Lost loons sulk in song, their search for meaning
sends us to sleep. The park holds a stillness,
but I dream of winds, ardent pines leaning
towards waves, soothing the lake’s brokenness.
Morning pulls us and from our tent we crawl,
hailed by dawn’s parting, greeted by pale mist.
While coffee perks on the campfire, I’ll
put my head on your shoulder, find your kiss
is as smoky as the breakfast you fry.
Later, we explore the mossy woodlands
and stray from the path, surrender to sighs
shading the forest floor, under the span
of birch. Night falls and winks to wet lovers
who roll in stars then rock moonlit waters.
About this poem
This is a modern sonnet. It uses off rhyme, unusual punctuation placement and contains plenty of enjambment that extends past the usual insular quatrains.
Killbear park is a provincial park in Ontario. Its sites are quite... private ;-)
Cornices, and Gargoyles with eyes turned low,
hold fast the passing in a frozen stare
as slow vapor rising from vents below
is churned by soles into thick city air.
Undeterred, the well-heeled leather bottom
wingtips fly past sandaled sloths at crosswalks
while clicking heels kick dead leaves of autumn
and wind their way through crowded city blocks.
Just above a breezy sidewalk café,
sheer fabric wafts a low-loft window sill,
two pair of empty vamps and laces lay,
removed in shameless haste and lustful will.
Beneath the sheets, a naked feet affair,
entwined, aligned, with dreamy souls laid bare.
Michael F. Lewis and Thvia Shetley
At night I lay my soul to sleep,
Closing my eyes there is no peep,
This soft bed is just so mellow,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.
Forgetting the stress of the day
I am in bed without delay.
Soul at ease— the mind must follow,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.
Satin sheets over my shoulder,
Keep me warm—not getting colder.
Fantasy dreams I now billow,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.
At night I lay my soul to sleep,
My head rests on this fresh pillow.
Near somber guards, units of children heap
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.
Firefighters bow heads in silent paean,
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.
Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.
You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
I see heroes and their lines of fire.
Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers
and chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.
*For David, a wonderful man, a devoted husband,
a loving and dedicated father. We know him here
as a poet who encourages, shares of himself freely,
and gives such solid advice.
He is a poet who does not waste words,
nor mince them. but he does send them out,
like lifeboats, when he spots chums in need.
Think the world of you, David.
I kidnapped David with a time machine.
The Word on the Street is a bookfair which
was held in Victoria park but is now held
downtown. SIGH. It was much nicer in the park,
early September. The squirrels would natter
from the trees, geese would fly by, low, aiming
for the pond
BLOG TO FOLLOW SOON
She lets me put violets in her hair,
good-humouredly, calls me Ophelia
in such a way that I spout, But Shakespeare
pushed war, not love. Resplendent, Thalia
strolls the peaceful paths of Victoria Park,
taken with the interplay of people,
the signs of change, bridges like love at work;
Often, her hands become divine steeples
of calm prayer. Yet there is imminence
heard in fervencies, a tremendous will
wrought with words of truth and tolerance
that dare to preserve all that is spiritual.
Three share our views in comfortable silence,
Me, hope and a Goddess of Non-Violence.
A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River
is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.
Though cozy the spot, the world is at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture.
They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.
I’ve loved her dearly since my childhood days
Watching her subtle movements under the sun’s hot rays
She was sheer beauty when calm and warm
And magnificent in the eye of the storm
She lured me with her magic charms
To far away places and a woman’s arms
To mysterious places and exotic sights
Under the Southern Cross, romantic nights
She reached inside me and touched my soul
She took my life and made it whole
The longing for her, my heart retained
A fading dream is what remained
I still dream of sailing her waters once more
As I stand alone along her shore.
Walk along the shore with me and let me see you smile
Close your eyes and visualize a romantic tropical isle
Palm trees and a summer breeze, sunshine overhead
Conversation with only our eyes, nothing being said
A secluded beach just out of reach, the surf the only sound
Two hearts one in the summer sun, a blanket on the ground
A sailboat dancing on the horizon, sun is going down
Tropical evening, harbor lights, as we walk back to town
Was it real or was I just dreaming as we walk along
And as we walk, the ocean singing her enchanting song
Feel the sand between our toes and taste the salty air
A falling star streaks across the sky going God knows where
You touch my heart and my soul in this island Paradise
The reflection of the Southern Cross in your loving eyes
River Laps Softly
The ripples of water lap river's edge
quietly I sit, a man seeking love
The orange twilight stirs my lonely soul
nearby, lonely call of a single dove
Sweetest place roaring river moans and churns
fish splashing about in a soft replay
Continuance as the world slowly turns
colors splash endings to wonderful day
The smell is that of fish , water and mud
cool air spreading its greatest soft relief
Comfort gives to stop anger in my blood
as Nature gifts a most calming belief
Soon its quiet , knowledge enters my soul
Victory came because I made it so
Robert J. Lindley, 08-08-2014
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Total # Words: 101
Entered in the contest, Any poem under 15 lines, Poet Destroyer
Silver Strands Woven in Gold
Beneath the earth in the vale of the kings
For countless years undiscovered, unseen
In an old leather bag bound with brass rings
A necklet so rare, ‘twas fit for a queen
This beautiful piece with deep lustrous shine
In beaten red gold and fine silver strands
A stunning linked chain of complex design
Depicting the skill of artistic hands
From where had it come, to whom would belong?
