Long Watered down Poems
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What's poetry I request don't ask me
Tools of poetry? Have no idea
Previously poems poured from within
I would write them as it is in dairy
Now still thoughts pour out from somewhere within
but I tweak them to create poetry
Contest specify form and syllabus
Different requirements of each contest
Many times poems and thoughts are not same
Is this poetry? I question myself
I am not really sure, it seems maths
I am confused on what is poetry
Is it an creative art form or maths?
What is the role of muse in poetry
when modified for a poetic form?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Syllable count per line 10 checked at ps syllabus counter
Date: 1/15/2021 3:07:00 AM
Written for contest Watered down juice by Edward Ibeh
Written: October 16, 2023
This Or That, Vol 21 Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Nobody is more dangerous than he who imagines himself pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable. James A. Baldwin
________________________________________
Shadows shroud the world and wicked looms
There is a stronghold whenever chivalry blooms.
It is solid and unmovable, a towering presence.
A secure haven if everyone is at quintessence.
Unaffected by the anathematization of outer world
In your way, nothing impure may be hurled.
It stays there, watertight and unbreakable.
Beyond the decry of the earth's taints, unshakable
No adulterant can taint its empyrean ground.
Within its walls, only purity is found.
Vividness and zeal, in every hue and shade,
Dilute not the chroma, as fine purity is wade.
No watered-down ideas, no pure erroneous
Truth alone is pristine, eternal, and harmonious.
It sustains its foundation in dignity and poise.
Unblemished by wrongdoing, free of evil noise
With laser-like focus, you defy the mundane.
Its honor is immune from any taint of disdain.
Static in an unassailable way, its saturation of caste
A stronghold of acquittal, a haven of sanctity that lasts
unassailable purity, a beacon of light,
Steering calix souls toward what is right.
In a world plagued by avarice and desire,
It nestles as a vestige, a cosmic canorous choir.
Purity is beyond simply a word or a name.
However, an unquenchable goodness flame
Within a world that tries to cheat and deceive.
The unshakeable purity is steadfast; never leave.
We decided to turn Paradise into real estate.
Trouble was, we weren’t too sure where to find it,
Though experts had located it somewhere
Slightly west or east (left or right, looking north)
Of a point midway between the Euphrates and the Nile.
According to some, it moved sideways a few inches each year.
Computer systems would relieve us of Adam’s curse,
Which many wanted back as soon as they had been relieved,
And Eve discarded more and more items of covering,
And everything (a forgivable exaggeration)
In the garden (the upkeep of which had to be paid for by taxpayers)
Was lovely (or at least pleasant enough for most).
The Devil, who no longer existed (save as a literary metaphor)
Had been extradited on a drugs smuggling charge
And was last seen heading north.
The Forbidden Tree had been cordoned off by
Security people and no serpents were allowed near.
One day we woke up to discover
That Paradise had absconded in the night.
The more sensational headlines read PARADISE LOST,
But this was watered down in a subsequent official press statement
to read PARADISE MISLAID.
As to its new location, even the pundits failed to agree
Whether and if so, by how much, it had moved left or right.
It was even rumoured that the Devil
Had bribed the Angel at the Gate
and infiltrated the Intelligence Service.
The Ministry of Defence reported that a large flying object
Had appeared as a blob on the radar before slipping off,
And some wag even suggested that this was Paradise in fact.
Adam uttered “What the..” under his breath,
switched off the telly – it was an old war film –
And gave Eve a knowing look.
Eve didn’t fancy an early night,
And the ensuing row
Raised Cain.
Foray of explosive sunset —
natural fireworks on display.
A banquet of clouds, rolls in wet,
rolling up their sleeves in melee.
The confusion has its beauty —
thunderous blue, gray and white clash.
Diffusion smacks hued patootie.
Sea of the air throws quite a bash.
Brightly colored dresses behind
this curtain of discontentment.
A leprechaun’s gold, silver-lined —
cloaked rainbow’s tittle presentment.
Drink to me only with thine eyes*
the poet says, stirred as they wade.
The belle’s fluttering lashes sigh.
Are they orange or lemonade?
1/11/2021
Watered-Down Juice Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Used HMS, 8 syllable lines, 16 lines
*Ben Johnson’s Song: to Celia
*Image of Orange Rose Watered Down by Giphy.
