I know a very fine poet, a dear colleague, who’s so exquisitely talented and bright,
And has a superb facility with words and themes making all fit perfect and right;
She has an unrivaled mastery of the poetic art and writes with the best approach,
And has an unparalleled ability to write the finest verse beyond any reproach.
This poet’s sense of depth, empathy, and poetic variety is quite splendid to behold,
And she brings such compassion and power to her work worth its weight in gold;
With well-conceived themes and images she invites readers to her special dimension,
While enchanting them magically with sublime verses and holding their attention.
This poet communes with Our Poetry Muse, seeking her scope and enchanted vision,
And shares amply all with her readers with enraptured intent and a perfect precision.
Our friend’s poetry reflects always the human dynamic with such power and grace,
And she finds the right tone, tenor, pitch and rhyme—putting them in proper place.
I must say I’m very proud of our colleague’s work and appreciate so her fine poetry,
And I’m so glad she’s with us and gives us such beauty and elegance in her poetry!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(November 9, 2014) (Shakespearean Sonnet in a Rhyme poetic format)
*****Written for the “It’s All About Me Contest,” December 4, 2014*****
A green-feathered, yellow head beauty,
that’s my prized pet parakeet, QuiQui.
Even when she’s often crabby and snappy,
she succeeds in making me extremely happy.
QuiQui loves dipping and diving into her bird bath,
and hanging from a perch in her cage, like an expert acrobat.
She also enjoys shaking water from her wet wings,
gazing impishly into her toy mirror wildly shrieking.
Relishing her seeds and red strawberry millet treats,
nonchalantly she ignores my sweet endearments and tweets.
But she shows off her long, elegant, tapered blue tail,
Sitting silently and contentedly unloading quite a poop trail.
And even though QuiQui never utters a single word,
I know she secretly loves me too, my little prima donna bird.
We haven’t been formally acquainted
Though your words now travel in me
A picture of harmony you’ve painted
Love truest, in the very highest degree
Trouble in the midst, but don’t stress
Look into the windows of the soul
Therein you’ll find your happiness
Where two parts become a whole
Partake of this newfound pleasure
Two rivers now flowing into one
The joy contained has no measure
Warmth radiating like rays of sun
On this road of destiny or now call it fate
To encounter true love, it’s never too late
Based on In Deepened Harmony by Nette Onclaud
I do not know you, but your friends desire you back. You must truly be a light and inspiration to them.
Oh, angel, how you flutter 'bout my heart
The joy of love and living you impart
Your voice my soul does carry into flight
Illuminates with incandescent light
Your eyes are blind to wonders of this world
Yet, when you sing, its beauties are unfurled
I live a dream unmarred by pain and strife
Where passion, joy, and love are verdant, rife
You sing my heart into that special place
Where naught resides but beauty touched by grace
Angelic face when lit up by a smile
Invites my heart to dream a little while
Bocelli, angel sweet of paradise
In blinded eyes, the light of heaven lies
March 30, 2014
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Walking down the hallway,
Seeing all the doorways,
And all the choices in life,
Making it difficult to choose,
The right room from all the other rooms,
Bringing you the wisdom and truth,
For the imperfection is within us all,
Which makes us all crawl at times,
On our hands and knees in the dark,
To discover what is right and survive,
In life as long as we can accept,
What life brings to us in our hearts,
Which we patiently accept the pleasures,
And push away the sacrifices much in our lives,
Yet, to correct our flaws we have,
Which causes most our struggles,
Till we open our eyes,
And see what we have and must believe,
That our lives are greater than we ever know,
Cause God created it all for us,
But the choices are ours to make,
To find the happiness,
Which is ours to be found and kept.
O for the skills to calm a flighty horse.
Compact its trombone limbs with reins and legs.
Exact perfection without noticeable force,
all trouble and delight that beauty begs.
One horse, one rider, indivisible;
sky-born with earth-bound duty to endorse.
Control from legs and seat must be invisible,
obeying smooth transitions on the course.
Struck by awe, crowds watch, as in a trance
a pleasure trip controlled by aids precise.
Such liveliness contained in equine dance,
by what divine device - this Paradise?
Each discipline involved must scarce be seen.
Before our eyes must seem a floating dream.
