Copes Poems

Undoing the Disarmament of Venus de Milo: Aphrodite Gets Her Biceps Back

Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.

Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.

A School Daze Turn

'Tis off to the races now that homeschooling has ended. 
One half earns for their subsistency, 
other half learns about delinquency.
Be they friends and their best efforts were suspended.

Tale spring muses as the anticipant's
appraised specifies traditional hopes
load stages standard addictive transplants
secured cognitive lodestar prolonged copes.

Missteps venture the wide-eyed sneeze, and runny nose
a caption reads, "This be the Time.", gone are
the reporting authors, counting those
to acknowledge them, minus their star.

Bloom's wilt and hues fade know not the hour caused,
advents trending acquisitions neglect closure
but fail to end the brotherhood of friends exposure.
halls went silent the schoolyard empty, turned men paused.

She lived

Harmorhage of blood, Midnight had seen her eyes, swollen by the custody of evil and the lies

Cravings in her heart that beated in, exuding through her mind, manifesting insecurity essencefully, with delirium of veins in grind.

The day was tinted darker than the worst poisons spell, with lack of choices left between The heaven or the hell.

The skin flaunting the hides of the burns of the age, every crease drew potraits, of memory that engaged;

The body was the body, the soul had seen the time, when excitement whispered stories to where anticipation followed the rhyme..

Nor the bonds of irons were there, Neither she was tightened through the copes, when knives described their sharpness, She showed mercy on the ropes.

The rope nor ordinary in colour or structure, It weaved the haunts of blame, each time the question asked her worth, She preferred selling herself for the game.

No one knows which era she lived, No one knows her name, Its said when freedom knocked her door, She said she'd fell in love with the cage

Life Cycle

Time moves on

There is change

Better or worse

Just never the same


Our hearts adjust

Our souls accept

Our spirit copes

Our memory never forgets

The Planist's Weep

The Pianist's Weep
By FD Ravenskraft

The reflection of the E minor
Constantly he plays for the grasps
As she copes forever last
Lasting in the passionate glance
He plays her final waltz

In the keys of 61 that 81 blends
The sins of the pianist's composing never ends
In the dens of her longing to wait
The burden of a unloved Symphony 

As the sheep's ghostly dance
To his and her romance in the corner of the world unseen the blessings of the pianos dreams

G minor in the gossips of their love
The keys of the melodies
As he plays by the seas of trees
Where she slumbers
In The haunted yonder
That ponders in the lands of Wonder

As he plays and she watches
Composing his concerto in E minor
Where he finds her beside him
An gothika dark passionate play
The madness of his longing
No longer wanting to play. But must
To see her once more

Just for him to feel comfort and weep
Why she sleeps on his final keep

End

Sword of Honour

His father was an Aristocrat
His mother a high class whore
And he attended Public School
As had his ancestors before,
Achieved a First at Oxbridge,
Sword of Honour at Sandhurst,
Served in Bosnian with UNFOR 
Saw genocide at its very worst.

He resigned his commission
Following his service there
Couldn’t cope with the memories
The sense of guilt and despair.
He dosses on the Streets now
A homeless hulk without a name
Disowned by his family and
Just seen as a bringer of shame.

The people on the streets
Try to avoid his eye,
Toss him the odd coin
As they pass him by.
He nods his head in gratitude 
But he’s not really there
As he copes with his demons
Behind his thousand yards stare.

All people see is a vagrant,
An alcoholic and a souse.
He’s in Line for the title and
A seat in the Upper House.
Nobody gives a toss about
The many cases like him.
That’s just the modern world
You either sink or swim.

Come and join the forces
Show that you are willing
To go and serve your country
Accept the Old Queen’s Shilling.
Learn to fight and kill
Sell your service on the cheap
And if you crack and break
You’re out on the scrap heap.

A Sorrow Too Deep

Kayla shouts Father! Father!  I'm here!
Kayla? he cries crouching, arms outspread
I'm here now sweetie, there's nothing to fear
But he wakes to a life far beyond dread

With the world asleep he drives through the night
There's the hospital which offered such hope
Oh, his angel!  His God-given delight!
His grief's too deep, but somehow, he copes

Streets still and empty; a brisk Sunday morn
Bland buildings sprouting in cold cement
From natures blessed gift he is shorn
The wound can't heal; was his life truly meant?

Wife and friends seem odd; not fully real
Banal, empty, irksome words swirl
The mirror's harsh truths on his face reveal
He lost his life when he lost his sweet girl

Written 8/25/22
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE CONTEST

Mother Is a House

Father is a stump grinder,?
a heavy planter. Shovel fingers?
bulling through onions and leeks.?
Truck-hands lashed to maroon suspenders.?
Head in the dirt, a blue exhaust?
trailing from grub-working teeth,?
hefting clumps and yellow ***-ends,?
raising clammy clay blooms.?
?
Mother is a house,?
most of it closed.?
Sometimes an upper window opens.?
net-curtains fly out of gray eyes.?
A girl-ghost locked in a bottle,?
?
She lifts me up on a dangle?
of faith to her bedroom.?
A mahogany night-dresser?
tucks away her dreams.?
She has closets, drawers?
where lovers doze.?
She whispers, less they all awaken.?
?
Outside, father crashes through turnips.?
Mother bleeds bitter-root?
from nub bitten fingernails.?
She pushes her child into rooms?
called 'buried-lost, buried-found'.?
The dead are everything –?
she copes not with the living.?
?
Later I listen to father grunt over her,?
as he spades a blinded moon?
between her broken fences.

