Revivals Poems

A Soothing Si

It revivals the obvious
scripting fun and pleasure
a mix that is as addictive as
anything one could
find needing
octave monte' in ranges
situated between measures
a sound that is different than the
sound
that it mad by the musician who
chore to be perfect and
more on time 
Six Double Basses provided
the deep sound
along with a Tuba, 6 bassoons
and a flute that glided
on the warm summery air that
was fragrant with a Monte Cristo scented
dining area
we awaited lunch as we were hungry from
a day of rehearsal
salad and sandwiches with a
raspberry-tea and French Macaroons
she wrote the lyric here
she said it was from being in love with what
was going on.
" I watched her want to be
with someone she thought
was out of her League
I took the opportunity to be
someone she would the envy"
"What makes perfect the night
from the start of a lovely day"

Tad's Patch

a clear definite disregard
towards our relationship
your smirks and twitches
jives against our togetherness
it revivals all those worded commitments
centered around us as partnership
these happenings creates divisiveness
your aren't acting in the interest of
your spouse
then where does your loyalty lay
I am neither first or mention
in your concern
wanr her: warn her
my wife is a 
cucumber farmer


Elle twerkait das un champ concombre
nous y travaillie pendant les etes
She said Wlatz let me dance!

Ghost-Written

My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.

Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.

My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.

My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail. 

My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.

Carolyns Next Adventure

William Shakespeare ’pon a cloud
Awaits the new arrivals
Heaven needs some poetry
And sea fishing revivals
A blinding light and newbies came
And smiling, wandered in
And at the front the one he sought 
Said Hi, I’m Carolyn

He told her he was Willy
And he’d been here quite a while
He wants to write of fishing
Does she know the latest style
So share your fishing skill with me
Perchance we shall then see
If I can spare some time for us
To discuss poetry

Well Carolyn just grinned a bit
And told him ink your quill
I’ll tell you about fishing
And talk poetry we will
She said to Mr Shakespeare
’Let’s talk poems first,’ and so
She simply couldn’t help herself...
‘I’ll teach you all I know?’

He scratched the funny little beard
That sprouted from his chin
I think I’m gonna like you
I’m so glad they let you in
Recite for me your finest ode
Make heaven even brighter
She said I haven’t penned it yet...
Go get me a typewriter


August 5 2021
Contest: Tributes to Carolyn
Sponsor: Constance La France

A Walk Around February

I have not entered this season yet,
I skirt the dead and the spare,
avoid the chill of its harrowing touch
as I pass through the blank spaces,
between all the naked stick figures
where the light froze.

There will be a melting,
a returning of green revivals,
but out here in the snow fields
with the wind biting its way
into my hunched being
I can only summon up a breathy smoke 
to keep bone-cold ghosts 
from wailing in my ears.

I am not even a walker in the wilderness,
I pace just these fields not far from
the warm fires of many homes,
yet death lies in the gutters of cities
as well as in a farmers ditch,
all such howling endings
are doors for ice-wolves to enter,
and February leads them
 to scratch now at every door.

The Wonderland: Your Loathed Fantasy

Talk of the troubler
and the troubled.
The dainty daubers
and dark doubles
at the end of each street. 

Talk of a civil thief
and his broken tongue,
neat shirt, tainted teeth
and lusty lung
that trips your merry into grieve. 

Talk of the Alaba Boys*;
Wish's Jeff Bezos. 
And the Computer Village's* noise;
Bill Gate's ambassadors;
your brain upsidedown, boxers* lost. 

Talk of a floating head
in an elevated steep of mud,
and a slackened loaf of bread
sold for the net worth of Elon Musk.

And Usian Bolts
running for the Olympic medals of a bus,
only for traffic cramps and holes,
to blow the strengths into the dust. 

Talk of other varying wonders,
and signs and revivals,

talk of Lagos!
    '21:02:14:18:40

Note: Welcome to the struggle in Lagos, Nigeria. 

There are some colloquials only Nigerians, precisely Lagosians understand. They are,

Alaba Boys: A general term for fraudster business folks in a place called Alaba in Lagos. 

