Best Esplanade Poems
Find Me where the summer breeze is sighing.
There time floats me in its endless sea.
Engulfed am I - by sweet tranquility.
On a lofty esplanade, gulls flying
are trailing clouds through azure, wheeling free.
Sun flashes gold its grin! There you'll find me.
Written Jan. 17, 2017 for the Find Me at Six Contest of nette onclaud
Bleak winter Melbourne morning,
a cold wind coming in
from across the Bay
and blowing down the street,
past the Esplanade Cafe
with the smell of coffee
and warm air spilling out
from an open door.
I stop, look at the cake
and pastry display through
the window, the basket
of freshly baked croissants,
Danish pastries topped with
strawberries and apricots
and glazed with syrup.
A cloud of steam
from the espresso machine
adds a touch of the surreal.
Anticipation moistens my mouth
on the sight of French vanilla
slices plump with custard
and cream, muffins erupting
from their papery patties,
Portuguese tarts, thick slices
of carrot cake topped
with icing. I savor each
with an imaginative bite
and decide my treat…
then groan. I've left my wallet
at home.
( for Deb M )
So swiftly now, so much of change;
Time yields endow, time feels so strange.
So quickly here, so change feels strange;
The times brought cheer, the feel of change.
It seems a flash, a brilliant blur;
The spiral dash, an affluent spur.
The new shapes bare the facelift here;
A bright fringe wears a surreal cheer.
First the world view, then the climax;
Watch plays on cue, let style attract.
Let charm and grace show off finesse;
Cash funds this place with stylish bash.
Two fruity domes speak of culture;
Cues can find home in proud gestures.
This Esplanade like durian thorns
Wears a facade to greet new haunts.
Once upon then, the sea felt near;
Now we know when aplomb can steer.
Age catches up to one and all;
An empty cup fills sad recall.
Days and nights here are like elsewhere;
Live for good cheer, live here or there.
So much of change can feel crazy;
Accept the strange, work out easy.
So much of thought can dye meaning;
Our ample lots drive our shoutings.
So here we meet at life's crossroads;
We laugh and greet despite harsh loads.
Leon Enriquez
08 December 2014
Singapore
A friend is one who you can trust
To be always kind and always just.
When you are lonely or afraid,
A friend will be your colonnade.
When truth is lost in masquerade,
A friend's strong hand will be your aid.
When times are hard and hit like a gust,
A friend is one who you can trust.
When life feels like an ambuscade,
A friend's fierce love will always pervade.
When all around seems like a lonely esplanade,
A friend's loyal camaraderie shall be displayed.
A friend is one who you can trust,
To be always faithful, never unjust,
To love unconditionally and never degrade,
A friend is the one who will be your stockade.
an half-part of his face
painted white as of spirits
& the other side being human
he steps into the esplanade
isn't he the symbol of deity?
didn't ikenga his father do same?
didn't his foremost great fathers
the fathers of the nine clans
the nine clans by this river -
oh, didn't they all do same
in appeasement of this angry niger?
they stood in aware of this flood-gate
of the waters of the millennium -
come, fathers, come, save our souls
the souls of the renegades
of the nine clans by this river -
the floods have taken captive
the boundlessness of your lands
ah, niger, the weeping one!
I was home from work that day.
My office was on John Street
One block away from the World Trade Center
I would often go there at lunchtime
To visit the shops
To buy fruit at the Green Market
To enjoy concerts on the esplanade
It was a gathering place
During the warm months of the year.
And one evening, I was fortunate enough
To dine in the Windows on the World Restaurant
That offered a spectacular view of the city
From the North Tower
But this day, I was awakened
By a familiar voice on the phone
Did you see the news?
