Long Tweaking Poems
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That "first glance" is which I will never forget in my life.
It was the first meet whence those attracting
attaching amusing eyes locked mine.
Stealthily hypnotized and made me fall
captivated to his smiling striking swallowing eyes,
stole my heart generously and shielded me inside.
Gradually progressing & processing with
distinguished peachy romanticism:
sighting,nurturing,nourishing,
provisioning,kissing,hugging,
punching,tweaking,fighting,
patting with lightings...love endures enormously.
Our Undying divine love overflows boundlessly
demanding immeasurable unite.
12-5-2020
~DEEPA~
Second place in the Contest.
Note:*I will never forget..poetry contest*
Sponsored by Silent One
I met them once — in Silence —
They whispered — all at once —
A Choir — of Temptations —
With Souls — in Abundance —
Pride — wore a Crown of Nothing —
And I gazed — upon the Air —
I thought — he owned the Heaven —
That never noticed — there —
Envy — leaned on Lilies —
And counted — greener Blades —
His Eyes — were two small Thieves —
That robbed the Light — he made —
Wrath — was but a Furnace —
Fed — by his own Breath —
He thought — he burned the Others —
But only warmed — his Death —
Sloth — reclined in Petals —
And dreamed — he’d crossed the Mile —
But still — his Foot lay waiting —
Upon the starting — Style —
Greed — built a golden Prison —
And locked himself — inside —
The Key — was made of Hunger —
That would never be denied —
Gluttony — kissed the Chalice —
Till even Taste — grew numb —
His Feast — became his Coffin —
His Mouth — his Kingdom — come —
And Lust — in Scarlet Garden —
Unclothed — the Soul — of Skin —
he promised Love’s Forever —
But left — the Grave — within —
I left them — by the Twilight —
Their Shadows — in the Grain —
And whispered — “We are kindred —
In Virtue — and in Pain.” —
A venetian red yearling’s head
Pops up
From behind a fallen log
Licks rouge from its lips
And the syrup sipped from dark maple bark
Ears tweaking
To the snow-crunch creak
Of my dog and me approaching
From down the trail
Forest
Tamed by these trampled snow-winding paths
The deer doesn’t flinch
Up ahead
Top of the trash receptacle
Is aflutter with cardinals and sparrows
Though observed
The object has not coalesced to solid reality
Remains a quiver of particles
Withering with infinite probabilities
This should not be
Ah
I see
What it is
Slices of strawberry apple orange watermelon banana cherry
Have been perfectly aligned spaced and placed
By somebody
As juicy trails of treats for the starving
Collection of fruit on a countertop log
Tapped across a fencepost
Table-topped to a stump
Necklaced across a trailhead sign
Little delectable rainbows scattered by a hand
All over the park
Flamingos may come
Hearing these rumors
I imagine
The feminine work behind these succulent lifesavers
The work of a woman
A mother
An older lady
Who was determined that morning
Packing plastic baggies the night before
With morsels carefully counted out
To be fair
With a lovely variety of fruit
Pinched and selected from grocery store shelves
Sliced precisely by her parry knife
Sorry if that presumption is not acceptable
In this modern age
But we all know it’s true
And is beautiful
Call her a wayward witch
An angel
Messalina
Daughter of Cleopatra
Mistress to Van Gogh
Wife of Jesus
A goddess of which we’d be so much better
If she were
To rule over
The velvet corners of the Earth
From a garden throne
Men like me
Bowed to her knee
Like these animals and birds that she’s fed
Today
Beholden to the world of majik
Yes
We’d be so much better
If we were fed from the broken-braceleted hand
Of a woman
Who
From her kitchen window
And snake-led dreams at the flight of her feet
Is unafraid to say
I do not fear you
I will bring forgiveness to the creatures of winter
Startle the men who pass by
I will feed them all
The fruit of my Knowledge.
There's no set list of motivational things I can name
because my inspirational impetus is never the same.
Often, I'm encouraged to pick up my pen and write
by celestial bodies glimmering upon me in the night.
What moves me to choose canvas and brush to paint
can be induced by flower, a child, there's no restraint
when it comes to what triggers my mind as inspirations.
It can be reading works of a Master Poet's compilations.
There are no bounds that hold back my impulses to act.
I'm easily prone to create from song lyrics. That's a fact.
I'm prodded to cook after coming across a good recipe,
maybe tweaking it with a bit of this or that to satisfy me.
I'm an artist at heart, finding inspiration in everything...
sunrise, butterflies, my senses honed by birds that sing.
I'm stirred by many touchstones that spur my imagination.
Remaining open-minded is a great source of stimulation.
I've been inspired by compliments and even disrespect.
They serve as catalysts, like an inspirational architect
that lead me to find new provocation; a spark to ignite
the fire of creativity within me to rise up and take flight.
My Muse awoke me,
I had been listening to a thunderstorm
from my warm bedroom.
She wanted me to write about
the storm.
The morning came fine and fair,
she was still pressing me
to talk about the thunderstorm,
but I am done retouching
and tweaking
dusty old images
that cannot be verified
in this very moment.
The present is a fact checker
and a sunny sky don't lie.
If you must know
there are peaches in the orchard
Squirrels are nibbling away the windfalls.
My son is almost playing a tune
on his electric guitar,
the smell of bacon
is pulling me toward the kitchen.
I turn on the TV
but all the shows are reruns.