A Queen, or princess of elegant grace?
Whose story was writ in the poet’s song
Sung by the slave girls in this ancient place
A priceless treasure found under the sands
A link to the past in fine silver strands
Beneath strands of citrine dangling in the sky
arms glitter on a Moulin Rouge display
neon bulbs flirt with the Arc spinning high
a scenic delight, like tinted colors from Monet
And byways float on a flood of traffic yellow
unleashing a thousand moths on flames,
scenting an evening brushed by Van Gogh
as bodies grind on a roulette of voltage frames
The parade of magnetic sparklers blaze the café
Soon, a flushed crowd tingles on popped wine
dazzling in sweet madness, more hours to sashay;
while I, I lose myself in a mist of a song’s last line
“City of Lights” bathes in drops of fire glowers
where new romance thrills starry-eyed lovers
. .. . .
Paris night. 11pm ( few years back)
I sit on the edge of the bed thinking
Wishing you were here or that I was there
These work related trips keeps me hurting
But then my heart, I come to you and share
I sit in the middle of a moon beam
That comes into the room’s hotel window
A lonely bit of light, lonely it seems
Opens the room to its cool silver glow
I pout as I lay onto the hard bed
Seemingly to sure keep me up all night
I texted her with my whole soul, I sure pled
Hoping she’s up and will respond tonight
It’s hard to be away from by loved one
But soon I'll be home, my love will be shown
Entrant into Black Eyed Susan's "In a Hotel Room..." contest
< master of disguise menacing havoc
I fear not your pronged fork and wooden stick
but one illuminates from presents sight
tis I carries master key whom ends plight
brushstroke if must with your evilness twist
for I stand strong from an Hevenly bliss
poke and probe away with your woven schemes
tis I'll be the one laughing though it seems
your inferno fire from gates of hell
diminished by just one shake from this bell
so bring on your barriers and good grief's
tonight I'll be the one with good night's sleep
sowing not fear of satin's smitten grasp
but turning check telling to kiss thy ass
The Devil Made Me Do It
Sonnets Only Contest
As sure as I stand in the mixed of this garden,
Glimmering gold falls to the earth by my call.
Many are great and then some are a bit small.
I release magnets clutching an obscene pardon.
It is like balancing a beam that only I will harden.
I wrap myself into a silver plated resilient shawl.
Person place and time steadily climb up to maul.
It’s a give or take rejection expected to turn on.
One day ye shall see,
My Moon half drawn,
Ye see it was all of me.
Your Sun will be gone.
Only one Star shall rise up above my name.
It’s a special place inside my heart I frame!
®Registered: Ann Rich 2007
I have had many frightening visions
of demons pulling me down into the infernal abyss:
to burn and torment my bound and shivering body...
as Dante envisioned it in his Divine Comedy.
Ah, Popes, Presidents, Kings, enemies and friends made no apologies...
they were glad to see me join them in their cell!
I accursed them even in that place called," Hell ."
And that gave me an opportunity to write many appropriate analogies.
" My flesh will burn, not my spirit! " I desperately hollered.
" This is not a place where I should pay for my earthly sins!"
" Eternal fire and condemnation are wrong!" I protested.
" God loves everyone, and He only demands repentance!"
Finally, that dreadful vision ended at the coming of the sunrise,
I found myself on Earth witnessing the wonders of Paradise!
You sink into the bosom of the chair
And wonder if I too once sat amidst
The chattering, white coffee sipping fare—
The lonely writers ‘pining for a kiss.
Did I peer out over the porce’lain mug
And purse my vulgar mouth over the lip
My eyes a’roll behind my glasses’ fog
My writer turning phrase and spinning quips?
Did I curl my toes under my feet
Threading my fingers ‘round the scolding cup
My yellow molars grinding to the beat
Of meds-a-glee and glutt’nous caffeine ups?
I didn't’t sit cross-legged and introverted—
I flipped through glossy pages and consorted.
When limbs of Montmartre tint the glow
chemise de nuit falls to the ground,
belle de jour, come moan a pale sound
through alleys winding lamp light’s flow.
Her fine heels toss on follies’ show
she, au naturel , caprice bound ;
taunting stars to rouse below.
Uphill, this mistress wraps fired lips
fleeting sighs mixing red-hot drips,
amidst night bistros’ fragrant plight
where rows of faces wet love’s sips.
Then like a dream, her bedgown flips
denying passion, oh one last bite.
*Montmartre—famous Paris hill where art,
music, romantic atmosphere, and bohemian
culture thrive despite its religious strains.
*belle de jour--- beautiful lady
*au naturel--- in a natural state, also, nude
*chemise de nuit--- nightdress
. …. .
by nette onclaud
for Cyndi Mac Millan’s Un, Deux, Trois contest
31 may 12
Late 80s, Quebec, Ville de Lasalle,
A piece of my life, a piece of me,
I left behind; Fait accompli.
