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Quatrain Adventure Poems | Quatrain Poems About Adventure

These Quatrain Adventure poems are examples of Quatrain poems about Adventure. These are the best examples of Quatrain Adventure poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Quatrain |

Cup of Empty

She pours him a cup of empty
From a teapot of childhood dreams
He loves the sound of her giggles
Hers is the light of a thousand moonbeams

Moonbeams and butterflies, petals from roses
Counting out loud, crossing fingers and toeses
Unicorns and Teddy all enjoying a sip
Cups full of empty never spill and can't drip

He lifts a cup of empty
and gives his baby a  wink
"Mmmm, dear darling, this is so delicious,
its the very best I've ever had to drink"

In the evening he turns to his bottle
With his friends he goes to the bar
She faithfully waits for him for hours
Thinking "Dear daddy I wonder where you are?"

Moonbeams and butterflies, petals from roses
Counting out loud, crossing fingers and toeses
Unicorns and Teddy all enjoying a sip
Cups full of empty never spill and can't drip

She sets their table and faithfully waits,
hoping that daddy will be coming home soon
But her tired eyes give way to sleepy
as her Teddy watches under the moon

He comes home way after midnight
Sees his angel asleep on the floor
Smiles and sips a sip of empty
and thinks "I shouldn't drink anymore"

Years have a way of taking
She doesn't wait for daddy at home
She's found a new kind of pleasure
Her hunger grew from being alone

She fills her veins with her empty
Dreams dreams she can't explain
Trades her body and those giggles
In hopes of escaping her pain

Moonbeams and butterflies, petals from roses
Counting out loud crossing fingers and toeses
Unicorns and Teddy all enjoying a sip
Cups full of empty never spill and can't drip

Daddy sat home and he waited
His baby girl she never came home
He still drowns himself in his bottle
But now he drinks all alone

Her teacup sits on the counter
Emptied of her childhood dreams
He misses the sound of her giggles
and the light of a thousand moon beams

He lifts the cup full of empty
To his lips and takes another drink
Empties out the rest of the bottle
As his pain is poured down the sink

Moonbeams and butterflies, petals and roses
Counting out loud crossing fingers and toeses
Unicorns and Teddy all enjoying a sip
Cups full of empty never spill and can't drip

He traded what was real for his empty
As she relinquished her childhood dreams
Now his baby girl has flown to heaven
On the light of a thousand moon beams

He wishes he could be with his baby
Lift her cup and give her a wink
Say "Mmmm this is so delicious,
it's the best I've ever had to drink!

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |


The ranch on which I hang my hat, though short on most the frills,
Is thirteen sections, give or take, of rugged trails an’ hills.
We call it ‘home’, our little world, our very own frontier,
Amongst the cattle, sheep an' goats; the varmints, hogs an' deer.

Today I watched the breakin' dawn an' whiffed the mornin' air,
A time I often set aside for things like thought an' prayer.
A Mockin'bird an' Mornin' Dove, an' other birds at play,
Were there to sing an' set the mood to start another day.

This mornin' saw the strangest thing, like time itself had merged,
An' all the souls who once were here, appeared an' then converged.
In swirlin' clouds of mist an' fog, right off the bluffs they rolled,
Till all had gathered in the glen, the modern an' the old.

The Indians, conquistadors, an' other ancient men,
The soldiers from this country's wars, an' cowboys from back when…
They all had come from yesterday to help me understand
Our link with those who came before, to heritage an' land.

A crazy notion, so I thought, that they could just appear,
But as the morning went along the reason got real clear.
They rode along with me that day to show me things I’ve missed,
The things I’ve seen a thousand times an’ some I’d just dismissed.

Those wagon roads of long ago, still evident today,
Are carved in rock an' rutted earth, not apt to wash away.
They linked the missions, forts an' towns those many years gone by;
An' left their mark for all to see, as modern times grew nigh.

