Best Countrysides Poems
Wintry white wisps wondrously whirl
Soft sparkling snowflakes silently swirl
Coolly carpeting countrysides carefully
Dazzling diamonds dancing delightfully
Submitted Contest forms A contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
28th December 2014
I feel so grand this special day in June
while waiting at the station for my ride
aboard the new steam engine coming soon
to take me to a place where I can hide
from city noise and busy city streets;
from smog-filled air and houses crowded so,
to countrysides with grassy fields of wheat
and clear blue skies where soft winds come and go.
Here comes the beauty, black, in clouds of steam;
she pulls beside the station; "All Aboard"
is called, and so I quickly run and dream
to settle down with suitcase neatly stored.
Click-clack of spinning wheels sounds like a song;
the gray steam lends the awe of mystery,
with cloud-like drifts that form and move along
while taking me to somewhere wild and free.
With constant pace, the steam train grinds its wheels
through mountain passes, narrow tunnels too.
The beauty of the valley, hills, and fields
soon takes my breath away; a wondrous view!
As on she chugs with clanging bell on top,
she sings a song of motion heading home-
that place down yonder where she'll make a stop;
my destination of new lands to roam.
January 21, 2015
~1st Place
Contest: Railroads, A Historical Glance Back
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
Judged: 11/16/2021
To The North Pole Of Course (Part Two)
The farmlands, bridges and countrysides woosh by in a rush
then vanish before my eyes at a hundred and twenty six miles per hour.
My mind is traveling at the speed of Donner and Blitzen. It goes through a magical hourglass only to nestle inside a cinnamon scented wagon that is infused with the clanking of fine china cups. A peppery scent of hot chocolate perfumes the air and lands on my palate, sweetly.
While I am being ushered forth into Christmas, I sift through time, backpedaling swifter than Santa's mistletoe kiss.
I hear his rippling laughter and melt like butter.
My extra sensory perception picks up the echoes through the halls of my memory
and I say to myself, " I think I'm going home, to the North Pole of course."
I thought black and white
Is the history of gunpowder
Exhausted along border points
To restore fragile peace
To ease unilateral justice
And the rule of lore
They say black and white
Is justice meted legally out
By oppressor to the hapless
Vanquished in hot pursuit
Of a beautifully loathed
Sensual normalcy.
Some think black and white
Is the lecture of a dimly lit Europe
To desperate continent in the dark
To nay set ablaze their houses
So as to keep away crafted darkness
Of black bull mounting female white.
Indeed black and white in reality
Is the presentation of coveted peace prize
To the makers of atomic bombs dropped
To decimate populated rural countrysides
Just to terminate disastrous nuclear
War fought on political fronts.
the hidden truths the silent truths
you come to bury me but i just may bury you
the burden carries me further by every step
the pain i suffered has carried me so close to hell
you better carefully measure the methods you be using against me
and if they're excessive toward my demise then i wish you success
nothing to reminisce but only my regrets as i counter them with subliminal messages
stung by the whelps that com from bull netals
i can see the mountains from miles the countrysides full of nothing but rebels
as a catalyst to catapults the counter measure to balance the force of the battlefront, tragedies and triumphs, and principalities and the power's force
and frankly yes that's a mouthful like a sea of troubles so far at this point we are incompatible, a branch snaps cracks feel the power shift ,a shallow heart feels the shadow's kiss, from where the war was raged from here to Shiloh to the cornfields
Lament, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Lamento
Ma mie est morte.
Plourez mes yeux.
(from an old poet of the fourteenth century whose name escapes me. Paul Verlaine)
The town hoists its high roofs
Of a thousand zig-zagging hoods.
A sound of joyous bubbly words
Rises up to the heavens, reassuring voice.
____What this vile gaiety does to me
This gaiety of the city !
What vastness of peace reigns over the land !
The bird sings within a great oak tree,
Midday renders the plains all shiny
That turn golden at the setting of the sun.
----Little does it irk me your glory pure
O ! Nature !
With the signals of her waves
With her solemn moan,
Call to us the vast ocean :
All of us, dreamers and sailors.
----What do you want again of me
Sonorous sea ?
