Best Draughts Poems
Wind Song
Winter winds whoosh over the wilderness
In wild waltzes that warn of wanton storms.
On zephyr’s wings spring floats through soft breezes
Soft touch on tender petals
Feels like silk on bare skin.
Happy whirlwinds swish through summer skies
Tickles the face of waves in sheer delight
Laughs with puffy clouds in summer’s malaise
Rises with crimson dawns then stargazes
fall winds breathe brisk breaths
turns the morning mist to frost ~
draughts foretell chinooks
5-3-22
Contest: Brian Strand Premiere
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Five stones
closing times
radiograms and
seventy-eights
school caps
sticklebacks
saturday flicks,pooh sticks
Charabancs
steam trains
linoleum
oil cloth
mangles
fish paste
sandwich spread
Hot towel shaves
cut-throat razor
shopping baskets
paper bags
braces,plimsoles
short,back
and sides
Wizard beano
and hotspur
lending libraries
picturegoer,
road to
Bridget Bardot
Marilyn Monroe
Dripping
coal fires
antimacassars
nylons,suspenders
crumpets
and toast
Brown and mild
barrelled beer
conkers,school milk
blackboard rubbers
and liftup desk lids
times-tabled
school-kids
Draughts
and allotments
rusty bikes
roller skates
satchels and scrumping
pounds,shillings
and pence
The dead do not sing,
nor do they cry;
and oft wonder why,
they dance with death ---
and play draughts with the devil,
these Illuminati lords,
who shall die a thousand deaths,
most glorious Pig-Devils!
your last meal shall be a portion of hemlock...
great sows of the Earth!
These dead ---
do not know that they are already dead!
Old Lucifer he shall not save thee,
but hasten the raven to pluck thine eyes out,
and every sin he shall punish...
your days are numbered...
as days on a dim calendar;
as thou shalt be languishing on thy temporal graveyard;
I shall be seated in the heavens eternal,
with the Lord of Life,
and we shall look down on thee,
(and forget thou ever were)
***Its called 'venting'***
Thoughts hither, slither like a snake,
Thru fetid weeds to reach your lips,
From there, that poison aptly drips,
And mixes draughts I can't partake ...
Still, farewells come as 'farewell' quips.
How low you bend to tend the plants,
That bloom with petals of your need -
A swoony tune of won'ts and can'ts,
To feed your breed of garish greed
That hides a serpent's circumstance ...
A goodbye sown to make me bleed.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Rhyme Time 8" Poetry Contest, Lu Loo, Judge & Sponsor.
Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling, of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk. George MacDonald
_____________________________________________________________
In a world where decay is dominant,
Arctic tundra is melting, and envy is prominent.
Friendship withered away with the lapse of time,
Moon gapes at all facts and truths, concomitant.
We jive in death-cool air and chime,
Where dreams and hopes start to climb.
As though molehills faded into the grass,
Rapture rain has turned into melting rime.
In a place where the sky spills tears of brass,
And the howling winds bestow a deafening bass.
We lingered in the natural ephemeral support,
Behind the murky cloud of the ebbing mass
Our bond, however, was not flexible to contort,
Cyclic in the way that orchestral drums distort.
We carried out a solemn pledge on the floor,
In divine draughts, brambles flood the report.
The Meadow Brook gave us richness galore,
Black valleys where floods shred and roar?
We could not deny such a reservoir of devotion,
As with the wilting branches and dwindling door.
Our bonds faded, plagued by wide demotion,
Secrets below the land, a flurry of blades of notion.
In a world where deterioration prevails supreme,
Time and distance cast a curtain on our emotions.
But even amid such decay, there is a dream,
Darkening and drooping, we creep and esteem.
With the truth that humanity may split and slope,
Crows chirp as they drop twigs and scream.
While passing across acrid rings of mope,
Our ties are fraying. Teach me how to hope.
It shines brightly behind the gloomy overlay,
A dazzling beacon in the depths to grope.
In this universe of inexorable decay,
We acquire courage with each raw day.
With percussive pulses of love and delight,
Our ties will last for a span we cannot deny.
In a world where decay holds its might,
We defy its grasp, shining with an inner light.
Through the drills and tribulations we face,
Whatever embers burn our ego and sight.
To eye the purple bruise of dawn
That routs the road you travel on
In draughts no man can verbalize,
And yellow forks the bludgeoned sky
In tongues that lap at thunderstorms
Which fuel the rain that hunts you down –
To joust the iris of the sun
That browns the green of hissing lawns
And droughts the earth where buff it lies
In dusts of wind you can’t deny –
To nock the angle of the bow
That knows the way the arrow goes
And draw the cord that hurls it down
The road you ride to the unknown –
As leaves begin to plummet,
The sun subsides earlier, too.
The moon ascends humming
love songs.
With silvery sonatas of you.
Outside, the once warm winds,
have removed their seductive rapture.
Now in draughts, and cold winds.
I've become their desolate, lost
capture!
September 8, 2019
I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap
A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong,
My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop,
Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong,
The silence echoed round the wheel fop.
I screamed with tears which said the news,
When sirenes had been screened for writ,
Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews,
That cared enough to dare read the fit.
Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here,
Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped,
Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear,
When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped.
