Best Banked Poems
Hereabouts the thinning glades
Of sparse grey Birches:
Brackens crisp copper tresses
All aglow;
Gently waking Snowdrops
Lift their sleepy heads
From leafy beds of woodland moil,
When tucked snugly up,
Out of intrusive sight and just
Below.
Fondly the slowing bend
Hugs upon the river...
Banked heavily with frosted
Bulrushes
That shifting breezes once did so
Stiffly blow;
The faltering current,
That sped the pied Dipper,
Patiently seeks out the quiet
Devotions
Of her beguiling flow.
When the drawing Moonlight
Gives way to purple Twilight
In the gloaming
Of Winters sharp days;
When the yellowy willows
Weep watery glints
Lingering and loitering...
Pining for long Summers slanted
Rays.
For far, far, high above
Over the old red-bricked mill...
Whose creaking sluice gurgles
With long melancholy sighs:
Heavens twinkling stars,
Held briefly in abeyance,
Partially obscured by thin veils of
Dull-leaden, magenta tinged skies.
Where the low horizons fall
And briefly meet the mornings
On heathered moor, open field,
And inland shore:-
Here beached boats dreaming
Of white crested waves;
Soon the keen plough will make
Ready
To score the deep furrows once
More.
Now our Lady Skadi,
Purest and resplendent,
Through driving sleet
And blinding blizzards will ascend -
Returning to aged fortress
Of eternal Utgard
Leaving her thawing snows
To dispel long Winters End!
Categories:
banked, winter,
Form:
Rhyme
Old John's birthday was fast approaching, he'd be seventy-two
And his family asked him nicely what he would like to do
"Do you fancy a nice picnic or sightseeing on a train?"
"No thanks" said Old John "I'd like to wing walk on a plane ".
His family thought he was joking, in fun they all did mock
They said "It will be freezing, and you might die of shock"
He said" I have no fear, and everything will be just fine
I found it on a website, and I've booked it on the line".
His family they were mortified and thought that he was joking
But one week from today Old John he'll be high flying
A week later at the airfield Old John was quite ecstatic
His family on the other hand were all starting to panic.
He had his safety briefing and then put on all his gear
Now he was raring to go, Old John he showed no fear
He climbed up onto the wing and then he got strapped in
The pilot gave him the thumbs up and soon they were flying.
Up into the air now, they banked to the left and right
His family they all agreed it was one awesome sight
The pilot signalled to Old John, it was the grand finale
This is what Old John had wanted all his family to see.
The plane it dived then looped the loop, it was incredible to see
Old John was already thinking of what his next stunt could be
The plane then landed safely his family they were all so proud
Old Johns ears were still ringing; the wind had been so loud.
He'd felt the cold biting wind pressing hard against his face
Jokingly he asked his family if it was still in one place
His wife she then kissed him and asked, "How do you feel"?
Old John said, "I'm starving now, I'm ready for a big meal".
His son then asked him, what his next bold venture would be
Old John laughed out loudly and said "A shark cage in the sea
My life I see as a book with pages that are not written yet
I always confront my fears or there will be blank pages of regret".
Categories:
banked, age, birthday, flying, funny,
Form:
Narrative
Headed home from a business trip
Tired, spaced out, grouchy and impatient
Pushing the limit to beat rush hour traffic
Fast closing on an old jalopy van
Suddenly blue smoke and debris flying
The back tire must have bounced twenty feet up
My first thought, 'Stay STRAIGHT you bastard!'
Careening violently left, it flipped many times
(Several objects were ejected from the doors)
My next thought...'This is NOT my problem!'
'DAMN!' Slam on the brakes at the last second
Then it hit me. I was the first on the scene...
I would guess it took a full minute to cross over
Cars whizzing and blowing by in both lanes
Obviously it was not their problem either...
(Someone else has stopped, they'll handle it!
Besides, there's a game coming on tonight)
I waved my arms, shouting and pointing…
A woman was lying near the wreckage,
wailing in robotic, shock induced screams
Left arm beneath her back with her right arm
twisted at a bizarre and unnatural angle
One man was thrown at least twenty feet off
Ironically, he seemed the least injured
He kept trying to get up for some reason
I rushed over and asked him to stay down
"Okay, but the baby!...Where is the baby?"
(A baby, you mean there's a BABY??)
