Potpourri - Mixed Poetry

Royally Arrayed

I am the sky on autumn days,
The ocean as it's viewed from space,
A kingly peacock's regal plumes,
A jay adorned with wings of grace,

The charming hue in human eyes,
A mountain swallowtail in flight,
The hottest flame within a fire,
A morning glory bathed in light,

The layered tinge of Neptune's tone,
A gentian flower's summer glow,
A precious topaz mined from rocks,
The fragile shell where robins grow,

The stately pride of nature's hues,
Hibiscus drenched in morning dew,
The largest whale to swim the sea,
The royal color known as blue.

Image by ArtTower via Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Forgotten

I've read the wizened words inscribed with pens
That wistful poets paint with latent eyes.
Their pains, abandoned dreams, and faithless friends
Are voiced in lines of verse that some despise.
They drown in sorrow dancing in their minds,
For they can see the tears within their words.
They sing exquisite lines of varied kinds,
Much like the songs of captured mourning birds.
Oh, pleasant are their words when I despair,
When soothing solace draws away from me.
Their tears are like a balm applied with care,
Which soothes a captive heart and sets it free.
Their choral words may see a thousand years,
Forgotten then will be the poet's tears.

Image by cottonbro studio via Pexels

Poetic form: Sonnet

Published at The Society of Classical Poets

The Sun In Me

I'm trapped and lost in desert lands,
Where scorpions roam the scorching sands
And clouds hold back from setting free
A drop to quench the sun in me.

The furnace from the daylight star
Has dried the waters from afar,
And now my lips implore to see
A drop to quench the sun in me.

A camel stares as I inch by
On blistered knees that beg to die,
While heaven sends toward the sea
A drop to quench the sun in me.

The dawn supplants the fleeing night,
And I escape my dream of fright.
I then can see what is to be
The drop to quench the sun in me.

Image by Pexels via Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain - Kyrielle

Valiant Men

The sailors brave the angry storm
As waves the ocean brings.
It seems to them one hundred years
Of fighting death despite their fears,
Like ancient warring kings.

The frigid water stings their hands
And chills their sodden skin.
But they confront the ghastly howls
And fight with death as thunder growls
To reach their land and kin.

The valiant men unite as one
And bravely surge ahead.
No wave or grave their will can break
Nor dim the morning light to wake;
They fight for life instead.

But there, behind a swelling wave,
A larger one they see.
And so they pray their ship holds out
As they again attempt to rout
A sanguinary sea.

Image is in the Public Domain

Poetic form: Quintain

The Price of Foolish Pride

The sands expand before his eyes
And stretch across the earth.
He craves the tears that heaven sends
To save what Hades never lends,
To him a million worth.

Alas, so bravely he could boast,
When he began his walk,
His strength would surge to let him fly
O'er sands the sun had scorched so dry
Not even Death would stalk.

He crawls and hopes the sun will spare
His blistered flesh this day.
Lamenting what his pride had vowed
In arrogance to please a crowd,
He bows his head to pray.

Despaired, he recognizes late
His foolishness to cry.
So now he waits for Death to dare
To walk the sands before a pair
Of vultures circling high.

Image by Pezibear via Pixabay

Hades = the grave

Poetic form: Quintain

Narcissist

While sitting in a bistro chair
  And staring out a window's glare,
You shift your head and flick your hair
  To roving eyes that gawk and stare.
You deign to glance beyond your book
  To smile at those who pass and look.
But there is one for whom you care,
  The girl whose eyes you also share.
With only her, you spare your view,
  A mirrored stamp of one like you.

Image by brad-lloyd via Unsplash

Poetic form: Couplet

A Forgotten Joy

He drives in grief to grandma's home,
The place he always loved to roam.
For decades now, he has been gone,
But death has claimed her life at dawn.

When he arrives, a crowd has thronged
To grieve for her, who had belonged.
And then he joins the tears that flow
As he absorbs the heavy blow.

They talk about the times they shared
And how they felt so unprepared.
But now that she has breathed her last,
They look for comfort in the past.

Recalling all his wondrous years,
He steps away from all his peers.
His eyes are drawn to photo frames
That now preserve undying names.

In thought, he walks into her room,
Where he had played in days of bloom.
And there, beside his grandma's bed,
Remained his box of faded red.

He lifts the lid, then reaches in
And finds the boy that he had been.
And now, like then, he hugs the toy
His grandma made to bring him joy.

Image by PublicDomainPictures via Pixabay

Poetic form: Couplet - Narrative

Published at The Society of Classical Poets

Again

The bench is near where children play
And where she sits to dream and muse.
She knows her life will shortly fade—
A doleful thought she can't refuse.

Her wrinkled skin declares her age,
And her eyes, alive years ago
When young and lustrous in their shine,
Now seem like dying embers' glow.

Her hair is dull, a tangled gray,
And lifeless in the twilight breeze.
She smiles, recalling years ago
When she could walk with graceful ease.

The countless memories she's stored
Begin to flood her waning mind.
Oh, how she longs for youth once more—
The days when life was fun and kind.

The children's songs and gleeful shrieks
Arrest her ears and misty eyes.
She sees in them the days she lived—
The years she wants to eulogize.

As she observes the children play,
The clouds announce an evening rain.
She faintly smiles and shuts her eyes,
Then dreams of being a child again.

Image by geralt via Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain - Narrative

Published at The Society of Classical Poets

The Name We Leave

When we first breathe and start to peer,
What we will be is still unclear.
A book of pages yet unturned
Is what we are when we appear.

Whether assigned, purloined, or earned,
And when a standing time has burned,
The name revealed on every page
Will be critiqued, adored, or spurned.

