Poetry Potpourri

Reflection

The aged man reflects on years gone by,
Recalling days misspent on puerile youth.
Oh, how he yearns to set aright those years,
But time will not replace recorded truth.

A child at play now stands and stares at him;
A gentle smile adorns his tranquil face.
He's yet to know the jagged scars of life,
So seems content and happy in his place.

The wrinkled man so wishes to counsel him,
To offer instructions to guide his life;
To be his shining light for years ahead,
To steer his steps away from coming strife.

He wants to point to friends that wear a mask;
To learn to keep the ones who show support.
Reveal the youthful times he'll fall in love,
And skirt infatuation's sharp retort.

Yet, he is powerless to help, to show
The child the hidden pits he should avoid.
He wants to share what he himself has learned,
The wisdom graying men have oft employed.

But selfish time retains what it has gained;
It only opens doors to days ahead.
He slowly bows his head in deep regret,
Then peers into the eyes of one now dead.

They share a knowing smile before they part,
For time cannot reverse and bring them nearer.
They raise their hands, and fingers gently touch,
Then turn to leave behind the shattered mirror.

Image of mirror by batuhan-dogan from Unsplash

Image of old man by eberhard-grossgasteiger from Unsplash

Poetic form: Quatrain

Again

The bench is near where children play,
Her cherished place to dream and muse.
She knows that soon she must obey
A final call she can't refuse.

Her wrinkled skin her age declares,
And eyes, unclouded years ago,
When men had chased her with their stares,
Now seem like embers losing glow.

Her hair, a dull and whitish-gray,
Lies flat on shoulders hunched from age.
She sits to think of yesterday,
Her days of youth—the world her stage.

The countless memories she stored
Begin to flood her aging mind.
Like youthful days when she explored
The joys of life of every kind.

The children's songs and gleeful shrieks
Arrest her ears and misty eyes.
Remembrance of the days she seeks,
The years she wants to eulogize.

But now, as she observes them play,
And clouds announce an evening rain,
She shuts her eyes this final day,
And longs to be a child again.

Image by geralt from Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Nightmare

The nightmare fetched a wailing flow,
A thousand tears from years ago.
A crying child called out to me
And begged to end his frightful woe.

Afar I heard his plaintive plea,
From weeping lips I could not see.
And yet I heard the child so clear,
I fought to wake to help him flee.

But then I saw a man appear,
Grotesque in form and causing fear.
My anger flowed as rolling tide,
For to the child, he drew too near.

I howled in anger as he cried,
So sought to aid the child to hide.
But I could not arise to help,
Since it was me, the child inside.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Rubaiyat

The Name We Leave

When born and thrust onto our sphere,
We do not make a name that year.
A book of pages still unturned,
Is what we are, when life we peer.

In time, we ply what we have learned,
For good or bad, purloined or earned.
A name is inked onto each page,
And seen by those we've loved or spurned.

We hope before we leave the stage,
By early death or golden age,
The reputation left behind,
Is one of kindness, not of rage.

Image by DariuszSankowski from Pixabay

Poetic form: Rubaiyat

Alone With Silence

She stands by me this somber day,
An overcast one, full of gray.
I glance at people walking by;
They seem perplexed and far away.

Their world and life have gone awry,
Where wrong is right and low is high.
They fear a future they don't know;
It seems their minds keep asking, why?

Around the world are cries of woe,
From mighty kings and those below.
A scourge has marred their daily scene,
Where death has aimed a fatal blow.

Pandemics, wars and things obscene,
Have plagued what was for them routine.
And now, they feel a vague unease,
A nagging doubt from things unseen.

I sense a gliding gentle breeze
And note the sigh along the trees.
The leaves are roused by its command,
But soon return to rest at ease.

As evening walks across the land,
And time has passed like grains of sand,
I bow my head in earnest prayer,
While bashful silence holds my hand.

Image by Engin_Akyurt from Pixabay

Poetic form: Rubaiyat

These Things

We are so drawn within ourselves,
That life around us nearly fades.
We place these things in hidden shelves,
When daily cares the mind invades.