"Yes, our BABY...Please go find our baby!"
(Oh no dear God please, no, NO)
The median was a wide, steep-banked grassy ditch
The van was tilted slightly sideways on its roof
Legs rubbery and trembling, stomach churning,
sweat streaming and stinging blurry eyes,
I staggered over to the wreckage, knelt down
and peered through the passenger side window
Empty… (Oh no dear God please, no, NO)
Stumbling around back and then alongside,
scanning the grass and then around front
I almost tripped over it. There he was
Maybe five feet from the bumper he sat upright
still tucked safely away in his baby seat
kicking and cooing, giggling and drooling,
obviously having a wonderful time
I collapsed to my knees, bowed my head down
and feverishly began to unbuckle him
but quickly thought better, fearing unseen injury
Instead, I took his head gently with both hands,
kissed his forehead and nuzzled against his neck
(Babies have that particular scent, you know)
I recall glancing upward to clear blue skies,
muttering and mumbling incoherent thanks...
Categories:
banked, car, travel,
Form:
Narrative
I Am That I Am…Without End…
Listen, my heart is a soul drum
Beating the spiritual rhythms
Of the sojourning struggle of life—
Pumping pulsating blood inking
The notes of our story—flowing
From the past to the present—banked
In the here and now—waiting to cascade
Into the liberated future;
Yes, like an aged tree trunk, I am rooted
Here—anchored in the fertile soils—
Here, engaged in the struggles of freeing life.
Oh, the scars I bear are many; each being
A keloid memory of where I have been—each
A smooth raised and shadowed spiritual hope
Of where I am going when finished inking here.
Today, I now know that I am a child
Of a once lost race that is now found
And realized; a race destined to be forever free.
Oh, I know that I am a child of the rivers
Of blood—rivers fearlessly flowing free;
You see, I am as the night—pushing aside
The day—claiming my time now to be here, free.
Yesterday is gone and tomorrow may not be;
Thus, today must be the joyous freedom advent.
Therefore, today I claim myself eternally free;
I am as in the beginning: wind, water, fire—
The light! I am all: I am the Word without end!
Categories:
banked, allegory, analogy, black african
Form:
Dramatic Verse
As heavy banked clouds rolled across
the sky, she picked up the broom.
A magical partner as she
swept the cobwebs and room.
The Blue Danube ran through her head
Awe inspiring music
An orchestra only heard by
her, deep thoughts played musing
Onto the porch she danced the "Beer
Barrel Polka's" lively beat
The broom stirring dust and cobwebs
As she kicked up her feet
From a distance upon the hill
He watched in excited dreams
How could he know love would capture
his heart, eyes fill with gleams
As intently he watched everyday
The dancer stole his heart
But now he knows how sad it is
When the dancer falls apart
October 03, 2015
Inspired by Francine Robert's contest so I thought of this line
Categories:
banked, imagination,
Form:
Rhyme
Two naked bodies lying face to face
Conversing silently locked eye to eye
He gently pulls away from her embrace
His loving touch exudes her ardent sigh
The rhythm of the moment had begun
Entangling arms and legs the stillness breaks
Like dancers moving gracefully as one
They share hot burning fires of give and take
As rapture comes she shudders in his arms
His perspiration falls like summer rain
Encore performance rings a new alarm
With tender kisses he assures no shame
The glowing coals are banked for warmth at night
Slow burning flame will rise with morning light
by Daniel turner
Categories:
banked, love, passion, sensual,
Form:
Sonnet
She is shadowed by fuzzy cobwebs of a morning without coffee,
while dust motes mingle with the mold of time.
Gazing out to the yard, through dingy glass, and fog,
into a dismal January, she hopes to catch a glimpse of the paper boy.
He travels through rain, sleet or snow, how could he understand,
(this teen-aged Paul Revere), that in this decrepit old house,
she is longing for a sign of youth? It has been a weary night, watching an old woman hang on by threads of life, that had worn thin years ago.
Watching and waiting, while cold winds blew and snow was falling,
and death was hoping to make a house call.
Any diversion, life being lived,... one brief eclipse of life in motion would be a relief.
To observe him toss the news into the sky like a Frisbee... not a care in the world
How would that feel...has she ever known? Has anyone ever been so young?
She thinks she may go mad with death and dying, with weariness, with waiting.
