Best Yellower Poems
As I stood before the porcelaneous basin,
And streamed into its already uric and xanthous-stained depths,
A stain, a sight and a liquid yet yellower and more urinary;
And as cloudiness, not of mind, but of that which is uric attended the
Deposition, a thought occurred unto me, and it poetically and psalmically
Collected and gathered and arranged itself, so that it was as follows:
Does she of a morning stand before some wicked ablutionary sink,
That vile whorish slattern who devoutly believes that only dulcet voices
Emanate from the mouths of the damned in the pits of the lowest Hell?
What fell and foul rites does she with hands cleansed with foulest,
Blackest, evilest water; which of these wickednesses does she perform
And practice, she who washes her hands in the black-flowing waters of
The Stygian pit?
Who is this damned damsel, dame, and maiden fell and foul and not a bit
Fair, who as a fool believes that there are melodious voices echoing in a
Mellifluous and delightful chorus in the lowest pits of Hell?
Though I doubt not that therein there be many an ungodly maiden:
Indeed, the blackest, foulest, ungodliest of fell and evildoing maidens:
Plaguing and blighting the very pits of Hell, who is to say that their
Feminity alone endows unto them a felicity and a melodiousness of tone?
That is doubtless the (unsound) thought that crept into the very
Black heart of she who wrote those foul, foolish words;
But to me, not even the godliest or the goodliest of men,
But inditing ever of good with heart, and tongue and mind and pen,
For such is the great purpose of art such as this, no?
Withal, to me, she spoke of foolery, and of folly.
Lest she be speaking facetiously, in her daft assessment
Of foulest Sheol, she surely was wrong.
Wronger than wrong, if such a thing ever be.
And in my mind, as I urinated, I thought these poetic, psalmic thoughts.
And, though there be hundreds of characters and spaces remaining,
Touching this and that and all things else
And any number and all manner of good
Or e'en fell and foul
Matters, I haven't a word else to say.
The poem is expended, completed, done today
And so am I, with it at least, I must say.
It was winter, and I ceased to remember.
Dandelions don't bloom in December.
Their presence hadn't been seen since fall,
but they were prominent, I now recall.
At spring's first touch I saw the color,
even yellower than butter.
My heart began to flutter at one's wake.
This flower was alive, not a plastic fake.
Then everywhere they seemed to appear---
the color of sun, the color of cheer!
Strikingly, they possessed every lawn,
greeting each peculiar dawn.
As summer's sun began to blare,
their distinguished color dissolved into air.
Then something curious began to settle---
a magician's act dressed each faded petal
with points as lovely as songbirds nearby,
soft and clustered as lashes of the eye.
I could make a wish, to blow them away,
but they'll leave more remnants as they stray.
They'll sprout with the sun and a soil that's wet.
Maybe I could never forget.
A hawk, moments after dawn,
circling.
Somewhere,
somewhere at the edge of near;
a somewhere known to the pessimistic
as far,
as there,
as not,
not
Here.
Not near.
Occasionally, a flashed shadow
over the sun-bleached apricot sky.
Just to the West.
Where the yellower light spills now
over the half-new roof and well-appointed chimney
of farm/field/stone.
Into the valley of clinging green
and the stone wall edge of the Farm
where the trees have one and all
forgot the late date.
They’ve
steadfastly, triumphantly, unarguably
argued for their summer-earned greens.
The moon is so high as to be unknown.
There above the maple.
There above the shred-ragged, yellowing
banana leaves -
the makeshift windvane of wavily oversea kelp.
Unknown
to the crook of neck,
to the poor sleepers,
to the cheap pillow resters.
It is such a slight sliver
that
it gives a cool shiver
to my flesh.
The momentary thought of,
a splinter of wood getting under skin.
The slight sharp sliver of dim silver moon
seems so sharp as to
threaten to deflate the dim blue,
the pale blue
October sky.
"Every year since I've been married, I'd rise
To a tapestry of color and cool embracing feel.
To the rooster crow so, family can feast their eyes.
I'd work for two days preparing thanksgiving meal."
~
Thanksgiving Day prayers of thanks and blessing.
To warm amber scarlet tree canopies losing
Their flaming feuille morte leaves beneath drawn trees;
An emotional overzealous sun sees.
Fresh early jump start, baking food for the heart.
Huge turkey and dressing, lamb, cranberry tarts
Cakes, pies, yeast dinner rolls, vegetables, yams,
Potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, ham.
As they step into grandma's old fashion home
Smells of savory aromas round the home.