Computer Village: Another version of Alaba. 

Boxers: This is a word a typical Nigerian uses when he or she refers to "Boxers' Shorts" or better still, "Pants"...

   As requested by a friend. Esther.

Lotus of My Heart

"EXAMPLE FOR CONTEST" 

"Lotus: A spiritual figurehead, a symbol of the faith within ourselves.
It is particularly what the Buddhist proverb aims to edify; 
Living life with unwavering faith as the lotus does, ensuring beautiful revivals.


I touch your tender petals and I begin to dream 
lost in the halo of your beautiful stream
no words can express the feelings that I feel 
when I look at you "Lotus"  I sense the Karmic wheel  
of Grace, oh lotus flower of my life,   
such is the emblem of my Faith, internally I sense  
the waters of devotion in you, and I am stirred  
as gently as a mother's love , for daughter.

Christmas Dreams

As I lay my dreams on the silken pillow of tomorrow's hopes,   
I forget all my sorrows and begin to shine like the midnight sun 
Little red bow kisses, row on row of  tinsel, brilliant as stars 
Oh how I remember Christmas, and all the wishes of my heart 
   
 Cinnamon revivals, mom's precious laughter 
Santa cookies shaped like gingerbreads 
A little girl in pj's, waiting by the chimney crawl 
and Angels of good keeping, watching over our house
As I watch the snowflakes quiver, a storm begins to squall 
I wrap myself a little tighter,  round my evening shawl 
Baubles of every color, in every shape and size 
and a little baby Jesus, in a manger with big eyes 
Feathered hopes light as air beneath the inborn stable 
if this world needs saving its the Christ in us that's able 

 Cinnamon revivals, mom's precious laughter 
Santa cookies shaped like gingerbreads

Thoughts of Some Little Things That Molded My Mind

skipping joyfully to a snowflake dream tonight
i am five years old again....maybe six
Santa Claus is causing me an obviously sleepless night, but i'm smiling

the beach is so dead it is alive
though the breeze is relentlessly cold, i do indeed feel revived
the surprising peace and quiet reintroduces my rare smile to Charlie

flowers once again for her
i never cry, but i choke back the tears
she thanks me by the whispering wind of her listening ear
in that beautifully delivered moment, i have no hint of fear

my Carolina blues are temperamental
the warmth in the frigidity is getting harder to find
the back roads smile for me as i watch Queen Phlebotomist smile relaxingly in slumber

my soul has survived many facets of weather
my soul has weathered many masquerade parties thrown by seductive versions of melancholy
happy endings, unbeknownst to me, pours Revivals of Soothing Rain.....on my soul.....

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME.....
SO GOLDEN......
SO SERENE.....

A Twin Ekphrasis

RAVILIOUS   a senses of actuality

art evolved
        focussed &varied
        wide&reflective
        fine&applied
complex in sensibility
       meditations in depth
       with a sense of actuality
       spontaneously 
                     observed
       immediacy 
                    imagined
senuous&solid
concise&clear
           everyday moments
precisely portrayed
in feeling&form
bold&distinctive
             articulated
                   & attractive to the eye
in
time&place
            the sense of time
                                           passing
FUSELI FORETOLD

elaborate paraphemalia
       animated
               by nostalgia
the
strange& terrible
in distant time&place

apparitions
        of a terrible zone
                        twilight
malicious menace
in pathos&terror
      as
        pictorial incantations
          of gothic
             revivals
                          fade

Inseparable

You have a unique quality: a magical aura
that makes me feel alive
whenever I'm close to you.
The first time I saw you,
I was instantly attracted
to your charisma;
it was like an indescribable force
drew me to you.
Your captivating scent enthralled my heart
and it slipped into a euphoric stupor,
oblivious to reality's boundaries.
My life with you 
is filled with metaphors and surreal imagery;
you're the artist; I'm your brush,
and the world is our canvas.
The mere thought of you ignites emotional fires,
fanning passion's splendiferous flame.
And I want you!
Your beauty revivals Aphrodite,
the Goddess of Love;
your intimate sexuality fueling my desire.
Fate chose you for me and me for you,
together, we are one;
inseparable, in both heart and soul.

