BURYING BRAIDED DESPAIR
AND RESURRECTING ASCENDING HOPE
Last night’s dream,
Was as if that sneaking nightmare, despair;
Always teasing the unaware mind
In a wandering, flowing stream:-
Rising today, I took strands of despair,
And braided them into hope-plaits;
I then took those plaits and buried them:
Tears watering their graves:-
Hope budded and blossomed,
As petals of audacious faith glistened:-
And in the bright sunshine of the new dawn’s dawning,
Meadows of forget-me-not also bloomed; and in fields of ourstory,
Butterflies feasted on encouraging truth, rather than lying history;
Cocooning hope now hangs on my mind’s branches of time:-
.
enchanter thick
unafraid
plaits 'to pluperfection
withal
mirrorz manacle'd
enlist'd
hern frenetic thicks
touch'd
Her hair dances like the cascading stream,
murmuring in the silence of dormant dreams.
It’s more than an element of graceful façade,
the curls carry a crown of style adornment.
The onyx hair cataracts elegance untamed,
swirls in the stream of longing squall
on the ivory template of her forehead,
engraves the contours of her charisma.
As the melting clouds drizzle on her,
luster flows on the shining strands of ebony,
rave rapture drenches her with surreal hue,
pristine pearls glide with the rhythm of symphony.
A bun flows with fluid finesse and engrossing charm,
a bob helps handle the workplace hassles with ease,
a pixie cut boldly highlights the facial features,
a braded motif plaits the strands of beauty secrets.
Whether worn long or short, curled or colored,
the hair composition isn’t just a fashion narrative.
It’s a powerful symbol of identity and self-expression,
a reflection of the persona statement of who she is.
Windswept
Over sheet music, harmonious movement of sand.
Droplets of rain dance - time swooning on sea and on land.
Cupid’s arrows climb, descend strings of the violin.
Heartthrobs, side by side, in best dress, on seasonal spin.
Fingers up and down long necks, in obeisance of song,
as bow ties glide along knightly, mounting music, strong.
Ultra concentration as the conductor gyrates,
creates, weights, debates, elongates, plaits and translates.
Unity in mass, jealousy laid aside, except
for the audience who longs to climb inside, windswept.
Ebb and flow of tears, patiently are kept and foreswear
allegiance to current marriage with hasty prayer.
Silver fox-french horns, don’t withhold their breaths, breasts pounding.
With lilt, rapturous, they’d give up their lives, resounding.
White pages, pristine ties, good looking manners of tides.
Hourglass climax expires. Silence shatters. Faith abides.
The girl on the monkey bars
Hanging upside down
The girl with the auburn plaits
Riding through the town
The girl with the toothy grin
Hopping to one knee
The girl in this rhyming tale
Is the one and only me
I used to miss your touch, now your hands feel like claws
I used to melt in your stare, now your eyes come with bristles
I used to miss your shag and plaits, now you wear a tail of a horse
I used to miss a natural shape, now your curves are created by a dose
I used to miss your call of my name, now you sound like Americanos and Angles
Tell me if I’m stuck in history, lagging behind as the *****Sapien evolves
Inside an archaic framework
she fetches a pail from the fields,
the bucket on her hip is full of
broken eagles.
Wind turbines churn in the distance.
He takes the mangled birds
plucks them,
puts their heads on poles
loads them onto a flatbed.
His dour darling fixes fixings
with a rusting air-fryer;
plaits her hair with chicken wire.
Drones mourn like doves in the evening.
Rattling pods spread
their dry seeds over abandoned crops.
Bald feathers flap on
a black-booted scarecrow.
A morbid factotum arrives
deposits clods of earth
from out the back of
of a fly-specked hearse.
Horse heads turn
on a squeaking wind vane.
Inside a slow burning barn
Unstrung fiddles lay at rest
in their open coffins.
Hair like corkscrews,
crazy curly and short,
pulled into two plaits,
begging to be let free.
With her eyes wandering about,
she sprouts a smile on my face,
as she boards the bus,
her bag like a tortoise shell
on her back.
