Long Genteel Poems
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My grandfather Hymie
spent his entire life at sea
his thick calloused hands
and ruddy complexion re
enforced non verbal body language
voluminous tomes as testimony
to countless years
(spilling into decades)
exposed to salty spittled
spumed raw elements que
sin art finest artisanal blended, crafted,
dredged by mother nature pre
pared within each trough and crest only
for thy fiercely weatherbeaten nee,
tough as rawhide, leathery,
chafed skin to me
not surprising, since
this mariner born, bred and near lee
schooled within
briny deep ever since knee
high (or so he claimed truth
to swirling rumor), jovialy
pleased that his purportedly
learnin' myth writ tik ne'r included
NEVER settn' foot in formal classroom,
his knowledge icy
anecdotes aced, surpassed,
and trounced that of what he
referred to as grenadier landlubbers
green behind the ears – glee
fully jabbing with his
unsheathed scabbard play flea
actually downplaying any exploits,
that didst educate him, prith ee
teaching him survival skills asper
getn' taut via eddy fied tests frequently de
siding a life or death outcome,
yet our Dickensian mutual friend
shared exploits while
he dressed not in tatters,
but self made clothes from cree
chores comfortable furs, and though
a striking appearance cut, ne'r
did this ole codger (fit as a fiddle
with tall slender build),
said middle aged man appeared quite be
coming. An aura, charisma, dogma
amazingly graced stalwart, gestalt,
deportment aie
found added an air of charming debonair,
esteeming flair, genteel heir
which tasked guessing years old,
aye presumed him to exit the uterine lair
at least a few score tours round oblate sphere
as aspect of youthfulness played across his eyes
one colored green like a spring day in the country,
the other jetblue sans burnin'
four pearl jam oyster cult year.
ah...them tha many decades past
since the merchant
from Neptune to mast
to nether world, though his parting seems
like it hapt last
year, noot nay twas scores o' full moons ago,
that grim reaper came swift and fast.
A wandering white dove of silk designs,
Ventures a valley flooring an Earth's hold,
Doting a passage of feathers enshrined,
Innocence darts a horizon coastline,
High or low exposes genteel or bold,
A wandering white dove of silk designs,
A coast or vale, a choice it must assign,
It pecks a decision, one to uphold,
Doting a passage of feathers enshrined,
Life constructs destiny's valuable signs,
Of a leveled purpose that is well told,
A wandering white dove of silk designs,
Stars will soon paint, a yellow sky resigns,
Fortuitous day for one that will hold,
Doting a passage of feathers enshrined,
Endows a rectitude that will outshine
Glows within the treasured mind full of gold,
A wandering white dove of silk designs,
Doting a passage of feathers enshrined.
Image of Spring Flowers Colorful Flower Bed provided by Pixabay
Beauty Briefs
Tulips escaping kisses
Yardbird noses ciphers scent
Poppies aim none are misses
Views gave letters of intent.
Orchids tropic heat enchants
Isle drums beat its ports of call
Crocus saying, springtime grants
Yet baseball scorecards beat all.
"Roses rooted in the earth
Bud in rhyme and verses sage
Lilies know a ghostly birth
Strewn across the patterned page".
Jasmine fragrant vines freely
Flacon oils sumptuous notes
Snowdrops charms frost ideally
Genteel sheet lay anecdotes.
Lilacs lost in translation
Bouquet secrets body talk
Shameplants melts by vibration
Signs clear a bonny shamrock.
2021 May 21
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Jun 7)
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 June 07
*2nd Place*
Choose Your Form 2
~~Joseph May: Judged 2021 June 04
Image of Old Love And Love provided by Pixabay
That's The Way Love Goes
Writer swept yon lea, loft a lane, ambled quest
efforts a muted affair bolted at wished stars
magic toils those ravenous eyes crave involved cars
trifles and trinkets mortals link to their life's vest
Amply equipped Cupid master of aims has drawn
as genteel cherubs gather about heart seekers
arrows tipped in numbing ecstasy paired squeakers
evokes the peers of Cleopatra and Don Juan
Effects the sense resisters to fathomless mirth
bathe in invigorating currents souls awash
noumenon presents a harmonious panache
outfits the united spirits, immortal worth
Yon measures reach, fantasies assumed its sources
behold while narratives reinvent ere closes
twilight falls in dawns arms of day's, then dusk poses
slack pen set, zephyrs o'er lea, lane tryst courses.
2021 May 26
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesed to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chafed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his triflling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unfolded it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
By moonlight I saw his face turn pale; his eyes were glazed
* November 3, 2017*
Eight Word Challenge-5
Hosted by John Hamilton
8 Words required were: Brittle Immutable Formidable
Tenuous Interlude Sketch Bereft Demurely
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesced to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chaffed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his trifling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unwrapped it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
In the moonlight his face turned pale; his eyes were glazed
AUDIO: 'Meoto Zanzai' sung by Sayuri Ishikawa.
