Crisscrossed Poems | Examples

Prismed Face: An Abstraction

*Please note: 
I'm not in the throes of sadness.  Just a write for another poetry site.
~~~~~~~~~~

My eyes are half closed for I fear to see
what worry and anxiety have made of me.
All day I've been twisted out of shape,
wincing at my disheveled appearance.
Life has taken a toll with its interference.

My mirrored face is a prism, a color spectrum,
reflections that indicate the paths I've traveled.
It's no wonder I look completely unraveled
and seem to be moving in opposite directions.

I'm an abstract work of art, hastily brushed
with my own hand when I'm feeling rushed.
Blue when sadness tears my world in two,
Cadmium yellow on days when I feel mellow.

When heated anger tints my soul, my cheeks
flush with shades of red and buff. It's been weeks
since I've felt bold enough to paint with oils.
Misfortune leaves me feeling like used tin foil.

I must pull myself back together and gather
my thoughts. Untwist the ropes that tether me.
Too many worries have crisscrossed my face
and spying eyes I've come to intensely despise.

Bones

In winter
The forest becomes invisible

This
Is
When the wood can be touched

Such
Tall
And toppled tenderness
Will not flinch

Beyond
Looking through
The centuries exposed

Forest floor
Floats
With deadfall

So many crisscrossed legs and arms

Windthrow veins
Drained
Of blood

Root system rugged above its quivering skin

Like us all
When life is gone
We are the same

Bone
Remains

Laid down

Foundation
For hares and Perennials
Fungus and fox
Feathered saplings of sun and moon

A risen soul
Someday soon
Erupted
Again

With dahlia sky and spring.

Looking Back Through a Front Windscreen

Inevitably places have changed,
where I was born looks like an alien city to me,
it's now a tourist trap for indigenous aliens.
The world was younger back then.
people were more dangerous yet much kinder.

We once carried books around,
we loaded cars and pushbikes
with travel books and the poetry of adventurers.
We were old enough to be piratical.

Of course the young are always dumb,
the smarter they became the dumber we got,
it's a kind of self-shackling.

I know we early comers
belong somewhere in this world,
but we abide half-hidden and liking it.

I recognize who I was and where,
however only in lost maps
once busily crisscrossed.

Maybe I am too young to forget,
it will probably get much better
as distracting rainbows turn slowly
to blancmange.

The Art of Rain: a Windowpane Perspective

Through crisscrossed muntin, 
patterns, and panes of clear glass,
the world outside is painting itself gray,
a wet mess of monochrome.

Muted cars speed by,
reflecting a leaden sky.
Their moans and groans wash over
every rooftop, passing by.

Nature's call is heard as rain,
the plate glass her melodic conductor.
The drops, each a source of sound and light,
spruce up this dreary suburban sight.

As an onlooker, I marvel
at the hidden pulchritude of this travel.
The hoariness holds an ambition
of lingering thaumaturgy.

The texture of the windowpane,
the ancient scent of rain,
as a visitor to this scene, 
I find magic, dawning, to be divined,
Even when engirt by zones of storm.

Filigree

Filigree
Celtic Filigree

Graceful filigree unbroken 
Weaves a tracery
With strands entwined
Like a whisper from the misty isles
Woven into whorls of melodic unity,
Indivisible spirals of the eternal three,
Thin harp strings of crisscrossed swirls
Weaving lyric filigree
Delicate fine threads elaborate
Earth, water, fire in legends
Of scholar saints and mystics –
Erin’s braided shield 
Two hearts intertwined into infinity
As a king’s wisdom brings a benediction
Of enduring life
That reaches back into the dusty kells 
Of rosettes in oak roots interlinked
Plaited knotwork - no beginning and no end -
Echoes eons of captured grace
In continuous mystical contours

2-14-23
Contest: Writing Challenge – F Words 
Sponsor: Constance La France

There are several well-known Celtic knots including Knotwork, The Trinity Knot, the Dara Knot, Solomon’s Knot and the Love Knot.

One of the meanings of “kells” is cocoon or chrysalis

Frost, Snow, Beautiful Cold

Each naked tree embossed in hoar frost
Branches crisscrossed and snow tossed
Like glitter glossed in ice at nature's cost
Until I exhaust, here I'm happy to be lost

To roam through snow I am just below
Frozen confetti thrown making air glow
With falling faux diamonds ever so slow
To feel the show not watch from window

Letting the cold take it's freezing hold
From young to old, heard stories told
Of snowmen rolled near angels mold
In frost threshold of sparkling snow ice cold


January 18th, 2023

Tailors Imagination

Tailors’ quaint imagination 
For customers adoration:
Only-God-knows inspiration 
He knows time of expiration: 
The crisscrossed and zigzagged entire, 
As they are what eyes require,
Bejeweled Hat like spire 
Who in Man ideas inspire?

One long look at Men’s Attire 
You know it would them not tire;
Man would not from farce retire 
On writers urging satire…

Tailors, gross imagination
From machines a machination.

