Best Bogs Poems
The bogs’ their fruit – the woodlands’ leaf
embrace a ripened red motif,
as cranberries and maples blaze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
Where starling murmurations dance
a breathless susurration trance,
ballet in blackbird-shape-shift haze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
And neath the cumulus, the breeze
colludes with stalks in raspy tease,
unfazed we ramble maize-field maze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
As apple-cider-sunset spills
behind the bluish granite hills,
I’m grateful for my eyes to gaze
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
When rain does bead on pumpkin’s skin
his smiling face still lit within,
I pray myself be filled Your rays
Oh Lord, I praise October days.
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
“But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’),
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains.”
Christopher Cricket
Lived out in a thicket
With his musical family
They slept by day
Each night they would play
At the Firefly Jamboree
A chorus of frogs
Encamped in the bogs
Would always accompany them
No need for a ticket
just come out and "kick it"
They will happily, welcome you in.
Daniel Turner
2/21/23
The Urban Jungle
Where trees once stood, oh so proud
Now a tower, hosts a crowd
In a place, where water flowed
Now a lawn freshly mowed
Once a cry from Tarzan heard
Now a car horn blasts a nerd!
Wildlife teemed in wood and bogs
Only now roam packs of dogs
A safe place for frog and toad
Now a highway overload
Bird song filled the air aloud
Now we have a toxic cloud
Wild cats hunted for prey in vain
Now we bathe in acid rain
NOW all wildlife in distress
In the name of OUR progress!
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
Oregon’s, wildlife, mountains, lakes, and bogs
Fields of green, awaken refreshed at dawn
Where salmon runs the rivers blue to spawn
Drawn wandering above the sea of fog
Black-tailed and mule deer birth their newborn fawns
Where shaggy mane elks labor their spring calves
Rustle sounds while they graze off open paths
Wander under the full moon of predawn
Sea of umbrellas on rainy season
Fireplace frames warm sputtering ember flames
Snow cold, in fella’s embrace with no shame
Turning me into shades of pink crimson
Savoring the earth's nurturing labor
Giving my heart to the verdant nature
12/30/2016
My home for 36 years
Swamps are like places where dinosaurs roam
shadowed by ancient moss-draped trees.
A prehistoric world in shades of green.
I paddle my pirogue through algae foam.
Around me it's taciturn and serene
as I collect for whittling, cypress knees.
Fishermen, hunters, and I call it home.
Nature's garden profuse with wildflowers;
cattails and swamp iris in brown and blue.
An alligator, inert near the banks.
I sit and gaze at the beauty for hours.
For my primitive domain, I give thanks -
for the bass I caught, simmering in stew,
and for herbs I use for healing powers.
In the swamp, it's as if time has stood still.
Under lily pads there lurks big bullfrogs
hiding from herons and the egret.
I can hear them calling out their trill.
Time in my cabin I never regret.
Life is peaceful in these foggy bogs.
I ready myself for night's misty chill.
Sinister snakes slither in shallow brine
and cling to low branches overhead,
trying to catch the last ray of sun.
I descry them while checking my line
then gather up moss, and when that's done,
I will stuff it inside my mattress bed.
Living in my swamp suits me just fine.
_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_
January 21st, 2016
Human Nature Contest
Sponsor: Marugu Mo
Sun declines, beneath the emerald rim
And I'll be headin' home...
to a cottage in the moor lands
with a fire to warm me' bones
The kettle of beans are boilin'
and some coals will bake me scones
I will rest my weary shoulders
And be glad for what I've seen
I've witnessed bracken turn so reddin'
like a wildfire on the mountain
And wee nanny goats on hillsides,
too many now, for countin'
Heather waves in summer breezes...
Granite stones, and bogs of grass,
water gleams like shining glass
and harshness blows for but a reason
to turn around the seasons
Thar' be wavin' sails upon the blue
And leafy shamrocks on the green
Where rugged shores, and seagulls cry,
and pink skies capture me
Friendly folks be bearin' ruddy cheeks,
There's a colleen, fair thee lass
Who will tip our mug at village pub,
And we'll make a toast to Patrick's kin
and order one more glass
Let me always sink me' Irish eyes
upon the rugged land
Upon the skies, upon the streams,
where druid legends live
Upon the grand home of the clan,
where many roots began
Where the ole' pale moon at nightfall,
scatters me memories all a'glowing
Of fair thee rose of old Tralee,
over garden trellis growin'
Charming valleys, greener hillsides,
fill thee heart of all 'me clan
Pick ye' a shamrock.... look for gold,
shake yer' hands with leprechauns
Kiss a Blarney stone in sweet Killarny,
come to all that's home to me
Where names of O'Reily, or McDougal sprung
and the color green began
________________________________________________
Sun is declining, beneath a blue Irish sea
With a fire to warm me' bones, in a cottage by the bay
And the coals to bake me scones,
Where the bracken turns so reddin'
Like a wildfire on the mountain
And wee nanny goats on rocky hillsides, are too many for the countin'
Heather waves in summer breezes...
