Come and climb these
Broad bony branches and
Have tea on this tree
with me,
Let's talk our hearts out
Into the poems unsung.
Sleep silently singing in my sizzly eyes,
Sleep might snap with some pumpkin chai,
The sun is seeping in my sulky bones,
Soon the milky moon will mysteriously be alone,
Here, have some squishy scone
While the sun is setting sleekly,
I reckon we should have tea weekly.
Sandalwoody sultry summer,
Hyacinth, hibiscus and hummers,
Poppies, primroses and periwinkles,
The night in esoteric eyes twinkle,
Starling singing on a starless night,
No gloom, a moon , no light,
In this sordid slumber silence,
I can hear your eyes speak.
Let's tell each other
All our hearts hanker
To say,
Drink tea and recite
The poems and make
No delay,
I'll have chamomile tea,
I'm not Mrs. Bennet
But it'll calm my nerves,
You like your tea with herbs,
Spearmint, rosemary and thyme,
And make sure the poem rhymes.
A raw red crater of hunger;
the clacking tongue a buckram spear
shaken at all comers.
The gulls mouth is the gull,
the gullet is the gull
the torso, the snowy pale blue plumage,
that dark under-feathering
all the body of the bird
a perfect bow
for the arrowing beak
and its raucous bugle.
A neck stretched for greed;
above that gorge, hard-set and avaricious,
glint eyes long allied to savage seas.
The bird has the primal scream
of a scavenger,
the gall of the harassing hunter
- and yet is admirable,
sleekly beautiful, often graceful,
until,
rigid jaws agape
we regard its wide-open craw,
wince
as those shears clamp down
on some still wriggling shred.
You may talk of submarines
And of other war machines
As you sip your beer and talk of yesteryear.
You may even look with awe
At the ships that roll and yaw,
And the carriers as steady as a rock.
And what’s prettier to see
Than a ‘can’ while out at sea
With her bow that’s dancing through the brine.
A destroyer, tough as nails
Boarding seas bury her rails
Staying vertical is truly an ordeal.
To the frigates plaudits go
They put on a graceful show
As they sleekly speed along at sea.
But there is a far-famed ship
And to her our caps we tip
To the Sweeper who was where we’re heading now.
See their sweeps when they outreach
Clearing paths from deep to beach
For landing craft to bring the soldiers through.
Knowing mines unswept ahead,
Resolutely then they thread
And their sweep gear clears a channel for the fleet.
So we give them our salute
Every mine-sweeping galoot.
And raise a toast to them when they’re ashore.
The lake is surrounded
by burnt-orange grass that bends.
The sparse light rain drops
make perfect circles
on the glassy dark water.
They widen until
they sleekly, slyly
disappear. The lake mirrors
the late afternoon:
dried-apricot clouds
from which peek a chilled soft blue,
a worn trodden campsite;
evergreen pine
needles soft as worn spandex
next to a shiny house.
And the sun-light shifts
the early Autumn sky, steeped
in the still-reaching
fingers of Summer.
This civil landscape is a captive
of a watercolor,
from a nomadic
palette. The varnished brown house..
a lumberjack..his ax,
a bronze age tool
for civilization. A stormy,
ancient wilderness.
The lake is surrounded by burnt orange grass that bends.The sparse light rain drops
make perfect circles on the glassy dark water
that widen until they sleekly disappear.
The lake mirrors the late Fall afternoon:
dried-apricot clouds from which peek
a chilled though soft blue.
A worn trodden campsite
is next to a shiny varnished house
with windows that portray
the wet sand colors of the docks,
and the sun-light shifting the sky,
as an oil painting of an aging day.
Incalculable sheets of thoughts hidden
Boiling brain,mimicking sharp gnawing pain
Pretty soul lay there quite sick, bed ridden
Entrapped by deep surges of bloody bane
Her stamina, sleekly started to wane
Stepped in, her beloved from a far land
He sat beside sobbing and picked her hand
Stroking it gently, enquired the reason
She lay still, with expression being bland
Untold she croaked, in bleak winter season
Aug10, 2020
First Place in the Contest:-)
Note:Pick-A-Title, vol 21,Dizain Poetry Contest.
Title chosen:1)UNTOLD
Checked syllables:Howmanysyllables.com
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
The kind that softens the heart,
The melody that awakens the soul,
That which sets us on fire,
A tingly fire that makes the heart race calmly.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
As you sweep the plectrum sleekly,
In motions that appease the strings,
With an ardent frequency sweep,
We shall brew a lovely crescendo.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
Just like the ocean tides rise and fall,
So shall be our intervals tempo,
Each time producing acoustic harmony,
That triggers the explosive expression of humanity.