Night Wanderlust

footfalls …
	house to darkened house
unhurried, muffled footfalls echo,
passing lampposts shedding gold …
	pool of gold … 
		pool of gold …
wife's hand in mine like long ago,
	yes, long ago,
serene, calm dark inviting thought,
sweet memories of younger love--
	we pause,
not showered by cascading gold,
	we kiss,
two shadows melding, no one sees
but moon aloft in velvet sky,
broad, lofty oak limbs filtering
pale-bright moonbeams washing down,
moonlight dripping limb to branch
to naked autumn limb and branch,
crisscrossed shadows tiling
this spot we kiss
	a moon-mosaic
and then we wander,
	homeward wander …
	pool of gold …
		pool of gold …
spirits tranquil as the dark
stillness stirring reveries
while, house to darkened house,
unhurried footfalls follow.


November 17, 2022
Beauty of Night Poetry Contest
Sotto Poet, sponsor

Pondering On Our Love

We sat for hours under the flame tree,
In silence, we pondered life with glee.
She wished for a breeze sitting at the quay,
I yearned for mountains and some lovely ski.
Variety is a spice that’s our loving key.

The fern-like leaves fluttered in the breeze,
One long passionate kiss was enough to appease.
Her hands squeezed to make her feel at ease.
Soon we decided on afternoon teas
And sandwiches layered with favourite cheese.

Soon dusk was falling, and it threatened snow,
Even the birds were seen flying very low,
Clouds rushed in a row over row.
To leave such peace was rather a blow,
Agreed to spend the night in a nearby chateau.

From our window, we relished the valley in colour.
Lawns crisscrossed with borders all in flower.
Fortunately, it did not snow but it did shower
In the semi-twilight, all seemed such a glistening bower.
Finally, sleep beckoned, it was too late an hour.

Summer In Ames

A voice inside said,
come, come back
to the place where
my college years
started.
Burnt out
I came back
from college
in Cedar Falls
for the summer
to a familiar place,
and I was reborn.
Six others and I stayed
in the fraternity
working summer jobs.
The quiet bars near campus
and familiar places
echoed memories
of the bustle
of fall and spring semesters.
But now I sought
a sense of peace,
and two geese swam
on Lake Laverne
near the Memorial Union.
The sun reflected on sidewalks
that crisscrossed
the university campus
journeys taken
of myself and others
to discover who we were.
In the midst of classes
and changing measures,
and I found my place,
although I knew
my life would take
me somewhere beyond.
But for now
the voice that said transfer
two years earlier
called me back.

Legend

The mine drowned the holler,
many reallocated
to trailer parks along the Interstate.

The school dwindled,
ran out of children
became a garage for dead trucks,
then a beer barn, then a Meth lab,
bubbling feuds resurfaced -
shotguns aimed at open secrets.

Oxycontin mules crisscrossed cricks.
After the sheriff left with a bag of money
the missing went unreported.

The ‘Craft’
(a legend as ancient as flint arrowheads),
emerged from clapboard covens
ginseng and moonshine were sacrificed
for white powder.

Glocks flourished among the Hummel’s.
Traditions persisted
like red paint on wooden signs.

An outbreak of opaque cottage industries,
led to skins inked with blood oaths.

Old women retreated into the mountains
with their recipes.

Spirals of distant smoke
rose from iron cooking pots,
no one spoke of the children.

O' Moon

O' moon I know you're out there
hidden behind my darkened skies
watching over me
motionless in a world
spinning
so out of control

amid these temptress cries
I beg to thee
melt the chill upon this rugged grandeur
force me to face the light
a path crisscrossed
cutting through
the thick of night

be my gentle guide
my friendly guise
my window
to peer out of
help me find
the broken pieces
of a mixed up yesterday
and show to you
my willingness and pride

O' moon I know you're out there
and I know you know
I'm still here
stuck inside the silence
awaiting
all alone

A Secret, Not Forgotten

hands clenched,
behind a tide
of atonement-
barren skin drenched
with tales told inside
yesterday's moment

desultory sacrifices sing soft
as i weep beneath a willow
for this time of burring is oft’
the reason salt seeps my pillow

antiquated entrance to
purgatory-
nails bleeding on timber
for me

pulchritude of brilliance shines
not when subsiding does occur-
i crisscrossed all the crooked lines
my poor soul must always make sure…

rooms filled with 
depth too deep;
blooms from roots,
too rotten-
for this secret,
i shall keep
until sorrow is forgotten



February 11, 2020

Sunset Spirit

Sunset Spirit

Close your eyes, 
and stop thinking. 
Take a moment...
breathe.
God is already beside you. 
He has always been there. 
It is you, 
that must slow down. 

Stop rushing in and out, 
back and forth, 
where you believe you are to go. 
You have gone, 
passed the point you meant too. 

The chairs in the room, 
are full of angels. 
They have come to listen...
to all sing. 
Those that can not, 
will mouth the words, 
and still, it will be,
beautiful unto Him, 
raised in praise faithfully, 
if silently.

The heart of all gathered, 
holding the ends of strings...
knotted and crisscrossed, 
scoring and underscoring the importance, 
of faith, seen and unseen, 
but always felt, 
and forever real.

Crossroads Contest

I have crisscrossed down many a road wondering which road to take
Many roads I have traveled in my lifetime but I have come to this crossroad today
I have been on the right side and also the wrong sometimes traveling alone
Advice I cannot give for each of us has our own road to take

My mind calculates and calibrates mixing in my mind trying not to make up my mind 
Which road should I take writing this poem lyric or rhyme I do not want to make a mistake?
Freedom I have been given to choose yet I have become Silent, I must choose One
Win or lose written this poem has been fun.

Contest: Crossroads
Sponsored by: Silent One
Date Created: 09/15/2019

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