Long Artfully Poems
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Eventide’s misty winds gently oscillate
Colorful clusters of crepe-myrtle flowers
Crowning atop rows of elegant tree-trunks
Blooms lavender, pink, red, and purple
Hanging in air from tips of twigs slender
Bowing to earth, donning green foliage
Arrayed in symmetrical flower-bouquets.
On a summer stroll, my hand you hold,
Gazing rhythms tilting back and forth
Swaying gracefully symphony of colors
As synchronized whispers merrily rustle
Echoing intentions of doting twilight sun
Beholden to season's gift of blossoms.
Gales now swirl, petite petals disperse,
Whirling confetti, drifting dances aerial,
Sprinkling fine motifs of tinted splendor
Twisting, turning, in eve’s amber passion
Flying all over, as we gaze, wooing love,
Where violet-sky above artfully evokes
Opaline glimpses of dreams ephemeral
Inscribed in spectrum on crimson horizon.
Written: March 13, 2021
Placed 6th: Submitted on October 14, 2022 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 17 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Poem of the day on March 15, 2021
Placed 1st: Flower or flowers in imagism form poetry contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Placed 1st: All yours (March 17) by Brian Strand
I was caught by a train yesterday
I hear people say
this often in exasperation
exaggerated tones
with over-dramatic groans
as if the train somehow
physically captured them
in its large mechanical grasp
diabolically refusing
to let them go
Yesterday
I was caught in a different way
imagination captured, you might say
captivated
charmed
and enchanted
by the passing art display
Something about the way
vibrant, vivid colors
unexpectedly
splashed out on moving canvas
of rust red and dull gray
traveling fast
across the city
feisty train talking smack
with tags and words amusing, witty
strange, disturbing, edgy, gritty
grinding down the tracks
Sometimes shocking-
artfully rendered obscenities
or surprisingly
endearing
cartoon creatures
manga characters
from overseas
expressed with impressive
expertise
and ingenuity
As other drivers sat nearby
fussing, fuming
missing the show
pawing their floorboards
like impatient horses
hands gripping wheels
ready to go-
I watched the trains in
constant childlike
wonder and delight
for those twenty minutes of my day
two trains gone by, one each way
...Then watched the other cars
rolling through
still red
flashing lights
as soon as crossing arms
were lifted halfway
rushing, roaring
trying to make up
the time that was “taken”
by the railway
Wreath wrapped around the door of my heart
Hearth's door both symbol and integral part
Part of the pageantry and beacon of my hospitality
Material canvas eroding with time; modest beacon bequeathing my liberality
Time capsule which transports festive memories to my merry mind
Festive timber melded and then artfully twined
Mirth and praise twined in harmonious refrain
Earthy refrain with delicate stitch and modest, pulpy strain
Modest harbinger of good will to all who it's crest ascend
Good will garnish that I with tidings of joy append
Garnish gratuitously crafted, residual hope to send
Hope that will past heartaches and trials rescind
Signpost serenading Christmas past, while celebrating the decorum of Christmas present
Shrouding wreath, with future Christmas dreams resonant
At first you see the flower fields
Of yellow, white or red,
Though soon machines will do their job
And clip each tulip’s head.
For that’s the way to save the bulbs
So they’ll be best for selling,
A fact that must make sense, I guess,
Since no one is rebelling.
But then you enter Keukenhof,*
A floral park so vast
It’s hard to comprehend how many
Tulips they’ve amassed.
The colors take your breath away –
You’re dazzled, awed, amazed;
And as you stroll, each vista’s better
Than where you’ve just gazed.
Varieties you’ve never seen
Are artfully arrayed,
With hyacinths and lilies
Intermittently displayed.
The tulips only bloom for weeks
So I was thrilled to visit
And get to view what Nature’s made
With palette so exquisite.
Such beauty’s there for all to see
But sadly, just a few
Will have the chance to make the trip
And get to tiptoe through.
*flower garden in Holland, known for their tulips
Covered bridge sheltering frothy lagoon
Woven tapestry gilding each silted dune
Garnished threads over polished diadem doth croon
Fabricated ensemble breaching pristine medley, emitting swaggering tune
A treasured grove; each branch artfully hewn
A regal polish smoothly layered on a well-crafted spoon
Scented laces nestling in furrowed moon
Binding corset ballasting each milky balloon
Red velvet gown swaddling paps so roon
Silver, monogrammed broach cresting over satin plume
Golden necklace the antechamber doth groom
Lilac perfume from each tendered Liily doth fume
Plowing through the quilted morass so carefully strewn
O'er snowy plain with sculpting touches tenderly prune
Nurturing each crevice; in your fecund valley swoon
Watching in rapturous chorus each mound bloom
With fertile lips I pollinate each riveted loom
From each rendered nipple a sweet nectar I exhume
many are lions as once was I,
but now I sit on the porch
and swing.
