Long Flowered Poems
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Isn't it strange that many years ago,
A little girl wore a yellow poncho,
And twirled around in her garden like a golden butterfly,
A little boy watched her, and didn't forget the rest of his life!
Years and years passed by!
The garden lost its lustre!
The golden Marigold and the white Chrysanthemums flowered,
The red Roses and the hazel-coloured Jinias blossomed,
But the swing was vacant,
No one heard the laughter, the chatter,
And the birds didn't chirp there any more!
The Yellow Poncho was worn out, and faded away,
And didn't look gorgeous any more to her,
Something to get rid of,
And finally that's what happened!
The poncho got replaced by a stylish attire!
The memory did not fade away for someone else,
Who thought, it was an enchanting angel
Who he found,
The angel didn't have wings to fly, but
Had a Yellow cloak!
For 'ALL YOURS (Feb 24)' Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Petites and Faeries, it is said, live just beyond that hill
Their Moondust dazzles breathlessly, on nights so calm and still
Some town folk treasure innocence and so they understand
That humble souls are they who settled just beyond their land
Not much is known of Faerie land, save for it’s golden glow
Surrounded by the ever bloom of flowered Thistle-toe
A bit of mischief often finds its way into the town
When certain unexplained events cause some to bear a frown
The Faeries’ pranks are just a bit of fun to catch a smile
And often there’s a bag of gold left just to reconcile
Their gifts should not be squandered or dismissed without esteem
For wondrous things can happen for our sharing to redeem
Petites and Faeries, man and creatures all to grace the times
A magic poem filled of peace with every line that rhymes
If Moondust could embrace the hearts of all who live nearby
Perhaps, some would not run in fear when Faeries, they see fly
But hope lives on for anyone who sees the world with love
Despite the differences of some who hold the world above
To end this tale on happy notes and songs to gather dance
Let’s say, that it’s all up to us and not just up to chance
I was around fourteen when the charms of girls began to beckon,
And I was about fifteen when I had my first date, I would reckon.
'Way back then there were certain rituals that must be observed,
Some of which left me quite baffled and somewhat unnerved!
The evening must be perfect so I wore a suit and tie.
Shoes were shined and greasy Vitalis to my hair I'd apply!
Peach fuzz was plucked and I fairly reeked of Old Spice.
The car was washed and waxed to further her entice!
This too was her first date and things must be just right.
She'd had a snit with her Ma thinking her hair was a fright!
But she looked divine in her hat, gloves and flowered frock!
Her Pa's parting shot, "You git her home by ten o'clock!"
When I called for her I daren't sit and toot the horn.
That would've heaped upon my brow her folks' eternal scorn!
So, I meekly sidled up and timidly tapped upon the door.
Met by her scowling Pa who said, "Who's this skinny boor?"
My grandkids tell me there's no such formalities nowadays,
And wearing jeans and mutilating body rings is all the craze.
I'm told a great date is to hang out with friends at the local mall.
I guess I was born too soon! I just don't understand that at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Frank H "First Date" Contest
Home
Rajorshi Patranabis
Carefully beautified
A home
A mad desire
For a happy living
Locked securely,
One and two
And every nook and corner
Decorated with care
Dreams slumber
Hither thither
Lonely in recline
Thoughts cross
Sandcastles of dreams
Have devoured so much time
So much of love and care eloped!
Life smiles impish
Teeth rocks on itself
Nimbles of walking ahead,
This side and that
Will love sided on the wall
With flowered enamor
Sit on the living room?
Tracing the mirage of happiness
Deserts of sandy life
Searches of sand castles
Life ends
Feel every moment
If life would've been like home
Decorate with love
With care and happiness!
“The purpose of poetry,”
wrote the man with a brazen manner,
“reveals truth with steady hand
to heighten our sense of life.”
His flowered mode of expression,
making a poignant impression,
calls for expanded understanding,
to heighten a sense of life.
His seeds of change fell on dry clay,
were trampled by shiny shoes,
swept by establishment's constant breeze
into the river of yesterday.
I wondered how one who knew despair,
whose closest friends were sorrow and strife,
who wore a brightly painted mask,
could heighten my sense of life?
And yet, he spoke convincingly—
demanding fresh enlightenment,
impelling me, compelling me,
to heighten my sense of life.
And then, a doubt crept through my door.
It challenged with a boldness,
beseeching, begging, pleading for
a pledge to hold the status quo.
But I will heed the poet’s call,
will plant his field of grain,
with no concern for pain or price,
then thrash his kernels on my floor,
and heighten my sense of life.
I am One Woman
by Lori Maria Walton
Dedicated to women who have suffered abuse around the globe who need hope after the tragedies in everyday life, the disappointments we encounter along the way, and the beauty that remains inside, but we so often fail to see.
