Son Soaked In the Sun
The Knight was knit on a knockout night.
A batch of bare bears within blissful sight.
Right rowed rode on rigorous royal insight.
Whither or wither, writ warned of a worn write.
Douse the drip and dowse to drum up dew.
Alas allowed the altar rite to alter aloud knew.
Wax warmer upon waves of aqua blue.
Caught in the caudle caudal circuit of one or two.
Halting hair like an idol, idle as a hush hare.
Hearsay's hollows handle heinous and flare.
Can a sane person seine in a water glare?
I fear that a note knob rejects the nob affair.
Leaches of joy leech open or open-free.
I will not feign the fane's favor as a feint fee.
Dazes detained the deal to droop a drupe as a flea.
If a blast blows a blue home, it finds a way to flee.
Written: October 09, 2022
Homophone Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Hat Bueckert
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Categories:
caudle, analogy, humorous, words,
Form: Rhyme
Birth of I Am
In this darkness
Complete catastrophe
As noble angels fly
Into dark around
The fire, frankincense and Mir
All the senses blazed as this
A woman’s lips no longer kissed
Held fangs and scalded scythe
Her penance masked forgiveness
Water let her dye
Her feathers growing caudle still
Upon a grave to be
Attacks of pain like chariots whip
Cracked her by the side
Still remaining shield and sword
Plentiful on turning tide
A land lost once reclaimed
A hail, a cheer went out
Hail Great I Am all hail Him born to be
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Categories:
caudle, allah, allusion, america, bible,
Form: Free verse
The Master Artist Poems Ending Because There Was No Room
--Ending of The Master Artist poem----
He worked for several days until one night when he was nearly through,
His hands clapped together in delight and the bright pastel dust flew.
Bright colors of pastels flew up into the night sky; the colors iridescent.
Magenta Mars and pastel stars shone down upon his nighttime creation
The Master knew he was almost through and he was filled with elation.
His mighty canvas seemed stagnant and he blew hard upon the dust
The pastels swirled and his pastel world seemed to twirl with the gust.
He stroked his beard, nodded and then painted what had been missing.
Red ochre and flesh tones of two people, then an apple they had wrested
From the tree that he had painted last—for on the seventh day he rested.
Diane Caudle
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Categories:
caudle, artnight, night,
Form: Rhyme