He stood bravely before me
with a medal of honor in his right hand
and a bandage of agony around his left knee
It seemed like he had struggled to stand,
his crutches lay useless on the ground
I found it hard to understand why,
a soldier in pain didn't even frown
With a voice firm but dry
his words shook me like thunder
"You're now the man of this house"
he uttered like a worn-out hunter
quivering up my legs like a terrified mouse
Drowning my mind through cold ears
he passed his sincere respect and sunken tears
While dreaming of my childhood ocean ties,
mem'ry's chandelier sheds light, somewhat eclipsed.
The essence of the salt still stings my eyes;
the rusty taste of iron hangs on my lips.
The ocean’s fragrant spray not quite so fair
as I recall; it makes me think of death.
Many a moon has set since I was there;
destiny speaks to me - my own last breath.
The ocean’s soft waves bring dulcet mem’ries,
my mama’s silk scarf brushing ‘gainst my face.
Turbulent storms always left me on my knees
under safe precipice back of our place.
It is there my dreams rest as I stand by;
it’s there I shall be buried when I die.
inspired by nette onclaud's poem from 6/12/11, Even After Twilight Loves
We miss you, nette, and long for inspirations from your pen as you have time and
energy. Meanwhile we read your poetry and pray for whatever keeps you away from us to end.
poets write of hidden beauty in places
poets write of hidden beauty in faces
poets write of hidden beauty in flowers
poets will write of them till interest sours
beauty exists where only chosen be
beauty so dark with your heart you must see
beauty of memories and honor’s part
beauty only shared by a kindred heart
soldiers of honor will answer the call
soldiers courage tested as brothers fall
soldiers of strength stand before enemy
soldiers duty ensures freedom to be
honor, courage, strength, duty, not a sin
honor soldiers hidden beauty within
Contest : Hidden Beauty
Sponsor – Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
A squad of cavalries turns up at first
their flag flutters at every angle
proud and their poor fate stubbornly reversed
the youngest one of them blows the bugle
Next, day strips itself of night, boisterous
the survivors step over the fallen
to the summit, wounded but victorious
the bravest one sags all of a sudden
That happens and will do, when justice is sliced
it was worth it and it will since God pleads
It's a cause for which our lives are sacrificed
as blooded swords are put back into sheaths
Honor befalls me, who made it public
in a lonely sonnet, epic and lyric
Owls, Silent Magic In Flight
Owls in flight glide so deadly silent
prey dies so quickly and violent
Claws just as sharp as a razor knife
nightime is the owl's hooting life!
Resting in tall trees in the hollow
the night's moon they have to follow
No shrieks as they swoop down on prey
owl's eating demands business not play!
A beauty shines with feathers and eyes
smooth flight in dark forested skies
Owls are held to be old and very wise
to love and admire if one simply tries!
A treasure to love and attempt to protect
Tragic if we fail due to ignorance and neglect!
Night Owl - Poetry Contest
Sponsor -Kelly Deschler
Black tulips adorn her favourite vase
At this dinner table set up for one.
Her face distorted as if hit by mace
As she displays the medals he had won.
A clowder of black cats wail on the wall,
Emulating Chopin’s funeral march.
His parents just lie there and their eyes bawl
At the cenotaphs under the tall larch.
The thunderclaps join in the gun salute
For treasured sons returned in body sacks.
These are cold facts that one cannot refute
Unless on haunting stats we turn our backs.
With their memories embossed on a plaque
Those stars and stripes are all now painted black.
Contest: I love rock and roll
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Upon hearing of Peter Kassig’s beheading
Paint it Black
The Rolling Stones are touring Sydney
Sweet little girl who snuck upon her mom
without plans already in place to meet,
you’re a tiny hero, a bitter balm
for the wound that left an empty car seat.
A routine visit that ended in tears,
and an operation for the next week.
My sister’s truth was a mother’s worst fear,
never to hold her babe, to stroke her cheek.
After the grim appointment, her eyes glazed
her heart rate jumped high, and her fever raised.
Illness would have stolen her, but for fate.
You had asked a favor at heaven’s gate.
Thank you for saving my sister, sweet one.
I wish though, it didn’t mean your life was done.
Is my life not tortured enough for you to see?
I am broken as can be.
My heart is torn.
My tears stain these perfect floors.
Why are singing with glee?
Why do you not care about my every plea?
I am trapped in your arms.
I am the hopeless moth.
How did you pick me?
What is it that you see?
A girl untouched by life?
A flower blooming in the desert?
