Best Compass Point Poems
Black Powder Dreams
Vast o’ the seas carry forth desperations
Lives cast aside in the faces of war
Rotted wood planks, salted skin aspirations
Wind tattered sails bound of endless explore
Black powder dreams aft the end quarter season
Cannons at wait, closer still to the bow
Manned by the weak, none in need of a reason
Chilled to the bone, never wondering how
Darkened the depths beckon angry waves crashing
Bound to the rail by a pitch and a shove
Visions of loves and the homeland a’ flashing
Prayers slowly drowned before floating above
Scar rippled flesh, leathered treachery flailing
Shrieks in the night causing laughter below
Tethered by fear o’er the desolate wailing
Shadows await harbors safe to bestow
Compass point dangers adrift in the distance
Forced to push on to the end of the fall
Death shrouds belief in a fractured resistance
Down on their knees longing nothing at all
Endless the journey for pittance bled wages
Deaf to the thoughts found alone in the screams
Forever lost in the unopened pages
At the expense of their black powder dreams
11/7/18
Written for the: Black Powder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Categories:
compass point, fear,
Form:
Rhyme
Acciaccatura
And filled with stars and the land
A pale gentle hand turned the hourglass
Of my soul
Stalking the alabaster moon
I rejoined once more
Those who follow the dream
Cutting through crests
Time the scythe of a barque
Treads a song of brothers to sisters of paradise
The prow our ship a searching
Arch-ed carrying the whispered will
Of wishings an ambition to our hearts
Pursuing the alchemy of the moon
Leaping from the shoals
A single white rose this beacon to follow
The mariners we of her phantasmal
Blown by the hunger in blood and breath
Drifting in the calm thunder tethered to a single kiss
Full of stars and the land
A pale gentle hand turns the hourglass
Of my soul
The ghost in our throats calling
Seducing answers to the lamplet
Painted faces of splendour in her horizons distant
She softly sings us closer
Passage through the veils
Drawing on this our meandering ark
An endless ribbon of red flows behind
The vein of each passing quest
As this ship awash the glinting semblance of her face
I have chosen like my brothers, my sisters; to be the seafarer
To search her shadow
Pursue the alabaster moon
Her pale gentle hand
Filled with stars and the land
Turns the hourglass of my soul
Isis the light and by Dianna named
Magdalena’s rose of mystery proclaimed
The witchcraft of the feminine
Thus the sail-ed cutter of waves and dreams
Embarked
Billowed on clouds
The diamond sea we gather
Compass point to reflection
The full moon risen alabaster
Her pale gentle hand
Filled with stars and the land
Turned the hourglass of my soul
(Acciaccatura; An ornament note that is one half step or one whole step below a principal
note and is sounded at the same time as the principal note, adding dissonance to a
harmony. a note in a music deliberately played out of key )
Categories:
compass point, love, mystery, naturemoon, rose,
Form:
Free verse
There's a place on the globe that everyone's heard
and the place is 'God knows where',
but instead of a phrase God gave it a word
and the word is 'Solitaire'
At each compass point lies blistering sand
under blue relentless sky
not the best location you can understand
for the World's very best apple pie.
For they serve it here with an ice cold beer
just pick it up and hold it in your thumbs
and keep an eye out for the Weaver birds near
as they forage on the table for the crumbs.
There's a gas station and a general store
anyone dropping by never stays
and you can see just why, in the lot nearby
all the vehicles have seen better days.
Check your car's got gas, and the water level's high
if you leave and break down, you'll be dead
but just remember to take with you Moose MacGregor's apple pie
then at least you will die well fed.
Feb 11th 2016
A memory of my time in Solitaire, Namibia, and THE world's best Apple Pie.
I can see why they stuck it in a desert. Otherwise there'd be none left.
For contest 'Take a vacation', sponsored by Lin Lane
Categories:
compass point, travel,
Form:
Rhyme
Hold and veer revolved career, the way by man alone on trails unknown, across
trackless stone, to follow where? across prairie’s bare! traveling light with bellies
tight, on rocky shores its lore was sure, to follow, follow across crag across hollow
your roads were strung as songs were sung.
To the moonlights gleam your face a'sheen within an allegorical necklace of emerald green,
over the lush deep pile of grassy miles
in shades of juniper deep in a darkling sleep,
to the rising of suns and a compass point all journey's run.
the tales untold of companies bold
that (you without) had much to doubt, for you've
shown the trail helped set the sails, the Mayflower
knew your north point true, in part America is! Because of you!
Jim Bridger held you in his hand as he mapped
a path to the Rio Grande, George Washington, Sam Houston,
Davy Crocket and Daniel Boone, stood for
Liberty, Truth and elbow room.