A plane hit one of the Twin Towers
I turned on the television
And watched in real time
As it all unfolded
The mighty buildings
Collapsing
Into dust and debris
Flames and destruction
Falling bodies
Obliterated bones
And death
I watched
As exhausted firefighters
Sat down on the sidewalk and wept
I watched
As revelers in the streets of Afghanistan
Rejoiced at hearing the news
I watched
From my balcony in Brooklyn
Where I once could see the towers
But now there was an endless plume of smoke
That stretched across the sky
All those beautiful, precious lives
Gone
In the days that followed
We New Yorkers treated each other
More kindly, more gently
For we were all fragile
And felt capable of collapse
Written September 10, 2009 - for Nathan Leccese's 9-11 Contest
Stands a beautiful tree firmly with its gracious branches and boughs
On a bank of a running or on an edge of round pond
May be it is on the skirt of triangular lake
Natural or artificial
Or it is in the middle of an esplanade
It can grow anywhere,
In the moon or in your orchard
The place where it will grow is none of your business
Just see its beauty and show thankfulness
Feel its usefulness and express gratitude
But here it is not my job to describe the charms of a tree
Neither is it to make you understand how to appreciate delicacy or loveliness
As other poets delightfully do in their handsome and alluring drabs
That duty I left gladly long before for idiots
As I got another work of other kinds
Another responsibility, another task of other types
To split the beans and peel the skins
To smooth the bones and puncture the balloon
Wherever I find stupidity, nonsense and bloody foolishness
In the middle of telling you these serious issues
I see a spectacle of a donkey
Near the valley among the green leaves
In their words, in between their lips
At the tip of their tongues, at depth of your throats
And below in the meadow in the bushes of shrubs and grasses
A circus is run by the jokers and baboons
The promoters and the patrons of the parade try hard
To catch my precipitated attention and perpetuated concentration
Baffled I remain and look at the sky before taking a sigh
I decided not to give favourable response as wise men know
This is neither my kind of monkey nor is this my kind of show.
With that invisibilty of age
I can fly my life like a kite !
Uninvited and unseen,
albescent, grey, you know what I mean,
( not the first flush of youth or strong,
the young forget that we were young, )
hold on to that, the string of that
to grip the meaning of it
as I grip the iron balustrade
along the miles of esplanade ;
think the century's wise men are ignored,
each lamp a light, a sage for each lamp.... ...
Drawn to the Sailor's Arms, her kegs
the weight of years upon the legs,
for whispers round an inglenook
where galaxies are in the glass,
to swap a tale, another round,
a golden fleece, a crumpled map !
Or waft around for words, like smoke
along the butt - ends from the tar,
or vanish down into the draught
if Alan Watts is at the bar.... ...
Below, where gulls quarrel in kelp
no harbour there need shelter me,
no life - boat slip to cries for help
need bring my spirit to the lee -
I hear the past with all its murders,
the wind wail through the rusting girders
yet still am I, free to fly with you
who lean against the railings, too !... ...
The world may seem to come in bits -
let nonduality begin ?
Come celebrate your opposites
for all depends on loss to win !
Tribal culture in your face -
to win is everywhere you turn,
if God is losing all the time
then will we ever, ever learn ?... ...
'You'll win' he said, 'its in the bag',
out on the point
what can the mindless wind do
but wave the flag?
Missing the point forever
signalling our nascent spirit.
And the voice said
'raise your head when the night is cloudless
and tell me who you are subject to,
remember the truth of your own story
as your eyes take in the glory'.... ...
Full to be empty, empty to be full -
do you hear the paradox, do you feel the pull ?
I do not mean to be patronising,
have I asked you too soon ?
Do you see what I mean when you gaze at the moon,
when the full moon, lifeless is full of light ?... ...
I sit upon the lobster pots
that decorate the harbour wall,
if you come a little closer
you can see me in the hall,
if you do not hold the key-
Mrs keepings locks the door,
I'll be looking out to sea
after eight but not before.... ... ...
He woke down the slope, by the hay
With him a thousand shrill cries
That stilled to him, yawning.
He moved with strands of hay, trailing
On his rags.
Sauntering, he is a flaneur...
The road lamps gave him away.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Half-way on a bridge over its side
He saw a bridge in Japanese ruin
Chaffing in the hurrying waters below.
He cursed the Japs for lying fallow
Spouting his rheum.
Pondering, he is a sinner...
He knelt for those braves, never to ride.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
A gale rolled down the road in dust,
Churning it up, a regular willy-willy.