Spring Re-Birth Wonders

Lovely freshness showcases God’s wonders
Great Spring’s grand blessings, awesomely beauteous
Dulcet chirpings prevail over thunders
Gardens* assured of yields, indeed plenteous.

Fields cheerfully welcome budding bliss-sprouts
Below clouds like chiffon yearning for grace
Farms gladly gear themselves toward growth’s routes
Propelled upon heavenly power’s brace.

Re-birth highlights genuine spiritual spring
Marked by the Lord Christ’s resurrection might 
With revivals that Holy Scriptures bring
Prodding souls toward transformation’s height.

Springing hope’s lace tied to faith fluorescence
Edifies new life’s marvelous essence.

*Isaiah 61:11 For as the earth bringeth forth her bud, and as the garden causeth the things that are sown in it to spring forth; so the Lord GOD will cause righteousness and praise to spring forth before all the nations.

March 4, 2019

7th place, "APRIL 2019 PREMIER 9..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 4/26/2019.

Historic Traces

Embracing my retiring place
includes not only green and granite geographic dimensions
in space
But also extending back experienced roots
of 264 seasons past
having co-evolved this matriarchal wombing 2020 present

As if co-gravitation of historic time
with current place
were a creative pre-visioned design of space
dipolar co-arising deja-vu choice
to embrace, with coincidental love revivals,
or disgrace, with even more bipolar fear-mongering,

And usually something merely mortal
yet immortally cooperative
in-between what has been competitive Win/Lose explained
and what could become WinWin integrity
of exclaiming dance and song

Embracing my ego place,
How could that go wrong?
While not ignoring ecosystemic health
of this historic evolving space,
sacred integrity of revolving incarnations,
romantic race
toward multiculturing grace,

Withour fear's least merely secular
ZeroTrace.

Land of My Fathers

The land of my Fathers is where I belong,
Its valleys and hillsides all bursting with song.
The tale of 'Myfanwy' is often retold
And grown men shed tears as the sad facts unfold.
This haunting refrain from a Welsh male voice choir
Will cause even cynical hearts to admire.

Welsh daffodil woods put forced roses to shame,
Whilst Cambrian coastlines make others look lame.
A fearless red dragon fires mythical tales
Along with Saint David, the Patron of Wales.
And soulful Welsh poetry lives on with pride;
Its lyrical excellence can't be denied.

Like Bard, Dylan Thomas, Welsh spirits still fight
They 'do not go gentle into that good night'.
Old chapels still echo revivals of old
And heart-rending tales of brave miners unfold.
The land of my birth and my forefathers' rest
Provides a warm homeland for which I feel blessed.


02/09/18
'My country 'tis of thee' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brahn Bailey

revised : 10/12/18 for the contest : 'Tribute to native culture poetry contest'
sponsored by Line Gauthier

My Bible

MY BIBLE

What have they done to my Bible
They used to preach fervent and strong?
Now they say it needs changing,
And many words do not belong.
They say they’ve found ancient copies
That are so much older, you see;
One was found in Egypt’s desert,
And one in a monastery.
These must be just what God wanted,
And all that He had there to say;
Others have added their own words
To fit with the thoughts of their day.
So much there just cannot be trusted
In that old King James Bible now;
We’ve just got to make it much simpler
And make it much better somehow.
But I’d like to just now ask some questions:
Why did men then DIE for that book?
Why did they take such great effort
To compare all the copies they took?
Why was the word so respected?
Why has it endured so long?
Why did it start great revivals
If so much within it is wrong?
I’ll keep my old King James Bible,
These new ones will surely not last,
For they were all done for the money
Using bad words from the past.
Jesus has honored my Bible!
He promised it He would preserve!
I know that I can believe it,
So from it I never will swerve!

• Short Revivals Poems
• Famous Revivals Poems
• Best Revivals Poems
• Read Revivals Poems
• Long Revivals Poems
• Revivals Quotes