Best Early On Poems
Out of the burrows and hedges and dreys
Heads began bobbing and eyes were agaze.
Rumours were twittered and grunted and squealed:
‘The combine is coming to harvest the field!’
The moles and the voles and the rabbits and hares
All hurried and scurried and scattered in pairs.
The hedgehogs and ladybirds, pheasants and shrews
Did all that they could to distribute the news.
Then all made a dash for old wise badger’s sett;
The only safe refuge in face of the threat.
There, in the deep hollow they felt the vibration
They shivered and shuddered in great trepidation.
The thrumming and thundering monster machine
Soon passed overhead... and then all was serene.
And out of the hollow came heads, tails and paws
Another day safe from the harvester’s jaws!
Most recently entered into 'Your Best Rhyme Poem That Is Trophy Worthy Contest 3 Poetry Contest' sponsored by Tania Kitchin - 05.10.19
I chose this poem because not only is it one of my personal favourites, but to this day, I've no idea where all these little creatures came from! Written early on in my poetic endeavours, it made me appreciate fully the amazing powers of the imagination!
'A rattling rhyme contest' sponsored by Nina Parmenter
12/08/18
04/12/18
'I cannot believe I wrote that Poetry contest' : sponsored by Nina Parmenter
Your Choice,Any Form,Any Theme Poetry Contest : sponsored by Brian Strand
Friendships are made, friendships are broken
But the friendships here on the site
Are as strong as any that have ever existed
Unencumbered by outside influences
They thrive in an atmosphere of a common language
That of love, compassion, and joy
In the knowledge there are still loving souls out there
Amid the turmoil that exists in the world
Wars have been fought since the beginning of time
They have always been part of the human condition
This desire to be king of the hill
Starts early on with childhood interaction
Bullies trying to prove their superiority by strength
But their strength is usually only physical
There is also a strength of character
Which the so-called meek of the earth possess
That is stronger than physical strength
Strength of character is the strength I describe
Those that possess it often go on to great success
If their fire within is allowed to burn brightly
So let the friendships here on this site
Burn brightly with the love of the written word
The words in rhyme that communicate
A love of our fellow inhabitants
Of this wonderful site and this wonderful world
We call Earth!
I, to the pasture's green could run,
and fly a kite beside the sun,
but choose, I do, to linger still,
among the dirt, what is my frill?
Low, be it may, to sink my feet,
into the slimy, pungent peat,
but with my grandad by my side,
would daily stroll along the tide.
To rescue guls stuck in the mud,
or gather sticks for firewood.
As luck would have it on one day,
the tides did change and under clay,
a viking boat from days gone by,
with shields of pine and rivots ply.
Unmasked itself from muddy deep,
a secret for ourselves to keep.
Each day, we returned, with a spade,
with picnic full of marmalade,
and feasted there beside the boat,
in our wool hat and winter coat.
Charmed not only by history,
but by such untold mystery.
Then on one fateful dreaded night,
the waves were high, the wind a fright,
storms blasted down upon the shore,
Until the longboat was no more.
My granddad early on that day,
forgot to mention or to say,
he felt unwell, or rather ill,
but trudgeoned on, a soldier still.
But in the haste of wind and gale,
I didn't realise he was pale.
By the morning when I awoke,
to no smell of cigarette smoke.
I went downstairs and saw the fridge,
his oatmeal there, still on the ridge.
Maybe a lie in, thought my head,
I ran upstairs to grandad's bed.
There asleep, I thought at a glance,
I nudged him, but he kept his stance.
He was gone, how? I hugged him tight,
and ran for the river at twilight.
So here I am beside the tide,
Waiting for the mud to reside.
But if it does, what shall I do?
For treasure is nought, without you.
When the Sabbath was over, (the woman) bought spices so they might anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb? “
—Mark 16:1-3 NIV
angels neaten room
Jesus Christ smiles at the sun
strolls out of the tomb
resurrection...it’s begun
knocks the socks off everyone
3/2/2021
Here it is...a beautiful story about us....
The theme of us has been
written about for ages.
Love missed us,
Personal tragedies,
Shared but not shared,
shaped us.
We did our best
To live,
To survive,
Different kinds of battles
But battles none the less.
Bloodied, battered,
Life taught us how
To survive and we have.
Our worlds were so much the same
But different.
You have always been in my heart,
That's simple to say.
Men can be so transparent
And I am not so different.
Early on I knew
I was a romantic,
A sensitive,
A poet,
An Actor and Singer.
But war changed that for me.
At fifteen I saw your beauty
And innocence.
That is what I've had in my heart
to this very moment.
This is so fun....
Your have seen so meny
Coastlines from yaughts
and Mohitos.
while I have driven through the jungles
and marches of Honduras
to see the same sunset.
And yes....
You there with me...
Something like Hemingway
I am to you you've said to me..
I like the comparison.
