Springtime facade shines on convivial tapestry,
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant vivacity
within sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes.
On luscious lips the petals of blooming lotus lie,
painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance,
designing narcissistic features of innate elegance
with the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued
by pervading pride of indomitable youth imbued.
On the withered canvas the wheels of time creep,
the spider of age weaves the web of wrinkles deep.
Weary eyes look forlornly at weathered wasteland,
wilted lips lose luster of lotus once lovingly grand.
Hedonist psyche refuses to accept the fated loss,
even when time comes for the last mile to cross.
What is a face if not a metaphor for trait panorama,
snapshot in beholder’s eyes of concealed charisma.
Abandoned on the promenade,
A big-wheeled trike did sit,
Forlornly waiting for the tyke
Who should be riding it.
I passed it on my morning walk,
When few are up and out
And seeing it, I wondered
What its story was about.
For why was it forgotten?
Did the mom leave in a rush?
Or the dad or sitter tending to
A child’s scraped knee a’gush?
Or perhaps they came across some friends
And headed to the swings
With the tricycle remaining there,
Ignored for better things.
I hope someone remembers it
And comes to take it home,
Where it belongs much more
Than as a subject for a poem.
Years lay over,
tilt to shed tears,
from eaves of leaves
that sway, stay and,
stray away to far beyond.
Lay, lady, lay.
Come allay your fears
and I'll let your colors shine,
if you'll stay with me, for awhile.
Lest, I lay to rest,
a wreath for you,
for the good times we shared
long gone.
The years drift away,
way out wide on the tide.
Marooned as lullabies
of lilting longing shadows,
echoing woe, and go, betides,
way out beyond the breakers,
beyond the lay of years.
The ring of fresh colored flowers,
you once wore around your neck,
now lies forlornly lain,
as a garland of petals,
dropped from a ring of flowers
onto the ground.
Onto the layers of years,
spread out on a mound of tears,
never to grow old,
beyond the lay of years.
A rose upon the vine too soon will fade;
no matter if the bloom is bleak or fair,
its petals drop, no matter what their shade
and lie forlornly in the garden there.
A rose is just a flower and no more.
Its blossom time of hours far too few;
once petals fade, there’s no one to restore
that graciousness and beauty back to you.
But when we fall in love, the blossom grows;
its perfume lasts forever, and we find
a bloom that doesn’t wither, heaven knows
it will be a thing of beauty in our mind.
If love’s a rose, what color would it be?
Love has no color, save serenity.
She walks the streets of this vast city,
looking in alleys and corners gritty.
Hoping to find love's tender smile,
but instead finds loneliness in all the miles.
He roams the streets of this vast town,
staring forlornly at the dirty ground.
Despair has taken its final hold.
The lack of her love has left him cold.
They pass each other on their way,
neither having a single word to say.
Two empty lives drifting aimlessly,
wanting a love that will never be.
Our dogs have a pen twelve times bigger than a shed
They romp, jump, and frolic until their faces are red
But this is only if their mama is inside with them
If I am out, they wait forlornly, at the gate of this pen
Inspired by Iron Maiden’s “The Final Frontier:
#18 on Best New Poems List , May 16, 2025
I am but one person
on a mission that went wrong -
locked out of the safety
of the spaceship I was on.
Black ink is spilled around me,
vast and never-ending
as into nothingness
I find my body wending.
The oxygen inside my tank
will last perhaps six hours.
I can see stars - stabs of light
that twinkle not – cosmic flowers!
Forlornness embraces me -
a suffocating feeling
so unlike my loved ones’ hugs.
With gloom my brain is reeling.
I travel in my mind
to things I cherish most -
my family and friends.
To them I’ll be a ghost.
A ghost forever floating
in this upside-down endless sea
which will be a graveyard
of black surrounding me.
God, I am imploring you
as I drift and drift and drift,
may I soon be in your light -
my death both peaceful and swift.
Once, a lonely number three
sat forlornly on my knee.
In his eyes, I saw despair
as he was sitting there.
"You needn't sniffle, cry or pout.
I too have been the odd man out."
