Best Cut Across Poems
On the gurgling remains of Winter
as she seeps back into the earth
on a path around a lake
flanked by the casualties of winter's breath
cattails...
brown and bent with broken heads
backs turned to the pale yellow corn stock stubble
standing in mud clad fields
that lie beneath scattered hints of green
where a red barn and silo stand in wait
A gentle breeze... a ripple on the lake
cattail fluff floating in the air
a symphony composed by songbirds and frogs
drifts across the land and bubbling streams
that cut across the path
Moss lies abreast the thin skin of winter
still remaining in places
where the sun never shines
A blanket of burnt amber needles
and prickly cones
lie beneath a dark green canopy of pines
impaled by glinting spears of sunlight
where the path...for a momeent...is lost
Thump...thump...thump.. the beat of leather souls
on wooden planks over the marshlands...
The lake erupts in torrents of water tendrils
falling from the wings
slapping the face of the lake
as geese take to the sky...
And beyond the forest of pines...
the oaks and maples
display their new burgundy buds
and the few remaining
leaves of Autumn...
all crinkled and curled
still clinging to the past
on a well-worn path
that circles around a lake
with no beginning and no end
where the seasons come and go...
as do... I.
Written: April 30, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
The sea shore, where thoughts become untied,
and the spirit yearns with its ebb and flow,
watching the sun cut across the horizon like a dull knife,
as the day moves through time to the color red.
There between amber light and rendered dark,
waves allow silence to dwell.
Asking the mind to describe the indescribable,
where senses are lost,
and welcomed scenes of birds silhouette across,
a rainbow sky bending to the horizon.
The coolness of wet sand wraps around the skin
as you glide through soft foam.
and the undulating of each wave wells up,
to end at the feet before pulling back,
leaving a sense of eternity.
To stay, to cross into twilight where stars beckon,
leaving trails upon the sky, as though a match was struck,
bring secrets woven by the moon's light,
dripping on the black water surface,
like a crown of crusted jewels to welcome a lonely traveler.
As the imprints left by the day wash out to sea.
Contest The Sea Shore
1/30/16
What story should I tell?
This is the tale of how the lonely acorn fell
far from where the mighty oak had stood
cut by the hands of man, felled for its wood.
The mother-father tree lay across the laid bare land
cut down in the forest no more to stand
and the branches stretched out along the dirt
releasing the acorn from its berth.
This acorn scratched and bruised, browned and torn
slipped into the streamflow of new rivers formed
and floated out to the open sea
she rode the tides salted and found herself - free.
The gulf stream path sped north into the wintry chill
as she cut across the sands where tidal waves were spilled
and a gull eyed her glistening shiny coat
and scooped her up but not down into her throat.
Pass the inlets, along the earthen roads
the gull dropped her beyond the manmade folds
where fertile land had long ago appeared
and squirrel and chipmunk vied for burrows cleared.
Buried deep in fertile soils blessed
this acorn was welcomed as the forest began its undress
with autumn fall and winter tamed,
she was awakened by the sun and rain.
This acorn found a place in the northeast spring
with hairy roots that began to form and sing,
of an acorn that was newly born.
escaping the outer shell coat torn.
She began to grow far from where she fell
and as life took on its hold in sapling meld
the newest oak began to watch history unfold
and knew then she was not the last acorn in the mold.
As time and historic years hurried pass
she knew she was not nor would be the last
with nature's watch and thirst
she was, the very first.
4/24/20
for John Lawless contest
The Last Acorn
I AM HIV/AIDS
Saint Luke predicted me long time ago,
While the Book of Revelation warned you about me.
I am raging like a wild fire,
I am growling like a lion,
I have spotted you and I will pounce on you!
I am HIV/AIDS!
I attack people in all socio-economic and educational classes,
I cut across cultural and religious sects,
Graves and hospitals bear this testimony.
Despite significant medical accomplishments,
I remain incurable,
I am HIV/AIDS
From Africa to America, Australia to Asia and Artantica to Europe.
From Cape Provinces to Limpopo and Mpumalanga to Kwa-Zulu / Natal.
From Bekkersdal to Grobblersdal and Makapanstad to Marabastad.
From Sun Valley to Sun City and Mamelodi to Mametlhake.
From Witlagte to Langlagte and Suiwerskuil to Kromkuil.
I am reigning, I am HIV/AIDS.
Woe for the earth and for the sea,
Because I have descended in great anger to devour you!
