Best Dwarfing Poems
Where hills lay barren, and bedrock’s stripped bare
let me take you away to county Clare
Huge cliffs climb sheer, dwarfing waves underneath
atop the Burren my heart skips a beat
With nothing to see, apart from the view
all makes perfect sense, rain comes right on cue
And whatever I feel, it’s in the air
desolation yes, but without a care
Where fields seed pebbles, and pastures reap stones
through Clare’s vast rawness, I trek on my own
A whitewashed lighthouse, beckons away
scouring heavy seas, beneath clouds of grey
Gulls are crying, as they happily do
rising and falling, going nowhere too
Still makes me wonder, where I’d rather be
than here by Clare’s dolmens in reverie
Later I take in, what nature left out
my pipe, tobacco, and bottle of stout
Hms
Silent currents softly swirl
Around tree scented salty tears
Flowing forth from freshened forest
Awash from Summer’s seasoned years
Sunlight filtered through high branches
Causes mist to rise and glow
Gleaming in the golden fern
Drifting ghostly disappearing
Winsome weather wafted waves
Waking woods on Wednesday morning
Pauses kissed and shed of woe
Friendly forest fantasizes
As the life form warmly rises
Faerie elves and dwarfing dragons
Drift away in morning dew
Clarity of dawn is breaking
In the awesome reawakening
Another day is here anew
To spend in joy with you
The giraffe
Under the trees
Dwarfing the trees
Deceit devastated me!!!
…debilitating my dignity, darkening my disposition
…directing me to despair…
Then dread defrauded me --- doomed were my dazzling dreams!!!
…dictating my disaster-denial, discouraging me
…dwarfing my duties
Oh, dearth-disgrace debased me!!!
…degrading me to downfall’s detriment
…deterring my determination with doubting
…damning me as defenseless!
Despite the deceiver’s devices,
Dearest Defender* delivered me!
Day by day, my dryness’ drought He drove out.
Difficult days He turned to delight
Domination of depression He did defy!
Dwelling within His dealings I now do...
Departing from Him destines me to destruction.
Decrees He demands I dare to declare
Decided am I to dedicate my all to Him
Devoted to my Lord Who loves me indeed!
*Psalm 94:22 But the LORD is my defence; and my God is the rock of my refuge.
May 4, 2018
1st place, "Mid June 2018 Standard..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 6/17/2018.
Venice, Italy, is a crazy shamozzle of new and old
Where junk, graffiti, decay, stunning beauty,
history and culture poverty and opulence, all reside side by side, bobbing.
Water dominates the landscape, canals and waterways replace all the roads
Everything is carried by boat, food, people, garbage, produce, industrial supplies.
Ambulances, fire engines, delivery trucks and police cars are all replaced by boats.
The disorderly rusty ferries ply the waterways, jostling along with gondolas, magnificent polished wooden water taxis,
Occasionally the historic scene is ruined by modern fiber glass runabouts
with huge outboard motors completely out of place.
Next comes barges with cranes, garbage collecting boats, delivery and construction supply boats, and the many service vehicles.
Grab a table beside the canals and watch the parade of boats old and new jostle and bobble on by.
Walk through the tiny crowded streets and enjoy the kaleidoscope of people of many cultures enjoying themselves.
There are many surprises. Tiny shops with feet in large glass tanks being cleaner by fish.
Everywhere there are places to explore and things to enjoy.
Looming off in the distance you may see huge cruise liners dwarfing the buildings,
These vessels are seemingly populated by ants, as the ships are so big.
The ancient church bells in Venice chime as the ships depart arrive and depart, in homage to the new god of tourism.
The Palace art is simply overwhelming, overloading your senses.
Ancient art is everywhere and often ignored.
Venice is beautiful, but one gets the impression that all the photographs taken in Venice
are gradually sucking out the life force out of the structures, hastening their decay.
There are so many dimensions and experiences, places to explore that you never get tired of Venice.
The more times you visit the better you will like it and the more you will find to do and see.
