Best Bulwark Poems
A fuming, fierce and moving target
On yor species will you place yor bet!
Aiming the blade into shoulder blade or beating heart
all toreadors hope to throw that fatal decisive dart!
This bullyboy to score a bloodied bullseye in bullfight!
O'course not for the fainthearted that gory sight.
Well, that counts timid me out from any bullring
naturally I a bulwark against this lurid thing.
I find in the sport a sort of sadism
Like cockfights it must reek of masochism.
The carmine cape, the only screen between him and the jaws of death
or should I say rather, the sickle horns of death
Oh no, what if the matador ain't ever allowed to catch his breath?
For promoters a thrilling spinechilling
Spanish folk art in arena
For objectors a bloodsport
they wish as dead as the myth of Athena.
The Spanish might be divided about their picadors
on this sporty bloody battle between man and beast
No telling till when spectators will throng to watch those matadors
while I wonder do they on the trophy bull then feast?
Ah ban it to history
or fan it to the future
Call it cruelty or not, oh the thrills of our humankind
Tis fair play or fair game for the raging bull tis half blind?
Yet if any bloodlust instincts be satiated by those stuntmen toreros
matadors maybe far better than murderers and war heroes.
The wait seemed eternal to feel inspiration.
Minutes were mountains as each one ticked by,
my hand poised grasping a pen, and then
seated without hitting one stroke on a key.
A closed mind submits nothing, zero and zilch
in a life that's been deeply anchored
in the annals of an abyss shrouded by opacity.
Somewhere between midnight's noirs
and the misty grey flow of morning fog,
I'd fallen into a cavern, deprived of light.
I'd built a bulwark fortress that fenced me in
and the key to my cell... held in my own hand.
I brandished a pen that became a sharpened sword
that hacked and sliced at my every written word.
My dreams were gone, along with life's sensation.
No wonder I could not find a cause for inspiration.
A poet who doesn't write is of no use, none at all.
I stood at the edge of a cliff ~ should I jump or fall?
Sounds of laughter caught the attention of my ears
and through eyes blurred by tears,
I saw children running along the water's edge.
Hesitant, I decided to watch them from upon the ledge.
I sat atop the cliff with legs overhanging that day,
wishing I was a child of ten again to join in their play.
"Well, poet," spoke my muse. "Are you a withered bloom?"
A scolding for thinking of naught but notions of doom
A flurry of fussing she threw at me, hassling like a Harpy.
Exactly what I needed for living in doldrums of gloom.
"Now, see what you've done," she was decidedly terse!
"Your burden is that you always begin in free verse
but always end up writing lines ending in rhyme.
You continually do that. Time after time."
My laughter was louder than the children at play
who stopped traipsing in the surf to look up my way.
A wave of my hand and down to the beach I ran.
Inspiration filling me like waves crashing upon the sand.
The sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
Held my attention to make it work against rust
Reminding me “I am whom your mother did trust…
To clothe you well from harm of sun, wind and gust.”
Oh, I’m sorry to forget Mom’s tool so great
In crafting masterpiece of excellent rate
That showed her love, care and nurture – never late
While testifying about God midst bad fate.
“The war years seemed like only yesterday…
Great is the Lord* for prevailing in His way
He’s in control and in Him, there’s no delay
Let’s believe Him always.” Good words she would say.
From that wondrous memory emerged hope’s mark
To wake up with faith’s light and courage-spark
So I lay joyous in the Lord’s peace-bulwark
While candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.
*Psalm 145:3 Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised; and his greatness is unsearchable.
April 14, 2018
6th place, "One Nine and Sixteen" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley; judged on 5/2/2018.
Featured among Poems of the Week from March 19-25, 2023.
Within the woods, stood a wall of stone
molded by hands from a distant time.
Though roughly hewn, it had endured.
What narratives could it tell of its past,
this ancient bulwark, built to last?
My fingers traced each pitted wound.
I wondered as to the tragic fate
of one missing mortared rock.
I dared to peer inside the hollow;
the scent of age overpowered me.
A sudden dizziness rattled my senses
with a brief glimpse of a long ago battle
when weapons pricked the rampart's bulk.
This bastion had served as a battlement,
a barricade between differences of opinions.
Was the victory worth the lives forsaken?
Because of it, were families torn apart?
With need to offer words of compensation.
I paid homage to the unyielding wall,
whispering, "Stand strong, brave soldier."
October 6, 2020 ~ A Wall in the Woods
Craig Cornish ~ Sponsor
"He can sit in a room, and not perish"*
Or might he stand upon the deck,
release the dove, and weep for years,
not for its loss,
nor for the triumph of its flight
above the waters; they are not of God,
they are the backwash of our fears.
There in his room alone,
imprisoned by his conscience
he may let his mind fly free
while tears beneath his wings
may no more flood the ground.