----Ah ! Neither the waves of the Oceans,
Nor the countrysides and their shadows,
Nor the cities of ceaseless noises
That giants raised over lands,
Nothing will bring to life my beloved lover
O ! So long in deep slumber.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
A white lily sunrise
brings the malaise,
humid dreams shimmer
off the blackening tar
Red dust girates an axis
dark matter is overcome,
lethargy drags the body
into a blazing bright sun
Work, a joke on labouring men
each day drains into the next,
without a dropping of heaven
without a wisp of air, no respite
The incessant heat hoards air,
the smell of rain on a breeze,
nothing but a cruel memory
as the earth bakes golden
These summer days long
for the circles to turn,
for cooler winds braced
with a stinging cold nose
For nights clothed in linen
their warmth, a comfort,
not these deadly months
this end of the world
Gaping fissures score
the face of the outback,
spinifex gathers along
a rabbit proof fence
Farmers no longer see
a blue horizon beckoning,
the life they bestowed, now,
lost in bankrupt despair
The year's turning decades
and the green paddocks,
never more will checker
our rolling countrysides
each day another species dies
each day another million lives
become nothing but a eulogy
on a yellowed classified page
Still we do nothing, much,
still the child cries unheard,
and the world will end, not,
with a bang or a shout
But on a whistling breeze
only heard by the gods
On countrysides animal scurry along, leaving footprints
In the carbonized material of this planet.
Channel surfing & empty ink pens,
Pepsi & wadded up candy wrappers
All over the house remannts of LIFE
Breathing all over us.
LIFE moves over us like a rapist in some dark room
We somehow forgot about
In the brightest hours;
It leaves footprints
In the carbonized material of this skin.
Passing through streets burning with loneliness & boredom;
Sometime I often wonder about the perplexity
All of it stains upon our memory.
Midst preposterous pink & turquoise blue color
Our LIFE begins to petal,
slightly bruised.
-------------
Love will Triumph
when all is lost,
and nothing is gained.
Love will Triumph;
when hearts are broken,
and friends cry upon other friend's shoulders,
as love has fleed the countrysides,
but Love will come again
to triumph over the souls that eat away at evening dreams.
Love will triumph
when all is lost,
and the enemy takes victory
from the bloodsoaked battlefields,
as the hearts break with a somber kiss goodbye,
Love will triumph once more.
Friends turn enemies with a blind eye
and a sorrow kiss goodbye.
Blue eyed Death comes with a knock upon my door,
Charles Haigh Wood,
You painted a picture
that describes that sorrow in my heart,
that one wish, that one dream,
that if I believe hard enough
that Love will triumph again.
Believe, when a friend steals my love away,
they kiss and kill my heart,
hand and hand, they sing to each other,
as I clench my fists and hold back my sharp tongue
and evil and dreeded thoughts.
As she holds me back from him, My tourmented soul cannot handle
such pain and suffering.
and I wanting to get revenage, but having no courage, I am no coward.
I scream in my thoughts and my heart sheads tears.
Why me? I ask, why does love trample over my soul?
Leave me now, you have what you wanted,
you stole my love away,
take her,
love her,
show her what I couldn't show her,
teach her!
I shall turn the other cheek
listen to the nightingales sing in the morning sunrises,
and listen to the phrase that plays one thousand and one times
in my mind,
Love with Triumph, Love will Triumph, Love will Triumph!!!
Oh with love comes such betrayal and hate,
it seems everytime love Triumphs away,
someone else is happy in love's fanasty
and my heart is trampled all over!
My heart crushed by dirty shoes,
and dirty and sinfull hands that take my love away from me.
Love will Triumph as they say,
but no more shall I go though that pain again.
Over and over and over again,
Love Triumphs all over,
but no victory in my name, no victory for my heart.
As I sit at the foot of my bed,
the fog rolls on through
and takes me by surprise.
Love is like a fog, that burns away with the first rays of sunrise.
Love will Triumph in the days of Betrayal.
-9/21/2013-
For the Contest: Charles Haigh Wood
Flowers seek the sun-
As newborn lambs find their feet
Life begins anew.
The sweltering sun-
Beams down on summertime fun
Hosepipe ban again.
Leaves fall from the trees
How the nights start closing in.
Everything dying.
Snow on the hilltops
Nothing seems to be alive
Except crackling fires.
Sun and rain give life-
Once more to countrysides.
Spring is here again.
