Best Eastward Poems
One spring day meandering in a meadow,
I saw a butterfly whose beauty matched that
of May's azure sky.
With blue silken wings like that of a fairy,
she flitted here and there -
aimlessly as butterflies seem wont to do.
Oh, to be that butterfly,
alighting on any pretty flower whose scent delighted me -
unhurried and unworried.
I would be that butterfly breezing through the meadow
meandering . . . meandering . . .
to where – I did not know,
but soon I found myself beside a brook.
My heart became the song of blue bells
which danced with the wind beside the brooklet.
And as my little friend fluttered on,
I careened behind her with arms outstretched,
laughing as the long grasses through which I leaped
tickled the calves and shins of my legs.
Soon I was approaching a grove of tall green trees -
meandering . . . meandering.
I kept my eyes on the bright blue wings ahead of me.
Freely I flowed like the wind that swept through my hair
as it fluttered the leaves of the tall green trees
until suddenly – the butterfly
was vanished from my view!
I knew not to where I’d wandered,
but in my heart I had no fear.
All things come to an end eventually,
but also all paths eventually lead
to somewhere.
Turning myself back toward the direction
from which I’d come
and with my arms spread wide,
I let the butterfly in me
take me eastward -
meandering . . meandering.
She’d dwelt within a palace, and outside
it, geese and brilliant peacocks used to strut
inside a fragrant garden. As a bride,
she’d said her vows beside the roses, but
today no scent of blooms perfumes the air.
The terrace sculptures, rubble now, are strewn
across the floor. She gazes eastward where
the mangos’ branches danced beneath the moon
when zephyrs softly blew. Like poison, now
a vapor comes, beginning to enwreathe
her husband’s realm. There is a smell so foul
her heart wells up with dread; she cannot breathe.
As ashes drift around, she hangs her head
with certainty her one beloved is dead.
Written by Andrea Dietrich Oct. 11, 2014
for the Top Gun Poetry - Structured forms - Iambic verse III of Giorgio A. V.
Form: Iambic Pentameter in an English Sonnet
We are facing the sunset, in the afternoon light,
while shadows stretch eastward over the hills.
Music selected from the radio waves
has blinded my senses in reverie's glare.
Wind stirs a memory, that hijacks our car,
sifting through windows to sharpen the air.
Against the orange brilliance, that is stinging my eyes,
someone I remember is saying goodbye.
I thought I'd forgiven, the years and the cost,
of saying farewell, as I watched those days die,
but the ghost of my spirit, had nearly been lost.
Now roads I travel, are smoother than then...
with faded old lines, bleached by the sun,
tall weeds and boulders, lining each shoulder
just as they did when that story began.
Faded with time, and jade are the hills,
surrounding the highway, I remember so well.
Grasses snake down, into rocky dry slopes,
far into horizons where the sun disappears.
Just when you think, a wound is forgotten,
you're facing the sunset, of a new summer solstice.
You remember the dust and a place we pulled over,
where we looked up the hill, through a break in the trees
Where we mimicked the sun with enormous goodbyes
The radio plays many songs of regret
and rejection still stings, with the same blinding pain.
Burning bright on the rise, of so many farewells,
where the haze of the sunset, was never the same.
Light rolls around, to the place it is from
unreeling those things, which can't be undone.
Now I reach for the hand, of the one that I will love
who was there, in the shadows for our life to begin
I have never forgotten, but forgiveness will come
It will follow the asphalt, slowly into the sun
---------------------------------------------------------------
For Contest: "Sunset"
Sponsor: Skat
Adrift is smoke, that rises into the shape of a question mark...
Blurring the vacant night, with a ceremonial arc
Tomorrow, under a different sky, in a brand new way
I will wake up to a different sun, and to a wistful song of yesterday
'Though, I cannot find a star, through the drowning dredge of rain
Tonight the moon, left behind, wears a bitter frown of blame
Like a crying mother calling, with a voice of great devotion
A whistle's wailing sadness, resounds my own emotions
With tear-stained eyes, I witness the reflection
In view from where my heart once lived, a dismal day's rejection
I feel the rumble of the wheels, and a tumble of my heart
With a tremble, as the landscape is swallowed by the dark
The snake-like chain bends eastward into constellation courage
With strange misshapen shadows, streaking illuminated passage
Raindrops mimic my own heart, upon the window glass
Spilling over imprints of all the futile questions asked
I find my throat is swollen, and my will too worn to speak
Beside me, rudely flaunting, is a taunting, empty seat
Like a sickle for harvesting a lonely star…
Smoke sketches the sky with the shape of a question mark...