What I miss most? Je ne sais quoi!
Cartoons! Lagaffe, Robin Dubois!
Bicycle rides with my good friends,
Next to the river, along the bends.
I left behind a piece of my life…
In the center I sit.
Unraveling a core,
I lay it by the shore.
It’s a wondrous fit.
It is in pieces by a bit.
It sails an ocean floor.
It has a rip where tore.
It makes the seas split.
It travels day and night.
A never-ending drift,
It is brilliantly bright.
Moving along so swift!
It travels a path lit by a Star,
Rendering miles that are afar!
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed
end over end. Then, across the glen, highland
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins
in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful.
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull
heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin and let wee thistles bloom.
Strong storm blew the boat until it did strand
Upon rock_ shore so very far away.
Please my gentle lover give me your hand
There is no way you would let me be prey
Row me and the boat ashore to assay
This beautiful place we will immortalise
No! we did not go down in depths to decay
Nor did guardian angel go down likewise
Didn't matter what nature will devise
Lived through shipwreck we will go down in fame
Thru this somehow we will be eternise
The whole wide world will remember my name
Now this small green isle we'll surely subdue
As our great love grows and somehow renew
I cut through tedious chit-chat,
Zap Idiotic whacks!
I tip toe tapping atop pitters pat.
I’m your best bet seated where you once sat.
Smearing out your tad-bit lacks,
Running them out by the packs,
I tip my hat fancying you purr like my fat-cat.
Up and away my hands shall uplift weights like you.
In and out of reality I’ll take you with me everywhere.
If only you knew how well I’m too do getting through.
Do you think one day to obtain me to be eh unaware?
Personally, I’d charge a big fat whacked out idiotic fee for the likes of thee,
I’m declared as freely expressing many pleasures for the embracing of me.
® Registered: 2010 Ann Rich
A nightjar’s sharp call can barely be heard,
T hough the breeze of Belize carries soft sounds,
R omance heats the white sands, whispers warm words,
O ceanids hide in waves, but stars abound.
P aradise enchants with sweeping moonlight,
I feel its magic, its allure enslaves,
C alypso drums pound sparks, my hips ignite,
A nd far down the long beach, revelers wave.
L overs and loners make tracks in the sand,
D reamers and drifters walk the Oceanside,
R elaxing tight thoughts as their hearts expand,
E ven solitude feels welcome and wide.
A ll is found in this quest for joy’s regime,
M y trip back to myself, a tropical dream.
By Cyndi MacMillan, March 11, 2012
Also an acrostic. I’ve never been to Belize, but oh... maybe someday. Here is something to listen to and watch:
As I walk slowly through the quiet wood
I feel the need to kneel and say a prayer.
The sacredness of trees is understood
For symbol and its meaning coalesce here
The canopy on high is bathed in sun
and birdsong is so lovely to my ears.
The noise of city traffic I now shun
And natural meditation calms my fears.
The trees were bare and elegant last week
Today the leaves have opened sweet and green
I hope no thunderstorm will wreak
It’s havoc on the newborn world I 've seen.
For nothing on this earth will last for long
So commemorate sweet Spring with a new song
The swift and silent missiles swept,
The quiet well kept neighborhood.
They ran like hell, those that could,
While the reposed laid in their best dress.
With evil-doers upon the earth,
Vigilant must be the pursuit.
To cut the sickened by the root,
And banish vile impure thought.
With white-collar crime for collateral,
It matters not the costs.
As pockets line, the death toll climbs,
While the positioned take sabbatical.
And I cannot hide my bastardness,
For when we kiss my lips fall dead.
Fantastically, verse decrees: Yee scribe, share.
I take its council; I'm no longer alone
as I go back, back, to the Medieval Faire
with a modern Mystic who grins at thrones,
melts frosty cones. All that is lovely glitters
about her, in word, deed and spark of eye.
We joist in play, make mirth, and twitters
fly from two lost in the far of by and by.
Yah, we toy with dreams and dismiss regret,
for a Rose hath outwitted Robin of Hood,
and brave lady-knights join prancing pirates
with nary a query whether they should.
Modestly, she places the arrow in bow,
takes aims for a heart, then sets it aglow.
*For our own and only Mystic Rose, who write from the heart and for the heart.
(One day we must do lunch! Perhaps, meet at the A.G.O. and write side by side...;D
Living in Paris as un homme du monde*
searching for la belle dame* strolling
by the Seine dreaming of stars gliding...
when she starts her swift danse macabre*,
to forget she was a famous femme savante.*
In autres temps,* Marie was a beauty:
who conquered wealthy men in France and Italy...
her soprano's voice stunned them in each scene!
Ma belle Marie,* tout le monde*: from New York to Paris,
went wild applauding you in elegant Opera Houses!
Ma belle Marie,* you savored success and riches, hating the baby in your womb;
and not being satisfied, you attempted to mercilessly destroy two lives!
Ma belle Marie,* get rid of that vile thought...replace it with thankful payers!