The artifacts an' weathered ruins attest to yesterdays,
When others came an' lived their lives in very different ways.
We've seen their skill in arrowheads they honed from fired stone,
An' craftsmanship in beads an' tools they fashioned out of bone.

At ever turn and trail we took was something to remind,
The Maker must have had a plan laid out for humankind.
The Earth He made’s been feedin' us a half-a-million years,
An' used it's wonder, force an' change to challenge pioneers.

I do not know if they'll return or if they’ll feel the need,
But I’m prepared to ride the trail, where ever it may lead.
We all are spirits ridin’ time with bodies of the Earth,
Whose time has come to take the reins an’ offer up our worth.

The land has been the legacy we cultivate an’ reap,
The life has been the heritage our father’s fought to keep,
An’ we are bound throughout our time with those who came before,
To put our hearts and souls to it, and make it something more.

Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2009

Details | Quatrain |

Deep in the Woods

Deep in the woods, a cottage lies,
deep in the core of it,
and gazing out with empty eyes,
twins by a window sit.

Deep in their thoughts, they sit, these two,
above their shack, a shroud
of limbs from trees block any view
of sun, or moon or cloud.

Deep in their hearts, they had to know
they shared a secret sin.
In dark, sweet flowers cannot grow
when jealousy creeps in.

Deep in the night, the cold winds gust.
The leaves from a fresh dirt mound.
The winds, as strong as two maids’ lust,
now move the leaves around.

Deep in the ground, lies one who came
by chance.  He did no wrong
but put twin virgin hearts aflame. . . 
then stay a bit too long.

Deep into sleep, each woman dreams
of the love she yearns for still
and shivers to recall the screams
of the man both had to kill.

for Skat's Dark and Deep (old poems only)Contest 

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Quatrain |

Mackenzie Trail

When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone, They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known. The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday, In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray. I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years. I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers, Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end, Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men. Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame, But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name. Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone, Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone. The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade. From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again. A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair, For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there. And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade, The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid. I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe. I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue. Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way, Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday. Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will, That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still; When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.

Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2009

Details | Quatrain |

What's In The Urn

           What’s In The Urn

Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?

Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose

A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison

In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know

With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms 

I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed 
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal 
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later

There must be a plot of ground outside 
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest

Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite  pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned 

I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?

Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark                                                                                     
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing 

Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quatrain |

Soldier Boy

Once there was a soldier boy,
young and brave and smart.
He had some questions bugging him,
they tore his brain apart.

He went along to ask his friends-
''Why there can't be peace?''
They just laughed into his face,
''Let us tell you what peace means:

';Peace means love, peace means hope
peace means painless, fearless trust.
There's no love, there's no hope,
all the fearless lay in dust.''

He went along to ask the trees,
the plants and flowers too.
Then they all replied to him
''Answers we have few:

People kill themselves and us,
they cut us up for fire.
And with the fire that they cut
the tension becomes higher.''

Soldier boy then went to war,
questions still in mind.
He kept on searching in the field,
for answers he can't find.

He walked up to the enemy,
beat starts to increase.
''Tell me, good man, tell me please 
why there can't be peace?''

The man pointed his gun to him,
aiming to his heart.
''I'm sorry, young man,'', then he said
''I really hate this part.''


Once there was a soldier boy,
young and smart and brave.
He had some questions bugging him,
they took him to his grave.

Copyright © spring goodman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |

Both Sides for Me

The look of pity on the saleswoman's face said it all
my paint spattered clothing, however the jeans fit
just didn't have that panache, chic pizazz, tongue hanging
inspiration for desire a young woman out to have.

The car dealer took one look at me, led me to the far
corner of the lot, showed me the used hot rods
the beater four doors, the budget cutters like I'd rode
but I wanted glossy black, silver hood ornament, brand new.