A formal table in bright autumn accent,
Cornucopia, with pumpkin candle scent.
Family gather from close and distant parts
Their thrilled children dart as joyful as our hearts.
Time to share memories with laugher till it hurt.
At the last there's still lots of food and desserts.
Grateful of bliss and blessings dear family
And friends bring, then back to life's reality.
10/28/2019
Poetry Contest: Thanksgiving Memory
Sponsored by: Regina Riddle
Merriam-Webster
Definition of feuille morte
: a brownish orange that is deeper and slightly redder than leather, yellower and deeper than spice, and yellower and deeper than gold pheasant
— called also autumn leaf, dead leaf, foliage brown, leather lake, oakleaf brown, philamot, withered leaf
See the thick rain falling from the invisible clouds,
lose yourself in its rhythmical and pelting sounds:
open wide your palms: its a gift from Heaven...
that gift you never asked since you were born!
Hear it beating hard on your window as you sleep,
hug a soft pillow and dream of a rainbow to come;
by bright morning, each rose awakening will weep:
pick any color you think it's beautiful and awesome!
Lonely dreamer, drift on currents of scented breeze going past
wild meadows and daffodils fields yellower than spring sunshine...
while hills below greener than grass, wave like willows in a tempest;
rain slowly tampers off, showing patches of blue : its finally sunrise!
Morning Sonnet
The news this morning was something new
Greece has a banana plantation near
Mount Olympus, and they are yellower and
bigger than bananas from Greenland
A British surgeon pleaded guilty to cutting
off his legs to satisfy a sexual need
Try as I might, I struggle to understand how
The removal of legs can be sexually necessary
On Thursday next week, they are removing
a growth on my left side, can the surgeons
be trusted to find and remove the cyst
A most wonderful thing, natural observation
Copulating on the wing, butterflies on mission
Mostly pure white on this summer day –welcome cool -
Like delicious Autumn, but breaking the rule
Of long hot summers on the Eastern Cape
Mostly white butterflies after the rains; none escape
Being pursued. I’ve seen singles dart into the bush
Made by a clump of Mulberry saplings, win mate or friend
The shady vale next my window is a love-ly battleground!
Uncoupled after one mating as with birds against sky
Those single white missiles shoot faster and high
To locate another unhitched butterfly. And how! Threesomes are found
But not for long – two seem to enter the smallest circle
Until Number Three has to leave, shooting off like missile …
Until the most special sight, a string of couples closely
Crisscrossing the spaces among the trees like confetti
(Two insects - smaller, yellower - dance closer to the ground
Just to remind us, earth has other lives in reproduction)
I see the whites circle and circle in addictive lovemaking
Often alighting on branches of the neem (we call slingeberry) trees
O how wonderful, beautiful, they render this youthful afternoon
As if twilight has come: “NEW ROMANTIC MUSICAL starting SOON”
Mahogany table varnished bright,
polished wooden floor giving a neat sight,
the room was deserted,
but for that radiant person,
who looked sitting in that framed chair,
quite endearingly handsome,
the heap of flesh lay on floor,
bones collapsed much before,
the poor man had died,
and was scared with fright,
the long journey to here,
heaven or hell?,
had taken its toll,
he was lying listless on a marooned atoll,
the baritone of the radiant person,
resonnated in the vacuum of the room,
beckoned him to be alert and be groomed,
as if rays of energy wafted from his fingers,
man heard first signs of life humming and drumming in ears,
as if it was a sweet song delivered by a compact singer,
as man opened his eyes,
and adjusted his sight,
he blinked in new fright,
he could not focus,
at the intensity and charisma,
but felt a soothing inner delight,
he knew it was God,
or someone near him,
and bent in obeisance,
he heard the God speak,
beckoning to table top,
he saw four glass bowls atop,
God asked him now,
what he thought was there in bowls,
one had bloody red other had pale yellow ,
next one had some thing yellower,
and the last one a viscid white,
it all shook and shook as if liquids,
God whispered him to walk,
get to the table and smell the stalks,
he did one by one,
one was blood,other sweat the other urine,
and the last one semen,
How do you find them?,
acrid, nauseating and bad,
not one but all,
these are samples,
of the liquids,
totally taken from you,
they smell as bad as the body they are in,
all humans have them,
and smell as bad,
they get artificial perfumes,
and try to hide these behind,
just like they try to cover their misdeeds,
by more misdeeds scented afresh,
would you be interested,
now to get these back in your frame,
and play yet again the human game,
the man who had heard it all,
vigorously shook his head,
he refused and,
turned down the offer of God,
to be man once again.