Long Sighing Poems
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In this wondrous world, we are bound
to the silent realms of our poetic soul
Where white doves flutter and sighing words whisper
as dreams are dreamt with a heart's fervor
of unyielding desire which brightly burns
through the words of poetry
that capture the world's glorious glimmers
which slowly drip upon the page as poems
seeking a night's landscape
of wandering wishes beneath glittering stars
from a memory in fanciful flight
on the wings of perfection
where a sonnet shimmers in stardust bestrewn
as the moon serenaded fades into song
forgetting to rise and light dusky skies
lost in the magic of this intimate dark
as lips of a poet tingle the skin of a lyric
and brush with a breath thoughts soft as a flute
fantasy flies like fireflies from a jar
to drift to the depths of velvet horizons
reveries no longer long to be free
as the muse charms a pulse from the page
It's there in my heart's timeless space
I hear the poems of your soul
3/16/21
Thank You...Dear Friend, Dear Poet
Snowing
The wind around was blowing
Long after the shining sun would
Melt these days away
Again
The second round would begin
Pressure from the months before would
Bear heavily on me
Going
Little streams are flowing
Endless piles of snow vanished
In the blink of an eye
Quiet
Gone are all the riots
Gone is all the endless noise
From the crowd I used to know
Ending
The summer heat was rending
The endless gray clouds from the sky
To shine some light on me
Shining
No more silver linings
All that once was ensured
Is no longer that way
Sighing
Everyone is crying
Nothing's as it once was
And that terrifies us all
Alone
Look at how we've all grown
As snowflakes cast from our cloud
Into this volcano underneath
As the morning breeze springing sprightful fragrance
Stolen cleverly when he kissed the soft colourful petals
I woke up into a new fresh delightful daylight
To taste once more my honeyed life and my blossoming day.
From my flat laying lazily at level six
I was contented to watch the sunrise
He rose with all his fervor and might
And I wished him a happy day out.
The sighing wind called me to look down the streets
Where I saw people in masks treading hastily
Like ants rushing here and there in hurry
Never they wish nor smile to any other faces.
Stand alone in bunches they waited for their turn
In buses or cars which ever halted to pick
Like strange samurai soldiers flying to a war zone
Never they wish nor smile to any other faces.
Fearful glances and rushing little steps
Even the whisking dresses frightfully heard as sneezes
My heart cried and burned seeing those pity stances
Oh, dear little creatures, stop your playful bounces.
The mighty human race moving towards a comess
When like weird aliens, Covid trying to invade
But tomorrow we will rise from our burning ashes
To tame you and make you a story for our coming cradles.
Third Place in N-A re-run 7 Poetry Contest sponsored by John Hamilton
The beauty I've found, forever breathless
with her sensual eyes drenched in twilight
she wears beauty as a glowing necklace
persuades my heart with glorious delight
I'm captured by love, from her lover's eyes
beneath the moon-lit sky where we now dance
in this lovers realm that's filled with surprise
with the music of our blooming romance
we'll claim moments as the treasure we've found
deep within hearts of vigorous desire
filled with the soft blooms of passion, spellbound
sighing lovers in a beautiful choir
in her warm form, I'm held breathless this night
from her sensual eyes drenched in twilight
1/28/23
contest writing challenge-B
sponsor Constance La France
word... Breathless
With downpour hued in starlit gray,
And fallen eyes are interlocked
In drizzles where the torrent bites
Till candles wane on fabric soiled
(As evening slips its frail chemise).
Her boudoir cluttered by the wind,
Sighing a pitter-patter scream
(Old woman dwells on passing sprees)
And on a chair, her drooped spine curves,
(To track hazed lifetime’s reveries);
Receding off so constantly.
Heels tip tap rhythm on the floor;
Alone, betrothed to lonely sheets
(Entrusting stars for pain’s release).
How cold the gush in Summer's flight.
......................
For Craig Cornish’s Intermingle Contest
---------------------
Inspired by poems” How Cold The Gush"-- 5/25/2013
and “ Seeking Evening's Peace-- 11/17/2013
............
by nette onclaud
On the day He died, I felt such shame, quiet with remorse—too broken to name. Why did I follow the crowd of worldly men, mocking, scorning, spitting on Him?
I was the reason He suffered that pain, I searched for comfort, but guilt would remain. I couldn’t eat, nor close my eyes to sleep, knowing He was gone—my sorrow ran deep.
When I had no one, He cared for me, But I was too hardened, too blind to see. When others ridiculed, He never took part, every kind act came straight from His heart.
He loved both the rich and the poor, He restored the broken, healed the sore. How could I have been so prideful, so blind? So cruel in spirit, so careless, unkind?
Sadness and guilt clung tight to my soul, Wishing I’d taken that cup, paid that toll. Why did I point and shout, “Crucify!” Condemning the Lamb—the Most High—to die?
Oh, my Judas heart, what have I done? I betrayed the Christ, God’s only Son. Ashamed of what I witnessed that day, I wept and wilted—my heart gave way.
Through darkened hours, the sorrow grew, until I knew what I must do. No longer did I wish to live, My broken life, I longed to give.
Head bowed low, soul torn apart— I knew what I did in my sinful heart! Sighing, I lifted up my tear-streaked face- a luminous figure stood in that place.