Battle tested.
Well traveled
And read.
Yep, that's me.
And I can cook too.
Baby, your life is the stuff
of million dollar movies.
The glamor of Hollywood,
The Red Carpet
Doesn't care about last
Nights fight.
But you are a fighter.
Your Father taught you lessons
In his own way as did mine.
We share that.
Baby,
My love.
We aren't from
different social worlds.
Our values are the same,
We complement each other
If you can get past my long hair.
I love you.
My love,
You have given to me
a most precious gift
these past few days
Love...me
When I was young, I used to talk to God
in silent conversations in my head.
And I never thought that those talks were odd,
no more than when I knelt beside my bed.
I would speak to Him almost every day,
prying for His help for the umpteenth time.
And I would ask Him to take me away;
anywhere but here; would have been sublime.
I lived in fear of my father's beatings;
from early on, God was my only friend.
And in my heart, I cherished our meetings,
but the abuse and nightmares did not end.
Now, I'm as cynical as one can be;
for where was God when He meant all to me?
Posting early on a dozing suburban
hill
Mays warming morning rises and
Gently wakes.
The dewy hares move through the
Earthy till,
Small dry twigs the nesting pigeons
take.
Blue-high sky clear as an Ocean
Layers the heat upon red brick
streets;
Roads built over stubbled tracts
Deeply rutted from the ploughs
devotion,
Where once great fields of swaying
wheat.
Covered by neat gardens of square
disproportion
where blackbirds scold and tumble
Between the breeze;
Rushing madly through the tangled,
Variegated fauna,
Dashing around lines of neatly
Planted trees.
Quietly strolling the waking hour
Comes brightly,
Tripping like the splashing, pebble
Washed stream:
Wistfully recalling the woodsman,
Elk, and otter,
As it flows away,
Forever lost in dreams.
Early On
Sitting there alone in class
they said it wasn't cool.
He should not bring his bible
to read while he's in school.
The gave him detention
and they took his book away.
While he watched through the window
when the rest went out to play.
Then one day at home, at play
he was out collecting bugs.
He saw in the shed out back
his daddy doing drugs.
Mom and dad went their own ways
his life was filled with hurts.
Over time as time went on
he turned his back on church.
So many things that he would face
with so little understanding.
Life for him it seems to me
had become just too demanding.
New friends made no games are played
he turned his life to crime.
Until the day the law got him
and now he's doing time.
Other prisoners come and go
each going their own way.
But they gave him a bible
now he reads it every day.
Why is it that we never learn
until our chance is gone?
To give our children hope they need
while it's still early on?
Sweet and charming in everything I do or say
Outspoken when it is called for
Unique in my own right as I am sassy too
Talks with an accent that some like
Hospitable to each and everyone
Enjoys being a flirt
Really knows how to charm
Never gives away my inner most thoughts
Beautiful in my own right
Each day is another day to be
Learns manners early on
Lady like in all the public sees
Eloquent even when I do not want to be
Seldom in life does one feel the effects,
Of another’s SIXTY YEARS of lifespan;
But now and again, God gives us respect,
For the lives of extraordinary men.
Such was the case, with the ‘Walkin Man’s Friend,’
His own walk, amazingly profound;
A Patriot’s son, from beginning to end
A selfless giver whose story astounds.
Early on it showed—he really liked cars,
And his boat—he was at home on the sea;
But his love for people, numbered like stars,
Is what made him a genuine Marquis!
A lifelong athlete, he loved every sport,
A tough competitor, true to the Word;
His epic philanthropy—giving limitless support,
To worthy causes, about which he’d heard!
A family man—who departed far too early,
Happy-go-lucky, his legacy today;
This mountain of a soul, faithful and burly,
"Smile, be happy, live well"—he'd now say!
During this hard time, as together we grieve,
Recalling his humor, right up till the end;
Live a little bit extra, each day for our Steve,
Now forever memorialized as—the Walkin' Man’s Friend!
From early on
I was told
Commanded
To be what I couldn't be
Be good
Be even better than good
Be smart
Smarter than smart
Be careful
I couldn't be nearly careful enough
You wished for me to be extraordinary
Like him
You wanted me to be that other smarter guy
More and more like him
In fact I needed to be more like him than he was
I tried to be that
i thought if that's what you wanted
That must be What I want to be
But where should I start
For I wasn't even sure who I had been
I painted on my "Be Happy" face
Pretended my collection of tears were diamonds
Placed them in my pretending to be normal box
After all I only had time
Time for being all You wanted me to be
I lacked nothing and everything
For I ceased being
Being free
Being real
Being anyone or anything
You taught me how to be empty
To be lonely in a crowded room
To be someone Impossible to know
I wondered why
Why I just couldn't be
Whatever that could possibly have been
I waited and prayed for your departure
Now that you're gone
This can be
Has been
Will be even more
The true beginning of what
Of what I've been hoping for and couldn't Figure out
I think I really want it to be
I pray that you in your long gone place
will witness the birth
of this human BEing
Who knows, if I am lucky, it could "Be Good"
At the very least
Good enough for me!