I came to Paris to be un homme du monde,* not to put flowers on your tomb!
un homme du monde: a sophisticated man
la belle dame: the beautiful lady
danse macabre: dance of death
femme savante: learned and cultured woman
autres temps: other times
ma belle Marie: my beautiful Marie
tout le monde: everybody
resonate a sound ,oh, my sweet delight
a soft resilient tune to fill this void
for roses do flourish by thy own sight
and thy songs make them birds dance overjoyed
sing not of fear but of joy and yearning
for doubts are but a mere designer's flaw
though fate may scheme our road to be turning
love has no sail but where the wild wind blows
so tell of beauty and sweet surrender
summon them kisses on thy naked skin
trace them places caressed with my fingers
relive the moments and places we've been
oh Lord, do bless them souls intertwined
if love condemned blinded, fate is no blind
I came from behind and my God at what I saw.
I was astonished and in disbelief seen by you.
I counted exact minutes with the seconds too.
But I stood there intact with no lines to draw.
There are many versions of Grace Verse’s law.
So I read through them one by one until blue.
So I picked up the torch it was all I could do.
I was a flame burning stoked in complete awe.
I gave glory to the Sun and Moon,
I exalted a few Stars along my way.
I even rode in on a cloud at noon,
It was a bright beautiful blessed day.
But there were matted layers of deception,
I guess you can only imagine my reception.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2006
Sunset. Synergy is moving between chairs
that don't quite match, widening tight circles
of rovers. Muses Cafe, a small cove where
views internalize, so we heave heavy troubles
outside. Minstrel Mary Anne Epp shelters
songs about happenstance .When a server drops
a plate, she ad libs, Save cracks for later.
Heads nod to her witty vibes, bite-sized bops.
Inspiration strums as parlance sighs, Good grief,
my journal's at home. You say, All's fine.
but your purse offers only ONE loose leaf,
curiously room enough for TWO to lay lines.
Pens groove. Friend, you prove that poets can wage
self-determined verse while on the same page.
PHIDELLIA'S TEAHOUSE AND ANTIQUES
121 Peel St
10 a.m. to 8 p.m. daily
There, you're here, but it was inevitable
that we would rewrite the plan. Loose leaf tea
has such allure, pulling us from our table
at Phidellia's. Those shelves are as giddy
as girls, all dolled up and flaunting cups. Blends
pester affectionately, brood like sisters
seeking attention. You sniff jars, find a friend
in Sweet Almond, but a look almost lists
for I've dwelled overly long on Alcott
and we haven't yet touched on Millay, Sapho
or Bronte! Two a-mused by more than pots.
"You see haiku. Well, I see Meg and Jo-"
"-Love, Et Cetera," You tease, such soft praxis,
so I kiss those cheeks with tender ekphrasis.
Into a garden, Jessie wandered, wanting to get away.
Finding the glorious site, leaving all her dismay,
Warmed by the broad spectrum of light behind,
Captured within nature’s beauty, she did find.
Crisp clear pool, where reflections, are beheld true.
At first, not believing her eyes, though it was a clue,
Angelic wings, adorned her shoulders, in silent glory.
Upon that glance, Jessie remembered, an old story.
Of a maiden, that was forlorn, walking without will,
Stumbling upon a true paradise, with waters so still,
This gave her a glance, of her future, as it is foretold.
That upon what she saw, would be gained, without gold.
Amidst the flowers and greenery, that surrounded the space.
Angel guide of her deliverance, together, they would travel in grace.
Sponsor ~ Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~ ~
Contest Name Reflection
There will come a day, when a Maiden graces the Glens
Alba is where she'll stand amidst the land of Highland men
For her hand will be chosen to be at this clansman's side
And render her heart to he, forever she'll reside
To a place called Inverness, which will claim her heart
Leaving her hurt behind allowing her life to start
For in this tranquil city surrounded by hues of green
Many times we'll capture these views, oh! to be seen
Along the River Ness in whatever season one walks
It's beauty always abounds allowing us to talk
There's no better place to stop to share a loving kiss
In the background her waters flow, soothing, so bliss
Many years have passed, we still walk the riverside
To my Maiden who graces my heart, and leaves me full of pride
Dust and blood on an iPod that plays,
Hole, for love of country, for love,
Of the scope on a fine bolt action M-40 rifle.
Cupid was a sniper, for love of Psyche.
Like the marksman in the minaret that shot,
Lance Corporal Miller in the face,
He will have a thousand virgins at his feet.
As Corporal Nick Ziolkowski loved to kill,
Having taken three mortals in one day,
Was a badge of honor he would proclaim,
Now he lives under that shining city on the hill.
The world loves it’s patient heros,
How gently they lay in wait, divinely,
Saving humanity from it’s dark Eros.
Faithfully returning to Chantry Isle-
Though just in deep reflection-I cross the lake
with a stowaway wickie* who brightly smiles.
The boat, Our Lady, barely makes a wake.
We lean into the wind, drawing nearer
to Great Egrets crowning one weathered tree
on the sanctuary. So white the birds are,
as white as the limestone lighthouse. We
step onto a shore, approach the tower
and enter. I'd forgotten how reverent
even lamps, companions to lonely hours,
bless those watchers for beacons are God-sent.
