Best Dispatches Poems
Her breathing moves a strand of golden hair
that lays upon her pillow, next to mine,
yet in this evening birdsongs on the air
awaken me to listen and recline.
This errant bird, whose song dispatches sleep,
is laughing at a long forgotten jest
or maybe woos a distant mate who, deep
inside her feathered nest, finds better rest.
I watch the window, night begins to fade
and so do I. As slumber beckons me
I hear a distant answer softly made:
A dawn duet resplendent in our tree.
A single song brings answers in the air
as my beloved sleeps without a care.
Categories:
dispatches, life, love, nature, wife,
Form:
Sonnet
Foggy mists slither through the highlands
As downdrafts force them to the riverbanks
To the naked eye ethereal warm icicles
Among tow’ring long-needle pines piercing sky
From the other side near the rustic cabin
The yawning night watchman waits the 7:30
Preparing to hand off the latest dispatches in
A leather satchel, the hook catching its strap
The silent river valley comes alive screeching
Then wanes to deadly silence, the fog lifting
As he prepares to hand over to the day shift
Driving the winding road home, sleepy-eyed
written October 29, 2021
Categories:
dispatches, nature, night, work,
Form:
Free verse
The sound of Meaning
Wailing emotions
Whimpers with grief
At Logic’s intentions
The sound of Purpose
Whistling to dance
Spits in the face
Of theorized Chance
The sound of Judgment
Thunders with treason
Struggles to balance
Logic and Reason
The sound of Fate
Laughs and cries
Gets to decide
Truth from Lies
The sound of Liberty
Throats are sore
Strongly resembles
The sound of War
The sound of War
Snickers at Judgment
For human Logic
Serves punishment
The sound of Logic
Deafening with hate
Easily dispatches of
Purpose and Fate
The sound of Meaning
Wailing emotions
Whimpers with grief
At Logic’s intentions
Categories:
dispatches, philosophysound, sound,
Form:
Rhyme
"A Spoonful of Sugar"
Upon waking
the green hangover
hangs low waiting
for the weeding
the alarm sounds
like thunder
the cats on the prowl
they’re hungry
the words
spill out of my mouth
like a spoonful of sugar
stirred into a deep cup
of strong black coffee
my cup runneth over
anything for a new world
me thinks the pen
not a play thing
swords are dealt
like cards through the keys
the mind reeling in the
fishes like words
flapping in dewdrops
like swimming in tears
the stories like leaves
miracles ever falling
like loaves multiplying
for the toasting
the story begins
like a bullet being loaded
into a chamber
the trigger pulled
the capsule swallowed
dispatches the chapters
into
another world
a new world
a new story
sentences for weeding
wild gardens nourished
all the murderous little darlings
seeded,
unfurling
unfolding
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Categories:
dispatches, muse,
Form:
Narrative
Kestrel
Focused falcon
Honed huntress hovering
Adjusts; stoops; lands; dispatches
Raptorial
Categories:
dispatches, nature,
Form:
Cinquain
The space between us could be infinity,
vast and timeless,
a black void, a burned out star.
Oceans seethe,
spawning storms within their depths,
casting torturous waves upon a thousand shores
pulverizing land with their demonic power,
a dark, watery chasm to separate you and me.
As long as there is a sky above us,
I will hear your heart whisper
above the roar;
through vast spaces of time,
we send our quiet, secret dispatches
by an unknown post,
delivered to your heart and mine
on light beams streaming through the moon.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, May 5, 2015
Categories:
dispatches, absence, longing, soulmate,
Form:
Free verse
War Horse by Steven Cooke
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship,
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders field.
His rider glorious in his regalia, sword in hand.
He was his master now, and the horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple, their bond complete.
His last feed, bathed in a red sun,
Which hovered above the morning mist hiding yesterday’s sin.
For this is the place where death is king and reason is lost
This day, where man throws sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed, and discarded.
To blow away into the winds of time,
Recorded by nations into the ledgers of loss,
For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla
Their Trust, in man, galloping where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.
This place, Mans ultimate betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared, Eyes wide,
steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the next stride.
