Best Eastwards Poems
Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field
(A Tribute)
Tough as nails young man with a red right hand
red-fire and whiskey ran in his blood.
Courageous seed of vast and cold hard land
quick temper, power of a surging flood.
Seeker of life, its promised mysteries
rash gambler with all he would ever own.
Born on ship in high wind swept, roaring seas
toughest warrior his town had ever grown.
Met his fate by volley of red-hot lead
buried on ground scared and battle blasted.
Aye boys, fodder that machine guns were fed
fools marching to death, long as it lasted.
Now flowers cover up and Time denies
scenes of battle torn soil and blood-red skies.
R.J. Lindley
April 23rd, 1975
SONNET-(DEATH AND WAR'S FUTILITY)
Tribute to Courage of Youth-- Second Battle of Ypres, April 22nd 1915 .
Note- added - 8-26-2017
Wiki-
The name Flanders Fields is particularly associated with battles that took place in the Ypres Salient, including the Second Battle of Ypres and the Battle of Passchendaele. For most of the war, the front line ran continuously from south of Zeebrugge on the Belgian coast, across Flanders Fields into the centre of Northern France before moving eastwards — and it was known as the Western Front.
The phrase originates from a poem titled In Flanders Fields by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, inspired by his service during the Second Battle of Ypres. The fields were not maintained for years before they were made into a memorial. Today Flanders Fields is home to thousands of poppies.
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Found this while rummaging through some of my old poems. Decided not to edit it. Leave it as it was composed over 42 years ago..
Added the note for those not familiar with that battle and its horrific carnage, primarily from the insanity of large bodies of troops marching into direct machine gun fire.
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Note:
This poem was selected and requested for teaching purposes at Cambridge University. Permission was granted for educational use.... RJL
A land unto its own as old as dirt
Condemned by voguish northern state of mind
This realm you'd be hard-pressed to disconcert
Though his'try would prefer it be maligned
The secret twisted oak and winding creek
The tapestries of moss that grace the swamp
They whisper in a language few can speak
Revealing true that fair southern beauchamp
There is no match for tender Georgia peach
To Cajun gumbo nothing can compare
And off the Apalachicolan beach
Fresh oysters make the finest southern fare
Sweet Dixie with your blemishes and charms
No place I'd rather be than in your arms
Jan. 4, 2017
The American Deep South - That magical swath spanning from east Texas eastwards and upwards through to the Carolinas
For the contest by Silent One Re: Sonnet About Where I Live
(A New Zealand Poem)
In thought as I sit here, 747 flying by, in contrast to the isles of white clouds cruising eastwards across the Manukau sky yet another 747 passes by.
Tourists keep on coming, knowing nothing of the struggle within, local tribe just trying to stop those damned metal tanks from being dug in.
new motorway forms
wiri losing shades of green
falcon stress in flight
L P G plant being created far away (of course) from politician and speculators dreams. To appease the youth ‘Diesel’ are playing, ‘Watts in a tank’ featured, defies the misery, civilization; are like that, the source of the purpose soon forgotten.
yesterday’s showers
glittered like diamond dew drops
beginning to fade
Today they enter the world of different race, one’s sentiment for the environment is taken, deep within the abyss of total despair, darkness descending upon the alleys of a lifetime tradition centuries old, with minds searching vigorously for reasons while veils of happiness entombed within a memory.
land taken forthwith
the world now needs to move on…
brand new limousines
© Harry J Horsman 2023
Diogenes, philosopher in Greece,
was said to be a dawdler. "Devil finds
some seedy work for idle hands, don´t fleece
our youth!" He saw the walls in people´s minds
who all declined his odd and frugal life.
He lived on bread and water, beans and fish,
without belongings, even without wife.
King Alexander promised a free wish:
"Ask anything of me, so make your choice!"
Got speedy answer: "Stand out of my light."
The famous king confessed with lowered voice:
"So eastwards now, the Persians I will fight.
But if I were no king I´d seek your peace,
Diogenes, philosopher in Greece."
