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Best Poems Written by Cona Adams

Below are the all-time best Cona Adams poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Other Side of Winter

(A Villanelle)

The winter’s dismal path is long and gray,
a never-ending march of cheerless dark
with skies whose colors bleach in dull array

where forest scene gives one a true display
and leafless limbs provide a raptors' park.
The winter’s dismal path is long and gray,

and through the open grove a new ballet
of life and death beneath the brittle bark
and skies whose colors bleach in dull array.

A wind unites with rain while leaves decay;
each limb begins to dance a graceful arc
in winter’s dismal path so long and gray

till snow appears and hides the hunter's prey.
New scenes occur of softer landscape mark,
tame skies whose colors bleach in dull array.

Resplendent white now blankets to allay
our thirst for beauty with a lustrous lark.
The winter's dismal path is long and gray,
with skies whose colors bleach in dull array.

Details | Cona Adams Poem

Murder In Randolph County

(Spenserian Sonnet) 

A flagrant man is Robert Brown, a swine;
his eyes glow red like ember coals of fire.
Will fate be kind or bring him bitter brine
and will his soul the evil one require?
Did in pretense he seek to prove desire
and rise to plant a kiss upon her lips?
He sliced her neck and watched his wife expire,
as blood streamed down and dripped from fingertips.
Yet rumor spread as neighbors came to grips
with horror of a murder in their town,
and newsmen raced to pen details in scripts
while lawmen flocked to chase the villain down.
          I held my mother in my arms and cried;
          her eyes met mine in sorrow as she died.

Details | Cona Adams Poem

Time Soldiers On

Irregardless of effort 
or desire,
we can't stop time.

Weeks fall into months,
seasons stream past 
like runaway trains,
stamping birthdays on calendars,
etching wrinkles on skin,
planting age spots everywhere.

The galloping gobbler
moves ever onward,
with sharpened blade, 
to slice away memories, 
and bestow;

weaker eyesight,
diminishing strength,
brain skips,
plus popping  joints.

Alas, twilight stops soon for thee,
Twilight stops, now, for me.


cfa ? 9/2/2012
Revised 4/20/2014

Details | Cona Adams Poem

Cupcake Craving

Our granddaughter loves cupcakes.
Someday, she wants to run a cupcake business.
Someday, she wants to be a beautician.
Someday, she wants to specialize in makeup.
Someday, she wants to be a singer.
Someday, she wants to be a songwriter.
Someday, she wants to go to college.

I’m voting for number one 
and number seven.
I love cupcakes.
If she goes to college, 
her cupcake business might succeed.

You go, girl!

Details | Cona Adams Poem

Hitler Burns

Hitler is burning
He burned yesterday
He will be burning tomorrow
He began to burn immediately 
after his last breath.
Hitler will burn forever.
He would gladly accept a drop
of cool water on his tongue
from the least of those at Auschwitz,
at Dachau, at Warsaw, at Flossenburg.

Now, he knows.

He needs no convincing;
how cruel he was,
how wrong he was,
how doomed he was,
from the moment he began
to devalue those he termed
 “useless humanity.”
Now, he understands
that each one
was more acceptable than he.

He has total recall of each 
prideful thought, callous decision,  
every brutal act, 
Now, he sees their faces
perpetually before him.

Hitler cannot escape the flames,
his torment will never end.
Yet he is not consumed.

Hitler burns.

Details | Cona Adams Poem

The Mystery of Spring

(a Salute to Howard Moss)

Although it is not yet warm,
we have shoved to the backs of closets
snow-boots, gloves, and woolen scarves, 
locked tire chains and ice scrapers
into trunks of automobiles as if
tomorrow the first bloom appears.

Oh, stiff wind blow, hold back snow,
whose flakes unwelcome gust
while hearts claim lilac scent.
Oh, pale moon, come, lend your light.
Oh, songbird, drop your sweet notes here,
while old men's hats sail past
and girls push down their skirts—
with both hands—as purses cling
on hunched shoulders and hair-strands 
blow against cheeks. 

What is this howling wind
and who brought this mournful song,
this wild, feathered up-surging
as if tomorrow the world upturns.
We've shoved our gloves, 
our boots and scarves behind
the racks in backs of closets, 
locked away the sacks of salt,
and scoured the ground for signs
of hyacinth buds or crocus flush,

while old mens' hats sail past
and girls hold down their skirts
as purses sway and hair-strands
whip against their cheeks?
And though it is not yet warm,
there is the mystery of spring.

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Southern Hospitality

(A Blank Verse Sonnet)

In June, we traveled south to Memphis town,
a public poets' fete with Southern flair.
The mid-south heart unfolded nationwide,
an open cloak of warmth spread far afield
in concert with the sound and sense of rhyme.
A graciousness so coupled with its pride
to sharpen all who came in studied hope
and reasoned well effect, to prove result.
Yet seasoned poets put their pens aside;
the books they found, devoured with eyes and minds
already voiced the thoughts mankind repeats,
our ageless chants for hearts in love or pain.
        The weather's pull to southern ports advanced
        the lure of southern charm from heart to heart.

Details | Cona Adams Poem

Snow Replay

Not Again! six inches on top of the snow we already had! This started out to be a blank verse sonnet, but it didn't turn out that way.


The snow has smothered life tonight
Our world now gleams in flawless white
Below the earth, the bulbs’ low whine
impatient with delay of time.

Their voice is faint and fainter still
the cry of birds in fluffed-up chill
so hunger thinned in winter snap
with hidden food beneath its wrap.

Yet seed thrown out on top of snow
and cooked with peanut butter, slow
then shaped in cakes with honey glue
has brought to us a checkered queue

As daylight hails, we watch to see
this comic scene of feathered spree.

Details | Cona Adams Poem

A Mouse In the House

A most unfortunate event
has occurred at our house.
It's embarrassing to admit,
We have a resident mouse.

The elusive little devil
has avoided every trap.
Though set in various places,
we've yet to hear a snap.

We have a playful tomcat
who loves his toy mouse,
carries it clutched in his teeth 
to flip, toss and pounce.

Unfortunately, he performs
the same with a live one.
I'm urging, "Get it, kill it,"
he's too busy having fun.

Again and again he turns
it loose, enjoying the chase.
The mouse runs for his life,
hopeful of winning the race.

The crafty little victim
eludes the slothful brute,
scuttles down a heat vent, 
leaves Tom to other pursuits.

Whereupon he saunters around,
searching for his toy mouse.
We're left with a useless cat
and a mouse in the house.

Details | Cona Adams Poem

He Who Delivers

God of the universe, God of love,
 yearns in sorrow.

Man, created in his own image, 
spurns his love,
pushes aside his words.

Even the knell, 
conveyed in aquatic tongue, 
rests on closed ears.

His ultimate roar becomes a whisper
in the hearts of men: Sin and death
have now been crushed.

He who believes,
may yet be redeemed.

© cfa 11/27/2013