Above a cloud, in soundless, still tumescence,
a goddess rests; below her is the sea.
A strip of it is rippling luminescence,
a path of light in night’s serenity.
A solitary boat now passes through
the lane of radiance. One man regards
the sky and ocean, both a cobalt blue,
and ponders inspiration of the bards.
For what could man want more than such as this -
-the tranquilness of dark in Luna’s glow!
At times he longs to taste a woman’s kiss
though he embraced this life so long ago. . .
His gaze is fixed on her who shines above.
He chose the sea. . . and moon became his love.
the moon- old/new poemsPoetry Contest
Be not the passioned faith that fails to stay
When driven back and beaten to the ground,
Then compensated with a weed bouquet
Or self lamenting gift of thorny crown.
Be not the selfish soul that slips and falls
While treading down the mossy path you've laid,
Avoiding faithful friends when last they called
And fearful of the truth you now evade.
Arise and brush self pity from your brow.
You are the child of all that God hath sown,
And all the gifts with which you are endowed,
Bequeathed from each and all that you have known.
So stay, yet humbled, in this wind so strong,
Respectful of the fact you could be wrong.
Shakespearean Sonnet--Iambic Pentameter
By Craig Cornish
The void calls through gossamer veils and widow's peak.
Shifty-eyed now of necessity I lie, bone-wrapped
in rosaries black as my rheumy eyes, death speaks.
Uncomforted by down or velvet, role trapped
corseted, board stiff with age like calf skin vellum
peeled and bloodied by the dual edged knife of man.
The scene is set and I shall not whimper, as do some,
or call to God, or blame the fates of those whose clans
remain earth-bound, when I have left this mortal glade.
Pigment on canvass, linseed loosed, stretchers taut, displayed,
all of this, I've had a plenty, and been royally paid.
My life was art, and it was art that fanned my life's flame.
So, stretch me on the pine boards and lay my edges down;
monochrome me in umber, drench me in shades of brown.
Self Portrait See About the Poem
Winter cloaked in the whitest lace
Spreads its folds across the land
Transforming the earth's tired face
In beauty she makes her quiet stand
For those who weep for summer lost
And long for days of idle breath
Those days come at winter's cost
She sings the songs of living death
For naught we argue with the wind
And rail at ice that will not weep
Hoping these days will soon rescind
And her buried promises keep
Winter dances with solemn grace
Dressed in her white gown of lace
The bells call forth from mighty tower keeps
To herald passing souls from here to there
The orange sun upon the hilltop creeps
It crucifies night's cold and blind despair
And light of day itself may also bluff
The flower blooms and will too soon dissolve
There is no virtue virtuous enough
To ban the steady tide of death's resolve
If permanence is just a fleeting dream,
Why burden every man and child fair?
To ask is chasing shadows down a stream
Fall not into the well of when or where
These words are written clear for all to see:
What I am now you too shall one day be
The candle burns down long into the night
Its life waning in a flickering flame
As I etch these ink stains of black on white
On pages that will never be the same
For I will fill this empty space with gold
Treasures - my soul now feels the need to share
Before the embers in this fire grow cold
I give to you these precious gems so rare
And when this candle dies and darkness falls
My pen will finally rest without regret
Left with the knowledge that I gave it all
My life in words until my dying breath
And in death I will live forevermore
For the pen is mightier than the sword
Written: April 15, 2011
The Famous quotation 'The pen is mightier than the sword' was written by:
Edward Buliver-Lytton in 1839. Those words still live on today, proving that the pen truly is, mightier than the sword.
First place: Brian Strand's 14 line contest
First place: Razzle Dazzle Contest sponsored by Linda-Marie
Here in the final pages of her life
She stops to rest a spell on empty lines
Reflecting on the chapters left behind
In valleys of a mind deep in contrite
Where shadows battle with a blinding light
Conflicting egos fighting on through time
Their argument life’s reason and life’s rhyme
They battle for the end that she must write
Two equal pens held tightly in her hand
Tears mingle with the ink spots on the page
One pen telling truth one pen telling lies
Her bleeding words like footprints in the sand
On lines between a novice and a sage
One pen she puts to death before she dies
Author: Elaine George
Written: April 20th, 2014
For Miltonic Sonnet Contest sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Awarded: First Place
A wash of gold adorns the westward sky
as waning light departs a summer’s eve;
in readiness to roost, crows cease to fly
and seek their resting place among the leaves.
Past toasted rooftops, twilight bids the sun
must softly slip away to realms afar,
with liquid grace, sun-kisses fall undone
and drench the dusk in honey-toned memoir.
Time lengthened shadows whisper to the moon,
enticing her to wear her slender smile.
With reticence, she answers to their tune,
enriching night’s black canvass for a while…
still wearing notes of summer-sweet bouquet,
recalled from painted echoes of the day.
As daylight dims against a crimson sky
And evening star dust lightly dots the blue
And yesterday into tomorrow flies -
Like life, the twilight fades in different hues.
So bright the early days, then quickly gone
Like ships in freshened wind we gladly sailed
And through the midst of life forgot the dawn
As innocence of dreams became unveiled.
Each day the pages turn till end of time,
A story told and written as we pass,
So all that we have touched becomes entwined
And carried on beyond the very last.
We carry all we love along the way
Into the gloaming at the end of day.
Exquisite, this expectation as dusk
mellows each ruffle on her robe de style*,
warm her expressions, candid, unrushed
for lake waters return that sunny smile.
A hem trails the shore with tulles of twilight,
overcome, the hush of angels almost cries
at grace in upsweeps and poise held as night
steals her away with a sorrowed sigh.
Dark this vista til she yields her jewels,
moonstone and topaz, citrine and ruby,
all her wisdom to forever unfurl
in fireworks, a blaze of poetry.
Love left its mark, Heaven is now altered
by a flourish that brightens even the stars.
*** We will miss you, Linda Marie, but your poetry, light, love of life, will continue to live on... GODSPEED....
* A Robe de style is a long gown with a wide, billowing skirt