Best Caravans Poems
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There are legends I've heard, old songs in the dark
of the old folklore tales, and the old gypsy trails,
where traveling caravans of rugged old wagons
still echo, with longing, in valleys below...
Where each treasured belonging,
was packed in a hurry
all the stories, all the worry, all the heartache would travel
all the sunshine, and the sorrow, celebrations to marvel
and dreams of tomorrow, were kept on the road....
The trail was a friend, and the loam was their home
Their needs were quite small,
They didn't expect, to be wealthy or rich.
All the riches they had, were scarce and so few...but they knew
that happiness could be the sun on your back, or a sky, wide and blue...
Not much to expect, and not even respect...
would be theirs to be owned.
As the twilight would come, under a red setting sun,
with the fragrance of loam, and the tired walk done...
they would bed under trees where the heather was strewn
they would burn a small fire, and prepare a warm meal,
with smoke in the breeze, while the whippoorwill's song
and accordion tunes, would drift by the face of the moon
On their heels was the dust, in the noontime sun
They rose with the dawn, and the gold of the past,
wearing the colorful hope of tomorrow's new task
Working wherever a meal, and dollar would come
Then moving again with their band until dusk
over, and over and over again...
Some called them tramps, or small petty thieves
But the heart of the matter, was the love of the sun,
the love of the life that came from the moon,
from the stars, and the grass, and the rust of the leaves
For those who encountered, and who gave them a chance
could learn many things by watching them dance,
and learn many things by hearing them sing,
and pay close attention to how much they knew
that fortune is something that comes from inside
It comes with the pride, of knowing what matters
The tattered, lost life of the old gypsy tribes ....
might be the saddest of stories, or loneliest song...
a song that has faded,
that has dwindled and died....
_______________________________________
5/18/12
101 in a ROW contest - 12
Sponsored by PD
our lady of Guadalupe stands alight in corner air
her gown emerald, cerise, gold
Don Pedro stands afore
glass to glass in an amber glow
Lowry’s beaked bird of uva descent
shadows flicker here, there
on the morrow lies the tropical carnage
the insect floor, the frogs call all night
offshore the everlasting beacon of an occultist light
humanities illusion of delusion, forevermore
calling ships to a harbor where i have none
the rain praters, the storm roars, the poet walks the floor
she stirs, i am not there, panther pillow rising
Morrison's Spanish caravans
once more the earth pulls as Don Pedro and i kneel
the carnal carnival between her naps
is when my desk finds the lines
while waiting for the sun
Abilene 6/18
“How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?”
? Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
for those of you who have attended an Arts and Madness conference know the story. Edna St. Vincent Millay, master of the sonnet, the rage of her age now collects dust in the library and no longer studied at the university. her life of addiction and the cost in the wake of self-induced destruction surrounding her. the stupor of Elizabeth Bishop cost her the chance of a happy marriage. i could go on but what is important to me is that 28 years ago i walked away from the madness and kept the art.
Everyone must discover the truth,
Watching a small red cargo ship move away
From the port of Brest, slowly
By unmasking the young man who walks
Without fear of passing people,
Ignoring the baker in love with his wife
Without talent, ignoring his warm bread,
Everyone must discover what is behind
The devastated tropical forest,
Everyone must discover the truth, so difficult
Sitting on a bench facing the Atlantic Ocean,
By drinking without an ideal, wine from the slopes of Provence,
Everyone must discover the truth, by looking at the accident
From a car on the rainy road,
Everyone must discover the truth, so essential,
Opening the wardrobe of his old parents,
Crouching down to eat a mango
In an unhealthy port of Kenya,
Losing a game of poker with friends from childhood,
Everyone must discover the truth, looking at the desert caravans,
You can’t live without hiding your face, you can’t live
Face uncovered.
Chacun doit découvrir la vérité,
En regardant s’éloigner un petit cargo rouge
Du port de Brest, lentement
En démasquant le jeune homme qui marche
Sans rien craindre des passants,
En ignorant le boulanger amoureux de sa femme
Sans talent, de son pain chaud,
Chacun doit découvrir ce qui se cache derrière
La forêt tropicale dévastée,
Chacun doit découvrir la vérité, si difficile
En s’asseyant sur un banc face à l’océan Atlantique,
En buvant sans idéal, le vin venu des coteaux de Provence,
Chacun doit découvrir la vérité, en regardant l’accident
D’une automobile sur la route pluvieuse,
Chacun doit découvrir la vérité, si essentielle,
En ouvrant l’armoire de ses vieux parents disparus,
En s’accroupissant pour manger une mangue
Dans un port insalubre du Kenya,
En perdant une partie de poker avec ses amis
D’enfance,
Chacun doit découvrir la vérité, en regardant les caravanes du désert,
On ne peut vivre sans cacher son visage, on ne peut vivre
À visage découvert.
