Best Centenary Poems
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
formerly fitters and farmers.
Facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forsaking fissures and furrows,
forced forwards with fleetness of foot.
Firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Fighting so fierce and ferocious,
fratricide set free on this field.
Fuelled by freedom, nay, falsehood;
for their fellows and friends, foremost.
Forays so fraught with fine failure,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
focus firmly fixed on this field.
Forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fulfilment was falsely forecast.
Fate flexes her fickle fingers,
future’s foretold and foreshadowed.
Faustian favours forthcoming,
for folly to feud for a field.
Families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Forthright and filial feelings,
forgo fun and frivolity.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
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8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
(This is my original / extended version)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
Poetry
Aged eighty Joyce started to write
Her poems my senses ignite
Imagery so divine
I just wish it was mine
Great poetry brings such delight
Making Fudge
Joyce really loves making fresh fudge
I wonder if I give Joyce a nudge
She will send to me
Her fudge recipe
From my kitchen I would not budge!
Tulip Parade
Without Joyce being sat in her seat
The parade would not be complete
Gardens Joyce does promote
On the flower club float
Her zest for life cannot be beat!
Gardening club
Joyce travels to state garden shows
Her knowledge of plants overflows
It would be a great idea
In her centenary year
To honour her name with a rose
100th Birthday
All soupers we must now rejoice
And shout out with united voice
That we just want to say
Have happy Birthday
To a fabulous poet named Joyce
Happy 100th Birthday Contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
4/18/18
It is time to celebrate our nation centenary
Rebels for our nation we weren't born
Enshrining our visions for a united land
Leaving a legacy for each and every citizen
Accept this gift of freedom that was fought
Never forget that in our nation darkest hour
Deep within us let us be proud of being Irish
Scores of suffering
stalwart soldiers stand steadfast
in scarlet-soaked soil
-----------------
(C) John C Michaels, 2014
Submitted on the centenary of The Great War (4th August 2014), in memory of the sacrifice
of those who are no longer with us and to whom we owe so much.
Although flowers bloom it’s awkward to say that they are flowers
because they are not flowers, but thorns disguised as yellow pistils
and stamens surrounded by the petals made of pieces of colorless
paper. Moreover, their fragrance bears no meaning at all because
they bloom in the night,
and each time when the scorching sun brands the cactus’ skin
it cries out loud from the pain of the thorns pierced through
it’s burning flesh to form renewed skin,
then, surprised by a heartrending cry,
the birds flap their wings to fly in the air abandoning the cactus.
However the birds may be, they only are lifeless drones
flying over a desert. And since they are lifeless, they
don’t know the meaning of life, and that’s why they only see
the thorny flowers standing open arms in the midst of the desert that is
filled with ashes of death—nuclear wastes, abandoned poisonous chemical
solutions polluted waters that drive lives to the edge of death.
To the saguaro cactus standing in the midst of man-made miseries,
nonetheless, dreamed to have an audience with
the mystic Queen of the Andes,
and in order for him to fulfill his dream,
to have a long journey toward the south moving along with the sun,
and then, after crossing the delicate line marked zero,*
climbing up the Andes for a higher ridge that is higher than the drone.
And as you go higher the wind starts to rise;
when the wind gets stronger to cut through the skin,
then saguaro’s thorns start to prick its own body from
loneliness unbearable,
and that is the time ripe for
the mystic Queen of the Andes to reveal herself
from the clearing fogs, behind the thick and heavy veil of clouds.
She appears in a dress embellished with tens of thousands of
not overly extravagant or pompous but graceful flowers that
bloom centenary.
She is the tree, immaculate and with inviolable dignity,
she bears the blooms in the serenity of the high and deep mountain.
Today too, the saguaro cactus under scorching sun dreams
a dream of seeing the elegant Queen of the Andes someday,
even afar it, stands as ever.
Enveloped in the cloud, though Queen hides her image
she has left her sweet scent behind,
in the sweet scent she left, the thorn flower saguaro stands
willing to wait another one hundred years to see her again.
*Zero: The Equator
Waving poppies, ruffled by the summer breeze, look up
At the deep sky and warm sun, pillows of clouds gentle
Contrast to the green below and the scattered red faces
With soul black eyes. Children’s voices ring like distant bells,
The sounds of happiness and the pleasures of life, undisturbed
By thoughts of harm.
But the flowers of the forest have no arching sky above
Only cold shadows and pools of dark water, with wriggling
Worms the only life. No laughing children lift the heart
And bring a happy smile, the distant bells a sombre cadence
That tolls for thee. No bright poppies shine in this decaying
World, only their soul black eyes.
And the lone piper plays his sad lament for
The Flowers of the Forest.
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forays so fraught with fine failure;
forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
for folly to feud for a field.
Forced forwards with fleetness of foot;
firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Forces fight so ferociously,
fratricide set free on this field.
Forthright and filial feelings;
families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
- - - - - - - - -
8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
Entered in Brian Strand's "Contest No 515".
(1st Place)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
I never thought to see a man’s bones glistening white.
Nor see disembodied limbs flying left and right.
I never thought to see mud the colour of red
Nor see young men blown to bits or laid dead.
The rain isn’t water its blood mixed with tears
Trenches full of bloated corpses, lice, fleas and fears
No time to bury them all, but those that receive an earth overcoat
Are disturbed, exhumed by bombs, thrown in stagnant trenches to float.
