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Best International Poems

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Details | International Poem | |

THE BROKEN DOLL

Walls of silence hold,
 Me prisoner,
The child held within,
 Cries out for release.
Relative solitude comforts, 
Not the tortured soul,
Inward coiling withdrawing,
 Deep inside. 
Shedding its outer skins,
 Protective
Layer thus preserving its,
 Inner being.
Innocents shroud lies in ruins.
Gentle spirit, cast aside wings,
 Damaged appendages.
The fallen angel kneels in,
 Shame,
Shadows before mankind.
Unanswered prays rest upon,
 Deaf ears.
Muted sobs, echo on stilled,
 Winds breath.
Hardening to stone, the
 Chilled heart
 Reflects frozen repose.
Forgotten amongst mine own,
 Kindred,
Childhood symbolizes a betrayed,
 Victim’s refuge.
Small fragile hands reach out,
 Into nothingness,
Hollow space grasping into,
 Oblivion.
Chained shackles twist,
 Imaginations warped view,
Somber tones cloud troubled,
 Thoughts.
Amidst life's trials, I'm aimlessly,
 Adrift,
Without any form of stability.
I, alone remain shambles,
 Wreckage.
Displaced and damaged,
Beyond repair.
A broken doll thrown away,
By those who should have, 
Cared for her the most.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | International Poem | |

One World

Love is not a color,
No hue, neither a race.
All of our blood is the same, 
That runs deep within our veins.

If we could lift up each other,
And know that we all care.
If we help our sisters and brothers,
There's a bond that we'll share.








©2013 Honestly JT

Details | International Poem | |

EDGER ALL POE

Our dark founding father, of American literature,
A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way
Into the darkened abyss of mankind’s soul.
Within the galleria of madness, he is the
Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's
 Written words of terror.
In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit
Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear,
A fine thin line, is drawn between reality,
And fictions illusionary world.
Life's a shunned, abandonment’s creation,
The lord's misbegotten son, embraced
The night's cloak, in it's power
His only salvation unto history's
 Remembrance, is found a truth's
Justice and notability's respect.
Loves passionate compliant servant,
Dashed against the rocks of life itself,
Broken and damaged, he rose above
The waves of poverty, and the under
 Current of tragedies broken
Heart.
Some may say he wrote from the after
Effects that laid, at the bottom
 Of the bottle.
Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling
The emotional nerves concept between
Right and wrong, the social exceptionable
Norm.
But we care not what others wish to believe,
For we honor him, those of us the dark poets,
As the father whom lead the way, between
Light and dark.
Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man,
A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed
Ink at his command.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN




















Details | International Poem | |

Proverbs Of Life

Proverbs Of Life If you don't have a purpose in life, then you don't have a life. It is not what the world can offer you. It is what you can offer the world that counts. If you think nobody loves you, think twice. Someone loves you very much. It is not how people can help you that counts. It's how you can help people that matters. If you have lost your best friend today, make a new one tomorrow. It will make a difference. If your life is not going good for you and you don't know why. Analyze your life and you will find some answers. Don't count the bad times you've had in your life. Count the blessings you had instead...
09/13/2014 By Lucilla M. Carrillo

Details | International Poem | |

AUTUMN ON FIRE

God’s inspirational napalm set ablaze upon the trees of autumn,
Welcome to the ascension of the fall season, bursting forth onto
The leaves once evergreen.
Colors of crisp snapping, auburn reds, fires aglow oranges, and
Subdued darken browns to contrast the mixtures blending, created
By the masterful hands of a higher powers creativity.
Tender timbers mutated into a glorious display of light and color,
Splashing the palette array of natural beauty.
Blessed in magnificence the lord hushes and stills, the mortal heart,
As inspiration captures the poets ink pen to write,
Upon the empty parchment page.
Strolling lovers huddle together, beneath a wondrous tapestry,
A canopy of leaf petals, that descend as it is caressed
By a chilling fall breeze.
Whispering softly in each others ears tender words
Sweet nothings, youth in utter splendor wrapped
Embraced in loves devotional shawl of emotions.
Behold vows promises of perfection uniting
These spirits of fall, united against the winter
Winds forever more.
Cold and slain lay the roses of summer, yet within
The wild heart of innocence, the flame of desire
Shall not flicker out, nay it lives strong in the young,
A blossom of delicate distention is true loves flower.
Oh in timeless remembrance as years will pass,
And only one shadow remains between these two
Souls united joined in life as one. 
Shall beyond another single silhouette awaits,
Tracing these burnt ambers of autumn from long ago,
 In cascading showers of melted colors of memory.
In angels tears a gentle rain does fall, yet a smile
Crosses the face of this eternal love, a blessings
Promise in one word spoken, always.
God’s inspirational napalm set ablaze upon the trees of autumn,
Welcome to the ascension of the season, bursting forth onto
The leaves of the evergreen.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | International Poem | |

Heinrich Heine Revisited

I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.

Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few. 
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!

Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set 
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.

It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!

It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by 
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books 
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!

And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014) 
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)

AUTHOR’S NOTES:
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.” 
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)

*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses: 
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)

*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous 
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they 
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other 
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and 
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover, 
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish 
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major 
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than 
reading them!  


Details | International Poem | |

THE POET DESTROYER

A shades poet, writing in blacks quailed ink,
Expressing emotions by a poetic pallet of diversity,
On a canvas rainbow bursting forth across the
Horizon at dawns first light.
Imaginations dream seeker, walking amongst 
The clouds, in heaven's meadows above.
Inspiration's muse, she'll never realize what
A simple comments pleasure, can give to
Lighten up someones day.
I've read eloquence's words placed upon the
Lab top screen before me, and felt tears sorrow,
Exhilaration’s heights of elevation.
Through her words of poetic thoughts placed 
Within lines.
Getting to know another person, and so now
Calling her a friend.
We the bards are becoming a rare breed, 
Unique each one of us, in our own ways,
But in retrospective similarities sharing the 
Same traits and needs.
To write, to express, and use our intense
Imaginations, to take others along with us,
In a journey beyond physical limitations,
Beyond body and mind.
She calls herself Poet Destroyer, but in 
Reality's truth, she is not destruction’s poetic
Slayer, but instead an angel of 
Compassion helping those whom need guidance.
What is the meaning of life, I've heard this
Asked many times before?
My personal opinion to this question is
To make some kind of difference in this 
World.
To touch another's persons life in some way,
Special,
Poet Destroyer you've touched mine,
And this is my way of saying thank you.
Happy Birthday to come my friend.
Always Cheri.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN



Details | International Poem | |

SISTER WARRIOR

Why me dear God in heaven's
Name why me?
Awaiting for a divine answers reply.
Kneeling at the lords sacred altar,
Lit candles flickering all about her
A bowed head in reverences honor.
In prayers hands tenderly cradling her,
Rosary.
She has been blessed by an angel's,
Healing touch.
Realizes not a mightier power stands,
Before her, shielding his lamb from,
 Harms way.
Faith guides this believers soul, 
Homeward unto grace.
She is truly not alone in this fight,
Rekindle a divine spark within,
Rage against the fading light,
And behold of a new dawning.
Humanities loving spirit everlasting,
Its our greatest weapon.
And many hands rest upon,
It's hilt.
Behold the sword of hope 
With it's sharpened edge.
And millions lend their strength
Of will behind it's wielding power. 
We are here my friend, my sister,
Always.
Let this evil shadow pass, give it
No binding power.
Shake off fears disbelief, know,
Sister warrior on this battle field,
Women must fight together. 
 United standing strong,
 Fixed on one single goal survival.
A pink ribbon may represent
The cause,
But within life's circle the
Human touch comforts a
Spiritual soul.
With faith's devotion as her
Guardian’s shield it will carry such
 A brave lady,
Through hells fire and beyond.
Remember your not alone
Against our common enemy
Named Cancer.
One day we will find a cure.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN 

 


 

Details | International Poem | |

Divine Flowers

Divine Flowers 

In a flower’s velvet petals
There dwells a divine scent and hue
Soon a tiny creature settles
That will help pollinate a few.

We are blossoms of our dear God
Born each in colors of our kin.
It matters not our birth of sod
Neither the colors of our skin.