South Of The (United States) Border...
(Reigns A Welter Of Disorder)
Caravans comprising multitudinous
peoples plodded a steady course
analogous to iron filings drawn by
strong magnetic force
gravitational pull generated
by North America
an irresistible source,
which tug felt
nearly all the way round
webbed wide world beckoning
for waves of humanity
figuratively donned as spawning fish,
toward which currently dimming
beacon of democracy flickr
Trump might extinguish
though tis quite heart
breaking to experience
vicariously as one collective soul,
these desperate folks
ambitious to seek asylum,
(and eventual citizenship),
while this "FAKE" president
invents many a...holy SMOKES
outrageous, nefarious, and malicious
dagger o type cruel barbed wire
accusing, condemning, and emasculating,
(I could continue),
but ye dear reader would tire
unless individuals
affected by xenophobia
countenance same stance
as Commander in Chief,
or contrariwise some
like minded
thinkers, rack coon sitter
the migrant situation dire,
would effectively serve me
as preaching to
the Unitarian choir,
yet any sensate
person must admit
tis quite upsetting, lamenting,
and agonizing to witness
hordes of persons treated like
some pestilential
eyesore dagnabbit,
yes this chap can
endlessly spout flibbertigibbet,
though thee crux of my opinion,
inspires a poem express
sing supportive emotions
particularly acknowledging,
how these masses (thousands)
of vulnerable individuals
show true grit,
nonetheless yours truly,
would be hard pressed
for an immediate
humane solution to corral
this extensive kit
and caboodle, though this generic guy
with a poetic knack
shakes his noggin
watching armed flack
delivered from border patrol agents/
United States military, lack
restraint, and who outright attack
trespassers at point
blank range that pack,
a deadly (Judge Judy ish
huss) punch smack
king young ones
upside the head forcing
everyone to backtrack
to their homeland of
persecution by crack
headed gang members, which thugs
violently land a deadly whack!
Suddenly from somewhere
A street urchin-
An untamed bird of the wider sky
Dropped down
Into the circus tent
Before him was unfurled
Scenes eerie….awesome!!
Roaring lions and tigers,
Gibbering baboons, caravans of camels,
Animal tamers and acrobats,
Artists balancing on poles
Swinging from bars to trapeziums
Pliant girls with plastic limbs
And pouting breasts,
Walking on tight ropes.
A strange world,
Peopled with beasts and men!
His face, painted white and red
In motley dress, he was arrayed
And a tall tapering cap, placed
On his forcibly tonsured head
He hardly knew what it all meant.
He heard the bells ringing
And it was time for the show
He was told
He would henceforth be a clown
And should make people laugh
A thousand sunsets passed him by
He forgot the familiar alleys of the streets
Lost sight of the endless pathways of the sky
In a world –
So populous- so empty,
He buried him
In the hidden caverns of himself
Nursing a hundred bruises
Inflicted by Time’s sharp razors
Often he was reminded-
“You should make others laugh”
He did make people laugh
While a fountain of tears lay frozen
In the slivers of his broken heart!!
Jan.7. 2023
~ Placed Fourth~
Tatters Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mystic Rose Rose
fair day
tinkers came this morning
out of the melting sun
like a rainbow in a cloud of dust
their caravans noisily come
music swirled about them
and women's ribbons flew
in their coal black hair red roses
still wet with the morning's dew
rat tat tat on the pots and pans
rat tat tat on their women too
the village men stood stiffly 'round
their faces glum mouths turned down
when the tinkers came to town
the village men burn with lusty fire
for tinker girls are sweet
but never closer could they come
to the swiftly dancing feet
'round and 'round like Christmas tops
skirts high above their waist
willow withy women danced
while their men they robbed the place
rat tat tat on the pots and pans
rat tat tat on their women too
the village men stood stiffly 'round
their faces glum mouths turned down
when the tinkers came to town
anxious to be off again
fairy vaner ponies stamped
flowing mane and tails held high
they pranced around the camp
now at dusk and shadows creep
too the music all must yield
not a blade has been disturbed
across that empty field
When This Broken, Only A Dark Sonnet Will Do
In deep melting pot of sorrow's dark, seeping doom
nightmares, I saw hearse caravans rolling through gloom;
with sad echoes of creaking wheels and painful shades
came immense agonies of ever piercing blades.