Later, a found feather is clasped like a quill,
its keeper whispers, See? There be angels!
*A wickie is a slang term for a lighthouse keeper as they were ever trimming
This poem is for an angel of Soup, Gail, who I've long called our Lighthouse.
I know she loves them, too, so I hope she likes this.
Chantry is a small island just off the shores of Southampton, Ontario with a
meticulously restored lighthouse and tower. The Island is also a bird sanctuary, known
hfr its Great Egrets. I long ago toured this gem of the Great Lakes and fell madly in love with its tranquility, but there was also great loneliness in its isolation from the mainland.
The harsh winds snarl and bite like fighting dogs.
No pity in this bull-black bitter night.
No stars nor moon can pierce the city fog.
No shelter saves the beggar from his plight.
The winds whip swirling grit and stinging grime.
Mad demons breathe out sour tasting wrath,
And wine red sky now marks the passing time
When, waking widows mourn the hour of death.
Although the sulphurous gusts still groan and howl,
The night begins to fade for dawn's debut
While roaming dogs bare yellow teeth and growl
As smoky shadows slink through trembling dew.
The daybreak chimes, and morning sweetly sings,
Retreating night’s outshone by brighter things.
It is all in the Stars if you look hard enough.
There is always the morning Star twinkling.
And then there is the evening Star blinking.
And then there are layered clouds in a fluff.
Then there is the Sun and Moon and stuff.
Sometimes it looks like the Moons winking.
Sometimes it looks like the Sun is thinking.
Makes me wonder if their day can be rough!
What a wondrous world I live in.
What balance I live by every day.
My life must be granted and given.
So no wonder I take time to pray.
It is granted and given each day just to be me.
Just look up once a day and this you can see.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2006
Hope is wonderful, it's a word I have come to appreciate
It appears in my life presently, hope knows I can wait
For in the coming months freedom will open my door
To a new life I'll lead and rid my past of sores
Music will be my capture, whilst my art will re-awake
To be more free in years to come, I need to for my sake
Whether I'll be alone in life, only time can tell
Inside my soul I'm reborn again to rid my saddened hell
To concerts I will go, many bands I have still to see
Buggles, Asia & Bryan Ferry, thrall their sounds in me
Maybe Queen will tour again, pasts efforts I should have made
Fingers crossed I won't be alone to share my Gigs cascade
Hope is a wonderful word it can open up future doors
To cross that threshold with open eyes, new horizons to explore
Though her true name was Opal Boniface,
Most knew the songstress as the Midnight Pearl,
A Creole whose crinoline voice could trace
frissons on the heart till that muscle would curl.
Jazz shone from her eyes, blues shadowed her lips,
She silenced a room with each naked note,
Women closed their eyes, men eyed her full hips
as she reached the rapt with the gems she wrote.
Words of loss stunned the crowd, laughter was hushed,
The spotlight wept and the clock stilled its hands,
moved by her lyrics of love’s gritty touch...
A N’Orleans girl making luster from sand.
How luminous this queen of melody,
Glowing on a stage called the Big Easy.
By Cyndi MacMillan, April 18, 2012
For Russel Sivey's Midnight Pearl Contest
About this Poem
This is a work of fiction. However, the photo is that of Leighla Whipper, singer, songwriter and restaurateur, who was bestowed the title Creole Belle.
Beauty is nothing; nothing if not spring,
flora shooting, oozing to cover bare
earth that winter spent, stripped; now gives green.
New life God has planted, planned with care
and bathed the globe with rains, spare and clean.
The air, great gasps of spring; the springing air,
blossom of peach and pear, scents fresh and keen.
Wonders of wonder all are flaxen fair.
Praise gifts, which bring this juice, bring us this joy.
Praise gifts of face found and fine wildflowers.
Praise gifts, and praise our debt for springtime’s cloy-
breadth of earth’s wild bounty, it is ours.
Praise gifts of song, for songbirds on bright wing.
Renewing life; Oh! Praise our gifted spring.
The just of me is a special magic seed you see.
It has long drawn out roots branching off fruit.
The more you eat the more you will follow suit.
The just of me is why my life was meant to be.
I can steal a moment and shiver on your knee.
I can laugh or I can cry and sustain the mute.
I am loaded I tell you my seed carries the loot.
I’ll sprinkle maybe a dash up to a shining key.
I am counted in and out at the very same time.
Early in the morning or late at night, time I am.
Genres unfold whistling through my wind chime,
So, it's just the just of me being slain by a lamb.
Greetings I say to you, and welcome to your every bit of who!
The just of me swears something deep inside us always knew.
She is a butterfly amongst crickets,
The summer breeze catches her long sari
of cyan blue, glinting with gold trinkets.
Her dark hair shines like Amritsar City
at night, reflecting old, golden temples,
and skin radiates like the dunes of Thar,
Beauty in brow and cheek, but those Bengal
eyes are much deeper than India’s star.
Dazzled, I am aware of my drabness,
My casual, beige shorts, sensible hair,
This winterized skin, my outer coldness
must seem foreign to her. Is she aware
of her loveliness, this new immigrant,
and that her hues are so omnipotent?