For Andrea Dietrich's "Tell Me Your Number Contest" I am 8  
8 line form  Heroic Rispetto (Month and Day) Path May 3rd. 5+3=8

Details | International Poem | |

PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

From behind the crimson curtain,
The skylark sings within her
Gilded cage of musical notes,
To please her dark lord and master.
Beauty's prisoner of the forsaken,
She raises her voice in clarity's
Magnificence,
Beneath crystal chandeliers opulence.
As if a bird taking flight within
Harmonies Symphony.
This youthful diva sheds
Her physical shackles, released
By a spiritual reclamation, of liberty's
Beyond her earthly form.
This mistress of song captures
Liberation’s heights, beyond freedoms
Escape, to soar high above the heavens.
She is set free, released within the music itself.
In the mind of the phantom, he plays
Along with the orchestra of the dammed.
A pianist of great renowned, with loves
Sweet melody, is inspired by jealousy’s
Conquest, she is his, always and forever.
The dead’s musicians, play on, with their
Instruments precisely in tune,
A delicate balancing, is each textures
Movement, it is harmony's perfection,
A Graceful sounding, carried across the
Stage of this twisted tragedy.
On destiny's piano the grand master sits,
With his candelabra lit, from loves eternal
Flame of desire.
It's light softly flickering, by gentle winds
Breeze, calling her name, Christine.
Oh angels of mercy, here the meadow lark
Singing, beneath the cobbled streets,
And sawyers chambered walls.
Love's prince does slay the beast,
As fire shatters the opera house, leaving
Nothing but ashes residue behind.
Yet in echoes voice, he screams by nights
Breath, her name once more, he calls unto her,
The phantom of the opera, Christen.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | International Poem | |

ALWAYS A PRINCESS

In my father's eyes, I'll always be his princess,
No matter how old I've grown, he still sees
His little girl, dancing across the invisible stage
Before him.
A living Cinderella in miniature form, whom
Will never grow up, and thinks her dad is prince
Charming, and the strongest man on earth.
Cradling within this wondrous heart, is devotion’s
Biggest fan, the man I call my father, he's protector,
Comforter, and the everlasting image, of the perfect
Man that I idolize.
No wizard's wand or sword, holds more magic
Than his tender words of wisdom, as I stroll
Down the yellow brick road of life, I'm his
Dorothy, and he is, the Wizard of my oz.
Oh Papa, you've instilled the wonderment
Of this world within me, and I know, no matter
Where I roam, he shall always be a part
Of me.
You've always said, no matter how old I get
That within thy heart, a princess remains, timeless, 
Ageless, as if Alice, hidden behind the looking glass, 
Peering through from wonderland, magical world.
Perfection's cherished rose, whom never loses it's
Petals, but blossoms nourished by loves fertile soil,
That only a father's faith can provide.
I'll always be his princess, no matter what bad
Choices I may make in life, I know he'll pick me
Up and smooth out the wrinkles in my velvet gown,
Wiping away my tears, turning them instantly into diamond
Shards, and letting me dance away again, clapping
For this his darling princess. 
So let the musical waltz of life, play forever forward,
As I lightly tip toe, across destiny’s ballroom floor.
My dancing card remains eternally full, written within
One name stands out, it is yours dearest sweet man.
He is after all my prince charming, and I am
His dearest little girl, and of coarse in his eyes
Always his little princess.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN











Details | International Poem | |

I Do Believe

"I Do Believe" 

The purpose of LIFE is to {Living In Faith Ever} 
to enrich God within us 
to an optimum level 
so that We as Humans 
can be guided by God 
to fuel out brothers and sisters 
with the same driving force 
to connect with the living God, 
to His existence and 
to See the Invisible, 
Believe the Incredible, and 
to Receive the Impossible 
to our everlasting journey 
to Heaven.

Rev. Samuel Mack
Copyright 2013

http:paladinnews1.blogspot.com

Details | International Poem | |

FINALLY HOME

We'll climb over paper mountains
Cross over distant seas
We'll give away our fortune
We will get down on our knees
We'll be analyzed and scrutinized 
Receive training from the best
But until at last you're in our arms
We will never rest
We will never rest

And...
We're dreaming of the first time 
We will see your face
Such a sacred moment
That'll never be erased
All the sacrifice worth it
None of it a waste
'Cause when this journey's over
You'll be in this place
You'll be home
Finally home!

Today we got our travel approval
We're packing up our bags
Been through highlands and valleys
We've overcome a hundred snags
Done things we didn't think we could do 
We feel so very blessed
But until at last you're in our arms
We will never rest
We will never rest

And...
We're dreaming of the first time 
We will see your face
Such a sacred moment
That'll never be erased
All the sacrifice worth it
None of it a waste
'Cause when this journey's over
You'll be in this place
You'll be home
Finally home!