As I watch my lives go by.
would it be so bad to dream
and of dreaming be enclosed
in the circular motions
of others
I once wore a paisley shirt
and said goodbye,
watching an only ball
rolling down the gutter
disappearing
into the mouth of a sewer.
Those empty moments of every life
where the thought never occurs
Astonishment
is what they call it:
the unexpected experience
a dead zone.
the zero.
Our heroes
always appear in bright spots,
hence the halo.
I have not seen my blood for a time.
It is the red that always remains
who we are, where we are,
what we are not,
it allows the internal to emerge
the external to enter
more often than not
there is fear
but when fear comes
you must remember that it comes
it comes.
therefore, it was never really here
to begin with.
I have tasted wooden spoons
when the batter is gone,
my tongue brushing the fibers
of the wood, it feels good.
that curved kernel of popcorn,
a golden retina of shell,
married to the curve of enamel
Artfully bonding to an outside tooth
where the tongue cannot dislodge it.
I tasted metal lips pressed to mine
where water and life emerged.
the faucet was my friend.
I tasted places where tongues explore
and eagerness collapses,
touched the velvet back of caterpillars,
stroked pollen wings of things
more beautiful than I.
I have seen the beauty
of those things that mount the sky
I have slain and lain with things
and wondered why.
And I have thought.
This alone ought to be enough,
but we are always
and have always been
more than enough.
the chimneys teeter
held semi-erect like a
“mommy helped” gingerbread
decoration
balanced on a black canvas
artfully decorated by
Jonathan Livingston Picasso
wannabes
the miniature cityscape of a
rusted AC left to die among
more modern towers stand
nonchalant
the canvas frosting tops
a fine cakework of masonry
its valor and pride
long since diluted
betwixt pretenders –
more modern masons who
knew neither pride nor patience
yet the carefully splayed art
laid by proud callused hands still
to my eyes the same as it was
to the pointed finger of his bride
a nights rest well earned
as its relief blossoms
in the sun’s setting.
a gull peers below
as patrons never looking up
escape with proof
of their existence
Oh, those shiny brass handles, on all the doors.
The burnished gold picture frame of eternal you
so lovingly staring at me, handsome thee!
The sparkling face of of that lovely Greek watch,
which you lovingly purchased for me.
My humongous moonstone ring, shaped so like the
moon in the sky.
Only the one on my finger, so artfully etched with
eyes and a most welcoming smile.
That family owned, beloved prism-hued beach ball.
The one we take to the beach, and so fun, for all.
My etched glass dining room bowl, in scale, so utterly
divine.
It lovingly holds fresh California oranges from our
backyard, yes ours, just yours and mine!
January 30, 2020
9:30am PST
Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
Limericks by Michael R. Burch
1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle dirty),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.
2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!
3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when again I enquired with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?
4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!
5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!
Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch
I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.
Teeter Tots
by Michael R. Burch
For your spuds to become Tater Tots,
First, artfully cut out the knots,
Then dice them into tiny cubes,
Deep fry them, and serve them to rubes
(but not if they’re acting like snots).
Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, nonsense verse, humor, humorous, light verse, mating calls, prude, prudish, lonely, loneliness, longing, America
"Kalapana fishing village laid west of Mount Pu'u O'o. Our home was behind the church that sat on an abutment tip that rose slightly higher. The lava poured from the east side of our home, covering it, and rose sixty feet above it and took out the rest of Kalapana Village," ... by the Poet.
Oh great Mount Pu'u O'o, a new kingdom you artfully fuel
to new souls known as 'Mature Hill,' most have blue eyes
forever, my Hawaiian soul, my heart beats to another rule
but 'ere 'forever', once hailed a flat ridge reach our skies
'ere the days of a learned youth, from eyes left to right
commanding sides held lush greens and rocky spots until
my left eye saw a puff of white smoke 'twas my first sight
at home, in the fishing village of Kalapana, you an anthill
was your drip on Earth, altering steam of white and grey
no longer did it conceal your steady shape, I met, forever
and a day, as we both grew up, notable I, but you astray
'neath Earth's stratum being active till sprout together
where we manifested ourselves being wards of maturity
and I, naught wholly bitter nor sweet, yet, held my own
and nurtured only to watch my village grow to obscurity
and betold from solemn whispers 'neath a gravel groan
a past spoke, heed naught the naysayers, that say we
don't walk, talk, see, hear, laugh, cry, or just tell stories
of a past that doesn't walk, talk, see, hear, laugh, cry, be
enabled to tell stories, for they did so, righteous glories
for when they passed, we bid Aloha, buried in blessed
grounds, but nay, I say nay, forever and a day, I say nay
naught the village of Kalapana, after all, it's compressed
it's for the best for that thing, it's naught living, and say
with certain aloofness--it's naught breathing, it is dead.
Kalapana is a fishing village, where fish get caught--they
don't catch themselves, villagers walk, talk--the undead
imagine all of that, indeed I'm impressed, naught calm?
Was Kalapana fishing village ever blessed, I say naught.
Mature Hill you fuel a new type of breeders of dot.coms.