May 13, 2022
Orphan Sonnet Poetry Contest, sponsored by Emile Pinet
Orphan Sonnet with a rhyme scheme of Abab - cdcd - efef - aA,
10 syllables per line in three quatrains, and a final couplet
with the last line repeating the opening line.
After: "Letter of Mithridates to Phraates, King of Parthia"
Historiae VI by Sallust
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I am a man more poisoned against than poisoning.
That’s my version anyhow, and I’m sticking to it.
Don’t blame me for having survived a few meals
Which others, less fortunate, could not.
All that doesn’t help me now with Pompey at my throat.
Pompey, plunderer and bully, who has enough wit
Only to command a Materialschlacht,
But that is child’s play with Rome’s support.
Rome! Scourge of cities, tribes, peoples, nations, all mankind,
Were not the Pillars of Hercules, the western shores
Sufficient for your ravenous appetite
That your eagle eyes scan my realm?
O Phraates, King of Parthia still unvanquished,
Had you but lent your ear to me when together we
Might have rid the East of this ill-begotten son
Of Mars. Small the credit, so great the loss!
For Rome, unchallenged, bestrides the Great Sea. Eastwards
He surveys my mountains and your rivers, groves and plains,
No doubt beyond. Remember Alexander,
Who sacked glorious Persepolis.
You vainly sue for peace, like credulous Philipp once
When fondly strung along with Rome’s promises of “pax”.
And what of Carthage? Where now her wealth of gold
And purple? Barren her poisoned lands!
Mind you, I’m not well-placed on a high moral pedestal
When it comes to poisoning, but limits I respect.
A few enemies now and then, I admit,
Died at my table. The ham was off!
But the earth is sacrosanct. I never salted fields,
For Rome’s venom is stronger than aught I ever brewed.
Where shall this end? Shall Rome vanquish all nations?
Shall all cower to his bloody sword?
But Rome! With surfeiting the eaten, not the eater,
Prevails. The whole world is, even for iron digestions,
Strong meat. It is the sun, not Romulus, whom
East and West obey. Helios rules.
With Rome to east and Rome to west, then two Romes are there,
And I do fear for man and earth. The approach of death
Lends men insight. I fought, I won, I lost in war.
My spirit is still king. Sirs, your health.
The last round! Like Carthage we lose to Rome the third round.
Once more is the Gordian knot in twain. Quirites,
The gods look down. Remember Alexander,
Who died of fever in Babylon!
Remember me my
friends,
when the trees bask
with delights
when the waves whack
the rock
when the fair
weather whispers.
Then know am close
and I need a touch
Remember me my foe
The stainless
pathway of our duel
the ravaging rift of
our skin
the cries of each
blooded strikes
when the deep
ancient scars nipped
Then know this my
foe
That am close by
and I need to strike
Remember me now
When the corona
strikes the amazons
As the Halloween
nights of lust
Where all spasms
are expelled
Like a vintage
tornado rocket
With a wild cry of
exoticism
Shrilled with a
chilly blast
Then know this now
That am the next
bang
Remember me always
When the birds bask
on trees,
the wagtail screw
for hideout,
like when whirlpool
whirls
as the wader wades
the mud
like a dancing night
ecstasy
then know am close
and I need a mate
Remember me often
times
When the waves rip
its lungs
When the breeze
whispers eastwards
When the cockerel
clown its crown
as she announces the
morning post,
Remember me always
Oh my memories
Oh my victories
Oh my footed armies
of duels
My believes untapped
My hopes unleashed
My lust exorcised
My greed farced
My shame eclipsed
among the stars
And my humility
nailed to oblivion.
Remember me again.
My love that floats
the bud
My hate that holds
the hades
My dreams that
torment me
My grief that frill
my final abode
My pains that sprout
my exits
My cries that echoes
to abyss
Remember me for ever
My hands that grief
with sadness
Unleashed your paw,
frittered me with
your pegs,
defiled my
defenseless dune,
snatch my unborn
from the cradle
erase the face of my
returns
close the torches of
my paths.
That my breathless
veins
rise no more
But remember
My flights now
My battles
My pains
My fears
Remember my
goodbyes,
then I live again.