Why, why, why? Is all I ask
Do you send these folk my way
They're not the ones I'd choose myself
But I attract within hooray
You must have plans to work me Lord
Have I really gone astray
I try so hard to be polite
You send me those who groan
From trials of life
Crying painful body drones
But I face a war continually Lord
Spine crumbling pained bones
I questioned much over the years
Of those you sent my way
But each one has had effect on me
What will I have learned today
I want to tell of things you've done
And why I've learnt to pray
You sent me counseling to help
Through things wrong in my youth
Then church fellowship did help me through
When marriage went down sluice
A teacher friend taught me much
In assertiveness and truth
You sent me someone kind and true
When I'd thought life was gone
A friend of a friend a neighbors brother
Turned out to be the one
Who'd bring me home and settle again
Protect me and my two sons
You showed me work where I did learn
The skills to pull me through
In kitchens I did learn to cook
In schools help my children too
The staff within were pillars and rocks
In illness helped me do
You send others now to my house
Now I can't go out all alone
I used to sit and ponder sorry
I couldn't do things on my own
But now I have found new waters
I can swim and write a poem
I help others through my charity support
When I can get to phone
I can help in ways that others cant
And control load with able zone
I listen to those there struggling
Look at positives not moan
So I'm thankful for those folk you sent
Though I don't understand your process
But each time one has helped me to
Understand and cope it's noticed
So send someone to help I'll pray
And I'll listen as perfect hostess
Author's notes
Okay, so I realize as it stands it needs tweaking, but at the time the pen flowed and now it
needs some TLC... any ideas welcome, although I do not want to detract from the
meaning/depth. Any idea of rhyme was not originally intentional so please forgive I know at
present its dreadful!! Help please?
Within a land of Virgin forest wonders flourish
Trembles the pulsing heart of heavenly laden body at night
Ghostly figures shadows churn and nourish
Harmonious reflection green-mist awaiting daylight
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Pits and mounds of decaying fallen trees below
Persuasive lace lichen and mats of moss embrace nature’s seasons
Improbable flickering amber windows aglow
Amongst high-tower contorted trees bestow reasons
*
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*
Verdure of mystical creatures lie low
*
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*
As brownies are busy all night tweaking chores
Alicorn, centaurs, fairies, dwarf stir leaves of trees
High overhead night creaks, cries, and laughter flow
Sailing passage through moist earthy scent breeze
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*
Verdure of mystical creatures lie low euphoric
Within a land of Virgin forest
9/22/2016
I 'spose I'm revealing my age but how I hanker once in awhile,
To return to days of yore and spin ye old Crosley radio dial!
To our delicate ears, those shows were considered wholesome,
Unlike some television shows today that are rather loathsome!
We marched 'round the breakfast table with "The Breakfast Club!"
"Hello! Duffy's Tavern where de elite meet to eat!" was our pub.
We squirmed as Lamont Cranston intoned, "Only The Shadow Knows!"
Who would dare miss any of the amusing Amos 'n Andy shows!
We'd listen to episodes of Jack Armstrong, "The All-American Boy!"
Remember The Great Gildersleeve admonishing his nephew LeeeeRoy?
Jack Benny was hilarious as he struggled to master the violin.
The Bickersons kept us in stitches with arguments none could win!
Fanny Brice was so funny tweaking Daddy's nose as "Baby Snooks!"
America's favorite teacher was a lady named, "Our Miss Brooks!"
Remember, "Henry! Henry Aldrich!" and his reply, "Coming Mother!"
Or the bantering of Bergen and McCarthy pestering one another!
Even the news was interesting with Walter Winchell greeting me:
"Evenin' Mr & Mrs North & South America and all the ships at sea!"
With the marvel of television making its debut upon the scene,
The sounds of radio have been usurped by that mesmerizing screen!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
there's a picture in the Louvre
entitled "Checkmate"
It's depicts a man and the devil having a chess date
but looking at the picture one can clearly see
the man's king has one more move.
there's no apparent defeat
yet the King had one more move
God was not done
and don't believe the battle is over
nor that the enemy has won
Life is like a chess game that requires
critical thinking
strategic planning, decision making
and constant tweaking
yet the King had one more move
God was not done
and don't believe the battle is over
nor that the enemy has won
chess is not just a game but a metaphor for life
every move and every decision we make
should line up with Christ
its purpose and strategy is always
to protect the king
but in life Father God from us
doesn't need a thing
the message is for us to not
misplace our priorities
but to move in a way that acknowledges
God's authority
Yet the King had one more move
God was not done
just never believe the battle is over
nor that the enemy has won
so stop holding your head
acting all scared
the game is not done
your life has just begun
yes the King had one more move
God was not done
and never believe the battle is over
nor that the enemy has won
God wants us to think to plan and to prepare
To operate with His authority
and a spirit of no fear
yes the king has one more move
God is not done
and never believe the battle is over
nor that the enemy has won
yes the king has one more move
Father God is never done
and never believe the battle is over
nor that the devil has won
Minutes turn to hours,
as the clock ticks onwards;
still the paper before me
remains crisp, white – untouched.
My right hand is now cramped,
from it’s gripping my pen
and the notation on my pad,
slowly bringing alive my thoughts.
Every scribe I write becomes structured,
I stop to think before every word;
look back over what I have written,
disjointed, yet I know it all.
A play on my script,
tweaking here and there.
Informing every thought I record,
bringing brilliance for my virgin page.
Words form sentences,
pictures are painted; a masterpiece of art,
breathing life to my work,
to be realized by many.
I transfer my scribe,
to my neat sheet waiting.
Ink flows smoothly, a pleasure to see.
Release washes relief over my tense form.
Midnight strikes, not long left now,
before I can lay my pen to rest
and bid ‘Goodnight’,
to another fulfilled and worthy day.