Best Bowman Poems
your labored breathing
called out to me
and in my soul I knew
what needed to be done
I reached for the drum
to summon the spirits
called out to ancestors
and anyone who’d listen
gently tapping to the rhythm
of our beating hearts
united as one in a prayer
released to the universe
filled the silence of
your labored breathing
drumming for hours
till the pleading was done
everything had been said
the prayer consummated
left in the hands
of the universe to respond
then it did in no uncertain terms
in an exorcism of sorts
draining the passages
to free your breathing
and so it was
in tune with the universe
the healing power
of the drum
Read on air by invitation ~ February 11, 2021 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
Read on KPBX called Poetry Moment by Kara Bowman 2022 [karabowman.com and griefpoetry.com]
AP: 2nd place 2026, 2nd place 2022, 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on June 13, 2025 for contest YOUR BEST AUDIO POEM sponsored by TOM WOODY - RANKED 2ND
and on May 28, 2021 for contest ALL YOURS (MAY 29) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
The archers’ line was straddled,
By many a shapely calf.
The Marshall called the nocking,
And winked at the pretty lass.
The Maiden drew the bowstring back,
To her ruddy cheek,
As she fired her fledgling flights;
They heard the fair Maid "Eek!"
Chorus
"Sing Hey Ho, best beware!
Hey Ho have a care,
If ye've any pretty parts,
Ye'll keep them out of there!"
The bowman smiled and nodded,
As the Maiden struck a pose.
"Try again M'Darlin' Dear,
"But watch out for y'er nose!"
The Maiden rubbed her forearm,
And looked back with a glare.
Nocked another arrow shaft,
And hit the bull's-eye square.
Gentles all they tipped their hats.
The Marshall cleared the field.
The Maiden went to fetch her flights.
The men trod close at heel.
Returning with a manly stride,
Yet again, she took her stance.
The bowmen's eyes all glimmered,
With mischief far in advance.
Chorus
Pulling back her bow string,
To her crimson cheek so close,
She let another arrow fly free.
The string hit her in the nose!
Tears welled in the Maiden's eyes.
All the gentlemen rushed the Dear.
Wiping the pretty lassies face,
Of every single tear.
They brushed the few stray auburn locks
From before her green-brown eyes
Handed her the fine longbow,
And heard her sorrowful sighs,
"Do try again M'Dear Mistress,
But for your form we fear,
So, be very, very, careful Maid!
Keep those nipples out of there!"
Chorus
'Twas 'pon the final flurry,
As she drew string back to cheek;
"Thwack" went the taunting bowstring,
And again the Maiden "Eekked!"
Her cheeks they blanched a deathly white,
'Pon her brow there came a frown;
Still, when the Marshall called count;
She gamely shot the round.
"Sing Hey Ho, don't be scared,
Hey Ho just take a care,
'Tis simply a friendly warning
Not to put ye're pretty parts there!"
Haiku 16
native warriors
the Bowman and the Spearman
by Lake Michigan
THE PARENTS IN RHYMES: THEIR LIFE, DEATH AND TIMES
BY JULIAN BOWMAN
THE PROLOGUE
1
Ten months apart, both parents dead
Their stories swirling in my head;
Memories I cannot neglect,
Compel me to write – and to reflect.
My father wrote good poetry -
It scarcely trickled down to me:
He refused to rhyme, called it cheap,
Preferred to be obtuse and deep;
But now he’s dead it seems right
To rhyme some reason from his life.
And not just him, my mother too –
Who should come first – it is her due;
For she gave birth, shaped and steered me -
So this poem’s for those who reared me.
A year ago, mum passed away
Dad struggled on in deep dismay;
For sixty years together they’d grown
And he couldn’t cope with life alone;
So now suddenly I am morphing
Into a late, mature orphan.
But I’m blessed with strong family
And sibling solidarity,
Married with three blooming daughters
Life rushes on, barely falters.
How can I find the time to grieve?