Written by Benny
Isibor
There, my young man in summer sleeps,
The pale moon, aloft, a watch she keeps.
Envious green, with frustration weeps,
As my young man in the garden sleeps.
That she would wish his beauty hers,
Her every watchful night rehearsed.
Through velvet sky she gently purrs,
Temping vain to make his hand hers.
There my young man in summer sleeps.
Dreaming as my heart he always keeps.
Until sunrise Eastwards, joyous leaps.
Then moon, embittered, falls and sleeps.
Summer simmers south as the spring in our steps hopes of an 'India Summer'
are drowned by the what we euphemistically call 'Inclement Weather', this
miserable time of the year until (hopefully) the long, glorious dying of the leaves
makes our patriotic melancholia turn to happy leafy walks wherever we are.
Real garden fires for the lucky, and from over the 'Pond' so welcome central
heating, and hot soup with family and friends; from the Northern Kingdom
a 'wee dram' or one from the Emerald Isle; Welsh! and English! ones exist.
There are floods in the lovely West Country and to the near attractive North,
but here at dusk the clouds scud eastwards over the North Sea as a fleet forming
in battle formation - 'Avast'/'Stop'- a sky signal in the west of light grey, amber;
a pennant of red showing tomorrow will be a sunny drying day, 'Hip Hip Hooray'!
I
At about the same space, eastwards
About eight hours after noon
- yes, it was night - miracle for me
I saw a sun rising ... Exactly as at dawn
A peeking, reddening of sky, creeping up
An amazing moonrise. In my 63rd year
Form:
The silver birch
presides over the scree
A caravan of love
proceeds duly eastwards
I'm staking my faith in you
The wind whistles past
We are on the road again
to magic lands where the gypsy queen shows
the world her love
where you find
butterflies and buttercups
smiling in the rain,
and hope waiting for time
our faith connected to the earth
uncorrupted
When a tear falls from my eye,
My heart has spoken.
Misery befalls without seeking permit;
Sadness follows without peeking first,
Fury varies,but shuts out reasining,
And the heart aches like never before,
My heart has spoken.
Why do tides drive trains eastwards today?
Why does the sea roar in approval and not complain?
Because in every pain,
There is a beauty concealed inside.
I'll not wipe the tear,
To remind me of the expected pangs in life,
My heart has spoken.
Is part of Halifax
This island is 42 km. long
It is the equlvalent of walking
In sand from downtown Halifax
All the way to Peggy's Cove
Sable Island has 500 wild horses
After surviving centuries of the winter
The exact amount of horses unknown
Some believe they are ancestors of horses
That survived the shipwrecks
While these claims Norsemen John Cabot
Or the Portuguese explores or Acadians
Had left them on the island
The most popular is likely explanations
In the Boston merchant hired to transport
Acadians during the Expulsiion not the horses
The island is gradually moving eastwards
As it slowly washes away in the west
While sand builds in the eastwards
Others believe the island centre suffering
Just that island is shrinking
Then one day eventually disappear
........ facing eastwards.
Cool, still, expectant.
The sky, the ground, are one.
Soon a subtle transition.
One-ness becomes polarised.
The monochrome breaks.
Half-light above. Half-night below.
From the greys contrast comes,
pulls shape and form from shadow.
A vague sketch of skyline.
Sky and ground thus defined.
Now, for the solar spectrum.
The horizon, a blaze of red-orange.
Ribbons of cirrus, luminous yellow-white.
Aloft, reflects the blue-violet.
Centre stage, the star turn, amber burn.
A new day now born.
The rivers reflections are tired
Human kindness is not overflowing
I think its not my day
Overlooking a bonfire
a scarecrow verily applies for attention
A frozen smile keeps away the whiles
Overlooking a belfry
wishes it had tales to tall
as a crow steers eastwards
vistas change, rearrange
as autumnal comes
releasing its requisite quilt
Eastwards Westwards
we know the direction
Playing tricks with the mind
We thought we knew the best
Down Convents Hill
the stone Angels sing
Desertion is not even an option
open the flanks
play your banjo
In evening we have everything to gain
in the holy calm
the marble passages
past our golden days