Brims Poems

Pure Spring

Beneath clouds, spring regales
studded with floral drops
rustic this landscape,
a sweep that brims with purity.

Contest by Line Gauthier

Rising Touch

She swoons atop a berg
There air water bullets
On midnight's face cross low —
While then besides the dark
Brims in Gemini froze.

She swoons atop a berg
We try for scraps on ice.
She is yours within me.
Of these miles between us,
This sea's the outer ring.

She swoons atop a berg
The Mercury has sank —
Only a lichen's mum,
A last bob underneath 
For Saturn's interlove.

She swoons atop a berg
Without a jogging stance
To explain to us where —
That midnight neither melts
Air in ice, ice in air.

Time

"Seize the day, then let it go" - Marty Rubin. 

I capture the first chirp of the bird in admiration.
My heart merges with it. My hands fold in adoration.
The color-changing beams of the morning sun, like prisms, spread
Varnished Verses from my heart, like waterfalls, flow ahead.
The mist dip mesmerizes. The clement breeze caresses.
The untimely rain cools. Thunder, as though throat-blocked, hisses.
Amidst decomposing mango-neem-jack leaves, banyans sprout.
Amidst the sun’s hide-and-seek, shades shred their tinges throughout.
Each bloom tells me tales. Each bee and fly mimes a moral.
Thoughts, words, and deeds, like meadows, seem flowerily aural.
I see soul in each grain. Each drop of water brims with life.
Doesn't here, between good and evil, creep a constant strife?
Like lilies of the field and birds of the air, I feel free.
Why, about an imaginary act, should I worry?
Each split second of an hour has a universe within.
I know that failing to feel this fact within is a sin.

Pure Perfection

Mirror broken, shard's outspoken
Piercing, rupturing, into her heart
No prisoners taken, her life token

Devoured his latest thirst fulfilled
Appetite quenched, now plied art 
As sly innuendoes, master skilled

A journeyman of no consequence 
Thoughts brims, he can only blart
Ill poised, insecure, inconsequent

Others taken in by this false farce
So he waits on others info to part
As his truth found, is more sparse

What life, left inside of her, awaits
Her wounds heal, new life to start
Takes note of his narcissistic traits

Waits her turn, given no objection
A fury unfurled onto this dim clart
Fulfils a dream, of pure perfection

Placed Saucer

Breaking through day,
the last night,
where the mirror
on glass lips posed 
for a new moon, 
that only masked
its face in ebony
brims of space

trapping in my ache,
with cedar pandoras 
making the bleakest
of songs; a
viridescent heart—
under sylvan skin;
back to sun's cloned moon;

her moody phases 
cut you, while
salt gives the
macadam a required 
taste— alone,
with an empiricism 
of waste; but in a
candle's whiffs,
the flames—

round and round in
my head— afer an 
evening's quivering 
prayers, fixated on
poppies in morning—
breaking through day.

O, Meal Worm

A meal worm eats me like a gourd of flesh,
     this slimy beast I dread; two weeks or more
until my heart's (that once was young and fresh) 
     a hole that brims with the plaque of its gore.

Soft-bodied, legless, and writhing, this meal worm,
     like yeast that leavens a raw loaf of baked bread,
or phage that necrotizes like a germ,
     consumes its host until it's thoroughly fed.

Elongated and portly, like a porcine
     (a fat creature and ravenous parasite!)
with the over-sized appetite of a swine,
     you threaten me with a sick, terminal blight. 

But if I were the brave one, O meal worm,
I'd make a meal of you and watch you squirm!

Why Do Your Lip's Tremble So

In the realm of blindness, behold the sight
Eyes, mouths, bodies, and feet in desperate plea,
Caressed by brushstrokes, an artist's decree,
A gem with facets, dripping only with you, so bright.

With each stroke, layers peel, revealing anew,
A different you, forever altering the scene,
Canvases portraying joy, or madness keen,
Yet always, it's you, basking in Regina's sun, true.

Trembling lips invite, the question lingering, why?
As lips brush against strokes, the paint, desires sprout,
The canvas brims with variations, there's no doubt,
A mirror of respect, to which you try.

It chuckles, amused by its own growth and might,
Witnessing a blemish, so grand in its scope,
The rose drips, blushing with natural hope,
A struggle, the bloom and its flush unite.