I refer to you, who do not abstain,
I mean you there, who are not faithful,
And you here who do not condomise,
For I am HIV/AIDS.
Media has warned you,
Priests have preached at the top of their voices,
Politicians have cried loud,
Organizations and institutions have given you warnings,
But all these have come to naught,
Now I will kill you like flies, for I am HIV/AIDS
This is not news to you,
You will certainly catch me through unprotected sex,
Shared infected needles and syringes, contaminated blood,
And from an infected mother to her unborn child.
I then multiply in your blood, mercilessly attacking
Your defence system and leave you for the dead,
For I am HIV/AIDS.
You know this fully well;
You cannot catch me through
Sneezing, sharing toilet seats, coughing,
Or shaking hands with an infected person.
Behold, even if you are not infected,
You are affected by me, for I am HIV/AIDS.
Even though I am dreadful and mighty,
I will finally die and my heart is sore,
That will be when sense is finally knocked in your head,
That will be when you abstain from sex,
You remain faithful to your partner or condomise,
Remember, prevention is better than cure, for I am HIV/AIDS!
Here I sit on a summer day among the pine trees along a mountain side.
Looking out across the valley below.
I see the colors of summer landscape spread across the valley.
In all shapes and sizes, like a jigsaw puzzle of nature.
The rivers and roads cut across the landscape to places unknown to me.
In the far horizon I see mountains that fade into the blue sky,
with white clouds floating across the sky.
Like sailboats searching for the wind.
The sun filters across the valley floor playing hide and seek with the clouds.
Making the colors of nature into majestic summer day.
The heat of the day sends all seeking comfort of a summer breeze.
With butterflies dancing on the slopes and fields near me.
Overhead I observe falcons fly endlessly in the sky, catching hot summer up drafts from the heated valley floor.
While near me there are pine trees that stretch toward the sky.
Many tall and thin that give shelter from the sun and heat
The fallen pine needles provide me with a gentle soft pillow to sit on.
A front row seat to natures beauty that encompasses me and the valley below.
There is a distinctive sound of the wind which blows though the pine trees.
Like whispering to my soul.
It refreshes the mind and comforts the senses, with the scent of pine.
A time to relax and enjoy the beauty around me.
God’s gentle way to guide me though life's journey.
To find comfort in these minutes of solutude and of reflection on this summer day.
This poem was a memory of a day while I was in survival School for the USAF in Washington State in the 80’s.
Simple acts of kindness
Can turn the world around;
From dull and gray with little to say
To something far more profound.
The touch of a hand says, “I understand
The pain you must be feeling.
I’m here by your side
Even when you can’t hide
From all life’s difficult dealings.”
A telephone ring can make a soul sing
And dance by the light of the moon;
Unexpected measures are priceless treasures,
Anyone will do.
A card in the mail like billowed sails
Of a ship on open seas;
Can make new friends all over again
Despite endless miles between.
A simple act of kindness
A smile, a look or a song;
Can make life more bearable
And right some hurtful wrongs.
Uplifting gestures of humanity
Cut across party lines;
No one has a monopoly it seems,
On the goodness in hearts and minds.
One simple act of kindness
No matter when or where,
Can change a soul from cold steel to gold
By saying that we care.
Learning to distinguish between and having a compassion for-silence that protects pain and silence that protects injustice has been a difficult important lesson-Julie Buckner Armstrong
Rest in peace Mary Turner
May 19, 1918 in Valdosta, Georgia…
The day before, her 19-year-old husband,
hands cuffed behind his back, was strung up from a tree with hundreds in attendance
applauding his death.
She threatened to have her husband’s killers arrested. Outraged,
the Mob decided to teach her a lesson.
With her swollen belly and feet, she tried to flee but was captured at noon
and taken to a bridge. One of the Mob men picked a tree.
She was tied by her ankles and hung upside down and doused
in gasoline and motor oil from their automobiles. One of the Mob men lit a match.
Engulfed in flames hot enough to make Satan sweat, she writhed in pain as her skin bubbled
and boiled. Pieces of flesh and clothing hung from her body. The Mob men howled in glee.
Still alive, one of the Mob men took a knife and cut across abdomen as if she was cattle. The
Mob men cackled like ravenous hyenas. Her premature baby dropped from her womb and hit the
ground. It whimpered twice.
The Mob, with boots of pure hatred and evilness, crushed its tiny
skull and body. Their final act was to riddle her burned and bloody body with bullets until she
finally died. The Mob, satisfied, went home.