Paint is supposed to sit on top of your nails, but underneath
is advantageous when compared to oil, to muck, to dirty guts
so I was a step on the ladder of the working man, 
I could even afford to buy hose, which I still don't wear.

There's something to be said for the over glasses, safety 
glasses look, white paper coat, something comical 
one supposes, but the purple overalls worn for skiing
which suddenly I could afford, made me my nephews joke.

At times I waited for a date who preferred the bar
called and said maybe later, because passion rumbled
between us when we kissed but I didn't want a flit,
disease, broken promise, I wanted to be embraced

Cozy now, body motion are promises and content
passion is beyond me, the bar on the patio in back
the hand I always hold a missing app that answers
more lonely than any mistaken wish that he'd be the one.

Stars, too, I climbed to them in my dream, climbed
the Space Needle and found my self with no safety net
I always avoided those climbs the dreams more nightmare
even though I do what I am told, to reach, to soar.

Sometimes now I wear black on gold dresses which fit
to the nth inch, so I can barely sit, hold champagne
to watch golden bubbles float against the elegant
white linen against starry night event, that's rich, success.

Dump it gladly for a romp on the beach, the missing
something like threads through a woven maze,
like an angel's hope. When I dump it all and seek
there's grace lying on the shores between the rocks

a pooled place where deer come to lick minerals,
boulders come unglued and sail down river
and think, maybe I could do that. Maybe I could
unglue all the expectations and rearrange the world.

Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quatrain |

Around The Campfire

Rising from the fire, like a phoenix,
ash, morphs into flights of flaming darts.
And shadows, mark the fringes of light,
extinguishing, all unwary sparks.

Scarlet splashes, in the molten flames,
as cerise and chartreuse, ride the waves.
And all eyes, follow their rhythmic flow,
for their hypnotic beauty, enslaves.

Bursts, of laughter and bravado bond,
in scary tales, that haunt the night.
And comradery, clamors to be heard,
amongst everyone, huddled up tight.

Tranquillity’s, intoxicating,
saturating your soul, with its peace.
And it feels, like genuine magic,
when worries, and anxieties cease.

A brotherhood, fuels the campfire,
united, by its flickering flames.
And fragile friendships, are rekindled,
free from frustration, and macho games.

Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

A Nook And A Storybook

A Nook and a Storybook

What would I give for a nook and a book
to cuddle and snuggle and longingly look
the pages unfolding as I listened to
the comforting song of a fast flowing brook.

Oh, if it had pictures, a faraway place,
mysterious villains, a dark alley chase
I’d pick up the phone and I’d call in sick
disappear in the mist, leave not a trace.

What would I do to be captured by words
impressed into service by pirates with swords,
adrift without wind, current silently slow
half crazed crew pacing the sun-baked dried boards.

Perhaps of an evening a stroll on the beach
salt, surf, and moonlight on ebony skin
passion full sated on cooling hard sand
last dream of the shanghaied seagoing men.

What would I give for a storybook nook
I’d offer it all the time that it took
to take me away to wherever it would
leave me enraptured by a murmuring brook.


submitted to – What I Would Give For A Nook And A Storybook – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Eve Roper


Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

Wet but Wiser


A dog! A panic in a pagoda!
Teenager Rex brought a can of soda;
he shook it up hard and then pulled the tab.
But Rex was too slow for their choc'late lab.

Cain: a maniac, the brown dog's head swelled,
confused by the fizz but a rat he had smelled.
He was a god's dog, ergo, a ogre -
mighty fine watchdog, well-trained at Kroger.

Schooled in their stockroom with all kinds of nuts
whose tricks won ribbons for all kinds of mutts.
Cain's radar kicked in, went straight for the can
and turned it on Rex who lost his game plan.

On the way out, Cain offered some Kleenex.
No one's the wiser, except maybe Rex.
Recording the facts, Cain writes in his log,
Was it a rat I saw? or Am I a dog?