You have to laugh and ignore the hassles, the jostling crowds, the regimented crowded ferry system,
the pushing and shoving of the crowds in the tiny streets,
simply laugh and have fun.
Venice is crazy, nice, with diverse multi-faceted attractions and lots of things to do.
You will love it!
Venice Trice is Nice.
Dark into its den submissively shrinking
Twinkle came in triumphantly invading
Long waited glister the world tendering
There comes at last the blissful morning
The big tree just in front so far sleeping
With melodious sounds now pullulating
Joining the chorals in the new day praising
‘Robbie’ and ‘Tweetie’,up there, happily singing.
A kiss, a hug then ‘Robbie’ is away flying
Over the tree, the sky for a while roaming
To distant plains, remote streams heading
Food for their newborn nestlings seeking.
‘Tweetie’ out of the tree never venturing
Her homey , cosy nest beautifully trimming
Against winds and dangers dutifully fortifying
Her progeny in the cradle peacefully snuggling.
One day ‘Tweetie’ heard of a world, bewitching.
Wonder in her heart was slowly prevailing
Her existence looks now pitifully unavailing
For change and exemption unprecedentedly longing.
She leaves the next morning, all perils dwarfing
From above, she can see where she was dwelling.
A tremor along her spine painfully repelling
Freedom spell all her being controlling.
In the world ‘Tweetie’ went on wandering and feeling
More and more magic her innocence discovering
Unaware of predators in the hide lurking
Until they attacked all the charm shattering.
Remorse, fear over her mind gaining
‘Tweetie’ returned to her fledglings
The nest now empty in parts falling
She waited and waits and waiting
They couldn't have chosen a nest-bed more complex, or vaster.
I lauded their industry (toiling through Sunday, no qualms!),
and almost felt guilty for loitering by their pilaster.
My wife was the hold-up. Those scanty straps were a disaster,
her shoulders cold-shouldered! Here, there's no right to bare arms.
Basilicas don't come mightier, or more splendid, than this one:
Saint Peter's in Rome, High Renaissance, wide-fabled by poets.
The great Michelangelo crafted this Christian Aswan:
they've gathered its glories in guidebooks, so no-one need miss one.
Those frantic ants scampered on legend, but they didn't know it.
And isn't that rather like us? As we hurry and scurry,
accomplishing little, accounting ourselves oh so clever,
ignoring the story (except our immediate worries),
deploring as boring whatever creates no quick flurry,
we miss the magnificence dwarfing our petty endeavours.
Galactic spectacle, we name you
For a Greek mythic giant.
You exist in mythic realms of space
Dwarfing our Milky Way,
The largest yet known of your kind.
We behold your bygone light,
Your radio signal artifacts now only just
Arriving from what you were
Three billion years ago.
So humble our instruments for
Detecting you,
so simple our data collection
about you.
Gargantuan star ellipse drifting and yawning in
Vacuous void.
A hosting galaxy, embedded in cosmic web strands,
Two hundred forty billion times
The size of the Sun,
With a massive black hole nucleus,
Four hundred million times
The size of the Sun.
We measure and record like
Ancient Babylonians,
And still, no one comprehends.
“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.
The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.
“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.
Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.
Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.
Should a caveman or woman accidentally wander into our time zone,
He or she would feel right at home,
With their keen ear easily able to interpret our not-so-subtle Grunts,
And groans.
Their good eyesight and sense of smell soon aiding them in finding a free meal.
On many a movie set.
With a home invite from the director or producer on the cards.
With real muscles and body strength dwarfing what we consider as Power,
Suitable for the Frey.
Able to leap from building to building with consummate ease,
They would soon adapt to our concrete jungle,
With their trusty club at hand,
Making us quiver as we hide behind the nearest bar.
Their fleetness of foot and turning speed able to,
Test out some of our smaller cars.
Their ability to deal to snakes in the grass an extra bonus.
Who would benefit most from this accidental meeting?
I think we would, as they would know where to find the best caves,
To help us overcome the housing shortage.