And harshness bringin' winter's season
Thar' be waving sails upon the blue
And leafy shamrocks on the green
Where the rugged shores, and seagulls cry, and a sunset captures you
Granite stones, and bogs of grass, water gleams like shining glass
Friendly folks bearin' ruddy cheeks, and a colleen, fair thee lass
We'll tip our mug at village pub, and make a toast to St. Patty's kin
Let me sink me' eyes upon the scene of Irish rugged land
Upon the skies, upon the streams, where druid legends live
Upon the land...home of the clan, where me many roots began
Where the ole' pale moon at nightfall, scatters memories a'glowing
Of fair roses of Tralee, over garden gate, a growin'
Charming valleys, greener hillsides, fill thee heart of all 'me clan
Pick ye' a shamrock.... look for gold, shake yer' hands with leprechauns
Kiss ye' a Blarney .....Come to Killarny, come to all that's home to me
Where names of O'Reily, or McDougal where so many Mac' roots began
For Debbie's contest "Over the Rainbow"
6/27/17
No longer dreaming
Just proceeding
Without cheating
I am achieving
More than I ever was believing
Every single evening
Now my impressions are leaving
Even more meaning
To other human beings
While I am still breathing
It's time to make this year better
Despite all the weird weather
My dome vexed
I felt my bones flex
Across stone steps
After being shown less
Before pushing past the home stretch
With all chromosomes left
I then took over the throne next
And any other opposition with cloned flesh
Nearby a crows nest
Now ain't that some ****
As they like to say payback's a *****
The light from the sun shines
Amid the pines
Where there was an abandoned mine
For a long time
The only hound stood
But how could
It sound good
All around the hood
When I doubt it would
It didn't matter if it ever would place in a chart
Because it was straight from the heart
Even when the day was dark
Across the bay and park
Beside all the waves and sharks
The flu hit
And the air was too thick
But I put out some even more true ****
Because the shoe fit
And it was the best way to do it
With very few tricks
While talking to some new chicks
A ship that got stopped atop the rocks sank
While there was an ever increasing fog bank
Some continued to give god thanks
While the size of several bogs shrank
I was feeling like I was in quite an odd place
If I never had it, then how could I ever have lost faith?
Vehicles at different rates going zero to sixty
Some of which go beyond one hundred and fifty
During winter smoke coming out the chimney
In the country and city
People walking their dogs and playing in the park with a Frisbee
Carbonation making it all fizzy
Spinning, all about now feeling dizzy
Areas spotless or really filthy
Objects and animals, tall average or mini
In the end the crime scene was grisly
For Timothy Lee, the best of me
You are the curve starting my smile,
the infectiousness in my laughter,
the glint in my fulfilled eyes and
the wonder that turns me little girl-shy.
You gather my womanly answer prior
to mastering its exquisite shatter.
Your voice is my ears favorite gift,
able to lift my steps to walk full depth.
Just as I crave cuddling your insight,
I love to linger in all that you perplex.
You are my match, my complete,
my excitement and my wonderful ease.
All of my days and each of my nights
feel the assist of both sun and moon,
but they underwhelm compared to you
who kiss them just as I wish them.
Now there are words in your blue eyes
that I cannot read or describe.
I am desperate to be freed;
guaranteed that I am still your need.
Should you take your love from me, you would leave behind
a dark empty. Nothing in the world would make sense –all would
lose context and content. I would be an empty shell lost in
bogs of hell with no relief to press against. I would not emerge
with a defense or disperse a functioning pretense. My heart would
naught but beat hurting blood where ache is caught and fear
pumps greed for relief that my heart’s death be complete.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
Judge Mental People
throwing rocks at crippled dogs
torturing non-classroom frogs
wallowing in self made bogs
pure jealously – non-feral hogs
consuming nothing but the same
the daily slop, a little grain
the grayish mud a match for brain
an open gate too much a strain
peering from their darkened sty
envying the darting fly
suspicious of the black crows cry
entrenched in deep snouted lie
believing that their bloated shrieks
elevate such brutish freaks
to tops of clear sky bluish peaks
to trash the goals that others seek
warriors without a soul
fighting from deep in a hole
guarding the emptiness they stole
mocking the songs of bridgeless troll
©11/8/2017
submitted to – Judgmental People And Haters – Poetry Contest
Lush vales wedged between rolling foot hills
rugged mountain streams course through ancient vales;
water rapids breach rocks down on the dells,
vagrant pools wander out through worn edges.
Vivid odors punctuate water veins,
ripe with fertile grass, fruit and berry bogs.
Pristine secluded swamps, log aquilines
echoing native sounds, murmuring frogs.
Katydids call out a lusty affair,
as dusk settles to a vibrating night.
Fireflies flicker perfuming the air;
wild eyes reflecting moon lit flight.
I Form - Imagism 9-18-24 6-20 lines
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A Golden Kiss
Summer bows out and leaves a golden kiss
Maize dozes in mellow aster afternoons
Orange glows on future jack-o-lanterns
Multicolor bumpy gourds ride snaking vines
Yellow corn silks dance like razzle dazzles
Apples drink in the fading crimson sun
Sunflowers sigh -autumn storms breach the sky
Geese with twilight on their wings see new stars
Ruby gems of cranberries swim in bogs
Purple grapes soak in the warmth for harvest
Twirling leaves leave frosty lace skeletons
Fuzzy bees bid adieu to yellow days
Tawny acorns shiver in the cold nights
Fall wears an amber blush of jubilee.