For the Pensive Poet Contest of Constance La France
"Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure,
all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train." John Milton
The pensive poet writes deep from his soul.
Downstairs into a room he will descend.
To write in secret stillness is his goal.
A pen has he with a magic feathered end.
It is the tool to take away his pain,
used by him when disappointment surges.
Reflections might appear as sad refrains.
Then such wistful poetry emerges.
The feather on the pen can come, then go
depending on the poet’s need to bleed
the pondering that from his pen can flow,
but when he’s spent, his notions all recede.
The feather vanishes; he leaves his room
till thoughts profound regrow the magic plume.
Oxygen to breathe,.
Regrow biomes, not too late,
Reafforestate.
Distant Shadows
The product
of bad choices
and decisions
Never living
in the darkness
or light
A denizen
of long
distant shadows
That serve to hide
riddles
— and orphans of sight
**
Eternity Weds
Where senses
reseed
Flowers
regrow
When lovers
remeet
Cupid
rebows
With time
giving way
And place
stepping back
Eternity
weds
To moments
— unmatched
**
9:11
9:02
and all
was well
9:05
that haunting
bell
9:08
and death
arrives
9:11
the end
— goodbye
**
The Red Zone
Creating separation
his words
forced an opening
Access had been
cleared
meaning secured
With daylight surrounding
what before
shrouded darkness
Each phrase
in the red zone
— reception assured
**
[Poet’s Notes : Geckos are flexible, able to thrive in most situations. They symbolise transformation & resilience due to their ability to detach, then regrow their tails. Losing their tail is a metaphor for shedding old habits, fears, or burdens that no longer serve. As omen, they represent good luck, adaptability, a reminder to shed the past, rebuild, moving forward after setbacks. In many cultures, geckos are signs of positive protection.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“With renewal comes guardianship ~ an inner strength to both hold the past whilst not being defined by it.” ~ Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gecko appeared on white wall
tail shadow flickering fall
amber leaves crack autumn’s cue
shows transmutation is due ~
Regeneration is name
my chosen professed good game
power healings signal luck
old scales peel burning in muck
_________________________
Placed 5th : Standard Contest
March 26 : Sponsor: Charles Messina
Daughters see mothers die
Bees swarm to stay alive
New stars shine in the sky
Wolves howl at a full moon
Heartstrings from baby's cries
Flowers bloom in street cracks
A blind boy plays piano
Cars swerve to miss ducklings
Vultures claim raw roadkill
Forests regrow from fires
Some seeds can wait decades
Hence poems may make some sense
Fragility is quite a strength
just as the crucial bumblebees’ breath
Perhaps not only titularly
gentleness is stronger than severity . . .
Channeling Emily Dickinson : To be a feather in a holocaust
– hope, sewn in the soul, sings the song needed most
A minor thought on regeneration : To regrow the leg the mantis lost
– a marvel on a molecular level - most miraculous
Of majestic beauty : To behold the fragile snowflake - winter’s impetus
– intricate masterpieces exist in the microscopic and minutest
Plant power is undisputed : To reap lemongrass’ healing gifts
– behold a beloved botanical treasure of abundant benefits
Quantity trumps quality when better suited : To cut out the mountains through erosive agency
– water as a weatherer works wondrously
Sources of energy : From the brilliant and prodigious mitochondrion - a natural wonder
to the multifaceted palm frond - suitable as tinder
It can certainly be said that, in the slight
one can perceive preternatural might
So, as the Scots say, “while we breathe we hope”
and our delicate operatives firmly stay a-float
Is it possible that a flower can regrow?
you have to leave the roots, they say
but how can I know?
Are the roots still there and
should I care?
Should I plant a new one?
by Chiara P.
A rose hasn't a heart without its core.
A house is dark without windows.
A tree grows leaves again after they died.
A meadow has green grass, but it also becomes dry.
The spring blooms flowers and beauty that disappears, but always regrow.
The summer means children making sandcastles on the beach, joy and fun to capture.
