Long Sashays Poems
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The cat has your bone structure,
it also sashays and allures.
In an alcohol-fueled reverie
it turned up
as thin as a velvet spider.
However, it died
before our love did.
Pets are obtrusive, not conducive
to good or bad memories,
they play the field
demanding to be relevant
long after their passing.
Your cat considers me a villain,
it lingers on as some kind of
a stalking succubus,
the very model of your character
reminding me (as if necessary),
of your everlasting disapproval.
I overhear that damn cat,
positively purring when I am feeling sad,
and on a good day
its sexually vexatious yowling
warns me
never to take
a good cat for granted.
Time
doesn't fly; it sashays right on by.
More magician than albatross.
Playing shell games with dreams.
An endless cosmic comedy
starring the damned and the lost.
I've degrees in procrastination
earned a P.H.D in missed opportunity.
Raised kittens to become lions-unlike me.
Steering them clear of black holes and ravines.
Around those that promise gemstone and flower.
But only give slag, weed, and sorrow
I thank my gilded father who gifted bushels of love.
And the thorny step for every black period of snappy discipline.
I thank the bouncer who stitched my runaway lips.
The silver cop who shoehorned me onto a straight and narrow ship...
without blowing me up or in.
Now I pause to thank God, the farmer.
Who watered and fed us during drought.
I thank the false prophets and haters.
Who never bothered to turn our satin hearts to rust.
(Sometimes there's nothing more important
than a spray of indifference and a burst of great luck.
...as the end draws closer,
I lay down regret and failures in full light.
In the form of a pyramid.
At the base lies a tangle of selfish snakes.
In the middle is abused and misplaced time.
At the top, a magician juggling sprinting dreams.
That I was never fleet nor clever enough to overtake.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2026
The vigil of mirth and praise
Hopeful and prayerful arms raise
Alms to the creator of our days
New gratitude for his generous outlays
Kindness and mercy he endlessly displays
Scepter with which he guards our pathways
Goodness and grace to usward relays
Inspiration and devotion that our soul sways
Votive offerings heavanward sashays
In humble adoration our heart assays
Never-ending virtue our benefactor portrays
Guiding beacon that each aspiration doth appraise
Deciphering then correcting our misguided forays
And every weakness and frailty butresses with underlays
Year's sins, he pardons and the immediate penalty waylays
Under a dangling theatre of brilliant, gilded leaves
October wraps herself in crisp, burnt orange splendor
then boldly sashays across a flickering pumpkin stage
leaving an aroma of exotic spices in her wake.
October sings a moody song, darkening brooding skies
her charcoal hair, parted by lightning, accents amber eyes
her aura wafts exotic, lingering through autumn season
she entices her admirers to follow her spellbound ways.
Mysterious October comes, quite often uninvited
she settles round a random hearth, telling haunting tales
while wandering ravens perch, scratching at peeling sills
October spins her dark enchantments, then suddenly flies away.
9/26/2021
I walk along the shore, bare feet in sand.
The seabirds wheel and cry above the sea.
The wind hums secrets shaped by ocean’s hand,
As surf calls out, wild-voiced and full of glee.
The sun casts arcs of color through the spray.
Shells open wide, and sing the songs I adore.
As swells roll in, where dolphins leap and play.
And salt clings fast to things we can’t ignore.
The breaking waves still rumble towards the sky.
They toss white veils above the rising swell.
And flotsam clings where tides no longer ply.
Where silence fell, and joy once used to dwell.
And when the summer sets and dusk has come,
We’ll sing sea shanties, lauding light and sun.
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Morning shave
Coffee please
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves hearts racing
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Praying prophecies
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
Music/ Paolo Conte, "Sparring Partner"
https://youtu.be/tzjdY5rmpCA
Personal preference enters into every poetry contest
Outstandingly subjective
Enticing to one is repulsive to two others
Tricky to judge poems unless there are blatant errors
Ridiculous with a capital R to compare a poem against another
You can try though. Snicker. Snicker.
Comparing one poem to another is like comparing a flea to mirror.
Awesome to you is too dull for me to finish reading.
Notoriously wonderful to me is something you do not like a whit.
Normal people do not even read poetry, and yet, here we are….
Often contests shut down new poets who do not realize the numbers game.
Takes guts to put feelings to paper, and you may have to enter ten to win one.
Beautiful poetry to me is a waste of ink to you.
Enthusiasm captures my eyes, but only when written in my preferred styles.
Creativity sashays in a variety of ballets and watusi.
Outstandingly subjective. I cannot stress this enough!
Metaphoric writes intrigue me, yet I do not do them myself.
Poetry is pronouncedly purposefully a preferred personal preference.
A win means the judge liked it at this second at this minute of her day.
Reality is that you, as a poet, have to write like a painter has to paint.
Especially remember when reviewing and critiquing your own poetry,
Despite everyone else’s opinion, do you like it yourself? That is the key.
Spring waltzes in with rosebud cheeks and swaying with a breeze.
She summons Sun and Rain to do her bidding; grace blossoms,
but she can’t compete with Summer’s sultriness; thus she takes her leave.
Summer spiritedly takes the stage as she tangos in with Sun.
As their passion scorches the ground on which they dance, storms may come,
cooling Summer off, but she leaves once Autumn sashays in.
Autumn is a playful sprite, brightening leaves for a while
and twirl-flirting with Wind as the days grow ever cooler.
Romantic at sundown, she slow-dances with shadows that lengthen.
Fall's sister, not as romantic, moves in a courtly way.
Winter enters Earth’s ballroom sometimes frigidly, yet can show grace
when she lets loose a white gown that glistens beneath Moon’s glow.
(Checked by Syllablecounter.net)
My black cat accompanies me
Home from the mailbox
As if to make sure that
The peach-colored pink moon
Won’t choose tonight
To take me
It peeks, head tilted
From behind the old church
Justly fearful of my familiar
Who sashays among the shadows
I want to say to him
You may be made of darkness,
My pet, but you do not belong
To the night, as I do
There is a brief interlude
In which God creates
The lights of the heavens again
Lest I forget
And I am back on my porch
The moon is higher now
Its blush gone
No longer shy, it lies cradled
In bare branches
Cat inside, I linger alone
And wonder
If I could ever belong to the light.
Our month of May unfolds soft pastel haze
to spread her joy ahead of summer days.
'Tween buds of April and June's full-bloomed phase
spring daffodils and tulips pave the ways
for lilac and forsythia bouquets.
Lush verdant leaves create a rich, dense maze
from warmth and rain through her 'communiques'
to wake lush growth and blossoms 'neath sun's rays.
Our month of May lifts up our hearts with praise;
her transformations of landscapes amaze.
A child of spring, her growing scene displays
'till summer's full maturity sashays.
Then lovely May will yield without delays,
as June slides in to bring full summer blaze.
May 24, 2018
~1st Place~
Contest: All Yours (May 9)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 05/08/2021
~5th Place~
Premiere Contest: Memories of May
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
Judged: 05/08/2019
Rules: Poem posted during the month of May 2018
Monorhymed Sonnet