But when we buy the time to see,
Enjoy what we for granted take,
Appreciative we come to be,
For gifted things that we forsake;

A lofty tree along a lake,
A single cloud in bluish skies,
The sun when evening starts to wake,
The break of dawn as darkness flies;

The scent of flowers sprayed by spring,
The lengthened days that summer shares,
The reds that fall to trees will bring,
The gown of down that winter wears;

The moon in stages till it smiles,
The stars applauding twilight plays,
The chorus night performs for miles,
The songs of birds at morning rays;

The sand that plays with flirting seas,
The spray of crashing waves on rocks,
The soothing touch of ocean breeze,
The joy derived from lengthy walks;

A brightly colored butterfly,
A hummingbird in flawless flight,
A dragonfly that hovers high,
A purple finch that eyes delight;

A hermit thrush of lilting songs,
The precious air that lifts its wings,
The rain that falls where it belongs,
A wondrous home that holds these things.

Image by v2osk from Unsplash

Poetic form: Quatrain

The Book of Motherhood

Remember now, in these your later years,
The book inside your heart of happy days.
When you first felt the fruits within your womb,
When you first held them close with love ablaze.
When they with happy eyes took one first step,
While you held out your arms and sang to them.
The giggles drawn from lips that played like songs;
The joy they spread like flowers on a stem.
Those seeds have grown like trees with mighty roots,
Because of all the love you showered them.
Then they in turn one day will plant new trees,
And fill your heart with joy, a priceless gem!
Inside you now are stored your happy years,
So turn to them, and rid your heart of fears.

Image by one_life from Pixabay

Poetic form: Rhyme

Fleeting Peace

The men can hear the sounds of rattling guns;
A few hold out that peace will end the war.
A war where death has gathered many sons,
And still returns with grave to gather more.

The soldiers search for strength to battle on;
They forge ahead despite the dead around.
Then death begins to walk at early dawn,
Collecting scarlet trophies from the ground.

This ghastly scene has played in all the wars,
When nations ravage nations they abhor.
Yet men of peace will strive to shut the doors,
Before rapacious death returns for more.

From dawn to dusk the sun observes the pain,
Of countless men who reach for peace in vain.

Image by Activedia from Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Their Lyrics Live On

This night, I pause to rest a weary pen,
Then close my eyes to dream of early days.
The days of lyrics penned by Blake and Frost,
But drowned today by verses lacking blaze.

Awakened sorrow grips my searching mind,
For rhyming lines antique to many seem.
Contemporary verse, composed in prose,
Eschews the measured lyrics I esteem.

The lack of meter seen in current verse,
Deprives the heart of ballads lit aflame.
Forgotten seems the works of Byron, Keats,
In modern lines that shun their rhythmic flame.

I don't believe their words have seen their day,
For even now their lilting lines I breathe.
The songs within my heart won't be restrained;
Like roaring ocean waves they start to seethe.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Write Your Dreams

Of what are you afraid this night,
A chambered room of doubt and fright?
Of thoughts you've lost in darkened halls,
A pen whose ink has taken flight?

Perhaps your muse has gone to sleep,
In search of dreams that it may reap;
To bring to mind what you have pined,
So words your pen can gently weep.

It dreams of coves where seas advance,
And waves arise then crash and dance;
Of fields of blooms, a setting sun,
Of stars that light the dark expanse.

A walk where flowers dress in style,
As sun rays bathe them near the Nile.
In flight with birds of choral songs,
While soaring high above each isle.

Or maybe stands as couples walk,
While sharing kisses as they talk;
Observing children as they play
A game of hopscotch drawn with chalk.

In silence deep then close your eyes,
To see yourself above the skies,
And view the dreams you want to write,
When you invite your muse to rise.

Image by cromaconceptovisual from Pixabay

Poetic form: Rubaiyat

A Healing In The Woods

I pause, somewhat perplexed by what I feel,
An ache that has withdrawn to secret halls.
A chamber where my thoughts cannot reveal,
The mental state I hide behind these walls.

A final act has played as curtains fall,
And memories begin to slowly fade.
It seems that age has changed me overall,
In time, perhaps, before my grave is made.

