Best Earthward Poems
On the day after Christmas, they started appearing,
cast out of houses, stripped of their finery,
lying crooked in the gutter, garbage bags flanking.
My brothers and I walked to school
and halfway there, three blocks away,
was a steep ravine called The Hollow.
A place of some dark mystery in summer,
one hundred feet deep and forbidden land
according to most parents, The Hollow
sang its song to all neighborhood kids.
Returning to school after Christmas,
my brothers and I would drag the discarded
Christmas trees along the sidewalk and onto the bridge
that spanned The Hollow, then heave them over the railing,
watching their graceful tumble earthward,
their air brushing final fall.
"Hey, I used to do that too!" Donnie was a lot older,
almost done with high school, and his walk took him
right by our elementary school - he laughed to see us
hauling the trees to that concluding bridge.
He grabbed a large one, bigger than any of us could handle,
and upon the bridge had us help him hold it upright on the railing,
as it stood in life, as it looked down upon Christmas gifts;
we watched it slowly lean into Gravity,
watched the balletic descent into silence.
Donnie kept with us that first month into the new year,
the pile of trees growing in the bottom of The Hollow.
He told us things, we told him things,
we asked him things and he told us more.
My brothers and I still talk about that big tree
on the railing of the bridge over The Hollow.
It hit right on top of the pile of other trees
and bounced off to the side, its own special place.
As January wore on, we didn't find as many trees,
and ultimately it was all done.
Eventually the school year too was done,
and then more years, and school itself was done.
The trees at the bottom of The Hollow rotted away to nothing.
Somewhere in there my mom told me that Donnie
had been shipped off to war, killed within a few weeks.
We had that one magic month.
December 25, 2016
For Anthony Slausen's contest - 'The Day After Christmas'
A collaborative poem, written in renga format, or "linked-verse", by Timothy Hicks and Jesse Whitehead.
Verses in normal font are by me.
Verses in italic are by Jesse Whitehead.
January jest
drawing mustaches
in the newspaper
coffee to warm the hands
walking the railroad
refusing
to stay put
a child's balloon
spring in her step
red moon overhead
has dusk come already?
the field of tulips
seem to say
unwavering and gentle
strong as stone
mountain peaks
wind through summer meadows
a tender caress
lying there still
a heart-shaped mark
steady rhythm
ebb of the tide
broken shells
spiraling earthward
the last golden leaf
fading in and out
memories sweetly touched
a dancing flame
burning through pages
another x on the calendar
NOTE: This was my first attempt at a Renga poem, written in collaboration, with one of my best friends from Idaho, Jesse Whitehead. He's one of the few friends of mine whom I could discuss writing with. Though he typically writes fiction and stories, rather than poetry, he was willing to give this poetry format a go; and to my knowledge this was his first time writing poetry. It's a fun little challenge that I hope you all will give a try!
Scarlet and golden etched,
autumn leaves reflect summer's apprehended glory
incised in deep veined images.
Released, they sigh earthward like final breaths.
Sharp pungence ripens , musty tang,
a piquant vaporous mustard milked
from forest loam's black breasts
beneath life's heavy kneading tread.
Sudden, determined winds attack
raping writhed skeletal remains;
stripped spring's green clad darlings.
Feigning innocence,
the gray storm fiend curtains guilt
beneath pure, snow white overlay.
Copyright, August 2, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Our fig in January, entirely denuded now
like my heart in your absence, is but
more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel
of strength supporting the curving bowl of its
branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming
the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway
described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg
where we used to walk, following in his footsteps.
These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup
the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters,
better for unobstructed passage to its
earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation.
Above ground two massive roots, more visible
in winter definition--veins from the beating heart
of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out
in different directions, then disappear wherever
they are traveling, who knows where? Not
climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder,
but earthward out of sight toward a Southern
provenance, toward Provence, perhaps,
as if impassioned for home.
HAPPY NEW YEAR FELLOW SOUPERS!
In our youth, we'd swim the depths of our souls,
splashing and playing in love's limpid pools.
And we would share each other's hopes and goals,
love-struck teenagers and romantic fools.
Holding hands, we'd stare at the stars all night,
stealing kisses when no one was around.
And we'd ogle the sky until first light,
watching shooting stars streaking earthward bound.
Back then, we felt we were both blessed somehow,
confident our love would last forever.
And yet, it didn't; that was then, this is now,
and we no longer believe in never.
Memory's a time capsule in itself;
where innocence collects dust on youth's shelf.
My eyes are all out of breath
A day such as this
feels the calm fingers
........ of eternity
In this....the morning of a new year
change stands on the horizon
Yet, earth feels no quiver
...the air
weaves no motion in the shafts of wheat
to mark the soundless trail by which the seasons pass
So hushed a day is this
that one mere leaf
floating earthward with compliant sigh
would send the echo of it's whispering
across the purple arches of the sky
can I? should I? even try to write a poem?
for, who am I to describe?
a
q u i e t
b e a u t y
t r a n s c e n d i n g
a l l
e y e s
this
gift
from
God
____________________________________________________________
Solitude sounds good on balance, yet perhaps that is just me.
