Serene silence spreads
Folks in special garbs
cross legged on the floor
Striving to keep minds
free from diversions
A great sign of peace!
My whispered words carried by the distant winds
Over the oceans mixed with the sounds of violins
Arriving softly into your ears as you sleep at night
That will make you smile, and in your heart excite
Reminding you I'm in your body, and in your soul
I am your man, and your heart, I remain in control
Over the desert dunes to our very own pure oasis
Where the drifting winds, on our footsteps erases
Our time spent watching, as the Gazelle idly graze
As on the horizon heat creates a shimmering haze
Under the protection of palm trees to give us cool
From a red hot sun, that would be otherwise cruel
Taking turns to recite from Rumi, the Persian poet
With heartfelt feelings on each other we bestow it
And time spent, as a sun on us both says goodbye
Where then, a crescent moon and stars shine high
With our eyes closed, silent wishes are then made
Our wealth, happiness and health we both prayed
Wrapped in quilted garbs, by camel then set home
Until you're rested in your bed by yourself all alone
My last whispered words in your ear then I’m gone
Habibi, it is for you that I only in your heart belong
I'm between the devil and the deep sea.
From the grabs of stress, I wish to be free.
Flaws, like storms, uproot me from existence.
Moments move like streams with no resistance.
With sloth and pride, my specks of soul are foiled.
I wash my linens. They seem to get soiled.
I thirst for care, concern, and compassion.
Why do jars of hemlock provoke passion?
I cry like a child that's dropped in a pit.
My life has been like garbs that are ill-knit.
Alone I sail on deep seas in cracked boats.
My mind, like an ant on a dried leaf, floats.
All that has been, out-grows itself,
becomes monstrous in a mouse hole.
Thoughts pinned to carnival garbs
hang under night’s pitch-dark tent
to chew over minds missing links.
The silence of wordless clowns
mimes the shrill music of bats.
In a dusty room, the hammer-struck face
of a wall clock is a parody of my age
for it is younger than the hands that hung it there.
What great teaching unpacks this emptiness,
is it ancient, or as young
as the sleepless pad of my feet?
Perhaps as in dandelion seeds,
that act of their dispersal
has planted yet more muted revelations.
The dry rustle of mothwings --- a whispering
of some yet other enormity
one emerging now
within a threadbare soul's
deep-set pockets.
Say hello to June, come greet each floral scent that fills your hearts and noses
it is time to put away your winter garbs & lose yourselves in leaves and roses
June, a month of gentle starts as the days get longer filled with golden light
we oft renew our garden vows, planting seeds of joy wherever we go
"Oh! Flowery Month of June, sing to us a song of hope & gentle care,
as you lead us through the garden path of life with truth and dare...
With each rising bran new day comes the promise of a new tomorrow
help us embrace the moments that come to us without deep sorrow
Goodbye May Hello June, like those lovely strawberries I see grow in June,
I am longing for serene enchanting nights, beneath your strawberry moon.
Masqueraders
The YTC & Praise
Disguised in their ways
They came gnawing
At the peace of my heart
Leaving nothing
But a charade of turmoil...
Imposters to my mind
Masked in garbs of shame
My scars reopened
Howling in pain
The guiltless look of a murderer...
Concealed emotions
I yearn to reveal
The ugliness of their rubble
Every bit of their words
Disgusts my spirit...
They tinned the chance
Of another
Locked away the road
To my heart
For another
For peace I now love
For peace I now live...
"Every age yearns for a more beautiful world. The deeper the desperation and the depression about the confusing present, the more intense that yearning."
- Johan Huizinga
Within these white walls of wellness and weakness
lie labyrinths of life changing lies
Needless needles nip like nuisance nettles
Scary scans scrupulously scrutinize
Doctors dressed in drab garbs declare dreadful news
making moody me feel all the more miserable
Circumstances circle with cyst-like certainty
Persistent problems promote psychological pandemonium
Yearnings of yesterday yell and yammer for youthfulness
Lost in listlessness, I lament in laboured longing
Winters Sun.
Crystal shapes on the windowpane, glistening in the morning sun. Fields all ploughed now show the signs of Jacks skates from the night, birds all flown just the winter animals left to roam.
Summer garbs now replaced thick woolly jumpers hats and scarves are now all the craze. Children moan at the long cold nights, while others enjoy cups of hot chocolate tea, ensconced in warm and happy homes, while outside the snow lightly falls.
St Nick his turn soon to come, readies his list and the reindeer team, till that day fingers and toes both young and old, feel the cold from doing chores in winters sun.
By
Patrick D
trees in grey-green garbs
cuddle creepers and climbers ---
constant coitus
beside painted sky
doves parrot sparrows and hawks ---
conduct chirp concerts
trickles of torrents
the babble of breeze in booze ---
flowers in frenzy
rainbow spread meadows
floral funnels and tunnels ---
sapphire stones and rocks
cosmos is on a mission
of harmony ignition
11 May 2023
Haiku Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joanna Daniel
Syllables Checked At: www.howmanysyllables.com
Yellowish leaves like gold flake necklaces fall;
Sunshine gleam like golden snakes on them crawl...!
