One summer day, enraptured by the Goddess Sea,
King Sun shone down with all his might; most splendidly
he moved the Goddess, for she rippled laughingly
a shimmering reply to Sun in azure sky,
and while reflecting that same hue where King Sun dwelt,
her turquoise ripples lengthened, for the goddess felt
herself now rising up with joy. Wave after wave
was leaping, frothing. . . as King Sun more strongly gave
his final rays to her. Then he descended low
that he might kiss the lovely Sea on earth below -
to kiss her soon before the last day’s shadows fell,
and so he touched her where she’d let her body swell.
With yellow gold, his final glow, he bathed her face,
but when the night arrived with sable colored lace
to drape the goddess, Sun had vanished from all sight;
below Sea’s depth he’d sunk - to love her through the night.
For Suz's "Let's Be Open" poetry contest and now for
PD's Anything Goes Contest
Fog settles on the tombstones. In the dark, an eerie blue,
the graveyard is a misty ocean Raven passes through.
She stops. The solitary site is grim, devoid of any sound.
Her long black gown, a ruffled slip, is satin sweeping ground.
Sable locks lie smooth and straight across her graceful back.
Stark contrast is her alabaster skin to hair pitch-black.
This woman - with a beauty that always captivates -
now stands, a pistol in her hand, and there steadfastly waits.
Told the man that she adores (who left some time ago)
lies buried here, the woman’s come, for Raven has to know!
She can’t believe that he could be here in this place of doom.
He’d left for war before they’d barely been a bride and groom.
Raven looks out on the sea of mist; her eyes have teared
because those birds that bear her name have suddenly appeared.
A sign it has to be, she thinks. The ravens drawing near
are circling above one stone. Her heart is seized with fear.
Raven walks to where the birds are circling above.
She pales. . . The stone she’s reading bears the name of her true love.
The fog, a sea engulfing all, has swallowed Raven too.
Gun raised, she drops down to his grave; she knows what she must do.
Inspired by the Contest "Among the Dead"
Sponsored by Constance ~ A Rambling Poet ~
I dream of the past and days on the high seas
With no one to answer to and no one to please
Yearning for the freedom that I once knew
With the sails set and a sea of blue
Dream of the islands and her beautiful eyes
For the taste of her lips my heart still cries
Once a pirate who sailed with the wind
Now only memories that I rescind
I look at the past in the afterglow
Wondering where does an old pirate go
Time has carved deeply the lines on my face
Settling down feels so out of place
Longing to return to that tropical lagoon
Where I once held her beneath a Caribbean moon
Young brash and arrogant, I sailed away
Never said good bye, I still see her each day
My heart beats a tune that has me undone
Until the day I sail toward that tropical sun
Thinking back and missing her so
Wondering where does an old pirate go.
A ship is safe in the harbor,
But that's not what ships are built for.
Because in the sum of our human gleams,
We have created the vessel for our dreams.
Its purpose: to retrieve the alien shore,
To scout, seek, achieve and explore.
A ship is meant to fly and fly,
To seize the horizon and capture the sky.
And the few of us with the intrepidity,
To brave the virulent vortex velocity
We are the wealthiest of men ever to dream
And ever to combat a sea or a stream.
And the harbored ships that fritter away,
Slowly begin to rot and decay.
Never has there been a greater waste of a day,
Than that spent harbored,
Than those of us who stay.
Here further down the hillside slope
Down close to the creek with hope
My husband bought a house, land
Fenced in and made many plans
Subdued the land to cow pasture
And planted a garden, fruit trees sure
Fathered another child to call him sir
The creek seemed to like the stir
Enjoyed the children for a little while___
Loved them so that it made her smile
Today she loves grandchildren the same
No girls there are in frills ___tame
The creek keeps on flowing to the sea
The land is mostly stripped of trees
(This is my adaptation of Robert Frost's poem "The Birthplace". I hope that it does not insult
The lake is a plate of evening blue
Here where mists of dew sprinkle the view
Under lilting skies the undulating sea
Stretches far beyond infinity
Silent and calm, no hint of green
Smooth as silk with translucent sheen
Rippling blue as far as fingers can see
Yet when the moon’s luminosity
Fondles the surface where the wavelets flow
Twinkling jewels are dew-pearls’ glow
To easels of moonbeams on a crystal sea
How incredibly beautiful this vignette can be...
For Brian Strand's Image Theme Contest/ 2 to 14 Lines
By nette onclaud
I lay me on the grassy lawn
And watch the stars, they're floating on
While one comes out from round the eaves
Across the sky another leaves
The sky is slowly shifting round
So different stars are always found
The dipper turns just like a clock
Without a sound of tick or tock
It turns about that central star
That guides the sailors from afar
While with it sails Queen Cassie's throne
And all the constellations known
Tonight's a clear and peaceful night
The moon is gone, the stars are bright
I slowly drift to seas of dreams
Alights with pinprick starlit streams
I'm thinking all the charming while
With placid face and hinting smile
That when I wake in early morn
Some different stars will be reborn
Crisp Autumn seeps through the day
Dew balances a fresh cut blade
Tangerine skies seethe God's Grace
Summer's vehment blaze...replaced
Slipping sweetness around my pillow
Cool winds dance with weeping willow
Stars twinkle down through thick dense trees
As spirits dance in fresh Autumn's breeze
Sail most by south, by west the least,
until the moon sets in the east.
There, in a sea the hue of custard,
ye'll see the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard
where locals speak like buccaneers,
calling you ‘me dirrr' and us ‘me dirrrrs'.
Their pirate accent's quite inexorable
though, than ours, their grammar more is flexible.
They appear to verge on being mammalian
a little bit like South Australians
(I'd never in the name of mirth
deride the folks who come from Perth) .
Hard left, first manatee you see,
or right, your choice, you're free as me
(it's nix to do with politics,
a pox on all elected plicks) .
Sail till the sea turns sweetest violet
and there you'll spot the cutest islet
(had we to rhyme with ‘sweetest red',
it'd be a continent instead) .
Here, when poetry is long dismembered,
lies the place of rhyme remembered.
Yes, you have come upon a land
that any poet would think is grand.
Where almost everybody aint
any kind of ffffflamin' saint
but seldom use the worst of curses,
when they converse in freeish verses,
or communicate in playful rhymes,
pretty well whenever they feel like it.
The sea churned heavy in the wake of rolling,ripping thunder.
As rain cascaded from the skies the vessel was pulled under.
The winds were shrieking as the sailors ran to clutch the sails.
Into the night could now be heard those far off deathly wails.
Another man went over every time the dark sea burned.
When suddenly there was a light just where the storm had turned.
Within the light is where these beautiful creatures now emerged.
Half woman and half fish they swam right where the waters surged.
The men were frightened yet enthralled by their amazing beauty.
As one by one they lost their heads forgotten was their duty.
The creatures wrapped the men within their long and tangled hair.
And slowly every sailor was drawn into their seaweed lair.
As the storm raged on the creatures took the men below
to their deep home within the tides and this much we do know.
The shipmates never were seen again-they called them lost at sea.
But the creatures say they took the men so they could set them free.
for contest "Fantasy"