The Moonlight Fades From Flower And Rose
The moonlight fades from flower and rose,
A treasure laid forgotten, unfold,
Tis said chaptered verses that are prose,
In a limbered respite be unsold,
Tossed aside to advance ways for those,
Mystic stories cast oft in a hold,
Moments given are moments that goes,
Time is the essence ever behold,
That scent of rose, lingering yet grows,
Twilight's chariot sped into cold,
Ere some tasselling autumn e'er shows,
The redolent freshen oft so bold,
The aroma lifts and shares, who knows,
A refined world of the eve in gold,
A young star shines on a spray of rose.
2020 March 05
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND FORM
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 March 05
*HMS: 15 lines x 9 syllables per = 135
Embedded Deep
Eyes weep, watered down sleep
Lost in migraines embedded deep
Beep, Beep, like unmonitored sheep
Something I have but rather not keep
Pain repeats in scattered heart beats
Nerves unwired from head to feet
Just retreat into your unconscious seat
Losing to the pain shamed by defeat...
bmdavey@05/07/17
hanging in the air
humidity’s heaviness . . .
the river’s slow crawl
On the Mississippi lies the beautiful little city where I once lived. How many times I trudged up inclined streets; or leaning forward, red-faced and panting, pressed up slopes with all my might, feet on pedals of my purple Sting-ray bike, urging myself not to dismount prior to reaching glorious level ground! The damp beneath my clothing in those days was a given. Simply stopped to rest. . . sipping pop underneath a tree, I would often feel rivulets of sweat that trickled down beneath my underarms, a surfeit which caused circle stains to appear beneath the arms of short-sleeved shirts or on Sundays, beneath the flowered dresses that I wore to church. However, despite the heat’s discomfort, it was summer, after all!
counting down the days
until the school bell’s last ring -
a fling with summer
Released from stifling classrooms for vacation, I eagerly embraced the sun. . .and how I played! Kickball with the neighbors, visits to the city pool with my sisters and friends, bike rides to parks or into town, where I spent my allowance on records and treats, and hours racing eagerly through the pages of Nancy Drew books in front of a cooling fan - all these things consumed me.
It was in the month of August, and more than a decade of muggy summers later that I found myself transplanted in a desert. As if thrust into a giant pre-set oven with a noose about my neck, I learned firsthand the meaning of “slow roast.” Here, in the new and different place where I've now lived most of my adult life, the heat can leave one with a burn like acid watered down, a deep sensation lingering in skin long after sun has left the sky. Perspiration may just evaporate before it has a chance to wend its way along the body’s contours. Discomfort notwithstanding, there’s no pain. Acclimated to these summers now, I find that it is easier for me to breathe in August heat than it was the first time I’d ever encountered it. Released from stifling work, I go outside into the oven, pen in suntanned hand!
sunshine reflections
so many summers have passed
writing till twilight
Oh, dreams of my youth – a magical stream -
you flowed without end. You flowed night and day.
I dreamed as I slept, but also I’d dream
while walking to school! you’d not go away,
but in all of my dreams, hope was agleam.
In dreams of my youth, my heart how it beat
when you flowed unto me – sweet cherry juice.
I’d think of the man that one day I’d meet
Sublime were my fantasies . . . and profuse.
With my prince I would find a joy complete!
Dreams of my youth, time has taken its toll.
How foolish are dreams of young girls anyhow!
I no longer dream when out for a stroll.
Mere watered down juice are those old dreams now . . .
though butterfly hopes still flit in my soul.
Watered-Down Juice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Jan. 19, 2021
Where the Bull **** Lies
Slipping through the cracks as every seam starts to unfold,
feel the weight of your hands full of emptiness freezing cold.
As the mind bends then falters starting to spin downward again,
the heart breaks it's reality, escaping to start over begin.
The Classical Irrational, spastical, the emotional wreck cannon ball,
becoming this thing, this ugly Being who rather not rise but fall.
Traumatized and uncivilized, needing to be happily despised,
watered down eyes she cries and cries living all the right lies.
Control the Bull, the uncontrollable, is life really that portable,
mimicking a stall, the full of crap hyperbole, how horrible,
... Just Horrible ...
bmdavey@
02/28/2016
A Worthless Piece Of Paper
240 years ago
A paper was written
Signed by intelligent men
Casting out an imperial king
It created a country
The likes of which the world had never seen
Gave every person rights
To life, liberty and happiness
But, that was so long ago
Over time it has changed
Watered down and corrupted
Politicians have twisted it
Warped it to fit their needs
To benefit the rich
And punish the poor
A paper that used to be a national treasure
Now, it is a joke
Not worth the paper it was written on
And that is how it will remain
As long as people won’t stand up
And be counted