The sky seems blue dominated rainbow,
Clouds, in gaudy garbs, play a fashion show...!
Each fading bloom bids bye to the other,
Mourning weather environs does smother...!
The fragrance of flora fills the smell buds,
The scent of healing herbs in the breeze floods...!
Sneezing of cool water streams gently splash,
Fins of anglerfish like rain lightning flash...!
Ripe figs, plums, and passion fruits shake their heads,
Nodding winter though they feel many threats...!
Weddings of blooms, leaves, and fruits mesmerize,
Though these seem strange for starving butterflies...!
Sun, moon, and stars stand still needing graces,
The universe and cosmos show faces...!
Midst brightness and darkness autumn moves on,
Forerunning Christ's coming like Baptist John...!
Splendors of autumn within I treasure,
Though some I have spelled, they're beyond measure...!
16 December 2022
Still-Life Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Designed sapphires - I would fondly call them,
In red, yellow and variety green;
In shapes round, oval, heart-like diadem,
With white-red blood-vessels, tenderly seen;
Like rings and ear-rings of a charming queen,
Midst floors of forests blazing with sun-rays,
Like ballet dancers, in bright garbs you glaze;
Marveling at your mellow model-mode,
Not blinking their eyes wild birds and beasts gaze;
Breeze into magic melodies explode...!
30 October 2022
Dizain Poetry Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
Theme: Nature
Content Title: Aspen Leaves
Syllables Counted at: howmanysyllables.com
Rhymes checked at: rhymezone.com
The mind is the devil, not the heart,
when in doctor’s garbs, can’t tell apart,
an engaging smile, then the death blow,
some died real quick, some very slow.
the touch was soft, voice saintly gentle,
poured potion with love to dismantle,
they drank never to wake up again,
did they die in peace? was it in pain?
went from home to home to rob the old,
his eyes shone kindness, his heart was cold,
He held their hands to win their deep trust,
offered not cure, but eternal dust!
His heart would have writhed within in strain,
his conscience looked at him with disdain,
yet mind was blinded by pure evil,
curing hands were now tools of devil!
No one immune to Satan’s designs,
between good and cruel no clear lines,
face no longer is index of mind,
learn to peep farther, deeper behind!
3rd Placement
Written 31/08/2022
9 syllables each line, 5 quatrains
Joe Maverick Sponsored
Harold Shipman contest
At this lonely hillside road
I feel the aroma of nature
from the shading trees at the roadside.
No stench, no garbage dump here
the aroma I felt long ago
today i inhaled deep into my heart.
That old banyan tree by the rill
wearing a ceremonial cotton cloth
for the old Deity residing on it.
I wish a moment
if the nymphs carry me away,
to their old realm creepy.
These quaint beings if wearing
customary garbs,speaking old languages
which from amongst us vanishing.
Here at this peaceful hillside
a moment I felt
the aroma of the past.
Today I really feel it; I feel it in the air,
and even though I still can feel sun’s glow,
the breeze is blowing cooler through my hair.
Mr. Sun, your throne seems to be getting low
up there in September’s blue so fair.
Oh, Autumn, you are here now. You are here!
Since the Equinox I’ve truly known.
Nature calls for you; I need no seer,
no fanfare or announcement. I’ve simply grown
accustomed to knowing when you are near!
October’s on the doorstep. I feel that too.
Geese in V’s will cross God’s heaven on the way
to warmer climes. A most wondrous view
will greet me when the mountains I’ve seen every day
flaunt garbs of brilliant hues! But why do I feel blue?
It never fails, this melancholy comes to me in fall
regardless of the beauty that I see.
Like my life, oh Autumn, you come not at a crawl,
but quickening your pace, you come each year to me.
Just one time, Autumn, let the winter wait . . . please stall.
Oct. 2, 2021 for Emile Pinet's
the 'Quintain (Sicilian)' Poetry Contest
For Your Favorite Poem Of 2021 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Black girls mollycoddle,
dandle cranky babies;
some cradled on arm and hip,
some hustled along
on low-riding wheels.
Brown men lounge outside bodega’s,
some soft-soap, play imaginary guitars,
some flash smiles at the slackening sun,
dare it to glitz elsewhere.
White girls sit on the steep stoops
bare knees out and breezing,
smoke with dreamy eyes,
pass comments that time-bomb tick.
From high wires
pigeons rubberneck like parakeets.
Thin city winds dodge washing lines.
Blouses and dresses
grip their hamstrung trapezes.
Black backyard mechanics
lean over engine blocks,
imagine curvy garbs air-dancing,
blown outward from street grates
slow billowed from vents.
The brownstones take a knee,
sweat breaks over rooftops.
A scurry of hands snatch
rumbling city transports
that beep ways to late shifts.
Those that ply less punched-out trades
slip into hankering gaps,
alleys, half-way loitering’s
that flicker into sight
juiced by the scatter and clatter
of pigeon wings.
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