Best Compasses Poems
Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.
Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
syllable count.
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
Glorious Love profound
For tis found all around
Within Beautiful hearts
Love endures
Never parts
Always to behold
Treasures of Love unfolds
Enchantment Divine
Forever yours
Forever mine...
Ecstasy of Love
Compasses all understanding
Compassion.. Desires
Sets hearts on-fire
Sparkling asunder
Hearts beat like thunder
beholding on each other
bonded within...
Sealed together
True Love's First Kiss's
Hearts behold us-two
True Love "Me and You"
As God's Blessings given
Here and Now
As God Wills
Dreams do come True
Behold the Magic of Love
"Dreamendon"
Precious heart...
moments of Bliss all given within Love's First Kiss..
Treasures to behold.. Forever in time...
Thank you for your precious gift..
your heart.. bonded with mine..
Love always yours.. ;
Form:
Give them clear mountain lakes,
And kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, rowboats, and canoes;
Dads and sons with fishing poles.
Give them clear night skies,
Filled with just enough moonlight
To find shadowy paths--
Navigating by starlight.
Give them old patch jackets
To remind them of their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them some traditions
From American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
To teach them who went before.
Give them Boy Scout handbooks,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
And young Scouts wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read.
Stories around a fire,
Patrols of Boy Scouts to lead.
All Scouts want is just a chance
To watch wildlife and touch native plants,
Go snipe hunting and backpacking,
And earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
And to cook and laugh around a campfire.
There’s just not much more for a Scout to desire.
"Rapido"
walks on water fast
salty trinity
soul heeling
a pearl reflects wisdom
on indigo see, the mirror mapped
dancing with diamonds
the light shows
characters
rippling mirages
compasses peppered
rapt in black
and blue velvet
soon arrives the Morning
like a twin, golden apple
rolling before us
Apollo
alighting upon a floating chariot
racing white horses
a storm
is approaching
harnessing the tornado
petulant Horseman
Apollyon, hit lists,
in raised fist
riding a magic carpet
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
heeling.
healing.
list (nautical).
list (enumerate).
Rapido 60.
Surely, Sherlock was rooted in the home.
But his ruby slippers
Had worn-out souls
So the jaded detective
Followed Fitzgerald and the lost generation.
But somewhere in between chapters
And the thicket of printed syllables,
He took a wrong turn
And found himself in neverland.
The lost generation
Morphed into barbaric
Lost boys
And though the Englishman
Aged like the mulberry wine
Drowning his consciousness,
Literature never grew up.
And so,
The stories remained:
Timeless.
While in the lagoon
Of a dead poet’s society,
The poems still exhale.
Engulfed pages of pulp fiction,
The rind,
Binding the vitamins of knowledge
To the seeds of ruminations,
Still blossom, fruitfully.
And though Holmes’ words now crawl,
Pathetically,
From his tongue--
Their decibels still caress my skin.
Insignificant filaments
Stand erect
Upon my forearm.
As misinterpreted anthologies
Hold their compasses to the North Star,
Their melancholy is lifted,
And literature can be reborn--
Free.
Tonight,
Sherlock lights his briar pipe,
And gives one last request.
To Peter Pan,
The feeble man purses his lips:
Read me a bedtime story.
And with that,
The mystery is dead.
Damned to eternal sleep.
The last page,
Still yet to turn.
Give them clear mountain lakes,
Kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, canoes, and sailboats;
Dads and sons with fishing-poles.
Give them clear night skies,
With just a little moonlight.
To see the Milky Way,
Hunting snipes by flashlight. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them old patch jackets
So that they can tell their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them old traditions:
Native American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
From Scouters who went before. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire--
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire.
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them wood to build with,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
Tenderfoots wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read,
Kindling for a bonfire,
And patrols of Scouts to lead. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire.
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire. Everybody!
(Boy Scouts) CHAWANAKEE! (clap clap) CHAWANAKEE!
Last Fall, my church's Scouts and I went hiking.
A few miles north of Big Sur’s coast,
There is a forested park much to our liking.
Point Lobos is the nature preserve that I love most.
The beauty there is supernal, beyond description.
We chose our trails with maps and compasses,
And practiced local plant identification.
I pointed out Monterey Pines and Cypresses.
For a time we climbed a steep inclination.
We looked down into a cove, home of sea otters,
From a viewpoint near the old whalers’ station.
We climbed through a cleft worn down by waters.
That Saturday outing wasn’t a total disaster.
The boys passed tasks to advance in ranks.
Life doesn’t get much better for an old Scoutmaster.
Lastly, to the Great Spirit we all gave thanks.
For Goethe Stanzas contest
On a market you can see the people run.
The life itself sells here knowing all.
The paleness gets a tan under the Sun.
The smartness is wearing out the sole.
And to and fro here goes a branded flesh,
and risqué tongues suspended scurry about.
It was the want-hag that swept the trash,
With a dashing broom uproar swirls around.
And cheeky grated balls are looking at my eyes.
A spicy smell is near me. It's marked up.
It's teasing nose of mine – my sense is right
to all the rest of senses on that sharpened.
And motley clothes the fruit-green`s putting on.
For hungry women it's a king of strip-tease.
A kind of honey is brought by a brazen drone.
It is the tawdry world of alien prestige.
Persistent hubbub gets my ears on an` on.
Soon goods are thrown by plenty into mess.
By feet as a pair of compasses a horizon's drawn
to ancient Middle East through wild Wild West.
The Demise of a Good Keen Man
The Good Keen Man was a hunter in Government employ
He lived back in the Bushland where none could annoy
He had no use for compasses or modern stuff like that.
He needed only the sun that shone upon his back
Caring not what day it was, for it mattered less
Than if the sun was shining or if the bush was wet.
You might think that he, was not so very bright
But compare your life with his, and see him in the light
That his Back Country hut asked no rent or fee
And he owned all the land that his eye could see
There were fish in the river and meat on the hill
Working not to a time clock, he came and went at will
He carried a pack upon his back and never asked for more
Than an audience of one or more, and a beer as he entered the door
He had an endless stock of stories, both true and make believe
For by his own admission, truth he could take or leave
But the world is that much poorer for the loss of such as he
For characters are fewer in this world where nothings free
Lost my kids once just for a minute or so in the fair: needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating bee hive but I wanted my kids back
Thought they were next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near the polished fossils, and bags clinking their sea-shell collections from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd,as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked invitingly
Over at the gaudily-decorated casual shoes, just arrived breathless from Turkey;
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan, from Agadir -
Trying to inch down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.
Toy insects buzzing joyfully and plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.
Carousels with ponies and dinosaurs, birds and elephants?
Maybe they had fulfilled my wandering kids’ secret wants?
Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from language of Germany to Wales,
Or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's different interests and possible sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt, my three had slipped their leash and were hiding: they were young.
The swish of the decorative paper garlands in the breeze was near-lost in the crowd;
And the conflict between Welsh folk-music and American heavy-metal rock so loud.
And I listened to the colourful chatter pulsate
Of traders trying to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls in sandals and sunglasses. Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing girls trying on dresses ……but my three were not there.
Ah - but then! At the ice cream stall I saw three hungry mouths, kept
Pressed to the glass. Three money-less urchins all glad to see dad. I swept
Them up in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the fair-market.
I’d lost my kids for just about one minute.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Lisa Cooper ~Dark Poetess's Contest County Fair
*Image of Compasses by Pixabay.
I
I layeth within walled morals of enduring convictions to coexist and be,
A delicate breath of precious life to self-assess being,
Serendipitously, I ascend in wonderment, fully aware,
Into the dawn, I hoped to perceive being ordinaire,
Challenges made the zest of life be gains,
Charms ardor of will, fortitude, justifies presence,
Fairly placed in the room of amassed commonality,
Memorable loves, and losses, that made me,
Well measured, oft maintained, visions persist,
I layeth within walled morals of enduring convictions to coexist and be.
2019 September 27
*2nd Place*
Story of my life in ten lines
~~Silent One: Judged 2019 October 04
People say they have morals but all they seem to do is quarrel.
Their hatred filled words and actions are nothing but immoral.
Racial acts and bigotry beliefs should have no place in our world.
This kind of hatred should be removed, thrown out and hurled!
Teach your children kindness at a young age, be a good role model.
Stop wasting time, make those humane changes today, don’t dawdle.
A better world for our future could and should start in all of us today.
Treat others with kindness and don’t throw your moral compasses away!
1/03/2021
Contest: Morality Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Koplin
Visitors on a planet
Near the outskirts of uncounted stars,
We experience time in expanding space.
We grow and develop,
and in wisdom
Come to know the questions of eternity.
Deep within us all
Near the core of unexplored life,
We experience love, the Spirit of God.
We are all united,
and in faith
Return to know the peace of our Source.
MARKET IN BRITTANY, FRANCE
Lost my kids once just for a minute or so in the market: needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating bee hive but I wanted my kids back
Thought they might be next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near the polished fossils, and bags clinking their collections sea-shells from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd, as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked invitingly
Over at the gaudily-decorated casual shoes, just arrived breathless from Turkey;
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan, from Agadir -
Trying to inch down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.
Toy insects buzzing joyfully and plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.
Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from the language of Germany to Wales,
or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's different interests and possible sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt, my three had slipped their leash and were hiding: they were young.
The swish of the decorative paper garlands in the breeze was near-lost in the crowd;
And the conflict between Breton folk-music and American heavy-metal rock so loud.
And I listened to the colourful chatter pulsate
Of traders trying to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls in sandals and sunglasses. Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing girls trying on dresses …… but my three were not there.
Ah - but then! At the ice cream stall I saw three hungry mouths, kept
Pressed to the glass. Three money-less urchins all glad to see dad. I swept
Them up in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the market.
I’d lost my kids for just about one minute.
Bazaar
The nights’ chest opens up -
strings of illusions
rattle in palms
the knowing buyers haggle
for a dream
while the fascinated women
try on
toles of princesses or odalisques.
In the shell of hope
genuine perls are priceless.
Silk labyrinth
of amber and incense,
amulets of shamans hidden in death,
a mirage in golden cases,
the drug of success
paths and passions
unknown potions
scaffold question.
Merchants with epheb faces
skillfully spin shadows,
scarves, dependences, embroideries,
compasses, elders, rings, sapphires,
open
conspicuous roads.
Rubys, gold,
sealed fates
days delirium
forgotten writings
bracelets and silver girdles,
old things,
new objects
disturb the untold air.
The world’s cornice
crunches upon the stalls
heavy stars
cramped into bags
shriek
with undecipherable voices.
Thousands of dead and living worlds
rise to the skies
from eyes
touched by temptation.