She suddenly shivers from a dreaded draft of frigid air, slithering in,
like a sneaky, uninvited ghost, slinking in around the rim.
nor'easter winds roll top shoe box...
splinter the silence.. -- debutante' caught in amber
a cataract view frozen sepia
Grabbing a handful of a thread-bare doily, she polishes the cold glass,
rubbing vigorously in circles against the grime,
making figure eights, in spite of frozen, stiff, fingers.
Satisfied, that she has a decent view of the blanketed yard,
and can see clearly where the muddy, gravel driveway,
bends gradually, curving to mate with the snow banked road,
at last, she spies the old Jeep coming, and watches with automated eyes,
yet, with some expectation, and strange excitement.
Then, as she might have guessed,
the teenager drives hurriedly by, barely slowing down, tossing the news,
and leaving her gaze and her thoughts, splattered by dark murky water,
while the slinging gravel that has been pitched into the sky, by his screeching tires,
falls like the pieces of the old woman's lonely life upon the pristine snow.
__________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Mix It Up"
Categories:
banked, dark, death, farewell, loss,
Form:
Verse
Rooted on a moss-banked hill,
its branches spread far and wide.
By Summer's end, leaves veined gold and crimson.
Then, Autumn’s hand brushed them with russet paint.
Twas the time of year the elm tree despised.
Wind ruffled in their last days,
leaves danced as if burning flames,
until gales sent them tumbling to the ground.
Barren, as though in malaise, the elm stood.
Blame was cast upon harsh Winter weather.
Weeping for its naked limbs,
on a moss-banked hill it grieved.
For the change of season, it held loathing
and contempt for Nature's wrongful doing.
For surrounding its roots with drifts of snow
But on cusp of Spring's advent
tiny buddings will appear.
Branches will be clothed in fulgent raiment,
an umbrella agape, providing shade
for trilling songbirds in need of perching.
Reigning from atop the hill,
Ancient elm, regally frocked.
Categories:
banked, seasons, tree,
Form:
Verse
The Anticipation of Snow
David J Walker
No matter how old I grow
The anticipation of snow
Beckons the memories of my feet
Deep in rubber boots
We called galoshes
Stepping into a virgin white
World of crisp cold
The crunching sound of
Crushing snow to the ground
Below leaving the footprints of tread
Evidence of boys and girls
In a playground world of winter
The picture window in the front room
Framed the storm from the warmness of
Our house where falling snow is quietly accepted
Its joy is in the arrival
Its secrets in the style of survival
The bitterness excepted
And the face of each snowflake a
Fingertip printed in the icy touch of winter
No matter how much may fall
You cannot count them all
Banked by the snowplows at night
Categories:
banked, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
Cotton fields
White to harvest
Untouched by red clay
Trash, sediment
Banked white snow
Fluffy
Not visited
By neighborhood dogs
Right out of the pack
The scent of clean,
Soft cotton
Dry and warm
Slip one on, then two
Encapsulate the feet
Like clean silver fog
Coats each tree
Ten hours later
There's dirt, stink
Old shoe leather stains
Then tossed into hamper
No longer new
No longer clean
No longer white
Just dirty old socks
Categories:
banked, funny,
Form:
Ode
Headed home from a business trip
Tired, spaced out, grouchy and impatient
Pushing the limit to beat rush hour traffic
Fast closing on an old, beat up van
Suddenly blue smoke and debris flying
The back tire must have bounced twenty feet up
My first thought…'Stay STRAIGHT, you bastard!'
Careening violently left, it flipped many times
(Several objects were ejected from the doors)
My next thought, 'This is NOT my problem!'
'DAMN!' Slammed on the brakes at the last second
Then it hit me. I was the first on the scene...
I would guess it took 2-3 minute to cross over
Cars whizzing and blowing by in both lanes
Obviously it was not their problem either
(Someone else has stopped, they'll handle it!
Besides, there's a game coming on tonight)
I waved my arms, shouting and pointing…
A woman was lying near the wreckage
wailing in robotic, shock induced screams
Left arm beneath her back with her right arm
twisted at a bizarre and unnatural angle
One man was thrown at least twenty feet off
(Ironically, he seemed the least injured)
He kept trying to get up for some reason
I rushed over and asked him to stay down
"Okay, but the baby! Where is the baby?"