Gently strum my heartstrings,
So I can produce the melody.
Fee-On-Her Joy
The peril of the real epitome of African goddess,
Her gift packed neatness pouted love in her,
That has been brewed from Luo love pot,
Her lips lithe in the coat of spicy charm,
As she slough, the hot, sharp, and pleasant heart beating echoed voice,
In a mouth full of jibes from the blessed blossom balmed lips,
Arousing their loins at the joint of thigh,
As if it was fee-on-her, that gives birth to their joy,
She is real artistry of long lost African goddess,
Don’t ask me fee-on-her, because Fiona is she that joy.
A beau clamoured with joy to charm-hypnotized eyes,
Your enchantment leaves,
The mind free to ride,
An up and down undulating waves of dreams,
As a thin sleekly silver, chain adorns your tender neck,
And disappears into the deep ‘V’ cut,
Between, the budding bust thrust of your breast,
For those who do not know you,
Awes the bog of jealousy to your African knotted body,
Don’t ask me fee-on-her, because Fiona is she that joy.
Short Snort of Scotch
We will be going on trip week from tomorrow
And a bright idea I recently tried to borrow
Must be careful making sure I don't botch
By forgetting to bring along a bottle of Scotch.
Finally the ship so sleekly away had sailed
Everyone had to pass test after they exhaled
To see if any Scotch on their breath had been
And later would they want to drink more again.
Top of ship deck was marked for hop-scotching
Which is where we would always enjoy watching
After too much Scotch all over were jumping
With much anxiety their hearts were pumping.
After hopping and hoping were over and done
Each hopper and drinker became the only one
Who ended up without any secrets to hid
Now are members of crew and there they abide.
Ship hasn't sailed since in straight line anymore
Soon as it finally could near complacent shore
Had one more Scotch which was a short snort
And looks like they landed in the wrong port.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
THE EURIDITE MONK
(Apropos Thelonious)
The misunderstood rhapsody
of the ebony-ivory union
reflects a oneness of time
and space fathomed
but to the freed ears
picking up the syncopation
of mind body and soul
of the sellers and the sold;
While gyrating auction block
crescendos split crazy melodies
shoveling shattered shackles sliding
sliding between the mosaic beauty
of the whining keys echoing echoes of echoes.
Let your ears blink
and it all slips sleekly by
and the uninformed cannot comprehend
the beat of rhythmic thoughts meandering
a melodious mind leaving mental footprints
tap dancing on seasoned tympanums
vibrating blue notes between bebop bars:
harmonious inertia movements
challenging a decrescendo fading
of the monk’s mosaic mastery.
KILLER
Saturnine sleeper of the night,
Soaring slowly, out of sight,
Sleekly shadowing the gloom,
Silent harbinger of doom,
Innocent assassin, surreptitious, sly,
Stainless scandal slipping by,
Scything swiftly through the dark,
Hark the herald warning: Shark.
You think I expected you
To know my ways
To comprehend and construe
And like my style.
I never did
Have such expectations
Oh incomprehensible ways
Sleekly complicated
Who can predict the ways
Of a young lad with maidens?
My life is a young lad
And also maidens.
And I will not suffer you
To comprehend.
waiting for enraptured flight
the bird now spreads its wings
soaring high above the clouds
now quickly out of reach
above the fields of corn and bean
across meadows of sweet clover
just a speck to the bare eye
sun shines sleekly on her feathers
The tiger traces, through it's jungle home,
His prey he chases, just then, the crackle of bone.
Sleekly stalking, through shadow of tree,
His prey just skulking, oblivious, carefree.
Nostrils twitching, green eyes shining,
Pupils dilating and paw's barbs refining.
Lips pulled back, canines showing,
It's the Tiger's tact, saliva flowing.
Such a wonderful creature, watched in awe,
Marvelous features, a strong, crushing jaw.
Watching his hunting in divinest anguish and rapturous pain,
In this death we should not languish, the creature that was slain.
I suppose that's just nature, the way of the world,
Just stay form the Tiger's abature, lest his claws would be unfurled.
Placing my heart upon my sleeves,
posting fragrant aroma in empty rooms.
Wanting inner passion to erupt volcanically
only my love is emptied in loneliness.
Silent walls call loves emotions loudly
frames of desire paste deserted entities.
Sleekly punishing my broken chamber
into pieces of puzzled prisons locked jail.
Longing for fires flames to come home
yet over the road trucking he must be.
People have to eat,
and need other things.
Although for women like me
we must sacrifice for everyone.
Left alone without our love
to comfort us at night...
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