When the author of forever sang
his serenade,
‘twas longing in a virgin’s heart,
the strings he played.
So liltingly and stirringly
did words cascade,
they conjured scent of rose bouquets
in serenade.
Of everlasting love he crooned
in serenade.
Bliss never is inopportune.
His lure was laid.
As sweet refrains flowed through her veins,
the vow he made
was happiness without an end
in serenade.
Upon the troubadour who sang
the serenade,
she smiled, led him by the hand
to grassy glade.
And there beneath a blushing sky,
beguiled maid
succumbed with heady soul that rang
with serenade.
The author of forever, who
croons serenades,
woos the maids, then into the
horizon fades.
His lyrics penned are fiction; he’ll
be not delayed
from moving on, oh vagrant bard
of serenade.
Posted 5/30/2021
NA for Charlotte Puddifoot's Open Poetry 5 Poetry Contest
for Brian Strand's All Yours(Jun 8) Poetry Contest
she liltingly spun smiling and singing
"You are my sunshine" waving for us
to join in
the pan dripped dancing tears on
the hot black stove where they sizzled and died
"My only sunshine" with a quick hug
her apron splattered with a thickening marinara -
summer's proud yield
the kitchen...was there another room?
dried curled wall paper near the stovepipe
exposed the decor carriages and princes of
yesterday Mom's childhood
"You make me happy"
the old black spaniel curled in the middle
nothing moving but eyes wary of
being tripped upon yet worth the risk
and perhaps a dropped meatball reward
"When skies are gray"
Worn linoleum exposed paths of time
the oak threshold proof
of welcomes and farewells
not really noticed by we in
our comfort of "now" not
thinking about our sunshine
being gone
"You'll never know dear how much I love you"
with a smile...always remembered
From darkness to light?
Vigilante; the hero in a mask I use as my daily improv.
I, inanimate to my true self, the once high demon Retiarii
Liltingly I glide through the massive crowd unseen like Enlil.
Lulling all sense of alarm, dismissing all dismay, leaving nil ill.
A plea still beckons my devil inside to display hell in the arena;
I remain silent; though I know evil cannot be concealed by a mini alibi
None can see my true form; I will not have my holiness woven in vain.
--------------------
Acrostic poem
Villain can be found 4 times
First letter in each line
Last letter in each line
First line first letter
Second line second letter
Third line third letter
Fourth line fourth letter
Fifth line fifth letter
Sixth line sixth letter
Seventh line seventh letter
First line last letter
Second line second to last letter
Third line third to last letter
Fourth line fourth to last letter
Fifth line fifth to last letter
Sixth line sixth to last letter
Seventh line seventh to last letter
Listen! There’s a melody wafting sweetly,
Tempting blossoms liltingly. Watch enchantment!
Kokopelli’s bringing the beauty nearer.
Magical flautist!
For the Sapphic Stanza Number Three - Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Dear Rosebud:
The morning dew gently caresses you
like the faint whisper of a young child's kiss.
Your limbs yearningly reach for the sun
as if awaiting a long lost lover's embrace.
Only a pair of vacant eyes could fail to see
the wonderful symphony of color waiting to be.
If allowed to come into full bloom uninterrupted,
butterflies will dance liltingly across your awakening splendor
as honey bees sing praises to your blossoms burgeoning bounty.
I can only pray your thorns grow sharp and rugged enough
to defend against the groping hands of life's wickedness.
Only the desires of the most savage hearts would ravage
a still unfolding beauty and extinguish a spectacle yet to be.
Only a vile pair of ears could fail to hear a shattering heart
and the soul deafening screams of a rose picked too soon.
Love dad...
My life is like that of a commonplace horse
that stays where they’ve put her all day;
she lives very much like the others, of course,
accepting her fate, eating hay!
At times she is plowing ( for work is her lot);
at other times, giving a ride
to those who reward her with a smile. . . or not!
But seemingly, she’s satisfied.
For like many others, who graze in the field,
She’s needed and loved; she gets by.
Though life is not bad, to routine she must yield,
but her mind - which can’t rest - wants to fly!
You see, I’ve a soul not that of this mare.
I look through the fence and I see
pastures much greener, and far away there
are places much sweeter for me. . .
I see myself frolicking in quietude
where the world has a rainbow hue.
With fanciful musings my mind is imbued
and the roses I’m sniffing are blue!
I’m gentle, romantic, yet wild and carefree,
and my coat is a glistening white.
Liltingly, I move like poetry.
And my essence is pure delight.
Yes, over that fence, I so want to go -
where creative thought is born;
where lyrical words with euphony flow,
for I am a unicorn!
For Greg Barden's 'The Poet's Own' Poetry Contest
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