From trees I hear the songs of morning birds,
Distracting me from musing years gone by.
Their lovely ballads are like healing words,
The type that balms and pain dares to defy.

These woods applaud my walk of beaming cheer,
For I at last have shed the days of fear.

Image by luke-stackpoole from Unsplash

Poetic form: Sonnet

Near To Death

Face to face with death last night,
Ravens watched while still in flight.
Voices shrilled, "do quake with fear,
Death has come, your end is near."

Night withdrew when dawn arrived,
Flight of death, and I survived.
Fear awoke in me a scream;
Near to death, or just a dream?

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain - Jueju-Qijue

Long Is A Poet's Night

Return, my muse, my voice give back,
For night has yet to settle down.
As sundown dims to shades of black,
My thoughts in fading ink now drown.

My fleeting words are barely there,
Unnoticed, lines that crave the light.
So please, my friend, see my despair,
And grant me words that I may write.

This darkness hides the world outside;
It veils my eyes so I can't see.
Rich colors daylight had supplied,
But now my words will not pour free.

Beside the window, dressed in black,
I sit, and frown, for night has won.
My coffee cools, my pen holds back,
My muse has left me, like the sun.

Image courtesy of paintingvalley.com CC BY-NC 4.0 License

Poetic form: Quatrain

Florence

From far away she slowly walks,
Her shrieks of anger rise and climb.
She rides the ocean as she stalks,
And traps the day in lightless time.

Across the vast expanse she goes,
Her windswept hair of clouds her crown.
Beyond her breath are cries of woes;
Her angry tears the islands drown.

She reaches land in darkened skies,
The trees all shake their heads in fear.
Undressed and scarred as waters rise,
They start to moan, for death is near.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Blue Marble

Blue marble, dancing with the beaming sun,
  Your spin is swift, yet balanced in the void.
The glowing moon returns when you are done,
  Applauding with the stars what they've enjoyed.
Your siblings envy your cerulean gown,
  For none of them your beauty can deny.
Majestic is the shawl of fluffy down,
  That garbs your form amid the bluish sky.
The orange blush of falling dusk reveals,
  A symphony of hues that dye your gown.
Like amber, gold and scarlet that appeals,
  To all who view the splendor of your crown.
Sleep well, my charming lady, till the dawn,
  And dance again, as all the stars look on.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Know Her Name

Beware of honeyed words she softly sings,
To roaming eyes of men whose hearts she seeks.
Her scented body drapes with luscious things,
And walks in lustful steps with shapely peaks.

Her name was known throughout the eras past,
Yet ever men on knees will bend to her.
Ignoring that her words a spell will cast,
They crave the poisoned brew infused with myrrh.

But know her name, the impact of her fame,
And guard the entrance sought with her beguile.
The bitter brew she stirs can light a flame,
And sear the heart with shame and bitter vile.

Temptation is her name, with aims impure;
A weakened heart is swayed by her allure.

Image by KELLEPICS from Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Bleu Cheese Blues

Oh, moldy cheese, why do you tempt me so?
Why call at me with rancid bluish lines?
Your piquant bite makes my saliva flow,
Your texture my aversion undermines.

The raiment on your skin and scent belie
The finest food the mouth can hope to dine.
I am enticed to force my lips to try
Your Bleu d’Auvergne to zest with finest wine.

The Stilton’s bluish veins all Britons prize,
And Gorgonzola shows Italian pride.
Delighting in these blues may seem unwise,
Until a piece defies the lips to slide.

Despite the color of its moldy skin,
I crave to try your Roquefort’s pungent sting.
Its wafting scent will tempt my mouth to sin;
Averting eyes as taste buds start to sing.

Image by PDPhotos from Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Pawn

You haughty king atop this lofty ground,
Your army waits to hear your battle cry.
The rooks and queen with might my pawns astound,
As knights dare tread where bishops fight and die.

The battle rages on, your lines advance;
I hear the snorts of horses close to me.
The end seems nigh, despite my bravest stance,
While you behind your queen begin to flee.