6 palindromes:
A dog, a panic in a pagoda
Cain, a maniac
god's dog
ergo, a orgre
Was it a rat I saw

Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2012

Details | Quatrain |

In The Dark Ghost Room

I think feel a breeze
A breeze and a touch of horror
Something makes my breath seize
The stings of inner torture

The beast  of  the dark just passes
I hear the pings of its awfulness
Horrible snuffs complementing terrible masses
Something  grip me here – oh fearfulness!

Now what – silence…
The quietness of  the  graveyard 
I sense trouble in disguise
Only that worse turns bad

Oh wait, I can see
Slow approaches of eye balls
The burning eyes of the black beast
Monster, you, coming for me or my pulse

This is it my adventure fiasco
In the ever-dark ghost room
I would rather die like a hero
Behind this locked door with my rheum

As  I’ll  lay my back on this door
Oh beast feast, on me feast
I can hear quacks as I fall
…the door open at least

Massacre! Oh massacre of the beast
Sun ray-the enemy of the dark monster
Came in for its burnt feast 
Because the door opened

Copyright © Timothy Abegunde | Year Posted 2011

Details | Quatrain |

Whisper Of Your Soul

           Whisper Of Your Soul
       (Soul Listens On A Whisper)

Murmurs soft are sensed, mimic nature, diaphanous clouds spread wide
Settle softer than a translucent butterfly on spring light snow
It is the moon flirting in ebullience, fog rising on a thin film on winds side  
Lifting skirts or is it veils?  Unknown in this muted light of whispers glow
Mist rolls across the bog, pulls along reluctant virgin night
By golden glow, that holds the sky in humble hush, abeyance in a trance
Tracking down the birth of morning, bursting full of light 
Barely able to mutter the words, “the light of day”, the endless dance 

You feel the vibrant tones, fold over meadows as you go
A vestigial tiny vessel of a virgin’s secret opens here
Chasing dark away along the marsh with pounding heart to know
The open glen is near, fills up in brilliant colors clear

Soft luscious sounds fall silent on the morning air and then
Listen, it whispers on the minutia of the moment something true 
Holds on to quiet in the silent glen
Waiting on a whisper Imbued with truth, soft thoughts of you

Created on 12/16/14 for “Whisper Of Your Soul” Poetry Contest Sponsored by Gail Angel Doyle

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quatrain |

The Owl and the PusyCat Sail

Together the Owl and the PusyCat were married
Then again sailed out over the deep blue seas
Searching forever for the great Land of Nod,
To the place where they could find true peace.
True peace, true peace… Where they could find true peace.

The love that twined forever within their hearts
They sought throughout all the wonderous lands
Going to the place where they would live in peace,
A place where true peace, rules and lives in the hearts of the land.
The land, the land… Where true peace lives in the heart of the land.

Alas, the love of the heart, though truly not easy to find…
Is easier to find than the love of peace, found throughout the land.
So it’s said they will continue to sail, until that day comes true,
And when they land for the final time, will be up to me and you.
Me and you, me and you… That day will be up to me and you.

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2012

Details | Quatrain |

A Nook and a Storybook

In the attic of my childhood home was a nook,
      And there was a lovely window where sun poured in;
I just loved to hideout there all the afternoon,
            There was a sweet thrill for the story to begin.

I started off reading books like Cinderella,
      And I loved the story of Beauty and the Beast;
Treasure Island, Robinson Caruso, Robin Hood,
            Lost in the story- but never a page I creased.

My mother and grandma knew where to find me,
      Sometimes fast asleep in my nook holding a story;
Soon I was reading, Of Mice and Men, The Hobbit,
            Gone With the Wind, now that was like purgatory.

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a dam!" my gosh,
      I adored Rett Butler, oh he made me dreamy;
Romance was now my thing, I could not wait for the nook,
            I got books second hand and some were steamy.

Then I changed, I wanted to read about real things,
      I read Biographies of people in my sunny nook;
Nature and poetry books to me were so fascinating,
            But I threw in a mystery or horror book.