Left alone to die in a cell that is limited to your command
Why do women leave their only self
To join as a slave to the one who laughs at their weakness
Deems them unworthy through all tasks
In spite of all the hard work
I stand here amazed at my own naivety
Chasing a dream of what I’m supposed to be
Leaving the love and freedom of who I really am
To begin a life with someone who cares less
Than I ever could
A baby is what I was hoping for
A baby has evaded me
Leaving me only with your spirit of criticism
Whispering to me that somehow, I am really not ok
Even for a moment
Doubt beyond doubt
Piles up to the ceiling
Along with all the initials that stand behind my name
Mocking me that I could only enjoy a false sense
Of victory over anything
Everything I have failed
Nothing have I succeeded in or feel as though I have
Made a mark beyond a small tainted coloring
On the glimpse of life that meets my eyes
In every dawn
Shall I continue this nonsensical dance
Waiting for someone to acknowledge my ability
To provide something valuable to my family, society, and self?
Or shall I retreat into the secrecy of the spirit
That haunts my being
I am one woman
One spirit that wakes every morning
A brief moment do I savor the morning prayer
The burgeoning flowered tree bowing to me and opening its door
To come in and dine
I cannot open my soul again
I cannot be all that I want to be for you as I was
I can only sit beneath this old maple and dream of days
When I fully saw light, hope, and love within each soul
And lifted myself to new heights through a window
That never existed.
Form:
Away bleak weather! It’s your time to flee.
Sun shines down and gifts me with his glow.
Pellucid are the streams from melting snow.
Robin’s come. I see her in my tree!
Ice and Sleet, it’s good to see you go!
Now the earth is ready to regrow.
Gladness sweetly takes a hold of me.
I take a stroll outside. It’s such a treat.
No longer do I trudge with dreary feet.
My gait is lively as I amble where
Yellow-flowered fields perfume the air.
Spring, is here! I feel my spirit sing
Thankfulness to God for everything.
Effervescently I greet each day.
Perpetually may this springtime stay!
March 20, 2016
A 2-Time N/A for Chantelle Anne Cooke's
Final Call Of Nas Your Most Meaningful One Poetry Contest
Tiny Tears dolls and tea sets remind me of my childhood.
My twin always wanted to play with them, for her own good.
Not a girly girl, I was resentful and wanted to be Peter Pan.
Not the Mary Martin Peter, but the boy peter, I was a big fan.
I see those Tiny Tears dolls in antique stores and I want to barf.
My twin wanted to dress up in dresses, sunglasses and a scarf.
I wanted to stand on porch railings as my swashbuckler self.
My stupid Tiny Tears doll sat alone, on a high up unused shelf.
Tiny Tea sets also set me off, putting me in a rather angry mood.
They held not even a whole drop of liquid, and barely any food.
Tiny Tears dolls and tea sets. They are probably still up on the shelf.
I was busy out in the woods, playing Robin Hood, or Bandit Elf.
My childhood was amazing, in that I had an identical twin.
We barely did anything together, for she was girly, and I was not.
We can hardly decide on a matching shirt these days.
I do not care, and she cares so much, she gets overwrought.
So what did I snatch up upon my mother's death?
That silly Tiny Tears doll and the blue flowered tea set.
For even when I protest, and I do not even know why.
They hold memories that I simply cannot give up or forget.
What is her name? We asked those who lived on floor blue.
Her name is Moo, and she is always wearing a flowered mumu.
No someone argued; that cow’s name is Frank footer Sue.
Why would that be? We wondered. Does it seem weird to you?
Why would a cow be named Frank footer, Mr. Magoo?
Magoo looked rather sheepish, it is best what he’ll do.
Seriously I queried. Is her name Sue, Lou or Magnificent Moo?
Here she comes now he said. And she smells quite like pooh.
I think she smells lovely I told him, down to her shoe.
He guffawed and laughed, he is evil, this mean Mr. Magoo.
Her name is Moo as surely as I live on this wing in blue.
For sure she was wearing a flowered mumu.
I am Bittersweet – for contest
There is, no pun intended,
a bitter sweetness to my nature.
The sweetness of the truth
dangling in my amethyst grasp,
the lingering aroma of loyalty
adrift in the flight paths of the bees.
The bitterness of shadows cast
upon the honor I so cherish,
cold dew, devoid of sunshine,
weighing on my flowered limbs.
The truth be told of loyalty
lone satisfaction seeking dusk
to rest against the failing light
experiences bitter, sweet.
Bittersweet – loyalty, truth
5/3/2015
submitted to Picture Yourself as a Flower – poetry contest
sponsor – Andrea Dietrich