Then the Stumble, a moment’s recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck, then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his brow, the last kindness,
A wavered shot ushers his life away, like so many before,
No one will weep for you my War horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man, left to rot in Flanders field.
But for those precious minutes, he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,
Galloped blindly through the death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No equal, never forget,
For it is the shame of a nation, a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god.
No glory here, only an empty cup left on the altar of insanity
Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent Beast.
Categories:
dispatches, wardeath, war, death, morning,
Form:
The Selfish Knight and His Lady
Sixteen pieces for me
Allotted the same for you
But, it always begins with Me first
Unless the 'me' is you...
Whereupon, like Alice in her checkerboard world,
It's up to me to find our way.
It's up to you
To find my way...
I have been both pawn and knight
(never bishop nor king)
And our Queen moves so many ways
She never fails to make me spin.
"Capture the Queen,
Capture the Queen..."
I hear the forever cry
Emanating from the bishops
Holed up in their towers...
Chanting fealty and Romance
Singing of lady-love and noble favors
As I plod forward, a foot-soldier,
Or jump in frenzied el
The maniacal knight
An endless quest...
For her turn
(Your turn, that is, my Lady)
Comportment and Courtly manners
To match Courtly silks and tresses
Follow you in saffron mornings
All through glades of twayblade and cocksfeet;
Ever gathering, ever in the light
While light be present...
'Til evening's soft glow
Guides you home.
Took long years for one mortal
To build a pointed arch.
Arms extended
Through other arms
And tokens and chivalry pristine,
To your lofty heart.
But you removed the keystone
And that house of worship fell.
Unlike Samson in Gaza
Yours was no righteous strength
But some preternatural power
Summoned forth from within.
Sui generis
An altogether different vacuum-genesis
As lightning came from a dark, deconsecrated space
Not creation, but Her black twin.
As it was, so I deserved.
So here we are
Moveable pieces of glass cliché,
Infidels to the universe of Good
Imprisoned on a board
Within a game
Of skill, a game
within mirrors, a game
Within infinite possibility and paradox
Moved by, after all, an unknown hand.
And still, after all that, it is my fault.
We all learn that
Glass pieces, when struck,
By light, or love, or luck
Make fine parade of color
But cast no shadow.
Well, not
The hollow ones fashioned like you,
The one imprisoned my soul,
Turned prism opaque,
Forced the flight of radiant light...
But, fine pieces they do chip,
Or splinter,
Or break.
That's why they move
When someone shouts,
"Off with her head!"
So it is, after all
This fear which motivates ...
And dispatches all.
Categories:
dispatches, romance,
Form:
Blank verse
Beauty, splendrously attractive,
Ravishing and radiant,
Engages all my senses
As I open garden gate.
Trees, vying for attention,
Have resplendent, springtime wear
That dispatches sweet perfumery,
Attracting bees to everywhere.
Knowing I must mind my manners, since
I have entered Paradise,
Noting all the fresh spring greenery
Giving thanks for world so nice.
Written: 3/10/16
Categories:
dispatches, beauty,
Form:
Acrostic
Enterprising Henry IV declares suzerainty over state
Xenophobic princes seek the royal prerogative to abate
Cautious king uses diplomacy, threats his minions to subjugate
Old rivals in Saxony Henry's consolidation with tyranny equate
Morose princes in the hinterland seek to avoid a similar fate
Manic King Henry sends his forces the opposition to eradicate
Unifying his kingdom, Henry dispatches puppets, builds forts his
subjects to ingratiate
Nouveau Pope, Gregory VII, seeks his spiritual fiefdom to
accentuate
Invoking ban on German King's power to bishops nominate
Calculating King refuses to cooperate with this diabolical dictate
Arrogant Pope responds to Henry's disobedience with a writ to
excommunicate
Terrified, Henry performs penance to wipe clean the slate
Ecclesiastical mantra restored; Pope Gregory VII absolves the
humbled magnate
Demeaned but not demised, Henry continued to temporal, spiritual
power appropriate
Categories:
dispatches, history, peoplespiritual,
Form:
Sonnet
The Dry Dispatches
To the sullen cemetery in the sun we trudge,
No better place indeed to find memory’s heartbeat,
and a plate of forgiveness inside its eating green gardens,
as human bones hypnotize the dry dispatches.