Critical realism still made no ontological sense,
My metaphysical slippers knew no god,
Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense,
When constructivism departed from my odd.
I could not write to epistemology for methodology,
‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive.
Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy,
Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff.
Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair,
No predicates set my entities alight to condition,
The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer,
I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition.
This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation
FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal,
Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation,
Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal.
Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical,
Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact,
Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal,
The dame. The lame as mentioning the act.
Structural.
Rhoda Monihan
He told me
his last
real conversation was in
nineteen-fifty-five. And that was
thirty minutes
on the sidewalk
with an interested stranger.
Those that love him
respect his silence,
keep him to a fifteen word
maximum. That allows them
to get along. Silence is the juice
of that loving home.
He told me
how he dreamed of
lectures, long and
deep draughts
of speech.
He dreamed of
eyes bright with
the lights from his stage.
essence pure of all you are
luminous as angel stars
clearly tracked your soul flight
vast pensive universe delights
soul fragrance unlocked, opened
this heart fast closed, broken
breathing you in draughts refreshing
love's rich, soft web enmeshing
two into one; sweet perfume
satiates sense in your soul room
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, October 11, 2014
Come to the waters as they freely flow
from that vast life giving stream.
Drink many draughts of the water of life,
it is pure, refreshing and clean.
You need no containers to fill yourselves up,
this source is entirely free.
I guarantee that the contents are there,
to sustain every family!
So drink in abundance and drink your fill,
no drought will ever arise;
For the Master Controller will turn on the tap
when He hears your request from on high.
Home sweet home, Africa my mother's land
Where mornings arise with beautiful sounds of joyful birds
Giving thanks to the one who gave them life.
A peaceful yet chaotic place where souls find comfort in discomfort
Cherished by the smoke of love and wisdom
To keep hopeless hopes hoping for better days.
A land of my origin in which my life principles are rooted
And constantly nursed by my forefathers and mothers
To keep me wet in a well of norms and traditions.
This is home sweet home Africa my mother's land
Where breakfasts and dinners are blessed with arts& culture
In memory of days when forests used to produce food to eat
And herbs to cure illnesses.
Gone are the dàys , gone are the times
But Africa my home remains firm like a tree in desert
Watered by the streams of tears and blood
With sorrows lamenting in pains.
Yes, I still call it a sweet-peaceful home
Though famines and draughts
Continues to crush it with civil wars & political instability
As the world watches in silence for this is Africa;
Africa my home where hopes will never be lost
No matter the blood lost.
In pains and laments we will forever smile
For we know that a home we have
A home that stood heavy rains and horrible storms
For many years and will continue doing so
In decades and centuries to come.
I hear the sounds of a spring brightening dawn,
As fledgeling birds from sheltering nests emerge.
A lone Blackbird’s singing lifts this idling morn,
A creature scuttering through the long grassed verge.
I hear a fox barking in the fading night,
An early bee droning through the warming day.
I hear breezes rustling in the morning light,
The slow risen hours of a full budded May,
I hear the symphony of the pouring rain,
The hiss as sudden watery puddles form,
Fast rivulets gushing through the gurgling drain,
Low grumbling sounds of a distant passing storm.
I hear the woodland stream sing its own refrain
And slow draughts whispering through the barn’s stored grain.
Bourbon; whisky- on the rocks,
Chased by draughts of Coke
Or was it lines sniffed from the clock-
Forgotten after several tokes?
Join the Clan of Ativan,
(Betrothed to one Ms. Lora Tab)
In vodka pools, serenely swam-
By many needles, duly stabbed
My Ecstasy for LSD,
In quiet dens of Opium
Magic Mushrooms picked for me-
And a sip of amber rum...
She'd seen the house for sale and came
to have a look around,
walked up the path as freezing mist
curled, snake-like on the ground.
Two stone Griffins, like sentinels
gazed from beside the door,
she knocked, it opened,spilling
greenish light across the floor.
A wizened man with sunken eyes
asked ' yes,can I help you?'
she stammered 'er, this house for sale,
I've come to have a view'.
'Then step right in' the old man wheezed,
she cautiously walked past,
into the hall, where from the wall
there came an icy blast.
'Some draughts' he said, 'the doors are old,
just simple wear and tear,
which also makes that wailing noise
you're hearing from upstairs'.
The kitchen was spattered with red,
and sticky, like fresh tar,
'I had an accident' he said
'with beetroot, from a jar'.
A knife stuck in the kitchen door,
just inches from the lock,
'I keep it there, convenient,
as I don't own a block'.
The coffin in the living room
gave the young girl the creeps,
' I bought it in advance for me,
while it was really cheap',
the man explained, while when she turned
he forced back down the lid,
she swore she saw that something moved-
(well, actually, it did).
The staircase groaned with every step
as if it was alive,
she looked in all the bedrooms except
bedroom number five,
locked up, he said 'I don't use it,
and I have lost the key',
she swore she heard a plaintive voice
as she walked on, say 'flee!'
'I've seen enough', the girl declared,
'I'll bid you a good day',
'Oh no you won't' he grinned, she turned-
the Griffins blocked her way.
For contest 'The Haunted house', sponsor Dear heart a.k.a Broken Wings
26th August 2018