The next day, they returned to cut her down from the tree. Her and her baby was buried near the tree, a whiskey bottle marking their grave.
Standing at the tavern door,eyes dark and brooding
Neath his floppy hat, stared into the crowded room,
A Raven flew from his shoulder settling in rafters high,
He smiled a sardonic smile and ordered a mug of ale.
All turned to look at this dark eyed traveller tall,
His leather boots dusty ,cloak trimmed with mud,
And from his belt around his coat hung a dirk long
No one thought to say a word they tried to look small.
Around the smoke filled room his gaze did wander
Settled on a crowd of rowdy sea going lads noisly
Drinking ale and rum and telling bawdy tales,
Just back from foreign voyage across the seven seas.
Within their midst a vision sat with a smirk on ruby lips
Long hair framed her face like waves of swelling sea,
Like kelpie mane, ran that hair ,her eyes like deep sea green,
And at once his dark eyes shone beneath that floppy hat.
The night wore on, the air grew warm, the raven fluffed his wings
From somewhere a shot rang out lodging in rafters deep,
Laughter raucous and shrill cut across the misty room,
Silence fell heavy among the gathered crowd.
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the rowdy lads
Dark eyes flashed as stepped towards where they sat,
As one they rose and laughed in his face,swords drawn,
In his hand a wooden staff and they laughed no more.
Faces stunned into disbelief at what they had seen,
Around his feet six men lay still blood seeping from their wounds,
He turned on his heel and slowly went through the door,
The Raven cawed, spread his wings as he flew out the door.
Standing by his horse the sea going beauty waited patiently,
She smiled as he approached with a swagger and dark eyes flash
He tipped his floppy hat and beckoned with outstretched hand,
She went to him in full embrace held him like a band.
They travelled the land, the sea faring beauty and the dark eyed man,
Their tale told throughout the fair sun kissed land,
From village to village and taverns where seafaring folk met,
The legend grew of the Dark Eyed traveller and his mermaid bride.
Andrew Provan McIntyre © 2015.
Outside something creeps
In the rustling of the grass
And the crackling of the bushes
The moon licks its thumb
And turns the page
Of the next book
Humans can be so dull, you know?
Light spills into the cracks
Of the sidewalks the puddles
Shrivel up in the undying sun
And I am left with
Sunburnt trees
With their dying leaves
The struggle of making sense
To a dying people
Filled with cement
Too thick to cut across with
Sharp ideals
Being vague is only an option
Who else is left to save them
As you walk through the corridors of life, its highways and by-lanes, the
back-alleys and well-beaten trails, through lush jungles or the arid scorching wilderness you pickup tidbits or sometimes gems of wisdom at the unlikely places, from the unlikely people, sometimes very much alive and present, sometimes from long dead and forgotten.
you learn from parents
and more so from peers and seers,
life teaches better.
One thing I learned from Jesus Christ is that you have to carry your own cross knowing full well that you may be crucified on this very cross – sometimes you have no choice, sometimes you have to do it for the good of the people.
Prophet Muhammad taught me that when a revelation dawns on you, embrace it zealously. If you have enough people believing in your perception, you have begun a new creed.
Moses taught me that you don’t have to tread the well-trodden path. You can cut across the wilderness and still reach the Promised Land.
Buddha taught me that a state of enlightenment can only be attained by renouncing physical and material yearnings.
Mahatma Gandhi made me see the futility of war and aggression. You can bring down a mighty empire just be a wooden staff in your hand and wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
Mother Teresa made me realize that you can live your life unselfishly, working and caring for others and still make your life a success and fulfilling.
not of the heavens
nor of any astral plane,
faith is of the heart.
Nowhere is taught the skills to live a life. You are not born with an instruction manual. No one can fix it for you if you screw it up. And you cannot return it and get an instore credit. You cannot put it on lay-away. You cannot exchange it for another if you don’t like the one you got. You just got to make it work good for you by yourself.
But these bits of wisdom comes much later—at the tether’s end of one’s life,
when we have already put too many miles on and the seats are all worn-out and the dashboard all faded and dusty. When the brakes start screeching and squealing. When the engine starts making funny noises and the radiator begins to leak…
a life-long process
salvation lies in one's self…
seek none but thyself.