Could it be Him? A dream, a sign? I longed to talk with him and cry! I knelt with falling tears, too ashamed to speak, But He looked with mercy—I felt my knees go weak.
He showed me His hands—nail-pierced, divine. How He still loved me, I couldn’t define. I couldn’t face what I had done... But He held me close—I was forgiven by the Son.
He said He loved me, and all men still. That He obeyed His Father’s will; That all might live—redeemed, restored— Through mercy poured and grace outpoured.
Not sentenced to Hell but, forgiven. To be with Jesus, always and forever in the Kingdom of Heaven.
I hear the captain’s shouted battle cries
on the bellow and stalked battlefield
But nether faith or death I'll yield
While for the dead I sympathize.
I hear faint echoes, their mournful sorrow
Swathed in honor my life’s dreadful dire
Death’s fix’d calm, amid the enemy’s fire
Passions rage, death dawns on the morrow
I hear the wild rushing winds of war ascending
Upward, consuming vapors; death's servile breath
The enemy’s bullets raged in irrepressible death!
And of this mortal tempest storm Marines are dying.
I hear the shattered voice of my father grieving
Which this war has wrecked and trampled on
Then went he, to look upon the brightness of his son
But the ruthless sting of death his grief un-denying.
I hear the pleas of mothers of valor.
Their sons and daughters looked upon the violence
As blasts of lightning strikes now they lay prone in silence
I hear their sighing moans ploughed deep in furrowed armor
I hear the anthem play, as widows stands with honor
While men bend to the tempest hollowed wind
And of the Star and Stripes that “stands” for all mankind
Spend not yourselves in prideful defiance and dishonor
I hear the wind “over the towering steep
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
On shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep.
I.
What rare delight it is, when spring and youth,
pregnant with life, explode all o'er again!
When sex organs mature, and know lust's truth,
lewd sensations soon tempt the once-chaste brain.
Youth, like the juice of love, flows with desire;
and then demands its portion of swollen flesh
as yet pubescent flowers bloom with fire,
while passion's ready, willing, and still fresh;
O Love! O Soul!—How nature can inspire,
something as glorious as when two join and mesh!
II.
Together as three, we in ménage à trois
meet; and unite like Cupid's lock and key,
moaning and sighing in love's lustful patois,
expressing our cores' triad ecstasy.
Together, as a youth and his two maids,
we come; our bodies, moving like the ocean,
ebb and flow, rise and fall: it never fades,
as maidenheads (now laid fresh in this motion)
ooze love's warm fluid in copious spades,
moist, milky-white, and sticky like thick lotion.
III.
O Muse! None can inspire my rhyming pen
like you. By Hippocrene's spring you quench my thirst,
that I might have breath unlike other men;
and may offer you thanksgiving while I'm versed!
Therefore, I greedily drain your soft breasts
for the sweet, fresh milk of new inspiration.
For your breast-milk is easy to digest,
as truly blest am I by your lactation.
So here my rhyme's revival's now expressed,
as I'm now free from creative cessation.
Let the day perish on which I was born,
and the night that said,
‘A man is conceived.’
Let that day be darkness!
May God above not seek it,
nor light shine upon it.
Let gloom and deep darkness claim it.
Let clouds dwell upon it;
let the blackness of the day terrify it.
That night—let thick darkness seize it!
Let it not rejoice among the days of the year;
let it not come into the number of the months.
Behold, let that night be barren;
let no joyful cry enter it.
Let those curse it who curse the day,
who are ready to rouse up Leviathan.
Let the stars of its dawn be dark;
let it hope for light, but have none,
nor see the eyelids of the morning,
because it did not shut the doors of my mother's womb,
nor hide trouble from my eyes.
“Why did I not die at birth,
come out from the womb and expire?
Why did the knees receive me?
Or why the breasts, that I should nurse?
For then I would have lain down and been quiet;
I would have slept; then I would have been at rest,
with kings and counselors of the earth
who rebuilt ruins for themselves,
or with princes who had gold,
who filled their houses with silver.
Or why was I not as a hidden stillborn child,
as infants who never see the light?
There the wicked cease from troubling,
and there the weary are at rest.
There the prisoners are at ease together;
they hear not the voice of the taskmaster.
The small and the great are there,
and the slave is free from his master.
“Why is light given to him who is in misery,
and life to the bitter in soul,
who long for death, but it comes not,
and dig for it more than for hidden treasures,
who rejoice exceedingly
and are glad when they find the grave?
Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden,
whom God has hedged in?
For my sighing comes instead of[a] my bread,
and my groanings are poured out like water.
For the thing that I fear comes upon me,
and what I dread befalls me.
I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;
I have no rest, but trouble comes.”
Here am I as a black sheep sighing anxiously
Murmuring against unfairness angrily
Questioning my situation regretfully…
Lord, I confess* my sins earnestly;
Please lift my heart to Your presence tenderly.
Here am I, with black sheep's grief, struggling against frustration
Succumbing to iniquities’ oppression
Leaning toward welcoming desperation…
Lord, I plead for Your reaching-out restoration;
Please revive my spirit midst Your mighty sanctification.
Psalm 32:5 I acknowledged my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the LORD; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.
June 28, 2019