There is the implication of loneliness, of nobody to talk to,
and I think of the many people for whom the pain of being alone
is immense, maybe unbearable.
"Solitary" - is that a good thing or not?
Life can be torment, and I've had some horrible days,
always of my own making, days where I was alone
with the pain of being a fool, of hot caustic circumstance,
where time itself seemed to be alive with a bad fire.
You have found me in my solitude,
so, which way do we go?
Today, let us go from hot to cool.
Walk with me twenty years ago -
by then, you might think it's cold.
We are in northern Ontario, Canada,
at this time of year - early December.
Clouds lie thickly above us,
a layer of protection.
Our path is around a lake,
water on our left, forest on the right.
There is no wind - if we hold for a time, the only motion
comes from small, widely dispersed snow crystals,
falling earthward, falling mostly past us.
It is that perfect time of morning
when the world is caught between dark and light,
things visible but still within their hidden selves,
black trees, white snow,
muted greens and grays,
the silver of the water.
At the birth of an instant, an eagle rises and flies directly away,
then turns and glides low over the lake.
We see it moving right to left,
linear above the water,
the glide of the continuum,
seeing past the moment into all that is tranquil,
and everything that softly remains.
All that is below will go, one day.
The eagle senses the union between us,
and begins to gain altitude,
the air being so still that we hear every beat of wings against it.
December 3, 2016
For Mystic Rose's contest: 'Come and Find Me in my Solitude'
Bed time story
Night sky stood still inky dark and gloomy
There came a light that flickered zigzagging behind the clouds
a sudden resounding loud sound of cymbals
Heavy pouring rain commenced
In my pajamas with heavy eyelids it is time for bed
Mama sits by my side with her arms around me, I nuzzle
Bundle tightly under the covers keeping warm
A fairy tale she reads,
“The Story Of The Three Little Pigs”
“Once upon a time there was an old Sow with three little Pigs “ ….
While
Outside
Angry howling sounds
like the crashing ocean tide
breathing, growling wind knowing…
“Little Pig, little Pig, let me come in.”
I’ll h-u-f-f and I’ll p-u-f-f and blow your house down”
I struggle; I snuggle closer to mama;
"No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”
A chill runs through my body leaving a frightening illusion
Goose bumps and the hair on my arms and back of my neck bristles
“Then the Wolf came to the second Little Pig,”
“Little Pig, little Pig, let me come in.”
Wind wailing rustling into the night
Whipping tree branches
Tapping, scraping outside the window
Tears of rain run down… making leaves fall earthward
Leaving a blanket of wet leaves and twigs on the ground
“So the Wolf came to the third house that was made of bricks.”
“Little Pig, little Pig, let me come in.”
I’ll h-u-f-f and I’ll p-u-f-f and blow your house down”
He h-u-f-f-e-d and p-u-f-f-e-d and he h-u-f-f-e-d and p-u-f-f-e-d, but he could not blow the house of bricks down”
As the drama fades and a perfect sound of …
"The three little pigs lived happily ever after."
5/29/2016
THE STORY OF THE THREE LITTLE PIGS
Poetry Contest : Boogeyman
Sponsored by: Nayda Ivette Negron
love is fatal attraction
just another Icarus
plummeting slowly earthward
as tight knit bonds fail
I round a bend in the trail ...
And gasp, literally ...
The scene before me takes my breath away
And I stop, transfixed by the sheer breadth of the panorama
The shimmering span of Crater Lake ...
Clear, crystalline ...
Pure as the tears of Heaven
Translucent fathoms of water, waiting ...
Glassy, tranquil, yet the depths shroud an inky secret
A brumal dragon, ages old, slumbers in the blackened abyss
Its fiery, flaming breath is calm, but its breast still slowly rises and falls
The wings of thunder that once battered the air to ruin
Are tucked close and quiet, but they tremble yet
The snorting nostrils that choked the sky, and earth-tearing claws
Are still and cold, but they shiver with an energy, relentless
The molten rock that is its lifeblood, ever flows deep in its bowels
Sleeping, dreaming, biding its time and virility
Above, nature attends to its own
The remnants of Mount Mazama paint the reach
Crimped in white and green, the edges of snow-dusted foliage
Creatures dance, unknowing, upon the beast's back
Life goes on-and-on, in all its guises
Struggle, tragedy, the feral judgements of existence and mortality
Predator and prey, birth and growth, changing seasons
The ceaseless spin of survival, continues on ...
This exquisite glade and the providence that surrounds me
Thrums with vitality, oblivious to the danger and heat stirring earthward
Bloating in the gut of the burning basilisk ... far, far below
Waiting for when the time is right ...
And it once again ... scorches the sky.
Written and submitted on January 15, 2019
For the "Sleeping Volcano" Poetry Contest
Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
THE METEOR - SOFA PEOPLE
Sofa pyromaniacs are skilled to put it mildly.