Blown from their resting places scattered far and wide
Dodging, not only bombs and shells, but limbs landing by our side.
Men caught and ripped to shreds with razor wire and tracer shells.
Left to die hanging there, moaning, screaming, no funerals with church bells.
I never thought to see these things; I just thought victory, honour and glory
Not see death, destruction, waste and sights so disgusting and gory.
I only wanted to fight for my King, family and country
I never thought it would end, this massacre, mortal eyes should not see.
© 27/07/2012 ~GG~
It is the centenary year next year of the beginning of the Great War, I was inspired to write this after finding out I had a great Uncle that signed up for the Army, for King and Country .. he died at the end of September 1918 in France, never to return.
This love
wants nothing.
It just happens
like a ray of the tree-tops
or of a temporal bone a palm.
This love
is not a centenary tree keeping
secrets –
open and clear is shining
the grass on the hill.
It stays quiet under the stormy wind
it bears under the fire of the sun,
in hollows of the nights long
tells fairytales.
The world changes. – It does not faint.
It grows up higher than it
and shorter than the stone.
In the church a thunder falls,
but She is praying…
She is Her temple
and the temple is Her.
And Everything!
...Formidable treat he stress
At the early hour of this day.
No pain, no gain- All is still well.
Centenary dream is a luxury few can reach.
Yours truly, let your fate decide.
_____________________________________
30th of April, 2013.
1907, Saw the begining of forthcoming,Glasgow`s Sir.Willam Arroleco`s company
were credited, structural errecting of twas to be,Middlesbrough`s emblem,The
Transporter Bridge.Replacing the steam ferry,shuttling The River Tees.
Opening ceremony being October 17, 1911. Prince Arthur of Connaught, the chosen.
a delightful heartwarming structure,spanning The Tees 259 metres,an amazing view
from a height of 49 of the same.
An achievement,in itself as second largest of it`s kind.
World war 2,a bomb caused minimal but,effective damage.Gondalar hanging
midrift,waters lashing.
Folk crossing the high walk path, to reach Port Clarence,vice versa.
However,1933. A phenominal recognition, recieved highest honours. Institute of
Mechanical Engineers shone. A true sense of pride for Tessiders,alike.
Epic television and films alike, attracted our humble creation.Boasting Billy Elliott to
Spender and Aufweidersein pet.Dramatics and comedy on a worldwide wide stage.
Walking the steps to windy heights.Views a pleasure for the eye,the distance,Eston
Hills to Roseberry Topping.Foregrond,steelworks, hotels,dwellings,but standing like
a Mecca Shrine,The Riverside Stadium.( Our local football stadium )
The blue lights,reflecting every gurder every beam,at night
coming home is such a heart warming sight.
To commemerate the 100 years centenary of, THE TRANSPORTER BRIDGE.
.
Jinxed jesting jejune junior jobber...
just jabbering gibberish (A - I)
Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.
Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.
Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.
Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,
deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.
Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,
eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.
Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,
foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey haired heart
keeping his bones away from the common cart
A wild man who caught and sang the sun in flight
raging going not gentle to that good night
Time holds him still green dead owl crossed on his way
even his glazed blazing meteor eyes were so gay
Simple Welshman not for this proud man apart
love its arms no praise wages for craft or art
Tell on the streets on its back he threw the sun
singing in his chains to there the sea undone
They say never trust a man who does not drink
Dylan Thomas did his best do you not think
Dylan Thomas this his centenary
born on October 27 1914
One of the worlds best poets
Will I live longer than I suppose to be living...possibly a centenary,
and struggle on a cane to sustain my weakness?
Those beautiful and vibrant years have fled to impose fears,
making my presence unattractive and more blowzy,
and in the present time, I am isolated and frowzy;
a deteriorated mind feeling the burden of senility?
My motto wasn't " Conquer and be invincible!" No-first mistake was allowed
to mar my perfect character; body and mind in full accord, blending together,
so obstinate in defiance to obstruct any possible pleasure...
was it a deference to holiness? Everywhere explicit posters encouraged promiscuity:
an indulging nation...diverging from the concept of morality!
And however strong was urge to indulge in wrongful acts incoherently,
my doubt gave no indication...that I would have gained from my inequity;
and ruin would have wrecked this conscience and wrenched my spirit;
alone to face the sure wrath of the Divine...while wrestling with my lost worth!
One-stand night didn't nurture a sensation so momentary and insipid,
many times, staring in the cold darkness, I was glad that my behavior wasn't lurid!
And today new pills promise to give more virility,
causing blindness and a probable, sudden death;
and Lord, my intention is not to use them to harm myself,
the gift of longevity was well-received and is well-kept by me!
Unlikely the times past, when my doubt gave no indication,
now it does so plainly and clearly... not swaying my attention!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
A hundred year is gone,
Suspence still fill the air.
Truly, the signs are with us.
About an exodus?
But no, not a plague of locust,
It's a plague of men.
The people are the disaster
Since naturally we have none.
Arise O compatroits.
To serve our fatherland
What has happened to the song we sing?
Why the irony?
Why tampering on the bond
Of peace and unity?
Why letting vain cause to overthrow
The labours of our heroes past?
O democracy! don't fail us now
O God of creation!
Direct our noble cause
Help our youth the truth to know
That we move again as a nation
towards great lofty height to attain
One nation bound in freedom
Peace and unity.