Well that nook is gone, in fact even the house,
      But in my nest, I have a special place to read and be;
Beside a sunny window cozy with many pillows,
            I love when I can be alone there with just me.

April 17, 2016


For the contest, What I Wouldn't Give For A Nook and a Storybook,
sponsor, Eve Roper

Second Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

The Pirate's Life for Me

I starts me life as pirate, 
A grommet before age twelve,
Not an ordinary bandit,
High sea adventures me delve.

With a Letter of Marque in me han’
And the Commodore for me pa!
I spends dogwatch near the helmsman,
Nerey missin’ me bonny ma.

Old salts tell their gory tales,
Aye, dogs hanging from the gallows.
Punishments for a man who fails
Floggings or keelhaul; blood bath follows.

Scrimshaw hangin’ ‘round me neck.
A privateer by trade,
Flaunting booty on the deck
We’s the scallywags brigade.

Pirateering is me heartthrob.
I dreams schemes in the crows nest.
‘bout takin’ swag from an unfortunate swab.
I sits watchin’ pa from the crest.

Long nines aimed and ready,
Jolly Roger on the mainmast,
Headway fast and steady,
The enemy’s fate forecast.

One for all and all for one!
Drinkin’ grog an’ eatin’ grub.
Werkin’ on the “Morning Sun”
Me father at the hub.

Davy Jone’s locker, me final plight! 
Death drifting in me beloved sea –
Straightway from the dark of night
The pirate’s life for me!

© July 15, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Quatrain |

The Valley of the Kings


		About ten years ago in the Valley of the Kings,
		a place that holds a wealth of many ancient,  precious things,
		a group of Egyptologists and others gathered round
		a tomb they'd soon be opening. Nobody made a sound.

		The eager archaeologists were hoping that, inside,
		they'd find the mother of King Tut; this hope would be denied.
		An unexpected treasure held them spellbound, for they gazed
		at something they'd seen just in drawings; thus, they were amazed.

		The tomb held woven laurels made of flowers that had bloomed
		in ancient days. Three thousand years ago, they were entombed.
		Perhaps they were remains of garland that, along with gold,
		Egyptian royals wore for an embellished look so bold.

		Some coffins from this area do not hold the remains
		of the elite of Egypt. We have learned that some contain
		embalming caches to prepare those with prestige and power
		for burial, and some hold dried remains of once-sweet flowers.

information from National Geographic News, June 2006

posted February 17, 2016

entered in Brian Strand's Contest 232 (any theme or form, 16-line max) on  November 1, 2016

Copyright © Janice Canerdy | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

Obsessed with Seeds in Nacho Cheese

I’m noticing the seeds I like to buy
are running out in flavor “Nacho Cheese.”
They’ve got sunflower seeds in Ranch, but I
require my nacho cheese ones. Geeez Louise!!

I look it up on Google and I find
they’re selling out. I run to every store!
They’ve got that dang “Dill” flavor, but my kind
is not in stock and won’t be any more.

I know a service station that’s still got
those seeds I love. I’m off! The hunt is on!
I’ll buy up every bag in every spot
where I can locate them before they’re gone.

Some other stations carry them. I dash
from Pleasant Grove to Provo, brandishing
my credit card. I buy them. In a flash,
all seeds in Nacho Cheese are vanishing!

I’m driving south as far as Mapleton!
The chance of finding bags of them is dire
for fellow addicts. I’ve found sixty-one
to last a year before they all expire!