So what of now! the why when & how? Can the trail point of a nation, validate its creation?
in these days pitch dark can you strike a spark
are there men like Kennedy or Martin Luther King, women,
like Amelia Earhart whose spirits point forward in adversity, and continue to sing.
Categories:
compass point, dedication
Form:
Rhyme
iv.
within genesis,
a silent monk chanted
at a perpetual window,
thin cracks of canticle’s
completed my insanity,
at astonishing heights
invisible feet walked on air,
free of psychosis
the water rippled as I slipped,
silently screaming
into this dazzling stream
called life …
v.
clarity is and was
no cushion to float on,
its feathers,
still protrude from the
corner of my swag,
and my feet
are pierced to arch
with the stigma …
vi.
my head toppled into hands
brimming with dark iridescent clouds,
whose black pillows of depression
strain at the seams, pinpricks of light
rip the fabric in the lye of madness,
paranoia had concealed hope.
by its very deception
it had become,
my compass point and light
on the longest road …
vii.
hands that were absent of movement
found perpetual motion,
and they grew callous
crawling a mere breath
from the hard road of life
beauty had become stranger
and in Orion’s belt
a pelt was hung
and forgotten
as the dead flee,
serendipity was distracted
by the sparkle
in my broken wings,
submersed in delusions
and still alive with imagination
she forever soothes me
in the shadows
I hide between,
a blue ocean
and a tea green sea
distantly I hear
and know ….
Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!
viii.
varied are the shades of illusion
in which I bathe …
Categories:
compass point, lifelife,
Form:
Blank verse
We set foot on dry grass at the cockcrow
of a nascent union.
Cheek to cheek as Cupid towers
over the rose inside my heart,
shooting arrows at a dyad draped in fire,
gliding through the tundras of charred weeds,
fin-like petals quake beneath our feet.
The sun unloads its savage heat in torrents,
thermal downpours drench the wedded seam,
blisters left on Sinai soul mate psyches,
rain shadow or bajada by the bye!
Aphrodite’s children from the pampas,
teether on phlogiston’s manic figment,
cauterized, rock-ribbed, raw emotion rivulets ablaze.
Firebrands of first flush in all but name.
Plumes of tropic passion wrap, us madagascan parrots,
trill and troll sidekicks one and all, showing off our feathers
high above the arid air. sweat soaked garments
reek of clammy cuddles, shredded, torn,
strung loosely round the limbs of new born flames.
Cindered patch exposed on lover’s skein without a balm.
Soaptree yucas proudly fence the rapids giddy gurgle.
Frothy sidemen serenade the cherry blossom sweethearts,
lilting love notes found in every strain.
Knotted woodlands understory,
nuptial suite propped up by swollen nodes.
Eternal palms outstretched,
love puppets on a compass point astride the boundless needle.
Viola viscera, songbird incarnate, bow to my enchanted fiddle.
Together forever, alone at last
Categories:
compass point, celebration, creation, emotions, environment,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Upon the broad open prairies of possibilities
each compass degree direction calls to freedom
every nascence in the hope of dreams lingers
predicting natures ever present connections
No need to ponder an ideals rejection
unencumbered by expectation
footsteps lost in the faith of random
find their destiny the way of the soul
Take the narrow way
burden between the fences begin
searching for alive while living
grasping at life and unsatisfied meaning
Walk alone amidst the throng
tramping to the beat of so many other feet
take the one way
a single unequivocal end awaits
The drudgery of obeisance heads
in quiet sadness forget the sun in the nation of stars
and predetermine the voice of the heart
to speak the only conviction of
How the narrow way is taken
its sign post struck to anvil and stone
turnstile for the future payment to come
gloating and goading to the illusions of freedom
But there, there upon the grasslands
each compass point of so many dreams
the random footsteps find their faith to destiny
lift their eyes to the sun in her nation of stars
Ever free to follow
wander on the whims of unfettered hearts
lay aside those burdensome of mere existance deceptions
and take alive to the soul of life
Categories:
compass point, faith, life,
Form:
Free verse
But turn one compass point in your heart
and so to the palpitations of love
cause life to burgeon as if it be from the rod of Aaron
lay root imperceptible of ages
such foundation resolute
To her tender hands of Akashik birth
centuries in her echo the voice
which conscience alone shall bare the witness of
for all and all for love
its repose on sacrificial
The garden of Magdalene attended
each tear in joyous and sorrow watered
lay the roots of imperceptible ages
the seed she carried
of truth un-withered in its blossoming
In her heart such a thorned crown
and in psalm her proclamation abounds
these messages of love
by the blood of Akashik
waters baptisms would rejoice in all of us
And so branded the harlot by the patriarch
the miserable chemical dissatisfied
for centuries trampled in disregard
the mother of
the children of God.
