Tribute

-any poet, whether famous or found on here.
-address said poet.
-keep it tidy, don't post until you're sure of no misspellings or other errors.
-no collabs

Great idea.

On Poetry Corner, where we first met,
I'd heard of his talent and the standards he set,
Raving reviews of the poems he wrote,
Though not one to boast and not one to gloat.
I laughed and scoffed, so? Big deal!
Until I read his poetry and it was unreal...
The profound contemplation in the depths of his words,
The elegance and grace held inside was absurd,
Twisting and turning sentences round,
Describing sight, taste and sound,
The meaning deeper than shown at first...
For his poetry I had grown a thirst.
I devoured more, constantly,
As he carried on writing, as if just for me,
And then he commended a poem of mine,
And the feeling that arose was purely sublime,
'My God!' I thought, in ecstasy,
'He loves a poem that's written by me!'
It would be an understatement to say I was glad,
For it was surely the best compliment I had ever had?
Elohim's poetry sets a bar for the rest,
And though many are good, he is the best.

(Written in tribute of Anne Sexton)

I escape often
to the high bricked corners
of Mercy Street,
my mind waltzing blissfully
with the opaque visions of your past

waiting constantly,
for the off-white street signs
to feed me like the poor, needy woman 
I remember I am 
when I drown in the comforting lines
of wine and cheap cigarettes

I imagine the smoke mingling
in the awkwardness of presence
the calming clack of old ink on yellow pages 
that cradled you in the chaos
of an insane calm,
the vowels wrapped tightly
into the pagan psalms 
of those who managed thirty

and I wish that I could be so calm
before the presence of death
merely silent, in the dwelling of shadows
as they walk among their people 

and turn off the lights

Conqueror (Edgar Allan Poe)

It rose from the darkest pits
like a worm, slithering
into thoughts and minds
of the imbeciles of society,
an elegant deception
to crave out, a self portrait
of profane grace and disillusion
from the horrors of the deep black,
the theme for this sordid play.

Washing away emotions in vanity's cold kiss
you can't fathom the weight the devil holds
in these quiet withering years of loneliness
seeking company not unlike his own.

Enact it again, that mortal's despair
and a thousand times over in limbo
and with vigor go mad and become the sin,
this tragedy called man has a conqueror.

http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/55752-conqueror/

Monster

Broken hands can only mend the forgotten
Maybe I would've been real
Had I learned to speak
But silence is key
For my words are read, yet you can be blind
There's nothing better than Champagne on ice
I remember countless hours
Of darkness that consumes you
Your third red eye is shining brighter
Put the mask back on
Before they find you

Show me what it is like
To be so unreal
Because your shadow corner is getting light
I can only say half of what is real
To lose this chance
Is more than I can take
So be here today
Then forever
You'll stay away
No one
Nothing
None

....
Finis


http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poets/noonenothingnone

^ nice!

13 said:^ nice!
Thank you. He's one of my favorite writers, and friends

http://wordbiscuit.com/images/peopleinsun.jpg
'People in the Sun' - Edward Hopper



                   
                          < 8 flower tales >
                           
                           
                           
                              - 1 -
                           
                           all winter
                           the spring
                           grew inside us
                           
                           now
                           our mouths open
                           and flowers tumble out
                           
                           
                           
                               - 2 -
                           
                           the rush of sprouting
                           of shoots
                           pushing aside old leaves
                           
                           of stems ascending
                           as the buds
                           inflate to airy flowers
                           
                           
                           
                               - 3 -
                           
                           the bees warn us
                           as the mouths of flowers
                           open wide to swallow us
                           
                           but since it's spring
                           we jump
                           right in
                           
                           
                           
                               - 4 -
                           
                           wheels
                           their axles
                           through the ground
                           
                           swerve over us
                           with the curve
                           of the sky
                   
                   
                   
                               - 5 -
                           
                           as the afternoon
                           advances
                           the petals add
                           
                           determining
                           if you are loved
                           or not
                           
                           
                           
                               - 6 -
                           
                           the waste basket
                           holds
                           these yellow flowers
                           
                           tears
                           you're not sure
                           who they're for
                           
                           
                           
                               - 7 -
                           
                           the roundness
                           of a face
                           above us
                           
                           the pleasant sense
                           of color
                           that continues
                           
                           
                           
                               - 8 -
                           
                           after the steady
                           flowing
                           of years
                           
                           the grace
                           of our hands
                           turns to flowers
                           
                   
                               - - -
                   

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Pablo Neruda’s poetic language of love
interpreted through the eyes of the beholder,
the reader; felt through the words,
incited by the emotions carefully crafted
by this architect with quill and parchment;
monuments to love, sorrows,
happiness and heartbreak.
Theses constructs’ are built on sentiments felt,
memories remembered and tears shed.
Contained therein the palm of the reader
who subscribes to the notions, its creator describes.
Such simple edicts encompass
a prism of colored emotions
that speak to the heart and soul of the follower,
moving them to tears or firing up there rage,
even igniting a passion so tumultuous
that a books’ humble binding, can barely contain.
Such is the art cultivated by scribes
with exquisitely selected words
in a multitude of languages that are
used to express the vision of the artist.