*Please click on the about this poem link for more information.
In thee, the world brightens
Exposing recondity to us
And yet a way out
In thee we fall to rise
Thou conceive ab inito
The plan of nation building
In you the crown caresses inspiration
To beautify his mother more
Night, we chat and converse
With our grayish haired roots
To beg and to thank
For greater we a’e in them
Protecting and directing our course
Every second passes by me unseen
But I can feel the weight of one minute
After each hour my mind becomes keen:
That these days are adding up bit by bit.
Each week my personality alters
A year goes by and my mind starts to twist
Decades pass and it seems as time falters,
My mentality gets lost in time’s mist.
Yet when I am with you the clock stands still
If only I could exploit these feelings
I could stop the sands of time at my will
But I’m not capable of these dealings
Time now steals what I already forgot
My mind starts to fade but our love will not
The great upper mid west
Minnesota put to the test
Ten thousand lakes and streams
Reality for many who like to dream
From Itasca state park
To the Louisiaina's wooden bark
The mighty Mississippi flows
Gently down the outcrop she goes
Crime rates are always's on the rise
But really does it come as such a surprise
Everyone seems to like to hug
Except when its a mosquito bug
So many call us Minnesota Nice
But some still say were Cold as Ice
THE FALL OF JERUSALEM
The grace of all He is be with us all,
as surely as the end, the promised love,
comes quickly as a thief, to bring the fall
of what the world's become, and dying of.
Behold how quickly comes, from Alpha's flame;
as naught can end unless it has begun;
the light of one who's called a holy name,
'twill light Jerusalem without the sun.
These words were said--to write--Omega's near.
And all who can will find the narrow way,
as prophesied for all the world to hear,
and then the bride says, come, this is your day.
Those hearing then, will come, from near and far,
to David's own, the bright and morning star.
Oh great courtesan of ancient Athens
Remove your cloths and step into the sea.
Astound the hearts of men and women,
A divine answer to all prayer and plea.
The King of Lydia sought out your grace,
But for all his wealth you found him loathsome.
He enslaved his people to pay your price,
Yet to Diogenes' mind: You succumb!
The great mysteries did you dare profane,
Disrobing yourself you gained acquittal.
You rebuilt the walls and attached your name.
Sculptors, thinkers, all found you sensual.
Oh great paramour! Were you around today.
I now wonder what I would have to pay.
Where, are we now, is the question at hand.
How are we to feel, upon this lifetime?
Are we to sit, now do nothing or stand?
Up against evil, as well simple crime,
This country became great, not from money.
From doing the right thing, when needed now,
American life not always sunny,
We have become, to greedy for endow.
Our wants, desires, out grew natural needs.
Things have become more important to all.
We have grown much waste, harvested no seeds.
Forgot about love, betrayed natures call.
March forward; bring back our ancestors plan.
Building country stronger, you know we can.
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Just poetry
Recalling the days not so far away,
Hearing experts speaking to say,
We had not enough oil today.
There was not five million to sway.
No, no, we had not enough oil here.
We depend on foreign oil so clear.
What do I see plastered in the news.
Millions and millions per day we lose.
What, we did not have is ruining, life.
Millions of dollars spent in strife.
Sea life, peoples lives in peril.
By what we did not have by the barrel,
Now we know; we were lied too, big.
Black Death, we had not, flows from rig.
Heavy,thick dust on the floors and benches
Open back door and a key on the table
Grass uncut, beer bottles strewn about
Brown water spurting out, pipes detached
Original wallpaper melting off the walls..
Old ,loose fitting, rusty handles on doors
The house is empty,rotting junk mail aplenty
A vine inside creeped in from the floorboards
No kitchen,no handrail,where are the landlords?
A peaceful view of a backyard with a wild turkey
Lorikeets happily feasting on bright flowered tree.
Misty sun showers on a western mountain horizon.
She said "Do you like what you see of our discovery?"
Her pointy nose + fine sense of scent lead us there.
Isn't New York City the leading global city?
Wait...why is it called The Big Apple?
And for those who don't know...here's the aswer:
it was named after the poor street vendors,
selling apples during the Depression.
And despite all the traffic jams and noises,
New York City is still a great city!
Manhattan's avenues are quite at night...
illuminated by those skyscrapers!
See the Brooklyn Bridge cross the East river,
such wonders are The Whitestone, the Throgs Neck,
the Washington and the Manhattan Bridges!
Yes, Queens is the melting part of the world;
where would you find such a diversity?
Entered in Brian Strand's contest, " Sonnet Me "
Below the Grecian walls and pillared stone
A great bridge does cross the river's divide:
And the Maroochy water's gentle groan
Concentrates my mind betwixt moon and tide.
Its untrammelled swelling in bended route
Can flood its great flanks in uncommon sight,
And pelicans a fisherman's catch loot
From creekbed weir to mighty ocean bight,
Where cane ash over scorched earth river-north
Flecks the golden sun till sleep's late curfew:
And me and "Johnnie in a can" gaze forth
Puffing cigars on Bradman Avenue!