A new girl has come to school,
a new friend; a new enemy;
possibilities are endless...
the bridge between our hearts
as fine as spiderweb threads
along it soldiers march
workers trample, children skip
with balls of light
cows graze, horses gallop
between our hearts the bridge
is held by the Tree of Life
sung over by soft rain
its roots tangled like veins
in molten centre of
Mother Earth ______
below it gurgles River of Intentions
on its banks rural maidens
with feathers in their plaits
play reed flutes
lilies grow in its crevices
whilst dragonflies sweetly hum
mothers sing rhymes
whilst suckling fat babies
spiders delicately continue
to weave below trodden cobbles
I longingly listen for the trample
of your brown leather boots on
the other side of the bridge !
[ Placed 8th : Premier Contest :
Romanticism : Sponsor : Seth Pina
April 26 ]
Two Soldiers
A tender moment
He re-plaits her hair
She waits patiently
As he twists strands
until they intertwine
and he secures them
with a twist of a bow
Yellow and blue
On their lapels
Guns laid to rest
Epitome of tenderness
With fingers that kill
There’s no connection
He’s not touching a woman
They are two soldiers
Shoulder to shoulder
Equality at last
On another day
They could be lovers
Stopped in a park
Taking in the air
Not feeling the chill
Engrossed in each other
Dying to get home.
Normality at last!
David Cox 14/03/22
children of an emerald isle
inhabiting a pause
in brutish wars
dulcet notes
of tenderest voices
raining as leaves
from autumn's branches
rivulets of caramel warmth
energizing oft rejected
lovers' embraces
as he loosens her plaits
of cinnamon and wildfire
she raises piquant lips
to his nakedly innocent
adoration
Be the bee within the bees bonnet pouring
Not as old man in his slumber snoring
For soon the bees of honey do partake
And late the old man stands his last awake
Come comb your honey hair as sunny fair the day
Come bonny boy and toy not hour away
For in the garden by the gate your destiny awaits
And you may sow the early earth
in straight or crooked plaits
For high yon mighty oak where sun streams lightly
Breaking shade with measured days of gold
Beneath the canopy of stars formed nightly
Your memory’s youthful life exchanged for old
I have walked your many steps , run with wheels a turning
Squandered youth and mis-pent truth; left ashen life a-burning
So be the bee and by the by be captured in the poets eye
And all of this and all of that and all before you die.
Your old sleek black hair-pin is still with me, mother,
I've treasured it greater than a yellow sapphire;
It collects in me, memories of plaits and knot,
And the roses I'd graced with dedication lot...
1 July 2021
Violets
by Michael R. Burch
Once, only once,
when the wind flicked your skirt
to an indiscreet height
and you laughed,
abruptly demure,
outblushing shocked violets:
suddenly,
I knew:
everything had changed.
Later, as you braided your hair
into long bluish plaits
the shadows empurpled,
the dragonflies’
last darting feints
dissolving mid-air,
we watched the sun’s long glide
into evening,
knowing and unknowing.
O, how the illusions of love
await us in the commonplace
and rare
then haunt our small remainder of hours.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Muse Apprentice Guild, Victorian Violet Press, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry on Demand
My aunt was a weirdo: she talked to trees, walked around the house naked and used to read me “The Metamorphoses” by Ovid and “The Song of Hiawatha” by Longfellow as a bedtime story. “Oom-ta-ta, oom-ta-ta”, - dactyl waltzed, pages rustled and I came down dactylic stairs into my personal Hades of dreams.
Beavers are in the Styx! Bison hide in reeds from mosquitos. Herds of wild mustangs graze on the Elysium fields. Red-skinned young ladies with asphodels in plaits listen to the story of Orpheus and Eurydice that the magic Willow tells them. Everybody's happy but Charon: Hiawatha* takes Minnehaha** out in his boat. But where is the son of Rhea and Cronus and his wife Persephone? “Lookee, lookee, - Olympus laughs, - who rules the netherworld now. Henry Longfellow!”
Time passed. I grew up. Other rhymes obsessed me. But every night, having slipped past three-headed Mishe-nama***, I go down into Longfellow’s Hades in search of my late aunt.
* The main character of “The Song of Hiawatha”.
** Hiawatha’s ladylove.
*** The character of “The Song of Hiawatha”, the king of fishes.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.