Passion ignites the eyes, a flame untamed,
Refusing confinement within mundane frames,
For every woman, a sovereign, she claims,
A queen in her own right, forever acclaimed

Swift River

My Love, how she laughs!
And brims with delight
As she breezes along
The sun in her lap – 
A glittering pose
Becomes her, just so
In her whimsical hues
And idling flows

And when she sighs
And shifts on the sand
Aglow in the night
The moon in her eyes –
‘Tis all I can stand
Myself, but a man
Drenched with a thirst
Alone – and upland

And when she cries
And weeps in the rain
Oh, that I!
Could take her away 
To fields where we lay
And lessen her pain –
 
And when she roars!
And leaps – mighty leaps!
Her passions – asleep
Awake from the deep
To settle the score
That all lovers keep
Of madness and lore
Of legends and more
That leap – as she leaps
And roar – as she roars!

Aura Of A Quilt

There is a patchwork woven in where fingers 
once slipped through.
Rips knit together make a newer flesh.

A million brims and a million holes are
All pliable.

I've played with fabric and cloth.
I've dreamed of welcoming stars.

(But you unmend me.)

Touch me from within my sleep—
I feel no pain.

Valleys

In the valley, one has been moaning considerably, extensive
       
                 for an amount of time, these constraints have possession of

                 one's emotions, affairs, and partnerships from all walks of

                  life, there will be chronicles of ups and downs, profits, and losses.

                  Ya'll it's been immeasurably a refutable volume of time, it's

                   becoming apparently, one is emerging, circulating fully of

                   fervor, hyperventilating, brims over, sobs echoes, screamingly

                   outcries, one's coming out of these days of low frequencies

                   treading the valleys.

Reunion

The rain, in sheets, is driven to the ground
to mingle with the rabble down below.
No longer welcome at the table round,
the wind, no friend, encourages it to go.

At first, despairing, scattered far and wide,
it seeks to hide in sorrow on the hill,
But joy, it seems, can never be denied,
as puddles, past their brims soon overspill.

Old friends are reunited in the rush;
their mirthful, bubbling laugh grows ever loud,
cascading over rocks and underbrush,
forgotten, their rejection by the clouds.

At last, they all lie breathless on the lake,
daydream of skyward journeys they’ll soon make.

Sans Mindbody

*Image of Active Brain by PSYC

Sans MindBody

We grace this Earth for the purpose of God,
A beacon on the hill, not be hidden,
Good seeds with a righteous cover of sod,
Unlike a tree, bear fruit that's forbidden.

We are representatives of The Word,
Proclaiming the gospel of Jesus Christ,
Voices of virtuous living be heard,
Dutiful of the well-earned sacrificed.

Our seeds, ingrained, encrypted, in His name,
Indelible impressions of growing,
Outreach to the lost and hopeless, our aim,
Our constant glow let all in the knowing.

Our brims are well beyond overflowing,
Know the intercessor ere all-knowing.

2022 August 28
*1st Place*
Sans mind-body who are we
~~Unseeking Seeker: Judged 2022 September 23

Blue Hat Dream

Curled up on the floor. In the middle of the day. I dream.
Images of hats and pills come out of nowhere. 

“I visit my garden each morning 
searching the ground to see
if the unused pills I found 
in my mother’s pill boxes,
and planted, had produced
a rose or purple Phlox.
I buried her tablet boxes, 
buried them, like tiny coffins.
I lined the miniature graves
with crushed blue velvet,
(like the cases that stored 
her elegant forks used only 
on special occasions, 
at four o’clock tea-time, 
the cake served primly
on gold-rimmed plates).

Treading through the wet grass, 
rootling through the fertile soil,
I saw, without surprise,
blue hats growing wild, 
velvet and tulle, 
pills and sequins 
scattered and whimsical,
my mother decorating 
their botanical brims
with silver cake forks 
tied with ribbons”.

I wake up,
eyes blurred,
I can barely see.
I make a cup of tea,
cut a slice of currant cake, 
and eat it with a small, 
antique English fork.

Existence

Life is music that drifts in open spaces
        sometimes a brash crescendo 
        that brims with the fullness of now
when stories break from narrow, rigid scripts
        stifling random routine

Life is free wheeling inventiveness 
        peacockish
        a feathered tapestry
        parading like a wedding dress down the aisle

Sometimes life is a ping pong bounce of sorrow
        giant ball
        that blurs the sky
        that covers our eyes
                              a fog creeping into ruined places

Life is a tumble of forces
        a counterpoint of malice and joy
        that goes in an unexpected direction
                              like the connective chords of love
                 an airy drift
                 amplified
                 in the ringing rush of time





Poem composed: July 2/2022

In Thankfulness

Lord, heart brims with beaming gratitude
For the bliss of beatitude!

June.30.2022

Syllables, 9 and 8
How many syllable Counter

Thankfulness Crystalline Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Beata Augustin

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