('A baby, you mean there's a BABY??')
"Yes, our BABY...Please go find our baby!"
(‘Oh no, dear God please, no, NO')
The median was a wide, steep-banked grassy ditch
The van was tilted slightly sideways on its roof
Legs rubbery and trembling, stomach churning,
sweat streaming and stinging blurry eyes,
I staggered over to the wreckage, knelt down
and peered through the passenger side window
Empty… (‘Oh no, dear God, please, no, NO’)
Stumbling around back and then alongside,
scanning the grass and then around front
I almost tripped over it. There he was
Maybe five feet from the bumper he sat upright
still tucked safely away in his baby seat
kicking and cooing, giggling and drooling,
obviously having a wonderful time
I collapsed to my knees, bowed my head down
and feverishly began trying to unbuckle him
but quickly thought better, fearing unseen injury
Instead, I took his head gently with both hands,
kissed his forehead and nuzzled against his neck
(Babies have that particular scent, you know)
I recall glancing upward to clear blue skies,
muttering and mumbling incoherent thanks...
Categories:
banked, life,
Form:
Narrative
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
Categories:
banked, anxiety, racism, , atheist,
Form:
Haibun
So long, so very long, since the coal has burst to flame;
I have trained with restraint the green eyed monster cursed to flame.
For love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy ...
I would not have my love for you eternally accursed to flame.
I lost you, yes I lost you, and I often wonder if ...
jealousy displayed by me, betrayed me, was coerced to flame.
As your eyes left mine, as your soul sought hers; I burned.
Yet, love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth; it bursts to flame.
In love, for love, I banked my jealous flame in eternal ice
for love's not proud, not rude, it's not self-seeking, so I put my worst to flame.
My memories of you, a gift freely given, and so released
for I hope, and trust, we'll be blessed and love will not release the curse to flame.
Corinthians 13:4-8
Categories:
banked, lost love, love,
Form:
Ghazal
You know that summertime is gone
when a chill is in the air
when snow is in the forecast
and hockey sticks appear
when kids with toques and earmuffs
show up on every street
stick-handling wayward tennis balls
on tar and on concrete
when flags of northern nations
unfurl on jacket backs
with favored players featured
on shirts and on backpacks.
In Canada we’re hockey nuts
we cannot get enough.
The only time it’s out of thought
is when the sledding’s tough.
It’s hockey, hockey, hockey, for nine months of the year
from Long Beach to the Grand Banks, Point Pelee to Ellesmere.
In this the blooming of the North, this land that we hold dear,
There’s talk of other sports at times but it’s hockey we revere.
The stars, the stats, the standings,
team trades and injuries
consume us all the season
and test our expertise.
In cubicles and staff rooms
at desks and boardrooms too
the talk is all of hockey pools
and who is picking who –
Russian or Canadian
American or Czech
Swede or Ukrainian
Finn, German or Slovack.
In Canada we’re hockey nuts
we cannot get enough.
The only time it’s out of thought
is when the sledding’s tough.
It’s hockey, hockey, hockey, for nine months of the year
from Long Beach to the Grand Banks, Point Pelee to Ellesmere.
In this the blooming of the North, this land that we hold dear,
There’s talk of other sports at times but it’s hockey we revere.
And when we’re old with fires banked
and we forget most else
we’ll hanker back to storied games
and golden stars whose very names
excite our feebled pulse:
Hull, Lemieux and Richard
Beliveau and Fuhr
Orr and Howe and Harvey
Gretzky and Lafleur
We'll hear again the rising roar
And then the call
He shoots, he scores.
In Canada we’re hockey nuts
we cannot get enough.
The only time it’s out of thought
is when the sledding’s tough.
It’s hockey, hockey, hockey, for nine months of the year
from Long Beach to the Grand Banks, Point Pelee to Ellesmere.
In this the blooming of the North, this land that we hold dear,
There’s talk of other sports at times but it’s hockey we revere.
Categories:
banked, sports,
Form:
Blank verse
There is a striking vision
Mountains entered my heartstrings
And painted the horizons
Blue azure near me
Mighty in their presence here
Secure in their own powers
Keeping me entranced with awe
Cold snow banked mountains
Russell Sivey
Categories:
banked, beautiful, blue, mountains, snow,
Form:
Dodoitsu