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Best Poems Written by Victor Van Beuren

Below are the all-time best Victor Van Beuren poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Geological Villanelle

Tiny motions mark the passing of time.
Forces swirl and invisibly embrace.
Life's likes gather to be cycles in rhyme.

A grain's rest changed when burst and sweep align,
And the push of fluid leaves a thin trace.
Tiny motions mark the passing of time.

Sense of self, so many actions refine,
A presence of touch, awareness of place.
Life's likes gather to be cycles in rhyme.

Water apart, lifts in towering climb,
Falls, swirling to seep through bonds, then erase.
Tiny motions mark the passing of time.

Unaware, traits set us free, or confine.
Testing strengths in conflicts many to face.
Life's likes gather to be cycles in rhyme.

Layers concentric in nature outline. 
Lives tied, or apart, forever in place.
Life's likes gather to be cycles in rhyme.
Tiny motions mark the passing of time.

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Learning Is Listening

Learning is listening.
Listening is wanting.
Wanting is longing for capture and holding.
Holding can be understanding, if we are prone to loving.
Loving is everything!
I, I have to start again.

Learning is loving.
Loving is willingness to listen.
Listening is patience to hear.
Hearing allows a conversation.
Conversation means two people are listening.
Does it?
I, I have to start again.

Conversation is dialog.
Dialog is expressing perspective. 
Perspective leads to opinion.
Opinion is always relative.
Relative opinions suspend reality.
Reality and relatives are subjective.
It’s too hard to remain relative with relatives,
I, I have to start again.

Relativity is reality.
Reality leads to focus.
Focus underlies understanding.
Understanding is awareness.
Awareness depends on willingness.
Willingness depends on longing. 
Longing depends on loving. 
Loving is everything!
I, I have to start again….

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Fossil Reverie

What was real and alive, is now real and a trace. 

A motionless image of motion, or not. It might be a record of rest, a pause to see where one is, is going, or has been. A rest to make sure that one is alone, when solitude is safety. Or with like, when others mean reliable responses, and a chance to make self. Although it is not really self, but another. Yet, to sow self means to be part of the future, and assume to influence it.

The trace is a focused true touching, or a brush of mere passing, or a death mask impression of being. A chemically sculpted object, whose life motion and lyric sounds have stopped, and just missed its forced silence, while likes scurry away.

It is an accidental graveyard, not planned, but allowed to exist by fixative fluids seeping through piles of grains, glued by near-surface actions, then cemented by pressure into rock that holds that pressure, and by holding, ignores it, while waves of waters flood through subatomic space looking for places that are perfect. 

Fossil traces are gifts from the earth gods.

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The Journey

-It's time.
What do you mean?
-I've come for you.
I don't understand.
-I've come for you, I will take you.
Who are you?
-A friend.
Do I know you?
-Yes.
Why are you here?
-You called me.
Where are we going?
-A place in your dreams.
Is it far?
-Yes.
How long will it take?
-You won't remember.
What can I take?
-Just you, and what your people gave you.
I need a moment.
-That is fine. I will wait.

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Random Thoughts

Lightning’s flash,
shows me where to hide,
when the thunder comes.

Tell me, which is more devine,
the radiant curve,
or the simple line?

In the land of Balsa,
the elders know
not to hind in their homes
when the big storm comes.

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The Fields Are Plains of Green

The fields are plains of green
Beneath which muted colors lie.
Verdant cells held high and tight with turgid moisture,
Sway, then fall,
To have their life fluid seep into a common wetness,
Whose clinging elements pry parts into like,
And by electricity pull even smaller parts to a destination unclear.

There is no knowing,
Just a pull, or a push.
No urging,
Just a force.
There is no stopping until a grip so tight
That parts are squeezed and disappear into each other,
And something different appears.

The old never was.
The new is old.

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We Only Know What We Hear

We only know what we hear.
And we only hear what we’ve heard.
And we only do, what feels right in the moment.
And what feels right in the moment, is what we are thinking.
And what we’re thinking is right in the moment,
And feels how we feel. 
And let’s us think, how we’re thinking
About what we’ve heard,
About what we’ve heard,…
And, how we feel,
And what we know,
And how we feel,
And how we really feel,
Because we’re feeling it now,
And that is all we know,…

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A Geological Toast

To your health, Vice Chancellor Lightfoot,
who from Usher's words decreed
the creation of the earth beneath
in 4004 B.C.

May we learn from your conforms,
molding nature to current dogma,
and learn to view accepted norms,
at least, cum grano "salta."

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Basic Chemistry

Avagadro sits,
Quietly counting, counting,
Counting, counting, count….

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Oh Yes, the Clouds Leave Traces

The morning clouds left traces. 

Small drops formed from even smaller drops pulled close by airy dust.

Floating at first, becoming heavy, and starting a gentle drop to earth. Moving imperceptibly faster to speeds as fast as possible.

Hitting the earth's surface, making a point and an imprint, only to be pulled into the dust and disappear.

Soon, the dust could hold no more, and drops escaped.

First, not moving far, but soon as many drops became one, they were pushed by the pull of the downward force and stretched into threads of liquid, soon woven into a sheet of fluid, pulled over the surface. 

Then, led by stronger pulls, narrowed through lows, pushing the dust and separate grains aside, to deeper lows.

Stopping suddenly, because the pull disappeared. Yet, soon feeling the swirling pushing, moving together of communal eddies, rushing past other phantom drops, grabbing and merging without warning until a new flow, a new path is present. And, the pushing and cutting begin again. Rushing to a new lower, unknown goal.

Oh yes, the clouds leave traces.