The sea has its way to be, tough, soft and gentle or impossible to cope with.
The life's waves are the same as the sea waves,
difficult to stay on the board all the time.
We surf for new achievements,
we forget about what we can
lose meantime.
Winter, spring, summer, fall
I love them all
Winter is the season
For love to fruition
Spring brings the rain
To nourish the grain
Heaven brings the glow
For waters to flow
Summer brings the sun
Time to have fun
Children come to play
Time to be gay
Then, the gusty fall
Is time for all
For a new beginning
To regrow after falling
Four by four poetry contest
2nd place
We thought it would last forever,
not a kink in the endless chain of supplies;
Now more than the store shelves
are coming up continuously empty;
Still the menu is good to change,
maybe get out grandma’s old recipe;
No amount of money in the world
can buy you food that doesn’t exist;
We thought it was just gonna go away,
the trucks would always deliver more eggs;
Then omelettes became a luxury item,
‘Snickers’ were all we could afford or find;
Starvation ended with ‘We are the World.’
Western civilization? That’s impossible;
North America is flooded with resources;
Regrow endless crops on soil rich land;
No amount of money in the world
can buy you food that doesn’t exist;
Bottom of the barrel no trash to steal;
Private property gardens, no trespassing;
Outlaws armed with skills and dirty hands,
Off grid not for sale, can’t steal from them;
The wealthy can get whatever they need,
or so the one percent always thought;
No amount of money in the world
can buy you food that doesn’t exist.
I cut my flowers too short.
My billowing, green vase drowning their maternally short stems
and never-blooms.
Within a week’s time, (and I know this)
The leaves I neglected to p l u c k
Will be rotting and browning under the confines of a vase half-full —
too full.
Although, (I must defend myself)
I filled my swelling, green vase prior to my mistake,
So the water is truly–
technically–
The perfect amount of fullness.
Nonetheless, (as I cannot regrow stems)
I place my mistake in the middle of the kitchen island.
My bloating, green vase standing stoutly against its prepackaged blooms.
But, again, (and I know this)
Within a week’s time,
The rot and browning from a vase half-full —
too full
Will seep into my flowers maternally short stems and never-blooms,
Causing my flowers to wither and d
r
o
o
p
Long before they are meant to.
a strange koala in a tree
staring very strangely right down at me
i stare straight back up the tree
as the cheeky koala spits on me
hey there you,do not do that
your a koala not a rat
indeed this is strange,
come down here ,lets have a chat
his reply is no i done with that
i am the king ,the last of my kind
you cut down my trees are you people blind
you destroyed my home
now i am all alone
the giant gum trees so grand and tall
you have cut them all down
did you not hear them fall.
you sell them for wood chip to lands afar
now all i have is a road and a car.
my forest long gone
all that is left is me and this tree
just keep walking and leave me be free,
a strange koala yes indeed
maybe now you will plant that seed
regrow my home and leave me alone
for once i am gone i will not return
i am the last of the species as you watched my tree burn
please read this and help me return
The sea star is terrified.
Chase is on.
He drops the beast an arm.
Knowing it will regrow.
Saving his life one more time
At the expense of one arm.
Sitting on my front steps
delighting in the scene
Discerning in the ordinary
long-forgotten dreams
A toddler hides in mommy's skirts
A dolly-girl presses dandelions to her nose
A brave lad stays up on a unicycle
Can I, my imagination regrow?
The nearness of his ancestors spirits
caused a chill. Looking out
over the plains he could hear
the horses hooves, the riders
panting, the buffalo running.
He could smell the sweat as
it ran down his Great-Grandfather's
face, down the broad painted
chest, pooling on the back of
a saddle-less horse. He
could taste the sweetness of
the bison meat, causing him
to drool, even though it
had not crossed his lips
in years, perhaps decades.
He could see the grasses
waving in the breeze now,
trampled by the massive
herd in bygone years, eager
to regrow after being eaten
then fertilized by the buffalo.
The circle of life. he smiled
at his ancestors, said a
silent prayer and moved on.
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