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New Crane Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Crane poems are below this new poems list.

dying crane by parker, cs
Dear Mr Crane by McGreavy, Maureen
Whooping Crane by McLaughlin, Madeleine
Had I The Movements Of The Inward Crane by Asoll, Aiden
crane sounds by Ellsworth, Edward
Paper crane by Iordache, Anisoara
Harold Hart Crane by Kovrlija, Vesna
Refolding the Paper Crane by k., kabuteng P.iNk
'Blue Crane - Mating Ritual' by Neels, Wilma
Crane Scales by Stanton, Thomas

View all new Crane Poems

The Best Crane Poems

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Halloween's Headless Horseman

One Halloween night when I was five
Rain pelted city streets, we stayed inside

Dad lit the Jack-o-lantern candle
Told us the tale of a famous vandal

One “Headless Horseman” in Sleepy Hollow
‘Twas Ichabod Crane he chose to follow

Crane ran breathlessly, was terrorized
(At this point my father’s eyes looked wild)

Thundering behind him through the forest
The hooves of a horse and a rider headless

Carrying a sword to strike Ichabod
(Dad grabbed a spatula, swung it like a rod)

Not just we children but our mother too
Gasped at the thought of Ichabod pursued

High winds cut off our electrical power
As in our kitchen three children cowered

Orange light from the pumpkin’s evil eyes
Showed Dad seemed to have dematerialized

The youngest, I felt something run through my hair
I screamed aloud in horror and despair

The lit pumpkin fell from table to floor
Darkness as I ran through the kitchen door

Leaping into bed, pulling up the sheets
Dad snuck into my room, whispered, “Trick or treat”

So if you think I am a drama queen
Please realize that it’s all in my genes



Happy Halloween!


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010


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SPRING

Stunning spring is my favourite season She swirls her skirts and drapes the garden in her finest clothes Dressing the naked winter trees and bushes with bright brilliant foliage Spring showers us with confetti of pink cherry blossom petals in the warm breeze Gently opening the eyes of the snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils They crane their necks from the melting snow and smile sweetly Creating colour and scent in our glorious gardens Written by Jan Allison 01-02-15


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015


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Beautiful Pain

Shes The prettiest picture…In The Ugliest Frame. 
We Turned A Beautiful Love Into A Beautiful Pain 
And There Was Never Another ..She was My Sun And My Moon. 
Soon As I Told Her I Loved Her…(She Said)…”Baby Now Your Doomed” 
There was A Time That I loved You…Thinking You Love Me The Same. 
Transformed A Beautiful Love Into A Beautiful Pain. 
And Now My Heart Is So Heavy You Couldn't Lift It With Crane. 
You Were The Sun In My Sky But Know Im Praying For Rain. 
To You Forever Meant Never…To Me True Meaning Remained. 
Our Love No Longer Distinguished cause You extinguished our Flame. 
I Vowed To Never Give Up..Cause I was Hoping You’d Change. 
How Do You Capture A Heart That Doesn't Want To Be Claimed. 
She’s The Prettiest Picture In Hideous Frame 
Know Your Intentions Insidious But still I love you the same. 
My Heart was clearly departed hoping your memory fades. 
Even Made cupid feel stupid and start to question his aim. 
I promise never again and there  is no need to explain. 
Face It…No Body wins when treat love like a game. 
  
And there was never another She was the stars and my Moon.


Copyright © Micah Watkins | Year Posted 2013


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Refolding the Paper Crane

I tried folding a paper crane again the other day
  and  it didn't turn out right

tracing back my folds,
I knew I missed somewhere

unfolding, re-creasing, refolding
just tracing my fingers back

fingers 
    feeling the paper
and beyond

A three-minute fold
times 10 now

Even if I needed to do other things,
I paid no mind, determined to fold that crane

I had to get this right.
I had to.

Almost there...

As it turns out, 
I only missed one step,
--something to do with its wings, I believe...

Amazing how a single step
could be so important.

