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Best Poems From
DONNA QUESINBERRY
(06/05/1957)
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5.
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Omens and Soothsayers
an immigrant never
can hide his ignorance,
nor ability to garner
the pretext of the chameleon.
small revelries of conquest
are malfescent applications,
most often applied by the
tormented mind recompensing
evils of tortures past. and
exchanges no longer innocent
are decorated as benefactors,
when they are agendas.
where missions no longer
prevail. his untruths, mostly
inflictions of self pity, remain
driving martyrs raping faith
and loyalty. while as the voyeur
he rests on intimate theories
never requesting recompense,
and devouring love with self hate.
landing hard on shallow timbers,
alone, we stem glassware,
frozen in empty chests. medals
strewn like past remnants. photos
molding from misuse. and the
one light that shone he sheared
piercingly, through thrusts of
laughter, devoid of conscience
then claimed foul toward her heart.
dawn does not break, nor lite the
dark, it sets only to rites the
fables of men to women. omens
and soothsayers direct him now.
she is victorious in that resolve.
his heart, pierced, with her blood
coursing through his veins
he can no more forget-
than not breathe.
(Further compilation in the bucketman series, and lovelorn praise...)
Donna Quesinberry
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6.
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Random Writers
hands play
keys hard
banging
jelly rolls
thighs beat
marmalade rump
tap
beat
di - lay - shun
di - lay - shun
pupils
focused
on vintage
window
staring
fixated
on crinkly skin
saged harlequin
osmosizes
beat
revelations
in silence
slaps knees
palmy,
creak toes
keeps tune
without motion.
di - lay - shun
di - lay - shun
hands playing keys
bang hard
jelly rolls rump
marmalade thighs tap
beats
9 hundred 32 dayed
wisdom gatherer
focused dialationed pupil
at vintage window
stares
fixated without motion
on crinkly skin
16 thousand 262 dayed
saged harlequin
osmosizes
visionary revelations
lessons in silence
slaps knees palmy,
creaks toes
keeps tune.
Donna Quesinberry
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7.
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Raspberry Gardens
the week was dry
without whit, she
misses humor in
the mundanity
of modern dwelling.
thinking the rustic
life may be the
more illustrious
after all this social
experimenting and
clammoring to the
new heights, perhaps
the obillisk with the
small cottage and
two acres, like kernals,
would be the wiser
stimulation. where
clothes could be
dropped for a balmy
steam in the outdoor
sweathouse for family
or close friends with
vodka all around
one, two, three shots
then basking by firelight
at the end of a 'day'
of tilling owned earth.
would have merit.
the blackberry gives
her sore tendons.
like the swell after a
romp on the keyboard
battling words for the
merriment of unknown
souls or soldiers, who
are wrecking their toils
on humanity. the earnest
buck, somehow shot
for his rack. to hang
on walls with decals
and profane misalignments
the faked photos with
handshakes and leers
from sidelines. of those
jealous souls. to labor
at the earth and shake
her roots. would somehow
be beneficial. and maybe
a little paint and dabbling
with herbs would satisfy
what she has become.
(another bucketman series)
Donna Quesinberry
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8.
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The Leaves of April
leaves in spring are tender occurrences
sprouting heavenward with a vibrance
that the blue jay mimics at my doorway
a warbling kaw in ridiculous showmanship
he ruffles feathers and leans in with an intrepid
mannerism as if to dare me to mark his territory.
men and women preen and strut in springtime
as well, after a current of jumping rope and jogging
to prepare for the abundance of potential marketing
that can take place at happy hours, malls, and
in front of street vendors. Hoping Mr. or Mrs. Right
with traverse their path, view silkened tan skin
with fit muscles and lean masses of preponderance.
Then summer arrives like a rouse denoting who
has won the race to coupling before the fall holidays.
(an ode to spring..)
Donna Quesinberry
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