My soul sought shelter from splinters of dying wood
shielding grief stricken heart from dark barely withstood;
curse that penetrates spirit's armors, valor's halls
with clouds of poison gas, seeping through castle walls.
Midnight shadows came, danced in repugnant scenes
vomiting spittle, with hideous stagnant greens;
Fate and Time, delay dawn's lights, its needed reprieve
enjoy all the more, epic loss as crushed heart grieves.
Dawn, its promise reminds, faith saves from sinful life,
I remember death's terrors and its bloody knife.
Robert J. Lindley, 7-23-2018
Dark Sonnet, ( Fate's Curses and Its Deep Plunged Daggers)
Underworld, of changelings,
where shadows loom,
There lies a world, vitrified, consumed,
Its surface hardened, a relic of alchelimes,
a testament to sorrow, frozen in language
warning signs.
Once a haven of life, brimming with dreams,
now encased in glass, a tragic plightstoscene.
Whispers of laughter, now silenced,
veiled by the icy grip,
by memories assailed upon it's sardonic lips
North, stood a river, flowing,
purely succumbing to the liquid cascade of dreams.
Now stands a monument,
empty and obscure,
a sewage treatment plant of fear
and conspiracy, not theory,
but excremeofsupremacy
of Triremes of war eclipsing peace and prosperity.
A mosaic of black emotion, punishment's devotions.
Change resides in this vitrified tomb,
like fangled shards
of black mirror cutting Bards and Poets in handling, reflecting from corpused firmament womb, harpypsychords in accord with gloominess
and despair
etched on its face,
Obsidian tears.
The competing vision of the North-
sees a great Western deluge. A revival of the Sisterlings and the Brotherly.
Beasts roam like children in caravans
to witness mankind,
to pay homage for eyes opened,
having seen for the first time,
how things are meant to be, sublime.
Form:
The Black Death
It came without warning, it swept through the town
One day you were up, the next day you’re down
It came to the poor, it came to the rich
You might feel the bite, you might feel the itch
It might kill the whole family, it might spare one or two
By the time you saw symptoms it was too late for you
You might live for days or a few weeks instead
You might feel good at breakfast and by dinner you’re dead
It came from the East and moved on to the coast
Then into the cities; the rats were the hosts
They traveled the Silk Road with the vast caravans
Their fleas were infected across Europe’s lands
And once in the cities, the rats stayed to feed
And the plague was soon spreading and spreading with speed
The bodies soon littered each alley and street
Till they carted them off like slabs of dead meat
They buried some bodies in a communal pit
Then burned their belongings to get rid of it
And then it was over; not as quick as it came
And the vast devastation had earned its sad name
Western wars brought to foreign fields
Bullet barrages blocked by grim guillotines
Petulant petrol fans the flickering flames
Courageous captains solder soldiers together
Teething tigers ripped from mad mothers to
Carry demented decisions from bribed bullies
All hail the casket caravans of yesterday's youth
Continued from Part 1
The orphans and widows lean into the breeze
watching horrified hangmen descend to their knees
for the angel of mercy’s no longer inclined
to forgive vengeful phantoms (oh Furies of night!) ,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The bandits are brazen, the highwaymen lurk,
some imbibing dark brews of a hag’s handiwork,
mostly gulping from goblets like goblins maligned.
Woman! Widen your wings, catching wisps of the wind
I’ll not leave you behind.
The lepers laugh, leaping from tombstones of steel
chasing rollaway caskets on luminous wheels;
while their shadows shake, shrouded, twixt trees intertwined,
twisted time melts at midnight, take hold of my hand,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The gremlins grope, grinning face down in the dust,
while the sprites and the pixies are watching nonplussed.
They sling bolted arrows at spectres enshrined
within winds somewhat flustered, just fly from your fears
I’ll not leave you behind.
The tattered toy teddies and raggedy Anns
have escaped to the skyways in kid caravans
but now, spellbound by fancies, know not that they’ll find
their parade’s evanesced into echoes of dawn –
I’ll not leave you behind.
The wind’s my enchantress, beguiles and commands
me to search for my fortune in faraway lands
and whispers her mysteries of passions entwined,
for the wind is Isolde – unfurling my sails
I’ll not leave you behind.
End
Smells of boiled hot dog sausages,
beef burgers and onions.