Fueled fiercely by gasoline (as is fitting)
Or by kerosene burning wildly,
They enjoy a fire to warm their sofa-sitting.
In anger are the flames incepted on the two-seater?
Or by simple accident of cigar or match?
Maybe the cat stumbled over the gas-heater
And then sat nearby to warm and watch?
But however the inferno got started bright,
What caused its plunge to earth
Like a shooting star or meteorite?
Did people push it, for malice or mirth?
To manhandle a burning sofa is a skill -
Out of a window eight floors up. If that’s their aim
They’d have to get it balanced on the windowsill
Before igniting the flame.
Oh the joy in their eyes :
Just push - and see the sofa incandescent
Recede and diminish in size
On its plunging earthward descent.
Then the son-et-lumiere display
From the crunch and splitting sound -
And oh the splendor bright as day
As the glowing hulk meets the ground.
And passing viewers catch their breath
From this Viking-funeral excitement;
And from their close brush with a fiery death -
Crushed by a hot chaise-longue into the pavement.
Earlier in the month but lately begun,
(Or was it perhaps the last one, the one before-November?
I know of a surety that it was a time uncoated by congeries
Of most alabastrine snow, and that that which is blanketing
All now, it was not present then. The abundant
Cleanness and glaringly white cleanliness of snow's earthward fall:
This plummeting and deposition of the flakes that seem as
Deific dandruff, else manna or some snowlike thing that
Depends from out the pregnant, grey, ominous clouds
That encroach as a marauding soldiery does on these
Brumous days in this niveous, frore portion of the
Twelvemonth whereat and wherein man has to contend
And pit himself against the snowy flakes.
Yet, the ground being filthy with dirt,
And the cleanliness of snow being nowhere,
'Twas almost certainly in the bleak, but snowless November),
I ope narrowly the door of one of my brethren's truck,
Yet, though 'twas warm, occlusion proved impossible,
And still the door hung ajar despite all my most and best efforts to
Seize it shut and close it.
Yet now the snows are covering it, coating it...
And still it remains unvisited, yet perhaps when my brother
Repairs outside to see it, to step into and drive it,
Perhaps when he notices the ajar door,
Then mayhap he will think the snow somehow was the cause of the
Maloccluded door.
Popcorn and assorted snacks in hand
My vision obscured with the theatres darkness
The streets permeated with shrieks of horror
Artificial blood oozes earthward from the victims
Flesh being feasted upon
Brains gnashed into pudding
Goosebumps slither up my body
Lights illuminate the deadline of the movie
-
Bewilderment dominates humanity
Our perception dazed in abhorrence
The pavement eclipsed with hustling bodies
Genuine vital fluids cascade from carcasses
Sinews chomped on
Squishy matter engorged in mouths
Horripilation wriggles in me
Hope abandons existence
-
Despair fluctuates through me
My sight conceives facts
Asphalt collides with my face
Hemoglobin departs out of my possession
Body tissue separated from my leg
My cerebral cortex out of reach
Agony scorches inside
Endurance beckons me to flee
-
Delirium sears through
My eyes dim and hazy
An alley my last mortal destination
My internal juices idle
Epidermis mutilated
My mind discontinues
Death replaced with the need….
The need to feed
outside
inventoried oval-stoned
cathedrals appealing
chiming crimes of passion
woke citronella
fog
hung in cement-hamocked snowdrifts
cloaked slow on slick-stained windowsides
tenement sheets
with the pomegranate notes
of rhythms unrhymed
while all the uptown laundromarts
rising up
from insomniac-scrambled sidewalks
corked-copper moon tumbling earthward
like a sweet
sweatshredded pennants
of sun-saliva silks on rain-dribbled cotton
then
cherry-flat footsteps lust-percussive
under shamble-wracked sills
pause and then pass on
momentarily appeased in time by
blued bars on fly-fouled panes
bell tower-balanced above
taverns abutting back alleyways of
need
by fireplace mantle-pieced nooses
of nylonic shirts and poly slacks
and musts dusted-down
past stockinged-lidded faux plastic lampshades
passed on past magnolia movements
of fingertips on muscle surfaces
in-side
defoliate-spun spinnakered islands
chocked choked
in passing lynched adhesion
ignoring nicotine-papered stripteasing walls
or scotch-spat skirtings
creeping pedestal for
a moulded tangerine ceiling stuccoed into sudden mute
breath
rinsed down a night-scented-taking-stock
split-mirrored motel door
they go lunging over greasy chapels of
grit-grained
breakfast jasmine-tea-stained mock vinyl rugs
squeaking cot now like some
concreted river bed's of slump
of stun-spurned wants broken down
consciousness half-considered
stirring
Chill shadow fall covering gray
Spark ember glow in the distance
Field reverberate muffled bray
Soft cool silk silent ambience
Earthward lonesome darken path lay
Veil on penchant earth's fluorescence
Two romantical waltz their way
Full laughter and lost innocence
Whereas a billion stars astray
Soft cool silk silent ambience
3/29/2020