*Story of a family's long journey to adopt a orphan with special needs

Sponsor: Roger Horsch
Contest Name: Many Miles Away

4-1-14
Ballad

Details | International Poem | |

THE TITANIC

Collisions avalanche, beneath the icy
Waves, of the North Atlantic.
Birthed in the cradled of Belfast,
A maritime giant, became crimsoned,
By champions shattered tradition,
An ironic omen presence to come.
For she bares tragedy’s mark, the name
Given to this colossus,  the titanic.
An aquatic diamond gem, of ocean
Liners, refined and polished for the 
Privileged elite.
A jewel shinning, with a brilliance fire,
No vessel could rival, this grand ladies,
 Opulence.
The unsinkable legend survives even,
From under the brimey fathoms depths.
In the whispering wind echoes, carried
Just above the foam and sprays watery 
Crest, a haunting refrain is spoken,
Ice burg dead ahead.
A sheer ice blade, is driven into the
Hulls breast plate, puncturing the maid
On her maiden voyage.
Death's fiddler plays an eerie tune,
As the screaming chorus sings,
Dooms lullaby, of remorseful regrets,
Of the living dead.
Abandon ship, women and children
First, but life’s greed proceeds protocol,
And man take seats reserved while 
Others are simply left empty.
A once shinning star, is broken now
In two, rivaling in pain, she the
Grand lady, shutters, grasping for
Some hold, but fates evil hand
Pulls her beneath the frozen
Angry sea.
To rest at the bottom of titan's
Kingdom, in a crept mausoleum of
Seaweed, and coral debris.
Yet the Titanic still remains the
Diamond jewel of the seven seas,
Her mystery's beauty, a mystic
Inspiring mankind to solve
The questions that remain,
 Unanswered.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
HISTORICAL

Details | International Poem | |

Reality's Angel

I am Reality’s angel resting on the broad shoulders of discovery the truth feeds darkness and engulfs its target ideas and concepts in turn become meaningless to you there is a creator of all things He is just and patient many still have fallen into the masses of shadow wrapped in their own filthy idols of philosophy I have seen grown men fall like rose petals and weaklings rise into unjust leaders forever the follower of furtive evil dominating only to remain inferior the most important answers lie in the unseen regions where no sense can fully give assurance the mind that so many unreasonably twist and turn grows weary because of the distance it must take and truth be told the distance is not what frustrates it is knowing we are seeking something far that could very possibly not exist, that our minds can twist into theoretical, idealistic nonsense it is knowing all we really think we know is meaningless and yes—even a lie all that has been written thus far rests under my wings under the warmth in which you refuse to feel can you believe in me— though I am completely unseen? how much more difficult would it be to see Him?

Details | International Poem | |

God Is Not A Murdering Maniac

This is to those idiots leaving their own countries
to join terrorist organizations in foreign lands.
Religion is not very difficult to understand.
God is not a murdering maniac! God is love!
The Devil is a murdering maniac!
I know you stupid fools who think being a terrorist
is a good thing to be are the dumbest of the over seven billion souls
currently living on earth but even you damn ignoramuses
should have enough active brain cells to understand this one simple fact:
God Is Not A Murdering Maniac!

Details | International Poem | |

You Will Feel

be mindful
human rights are human ways
that lead down

be careful
the words above always remain
wear no crown

trap the sin
destroy the lie of conceit
look within

don't consume all that you see
you will feel
wrong like fire

Details | International Poem | |

An International Friendship

Tears may trickle down my face
whenever encumbered by life’s trials.
Comfort comes from a friend who can’t be replaced.
Even though we’re separated by many miles,
Sandra has a way of creating smiles.

A call to Canada cures what ails;
the loneliness disappears.
Resurrecting me from a bed of nails,
compassion and humor she volunteers.
Chuckles linger as souvenirs.

Two thousand miles may seem too many
for those who have loved ones at home.
But since I haven’t any,
our words through telephone lines roam.
She describes Canada's snow and I the Atlantic sea foam.

She vows to visit, despite fear of flying,
and I know this is the most precious gift.
Upon this friendship I’m relying
for when I feel my world shatter and shift,
my friend across the miles always brings a lift.