But we are not alone;
we have the educated man fulfilled...
and weeping. He has not such irony
for comfort.
It is a flood to cling to.
Fears, we understand;
they are our bulwark
when an educated man could speak—
could sweep us all away with wonder,
separate us from such grand pretensions.
We are not free to weep with him.
We may not seek the refuge of the mind,
eyes not for insight, not for closing,
senses bound upon another time
away, another circus of distraction,
yes, another box of little men
to dance upon the screen.
It is a dance to take away our fears,
a dance beguiling death,
suspending it awhile with candied tears
and frosted dreams protecting us from envy,
nodding to the educated man apart,
who sits there in his room alone
and weeping for us,
just as we who may not see
across the arch of his reality,
cannot.
~
*quotation from Jacques Barzun
The Church
The pillar and bulwark of the truth
Faith guards
The faith which was once for all delivered to the saints
She guards the memory of Father Christ’s words
It is she who from generation to generation hands on the apostles’ confession of faith
As a mother who teaches her children to speak and so to understand and communicate
The Church our mother teaches us the language of faith
In order to introduce us to the understanding and the life of faith
1252015
This is the fleet commander. I address all of you.
To this mighty ship, you have been a faithful crew.
Your performance the other day was much better than good.
We sank the strongest British ship, the HMS Hood.
May I assure you there will be no cause for alarm.
The Luftwaffe will arrive soon to deliver us from harm.
If any of the British fleet dares to show their face,
they will be torpedoed by U-boats in their place.
I remind you this is the most powerful ship on the sea.
Der Fuehrer has sent a wire directly to me.
We will forever hold a place of honor in Germany.
This is the most formidable nautical bulwark.
We are sailing on the greatest ship, The Bismarck.
Based on the 1960 film “Sink the Bismarck”
Never Forget
Oh thou of wretched heart and deed
Inferior our seeds?
When thus thou felt the need to rule
Annihilate deemed weeds
Thou casteth out your wicked net
Of guns and war bent twine
No bulwark for the Jews was found
Declaring heads decline
Compliant soldiers marched the streets
For ducats hedged your bet
With waving flags and Hail Hitler’s
Obliging hands were met
Whilst cyanide was gassings Jews
Obedience decreed
In bunkers hid you reigned your realm
Coward of plotted deeds
When one man tries to rid the world
Of an imagined foe
Mankind will raise its voice as one
He’ll reap what he did sow
Completed on 2/4/12
All rights reserved by Debra Squyres @ 2013
My fist attempt with a Quatrain…..this a modified quatrain as per specified by the rules of the members contest: Historical Modified Quatrain
1st and 3rd lines eight iambic syllables
2nd and 4th lines 6 iambic syllables
Love is a passionate portrait painted with the heart
Burnished brush strokes are a cherished work of art
when friendship blossoms as buds bloom into flowers
and romance reigns with caresses in garden bowers
Splashes of seafoam and evergreen flecks her eyes
Cerulean for the sea near the shore where she lies
Tint of Tuscan gold in the sand, reflected by the sun
and pastel pink on the lovely lips of my beloved one
Crimson on canvas, ruby red once she's been kissed
It's my intimate impression of her in a tender tryst
With carefully blended oils, her portrait takes shape
as I capture the delicate tresses curling on her nape
My deep desire tempts and teases my male senses
Against loving her, I will build no bulwark of defenses
My fingers long to fondle her cheek when she smiles
This beauty is not a woman who uses feminine wiles
I've adorned the canvas with her image as best I can
Flawed to a fault by my hand. I am an imperfect man
In this painted creation I hope I've been able to portray
the beauty and grace of her that words cannot convey
Of what good is beauty, without ugly beast
Tearing flesh fully faced, to submerge itself
In identity found within human mind.
A bulwark built to feed darkest desire,
Hiding behind thought and from which we shoot
Slaying love in the battlefield cross-fire.
A mirrored refraction of life seen cracked
Through lens attuned solely to oneself
With arbiter's cloak clutched tight to throat.
Is not Beauty built upon the Beast's face,
Are they not one and the same, in Death,
And we who breathe them to miserly Life?
This ship in His Majesty’s fleet is very good.
I am with the crew of the HMS Hood.
I am so proud to serve on this pride of the fleet.
She is a first-class battlewagon complete.
Since the war began, things have been quite frantic.
The Germans have wreaked havoc in the North Atlantic.
Just see what has happened down South America way.
They caused some trouble with their ship, the Graf Spee.
However, they now have a huge maritime bulwark.
This is a formidable battleship they have named the Bismarck.
I know there will be some inevitable confrontations.
When they occur, we will go to our battle stations.
We are the sailors of the proud British Navy.
The Hood is our best and the most mighty.
'Helpless' is an adjective I never thought
my hand would write to describe the despair
that's wound its way deep inside my heart.