Not Every Day is Perfect
I took my pad to the park today.
I wanted to find an idea for a book.
I was blocked…you know… stuck.
I walked outside, and looked up into the sky.
The clouds threatened rain.
I had no umbrella, but a man in a clown suit presented me one…
immediately.
I took it, and walked on.
Down the brick paved golden street,
and turned just to the right, the bus stop on ahead.
The shuttle to Mars left five minute ago, so I hopped the train to Texas.
We arrived early for lunch with the king.
As I sat with his highness, I whipped out my pad intently...
No!
Still no ideas.
I left from there as the flamingoes were dancing and getting out of hand.
I decided to take a stagecoach to the florist shop as it would help my mood.
The soup was chicken, with small white rice, shapes of animals and crackers.
Still nothing to write about.
The day was getting late. I had to go back home.
A roller skate, a rickshaw and two hot air balloons…
The darkness came early, on my sunshine day,
But I am very happy, as my package arrived.
I have new pencils, from far away.
I will take them for a walk, instead of my pen.
Tomorrow I will try again.
I made a firm commitment long ago
to read great novels frequently, not just
when I had time to kill or took a class
in college, for then reading was a must.
I love suspense involving clients, laws,
and litigators. I have come to see
the ones that hold, for me, the most
are found in the library, Section G.
I've a confession. I first read a book
by this great writer twenty years ago
when an associate whom I esteemed
convinced me his is work that all should know.
I learned of what inspired him early on:
his decade as a lawyer, Harper Lee,
and hearing a young girl speak of her rape.
His passion for the truth would be the key.
When I read Grisham's novels, I'm enthralled
with every plot and subplot, those details
that loop and wind, connecting when the time
is right. Each ending's smooth. He never fails.
His characters could walk right off the page--
the saints and devils, all those in-between.
The themes are realistic, relevant;
the settings, sometimes places I have seen.
His novels often make me laugh out loud.
That's right--these books on graft and other crimes!
The funny parts just underscore the theme.
His sense of humor shines so many times.
Best sellers have long been his claim to fame,
but he has other interests as well.
He campaigns to set free the innocent
who languish in the jails and prison cells.
This Christian former Legislator's love
extends to baseball, home, and family.
Our state is proud to claim him as our own;
and his success, we're truly glad to see.
I included some of his novel titles.
March 9, 2019, entered in Kai Michael Neumann's Book Worm Contest
Way back then when I was ten, I recall the memories,
That year, summer was spent on grandpa's farm;
We woke up early on the farm to chicken melodies,
I had a horse called Razzle Dazzle, he sure had charm.
Helping my grandpa doing chores was a lot of fun,
And helping grandma in the house was not a chore at all;
We worked hard and were bone tired when the day was done,
But then, one day off Razzle Dazzle, I had a fall.
So, back to the city was my destination,
With a fractured leg all I could do was play with my dolls;
Making up stories, mother said I had an imagination,
I painted bright pictures and taped them to my walls.
My friends had to come see me in my room or backyard,
They never stayed long and I was left alone;
Spent the long days reading and writing, it was hard,
I was used to freedom, so often I was quite forlorn.
Then, my leg healed and I was a butterfly set free,
I liked to collect "things" so grandpa made me a wagon;
Off I would go into the woods to find what I could see,
And come home with my wagon full and draggin'.
Liked pretty sundresses, my jeans with flowers on them,
Created bright jewelry and wore my entire collection;
I loved helping mother in her garden of flower gems,
And like most kids my age, I had tons of questions, questions.
_______________________
January 27, 2016
Poetry/Rhyme/When I Was Ten
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 749-406-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Way Back Then
Sponsor, Kelly Deschler
Third Place
WHEN MOTHER PULLS THE CART
Way back my classmate of middle school
Lost early on his father in the clutch of cancer
Destitute family cart mother was forced to pull
Clouds of trying times in the void sky he saw gather.
The study expenses weren’t easy to meet
He thought from the school he would drop out
But his mother said he needn’t, should never do it
She would soon find the way out, without any doubt.
He had no idea what that way could be
He was so assured, didn’t lose sleep over it
For he knew mother would do her best to see
Her bright son finished the school study with credit.
He woke up in the middle of a winter night
Found his mother’s bed empty, not slept on
When this happened routinely night after night
He decided to find out where she could’ve gone.
In the dead of cold night he went out to explore
Saw from the antique room a streak of light seep
He peeked through the keyhole of the closed door
She was stitching cloth bags, eyes half-closed in sleep.
January 23, 2019
Contest : All Yours (Feb 19)
Sponsor : Brian Strand