A true story that happened to me about five years ago 
See "About Poem" above. When I love  something, I try very hard to get it!!
 For the Obsession Contest of Silent One

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

Dining in the Everglades

Kind-hearted, loving and compassionate
Dane Ann would jump through hoops to please a friend
But by a treacherous quest she’s beset
In Everglades’ swamps she wants to descend

She seems to think she can take photographs
Of huge alligators and crocodiles
And though Dane Ann has many well-honed crafts
When I speak of the danger, she just smiles

On shore gators run 50 miles per hour
So two mature ladies won’t pose a threat
Their teeth so sharp, personalities dour 
One look at us their appetites would whet

Dear friend, I’ll take you where you want to go
Because I care very much – je t’adore
You want close-up shots; the fear in me grows
As gators draw near, will you shut the car door?

*Je t’adore is French for “I love you.”
Dedicated to Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen who thinks she can outrun the gators :)

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2012

Details | Quatrain |

More Felt Than Heard

The Sea sighs, under a blue sky, 
whispering words, of hope and fear.
And the wind, recites Her tales,
as seamen cup their ears, to hear.

Her stories, of sunken treasures,
give imagination, a stir.
And like a siren, She beckons
salty sailors, to come to Her.

She sings along, with humpback whales,
as they serenade Her, with love.
And at night, ripples with delight,
as sparkling moonbeams, dance above.

Her azure waves, raise your spirits,
only, to watch them swiftly fall.
For She has drowned, many a soul,
answering, Her seductive call.

She speaks from Her heart, to your heart,
in a language, more felt than heard.
For you can hear, Her crystal clear,
without Her uttering, a word. 

Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |

A Nook and a Storybook

		Hello! My name is Bastian. Join me, please.
		I'm a beleaguered youngster in a book,
		The NeverEnding Story. Read with me
		here in my cozy little attic nook.

		I love it here. It's quiet; I can think
		about my mom, who died. I miss her so.
		Here I escape the bullies at the school
		and my demanding dad, who doesn't know

		how lost I feel sometimes and pushes me
		to study more and daydream less. I've found
		this tale set in Fantasia makes me feel
		I'm flying trouble-free, no longer bound

		by earth's restraints. I've suddenly become
		a character! I help a warrior-boy
		the Empress sent to free Fantasia of
		a plague, The Nothing, murderer of joy.

		Imagination dies, and apathy
		replaces it; but there exists no more
		The Nothing. We two boys with magic bold
		destroyed it. Now it's time for me to soar

		back home to face my life. I ride upon
		the Luck Dragon, Falkor, who's going to be
		my savior from those bullies. I must close
		the book. I'll be back soon. There's more to see!


                Sometimes I feel like Bastian when I read
                great mysteries by Christie, Grisham, Clark, . . . *
                so cozy in my woman cave at home
                or at a picnic table at the park.

*Agatha Christie, John Grisham, and Mary Higgins Clark
The Neverending Story--fantasy book and movie popular during the 1980's

Date posted: 4-21-16

entered in Jamie Pan's "Interesting" Contest on February 16, 2017

Theme: The Feeling of Getting Lost in  Book

Copyright © Janice Canerdy | Year Posted 2016

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A Nook and a Storybook

What would I give for a book and a nook
I'd forfeit some cash from my pocketbook
Surrender my coat to a hanging wall hook
Then give it a look , as long as it took

I'd roll back the stone, crawl into a cave
Find Ol' Tom Sawyer, take some close shaves
Look for Boy Wonder, help free some slaves
Hunt for lost gold, discover old graves

Go room to room, look high and low
Ride on a broom, escape through a hole
Go with the wind, fly over rainbows
Ride chariots of fire where ever they go

Search lost horizons with great expectations
Go hunting for bison in Indian Nations
Swim with Poseidon and gather crustaceans
The suspense would heighten my imagination

A book and a nook, a perfect day
Rain or shine, take me away
To read every line on every page
Spend all my time, that's what I'd pay

   an original poem by Daniel Turner

Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016

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Parasol Pirate

It was "The Cape" in early June
Along with her sister Vie
They had strolled down past the dunes
Under a cloudless sky

She could taste the ocean salt 
On a swirling southern breeze
In new dresses mother bought
Instead of their dungarees