____________________________________________________________
Submitted for Craig Cornish's Contest
8/13/13
Eastward toward the creek; sunrise
aglow, casting magenta clouds.
Tonight's sunset will be our prize
Eastward toward the creek sunrise
A new day away from the crowds
Where the birds sing and there's no ais
Eastward toward the creek; sunrise
aglow, casting magenta clouds.
I have heard a myth, a rumor,
A legend long ago told.
About a mighty being eastward
With arcing wings of gold.
Its breath alone brewed fierce storms
A shaken feather made thunder roar.
And God have mercy on the soul
Caught in her rage's downpour.
I have heard this myth, this rumor,
This story handed down.
Of a beast powerful and brilliant
That wears lightning as it's crown.
When I met the rain
And listened to every droplet fall,
I swear that through the tapping
I heard her mesmerizing call.
As temptation was too much,
I ventured out into the gale.
And found myself under her gaze
With my face flushing pale.
Though chaos engulfed us both,
Peace was still in her eye.
Despite the pandemonium
She commanded the sky.
When I met the rain,
And felt the splatter on my skin
I finally met the legend
I had always believed in.
Just to stand this close
To be here struck by awe
In the presence of perfection
This being without flaw.
To feel the radiant energy
To breathe the same air
Of Her Majesty unrivaled
With whom none compare.
Just to stand this close
To be found where you are
Is a greater blessing
Than any given me thus far.
You, mighty Thunderbird,
Are creation's pride and joy.
Complete supreme beauty
That nothing could destroy.
There exists no equal
On earth, in heaven, or sea
For no one else can boast
Such intricate complexity.
You wear a thousand masks
And rarely show your face.
But I have seen your heart,
It's cracked elegance; it's fractured grace.
You, precious Thunderbird,
Are all I've wished to find.
And now that I have seen you,
I can't get you off my mind.
A lifeless cloud, aloft invisible air;
Blows Eastward,
a destination fate had prepared.
Renewed,
is a bludgeouned heart,
no longer fueld by loneliness and despair...
The demise of a mountainous boulder,
crashing downward with it's mighty weight;
Crushing ageless fossils,
broken from a lifetime of decay.
Renewed, is a love,
Worthy of replacing, all the years of self hate.
The hardened soil lying beneath,
has now become darkened clouds,
of a roaring, crushing debris;
A lifelike sustanance, as it's path now creates;
A Renewed desire to live,
as it buries a lifetime,
of turmoil and grief...
replacing so much agony ,
with a Renewed,
sense of relief...
A lifeless cloud,
now filled with the goodness of rain;
While the burden of weight from life's Boulders,
are replaced with fields of golden grain...
Rising from the ruins, of the hardened soil of a soul;
There lies a clearer path to travel,
covered in a beautiful crystal sand.
Renewed, is a life;
Now replacing the death,
I had once planned...
We settled down in a little town
Nigh on thirty years ago
The stars shown bright
In the deep dark desert night
Far away from the city's light
I bought some seeds
Fought a war with tumbleweeds
That would roll on into town
And my flowers grew
Beneath skies of bluest blue
Yesterday...
Thirty years ago
Way out west the city did her
darndest best
To sprawl on eastward toward
The hills
Then the builders came
And this town just
Ain't the same
As it was thirty years ago
We settled down in a little town
Far from all those city lights
As I look around, I am now confound
In the midst of them tonight
She sat near a pool of brownish waters.
Perplexed by her own reflection.
The wind tender on her hair,
Tossing it eastward.
Drying her imbrued face,
From days of sobbing,
Leaving dull lines that stretched
From her pale eyes,down her haggard lion.
She never wore a smile
As brilliant as the sun.
They only burn,her.
Reawaking her tears
From their subtle base
Beneath her eyes.
She considered them,a tragic representation of her
life.
She decked her face with cowardice.
Never regretted,nor did she skedaddle from it,
The lies she once told herself.
They were now,dreams she woke up to,now and
then.
Expressionless,she sat,
On cold dead grass.
They sent chills to her bones.
Her mind hovering through the empty space,
That is her her own schema.
And the world that lies beneath her bruised nose,
Covered in blood and fear,
The stench of terror,
Quite familiar to her.
They were like marks on her back.
They stayed with you for a life time.
Misery was something she owned.
They burnt in her dark brown eyes.
You could see their talons lashing restlessly,
Drawing those who cared for a scare.
The tears that flooded her garment
Jog the memory of her own consciousness,
That she still did feel something.
Something painfully passionate.
Something,realer than her fragile image.
Those tears were reminders
Reminding her,that she,can still think.