Gypsy Red

A Short Tribute to Robert

What tender spirit overlooking Gloucester's bay
Would not be touched by what he had to say

The gentlest of souls from New England's heart
Reminding us about living, or at least how to start

From Snowy Evenings to Mending Walls
Starlight Nights to New Hampshire Falls

Blueberries, Birches, The Road Not Taken
A peace of mind that we'ved sadly forsaken

Embracing life, his humanity never lost
America's voice is the poetry of Frost

A Tribute to My Fellow Underground Poets

I plan to take my time, have some playful fun
With this latest challenge that is so appropriate

To honor and pay tribute to some of my fellow DUP versifiers
Rebel poets so very off the grid, but ironically still on the web

Of course there's Somelikeithot, one of the first to greet me
Who has a dynamic range of talent, literally making any subject poetic

Then there is a certain redheaded gypsy, warrior princess, my sister in arms
Sharing a love of floriculture with me, her words make me swoon, teaching that there is no room for ugly words in beautiful poetry

Stepping out of the Lord of the Rings is Strider, an able and skilled soldier and swordsman
Gifted in poeting about love, eros, and war with fanciful words that ring so true

All the way from Wales is Lady Magdalena, an enchantress most epic
Weaving beautiful words out of all the ugliness in the world, leaving this man oft in a puddle of tears

I'd be remiss if I forgot a certain jogging turtle
Full of wit and real depth, even though he has been running since '87

Of course there is my gal pal, ELL30 who is a true kindred spirit
Challenging and inspiring me to write about what is most true and still hurts the deepest as she finds her own poetic voice

Then there is my little Blossom in the Snow, Splinteredlostsoul
Her purity and suffering make me want to take the blade from her hand, replacing it with a healing quill

A relatively new writing colleague and real charmer is Rosebud, with poems so crisp and poignant
Who swears to this day that I read her journal, not realizing that I just reengineer the webcamera on her laptop

To the the rest of y'all, there is still tommorrow or the day after
For us to get to know each other thru our shared love of poetics and leaving our poems, fingerprints of our souls for discovery

Le Colonel (Sometimes referred to as "The Kinky Colonel" by some not so respecting of my rank and good standing)

SEASPUN FRIENDSHIP


A beckoning
yearning
Souls refuge
purest intentions
more than an escape.

Whether tears, giggles, victories or hurts
I listen, not just hear.

Ginger-hued parchment sky
clouds slashed with brushstrokes
of cranberry stain
and violet dye
cerulean blue
passionate artist hue.

A beauty piercing
as a lightning strike
slicing one in two
intensity with
fireflame blue.

Here the soul is warmed
and fed
even the air
grateful for the chance
to share it's
windswept breath.

Salt tipped mist
of sand
a canvas
marking the heart.

To the waves I whisper
the swell aware
of heart's delight.

Upon the wet sand I stretch
my body and thought
ocean two-steps
drenches hair
and licks the toes.

Finger breezes dip
and lift sprays
to christen skin
with crystal droplets touch.

The waves crest,
a surge of hope for the heart.
Clouds fold
a golden light
set down upon
obsidian pool below.

Sun kisses sea
a shiver, not a chill.
Sunset bleeds into water
casting shimmering prism
a jewel box night.

Pearl orb suspended
in velvet sky
pierced by singing stars
my ears absorbing their chorus.

Luscious abyss of darkness
I wish not to escape
enveloping with it's satin touch
a phantom kiss, seaspun rush.

How can one not be inspired
for in the sun and moon
stars and watery deep
poetry is alive
etching itself unto us.
Were you to cut us open
we would bleed the sea and heavens.

As our time this day ends
a stitch pulled closer to mend
tender, long hugs we share
fortifying friendship's spark.

(tribute to Rachel O.)

Anonymous said:<< post removed >>
No more than two, please.
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Excellent entries so far everyone!