Best Wrote Poems
These are the roads I didn't take
A pause too soon, a turn too late
Lost in the love I never spoke
The poems I never wrote
Gone are the moons I didn't chase
The sun-bloomed wind I didn't taste
The skylines I left incomplete
The stars I didn't seek
Muted are songs which may have brought
A silent music to my thoughts
Fading traces in dim sunsets
Autumns I never kept
Verses yet rise through foggy climes
Reveries of forgotten rhymes
If fractured light once more takes flight
I still have poems to write
10/07/22
The poems I never wrote are small fish -
sardines that roam the ocean of my mind.
Swift thoughts are they, and like a fleeting wish,
each flits away, and never can I find
those lines that had intrigued me as they passed
beneath my consciousness into my dreams.
How many poems would I have amassed
if I had caught them all? Alas, it seems
a few matured, for herrings I have seen
in poetry that isn’t even mine,
and from that one phenomenon, I glean
that thoughts among us poets intertwine,
so poems I never wrote might well be
in other poets’ minds of shining sea.
October 8, 2022 - NA
Submitted Oct. 17, 2022
for A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
One day when I was walking
inside a wood alone,
admiring the autumn trees,
I found a big flat stone.
It beckoned me to sit awhile -
and so I wrote a poem.
Another time while driving,
in a mighty storm I feared,
rain pounded down, but later on
a rainbow then appeared.
With gratitude, I hurried home,
and so I wrote a poem.
A boy I once thought loved me
to whom I bared my soul
rejected me most cruelly.
When heartache took its toll,
I needed to release my grief,
and so I wrote a poem.
Another boy that loved me true
brought happiness to me.
And others – friends and kin of mine:
each made a memory
I wanted to preserve in ink,
and so I wrote a poem.
Some social issues boil my blood
and things I find absurd
can put me in saracastic mode
and craving to be heard.
I wanted to convey my thoughts,
and so I wrote a poem.
Oct. 11, 2020 for the "And So I Wrote A Poem" Contest of John Lawless
One of my favorite poets here is Craig Cornish. He made me fall in love with the sonnet. :) He coached me in getting the meter right. It has become my favorite form to write in. This is a poem Craig wrote for me. I'm so honored! :)
Menina que Passa for Eileen
She saunters along the boardwalk
more confident than in her youth,
when young men would swoon
and older men were wishing to be
young again.
She meanders next to the surf laughing
at the sea's efforts to catch her toes
in a rush of briny bubbles tickling
the grains of sand hurry away.
She strolls and as the sea
eddies and pools in her footsteps
like the memories that wash her mind
tosses her hair face to the sun and
embraces the day
She wanders near the smooth stones
polished by the relentless tides
like days and years they come and are gone
come and are gone
but with each a blessing
she ambles among those blessings
with a flair and an aire
she has that "Something"
that "Je ne se qua" and she is beautiful
Craig Cornish
To me, a gift of words is one of the most treasured gifts I could ever receive. Thanks, Craig, for making me feel beautiful today. :) Hugs
When metaphors play 'hide and seek,'
my shield is a veil nurturing premature petals.
Yet there are some words that become poems,
to help those who care to read
to interpret the alchemist mystery,
personifying personal alliterative angst.
The heart ponders...
What will abandon me first,
my trusted muse? Who reveals my truth
or my wallflower soul, which prevents
butterfly breaths - breathing their last sigh?
What am I,
but a pomegranate pebble,
oppressed by stones -
in a man's world, feeling like a boy.
Once, I planted two seeds with ultimate care,
but they no longer bloom for my atonement.
Yet, I still care for them from a distance,
soaking their roots with drops of blood.
Once, I found love,
so I formed into a bridge,
protecting her from raging torrents,
but I could not live up to expectations,
as turbulent waves crashed against my chest.
Now I'm crumbling.
Sometimes, I'm left alone upon an unknown path,
with only cloudy horizons above - but I keep wandering.
Hoping to be found.
Slowly, I lose a part of me,
but I'm inexperienced in
trying to be who you want me to be.
I'm tired from being devalued.
Maybe, I'm worthless,
simply useless, some what careless,
so throw your spears -
I no longer feel.
I won't tell.
I'll remain silent,
but my poetry will forever echo.
Simple Musing
An example for my current contest.
With a lump in my throat, I thought "Is this it"
I never thought I would go down with the ship
As I floated in the sea with my life jacket on
I thought to myself "Soon- my life will be gone"
Some last-minute thoughts...
had rushed through my head!
A note, I must write...before I am dead
Drenched...
Written in my mind,
I blew it to the moon with the mist from my breath...