Mermaid
This afternoon a mermaid swam to the shore and took flight, so you didn’t, know that the beautiful creatures who live in our seas can fly, she lifted her delicate silky wings and flew seeing me staring forlornly by the kitchen window with a dishcloth in my left hand not seeing a fairytale being I used to believe in as a child
She knocked on the window I opened up, but not much because close up she lolled like a Karen of the type saying men are useless but call you to open a tin of sausages or fetch her slippers in the bedroom Suddenly she took fright and flew away but the
knocking persisted it was my neighbor who wanted me to scrub her back, I helped her out of the bathtub, and before stood a scrawny 84-year-old mermaid
joyfully pursuing nothing today
no plan
no schedule
no worries
no cares
my car sits forlornly
she misses me
I do not care
this retirement gig is delightful
I can sit in one spot for days
and I do
until Dr. G begins talking about blood clots
that go to your heart and kill you
when you sit for too many hours
I walk up the hill one time
hoping that is enough
because I want to sit in a recliner
and watch TV, paint or write poems
joyfully pursuing nothing today
In the starless nights and cloudy days,
to travel in the tortuous trail of life isn’t easy.
When the flowers turn pallid and the trees tawny,
on barren garden path in tears of toil hopes dissolve.
When the journey is long and the time finite,
at the dark end of tormenting tunnel I don’t see light.
When in the wasteland of destiny in the stormy nights
the shards of splintered sky fall around me, I forlornly find.
I don’t question the dictate of the supreme designer,
wait for the sparkle of the starry nights and sunny days.
Without complaint I take the transient time of His as it is,
and wait for the spring of emerald trees and fragrant flowers.
Under fallen sky my broken dreams lie in debris mount,
I’ll go within searching the soul’s sanctum for divine light,
surrender totally to His control, and His will I’ll devoutly comply,
with His blessing I’ll get the inner strength, so I can move mountains.
Anaemia
Who cares for her once glorious dreams
Utopia is the new reality
Dopamine-starved citizens gaze forlornly
As blood feverishly flows out
From her gaping wounds
Siamese twins of hunger and anger
Starving her of peace and progress
In a land of high Testosterone
Security gone AWOL
Citizens on their own
Slowly but steadily
Life ebbs out
Deprived of nutrients and water
Homeland turned fiefdom by renegades
Despising folks, they make foes
Pious laughter loosens frown
of frail freedom
Blood-sapping East wind
Turns grasslands into deserts
Bruised and beaten by the day
Body and soul in dread of dawn
Conquer battlefields of the mind
With riots of laughter
This Mephistophelian theatre
With broken social ligaments and
Ruptured moral tendons
Will one day get a transfusion of a new life
Or die slowly and solemnly
of Anaemia
so far away…P.S.
and again…P.S.S.
the wanderer must, forlornly, leave it at
P.S.S.S. before she realizes he is crazy,
crazy in his love for her.
he misses her kisses and hugs,
having said so,
from a so and so bum,
from the one so in love with grandma,
he feels he can never measure up.
history tells another story,
writes another letter, if you will.
i’m blessed to traipse and trespass
where i would not have been invited
just short years ago.
the treasure chest passed
from Grandma
to my late Aunt
to her Son
who graciously
offered a gift…the gift
being love letters -
wasn’t expecting the lovely chest it was in.
it was either bought or made by my grandpa
who passed away when i was two.
around forty-two or so,
i was told i was my grandpa’s favorite,
but not so…
that was his love Tessie,
forever…so long ago.
P.S. my kids don’t get it,
not the chest…
P.S.S. the letters
P.S.S.S the romance, like i do,
like he did and he did
say i do i do i do -
well for that last part that was my other grandpa.
i live in the midst of a fairy tale
with romantic bookends.
7/3/2023
The face of spring shines
On the convivial tapestry
Spread on luminous landscape
Of vibrant vivacity
With the dreaming blue lagoon of the eyes
And the petals of lotus of luscious lips
Painted on the silken canvas
Of charming countenance
Engraving the narcissist features of innate pride
With marks of suppression syndrome subdued.
The wheel of time turns
On the wrinkled canvas
The spider of winter in twilight hour
Weaves the web with endless senile lines
Hollow eyes gaze forlornly
At the weathered wasteland
The lips lose the patina of the wilted flower
Hedonist psyche refuses to gauge the grief of loss
The face morphs into metaphor for panorama
Captured by the snapshot of concealed charisma.
____________
April, 28, 2023
For A Brian Strand Standard No. 1212 Contest
The usual teller, with a nursery tale
A tale over the strangling of a worm
legendary speech, looking for a trail
Faithful and valiant heroes in a storm
The worm was sleeping on a tree.
A little tanning won't damage me.
She awoke rigid, tingly, and tight.
A heavy, lengthy slumber is trite.
Where the petals are all going to bloom.
Forlornly waiting for its morning snack.
The rose is split, wilted, in a doom.
The worm is borne by a long, leafy stalk.
Birds fly, and earthworms are thrown.
Daffodils with frills poking through
A lunar worm shows us all grown.
As clouds obscure our vision in hue.
Written: March 10, 2023
Kids Creativity and Learning Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
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