Mingle these with - wafts of candy floss,
toffee apples and brandy snaps.
Whirring of engines
chugging over noisily,
half drowned by thumping music,
screams and laughter.
A multitude of lights flash and spin,
in time with the rides
that dash before your eyes;
round and round,
side to side,
back and forth,
and upside down.
Over and over, on and on they go.
Crowds pushing and shoving,
impatiently they each await their short turn.
Money changes hands,
speaker blasts; 'Hold tight, here we go...';
While greedy fair lords
count their cash profits;
before packing up at end of night,
to go home to their caravans;
sleep briefly
then hit the road once more.
Onwards they go to next town,
ready to start all over again....
Replace this heart of soiled sedition.
This junkyard filled with ugly treason.
Forgive, o Lord, embattled reason,
at the turnpike, chosen left ...off course.
His smoke went up with no remorse,
where my jealous hate, my brother slain,
branded brow the mark of Cain.
Now thoughts are choked by desert sand,
I beg reprieve with blistered hands.
Stolen youth in a game of chance,
Just took off, no backward glance.
Blinded by the blaring sun, aided by the caravans,
endless miles through wispy sands
My zest for water I forgot to think,
At night a mare that steals my drink.
Dancing girls in searing heat,
with hooded eyes and flaming feet,
a swimming haze, in a river there
towards I run -they disappear.
With Abel gone the ghost of Cain,
tries to talk but can not say,
Who howls at night and barks all day?
Blood of my brother, source of my pain
Your soul still wanders on a deserted plain
Vacances en France
Seven hundred miles we travelled,
Across both land and sea.
Because our friends had told us,
France was lovely as could be.
Two caravans we towed there,
To a villa called ‘la Ronce’,
They’d been there, so many times,
But us, well just this once.
We arrived a little weary,
They’d a puncture on the way.
A tyre blew off their caravan,
And ripped the side away.
We stopped and then a gendarme,
Called a man to change the wheel.
Like something from a storybook,
The scene was quite unreal.
We finally reached the campsite,
And drove in through the gate.
To begin our three week holiday,
We thought, now this is great.
They put us on two pitches,
That were near a mile apart.
And placed us both in sinking sand,
I threatened to depart.
They realised I meant it,
So they gave us two good sites.
Where we were pitched together,
And could gossip through the nights.
We spent our days by swimming,
On the glorious Français coast.
By evening we were drinking wine,
To cool our daily ‘roast’.
We took along our teenage kids,
With us they did not stay.
But spent their days, with friends in bars,
And made us parents pay.
The lifestyle there so different,
From the one we had at home,
A slower pace of living,
And not pestered by the phone.
We thought we were in heaven,
As we sweltered everyday.
While watching nudists on the beach,
Where we would swim and play.
But there was ‘one little drawback’,
Just a tiny one, you see.
The site had other visitors,
That drank much more than me.
These nasty little creatures,
Had a taste for human blood.
And feasted on our bodies,
Like nought but vampires should.
Swollen up from head to toe,
And even on our bum.
We looked like we’d been rolled in thorns,
Then toasted by the sun.
Amongst our cherished memories,
When we finally left our sites.
We took home thoughts of sunny days,
While scratching insect bites!
Ivor G Davies
Somewhere over the rainbow,
A great civilization flourished,
And we discovered a wonderful kaleidoscope
Of exuberant and vibrant humanity
Enchanted tones tell a story
About a people made from dusk
And red clay
They blend into caravans
Of strong and beautiful faces
The royal kingdom with majesty,
Sits on the throne,
And the mighty lion with pride,
Rules its dominion
Rights, rituals, and passages
Speak of our greatness
Traditions took from the ancients
Are the seeds planted
As we enter the sacred place,
Paradise is never forsaken
Behold, the true Garden of Eden,
As we drink sweet water
From the Nile River
Timbuktu astronomers study the heavens
Mandingo and Zulu Warriors display
War-painted colors like
The broad plumage of a peacock
They stand gripping tall sharp spears
And poisoned arrow tips to launch,
Thus, ready for battle
Juju medicine man mix repeated chants,
As he drifted into a spiritual dance
At daybreak,
We go down to the river flow,
And shadows rise like the moon
Hearts beat in rhythms
Like fine-tuned African drums,
And the rainy season
Stay bound to Mother Earth
At the edge of a crackling fire,
The enchanted medicine man
Delivers magic words and potions
Great powerful heavens
Lift every voice up and sing,
To the sweet harmony of Africa