Categories:
compass point, miracle, spiritual, woman,
Form:
Free verse
Don't ! Ask the sun, where we were
hidden, perhaps, in that caffeine moment.
And, pondering on the empty space !
Don't ever say, the visual became clear
as the silver dropped, to the deep floor
like that broken sun,Yes! There are secrets
Between the doors of safety, where you played
with the past, un-knowingly.
It was on the inside of the outside of everyday,
needing ! And wanting to be balanced in scales, of comfort.
While outside the Frog and the Heron, watched on,
as visitors were composted, In a myriad of cackling voices.
The happy shone, it sprinkled the day!
Left me with joy full in my head and heart,
It was, the time, that time, back tracked
the feeling you get in that Sun of short shadows.
Surrounded ! And everything once was !
And stones warm, purpose built, together, talking, and walking back.
It may have been then In 1967, see what memories,
and thought pools we swim in,
between two distant unreachable shores.
Maybe a sandy future palmed and green,
or the rocky crags of endless chores.
Colours seem thin, its stacked and smoked out doors.
A tarry sun accompanies frost, on blued wet feet, tramping moors;
Whiling away the day, she stares into the fire making deals
with ghosts in the flames, I stare at the empty jars,
I care about the red wine still in the glass, and now
time is as fragile as the comb, dripping like a yellow sun ;
But, i know the wham slap of the morning is due !
Like an unwanted letter, or whisper of bad news.
This moment can be split, and spat against a broken future
I need a compass point to be sure of this journey,
a map of shifting clouds, of muddled ideas to gain
a painless transposition along this ragged edged trail.
Tomorrows, tomorrow are numbered, and in short supply.
So upon this bed of chaste dreams you lie,
within this pure love you die,
from this breath of life you bleed,
yet grow again from another seed.
Categories:
compass point, desire,
Form:
Prose Poetry
High Tide Returns
Once he sailed the fast Clipper of his heart
A mariner over blessed waves
Once on a fathom sea of womanhood
He drew water
To each compass point in her eyes
His sails were prayers
Laid in every pale crest and trough
The wind an alter
Where he stowed every breath and thought of love
The sea and canvass he was
As he sailed the schooner of his heart
At high tide
And pulled by the rolling breakers
And lured by the soft gentle sands
For The Sirens song
He braved the ragged teeth of the waters
Came to where the masts and rigging
Seduced his ship beaching
On easy and conciliate sands
The keel of his soul ran aground
Marooned now amidst angry rocks
Winter storms consuming the dunes
Of love
Stuck fast the once kissing prow
Trapped to scavenge the wrecks of hearts
High tide is an echo
Has not returned yet
To slip the schooner from the drifts
A beachcomber to weather the blizzard
Waiting for the days to be warmer
This icy wind must someday cease in its bite
Hidden behind his tiny fire light
The sea she has bought him the driftwood of love
To warm the desolate nights
He can hear the new surf calling
Telling of gentler deeps ahead
Soon the heavy keel shall lift from this subtle trap
Then the moon may grant him high flood
And rest the rudder from her hands
Turn from the compass of her eyes
Set sails to another
To where an ocean resides
Even now he can hear her calling
Within the waves and the crests of this shore
Already the canvas is dreaming
Of catching another wind and billowing
So his heart will guide them once more
Say no farewell to these rocks and these crags
Where she bid him suck on these barnacled reefs before
He will not miss the soft gentle sands
He never had
And to this sad and cold beech
Where she once led his ship
Shall return never more
Categories:
compass point, lost loveheart, sea, heart,
Form:
Free verse
Revelation to a nation
as you buy a ticket
to your final destination
“Coach class!”
said Balaams’ ass
“can you not see
you cannot pass”?
Insight into man’s plight
an answer perhaps
for the harvests’ blight
Nothing new that is not skew
twisted words
‘bout the innocent you slew
Prayer mats rolled
to compass point
as was told
by men of old
Love and Mercy
Has passed you by
As that Man
Appears up high
Don’t bow your head
But bow your knee
To the only One that sets you free
Categories:
compass point, christian, hope, religion, world,
Form:
Rhyme
On a shattered pebble beach my kernel,
becomes this dervish dancing to the maniacal symbol rash tune,
of inchoate monsoon grass beat timpani,
that’s dimly frowned on by sonic virtuoso,
but terms like briny carrageen sea sweep gain purple splotch kudos,
I gaze with indigo ocean eyesight,
at sheer rock face sunken mould gradient,
where faculties solicit august maxim,
from eternal parchment, grain whirl sand dune smorgasbord,
mud-strewn psalms primed and pumped by ebbing sotto voce stream,
gust smitten lighthouse whose solitary pulsing wink always welcome,
syntax that gray matter genesis scorned geoform tag,
I scribble quintains in a quagmire that ooze magma inkling,
prose stolen from jagged facet incline or whatever,
has this elemental moment turned ghost writer by sixth sense?