Let the Cod Hole streetlight shimmy across
Shine upon my postcard from Mykonos.
Mykonos was the name of the unit complex
I lived at in Maroochydore, Qld, Australia.
The Cod Hole was a well known local fishing
Spot on the river.
Yellow meadows come into view
As the spring winds gently brew
Petals sway as if they are dancing
Luring insects of many in their passing glancing
Azure blue skies look down on the green
Whilst sporadic clouds, drift in and out of the scene
Gentle trickles of water from the winters snow
Meander through the meadows from the heights to below
A scent of anew wafts through the air
As i turn three sixty, all i can do is stare
All that i see is of beauty and free
These vistas of nature just fill me with glee
Inspired by Linda-Marie's " Softly Springing " poem
The hills their belly bleeding brim the flood
Of the Black River with red bauxite mud
And from the crowded bickering bridge I
Faced a silt churning denundated sea
And familiar rouged face of evening sky
That in boyhood dear as father to me
Kept father's memory and how he sprang
Poetry from this very bridge, shackled me
To sense of feelings while the waters bang
In turmoil, where river meets salt of sea.
Black River, bay lonely as evening sky
Desolate of ships and rich logwood dye
Slave and sugar separated by time
And still in hope a place bare and sublime
Seeing as how Georgia has mountains
That rise above the beautiful coast
Mountains gather snow some winter morns
Helen is quietly nestled there
Gold was found in those hills long ago
Still being mined today in Dalton
The blasts are felt at night__slight rumble
Gold awaits__the huge vein there they say
Down at coast awaits a day of play
Fun in the sun or boat ride on marsh
See the Dolphins greeting dance at river
Savannah Beach for a day or stay
Georgia has variety mountains high
Coastal plains____I can not complain
Through the graceful cones of your loud speakers,
Prayers go out to Alla al Akhbar.
And like a flag waving in a prophetic breeze,
You are a blindfolded hostage weeping on your knees.
In your fair root neighborhood of Shudada,
Stryker vehicles crackle past your ancient walls,
As tanks smash through deserted homes.
And the endless stockpiles of artillery shells,
The mortar rounds, rocket-propelled grenades,
Electronics for making bombs, were simply small caches,
Left by nomadic insurgents, cells long slipped away.
But you, sweet holy city of Falluja, you will live on,
For when the foreign snipers on your roofs are gone,
You will live on as the city of mosques, city of graves.
The one eternal question, What is Love?
The answer some say, is from up above.
Some say it is this great feeling you get.
One you've been sensing but didn't know yet.
My love for you, will it make me feel whole,
Will I know it is true, body and soul.
There is still time for you and I to meet,
But for now, alone I'm feeling complete.
If being with you means settling down,
I've still yet to finish running around.
I have things to do and places to see,
Right now, I feel great just being me.
I have to see the world, travel around.
Before I chose one place and claim my ground.
I know there are places that you want to see,
There will still be time to see them with me.
So, What is Love? I am still yet to know.
When we are together, the love will show.
Til then, I am happy just being free.
Til then, I am happy just being me.
I am remembering you when it was all so good.
Simply because you will never lose your shine!
On top of your head is a radiating golden shrine.
One by one and row by row is where we all stood.
If you wouldn’t and they didn’t, then I could.
Embedded in these visions is a sight so divine.
Looking back at you or me is where I do twine.
Leaps in faith bound following us as it should.
Midnight skies speak so clearly to me,
And every Star I know and you know,
In every granule of sand it is you I see.
That’s why the Sun and Moon still glow.
It is not certain if time runs too late for anybody to wait.
If vision still serves me well I’m looking at a twist of fate.
® Registered: Ann Rich 2009
I’m out of my mind but I am just perfect and just fine.
I went around the world and what a blast it was for me.
I’m sent with a message from a golden gate master key.
I shook I rattled and I rolled brand new maps I did align.
I founded you and I demolished you but swam like a fish in line.
I ran to and fro as I was left behind thrown forward but I did see.
It is a global trot I tell you to survive naked or dressed just to be.
And then it came to be true and real that this was mine all mine.
So I sit in the seat with no defeat.
The world goes stupid and so mad,
But I stay clean and of course neat,
It’s just a silly little one time life fad.
Pain and suffering has just about killed me and you,
Together or apart it is a world we will always renew!
®Registered: Ann Rich 2009
In the City Of London lights shine bright
People passing the streets as we walk by
Looking at the lights shining yellow light
We grab lover’s hand and look at the sky
The fear of the eerie wind chills the skin
We move through the night, we feel sanctify
Our lonely thoughts of dread, we feel within
Our bodies sweating our minds justify
Listen, hear the Horrific Ripper Word?
The forbidden tail of the somber night
Haunting as a faint Ghost our speech was slurred
We compare our emotions like a Knight.
Shadows of the forbidden truth come out
Elusive,Jack the Ripper,there's no doubt.
Dug out of an Etruscan crypt,
the sorcerer's eerie skull
will be used for an evil act...
amid lightening, darkness and gull.
The lad with frightened eyes screams
while they chant rhymes of a dead witch,
" Don't let me die...loose the ropes, please! "
she pleads to the tall High Priest Mitch.
