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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Dedicate Dream - Delicate Ditto Ditty

Dedicate Dream

Majestic maiden smiles, complete man scans
Amazed, nears woman angel, sacred, fault free
Unsung soul's crux, unused, dumb, soundless, can
Draw down, dropp dead-end deeds, and open key,
Etch heaven, heart enfeebled help, smart plan
Meld to mimamsa aim, dharma moments. Agree
As swept away are cares. Sea, earth round span,
Uniting human nature's future study
Destined idyll addressed, - add locked doors ban.
Ease scene. Remember if metered harmony
Mends madmen all, smart art may man pavan,
Age damns all hurrahs unshared - absurdity!
Unbundle unused fund of truth found dear,
Dedicate dream! Cede man-made fool dealt fear.

Polyacrostic Palimpsest robi3_1869_robi3_0000

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Mother's Day

Upon the day that I was born, my Mother gave me life -
A fragile baby so forlorn unused to pain and strife,
Unused to light that shone above, unused to all the glare...
I was her pride and joy to love, forevermore to share...
Upon the day she took me home, she held me by the hand.
It didn't matter where we'd roam, for God had something planned.
When Schooldays took me far away, each evening I returned.
She helped me every single day beyond the facts I'd learned.
She was a rock, a face that smiled, a great encouragement.
She gave her best to help her child as through the years we went.
The decades passed and she grew old till Jesus said, 'Be brave! '
To me, she was as good as gold till laid within her grave...
The tears still sting upon my eyes and fall upon my cheeks...
Memories share a love so nice and through these, she still speaks.
Each Mother's Day, I pause to pray, remembering her love.
She's now with Jesus every day... In Heaven, blessed above...

poem by Denis Martindale
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Indifference Eating Ozone Layer

global
warming
issue

is an
abused
concept

considering
technology
to safe restore

our Ozone Layer
exists in multiple
forms all unused

remains
abused
unused

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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To Burn Unused

“TO BURN UNUSED”

“To burn unused”
To be needed by no one
A burden to family and friends
A burden even
To the health – care – system.

Useless, sick, old-
Wondering how once a long time ago
One was a human being
And got somehow-
Without wanting or trying to-
To being
Something else.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Slaying The Dreamer [2008]

Sweet tulip graveyard of despair,
Lull the dreams I adore.
Dark lords seduce me in a glare
In worlds wielding unused lore.

Sweet tulip graveyard of despair,
Those meadows of heaven
Share the scent of a prayer
Slaying the romantic eleven.

Lull the dream I adore
For I am a lost maiden of poetic art.
Rotting along crimson shores,
Summoning thy slayer’s heart.

Dark lords seduce me in a glare
Leading astray to dreamer’s hideaway.
Receiving letters from faraway nightmares
Shall red suns enlighten the dreamer’s decay.

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poem by Catherine Beahl
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To the Lat

Of all who ever were or been.
Of all who breathed in hope of sin.
Frank Buckles was the last of all
the Doughboys, and the last to fall.

He enlisted while still underage
Was “over there” by seventeen.
Then was prisoner of the Japanese
During World War Two in the Philippines.
A decade and a century
A long and eventful life he led.

After the battle had been won
He walked among the newly dead
He took from one an unused week,
from another, an unused day in spring.
From his colonel, a month he’d never see
Thus Frank amassed his century.

At the end he was a living ghost

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Symbiotic Symphony

Slim beauty, fair hair sun-bright cloud
about her billows, surface calm
masks deep emotions, soul uncowed,
search newly blessed by soothing balm.
She wandered, lonely, through the crowd,
observing all, yet often seemed
both close and distant, head unbowed,
epitome of dreams she’d dreamed.

Sweet symbiotic symphony
awaiting liberating call,
preparing serendipity,
would nonetheless retain high wall
until discovering within
an infinite capacity
for stretching wings devoid of sin,
freed from former opacity.

Perpetual priority
protecting family until

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Against Stale Current

Essential is it to unite
to pressing questions answers which
may open roads to knowledge, might
prepare fulfillment shared and rich.

Unused to being understood,
his insight into others bores,
the trees he sees, ignores not wood
nor would - for blinkers he abhors.

A sense of purpose has withstood
positions frozen, - chosen doors
open on mission, inner good
opposing pride and rotten cores.

Against stale 'current', with hale stream
of light and life he'd soar serene,
is it surprising that such gleam
untouched remains, unshared.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Androcles and the Lion

ANDROCLES AND THE LION
Every verse acts as shell for fair moral, a skel -
eton which we expand when councilling,
wanton worries dispel, (we can scan well and spell) ,
through transcendent end line linking illing!

Lordly lion’s large jaws are unused, like his paws,
'til his lady striped zebra’s sent spilling,
then he rages and roars, rips raw prey with sharp claws,
but it's mostly to show flesh is willing.

In the main, mighty mane and earthshaking refrain
give the lie - ‘spite his timbre so thrilling,
for with pride by his side he can set pride aside,
letting others continue the killing.

Every night by lush well loud flush larynx will swell,
while at jungle rill thirstily swilling,
yet all know very well ‘tis to show lioncel
how to act, an example instilling.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Mementos

Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for years,
What a strange task we've set ourselves!
How still the lonely room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;

These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;
Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,
And worn till the receiver's death,
Now stored with cameos, china, shells,
In this old closet's dusty cells.

I scarcely think, for ten long years,
A hand has touched these relics old;

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poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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