Sealing it with a kiss!
~My family, my friends, my dear wife...
I thank you all for being part of my life~
I love you, all... so much!!
Six children I've raised, beautiful- indeed
Helped my friends, when they were in need
Made peace 'round the neighborhood
Tried my best to always be good
I've had my ups and downs for sure
(As I laughed to myself)
"I've never had a "down" as this extreme, before"
Floating...
Watching the beautiful dark sky
Watching the countless amount of giant stars
Listening to the romantic sounds of the calm open water
Slowly, I closed my eyes...
And that was the last thing I remember
So many nights; still, I cry
Why wasn't I... one of the unlucky to die?
The poems I never wrote are exquisite
Deep clear pools that reflect and reveal their readers
Nuanced and subtle, full of symbols and hidden meaning
Peeling back new layers upon each return
The poems I never wrote are bestsellers
Attenborough voiceovers and roadhouse storytellers
On bedside tables, dog-eared and marked up
The subject of disagreements over coffee house scones
The poems I never wrote are a perfect sigh
Lyrical, rolling off the tongue, effortless as breathing
Resolved with delight on the final line
Lacking nothing, possessed of no excess
The poems I never wrote are an enigma
An unanswered question desirous of much
A doorway into a new world fraught with possibility
Mysterious and unresolved, yet satisfyingly so
This is not one of those
—————
Written on 10/06/022
What a load of malarkey I just read...
befuddled in disarray inside his head,
but let me make it clear. The message I see
is a misguided statement left for you and me.
It's another 'Hey diddle diddle' moment
for the chap who writes in riddle.
Who gave women the right to breed, he wrote...
taking the chance of birth defects. What the heck!
That kind of mulish thinking I cannot promote,
but since it's his right to post as he may,
I shall take the opportunity to also have a say.
God gave women the right to breed,
in the ability to grow within them a seed.
If He wanted an embryo to proclaim,
"I'll risk being born with half a brain.
and risk the life of my mother, too,"
He'd given them voice before they were born.
Audacious statements made by those who oppose
the will of the Ancient of Days.
That would label them as 'one of those...'
A shortsighted man who'd take such a stand,
thinking he knows best what is wrong or right.
How would he handle having a womb with eggs.
Maybe he would consider soldering shut his legs.
A blowhard whose mother suffered giving birth
for she made the choice to feel the burden of pain.
If she knew what she'd bred,
would she value his worth?
Consummated under sheets of inspiration,
Conceived in cryptic dreams,
Created from cloudy concentrations,
The words flowed onto a wrinkled sheet of paper.
I concealed the verse under my pillow,
Entombed beneath my peaceful slumber,
Safe from grating barbarians.
For I do not reside in a steel fortress.
But the poem demanded breath,
And I obliged with wary trepidation.
Exposing naked insights of thought,
To public opinions and consumption.
I was misunderstood in some quarters.
My uneven stanzas documented in dorm rooms,
Lack of rhythm noted in offices,
And style criticized in coffee shops.
But my work was greeted warmly from African savannas,
Treasured in Scotland,
Saluted in London,
And praised from India’s sacred rivers.
In the heartland, school girls knew my name.
Southern belles toasted my talents.
I was pondered over breakfast in Florida,
Embraced in backwoods hamlets.
When I look within,
Searching for the brilliant author,
I question his existence.
The trance, that special state of mind, has passed.
In conscious lucidity I ask the stunning question,
“Who wrote this poem?”
What is SOUP without salt
What is the HEAVEN without the moon
What is a POET without friendship
What is FRIENDSHIP without compassion
Cory L. & Michael J.F.
19 August 2012
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(I couldn't talk about it so I wrote a poem)
Predator
Heartbreak comes in many ways.
The first one will haunt me for all my days.
My every nightmare and dream has your face
to ignite my screams, my heart beat haste.
Time won't heal this shattered trust,
the lies you told of the future “us”.
You used your power and prominence,
used the pulpit as your lance.
You claim God's voice was your own,
“His” words from your lips like honeycomb.
Sweet to the ear, a seductive flow,
still just a child, I didn't know.
Just like a sick soap opera or Lifetime movie, you set your sights, began to groom me.
I feel so foolish and naive looking back …
at seventeen, innocent, easy to attack.
Like the lame and young ones trailing the herd, predators take the straying,easy kill first.
How patient you were, lying in wait.
You took careful steps as if I might escape. Sneaking up on me in plain sight
until your touch, familiar, I didn't fight. Spinning this elaborate fantasy, our destiny. Ordained by God, you made me believe.