Japan's Enka Music
Labyrinths tuned to where the Far East lies,
Spilled words occasion a symphonic breeze,
Unfurls white banners where sun paint red rise,
Labyrinths tuned to where the Far East lies,
Cherry blossoms canopies mesmerize,
Import harmony stretched from overseas,
Labyrinths tuned to where the Far East lies,
Spilled words occasion a symphonic breeze.
A stroll pauses, eyes soothe at rock garden,
Silk threads ornately weave life's tapestry,
Innate genteel graces, bows in pardon,
A stroll pauses, eyes soothe at rock garden,
Yon their themes stands banyan tree, roots harden,
Hear lyrics breathe verses to us with glee,
A stroll pauses, eyes soothe at rock garden,
Silk threads ornately weave life's tapestry.
2020 August 23
Not a single crumbling house will remain.
People on the pavements, hawkers, garbage,
Only then, a city painted on a scroll, ding-dong.
For the household fish to be cut,
a ash-boti is needed,
not a knife or a dagger.
This city, you see, was once,
in primordial times,
a forest, where deer and tigers
also lived. Keep thinking about it.
Catwalks on the ramp,
soft, gentle feet, within the dreams
of sitting beside the lotus pond,
rural Bengal is becoming far too genteel,
chairs, tables, curtains,
birthday cakes,
Bhadra-month Bhadu Puja, people
dancing and singing, swaying their waists
in courtyards,
a little rice, a little money.
I keep gazing at the pond,
the afternoon pond.
I am an old-fashioned man.
Sparrows and mynas, walking in tiny steps,
squirrels racing past,
the inarticulate map of nature.
I don't know why I am so frightened,
I don't know why I am so delighted,
I don't know, the birthing room, the constellations,
I am thinking about the price of everyday things,
thinking about an ordinary life,
thinking about an ordinary world.
Just now, I had a cup of tea,
a cigarette
Outside you just see the marquis,
it’s ancient lights all glittery,
amidst a city past it’s prime,
hallmark of a more genteel time.
This was a movie palace once,
now mostly stage, theatric fun,
larger than Broadway’s hallowed grounds,
though it’s the only stage around.
Old New York has dozens of plays,
here just one means a special day,
the touring shows, when they come here
will always make the locals cheer.
The women like the musicals,
and a date night that’s eventful,
the men don’t get it, but they come
for ‘rewards’ from girlfriends when done.
That’s why I’m sitting in this seat,
enrapt woman right next to me,
the singing makes me roll my eyes,
but more often than not I find
that even if the play does bore
the theater itself is much more:
Gold chandelier perched up above,
casts light on painted gods of love
who frolic on ceiling plaster,
with eyes of cut alabaster,
above the stage, an ancient scene,
fawns and satyrs, a Grecian dream,
and gilt patterns around the sides,
just beyond where the curtain slides,
marble pillasters flank the stage,
frame the pit where orchestras play,
fancy seats with curving armrests,
splendid cushions in velvet dressed,
there’s opera boxes up above,
but I just do not make enough.
In pressed white shirts and vests ornate
the ushers stand ready and wait,
a pipe organ warmed up the crowd,
harmonic tones of richest sound.
It seems something from days long gone,
shines light on where the world’s gone wrong,
No post-modern black box so stark,
No building thrown up without heart,
But something built up to proclaim
that beauty should never be tamed,
even if Broadway makes me groan,
this building is art cut from stone.
Of course, I don’t say this to her,
she wants theater, not architecture,
but it’s what I appreciate
when dragged out on just such a date.
Ataraxis
Of that, that lazed in the league composed,
faraway sights gifted reserve from activewear a euphuistic fence,
the settling dust of undisturbed light flickers an arrival.
Yon an ornate circular gate is a varied stone patterned garden,
and a sparsed generous scattering of diverse bonsai tree settings,
fronts a Sleeping Jade Buddha in misty Jasmine smokey vapors.
Beyond the Japanese Tea garden in its genteel wake,
rests a surreal koi filled pond and a Japanese lanterned pathway,
leads to enchanting bridged tea pavillions of seven in harmony.
A therapeutic spa in relaxed equanimity awaits guest,
to a soothing massage amidst aromatic candlelights and redolent sprayed oils from the Far East, as a koto plays, and a geisha nocturnes.
Pleasantries and sweet dispositions lay in its wake,
as a commensuration in the departure of an unfathomable regret,
sets the opening stages of a welcomed future dream.
2020 February 16
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT R,any form ,any theme
~~Brian Strand