Put pen to paper, I believe;
But I am fearful in every fibre,
Living with a leading writer:
I’m Amrita Thakur’s biggest fan -
Appendage, husband, bloke, old man.
In contrast I can claim no skills
Can’t even write lines with even syllables.
Always hated grammar and rules
Rigid systems are for fools.
But I’ll try to write, inspired by death
And just a bit by Vikram Seth.
This will be fact – it is not “fictionary”-
And will be aided by rhyming dictionary.
But first, let me share a small confession:
Whilst I believe in free expression
I want to share all warts and stains
So I’ve found it best to change the names.
Some writers thrive on blatant piracy
Plundering lives and breaking privacy,
But it’s not for me to expose
Those who want to keep their clothes;
It’s best to respect some identities
So I’m free to dig into obscenities.
Sometimes truth finds best proximity
Through the guise of anonymity.
2
The rest of this epic poem is available on Amazon - search for Julian Bowman The Parents in Rhyme: Their Life, Death and Times
The arrow struck with a sickening thud
Piercing the neck with a spurt of blood.
Searing pain with anguish shrill
The wound severe, but did not kill
The baby kangaroo reeled, and fell
Into an agonizing Hell.
An arrow, through the neck, half out the other.
A look of horror from his mother.
Strange instinct told that Man had the power
To save him in his desperate hour.
For days he staggered through bush and plain
With one thought in his aching brain
To reach the streets of Sydney City
In search of help. In search of pity
Brave Baby! How did you know
You could trust man, who had hurt you so?
You did not run. You did not flinch
You stood your ground, did not yield an inch
When they came with a cage to take you away.
You did not know if this was your last day
Or whether in some far flung Zoo
You would be a captive kangaroo
But man with kindness, and great skill
Removed the arrow that was meant to kill.
The wound soon healed and the decision made
To return the Baby to where he once played.
How can a Man have a heart so savage
Thinking it fun to ravage
The body of a defenceless baby with an arrow?
This cruelty fills one with horror.
Lord! I know you have the power to take revenge
And have many ways to avenge
The pain and horror of this deed.
But the Bowman needs help
His soul is sick, it needs repair
Teach him to love, teach him to care.
There was a young man named John Bowman
Who was renowned as a bit of a showman
He practiced Yoga
Dressed in a toga
Convinced that he was a real Roman
I remember a young man of long ago,
I as fond of him as he the bow.
We thrived together, discovering astride,
grew into our own side by side.
I came for the archery, and stayed
for the friends - oh, the parts we played.
We shot, spoke, studied and strummed;
on my heart's strings the experience thrummed.
This companion's name intrigued sans surcease,
'til he told how Eirenikos means peace.
Greek it was, and Greek it was to me,
for anger ever flows within me with glee.
In spite of that, we teamed well, made a fine pair,
learned how to wear blade, bow and banter proud and fair.
Every event we could make it to cemented thus more;
there, I felt unfettered - normally, always at war.
Now here I sit, trying to keep his lessons in mind,
while to Dante's lands, for a spell, myself I've signed.
Amidst this strife, I long for those halcyon days,
to return to Eirenikos's eponymously equable ways.
Two sides of the same coin, were this bowman and I,
his name the chronic reminder - a better man is ever nigh.
In his world, myself I chose to engross;
striving to speak with the voice of Eirenikos.
Robin Hood of proud Nottingham fame,
Treated affluent folk as fair game.
He’d grab hold of their cash
And then off he would dash,
But to give to the poor was his aim.
Bowman Robin, with cupid-like art
Sent a quiver through Marian’s heart.
Through the woods they would ride,
Merry men at their side;
How she wished, just for once they’d depart!
30.01.19
Limerick 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
The famed archer perches on the minaret
While the waxing moon disappears
He studies the dancing silhouettes
Waiting on the reclusive premier
The scant light of a torch coyly dances
And soon the moribund ruler emerges
The bowman knows where his allegiance is
Soon the realm will be singing dirges
The arrow hits the heart and it is rent apart
And so departs the tyrannical tetrarch
GOD Grows The Poet
Who Plants Words Sweet
GOD Knows The Poet
of Beautiful Speech ...