Honestly, I'm only the catalyst of my own life,
the taproot that strengthens my mindset,
my cornerstone, my anchor, my backbone
when I wobble in the wind over matters
that I deem too serious to contemplate.
Lately, my thoughts swing back and forth,
from heights and depths, highs and lows.
My conscience cannot abide the seesaw
on which it rides up and down.
It wants to get off but can't find the right stride
to control where my troubled mind goes.
What fulcrum will serve as a bulwark for me?
Today I turn away from the bitterness and strife,
but tomorrow my mind will again pivot upon life.
I am a pendulum, swinging in the air,
but I have no counterweights to spare.
I try to bury my worries, but I still hear them chime.
There's no place to hide from a revolution.
Persecution of the innocent is a wretched crime.
What can I do to ease such chaos and lament?
I pray for Divine intervention with the intention
that God's mercy will help humankind
endure their banes and lessen their pains.
But is it His plan to save man in this way?
I've become unsure that He will intervene.
With so much folly and corruption in the world
I wonder... should I keep my sails unfurled
and take flight so that I might never see
horrors in the night and the bitter blight,
the tragedy being inflicted upon each other.
Or should I stay to fight with my brothers?
Given my druthers, there'd be no choice to make
if greed in fiendish ones, they would forsake.
What hub could serve as the center point,
a crux where minds meet to ease the tension,
and erase the apprehension in our society?
If there is an answer it has not come to the fore.
Must that mean war is the only solution?
Is there no resolution, something awesomely sublime,
to be a lever of sanity and give proper perspective
to a world standing on the edge of fanatical unrest?
I've no answer that would end the volatile upheaval
or staunch the flow of blood driven by an evil ego.
To negate the vile ones who are assailing humanity,
will take a mind shrewder than mine has to reveal.
March 8, 2022
Consciousness Fulcrum Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
With all my heart, I seek God*
In need of His helping grace.
Trusting Him, I thank His omnipotence
Hoisting me up from rigors of work’s load
Anchoring me upon His peace-bulwark.
Love He offers, I receive
Leading me to His blessings.
My life in Him now is truly secured
Yelling victory, I exalt His name
Heading heaven-ward thru holiness’ paths.
Empowered by His Spirit
Armored against temptations
Revived, I come to His presence humbly
To worship Him by faith for Who He is:
Immortal, infinite, invisible!
Saving my soul from hell’s wrath
Eternally, He’s my Lord; around Him my life revolves.
Expecting my service that He deserves
Keeps me seeking for His kind approval
Granting me His wise guidance-bestowments.
Oh, to live for God, my Love, my Lover, my Friend ... is bliss;
Delighted am I to share His love toward others' redemption!
*Psalm 34:4 "I sought the LORD, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears."
September 6, 2018
Edited on January 16, 2019
Honorable Mention, "My Friend, My Love" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver; judged on 1/25/2019.
Pride flags fly high today
Folk music family
Mennonite bureaus
So many melons and windsocks and dreamcatchers
This place signals a rebellion
Echoing antebellum times, seething with vibrancy and it boiled over
And for a moment broke the inertia
Love wins today and today we know
That we are a people of progress
But koyaanisqatsi waits for us outside this field
Just past these barns
Most of us are forced to march with that army too but
We can build a bulwark here and move it out beyond the dusty paths
It is up to you artisans, Amish, millennials, immigrants, farmers, poets
Today I secretly join your ranks
Each subsequent process of cell division
i.e. mitosis sans biological parlance
erodes chromosomal cap re: telomere if u can envision
some juncture senescence prevails –
apoptosis no chance to prevent natural degradation
and one alternate decision opting to bail out
subsequent etching chronological age –
averse at a glance to mortal male, who decries death breed’s frisson.
Thus disallowing healthy end of life discussion
once tutu shed rescinding plenti more figurative song and dance routines
final curtain call closes existence, where grim reaper jeers with derision
at attempts to thwart cessation of mortality,
whereby scientists seek to en-hance longevity –
even exhuming the dead (or thawing deceased
from suspended animation) and experimenting
with nonanesthetic induced incision.
To rewind expired meter fostering demise after staying alive –
with lance a lot chock full of chemical concoctions (hatched at round table)
to revive corpse as ultimate mission.
Yet, any effort to transcend genetic bulwark engendered
from bulge in pants (that initially unleashes biological reproduction
viz zit head via seminal swimmer in tandem with merging ova)
based on advantageous coupling favored position,
ought not be tampered with
lest havoc t’will rent asunder ranting rabid quest per final course
since egg versus chic hen ala kin collision.
Inscribed within DNA blueprint from extinct cousins of uncles and aunts
prepping monster to burst from Ray Kurzweil laboratory
whereby to halt recalcitrant son or daughter spanning cradle to grave
invariably yields zombie, spells monstrous FRUITION!
Form: