Best Culls Poems
A swallow swoops for flitting flies
While Johnny rubs exhausted eyes
(As morning clasps the rising sun)
Confirming Captain’s day’s begun:
Slow streams emerge from melting snows -
The Merchant Ship’s in stark repose...
As Johnny frets with tingling tongue
A Vulture fleeces fields far-flung
(Beneath a bleeding sun above),
And Captain culls the dead with love:
Yes, while the silent water flows,
The Merchant Ship just gulps and grows...
A serpent weaves amongst the weeds
As Johnny dares audacious deeds
(When evening drains the dying day)
To stop the Captain, come what may:
And while the raging rivers grow
The Merchant Ship rocks to and fro...
An owl, a’ branch, has teacup eyes
That glimmer dark as Johnny dies
(Now sown inside the future’s womb)
When flushing Captain to his doom:
Trapped in titanic undertow
The Merchant Ship’s swept down below...
A fledgling bird sprays morning dew
As Johnny Junior’s born anew
(He’s baptised in the dawn ablaze)
To rectify the former days:
Raw rills arise from melting snow
And virgin rivers start to flow...
Rain slipped in
sliding on the din
just passed dark
came midnight sparks
before the light of morning sun,
spits and spats, tips and taps,
lulls and dulls,
sputtered mutters culls,
on the shutters closed,
clammy, dank, and damp,
click-clack, stamped,
pitter-patter tones,
on the walk path stones;
soft and harsh,
wind blowing scowls along the tarps
glistening glows
misting the grassy rows,
October doom looms,
harvests wells consumed
rain falls
as autumn calls.
The days are long and unproud, they brood...
and please not the weary soul wearying in its wake;
when gnashing snow and rain bite
cold and bitter nights ---
smite the weary traveler soul
The spray of oceans fierce, the tattered sail
and shattered galleon hulls,
whipping winds above the dead below the waves,
heave torrid warning weeps,
to forgotten realms...
to misty denizens deep,
buried 'neath the seas
Fathom after fated fathom, bugle from mermaids call,
belated beckonings, doom from harp ringing culls;
'ere the storm ends many men;
they sound the trumpet and bugle ---
and sea urchin minstrels again,
'ere the storm ends many men
The masts seem as wooden-braced ghosts;
shackled to grimly merchant (boors) for sailor eyes ---
aghast for Captain Bold and his pickled laugh ---
To the eye! Straight on! Through her gutteral seas we go!
'ere the storm ends many men
The crest of waves rise monolith and mighty,
scolding beam and soul,
lancing forthwith all aboard ---
visions of ill-fated meagre pay;
of wife and child far and away,
forgotten faces...
lost in venomous haze
Terrible is the vanquished soul,
smitten to meaningless display,
needless heroics of Captains Bold,
(summoning water thundered fates)
sleeping seas,
then silence...
sweet silence...
***Dedicated to the sailors who lost their lives at sea***
Salvation seeps in the mist
And as light fades
awe sings in temporal sonnets
while goldenrod flits the fields
and lavender scents joyful whispers
for here neath this shadowy creature,
Point Percee revels,
wonder dances on cobblestones
and voices are lifted beyond horizons
as this warrior of scalloped wing
and fire brand culls the night skies
sweeping enchantment in place of fear,
taken from the last war
Salvation seeps in the mist
where lost sons had fallen and once again
risen within the flames of life,
breaths of cast dreams
where heroes fly and all is well
With torches raised high,
embers of elation flicker on soft winds
illuminating cheers and celebrations
in the name of the knight
and his fearless collaborator
5/1/17
Written for the Collaborated Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
A link to Eve’s poem we were to collaborate with
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_dragon_of_haute_savoie_894917
A yawning gargoyle shares with me the morn.
We sit, reading the Sunday newspaper
about the world's events, mostly forlorn.
He notes how clean is his kind's ledger
compared with the blood of my people's news.
He say he lives without our illusions.
At night he culls without regard for views,
sates his hunger without the delusions
that he is doing it for God, nation,
or some psychological folderol.
"Admit to your primitive origin,
face up to your blood lust, you cannibal!
Then, perhaps, we might be able to discuss
how you could live honestly, without stress.
The night was strangely hushed and cloaked
by the clouds scuttling across the silvery moon.
The breeze made the night air feel chilled,
yet her flanks were covered in sweat
as she strained, muscles quivering and chest heaving.
It had to be quick as she could hear predators
for now in the far distance yet moving in.
Still she strained the legs and face now visible.
One last final thrust and it is born already
struggling to find its feet and be ready to flee.
Anxiously the mother licked and licked
stimulating muscles, nerves and blood.
Valiantly the baby stands and starts to suckle
its feet going every which way as it fights
for control over its unruly members.
Within five minutes its ready to run
its mother calls it deep into the herd.
Surrounding them with a protective barrier
Out of all this years Zebra foals only a
handful will survive and sire other foals.
The rest falling prey to Lions and other cats
the crocs too will feast at the river crossings.
The odd sickly ones become dinner for hyena's.
Such is life on the East African plains, nature
culls all but the fittest ensuring strong blood lines.
Voyagers, convene thyselves to return, among us...
Caesura, crown nigh clod, a sylph unwept,
elision thy silhouette, meno thy minuet...
Thine late occurence on thee, wake of cerise sand
Thou belief, like a billow, upon your whitish cheek,
'Twas marina bay, her twaddle a garb of mer,
A henchman docks, thy quay, girdles stymie ebbs,
but he cannot dream aloft a dream she confers...
O'er to woo hand in hand, thou overture unto Sirocco,
Plagues thy pirate ships, quakes men with mar,
His and his only demand, an aegis for lagoons amidst...
Once deluged, sun askew above, one abyss of bagatelles
Deters a tocsin, feign mooting mammals, thy kin a boon,
Aquatica, thee damsel for diminuendos, spurns thy sire,
Her gentle mettle, calls thee, His fervor season calentures...
Aloof thy celestial kisser, nay thy nine, vim domiciles solitary
Doomed skulls ravish, an age id by ice, culls thee, for chastity,
Some may not know, we died to have our love live, over and again,
Amity vows posy littoral seaflowers, buoys colonnades of adventure...
thence, cradles await upon matins, sail thy Oceanus genesis, amen.
I Just want to rest
from my long migration
Find a sweet oasis
Many nets and traps
full of dying songbirds
adorn the route
An army culls us
millions migrating south
hunted to extinction.
Will silence replace
The birdsong each morning
Remember us.
'Thar she blows!' the cry goes up
a breaching whale is seen
The longboat's manned and low'red
the lookout's eyes were keen
The hunt begins, the whalers chant
the oarsmen strain and pull
The whaling ship won't turn for port
'til her holds are full
The boat seems small, the men seem weak
beside the mighty whale
but it's gentle nature seals it's fate
the harpoon never fails
The sea is churned to bloody red
the whale takes hours to die
but no-one there bemoans its fate
no tears in whaler's eyes
The killing done the mighty beast
is cut and torn apart
It's oil and perfume that combine
to still the giant's heart
The days of sail soon fade away
a spear becomes a gun
now gas is used to float the beast
when all the killing's done
Just when it seems that all is lost
that all the whales will die
the world begins to count the cost
of slaughter, greed and lies
The gentle giants of the sea
are saved from death and pain
We never should have hunted them
and never should again
To see them float with lazy grace
to spout and roll and dive
To touch their calves, a fluke's embrace
be glad they're still alive
It's very hard to understand
why some still want to kill
Their claims of scientific culls
are lies that make me ill
Let's let the gentle giants live
in peace beneath the waves
for once they do it's more than whales
that we will then have saved
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
I fled the kiln
of the house
where ceramic floors
bake like focaccia bread.
My haven is a bench
in the shade of an oak,
praying for a breeze.
A bevy of bees hover
over blushing jasmine
and scarlet lilies,
dousing me with honey
in July's sticky air
as my finger
culls a drowned earwig
from my glass of iced tea.
Cool Master Lil' Miss
Shiloh's art-filled hoodie argyle,
warmly snugs young miss, save Charlie,
he rallies firm, quick briefs the term,
timely step shifts the sundial,
gray culls while golden spears briefly,
while life roams its normal lifestyle,
e'er discerning events may change,
as felled leaves crowd in a stockpile,
squashing in passing was gnarly,
quick briefs the term, he rallies firm,
her hand in his made all worthwhile.
2021 March 09
(By the time of the shooting of
"The Misfits", the Miller-Monroe
marriage was in deep trouble.