Who, We Had For A Time
Held Like A Pink Ribboned Posy
But Is Now Lain Unto
A Bouquet Bed of Red Roses ...
As We Bewail The Day
Yearning To Banish Death's Bowman
Whose Arrows Have Now Pierced ...
"A Phenomenal Woman" *
And Now, All and "I Know
Why The Caged Bird Sings" ***
For We've Lost Dearest - Maya
A Black-Pearl, Poet-Queen! ...
And Her Words Are For Whispers
To GOD's Winds and Blue Skies
Who Desires To Hear Her Say
"and Still ... I Rise ..." **
She Was A Poet of Great Passion
Shown In Her Poems and Prose
Powerful In Her Visions
Yet Gentle Eye-Views Like A Doe's
O' GOD Bless That Poet
Whose Voice Refreshed Us Like Dew
And May We Write Poems Together
In Paradise ... me & Maya Angelou ...
* * * *
In Memoriam & Honor To:
Maya Angelou
4/ 4/ 1928 - 5/ 28/ 2014
Written & Copyrighted ©: 5/29/2014
by: MoonBee Canady
Maya Angelou was one of four poets that gave me the writing itch
for poetry ... Her words were so vibrant in the reading
Her poems cascade off the tongue like flowing rhythm-rains ...
Above, I included three of her poems in tribute (they are my favorites)
MoonBee
It can tear you apart or make your world go round
Bring you up or down or turn you upside down
But when love finally flows into your heart
It is a rush like none other
Wild Horses couldn't tear you away
From your one true love
As you look in her eyes you finally realize
This is your one true soul mate
You have found real and true love!
Doug Bowman
Copyright 2011
Baseball cards
have been around for years.
There are Topps,
and there are Fleers,
along with Bowman
and Donruss,
there are many
available to us.
Whether the player
plays shortstop or third base,
any professional player
will have his face
displayed on the front
of a baseball card.
Some are easy to find
and some are hard.
They are sold in packs
of bubble gum.
Every summer,
they come in a continuum.
Collecting makes a great hobby
without any doubt.
I only wish my old man
did not throw my old ones out!
Bard nocks Black Arrow, barebow thrills and kills ~ a ripple in Smaug’s armor
"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"
proclaims the Dawn of Man &
The Monolith
From the ancient past
to the (retro)futuristic present
as the flying bone
becomes a satellite in orbit
Blue Danube waltz
serenades space:
the Pan Am space plane
gracefully docks with
the space station
Ligeti’s haunting polyphony
envelopes space:
Floyd visits
The Monolith on the
immaculately stark moon
Beautifully tragic
Khachaturian ballet suite
announces the Discovery’s
lonely mission to Jupiter
Bowman methodically unplugs
the homicidal HAL
as the psychopathic e-brain
sadly sings “Daisy, daisy…”
He enters the wormhole
in the Monolith orbiting Jupiter
travels through infinity
at FTL velocity
transfixed by the epic
irreal journey
And then finds himself in a
luxury hotel room
somewhere in the universe:
dying on a bed
he sees the Monolith
and is transformed
into a Star-Child
who floats toward Earth
What will the Star-Child
do?
Crossing the Swamp
The enemy within, if unchallenged,
Will destroy the nation to achieve power.
Singing and composing to deceive the innocent,
Spinning narratives to suit their agenda.
For them, the country is a tool to use
To satisfy their selfish interests.
They hate Jesus, Christians, and Jews
And curse the United States of America.
Boldly, the bowman poles away the ‘gators,
While the helmsman rudders straight and true.
Brave Trump, “Commander in Chief,” leads the troops,
Crossing the swamp to root out traitors.
By beacon’s light in murky waters’ blight,
Proudly displayed, “Old Glory” waves
As a nation prays for freedom from evil’s grip
And for the killing of unborn babies to stop.