Insurmountable
Instead of shaking hand with smiles
The gentle man with tie in neck
Bent his head bloating throat of haste
White face turned red pollution of blade
Conclusion made a rough sketch
Only spending in vain these fabulous days
Far from the internet roars and uproars thrilled
Hands with hats and hoods display of face
A major case was blown hither thither
Humans were treated with harsh race
Believing so case demanded withdrawal of chase
Symptoms blurred in TV this morning I face
A pigeon was lifting a written piece
Glimpse of modern days puffed sad sad
chemistry was excusable for peace and bliss
But dwarfing creeds and beliefs from human face.
Democracy.
We were tired of living,
But weren’t sure of leaving.
To them, we portrayed an incoherent loquacity of a nervous Mong-er,
Committing crimes, living in abject poverty and dying in hunger,
Yet, their thoughts put on the panoply of killing.
We have been around this neighborhood,
But never had a chance to act with the Nollywood.
Their cameras were always on us like celebrities,
Not for good but to show the world our negativities,
We die daily, yet, we didn’t break the brotherhood.
The sound of their guns do thunder in fury,
Dwarfing our ambitions, then our visions blurry,
Then like vicissitudes of wind and weather,
We still adjust our lives like buckles on leather,
And wish to survive the tears of outraged vanity blinding us in a hurry.
We are from the black race,
It’s evident in our bloods and my face,
Let the black man enjoy freedom truthfully,
Because the decision to be free is taken freely,
I think I have already set the pace.
An Stewart Chekiri Everestus's Poems © 2019
They tell them the reality of yesterday is their tomorrow
Save the cries for different versions of sorrow
The world is hash but there is a God who is omnipotent
The world has abundance if they choose to be content
If their dwelling is a square foot, they should think about a refugee
If their bowls are empty they should fast, prayer is free
They traded their votes for hope and empty promises
Their offertory is a subscription enticed with a forebode blessing
They should not question their poverty, for religion extols it
They should not question the system, if they are patriotic
The system was designed for the poor to determine who rules
The system was designed for a few rich to rule over the poor
Their poverty gives the powerful power over them
Their ignorance raises few questions
Their starvation hungers for crumbs
The desperation of the governed inflates the egos of the government
Dwarfing the people into fear, inferiority complex and indoctrination
These are the bars of the gate of the prison of poverty
Fall’s felicitous red herring —
the mystery of leaves morphing.
The autumnal applause fairing.
Verdant heat and daylight dwarfing.
The horologic ticker chimes,
as lines are drawn on pumpkins patched.
Gramps, it’s apple picking time.
The scarecrow’s wise with balding thatch.
Forensic crisp of maple leaves —
children foolishly blinded by
the crimson and yellow dervish
heap...how quickly green does die.
Snowy bonnet soon covers plot —
arthritically profound.
The creaky ice of knees and knots
embellish the grownups’ playground.
Sought are the days of yesteryear —
chirping of birds and childhood friends,
standing aloft swing with no fear,
ascending where sunlight transcends.
9/22/2019
100 words
Any poem you want to write exactly 100 words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Word count checked by howmanysyllables.com
All around mountains stare down,
Dwarfing Bleancwm with a silence,
Our Brockway walk is to begin,
Unusually no song birds to sing!
The steep incline to the top,
Plenty to look at, while the legs stop,
Waterfalls, horse medows, rocks,
Plenty to hear as the mind resets,
Water crashing, Water relaxing,
Breaking the silence of the mountains gaze,
The reward, a look over Bleanrhondda,
Where no doubt the birds have gone,
To join the people and souls in song,
Perfectly lined pine forest, not been touched,
God's home made compost already mulched,
All the trees eerie stand to attention,
One or two fallen, needs to be mentioned,
Further along the roman settlement so high,
The Romans must have thought it was the sky,
As the bikes in the distance come close and raw,
Tearing the path to its core,
All around old man's beard graced the trees,
A mountain that keeps on giving,
Another waterfall so tall, it's having a ball,
Stunning walk back to the car park,
Where the past will always last,
Mining everywhere the spirit is there,
When the spell was cast who thought it would last,
Mountain with a heart beat,
Rhigos you have gave us a treat.