I'M No Poet

I'm not a real poet
 just as Pinocchio wasn't a real boy
but for our hearts and faith
 we live life in full awareness coy
a revelation of ourselves in bold deploy;

with this arsenal of dreams and hopes
 we yield a rendition beyond simple idea copes,
and we merge and blend inner secret expression
 of who we truly are within our own egressions
living on the edge of time and space intervention;

so let us have our dreams
 mindful enterprise and thriving schemes
as we purloin the words and phrases
 pretending we contain the wisdom of the sages
in a sequence of interactive rhyme assuages;

so here it lay,
 a poetic urge openly on display
that poetry lives in each and every one of us,
 it's just a question of appreciation and trust
in the wordings that we say.

In the Sea of Life

Whispers of Light color the Night in lifeless hues
Musical Notes arrayed in soft Quotes for a muse
Filling up Lives with captivating Archives in cues
For moments of Bliss, feels like a Kiss to bemuse

Gentle Insights soften our Sights with pure truth
Creating a Peace that will never Decrease its ruth
Embracing the Heart from the very Start of our youth
Echoing Hopes, finding moral who Copes with uncouth

From the Darkness comes a Starkness that sighs
Words within a Poem, so you Show him who tries
With passions Alive, burning to Strive so they rise
Above the Pains life sometimes Gains before one dies

Faith makes one Wise in another’s Eyes detect grace
That blinds the Soul who is Whole and cannot face
The past that Casts a bitter shadow that Lasts to chase
Black thoughts Around and finally Abound in this place

Loving feelings Abide deep Inside the one who feels
Alive with Compassion that leaves you Ashen from appeals
To be Appraised by those Amazed that love like this seals
The heart with Joy which will Destroy any corrupt ideals




In Rhymes Sublime Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
November 1, 2020

Lovers

In his eyes
Were blue skies
Love to last
From the past
With desire
Light the fire
Burning hot
Dampen not
Gentle thoughts
Bound in knots
Silent hopes
Always copes
With the muse
That we choose
To inspire
I admire
Gentle peace
Does increase
With his love
From above
Bringing thirst
Not the worst
For a breath
Before death
Waking bliss
With a kiss
I love him
Like a hymn
Singing sweet
On the street
Rousing song
Nothing wrong
Bringing faith
Glory saith
Where he is
Worship tis
Feeling soft
Loving oft
Give my heart
At the start





Threes, Please Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Beth Evans
September 17, 2020

Lock Down Fears

A very good morning to all my fans, 
My uplighters, my blossom, 
an add on to my faithful viewers
 amongst my midst 
in a pandemonium world:

While the bush fire continues out west
in Brooklyn streets, we still wish for mango trees,
Instead of the many visible dumpsters,

Our Netflix, our prime videos, 
 Our, You Tubes channel streaming, while
Some represent modern times, the others have just
The right touches for one’s loneliness in lockdown towns,
In all of our troubled days of depression,
 
 *The vast new reports of shunning, is uprising my fans*

How the world copes with madness, and death
Per day, as the world spin faster, and faster,
To a never-ending dilemma, 
But somehow, the richest demand more gold,

While the low renter, begs the government for help..

*The roses and the lilies talk of art and also of love.**

At the summit conferences what really do they talk about? 
Under the various mask faces?

A very good morning to all my fans, 
My uplighters, my blossom, a add on to my
Faithful viewers amongst my midst 
in a pandemonium world:
This is not poetry, only observations my friends.

Plainly

Be beyond blame
Set succinct show
Nurture nice name
Gain gracious glow


Prize profound plain
Live lavish light
Glimpse growing gain
Sense simple sight


Happy heart hopes
Humour hoards hurt
Clever charm copes
Dust dreary dirt




Leon Enriquez
03 September 2019
Singapore

Mother Is a House

Father is a stump grinder,
a heavy planter. Shovel fingers
bulling through onions and leeks. 
Truck-hands lashed to maroon suspenders.
Head in the dirt, a blue exhaust
trailing from grub-working teeth,
hefting clumps and yellow ***-ends,
raising clammy clay blooms.

Mother is a house, 
most of it closed.
Sometimes an upper window opens.
net-curtains fly out of gray eyes.
A girl-ghost
not yet locked in a bottle,
waves above my head.
She lifts me up on a rope
of sunshine, to her bedroom.
A mahogany night-dresser
tucks away secret hugs.
She has closets, drawers
where lovers doze.
She whispers, less we all awaken.

Outside father crashes through turnips. 
Mother bleeds moss
from nub bitten fingernails.
She pushes a child into rooms
called buried-lost, buried-found.
The dead are everything –
she copes not with the living.
She is a draining board.
I am a basin.
Mother scrubs with red knuckles,
until I pour and curl
by her porcelain sink. 

Later I listen to father grunt over her,
as he spades
a reluctant moon
between broken roots.

More

Quatrain #885:
MORE


Meet joy that scopes true health that shows,
Opt for grand hope that channels flow;
Reap truth that ropes the way of bliss,
Etch love that copes with light that grows.

~~~~~~~~~




Leon Enriquez
24 February 2019
Singapore

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