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

Image by DariuszSankowski via Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain - Rubaiyat

Published at The Society of Classical Poets

These Things

We keep the mirror to ourselves,
And life around us nearly fades.
We place these things on hidden shelves
When trivial cares the mind invades.

But when we buy the time to see
The gifts that we for granted take,
Appreciative we come to be
For splendid things that we forsake.

The lofty trees along a lake,
A single cloud in bluish skies,
The sun when evening comes awake,
The break of dawn as darkness flies,

The scent of flowers roused by spring,
The lengthened days that summer shares,
The hues and colors fall will bring,
The gowns of down that winter wears,

The moon in phases till it smiles,
The stars applauding twilight plays,
The sounds of evening heard for miles,
The songs of birds at dawning 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 morning walks;

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

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

Image by v2osk via Unsplash

Poetic form: Quatrain

Fleeting Peace

The men can hear the burst of rattling guns,
But they cannot avoid the raging war.
A war where death has gathered many sons
And brings along the grave to harvest more.
The soldiers search for strength to battle on,
Then forge ahead, but soon are swiftly downed.
Then death begins to walk at early dawn
To gather scarlet trophies from the ground.
This dreadful scene is part of all the wars
Where nations ravage nations they abhor.
A few will strive for peace to shut the doors
Before voracious death returns for more.
From dawn to dusk, the sun observes the pain
Of earnest men who reach for peace in vain.

Image by Activedia via Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

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,
And bring to mind the words you pine,
So that your pen may gently weep.

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

It walks where flowers dress in style
As raindrops bathe them near the Nile,
Then joins a throng of birds in flight
Above the clouds for just a while.

It stands as happy couples walk
As they share kisses while they talk,
And notes when children start to play
A hopscotch game they drew with chalk.

In deepened silence, close your eyes
And see yourself above the skies,
Then view the dreams you want to write
When inspiration starts to rise.

Image by cromaconceptovisual via Pixabay

Muse = Inspiration

Poetic form: Quatrain - Rubaiyat

A Healing In The Woods

I pause, somewhat perplexed by what I feel—
An ache that has withdrawn behind these walls.
A chamber where my thoughts cannot reveal
The mental state I hid within its halls.
A final act is played as curtains fall
And thoughts from long ago begin to fade.
I sense that hurried time has cast a call,
And so I leave behind the price I've paid.
Above, I hear the songs of morning birds,
Distracting me from thoughts of long ago.
Their lovely ballads are like soothing words
That mend and heal while setting hearts aglow.
These woods applaud my walk of beaming cheer,
For I, at last, have shed my days of fear.

Image by luke-stackpoole via Unsplash

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 scent and raiment of your skin belie
The choicest food my mouth can hope to dine.
I am enticed to force my lips to try
Your Bleu d’Auvergne along with reddish wine.

The bluish veins of Stilton Britons prize,
While 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,
To close my eyes as taste buds start to sing.

Image by PDPhotos via Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

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

Muse = Inspiration

Poetic form: Quatrain

Pawn

O haughty king, atop this stately ground,
Your army waits to hear your battle cry.
Your rooks and fearless queen with might astound
As knights dare tread where bishops fight and die.
The battle rages on as 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 thrust his silver lance aside your queen.
You howl and see your rampart has been breached;
My pawn achieved a blow you had not seen.
Your haughty laugh has ended at his hand;
A lowly pawn defeats you where you stand.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Florence

From far away, she slowly walks.
Her angry shrieks to heaven climb.
She rides the ocean as she stalks
And traps the day in lightless time.

Across the vast expanse she goes,
Her windswept hair adorns her crown.
Beyond her breath are cries of woe.
Within her tears, the islands drown.

She reaches land in darkened skies,
And all the trees shake heads in fear.
Undressed and scarred as winds arise,
They start to groan, for death is near.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain

Blue Marble

Blue marble, dancing daily with the sun,
Your spin is swift yet balanced in the void.
Each night, the stars light up till early dawn,
As if to praise the dance they have enjoyed.
Your siblings envy your cerulean gown;
Its bluish color glows beyond the sky.
Majestic is the shawl as soft as down
That drapes your form where birds are known to fly.
The orange blush of falling dusk reveals
A sampling of the hues that dye your gown.
There's amber, gold, and scarlet, which appeals
To all who view the splendor of your crown.
Sleep well, my charming lady, until dawn,
Then dance again as all the stars look on.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Sonnet

Depression

I am what nightly haunts your dreams
To bring you fear and drenching sweat.
I'm lurking while you sob in streams
Because of what you can't forget.

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

I am the scar that mars your heart,
The plaintive voice you hear each night.
I veil the life you want to start
And only show you scenes of blight.

I am the darkness in your soul,
Your one companion while you cry.
I'm not your friend; I have one goal:
To dim your light until you die.

Image by Andrik Langfield via Unsplash

Poetic form: Quatrain

Shades of Gray

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

My eyes are drawn to shades of gray,
Not crimson lips with which to play.
I see no blue beyond the rain
Or rainbow hues, just walls of clay.

Although I'm weak, I want to fight,
Not languish through another night.
I want to see the rise of dawn
When she awakens dressed in white.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain - Rubaiyat

A Voice In The Night

The rising moon had reached a dismal gray
When he became aware of someone there.
For he had heard a voice, a ghastly bray,
Which shook his mind awake in great despair.

He hears the voice again within the room
And feels the stinging words across his face.
His burning ears can hear the prose of doom,
Which starts his heart to run a frightful race.

The voice derides his mind with caustic flak
As he attempts to find the rasping groan.
He sees the silent mirror leering back,
Then hears the words from lips that are his own.

Image by Pixabay

Poetic form: Quatrain