Wandering wolves smell fresh blood,
the first drop stains her white gown...
they grunt not afraid of the man in hood,
or of the gruesomeness of his frown.
He lifts the eerie skull without any sheen...
the wolves attack that sorcerer so mean!
The constant rattling of chains,
Has been known to drive a man insane.
The steady clink of closed cell doors.
Voices filled with rage echoes down corridors.
Guards using night sticks banging off bars.
Menacing eyes looking out windows wish on a star.
Crys are heard into the night.
You can hear the pain and blows from a one sided fight!
The rec-yard is a mental escape
Information is passed about the latest victim of a gang rape.
Weights being lifted, basketball being played.
This is the time you carry your homemade blade!
The noises of prison life are frightening at times.
And yet a lot of us suffer for petty crimes!
I was corner-stoned by many of you.
The note was dotted with a dash.
But this note was an ultimate smash.
I found a peephole and peeped through.
I found a bird gave him the note and away he flew,
Across the deserts and the valleys he was there in a flash,
Across the rivers and Oceans he made a great big splash.
He made it to the shore, but the note he began to chew.
He passed a timely test,
And his belly was full,
He did not stop to rest,
The note he had to pull.
The bird landed on the Oceans shore,
Singing praises of his rugged chore.
I am a capstone to a brilliant plan.
Before your time I came into play.
I was morning night breaking day.
I was before during and after man.
Before person place and time span,
After the mixture of stone and clay,
During foundations faltering away,
I’m the capstone where you began.
Cornered by time to live again,
I am rushing waters in the sand.
I am the beginning and the end.
I’m reserved throughout the land.
You are never ever really alone,
For, I capped every single stone.
®Registered: Ann Rich 2006
The handy man is always available by my night or day.
I’m being stringent to say my very least to his very best.
All potential clergymen are put through his trickery test
Oh my God at these odds and ends his mind dare weigh.
He is intricately susceptible in light seeking a pardoned way,
He overcomes the homeliest just by his daily authentic quest.
In about a day or two will come his much timely needed rest!
Estranged in a time of several times where his mind did stray.
Caught up in clouds he drifts yet further away slicing thin.
Pondering many thoughts per milliseconds flood his gates.
Consuming ideas overwhelm his deep words drawn within.
He forms heaps of potential until he himself smears slates.
Single handedly he comes with his charts already mapped with my plan!
After all, he is quite elaborate when I exclusively need my Handy Man!
Hail Cleopatra, Princess of the Nile
Cunning lies within your devious plan
Secrets cleverly hidden in a smile
Silent Cobra coiled, striking heart of man
Your body a temple, your sacred shrine
Bathed in duplicity and sweet beguile
Taste Ceasar, Antony, on lips of wine
Life lived in beauty and splendid denial
Rome laying siege to your glistening crown
Stinging bite of asp, a fitting demise
Egypt cried rivers in sorrow and drowned
The world left to ponder in truth or lies
Surface beauty of face and form so rare
Masks sinister ugliness hidden there
I was washed ashore with Mountains looking over me and I could hear roaring Seas.
The sand covered me and my toes curled with sand dollars by the dozens.
I saw dolphins gaming and fish were everywhere, I even met their distant cousins.
The Sun was shining down on me and the Moon was jealous but the clouds gave way.
And I looked up to see the Stars shining and they told me it’s a most perfect day.
Salted lips and these palms fanned, I knew right then I was meant to be.
I stood alone at the shore and blue skies fled taking notice of little old me.
I was touched and moved balancing these visions I began to breathe.
I thought I was by myself, but I wasn’t, not this time.
Looking up I say leave me alone, be gone I’m on my own.
Looking down I am amazed at how truly this is so sublime.
You are the keeper of my secrets and I am of all the unknown.
Shining down upon me you are always standing right there,
Here I shall share myself with you and then I will begin to care.
® Registered: Ann Rich 2006
This Winters day the wind is whipping up rows of
turquoise white tipped waves pounding towards
an organic seaweed ladened haystacked shore.
White froth riding on marching parallell crests.
Five sailboats bending in a synchronised angle
slowly sail left towards the sturdy wooden jetty.
The sky painted in shades of cottonwool grey
carries the winds journey on the peaking sea.
The stinging sand dust carried by the wind
forms a fine powder vapour on the shoreline.
Such is the strength velocity of natures gale
but to seek refuge from the wind-lashed tide.
The wild wind intent on the ocean fades in notts
as we walk on the path leading to the main road.
An evening-instant, when bats fly and a flute
tunes its night music; a bass-line like crane-
thrumming from the flats. Listen to the drain
of daylight, so far from traffic and brute
commerce. Today’s already shoved down the chute;
in tomorrow’s news it’s Yesterday. How sane
the bullfrogs sound, booming under my raised pane,
the bedroom window wide to what won’t live mute.
The radio alarm shatters that. The word Must
takes over. Coffee, briefcase, and you’re out
the front door, leaving your tire-trail of dust
and that rising but invisible cloud of doubt
that follows you out to the main road, the stark
asphalt you drive until a new night’s dark.