On a rock, the eldest in blue
Matching ribbon in her hair
Going on 'bout a boy she knew
The youngest pretending to care

But sailing on a green grass ocean
Drifting in a pirate's dream
A young girl with a swashbuckling notion
Stealing gold from a Spanish queen

Looting up and down the coast
Black patch over one eye
Sailing with Blackbeard's ghost
Skull and crossbones flying high

Then suddenly, back in a blink
Captured by mother's call
A girl pirate dressed in pink
Her saber, a red parasol

   an original poem by Daniel Turner

Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016

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A Nook and a Storybook

A nook in the corner, off to the right..
A haven, housing a hundred homes.
To there, where wakened dreams do hide, 
My wandering mind so often roams.

We read to know we’re not alone.
I’m grateful that I've found this nook -
A home, where wakened dreams do hide.
There is no friend as true as a book.

A book falls open and I fall in,
Deaf to the planet’s mundane din.
Disturb me not, you kith and kin -
Off to my homeland, off on a spin.

They’re rungs on a ladder. Every page
a foothold, on to which we scale 
to reach the highest point, from where
we see the beauty of the tale.

From there, the top of my noiseless world,
I’m safe and strong - no guns or knives
Can face the power of stabbing words -
A reader lives a thousand lives.

Inspired by the contest 'A Nook and a Storybook'

Copyright © Sneha RV The Literature Lover | Year Posted 2016

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To those who fight

Beginning a journey with unseen ends,
Saluting your old life behind, you walk on.
Encasing your love deep in your heart,
Grasping to a single portrait in your hand.

Duty holds your head high,
As your loved ones wave goodbye.
Daily they pray for you 
Hoping to help you make it though.

The sights scar in the head and hand,
No matter how far the land,
Keep thy heart pure,
For love is the cure.

You take up arms with brothers and sisters at your sides.
No gun, no bomb, no bullet, nothing! may break these ties
The strength of you come not through the hours of training
But though offering a hand when your comrades are falling.

May you stand strong in the face of pain,
May you hold the roots close to your heart.
May the sun shine gently upon you daily,
May our love sheild you from hurt.
May you rejoice when you are welcomed home as a hero

Copyright © Elissa Quigley | Year Posted 2017

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The Lofty Lighthouse - Sentinel

Terrifying tumultuous tremendous traumatic transaction
Horror in the towering splashes of ocean in howl
The vigilant lighthouse pounded by the surfs of annihilation
The huge and awful sea right now is on the untamed prowl

The shivering cold wind around the angry eyes of the hurricane
Has ruthlessly dispersed the deep waters in the ocean
Even dignity of the lighthouse is hit by the water insane
Before the surging rage of the waters in commotion

Do you listen to the roaring sea and crushing waves pounding the shores
Nothing else is visible nothing else is audible
Still don’t lose heart and look at the glistening hopes of the trusted doors
There the lofty lighthouse looks almost imperishable

This way nature heaves suddenly a deep sigh of suppressed grief
In these mad and angry growl of wild wind acts out nature
By ventilating its pent up anger it earns catharsis
From dark to light is the nature’s optimistic feature
April 10, 2016
For the Poetry Contest : Sentinel Quatrain Form
Hosted by : Eve Roper

Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2016

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Silent One

              Silent One

Silent One rises with the solar system dawn
Drawn by solace in the quiet morning  
Riding on the gravitational waves 
Through numbered stars through dark matter there

Watching zeros mix, blend into the cosmic mist 
Numerically correct seen whole among black holes disguises
Into tomorrow out there in themselves as distances
On the lip, inclining on their axis, universes eclipse then passes

Back at home, outside on roaming fields
Look up with them to take the solar system in
As it folds within a timeless bending scheme
Vast sky-capes emanating mostly quiet
Silent One remains intent, contemplative, waving
Stays out there for hours on a lounge chair tending day
Sipping tea beneath the harmless trees in shade
Sits serenely by, out of sight, time slipping by