I have said goodbye to my loving integrity.
You took that from me through R-A-P-E.
Thirteen years ago today
The world stood still
We could not turn away
Our eyes with tears did fill
For many lost so much that day
Lives of loved ones gone
The things those crimes took away
What happenened was beyond wrong
Targeted for living free
My country paid the price
Hated by foreign countries
Wanting justice must suffice
So years have come
Time has gone by
Rebuilding towers has begun
Free planes can never fly
Will never be the same
We lost our freedom can't you see
Security is its name
Freedom was lost that day
Our choices not the same
We had to all change the way
That we had played the game
Long lines, mistrust, everyone suspect
We shuffle along, like cattle
It seems we lost respect
Its time we start to battle
I want back what they took from me
My freedom, my right to privacy
I don't want to be microchipped
This country was built on principles
With pride and revelry
We used to be invincible
Strong for all to see
Its time to stand tall again
Just like the twin towers stood
Trust, believe and defend
In the power of the good.
His words calm me when I'm restless
bringing beauty to my world.
I get shivers, I must confess
when his passionate verse is unfurled.
I once threw a penny of brown
to see if love, I might find.
Like a princess with jewelled crown,
my dreams of starry nights shined.
Soft words of romance, he brings to life
with every stroke from his gifted pen.
Of sunlight, moon shadows, peace and strife,
I read his poems time and again.
His words bring smiles and move me to tears.
He inspires me to write of feelings, sincere.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, June 20, 2012
Tribute to WB Yeats
That the brilliance of His majestic ways
and fire that burns from His white-hot eyes
may give their light to space of infinite size
and shine on all Earth's creatures' love and praise;
that the mercy He gives to him that stays
from wicked ways to keep his lips from lies,
for faith and grace to remain pure and wise
may give His Word renewed glory and raise;
that the millennial Kingdom's earthly time
arrives after end times' brief, labor pangs
and saves God's children from sin's filthy grime,
so they that were tempted of Satan's gangs
will live on in glory and in their prime
once Christ defangs the Serpent's deadly fangs!
The silence you note does not represent
drought. It is frozen words under his pen.
Witness his Greatness tapping thoughts
surfing the sea, sailing on heights that us mere
mortals imagine unreal. The ceaseless tapping
goes on and on.
The tap-tapping goes on into silence
broken by a pause – Saturday calls
Maestro, it is time to play. Words don’t play;
note the form, a line must be perfect.
Is this a sonnet? No no! This is an elegy.
That look. Stare death in his face,
Damn him and write. A line must be true
To the form. Those words won't die.
(For Wayne Brown, Caribbean poet)
To be one among the brave
To walk and live among the blood
Is to be, in your own right, as free as a slave
To each stranger's glance, you give a bold nod!
Yet, your own heart is sick and lonely
You wish for your loved one's company
Even if your eyes try to remain empty
As your mission remains your sole duty!
With an empty soul, you use your gun
While forgetting God, your enemy you stun
Such was your chosen call
The one known as Fate decided it all!
Ode to you brave soldier, in my own way
Be strong and may Mother Courage lead you on her alley!
28th June 2012
Tonight we sit upon these bales of hay
and visit characters who've long been dead.
The research brought them life, allowed a say
in how their history would then be said.
Tonight, you came to hear their story told.
A hayride through the graves, you say, how odd,
but actors popped up here and there, so bold
and brought them back as by an act of God.
So come, and lend your ear to how they fared
upon the earth when younger days were here,
the struggles and the joys they must have shared,
and how they dealt with death and conquered fear.
Perhaps tonight, we catch a glimpse of worth
from tales of those who lie beneath this earth.
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
Her bell rings out with blast of horn, her wheels
scrape iron, her engines groan, her cars hold back,
caboose hangs on and baggage shifts 'round loop
to loop and up to mountain peak. Her trail
snakes past Alpine and Pudding Creek to wind
thru pasture and deep woods. Her lonesome wail
sounds forth across a land of yesteryear.
They could have named her Tin Lizzie or Goose
Yet dubbed her Skunk because, as one has said,
Her smell precedes your view. And still today
she claims the name. We gaze at deer who drink
at river's edge and scrape the bark from trees.
We cringe and gasp in tunnels long and dark.
The vintage train gives all, chugs up and up.
~Not Enough Time~
They say she had everything to live for
Did she? Perhaps, if she would had time more
But in the end that wasn't just meant to be
She was beautiful, like a rose, alone.