Think of events that stole
All the life she knew,
Will ever know.
She stood at the edge of destitute,
As hard as it was,
It brought her solace.
Her hopes raise at the east,
Settling west with the sun.
She seeks no remedy,
But an audience.
An audience at least.
****DEDICATING THIS ONE TO
POETDESTROYER.SHE IS THE REASON WHY IM
HERE.ITS BEING A WHILE THOUGH...MISS IT ON
HERE***
The okra in the garden is green,
The dew awaits the first sunray.
Spring blesses the world with bliss,
And everthing is lively and gay.
A constant fear of autumn's arrival that
Would make leaves and flowers decay.
A myriad of rivers rush eastward to the sea,
And flow back not in the west-bound way.
If we don't work hard in youth, regrets
Would sure climb up our grey hair one day.
( Tran.)
Our first image of a gorgeous black Aphrodite
To inhabit the halls of power with charm,
Mrs. Obama moves over the sacred fields deftly
Reclaiming the realm with femininine form.
Sensuously challenging those who dare deny
Her right to bare her bronze sun-kissed skin
As the queen in a staid pallid white world,
She assumes her role with no hint of giving in.
A worthy image of beauty to accompany a giant of a man,
Mrs. Obama came riding eastward her sword at her side.
She planned for an agenda about change most would scorn,
As a product of northern honing oil and heartland pride.
And she feared not the hard and awful destiny ahead
For a beautiful black woman in a loveless town;
As she brought her fashion for elegance and flair,
Allowing a gawking world to see her face was brown.
As a Capricorn, Mrs. O keeps her keen focus on success,
Never surrendering to impatience, doubt or hesitation.
Her aim is narrow and exact, skillfully chosen
And moored on a carefully thought out foundation.
So doing she has inspired black women to reach higher
And see themselves as lovely creatures of great worth,
Endowed by God to motivate, teach, feed and entertain,
With her nurturing, an emerging color diverse earth.
A trio of warblers jargon
a madrigal in harmony.
Their polyphony awakens
a slumbering dawn from darkness
while white dewy daffodils, like
saintly daughters of charity,
bow before the paragon sun.
A gentle zephyr diffuses
its collection of fragrances
from the myriad wildflowers
it encountered on its journey
eastward; sojourning, perfuming,
impregnating the morning air
with its sweet, volatile essence.
God whispers to the angels,
who open their aprons toward earth.
A thick curtain of flakes
cover life and death alike.
A swaying screen sweeps away color,
defuses light, disturbed only by a soft wind
slanting the mantle eastward;
pierced by stark sentinels whose branches
stand solid against its breath.
Schools close as kids cheer
and nature dons a turbid cloak.
The sky's roof caresses treetops.
Life stills, cocooned
in winter's satin embrace.
Who but the Creator
could alter our ambience
in one glorious afternoon?
Blue sky eastward kisses a glistening green sea,
Golden sand stretches endlessly on before me.
Cry’s of gulls and sounds of waves gently rolling,
Promise a day filled with people slowly strolling.
Up and down that golden strand they walk,
Carrying towels, sometimes pausing to talk.
Grey blue mist covers mountains in the west,
Cliffs and streams, in nature it is blessed.
Fires scorch the land in the summer’s heat,
In winters watch, comes the Snow and sleet.
Always the cycle goes on, death and rebirth,
For this sunburnt land is the oldest on earth.
Southern pastures carpeted in lush green,
Everywhere Sheep and cattle can be seen.
Slowly the settlers tamed the harsh land,
Shaped it and carved it with their bare hand.
Barley and golden wheat sheath the soil,
Against this hard land farmers strive and toil.
Small coves and beaches to the north abound,
Silent and deserted for most the year round.
Summer arrives and the city rises to the call,
Time for the people to forget works thrall.
They fill the resorts and small county towns,
Parents and children, joyous are their sounds.
Some call Australia a continent some an Isle,
It is the land that always makes me smile.
There are many cities rising into the sky,
The beauty of the bush can make you cry.
From coast to coast, from desert to snow,
It is the home from which I will never go!
Shane Cooper
Written some months ago for collaboration, this never came to fruition.
It is not what I planned still I hope it can stand on its own.
17/03/2015
On my usual perch
at my computer
I sit alone today
gazing out the window
on a winter world
of numbing brown and gray.
Touches of green
provide slim respite
from the cloddish chill of day.
Arched wild onion tops
cede to the west wind
in fluttery eastward sway.
Feathered friends flock
to a red metal seed tray
warm in their covering
of myriad bright array
to lend glossy pigment
in a full winged ballet.