Golden sun light streaming over day
Seen are the red and yellow flowers
Green grass peeks through abundant colors glow
Moved in a gentle wind to mesmerizing horizons end
Out there between the wilderness serenity and madness 
Night comes on, explores the greater cause
Stars rain down, escapes the cosmic grip
Secrets kept, only to forget them when looking to the void

Lines traced in history, erased, once enjoyed                                       
Silent One stands alone between a zero to the left
Two at the right numerically correct
True in place, quantified, residing

One and History rewind themselves, recite the story
Not to worry.  There is always more to tell 
A time fast forward quickens to the One original
One will always be the Silent One and not another

Fate will lead us off the silent planet
Earth is temporarily our home
Inevitably fading away into the silence black
Like Silent One, just that

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2016

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Butterflies and Silver Seas

Jump into pistachio talc
and fly on mists a'sparkle
Dripping off me is butterfly dust
Stand up and you can follow
Dive off the chair you sit in
to streams filled thick with cider
Nap on webs of candied cotton
strung strong by the sugar spider
Open your eyes under water
Catch up with me high in flight
Tether your wings to the sea horse's daughter
as she swims in the moon beams at nights
Sullied clouds fall past the ocean
sleeping on silver tide's arm
Drowsy me now from this butterfly potion
sleeping in ribbons and lavender charm
Imagine the ocean alive
with flutters of wings on the tide
Strip all your preconceived notions
and watch with your eyes open wide
Glisten in green innuendos
Sparkle and shake out your wings
I'm a whisper of water, a glint of delight
taking flight on the brink of impossible things...

Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005

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The Eerie Emerald Isle

The Amadawn ‘ave played the joker 
for the Good folks fairy Coort
‘T was they ‘ave egged the paper birches
an’ touch’d the scare crow’s stalks.

They ‘ave giv'n leerin pumpkin ‘eads
to Dullahan black ‘eadless ‘orse.
Tied the liein’ Leprechain’s tongues.
Changed the dread Pooka’s course.

Stol'n the noble Banshees keen moan.
an ‘idden ‘er bone white comb.
They ‘ave lured two changeling lovers
to Red Man’s bloody ‘ome.

N’er free since June, the jesters play
their brash tricks on Samhain’s eve.
Stealin’ all the gifts left fur the dead 
‘neath mournin’ mortals trees.

N’t till the sunrise will they lave off
wid ‘ the Leprechauns in toe.
And sadly scurry ‘omeward bound
sure laven us all alone!

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2009

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Drive across the country
Let imagination flow
Tumbleweed and flat lands
Reveal a western show

Mile markers pave the way
Across this land sublime
Wind blows through the car
On my arm sunshine

Generations of people
Spirits across the land
Occupy a history
Of faces in the sand

Deep inside our spirit
Adheres to our respect
This peaceful land of bounty
No one shall reject

Fresh cut grass lingers
The present rescinding more
Where old shacks and farms
Grasp our inner core 

Land abound with wisdom
Dust has settled down
Enjoy driving the distance
See another town

Copyright © Jane Bowen | Year Posted 2008

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Defend as Men

With armor pierced, I’m battle scarred
For enemies swords had struck their mark
Though weary, I, I raised my sword
To continue fighting in the dark

The battle started hours before
Fighting strong, with me, heroic men
Yet, common men with noble hearts
For mother land, they now defend

No formal training, nor fighting skills
But, armed with will and make shift swords
These men of honor fought for right
For losing homes, they can’t afford

I, their leader, their chosen one
Selected for strength and outward pride
Am honored to fight aside these men
Else, not fighting at all, I shall have died

Our homes and family are what we are
The marks of us men are lineage and land
We go into battle, each as a boy
To come from the battle, each as a man

Copyright © Michael Degenhardt | Year Posted 2008