Stretching its wings now,
the paper crane 
soars proudly on my palm...
So beautiful.

In refolding this paper crane,
I hope I never forget...

Amazing how easily things slip from our minds, 
but more amazing
is when our hearts Do remember.

We remember, 
   and then we Do something...

...I have hundreds of paper cranes yet to fold,
it may be taking me far longer 
than what I had initially planned...

but yes, you are in my thoughts,
   you are in my prayers...

and I shall continue folding these cranes.

...I revel in the thought, for that moment,
when I can send them flying towards the Sun...








0409/142012131a133/1139p1155


Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2012


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OPTIMISTIC ORANGE



CELESTE A bevy of wavelets rushes to the shore while on peach coastline, this quietude I feel, Under the alloy of rocks not seen before A hidden water-world encrypts its frothed zeal. The dolphin in tungsten leaps, and then again With a belly raised to a marmalade sky; And another whirl...free like a rust-toned crane Breaths in awe, an enchantment is my reply. To be fed by April’s torches, amber- lit when lazy boats sail on coral of Celeste… and coiled tides gather a fragrant melon quilt exulting my Sunday’s pause… my hours’ fine rest. Silent One's united Colors, Orange Optimistic orange--uplifting, rejuvenating 3/4/2016 11 syls per line


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016


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Fear of Flying

I wonder if my false smile fools anyone at all?
Perhaps I am pulling it off!
Do I look like someone who does this every day?
Do I seem self assured and confident?
No one seems to pay me notice...
Good

I purposely chose an aisle seat
Yes....I'm ashamed to admit it...
I'm one of those you hear about,!...Go ahead...laugh if you like...
Yes, hate to tell you, but I'm cursed with a fear of flying!

Oh I know....you'll tell me all that nonsense about aeronautics
How it's safer than driving the freeways...yeah...right...
Sorry....I can't hear you....my heart is pounding too loudly
My head is throbbing...my hands are shaky, my knees are trembling...

Ahhh.... a deep breath, ...ahh...another....wheww....
Oh-oh!! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH this is it!!!!!
Ohhhh...ohhh....oooooo ....here we go!!!......

I'll just look at the floor, ...
O.K.  O.K. come on..!! ....Try to think of pleasant thoughts!
Ummmm...green grass, ....uhh, butterflies,.. flowers,  ...dirt,...wonderful wonderful dirt! ...
HEAVENLY MOTHER EARTH!!!! 

What are those for?? Oh yes, I remember,...the small lights beneath our feet
Leading us (HOPEFULLY!!)...( just in case...you know...)
Oh, God...for escaping in the dark!! ....IF escape were necessary (or even possible!!) 
Oh Lord!
Little lights that lead ...to..to...where is it??? Oh, there....the exit!!
That's the nearest exit...(must remember....closest one I count is five rows ahead)....
Hmm...better count again....five rows...
Count them again...yes...one, two, three, four, five...

Do NOT listen to the deafening noise of the engines...
What was that??!!  I said... "DON'T LISTEN!!"....

Deep breath.....ahhh

The couple next to me
So animated in their conversation
They seem deeply enthralled by the landscape below them
Just sitting there...joking, and enjoying and pointing.....
Hmm..just a peek....WOW!...Look at that world...it's shrinking in size so rapidly!
Deep breath....
Hmm....well now, ....this isn't so hard...
Actually, well, maybe just another quick look....hmmm.....

If I crane my neck a bit....wow...I can see the ocean in the distance
I can see the patchwork of man's mark on the earth
Wow!  Wow !! ...would ya look at that???!
Wow, beautiful !!  ....   Gotta get a window seat for the flight home !!!...
Wow!.....Amazing..........!  That view.....................incredible!!!!

What's that....?? "Oh...yes..a coke would be nice..thank you!"

Hey...this isn't so bad....  Wow....look!! I can see the curvature of the earth....Wow!!!
Hey.....this is AWESOME!!!!


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009


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It don't really matter


It don’t really matter If Plaster of Paris is not made in France If Ginger and Fred never learned how to dance If shoestring potatoes don’t grow in a shoe It don’t really matter because I love you If airports have doorways but call them a gate If calories will never cause us to wait If moisture each morning is something that’s due It don’t really matter because I love you If hamburgers aren’t really made out of ham If jelly won't work to get out of a jam If something that’s old becomes something we knew It don’t really matter because I love you If plants that are planted are still called a plant If uncles get sad when they step on an ant If skies that are happy do always seem blue It don’t really matter because I love you If doors that are open are really ajar If milkshakes aren’t served on a sweet chocolate bar If vegetable soup is not really a stew It don’t really matter because I love you If kings in a downpour get caught in the reign If birds lifting boulders are not called a crane If flying the coop came from chickens that flew It don’t really matter because I love you Grammatically speaking, my title is wrong And maybe this poem goes on a bit long But who cares as long as you know it is true The one thing that matters, is that I love you 4/17/17 Written for the: “Best Rhyming Poem 3” poetry contest Sponsored by John Hamilton


Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017


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Wistful

'...the wind plays andantes
    of lost hopes and regrets.'
                      Hart Crane


  It is your soul and constant sorrow that concern me,
     you seem pale and unprotected; I want so much 
  to be your lover and your shield, to keep your miseries
     at bay, by your side for ever for the glowing recognition 
  of your smile. But the opportunity was never really there,
     so your lovely face lives only in my reveries.


Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2008


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God Knows I'm a Country Girl

God knows I'm a country girl,
and wouldn't trade it for nothin' in this world.
Long brown hair and big brown eyes,
I'll take you on an exciting ride,
to the big beautiful countryside.
Get ready to hang on tight.
Gonna give you the ride of your life.
Hair whippin' wild in the wind,
hangin' out with my country friends.
This is where the fun begins.
Raised up on fried chicken and red beans,
sporting my tight fittin' jeans.

God knows I'm a country girl,
and wouldn't trade it for nothin' in this world.
We can sit on the front porch swing,
maybe sing or even daydream.
Gonna have a mighty fine time, 
sippin' on that strawberry wine.
Gonna live a mighty long time,
on this beautiful countryside.
Boy, I hope you enjoy the ride with me,
maybe we'll go fishing or even swimming,
watch the crane spread it's wings.
Ducks gathering on the big wide open pond,
lovebirds making a bond.

Yes, God knows I'm a country girl.
There is one last thing I have to say.
Barefoot and fancy free,
plain as the big outdoors I will be.
Why don't you take a ride with me?
Let me show you the big fine country.


Copyright © shannon farlouis | Year Posted 2010


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The Hollow

The October night was dark and cold,
As the autumn sun was going down,
When I recalled the legends I had been told,
About this sleepy, little town.

There were tales about the haunted woods,
They say the wind seems to call your name,
I was going where no one should,
And if I survived, I'd never be the same.

I walked through the covered bridge,
As the harvest moon rose into the sky,
I had made it around the darkened ridge,
Just as I heard a lone wolf's cry.

I walked the path of the dark, gnarled thicket,
Through the fallen leaves of maple and oak,
I heard the chirping of a cricket,
Near the hollow, where the bullfrogs croak.

Then, I heard the "hoot" of an owl in a tree,
And the "caw" of a raven on it's perch,
The headless horseman I hoped not to see,
As I passed the graveyard near the church.

I told myself I would be alright,
Just as I heard the hooves of a horse,
But, I knew I would make it home tonight,
Because there are no ghosts, of course.








August 30th, 2013

(This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving.
I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)


Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013


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It Must be Hard

It must be hard
To carry it around
That load of hate
Weighing on your heart
A powder keg
Waiting to explode

You pretend it isn’t there
But now and again it shows
In what you say
In what you write
The sarcasm hidden under the sweet
The hate clothed in happy
And yet….
It’s there
For the discerning to see

It must be hard
To have it eat away at you
And not be able to voice
All those words
That are begging to be heard
Dying to hit the mark
And be set free

It must be hard to keep them locked away
For fear of criticism
Of “losing face”
And yet….
They gnaw away at your being
Words begging for release
For those inferior
Made of fluff
Not substantial
Not up to par
Mediocre
Weak
Sniveling
Sappy
Sorry
Excuses of human beings

How hard it must be
How it must hurt to be civil
Pretend to be kind
Thinking others are blind
To the real motives behind
Your words…..

Ah…if only you’d realize
The only one hurting
The only one who is weak
Is you
To love takes strength
To forgive takes power
To rejoice with others takes integrity
The finer qualities
To hate is easy
To love near impossible
Hate would dissipate
If you took some time to realize
The person who irks you
Who just rubs you the wrong way
Maybe has been rubbed in molestation
Maybe has been struck down with abuse
Perhaps has been used
Emotional abuse
Sexual abuse
Verbal abuse
Physical abuse
Insecurity
Feelings of inferiority
He has hidden baggage too
Behind his false bravado
A heart that is in pain
Much like you
His brokenness plain
Put away hate
It’s not too late
To look inside
The one you despise
And see
A reflection of YOU!

Eileen M G

I leave you with two fantastic poems: William Blake (A Poison Tree) and Stephen Crane (The Heart).

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
 
William Blake

The hater suffers most (EG)

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014


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Little Blue Bird of Rain

Little Blue Bird of rain.

Rain, rain go away
Little Blue Bird of Rain, needs to shine again
In her version the sun dried, up all her tears
Leaving hurtful rain inside the bird
Destructive past sudden cheers
Waking up to empty words
When abandoned by her peers
Just not knowing what had just occurred

Drowning herself in a life of Jane Doe.
Never know who she really is
When all she loves hanging her lowest moment
The rain brought out Mary-Jane.
As the bird lost its glow.
The rain tricked her once to use Cocaine.
As her feathers met that one Joe.
He broke her wing and brought more Rain.

Very young, very sweet.
Living her life in the fast lane.
Hard for her to stand on her feet.
Balanced her life on one leg, like the crane.
Curtains hang over her wings.
While she let no one near her domain.

While she flies through the heavy rain.
She finds her comfort with a pen.
Using the lords name in vain.
Cursing all her backstabbing friends
With no one around to explain?
All the sorrow left her on a railroad track.
Ending up like the runaway train.
Only she can get her life back.

If for myself I ever felt pain?
I felt more pain at what she wrote about. 
In my face on my left side 
Your poetry comes to life in my head. 
Visions of her wanting to be dead.
Oh! How I wish this life she did not dread.

You hide the tears you shed so well.
A life with balls you cut the chains.
You diss, Your parents to go to hell.
Little Blue Bird of Rain, don't let them fools drive you insane.

Little Blue Bird of Rain.
If a sparrow could show you,
There is more to life than pain.
Under the umbrella, the sparrow would cover you.
No one wants to see her colors drain.
What a world to master her feathers into art.
The gift of words runs through her vein

The paintings on her wall.
A dream of a bad seed of grain.
One day our Little Blue Bird will stand tall.
To free herself from all the Rain.


  To: Rain aka- Joy Loveless
Our sweet 16-year-old
      P.D.     1-1-10


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010


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Patriot Guard funeral Escort

Patriot Guard funeral Escort
Loch David Crane
August, 2008

Today is sunny: with three dozen bikes,
some decorated cars,  a pair of trikes,
two dozen Marines: all of the family
and toddlers to set their Daddy free
into the Great Beyond beyond the sky
where loved ones send their veterans who die.
Below our feet the stones give way to grass
where they are neatly trimmed; and as we pass
the names of strangers stare into the air
and we look back, wondering who lies there.
I won't step on a grave--I'll walk around
so not to insult those within the ground.
	We ride at funerals honoring those vets,
	brave men and women we have never met.


Copyright © Loch David Crane | Year Posted 2014


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A Montage Moment

Black-headed flowers wear long drooping ruffled petal skirts.
A black crane, statuesque, stands in the tall green grass amongst them.
The tallest flower - distinctively blonde - has arms to touch the crane!


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011


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The Dragline

THE DRAGLINE  for Pete Brett 

One hundred foot boom 
 7-½-yard bucket 
The tracks are like 
 Ones on the tracks of a tank
They go chunk clunk and clank  

Arm of the boom swings 
 Far to the left then to right  
Out casts the bucket 
 And drags the rock in 

 Papa pushes the pedals and 
 Pulls the leavers
 Lifts the cranes bucket and 
 Swings the arm in 
 Dumps the rock into
 A pile at quarry
 
Just old black Burt, Bootsie and me
We ride in the donkey a brawny little engine
Careful now Uncle Burt I ‘am heavy as can be
He’d chuckle and let me ring the dingy
 As the donkey pulled all those gondola cars
 to the rock crusher A ring ding-a-ling
 here comes the train ring ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling

Dinner would be with Uncle Red Papa and me
 by the railroad tracks a fire warm 
and perhaps we would see
 Alligator Willy who would stop by to share
 some pickled eggs, sausages and a beer
                                                                                         
 I dance in the night by the light that comes
 from cranes rear window the light that
shines from the top of the boom
                                                                                                             
My stage is a beam of square light
and I dance and I swirl as the 
beam from the top boom does
swing. It’s better than the light from the moon
 
I spin and I dance in an out of
The shadows
I see my papa’s face
Through the crane’s side window’s panel

His arm is out stretched as he
Pushes and pulls
I wave I am tired now

He jumps from the tracks and
 Lifts me back in
His face has wide goofy grin
We share chocolate milk
From a thermos and take
 Orange marmalade Sandwiches wrapped in wax paper
 which were sticky and sweet
 from his Old battered Lunch Pail 

 when my feet were all wet He took off my shoes
 and placed them by Old Mr. Murphy as his engine was called 
 Dry and warm and cozy we’d be
Papa his dog Bootsie and me
 
 Northwest the crane that he ran At Seminole Rock
 he was considered the best Crane operator-man

He worked from dark tell the sand-man
I sleep in an empty dynamite crate
Filled with a string called waste
Used to spread thick grease
by the big diesel engine at the back
of the crane 
He shuts the doors as it’s starting to 
rain

The crane growls and grumbles
and rocks me to and fro
 like in a large giant’s lap 
as I take a nap
in dreams I spin and I dance 
by the light from the boom 
it’s better than the light
 from the moon






Copyright © JoAnne Simms | Year Posted 2012


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She's Getting Married at Christmas

She's getting married at Christmas,
The granddaughter who had said she'd never wed.
We are all quite fond of the young fellow
Who convinced her to forget the words she'd said.

She's getting married at Christmas.
The church will be decked out in green and red
And pews packed with relatives and friends.
"Here Comes the Bride" will swivel every head.

The bridegroom will be standing at attention
And bridesmaids and groomsmen waiting too,
The audience will crane and strain to watch
As the lovely bride with father comes in view.

They'll repeat their vows with every good intention
As the pastor pronounces them a man and wife.
We'll all  watch as they kiss so tenderly
The first caress of their new married life.

The banquet room ready for the diners.
The dinner and the toasts will soon begin.
They will cut the cake and with smiles serve each other.
He will wipe a bit of frosting from her chin.

After dinner the band will start to play
And they will take the floor for their first dance.
There will be tears and hugs from those who love them
And then they'll slip away at their first chance.

As her grandma I'll be praying for their marriage.
I'll be wishing each a long and happy life.
I will surely hope she never will be sorry
That she changed her mind and said she'd be his wife.

Written:  11/17/13


Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2013


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As I Journey East

Come along with me as I journey East
where fragile cherry blossoms flutter
before raining down from cloudless skies.
Let's climb majestic mountains whose crests 
are always laced with crowns of snow.

Here, the scent of jasmine is caught in a breeze.
Bonsai forests hold ancient secrets of long past civilizations.
We will see dragons who seem to soar beyond the moon,
then take the shape of koi with the rising sun.

Listen as bamboo chimes sing in windswept percussion.
Their hollow voices reach across Tokachi River.
Legend says it was etched by the flowing tears 
of a young Geisha who cried all night
when she saw her red-budded lips mirrored in a lake.

It's now a sacred place where lovers often meet 
when the hint of a sanguine sunset fills the sky. 
Their whispered words of passion's promises 
are drowned in roars of towering waterfalls.

Say you'll come and we'll fly amid flocks of crane, 
across paddies and valleys of lush green,
then feast upon crispy roasted duck 
before we lick our fingers clean of Hoisin. 

Sleep will find us beneath a blanket of willows,
and we'll gaze in awed wonder when we wake, 
at the most exotic land of splendors we've ever seen.
We'll surrender promises that one day we will return, 
for this is where our hearts now wish to dwell.

Give us brushes and canvas; paints of boldest oils
to capture the Oriental beauty, naked before our eyes.



July 1st, 2017
Exotic Places 
by Debbie Guzzi


Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2017


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Grandmasters of Poetica - Revised

The Grandmasters of Poetica
Make the mass of us look small;
While I can’t speak for thee and they
I gladly take the fall.
From goodness grace, 
That unfathomable place
Where Emerson begins and ends;
Who among us from cradle to dust
Comes even close to catching 
Him?
With all his disguises
And Whitman’s surprises
Each time I pick up and read:
Song of My Measure
Gives me so much pleasure
I’m humbled
Right down to my knees.
What atmosphere of Shakespeare
Quintessential quill undefined;
Confounds and shatters everything that matters 
In the Human, make that Divine.
Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath
Dear ladies of love – sorrow - pain,
Frost in the woods and everything good
From Thoreau to Stephen Crane.
Why even tarry,
To merge or marry
Anyofourthoughtwordeeds?
Because love is of pleasure
And this writing endeavor
Is as human as eyes to see. 




Copyright © Terrell Martin | Year Posted 2011


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Manhattan Soliloquy

...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)

 
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.

I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbour, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dockhands primed 
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,

as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene

encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.

Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright 
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.

You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a strumpet, you expose
 
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.

 
               your body 'wrapped in mine,
        our souls a living sacramen
                   to love and joy divine.
           I enter you and all the stars explode,
                      fulfillment is our quest,
                              our shining testament.


As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.


Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2015


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The Wind in the Pines 1

("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of 
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy.  "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)

1. The Buddhist Priest

This was the day of the White Crane. 
I was walking from Kyoto to fair Kobe, 
and not omitting a single shrine, 
now nearing the end of my three-day journey. 
The morning had taken on a hue 
of pastel. I reached a promontory, above the sea 
with curious roadside ancestor tombs, 
slabs of coarse stone. The wind 
and waves, so restless, had done their work, 
scarring and scarifying the soft chalk, 
leaving strange columns, each capped 
by its crude ashlar memorial tablet. 
As I prayed to the dead, my bare head 
was lifted. My gaze (no longer mine) 
was drawn towards a tall pine, 
standing alone, its trunk bifurcated. 
That tree, I felt somehow, had waited 
for me to come. Looking about me, 
I saw a peasant, short and stoutly 
built. "Tell me about the tree," 
I said. "And what's that poetry? 
That hanging plaque?" He said I'd found 
something special. "This is hallowed ground," 
he muttered. "Matsukaze and her sister 
Murasame mourned here, Mister. 
Then Heaven took pity on the two brine 
girls, and turned them into this pine." 
By mortal things, we should set no store: 
but hearing this, I wanted to know more.



Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017


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Manhattan Soliloquy

...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)

 
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.

I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbor, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dock hands primed 
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,

as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene

encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.

Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright 
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.

You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a starlet, you expose
 
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.

 
               your body 'wrapped in mine,
        our souls a living sacrament
                   to love and joy divine.
           I enter you and all the stars explode,
                      fulfillment is our quest,
                              our shining testament.