The Pansy is Montgomery Clift,
The Tusker is John Huston.)
After the Fall
It started as a mental exercise.
I wondered if an East-Side Jew like me
(Richard Rodgers, Brooklyn Dodgers,
Staten Ferry, Tom and Jerry,
Radio City, Walter Mitty,
Buddy Rich, Seven-Year Itch)
could sing the song of Stetson-wearing guys,
could capture something of the poetry
of men who have no words.
But then it grew, as all these projects do.
And then I fell in love with Norma-Jean
(no, Marilyn is someone else). I knew
I had to show the world what I had seen
of men who chase the herds.
(Levi jeans, chilli beans,
mustang culls, rodeo bulls,
Misfit Flats, lariats,
pony carts, engine parts,
happy hour, whiskey sour,
bronkin' bucks, pickup trucks,
buying beers, tying steers,
fancy boots, turkey shoots).
Sincerely? Dearly? Yes. I loved that woman -
the one inside, not on the billboard, pouting.
I cared so much, I guess I had it coming.
I was The Man, the one to take it out on.
A mustang in the dirt,
the more I squirmed, the tighter drew the ropes.
She ran to Gable. Primal passion? Rather,
the one thing that extinguished all my hopes:
he was, to her, the archetypal father.
Varieties of hurt
are infinite. The Pansy, Gable, Tusker -
all sorrowing for something. Norma-Jean
has kept her looks (can't say that for The Husker).
Inside, she putrefied. Love turns to mean,
it's ugly to behold.
The pills? The booze? Or was the problem me?
Or maybe everything just comes unraveled,
but some can hide it where the world won't see.
The consolation of philosophy?
The journey is itself the prize. I travelled
in the realms of gold.
(Note: This poem is a Sonnet with Alliteration.)
----------------------------------------------------
Start stereo streaming, laughter lifting locks;
Hunter hurling hooks, choice chasing chatter;
Dance distant dreaming, trouble trouncing torque;
Buddy bearing books, mind moulding matter.
Love listens lovely, play planting promptly;
Texture tussles trade, boom bulging blossoms;
Vex voice valiantly, touch textures tightly;
Flexing frenzy fades, allure aids awesome.
Loiter lingers lull, words weaning wonder;
Do deliver deal, pressure primes pleasure;
Cheer cleverly culls, posture plots plunder;
Set sleepy sight still, movement mimes measure.
Winding westward way, preying pampers piece;
Pleasure pleasing play, ever eastern ease.
Leon Enriquez
06 May 2014
Singapore
Many miles away, a mammoth journey to complete
Travelling by stealth, incognito, alone by wise choice
Hazy memories of his homeland and boyhood street
Friendless these lean years, no recognition to rejoice
Mercenary factions control his vagabond life
Icelandic fjords, volcanic rocks, desert dunes attend
Flash bye and fade, fragmented in perennial strife
Look far away, head and heart appraises to amend
Many miles away, a mammoth journey to complete
For seven long years he kept away, a lifetime ago
Hazy memories of his homeland and boyhood street
Aged in years, comparisons he hides well below
In cosmopolitan artificiality
He orchestrated ways and means for exited culls
Initiated to ensure free world buoyancy
To prevent corruption by power hungry moguls
Many miles away, a mammoth journey to complete
This last commission to undertake for MI5
Then return to his love ones, homeland and boyhood street
If the powers that be are with him he will survive
As each fatigued day culls my nature
Mine mind does Judas thee
And tinker pon the waves of hope
Muted Banshee
My blighted roots once writhed hitherto
Severed from earths comely breast
Mother natures contempt of me
Fair mumsy, she knows best
(Stark)
I adorn no vibrant leaves
Laird, wooden beast
Plucked till I stood bare
No blightsome shade for sibling seed
From summers wretched glare
(Raving)
With chestnut blight, my ashen crown
Looms remorsefully
And you my wretched parasite
Prefer to pick at me
Not with axe, nor barbarous force
Unjust chipping at my belief
Till I am lost and swathing
In painfilled cumbersome grief
(Mad!)
So whilst the heartwood settles near
And whilst I shed my final tear
Am crushed, lopped rooted out
Be ever headful, covet doubt
That even pon the vilest slope
Within Woolgather
Hush lullaby
Hope x