Machines With Madmen Groaning
Machines with madmen groaning above me at 10 thousand feet,
Grumbling and growling like maniac sky monsters slurping on bloody prey,
Those steel dragons of yore spewing fire and corpses into the excesses,
Like Rodan and Godzilla maiming each other in the frozen spasming countrysides,
Giant crazed beasts reciprocating the deafening overtures of contrived violences,
Contrived annihilations, a few math equations, and we have the Beast rising from the sea.
Here, pour me a glass of your backwashed spittle as it internalizes with basically nothing.
It’s time to find the time to describe a time when clocks will rage on like crazed moon dancers,
When the girls on the boulevard were cool and accessible in their cruising flirtations.
When tanned nomads inside their cool cars found gliding nirvanas, and a bra strap,
Amidst the midnight milkshakes and the incredible nude conversations in the backseats of time.
Machines with motorized redundancies tap into the central eye where speed finds inertness.
Life can be found below the stage on the Thames, river of history, by the Black Friars on Coffee Street.
Incense-filled rooms lie mysteriously down a long gloomy walkway around the opaque tree line.
Ghosts of codgers and spillmen greet the toothless ladies with bloody knees and rotting finery,.
A young bard shakes the hands of broggers and yeomen with dripping quills and pig’s blood.
Grind on young thespians! Read your antique lines, not forgetting your monologues dedicated to fear.
Grant that the music of the spheres above captures the relative major, with silent egresses to be heard.
How writing song in tribute to Van Gogh
strikes me, to think that with strokes of his brush
on canvas he evoked the world to show
fields, countrysides, a starry sky that's flush
with vibrant color, comets, light effects,
and galaxies! But genius took its time.
Opposed to novelty, without perfect
sense, peers decried Van Gogh's pioneering prime.
Still, beauty poured out from his suffering mind,
which bled and perished to incarnate art.
To Van Gogh's tortured brilliance, grief enshrined,
and blessed, the spirit of his enormous heart!
To me, his “Starry Night” haunts the soul today,
a Zeitgeist, ghost, which calls from far away.
Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell even at this juncture in my life.
Even when spiked brambles
scrape my eyelids or those tender foot soles are being twisted by tooth-like stones. Quaint and angular they cluster mischievously among
green shoots that litter every footpath.
They lie in wait, in ambush for the absent-minded unsuspecting venturer.
It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman of the road.
The labyrinthine landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills rife in my area.
Their rustic heritage now sacrifice to the
orphanage of a malleable environment
Crop farmers obsessed with harvest bounty.
Restless developer pushing limits of an urban jungle. Fellow traveller in league with those fugitives from the cockpit.
The pressure cooker of modern life. Town habitant with split loyalties who clings to tumults of the city but hankers after rural haunts of yore.
Culprits one and all.
A lair from the hubbub.
Dwellings of the strangest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.
Their charm not yet eroded by intrusions of the steel plant genus.
Brick and mortar athletes of homes in a jiffy.
The more alluring aspects of tradition have been fostered and preserved.
Among these are the shortcuts or bypasses of a different more sustainable engagement
Sequestered passages that shave miles off perennial ramblers with a penchant for straying off course.
Saviours of the clueless hitchhiker whose load saps his or her every energy.
One’s eye becomes a lense to all these things hidden or supposedly hidden.
Optic sensor to those trails just slightly out of focus.
Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.
They festoon far flung countrysides at random. Here there and everywhere.
Posted ; April 2nd 2022
much more than this
might I speak
as your lover
lover to lover
in unix time
that great new beginning
we as one to unbrel neath the night
what a wonderful world
the almonds scented the night
would kisses
calm the raging shores
my selfishness
do speak to my need
I be alone no more
cause love to
make me quiver
to sing at a pitched voice
loving you is so easy
loving you
is my choice
oh sing my song
to seranate me
love me in heaps and mounds
love me on
the countrysides
love me in cities and towns
speak me as endearing as
a whisper
sing me bold and proud
I am yours we are
together
in your presence
and when your not around
each kiss a new
beginning
what wonders to
be found
love me
now that we are together
lift me high
beyond the clouds
Countrysides calling,
dull and dreary towns.
Tides of joy hitting,
poor men's simple huts,
bringing spring of growth.
Sunny, funny
Lively weather
Sowing seeds of
Peace and pleasure.
Scents of sprouts
Sunshine show
Rainbow sky
Lovely
Reborn
Spring.
Second Place in BRIAN'S CHOICE S,any form,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Honorable Mention in Diminished Hexaverse Poetry Contest sponsored by Emile Pinet