saline vista swung pivot on tsunami doorway,
brackish carcass rife with clamped seashells as mirror,
weather-worn thoughts skim eccentric apex,
behemoth undertaker facing self-scripted gauntlet,
but this pilgrim shall yearn evermore imbibing loose mist,
with marble slab as jotter and squid ink another fountain pen,
who really knows what tidemark gems may yet surface,
do metaphors sequester diurnal cycles like day/night swop?
rhetorical or not this lambent aspect must be met on grit-etch blue boulder,
vice-grip of visual plunge belies gravity,
yet this blustery conundrum is just this water drop,
something inconsequential for one clutching at faint will-o-the-wisp,
pepper-strewn haze does obstruct linguistic odour,
despite a caustic rebuff from deep down warden as inner slant,
zany whirlpool blob grasping at ambiguous twill plume,
faraway tangerine canvass might stir tongue-tied raw sketch,
ingenious quest might throb for charmed portrayal,
nought shall thwart this dreamer off-course,
spectral pantoum, geometric quatrain, jewel-crust tanka,
prolific silken sentient suzette an overarch odyssey,
regardless of vernal totem, sumptuous literary harvest,
with its dogged catalytic compass point,
to maunder without curb despite prevailing opus storm,
sculptured outcrop on an apt idyllic text,
once off ephemeral from boundless paragon,
a colour burst vocabulary pending but when?
Categories:
compass point, care, character, color, creation,
Form:
Free verse
I want to peer through tomorrow’s eyes.
Not a thing already old,
not a yesterday word
only temporarily paroled
from a moribund dictionary.
These words
newly dead now for millenniums.
Words old enough to have echoed from Eve
as she howled
from her guttural heart to a mute moon.
The newborn always come in the night
always in-between the past and future.
I want to be the parent of that birth,
not a distant and feeble uncle already
replicating an old understanding,
not a gummer or mummer.
I want words born in a universal forge,
their fire burning bright still.
Not any part of an effete scribbling
far removed from an Ur meaning,
its archetypal images already diluted
in ages of misreading and misdirection.
The etymological root of everything
is just the one word for everything.
Instead I only have these words
seeking to be new while still wearing
old, borrowed clothes.
Sometimes I wake up
in the middle of the night speaking in tongues;
a language so luminous
that star travelers from the distant future
could converse with me
from any compass point of my mind.
I want new eyes to drill down
to the pictographic roots
of every linked letter and script.
Words then would be individual revelations,
direct arrows from a new bow,
each a poem in itself.
Categories:
compass point, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Santa could you help me out, I’m in a dozen shades of doubt
Half the world is ‘weapons out’, all the rest just scream and shout
“Don’t do this and don’t do that, would you kindly pause your spat?”
Arms dealers are getting fat… I can’t afford to heat my flat
Grain and fuel are pricing high, body bags in short supply
And thousands duck yet thousands die
But Santa it’s the time of year to spread a little Christmas cheer
And let those that wont listen hear the guns fall silent far and near
So Santa could you help me out and sprinkle your goodwill about
To link the arms of atheist, agnostic and devout
For whilst so many gods abound at every compass point around
Can there not be a middle ground
But all the world says, “We’re the good,” or, “You’re the villain in the hood,”
Or, “You will soon be gone for good.” And diplomats are blocks of wood.
So Santa can you clarify the who, the what, the where, the why
For far away the people cry and one man says that nukes may fly
So war may soon be hereabout, I hope we have sufficient clout
Hey, Santa, could you help us out?
Categories:
compass point, christmas, war,
Form:
Rhyme
It whispered
From afar its sutble tones lay
On a bed of acceptance
Pillows tossed away the heat
Competing against the harsh winter
Where grey found its way
And south was the compass point
A mane that once tested wind
Now lay among a barbers tread
Coin handed for less chore
As nods of reflection
Bows with the brow
And body limply rises from the chair
For age slips unnoticed
From behind an invisible cloak
Once a vibrant image
Where fear held no quarter
And dare danced free
Tears now weep in silence
Minds race through catalogues
Titled, where did you go?
Recalling a thousand memories
Of the good and the bad
As fingers navigate
A well worn face
Come back to me!
A desperate cry departs
But no-one listens
Another day goes by!
Categories:
compass point, life,
Form:
Free verse