Details | International Poem | |

A World on Fire

We live today in a world of great tumult
And of rising uncertainty and anxiety 
Which pervade the world stage like a cancer

Despite soaring technological advances
Our environment and our home Earth
Are bearing an unimaginable burden

People are wondering what must be done
To right these wrongs and adjust our course
Before we turn the corner to “No Return”

Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War 
Are still with us today since the beginning
Of time and are mankind’s greatest shame

God may be with us intellectually
But mankind must be self-reliant
To survive an inattentive, distant deity

People see answers to these enigmas
Sounds are made, echoes are heard
But nothing comes back in response

Frustration reigns supreme for many 
Fear and anxiety multiple all concerns
There can never be easy answers

                      *******

Tyranny still reigns alive in many countries
As the actions of tin-eared dictators abound
And are on ample display for all to see 

Poverty is still a shameful, terrible curse
Which afflicts the most unfortunate
And is paid lip service by the wealthy

Disease is a scourge still in our world
And still felt by those most in need
And never enough is done to change this

War is the ultimate insult to mankind
And its wide-felt swath and affliction
Plagues yet our modern, enlightened world 

What to make of all these challenges
Is not easy for any of us to digest
And let alone understand why

Yet understand, comprehend we must
If we want a better world for all to live in
A Sisyphean task at its very best

Man still holds the key to make change
Positive and real for our troubled Earth
But can it ever be really so in the end

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, 
Schoeningen, Germany (October 16, 2014) 
(Tercet unrhymed poetic format)


Details | International Poem | |

fragility

a motionless pond reflects a fragile sky where mushrooms swallowed the sun blossoms drift like tears skimming over old wounds where doves fly against the wind ~ we share the same sun and as moon touches your face I wake with tomorrow's dream lessons we have learned come not from holding the stars but from where we share the light
_______________________________________________________________ Inspired by Deb's Contest: Walk Softly

Details | International Poem | |

If Languages Were Instruments

If languages were instruments,
English, the language of my own America,
Would be something like a piano.
Each word is clear and sharp-
When we sing, the note does not waver.
But I suppose it's more fair to say that
English is something like an electronic keyboard
With two hundred different modes because English
Has so many different versions, 
Adaptations of other instruments,
Emulations, or imitations, however you want 
To think of it; there is no accent that cannot 
Be reconfigured to be
Played on keys in distinct shades
Of black or white.

Arabic though...
Arabic is more like a violin.
The sound of Arabic
Flies up and down the scale
In deliciously smooth legato,
Stopping to linger on vibrato;
Poignant

Details | International Poem | |

Broken English

He speaks in broken English;
It's interesting to see my language this way-
Spread out like pieces of shattered ceramic,
The edge of each word tossing off glints of meaning
Like bits of light, illumination; a kaleidoscope
Of light or sound dancing in the air before his lips...
At times he seems embarrassed, pausing before he speaks, 
Like the boy who tipped over his mother's favorite vase-
He knows how I love words- and scrambles to piece back
Together the fragmented ideas, hoping the cracks might
Be overlooked; the result of his efforts is often unconventional,
And yet... impossibly lovely too... 
It's a picture puzzle of a lonely landscape rearranged into a flower
It's a mosaic; the pieces don't have to fit to make the image radiant
It's a kintsukuroi bowl, the language veined through with gilded passion,
More beautiful for having been broken

Details | International Poem | |

THE REBEL

The Hollywood hills still echoes with his 
Rebellious yell, we are the forever young
Generation.
An iconic American symbol, to this the lost
Age of innocence.
Nay did this rebel die without a cause,
I think not, in my humble opinion, he
Died for his desire for speeds acceleration,
In death's ironic twist of fate, James Dean's
Name became immortalized as an epic tragedy,
Of youthful hearts seeking to be wild and free,
Without any consequences.
A teen idol who went out in a blaze of glory, 
Revving His engine hell bound for destiny's,
Rock-n-roll Hall of Fame.
A nation wept in despair mourning for the
Loss of one so young and full of life.
Sorrows children cried in disbelief laying roses,
At his final resting place.
The jukeboxes remained silent with respects,
Reverence, and bikers gave him a rebel send off.
A generation whom believed they were bullet proof,
Realized how human life could be extinguished, 
Within the flash point of on coming head lights.
James Dean's ashes were swept away swallowed,
Whole by time itself.
Now he's nothing but a tarnished star in histories,
Memorabilia case on display for all to see,
And remember, this the first easy rider. 
JFK dream vision illusion of Camelot has faded to gray,
And Elvis now sings in a more heavenly chorus,
In the great beyond.
But before these man took the center stage, another
Walked the thin line of immortality's rebel fighting,
For a cause.
One lone figure rides into the night across freedoms,
Highway, and his name was James Dean.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN







Details | International Poem | |

BROTHER'S OF THE WIND

Through the whispering pines, down the valley's deep
And wide, do they call unto one another, the brother's
Of the winds.
North chases east to west, as south's warming breath,
Begs to play also, once around the world, over land, 
Sea, and mountain tops vast divides.
Tag your it, not I says, the three, as they roll, and duck, 
Shifting thus for cover's airy currents, above, below one another.
The east wind is the trickster, mischievous fellow,  seeking
Up behind his brethren, than laughing with sheer delights
Gleeful pleasure, until his companion’s kindred, catch up with
Him and pick on him later.
Latitudes unto longitudes, these spiritual pirates,
Of freedoms quest, to remain as liberation's
Outcasts, to conventional reality.
Mother nature's wild children of the untamed,
Swirling divinities whom never rest or settle in
One space, air spirits tasting the everlasting flavor
Of abandonment's desire, beneath their wings of flight.
Soar with destiny's favorite sons, brethren beyond
Human reproach, except unto one another calling,
Come excel with exhilaration's, mischief makers
Extraordinaire.
Ariel acrobats ascending, descending at wills whim,
Concurring the heights currents as invisible eagles,
Than free falling towards the earth beneath.
Gliding dare devils challenging the open air,
Testing the fates of destiny's sails, to imagination’s
Boundaries without fail.  
At night fall a whispering voice, she calls unto
Them, mother nature, come my sons, it is time
To finally rest.
Yawning with their blustery breath, these tempestuous
Mischievous lads, float a loaf towards the cave
Of the winds, and dream of the chase to come,
On the marrow's sunrise.
Illusion's dreaming realm tosses aside, it's veiled
Currant unto these ideal God's, whom play with
Raw power's force,  using it's strength as if a game at play,
These brother's of the four winds, set adrift within
This realm of imagery.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN





Details | International Poem | |

THE GRAVEYARD OF SHIPS

Beneath the fathom’s deep, in wreckage’s graveyard
Of the forgotten, here the broken bones of ships lie still,
Covered in a forest of seaweeds greenery.
Corrosion steel hauls ripped wide open, lay against ancient
Wooden beams from vessels voyages, of long ages distant past.
Faded names, render no clues reference, for the maritime detective.
But tragedies lost vessels, did ride upon the frothy foam, 
And spray above, sailing the big blues timeless tides.
Nay Poseidon's toll ti’s payed in sailors flesh, melting
Humanities dreams beneath his drowning waves.
Beauties fare, and proud are they, the crippled, 
Swallowed whole by the aquatic storms avenging rage.
Mercy's mere-angels weep thus, for the mortal souls lost,
Guiding them towards their spiritual resting place below,
And welcoming them unto their fathers kingdom beneath,
The abysses darkening depths.
Torn asunder is mankind's well hued craft, shattered
Into bits pieces, large to small, a glittering shards
Rain of destruction. crashing into the muddy bottom,
Of the under belly of the sea itself.
Deaf are the silent cry's of men, whom leave only
Bubbles streaming upwards, as their last epitaphs
Tribute for thy existence.
The devil's gardens, swim these black waters,
Turning them crimson red, sharp toothed monsters,
Feasting upon carrion discarded left overs.
Dark figures, phantom creatures, lurking just below,
The briny surface, awaiting for the Poseidon’s next victim,
To join the graveyard of ships.
Faded are their names, forgotten titles, as the paint
Peels, on the once majestic vessels.
Now they remain wreckage’s ruins, abandon to the
Mercy of erosion masterful hand of destruction.
Hear the sounding clanging of bells, whom ring in
Silences of troubled waters abode, it is the cracking 
Of doom, beware thy young lad, he whom seeks fortunes
Favor abroad, for only fools test the might of the sea,
Against thy own grit and survive.
Thus thee shed a tear for the fallen, dear lad, 
For no other will on the dead’s behalf, in thine
Cemetery of the graveyard of ships. no passages
Return tickets are given.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
SPIRITUAL-HISTORICAL
02-03-2914