THE TRAP
The trap is open, with the bait arguing out
Its immunity with the victim somewhere
In a world that flashes its sharpened sword
To cut across all those rock-hard impunities
You petulant preacher comment not on that,
Count your days instead and collect your doom
Mouth craving, head reeling, you are a sluggard
You, the evening's fever on night’s forehead.
I might trip once more into the trap of birth
No guide is looked for, no wisdom is sought
May be I'm a harlequin too wise for all this
Go slow with your game. I'm no more fair game.
Be sure that fine- honed day is waiting to flash
In a ready demonstration of how to slash.
For Charlotte's 'Free for All' contest
For the One I Know
In the ray of the rising sky
Will I raise my voice to the Most High
To glorify His Gracious name
The one that is never the same
With anything or bear by lords or gods.
On kneel will I affirm that no gods
Like Him. He is pure, He is One
And will remain Holy One in town.
His mercy cut across Whole clan
He mold. His Glorious vein... and His 'can'
Makes Him the Ever-living Superior
Being. While all remain inferior
Of everything a nation or society
Can claim. He maintains unequivocal entity
In history, as far as minds know
And as far as ancestors flow;
No Wisdom will... or surpassed His
“Being” and “Being Not”, which is of His
Understanding, the why- no one overrules Him.
Signs… and knowledge is Him,
That no mission and vision mask His bowls:
The why His “Be” and “Be not” is beyond owls.
At the climax of the caressing heavens
Will I not retreat to bow, and will bring on His evens
To the navel, the sea, the fountain, the soil…
And by His Grace will I cease not but toil
And eat joyfully from my earnings;
To equally appreciate my bearings,
And confer respect and honor -the glue-
To whom, He stressed and concurred, is due…
For God, and only Him will I not stop being loyal…
And will I not complain… with little or no royal.
I pray at the verge of collapse:
An alternating moment of taps,
Should I not, get tired of exalting His names.
For He’s Ever-worthy of His names;
Deserving is He to be glorified -the loving good God;
And Worthy is He to me -the Almighty God.
Note:
Will I not: I will not
Should I not: I should not
For: Suzanne Delaney's 'Let's Be Open' Contest.
It is when your attention is enslaved by a single scent..
Your first liking is she and second becomes her sharp speak..
Dreams cut across the heights and fantasy flies to large extent.
Red just reminds her lips and black to her hair sleek.,
When the music generate more than a pleasing mood in you..,
When her soft move towards you get all your strings disturbed.,
Each her smile and gesture get pasted in your heart with glue..,
And all your intentions demands to get out from being curbed..,
Your soul feel like emitting perfume and turns more beautiful miraculously..,
Then get it confirmed baby this is what Love Is Actually.
CUCUMBER PHILOSOPHY
Don’t smile, frown or in any way express emotion
Just gotta lie here and keep straight, green, stiff and shiny
Soldier cucumber on parade, dressed left with all my buddies
On display, under inspection
Civilians admire - some even touch.
Pretty women hold us up for their girlfriends
And make smutty jokes and comparisons about men
Or they squeeze us, pretending to think cucumber thoughts.
We stay at attention, reliably enduring surrogacy.
Wimpy men pick us up carelessly and toss us
Into the shopping trolley with their asparagus and dill
Children grab us for use as swords or clubs in their games
Then we get bruised and end up in the reject pile out in the trash
No way for a soldier to go
Good cucumbers die young
Our ideal end is like the samurai with a sharp blade
In a swift cut across the middle
Feel nothing, know nothing
And then be of service in a salad.
I don’t know but I’ve been told . . . . . . .
No cucumber wants to end up just old
Cecil the king of the jungle
How are the mighty fallen
Tributes have come in from all around the world
From the animal and human kingdom
Oh cecil
See the way you were killed
Like a common criminal
Humans forgot you are a king
Oh Cecil! Oh Cecil!
We weep and mourn for you
Vividly I remember when you strode this earth like a colossus
Your fame cut across all continents of the world
As far as even the Sambisa forest of Nigeria, Africa
We have all roared, not in joy but in weeping
I am confused now for it seems humans have become more
Callous than we of the animal kingdom
You will never be forgotten Cecil,
Your death shall be a cause for justice
We shall continue to fight for animal rights just like humans fight for human rights
Rest in peace my friend and confidant Cecil until when we shall meet again
My name remains Zambo the great lioness of Africa
I end this sad song with a heavy heart.
Zambian jungle weep no more but don’t forget Cecil
Good bye Cecil the great King