In a field of golden sunflowers,
Their faces turned towards the sun's warm embrace,
A great white shark glides through the azure depths,
Silent predator with a fearsome face.
A whip-poor-will calls out in the twilight,
Its haunting song echoing through the trees,
A melody of melancholy and mystery,
A whispered secret carried on the breeze.
Flowery words bloom and scatter like petals,
Poetic verses woven with delicate care,
Each line a tapestry of emotions and dreams,
A language of the heart, laid bare.
In this tapestry of nature's wonders,
Sunflowers, shark, whip-poor-will, and words,
A symphony of beauty and danger,
A dance of light and shadow, seen and heard.
Never knowing if the shark will be appearing
Or if the innocent sunflower will bloom
Hope the shark is gone with his jeering
Down where golden sunflower should illume
Flowery words portray an inflated ego, only impress the intimidated.
I'm a writer, a sucker for flowery words
Creating poetry and proses I can afford,
Then we met and everything changed
My mind went idle, empty in a snap
Hands frozen, heart trembling, begging to stop--
I could no longer write, how strange!
There's something cryptic about you, can't explain,
Can't even put it into words, hopelessly gripping my pen
Staring at a blank sheet, crumpling stained papers
Why can't I even describe you in metaphors?
I'm just a poet, lost for words and what can I do?
I'd rather sit here and silently adore you.
Not your average poet with flowery words
Quite down-to-earth will talk about turds
No wrong with that
From where I sat
Even birds poop at times on your head
Many poets write glorious imagery using flowery words
only three people know
two of them dead
one being Coleridge
the other Shakespeare
I hate them for knowing these words,
despise their guts out that they know how to implement them correctly.
I comment, knowing my comments are crude, banal, a joke at my expense.
These poets are too gracious to call me out.
They pretend that my words are suitable.
Luckily this sooths my pain
and helps me to not feel the need
to look up all of their words which I do not know.
if this was a suicide note
i would say i’m sorry.
i’d fill the holes of my broken life
with flowery words on paper.
if this was a suicide note,
i would ask for forgiveness.
i’d beg that you wouldn’t think too hard
or be burdened by my passing.
if this was a suicide note,
i would spill all my secrets out-
like milk on a table.
i’d tell the truth
and i’d bare my soul that has long since gone.
if this was a suicide note,
i’d let you in.
like the children who long to return home once the sun has set,
i’d let you in.
but this is not.
so the holes stay empty,
the milk in its glass.
the children play on the streets in the sun.
and i am still here.
oh love,love me do
with sweet poems,old and new
or odes that ring true
my darling,don't fret,
dearest heart my number one;
see how I've begun
with end rhyme we'll have fun,or
maybe sonnet or tercet
on no,not flowery words
too obscure and seldom heard,
such poetry's no better
than prose by letter
Soul,
"Even the mind fades with time . There’s no escaping it. One has to make the most of it (the mind) while they still have time and some youth left. What stays beautiful is the soul." LLB
Laid down with the dropping of the ball
the joyous clinks ringing in a year,
party hats, strange first kisses,
inconspicuous memory lapses,
time marching on,
in seconds it all but disappears
fresh starts, disrobing dissertations
interludes
listening to music, assessing the wind
moments meant to be held
not without meaning
sharing what we have
not what we have not
pressing your being on top my chest
laying claim to your riches
engulfing the scent
for you alone it carries my name
twinkles amid periwinkles
surrounded in a gaze
pure harmony and grace
a place
to call more than just a home
the bells of Saint Raphael are ringing
gently, my heart beats in tune, singing
flowery words quietly are filling up
the vastness of the oceans
there is no need to rush
slowly we build
fortunes fulfilling foundations
freedom to breathe
forevers to live
I HAVE THE INCLINATION
If I have the time, I have the inclination
To commit to paper what I feel for you.
It’s something I have always meant to do,
But, as you often say, I lack imagination.
If I could write a sonnet the William Shakespeare way,
Listing all your many virtues, verse by verse,
Would you take me seriously or think me quite perverse?
Would you laugh if I compared you to a summer’s day?
If I used a metaphor to compliment your figure
And flowery words to illustrate your features,
Or said you were more beautiful than any of God’s creatures,
Would you swoon or quietly turn away and s?
If I said your eyes outshone the stars above you,
Would you think that corny, coming from my pen?
Yes, I’d better stop now and think it through again.
And simply find the time to say, “I love you”.
31st December 2019
If You Have The Time For An Enclosed Poem contest
Sponsor - Tania Kitchin
~
What can you do with a romantic poet,
flowery words he does drape
Lost in a garden of endless love poems,
seems that there is no escape
Luring you in with his lines of affection,
painting the sky tangerine
Strolling along down a path of desires,
lost in an autumn moonbeam
Writing a sunset of pure inspiration,
pouring his heart in a phrase
Singing a song of a butterfly dancing,
amidst the warmest of days
Yes, what can you do with a romantic poet,
I guess you could just look inside
Open your heart for you know that you want to,
no matter how much you hide
Or you could scroll down past every poem,
that flows from his amorous pen
And look for another that’s more to your liking,
but beware…he is writing again
~
My cup runs over with your Discord and content
Like a vase full of complacent
Now your flowery words are tasteless
Your pride set aside haunting memories
Miraculously sits beside me
The unimportant am I
I married not even your smile
And then this I ask and wonder why
For you smug your shoulders turn your eye
You shop derogatories at me and say
.. Who am I...
Complacent denial!
11/19/19
Written word by James Edward Lee Sr
thinking like Stein but
drinking beer from a stein
remembering German days
not Paris
contradicting and refuting
Gertrude's flowery words
for
a muse is a muse is
but
don't
include
my Musa
Real poets understand poetry. I don’t.
Real poets write in flowery words. I don’t.
Real poets love poetry, and so do I.
Real poets publish poems, and so do I.
Real poets score fifty percent to one hundred percent on this little gauge.
Worst Poem Ever
This is the worst poem, I’ve ever written,
A right stinker that’s for sure.
There is no concept or meaning
and the content is very, very poor.
I will discard this one to the waste,
Where all the rubbish belongs.
This verse doesn’t even rhyme,
To the bin, with my other trashy things.
Flowery words devoid of value,
Impart flair for ambiguous continuity.
and what on Earth does this mean,
Deception with audacious mendacity.
Let me keep it plain and simple,
This poem will have to go.
With my fresh page and sharpened pencil,
A new one, called Fun in the Snow.
Lavish me not with any parting gifts
when I die
Give me no long goodbye speeches
with flowery words
I demand an eulogy of silence
Extol not my memory,
for I am just a mere mortal with feet of clay
now turning to dust
Bury me with no honors,
raise not the banner of celebration
To joyously lift up my life
on the day I'm to be lowered into the ground
is such cruel irony
Laugh and give gleeful shouts if you must,
if this brings comfort to your soul
Easing your fears,
as the procession of my casket marches
to the hymnal of the worms
Death is the last reproach,
the breath of life stamped out
Sin in the end wins ...
of this, there can be no doubt
Look away from the mourning tears and baleful cries,
and mark the final abdication of life
with the covering of the eyes
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