Her mere presence like a star always shone
Yet, like star from heaven one night was gone
She fell. Her beauty 'mong mortals was lost
Still, she walks this earth with gracefulness most
Death! O Death! With his fatal kiss took her 'way
Death had his way when for her came that day
She seemed had it all, but, time she had not
That ,still she had everything to live for
Perhaps she did, wonder if just had more
Time, but that was something she had more not.
Dorian Petersen Potter
Alcohol can drown a man's sorrow, but for a little while.
Makes him remember of what he tries to forget.
Drink more, only to find solitude.
Drink more, only to find regrets.
Dink more, only to find tears.
Dink more to find emptiness that is in the hearts of every man.
Drink more to find death.
A fool says, "Every rose has a thorn".
But a wise man says, "Every thorn has a rose"
So, hold on to your past, Let go of those that aren't worth holding on to.
Cause life is short to live in sorrows' of the past.
Every man will find peace if they purse the present.
And every breath of life one takes is a gift,
Alcohol cannot drown a man’s sorrow, but his sorrow drowns him.
(Dedicated to Fellow Poet and Kindred Friend, Anya Jaenicke, to whom I am indebted for being my "poetic compass" and source of direction)
Does life restrain me from knowing your mind;
does it impede my mind's-eye picture of you?
Alas, with my circumscribed point of view
I know this,--that you're of a gracious kind!
A poet and a mentor, you remind
me of a lost faith in what's pure and true,
ideals once held by me and by the few
that all the innocents have left behind.
So, Anya, I extol you as a brother
with these well-chosen lines from this sonnet;
please esteem them (as you would your Mother)
as if your Muse wholly depends on it.
A guide and lodestar, you have earned my love
like the poets whose works come from above.
A sonnet for the sonnet man
Shakespeare, my heart you do tend
In between your lines, so true
I can feel my own depth, so blue!
Your verses give me heavy sommersaults
That Dark Lady must have jumped in volts
A lover like you, the revolving world knows not
Pure and eternal, your words inspire me a lot!
With your sonnets, I fly on the love plane
For your true love, can never be taken as plain!
Blissful and delightful, you make me smile plentiful
As I am not the only one with a sensibility so artful!
A tribute to the one I call the Eternal Lover
To laugh and love I wish to as your apogeal another!
Phillia; oh My brother of life,
Brought through time and wrought though strife.
We've met this day through unblood ways,
given this test of heart we've made.
With youth we bled from youthful knees,
Carried the hearts of youthful dreams.
We grew into the Brother's we are today,
given this test of heart we've made.
Phillia; oh My Brother's, Son.
My heart hurts for his hearts one.
Time has taken us different ways,
But with this old ticker, Phillia remains.
Well into the shadows of life we've claimed,
settled minds and unashamed.
Captured essence of solitude,
Phillia; oh My Brother, I think we made it through.
FOR THE NEW TORCH BEARERS
(APROPOS MLK: 2)
I have voyaged over many tempestuous oceans and seas;
I have been pursued in woods by vicious dogs,
Salivating stale slave smells left in hanging trees;
Been hunted, trapped and penned like sliming wild hogs.
I’ve waded rivers buoyed by the bodies of ancestors;
My blood has caked on their banks in the golden dawn;
Yet I’m still here; solid like a rock, standing in the mist
Of our debtors;
For I am the flaming spirit from the black phoenix’s spawn
I am that everlasting arm of which the ancestors leaned
I am that of which the ancestors long ago spoke;
I am what sustained them during their bloody rebuke
And lashing scorn;
I am the anchor that strengthen them with an audacious
And undying hope.
So come chosen children; everybody gather here
Let us sit together talking and praying for a while.
Like Papa, let us keep our eyes on the prize; gaze
Not down on the ground.
Raise high your heads: strutting down the blood stained
Listen children, the battle is not yet won; there’s still work
left to be done.
Girdle yourselves with an ebony pilgrim’s pride; girt
The rising sun of new days begun.
Rise up little children and give rebirth to the words
The ancestors said;
Rise up little children and cover yourself with the blood
They have shed.
Rise up little children and rip apart the new veiled shackles
And invisible yoke;
Rise up little children, raising your bright new torches
Higher than everlasting hope:
You are the new torch bearers of the dream;
You are the new Martin Luther King.