No, I cannot sit here and continue to listen to you.
You try my patience.
My wish is for me to find death fast,
In my sleep of life now, no sooner,
For I have found distinct closure for my life;
Indeed I have made my final peace with God,
And as I now sit facing the sunset of my days,
I am reminded of so many faces from old times,
Old moments with humans foolish and brazen, as most are,
In their fleshing hearts and in their breeched dramas.
Shh, I waited inside the back door for your lusty footsteps,
Waiting for your anxious moving shadow as you arrived barefooted,
And when I opened the peering door, you said nothing,
Just turned around to be unfastened and unzipped,
as most sane lovers do, and then I brought you to the floor.
And silently danced with you in the naked darkness of temerity.
Oh humans, foolish and brazen as you are!
I cannot seek death because I am dead now myself,
Just a sorry ghost roaming with the myrtles in the distance,
Long ago, before the now of today and the road of regret.
Categories:
dispatches, death,
Form:
Free verse
A single stroke
dispatches emptiness,
in one ambitious line
gives backbone to
my limp attention.
Rigid fingers tighten
on the brush.
The bristles slash again
and incorruptible reality
is neatly tailored
to my artifice.
Leaning on my arm,
I glance behind me
at the letters
inching down the page.
There's no return,
no second chance.
The brush no longer
mediates between
intention and accomplishment.
It races on ahead of me,
guided by the incidental
pattern of its progress.
Independent of endeavor,
indifferent to what I am
or what I hoped to be,
it brushes my design aside
and draws its own conclusions.
First version published in Poet, India
Categories:
dispatches, muse, poems, poetry, writing,
Form:
Blank verse
How can you draw when your thoughts are adrift?
Maybe it is at that time when ideas are ready to lead the pencil across its conduit
Thoughts are so free; they get to fly with no red light
Or are they free?
Aren't we who put boundaries to what thoughts can be?
Or is it society's rules that play the role of a sustainer?
Questions that strike the mind, but
The answer is only found within each and everyone of you
It is based on what you believe and what you conceive
The basics depend on what you have been taught
They depend on what "Path" you have been 'put on'
You see, a baby is born with a precious treasure
A treasure all babies are born with
But then, that treasure might be lost or it might be enriched with pearls and rubies
I shan't provoke the name of that treasure, for it is up to you to know...
What this treasure really is
I am sure "you heard" of it, but
Have you conceived and believed?
Have you searched and compared?
Be quick, for time is out of 'time'
Quickly before the fire dispatches you; who are blind
Quickly before screams echo you; who are deaf
Categories:
dispatches, allegory, faith, life, timetime,
Form:
Free verse
Paint a monarch with the wisdom of all knowledge!
the miraculous dispatches of hidden balls of fire!in a desert hedge!
Throw out the doubters of such a man!
Bow!to the talking living start of the plan!
Every soul ever appeared has a realm!
from a hole they came good or harmed!
One souls dream is anothers nightmare!
some are fools!and others who just dont care!
He laid the ten rules sent from paradise!
Then made it all a school till the day they would die!
Categories:
dispatches, education,
Form:
Blank verse
I want to cry sometimes
Because the world has grown cold
No amount of sunshine dispatches the growth of shade
The tears of mine eyes won’t even touch the pain.
Outside mouths gift expensive lies
Selling young when so old
I attend to the truth of my mind
Chaining up my mouth so emotions won’t escape.
I’ve stood so close to the threshold of insanity
Drawn to be a fool because circles are born verbally
All I want to do is love unconditionally
Yet I just keep finding myself in the arms of mine own misery
I need to cry sometimes
Because I can’t seem to wake my soul
It’s not that I don’t try
I feel my morals have gotten so old
I don’t think I have much time to undress my brain
I try not to speak falsely
Quietly my tongue folds
Holding onto the hurt that’s from the past and it refuses to denounce its reign
Should I close my eyes
Only to watch my dreams deflate
Darkness is before the Dawn
I pray the sun will rise again
So I will cry
It makes me not less a man
Yet the child trapped inside
Is still afraid of the rain
Categories:
dispatches, absence, age, anger, angst,
Form:
Bio