As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.


Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016


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Poets

Poets

Oscar Wilde has his quotes
And William Yeats makes it clear,
Robert Frost will set the mood
With a candle and a beer.
Walt Whitman is worth reading
And Hardy is very deep,
You should read Mr. Hayden
Stephen Crane is one to keep.
Emily is amazing
E.E. Cummings you should love
When you read Emily Plath
The angels sing from above.
I am no William Shakespeare
Or an Edger Allan Poe,
For I am Troy H. Snyder
My name you will come to know.


Copyright © Troy Snyder | Year Posted 2015


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Luminescence


...for Hart Crane

 
From dark to light transfusing in a flash,
your silver-sequined mystery
that breathes new electricity,
it shines where none has shone before,
this trembling luminescence,
through waves refracted with your sheen
yet show no movement readily,
no broken sea reveals your rippled hand.

Layer upon layer endlessly,
the waves preclude all semblance of your face,
and roll, so indeterminate their swell,
that light cannot quite penetrate the gloom;
and sun and stars no energy can gather
to clarify your loveliness for me.
Yet in the dusk your light still lingers, 
bright and undeniable, the mystery
still haunts my dreams and will for evermore.



Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2015


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The Wind in the Pines 4

4.   Murasame Starts to Relate the Story

("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of 
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy.  "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)


MATSUKAZE & MURASAME 
(chanting in harmony) 
When fruit is ripe, touching it will burst it. 
You quoted his poem, and the stab of pain 
was like when the news of his death first hit. 
We had hoped never to think of it again. 
You did not know. It is not your fault 
that our sleeves are wet once more, with salt. 

BUDDHIST PRIEST 
But why keep on, with attachment to this man, 
when you are no longer part of this world of things? 
Meditate on the Great Plan, 
enjoy the benefits that progress brings! 

MATSUKAZE & MURASAME 
(chanting in harmony) 
We can learn nothing, and nothing forget. 
Love is strong, and our sleeves are wet. 

Pine wind, autumn rain, 
nothing wounds like loving in vain. 

MURASAME 
We were brine girls, nothing more, 
toiling on the Suma shore. 
Yukihira came alone, 
exiled from the Kyoto throne. 
His arms were strong, his skin was fair, 
the scent of resin in his long, black hair. 

MATSUKAZE & MURASAME 
(chanting in harmony) 
Pine wind, and autumn rain, 
man is bear, and woman, crane. 

MURASAME 
Man's love is aloof, a thing apart. 
A woman is nothing, if not heart. 
He loved us, yes - but after his fashion. 
Love, for men, is physical passion. 
When the time comes, men can sever 
the cord - but women love for ever. 



Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017


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Just A Few Clerihews

Warning, if you are under 60 you may not "get" some of these.

Mohammad Ali
taunting with poetry,
his opponents he'd zing
as he danced 'bout the ring.

Graham Kerr "The Galloping Gourmet"
oft with our minds he would play.
Why else would he pick
the dessert "Spotted Dick"?

Ichabod Crane
rode down rode down the lane.
From the Headless Horseman he'd flee
while on his saddle he peed.

Abbot & Costello,
two funny fellows
were very immersed
into whose on first.

Ed Norton
couldn't laugh without snortin'
which would quickly annoy
old Ralph Boy!

Alice Kramden
was first with a lunar landin'
Pow, Bang, Zoom!
A oneway trip to the moon.

Professor Irwin Corey
told confusing stories,
You'd listen and listen till your eyeballs would glisyen
and not understand what you're missin'

Don Rickles
would offer a nose full of nickels
and got plenty of yuks calling you a schmuck
and dumb as a hockey puck.

Giuseppe "Peppino" Mazzullo,
the voice of Topo Gigio
on Ed's final night
said "Eddie, kessa me goo' night!"

Jack Benny
wouldn't lend you a penny
nor spend a dime -
died when he was 80 at the age of 39.


Copyright © craig cornish | Year Posted 2018