Short Hems Poems

If teardrops were gems,
words I wrote were hems,
these tears of emptiness
would manifest 
glimmering 
necklaces....

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Frilled edges of flora in bloom
Along my garden’s fences
Sweet scent of peony perfume
Invades my senses
They dance on stately stems
Pink skirts ruffled at their hems...

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i bathe in your scent
when midnight rips my skin’s hems
then once, twice in flames
a heated pulse of deep craving
finally explodes in sighs

------


Love Note for Rick Parise...

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Repeat
The heat. 

New hymns
Same stems. 

Lots grins
No inns. 

Use lungs
And tongues. 

Sermon
Come on. 

Same stems
All hems. 

Same talk
No walk. 

Time’s up
Give up....

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Weaved hems of lime and gold shimmer about 
She’s held in midair stupor 
Indeed a timeless sight   



18/2/15
Grace Mutindi
Contest: In Praise of a Kimo (Visual 2)
Checked: www.howmanysyllables.com...

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radiant colors flash

in curves writing hope in sky…

lightning hides its stare



shy roses bloom…

wearing rainbow's velvet hems

in new horizon 






by nette onclaud for P.D's Rainbow...

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night touches wind, gold

      buds drifting off from laced hems

         in slow procession,

     while twirl of frothy breeze cloaks...

 my desolate autumn view.



Contest: 4 or 5 LINE POEM...

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He hems and haws
  Nervous, fidgeting
Opens his mouth
  Nothing comes out

Palms turned upward
  He shrugs his shoulders
His eyes roll around
  In their sockets...

His voice wavering
  He stutters, stumbles
Wh-What k-k-kind of
  Qu-Question is that?...

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A walk foreshortened by the Thames
that once would flow through field and moor –
now stitched and patched with dirty hems,
a city’s outskirts of the poor.

You used to walk here, years ago
when May put on her blossom-show.
But Progress is a subtle sweep
that changes worlds while we’re asleep....

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Everyone Knows Jesus Arose

Jesus arose and I do suppose
That everyone am sure knows
To heaven is where He goes.

Feel him in wind as it blows
And see after the lake froze
Grass that grows and grows.

He protects me from my foes
Together my life hems and sews
Is my savor and was He I chose.

Jim Horn...

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""""""""(((('''''''''''


auburn light tickling mystic marshlands
on thin rafts kissing noon's delight
husky day  lifts grasses’ hems
cradling petals on palms,
herons dance astray
a dizzy feast
all flowers
soaking
wine

""""""""""""""""""

all rights reserved
            ©



for Brian Strand's "Poem From Year First Year... Contest"
from nette onclaud...

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Autumn’s rumor
is spread in turning trees,
revealed like stains
on hems
of far Missouri hills.

Few search
or care or know
your soft fruit—
few dare taste
tart sweetness—
trouble
to spoon aside
infestations
of seeds.

Like seasons,
they go to waste—
not savored,
unused, unappreciated—
burled relatives,
overripe pawpaws
past remembering,
lingering
as age spots of early fog
on winter’s 
stern harvest....

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lavender florets
sway their hems to a gold wind...
as
queen bee jiggles


aisle of lush gardens 
invite morn's jaybirds on flight...
coo
cooing sweet tunes


dew bathes newborn plants
evergreen their christened ribs...
from
heaven's blessings


such bright assemblage
displays lush April's glory
when 
spring thrills charmed hearts




MYSTICS SPLIT HAIKUS Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
4/10/2016...

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They waltz against the dark , offstage
Within a tearing pinch of light;
A pitch-black room …entrenched in rage
Was once the velvet cloth to skin,
Now ripped apart by hems of spite
As numbness dries low breaths, so thin

Frigid the steps…locked in a cage
Pale music on iced fingertips,
That dancing  goodbye twirled with age
When frozen love changed to chagrin.

Smell of lilacs, damp as old page
Bitter this...

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I love to sail on waves of sky
where breaths of clouds are rushing by,
where tall trees toss their leafy heads
way above the garden beds.

I love to swing with the birds at dawn
when sky cracks open and day is born,
when hems of fur on the robes of night
gently brush the morning light.

I ride on a swing. I swoop and fly.
I kick at falling leaves.
I call to a magpie as she dips by, 
and feel the whoosh of the breeze.
...

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The hem of her skirt,
Billows,
With her fond sweetness,
As she upon her stilletos,
Balances,
Within,
A diamond stillness,

Her hem,
Sighs,
With a nostalgia,
Of romance,
In the undulant wind,

Waves of surreal petals,
As the moon,
With its exotic flowers,
Singers,
And dancers,
Blush,
With a serenity,
Of rhythms,
That kiss,
With adorations,
And loves,
Firmly tender wings,
Her Beauty and hems,
Vast loveliness
Reynaldo Casison...

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A dream for you ...
it spins in the mist of twilight
wending the Milky Way
borne of passions unrealized
and the gilded hems of imagination's veil
dripping from the moon like tears of quicksilver
meandering 'midst the starstreams of dusk and dawn
to daub the sky with gossamer lace
and the hallowed hopes ...
of heaven.






~ 1st Place ~  in the "Brian's Choice M, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor....

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Oh God
would that we had spoken
if but in a whisper
perhaps the butterfly
would still its wings
no longer tease fate
ripple time’s auric agenda.

Oh God
had we but passed, nodded,
in civil condescension
perchance
our hems touch
peace may have reigned.

Oh God
how cold the hymns
of echoed hubris
tortured dalliance
dancing ‘neath a dome
cold words
that mimic loves voice.

Oh God
Which of us
denies the other.


John G, Lawless
©5/28/2019...

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A gypsy dance enthralls the stars
into a twirl of rustling hems 
as women tap bare feet, guitars
lift twiddling notes of lore’s anthems
along a woodland’s lively fest,
where beaded hair glides in  thrilled zest
to charm night’s hours...to romp away
till wagon drifts when morning strays.



 
My destiny number is 7, though I chose
my path number 8--- jan 8
rispetto form in 8 lines
------------
Andrea Dietrich's Tell Me Your Number Contest...

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Its the ladies,
Dressed like gypsies,
That feel the moon,
With romance,
In their fibers,
That desire to dance,
With love,

Its the ladies,
Dressed like gypsies,
That make the nightingales,
And flowers sigh,
In the warmth,
Of gardens and moons,

Its the ladies,
Dressed like gypsies,
That are so sweet,
And tender,
And ofcourse exotic,
That cherish the hymns,
The sensuousness,
Of a long lazy evening,
Where their hems,
Can sway, unwind, and relax
Reynaldo Casison...

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The annual church picnic is fun for the congregation for sure.
Grams says the conversation is abnormally delicate and demure.
There are thugs, known criminals, and thieves, I can assure.
But we try to pretend it is not so, said my cousin sweet Burr.

Many uppity muppities try to get you to join, to reassure.
That they have a ticket to heaven on the hems of Ms. Curr.
She is the one who insists she has paved the way for sure.
I run from her because when we scrap, she pulls out my fur....

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