,
To a place beyond their reach.
Here among the mountain peaks,
The airs of the world tell of life below,
Here the frosts gleam ever white,
Wreathing the tops in perpetual snow
Background B.B King it
You'll get home alone
A Quartering as Jazz
As quart and liter
As meter and mile
Footage and reconcile
Irish Quartermasters Gaurd
Kevin J. O'Meadhra
Trace as feather
Low of ash
Bury of quill
Fide et amore
Nightingales Ergo
Send in rot
Further, borrow
Scottish wreathing
Entangled Britain
Relent
They of leave
Twined as lecture
Recital of yellow
Beckon brown
Revile of green
Tustled hearth
Baby babysit looks like
It's gonna hail
Jump and jive
As sent to the SAG
In tawdry spent
The war is lent
The establishment of thy own
A hate filled thrown
As crimes as thine
Tinkle and toast
In a entire
Only as pure
The picture as haunt
Plagiarism
Stores front
Sufferer as complaint
In stilled poverty
I law
Joan had little art
Lythed command
Hinde weeps rather as waltz
Herculean task
Wardrobe mantle black
Opening Suggestion of Betrothed
Arched as a Gothic Temples dome,
Arched as the wood of Cupid’s bow,
Arched as the back of Atlas bent,
The rainbow stretched from end to end.
Full of goodness, God and Goddess,
Each new dew-drenched droplet wreathing,
The checkered hills and bulwark cliffs
Where mans myth and mystery sleep.
No pot of gold, or leprechaun,
Could transform splendor to compare,
To the crystalline colored pallet
Which lay languid in morning's air.
Full of glory to the highest,
Each bright prism particle paired,
With all creation’s precious hues
Dancing, dreamily in the air.
"As a child I maintained a stoic attitude.
I exhibited patience, restraint, resignation, forbearance, and lack of complaint.
The ideal child you might say. As I grew, I realized the error of my ways."
¬The Poet¬
Dreaming improbable dreams.
Reality betwixt the unsealing
Softly fluttering butterfly wings
Apricot anacondas wreathing
Bleating lambs catapult seaward
Over volcanoes about to erupt
Prismed glass rainbows sliding
Monuments souring unhindered.
No longer enslaved slaves
Thinking the unthinkable
To be what I truly feel
Tears that can’t be cried
Walnut shells dismembered,
For pathways to the unknown
Physically powerful reasons.
Persimmons permeate perfume,
Soft velvet sparks so subtle
Teardrops fall in puddles,
Weary eyes forge forward,
Everlasting daisies wilt
Forlorn ekphratic regrets
Misted windows endorse,
The pain as its vile pungency
Scorns the soul of the angelic
drives goodness to the brink,
mighty swords flow protests
to the unyielding winds of time
To defiantly stand up to demons
for a valid worthwhile cause
as the lyrics of memoirs spill
and gazes turn to wonder,
amid lonely nights of fear
with only love unblemished
if not myself what can I be?
to reach an unreachable star
I surrender to their touch.
Untold ethics to be true.
The sweet rose petals pink
And cumquats bursting
And ever do I regret the sigh,
Of your entwined lullaby
With cold adorning feathers
The sorrowful peacock wails,
An unending finale of song
To ease my savage thoughts
Doing it my way evermore,
And regain courage to protest,
In tangerine oasis in the seas
Instilling birds and bees hum
And bliss of your caressing
On clouds of coral swaying
As lilac shoots skyward
In ever circling cascades
Of merriment galore in store
Where mirth and joy combine
Making sediment pure wine
All logic cast aside in the wash.
The righted wrongs unsaid.
Resting my tired head
Culminating in enough said.