But there where you take rest, my pawn has reached,
And thrusts his silver lance aside your queen.
You howl and see your rampart has been breached;
A pawn has aimed a blow that was unseen.

Your prideful laugh has ended at his hand;
A lowly pawn defeats you where you stand.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Death's Deceit

The waves of time in haste lap at my feet,
As rising tides submerge my years of life.
Now death demands my breath in its deceit;
With fervent lies it seeks to cause me strife.

My youthful vigor time has cast aside,
And serves me only flashes of the past.
Reflections I hold dear with joyful pride,
Soon death will take away from me at last.

But I will not go down while losing hope!
For God calls out to me yet once again.
The ember in my heart has burned the rope,
Which had me fearing death's unholy reign.

God's love will break the spell that death has cast;
The waves of time don't fear, to life hold fast.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Darkened Soul

I am what nightly haunts your dreams,
The nights of tears and drenching sweat.
I'm lurking while you cry in streams,
From pain your heart cannot forget.

I am the ache behind the mask,
What others fail to see in you.
The grief behind your heavy casque,
While smiles you paint to hide your blue.

I am the scar that mars your heart,
That drowns the hope for which you reach.
The voices heard when dreams you chart,
When nightmares strive your sleep to breach.

I am depression, darkened soul,
Your one companion while you cry.
I'm not your friend, but have one goal,
To dim your light, till your goodbye.

Image by Andrik Langfield from Unsplash

Poetic form: Quatrain

Shades of Gray

My mind in darkness walks alone,
Without a friend to hear me groan;
No words to spur my weakened legs,
No hands to lift my arms of stone.

My eyes are drawn to shades of gray,
Not colors, tints, but walls of clay;
Not rainbow hues beyond the rain,
Not crimson lips with which to play.

My heart is weak, but wants to fight,
To fend despair and leave this night.
To see tomorrow's dawn arrive,
Then kiss a day of colors bright.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Rubaiyat

A Voice In The Night

When night had set in quiet darkened gray,
He sat upon his bed in startled stare,
For he had heard a voice, a ghastly bray,
Which kept his mind awake in great despair.

He knows not where the voice is in the room,
But feels the words from lips his soul debase.
With burning ears his mind hears words of doom,
Which cause his heart to run a frightful race.

The voice derides his mind with taunting clack,
In fright his eyes engage to find the groan.
He comes upon the mirror staring back,
And sees his lips then move, the voice his own.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Puerto Rican Child

The island, Puerto Rico, my sweet home,
Where happy children played with homemade toys;
Where ripened mangoes layered smiling lips;
A joyous time for wide-eyed girls and boys!

Our humble house on sturdy stilts was built,
To face the rising floods the rains would bring.
But into brownish waters I would swim,
Not yet aware of nature's brutal sting.

At evening rest, coquís would sing to me,
And I would smile as dreams performed their plays.
The rooster would cry out before the dawn,
A song I still can hear in aging days.

The day ahead would see me full of joy;
No rest for little feet that ran about.
The games I played were simple in design,
And yet with hearty laughter I would shout.

The stiffened wind would sail my flying kite,
As chicks and ducks had eyed my widened smile.
It seemed they feared that I would fly away,
And meet the kite to play above the isle.

And after play, when hungry I would be,
The fruiting trees delicious treats would give.
From mother I would hear delightful songs,
A call to home, in dreams I still relive.

Image courtesy of Pexel

Poetic form: Quatrain

The Unknown Path

The early morning fog clouds his vision,
yet he can make out her outline
within the shroud of the heavy mist.

Her divine figure entices him to join her,
while she signals with a finger to follow.

He is hesitant to traverse this unknown path,
but her smile, like a beacon welcoming
weary seafarers, seduces his senses,
and so he complies with her request.

In what seems like hours, he follows her,
his heart craving the delights she promises.

So blinded is he in his singular pursuit,
he does not notice their space never narrows.

Then, in the distance, he hears the familiar
wails of a siren, warning him to return.

But he already knows it is too late,
for he is now lost in his dream.

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

Poetic form: Free Verse

Potpourri

Poetry Potpourri

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