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Best Poems Written by Gloira Conly

Below are the all-time best Gloira Conly poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Childhood Dreams

When I was a child, 
horses raced across my consciousness 
like storm chased clouds.
They sprung from my crayons 
onto a blank pages, 
horse words filled reams of paper 
in my exercise books. 
Every book written about them was worn, 
read and re-read, 
stained with dirt from my grubby hands.
I schemed, 
prayed to gods-indeterminate, 
to have one of my own.
On screens of black and white, 
their images smudged, movement’s jerky, 
manes and tails flying, 
hero’s rode into myth.

They were magical
in an un-magical world.  
A world of loneliness, 
an earthquake world, 
where each step 
might lead to nothingness, 
a gray concrete world 
of uncertainty and pain. 
The dreams of a little girl 
who would seek them 
at fairs and carnivals, 
where poor ponies stood patiently, 
look for them along the road 
during our many moves.
Would find them in any town 
we stayed in, however bleak.
Would work all day at a barn 
just to smell or touch them, 
joy of joy to be able to ride one.
I knew that each one was a safe place to be, 
to hold all the love I could give, 
with my arms around their neck 
 my head on their shoulder, 
not once rejected.
Impermanent and fleeting as it was, 
I knew that they were a safe haven.

Details | Gloira Conly Poem

Rooted


Rooted

Tied with blood stained ribbons
that bind us to our past.

The moon,
regulator of tides and menses.
The Virgin Mary,
last remnant of Goddess power. 
Dark caves
painted in red hues.
A book of words,
forgotten train whistles,
tears from fists,
laughter of children,
open mouths of hunger,
the veils of slaves,
rooted 
deep
in the mother earth

Details | Gloira Conly Poem

The Red Fire Engine

Dead grass,
smudged windows,
abandoned,
 a toy truck
glints a splash of red 
in the dry yellow yard.
A rust covered bell
dangles a cotton string, 
black from grubby hands.
Silvery ghost child 
laughter floats in the still air.

Details | Gloira Conly Poem

The Language of Music

Sound moves through air,
into ears, 
into minds,
poetry vibrations.
The cadence of earth language,
birds call,
dolphins click,
earth plates clash,
while serene clouds 
whisper soft sighs
in skies of blue glass,
rhythmic tides drum,
harmonies create the 
face of the moon,
falls into us as rain, 
caresses us in patterns,
seeping
through the skin, 
through the ear,
changing brain waves
to beauty in form.

Details | Gloira Conly Poem

Mything

Mything

Out of the debris of a big bang 
were we formed.
Formed round the great snake 
which sleeps at the center 
of what became our planet.
Clinging to the dark coils for safety.  
Growing until the mass became our earth.  
Balancing in an orbit around a small star, 
gaining our own satellite, 
which became the sun’s reflection
on dark nights.
From that beginning 
through the eons, 
from the dust of other destructions, 
from a speck of a former incarnation, 
from the seed of Gods 
we cannot understand,                                                          
we were born.
We ride on the snake
sleeping at our center                                  
burning with the fires of a hell 
beyond our ability to create.
From that mote of myth came
Life
in forms beyond imagining,  
successful in their season,
to become the dust 
from which new life was formed.
Molded into fantasy forms,       
evolving,    
reaching expanding 
in a enigmatic design,                                                                                                                              to be destroyed in                            
ever changing ways.
From the speck of matter 
that is the myth 
on which we claim our Godship, 
sailing on our sea of ignorance
in the false myth ship of science, 
floating to our future 
to join those who have gone before.

Details | Gloira Conly Poem

Writer

life lived almost,
    sort of.
          Frost’s sigh,
                his stop at the fork 
        of two roads,
gazing at where they merge  
        at the end of the earth 
                curve and beyond.
           Life lived inside a manuscript,
  staring at blank page.