Then you struck, like the viper you were,
after years of a patient petting, persistent purr. A velvet vice, an auspicious anchor,
held me captive in false love’s languor.
Then the poisonous venom began its work, you used me in ways that only hurt.
I was a willing, if deceived, participant…
so in love, no evil intent.
Then some wisdom from above,
in the form of family and out of love.
The truth so evident with blinders off,
some won't believe me, will only scoff.
Five years of his amorous attentions,
with promises of forever never failing to mention.
The patina of youth and vicious game of prey, his sick desires for me, began to fade.
You found a limping, more vulnerable gazelle, and knowing this my family tells.
Although I find it hard to trust,
my faith in God is deeper and thus,
He's used this pain to help me find
peace and truth, leaving the past behind.
For my faith is no longer in any man,
and gratefully, never will be again.
Justice on this earth is not guaranteed…
but from his wicked spell I am freed!
It’s raining. . . . again.
As I set at the key board not saying a word.
I feel like a muted, silly old . . . nerd.
For in the past, it’s oft been said:
I talk too much. Be quiet instead.
It’s also been mentioned as I’ve voiced my views.
If you’ve too much to say, folks won’t listen to you.
It goes in one ear and then out the other.
Folks don’t filter it. . . . . No time to bother.
So if you run a Q-tip deep down in your head.
Comes out a mysterious yellowish-orange or red.
That just may be a remnant of my being around.
My words passed your head as they fell to the ground.
But don’t be mislead by what you’ve read.
This good advice didn’t lodge in my head. :o)
Written by oldbuck after his cessation 14 mo. ago
Each season spans a quarter of a year
cold winter days can bring pure white snow,
Wintry sunshine makes snowflakes disappear
but little children don’t want the snow to go!
Spring breezes in, making the gardens bright
fragrant freesias release their sweet smell,
Many colorful flowers bring such delight
I can almost hear the chime of each bluebell!
Summer hopefully brings lots of sunny days
when we can spend time beside the sea,
Enjoying the warmth of the sun’s rays
golden sunbeams make people happy!
Autumn, the most glorious season of them all
I’ll kick through crispy leaves on the ground,
Orange pumpkin’s are aglow when children call
and Halloween trick and treater’s come around.
2/24/20
I wrote a song last night,
Oh yes I did,
The bittersweet words came to me
As fast as a locomotive train...
About a girl from the wrong side of town,
Shooting up smack to calm her down,
She was unbelievable how she stared the devil in the eye,
I couldn't leave her side it was clear as day.
Now I know you must be thinking
I fell into a clichéd jam,
But the story you've not heard before
Quite like this.
She was a whore hooked
On that funny stuff,
And the slag couldn't get enough of,
Even was up the duff.
So I wrote a song last night,
Oh yes I did,
Played it on the grand piano it sounded like a hit,
I couldn't talk too much about it before...
About a girl who'd fallen hard,
Her daddy had abused her,
Hell yeah! He raped her every night I heard,
She'd better keep her cursed mouth shut.
She'd best know the rules of the game,
Or else her daddy would beat her,
Black and blue he'd bruise his little shame,
If only I'd known how things were.
So I met a beautiful girl one late night
There on a lonely street she stood,
Her cloths were tattered, I asked if she was alright,
But I could see she wasn't feeling good.
This song is about her as true as can be,
It's clear as that night I found her,
Everything she told me broke me up inside I couldn't foresee,
She was running from her past as it were.
Maybe I could've rescued her I don't know,
But I met her after she ran away,
So here's my song about a girl hooked on slow,
That white powder, which had her betrayed!
This is the song I wrote
Let me sing it to you all day long,
It's a sad one every note,
'Cause she's dead it's so wrong.
But all is not lost for her eerie ghost it rides,
Uptown she haunts the men of sleaze,
If you wanna escape her destructive wrath you better
Not be one of them who propagate disease.
At this point I think I've said enough,
There's just no use in going on,
You know she was rebuffed, and up the duff,
That whore knew she'd be frowned upon.
Between the lily pads and soft sandbars
Lay the saturated words of idle time
Among bloated carp and feisty sunfish
They linger in a sunny dampened rhyme.
Fleet Dragonflies of thought dodge darting Terns
The silent lure adrift, a bobber’s hope
A crusted turtle suns itself alone
Atop the edge of river’s muddy slope.
The river paints its beauty on my mind
Dares me to recreate it with my pen.
I fail, my words like Egrets, standing still
My vision trapped between the now and then.
Is there no hope, no freedom from this curse
To capture nature’s beauty in pure verse.
©10/7/2022