The fizzing trees corked: the shutters' hinges off.
His eyes sore: swaying he would cough.
He stood now willy-nilly.
Thinking, he is a fritterer...
He chased the trapping miasma, loping his Wellingtons' lust.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
The rains were bursting heavy on the esplanade,
A rocky splash soared with spray from the waves.
He sought the bulwark of the stony balustrade,
The waters were rising over the promenade
Like columns of graves.
Musing, he is a shirker...
He plunged into the sea, bold as a blade.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
© T. Wignesan, 1948 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961.)
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake- Part Six
Awake! Dour Dreamer! And draw the curtain of benumbing clouds
Fairies hover by ears to whisper mantras dispelling doubts
Already unheeding magpies cluck rudely tongue-in-beak
And trans-continental flights from Orly pierce through rain clouds
Good hour or two has gone by since Metro Lac broke loose
Gardiens de paix drive into the buckle of her tresses noose
Barnacle geese strut at her feet preening proud feathers sleek
Mullahs wash their feet by fountains gushing djellaba loose
Murmuring Berber prayers from cowed heads rise to the skies
While lyceen innocence dries up on loud tutored lies
Do hotel beds lost in arbours get bought for sleep or trysts
Stompings on her esplanade nose-bridge: she frets and defies
Wake the dreamer of unwholesome dreams and set the hour right!
How long lone and stricken chained beneath the main tight!
“What ails thee beneath thy furrowed frown! O! Prisoner of sin!”
The tent-maker’s son still roams with galaxies drifting plight!
“Lift that gorgeous head just once: let us see those laser flashes
That make this lake look thunder-struck even through sun-glasses!”
Fitful sparrows in hedges and eaves seek not to share her thoughts
Oblivious Mall shoppers let slip lone tears from her gashes.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Excitement filled the air as the calliope played
News spread the famed steamboat was near,
Its whimsical gingerbread trimmings displayed.
The whole town would rush to the esplanade
As the wildly anticipated boat pulled into pier,
Excitement filled the air as the calliope played.
If an overnighter, folks walked the promenade,
Marveling at its size and the exquisite exterior
Its whimsical gingerbread trimmings displayed.
I had heard one could go onboard, if one paid
Even get to see a riverboat show, a premiere.
Excitement filled the air as the calliope played.
What a difference Delta Queen’s arrival made!
Soon she would be decommissioned, the fear
Its whimsical gingerbread trimmings displayed.
I remember well how by the riverbank she lade
Like a fabulous ornate coffin lying upon the bier
Excitement filled the air as the calliope played
Its whimsical gingerbread trimmings displayed.
Written April 6, 2022
[The Delta Queen, a national treasure, has not
travelled the Ohio River on a regular schedule
since the 1970s.]
A dear friend says I'm brave to go it solo in the city…
she has a husband - seven kids - two dogs - and a neurotic cat
yet she dubs me brave!
I'm not brave, I'm transparent amidst glass and steel…
night lights the tower windows - eyes watching, winking
lobby doors gobble people only to spit them out again.
At a sidewalk café I'm the superintendent of this concrete esplanade…
watching women in heels, men in suits (some in heels)
poop scooping dog owners - who's the bulldog here?
In sublime heat, under threatening sky, a dry Chardonnay wets my lips…
the paved people mover hosts a carnival of characters
rushing to their next scene - to the burbs' trimmed lawns
where wifey waits, hoping the train's on time,
that the roast isn't dry - that he's in a good mood
hubby, stopping in for a spirited lift, is in the mood for pasta.
Puffy-cheeked clouds let out a thunderous roar…
howling gusts of wind send spittle in sideways sheets
inverted umbrellas rage their angry teeth skyward
drenching the women's trendy doos while dogs pull masters to shelter
waiters scurry to tie down awnings against swirling winds
must keep the patrons dry!
As the subsiding torrent sends steam rising from hot pavement
my reasons for choosing the city are clear…
inhaling the energy of these brume ensconced streets
cast in this impromptu street opera
playing my part in the faceless crowd
braving the amusing summer storms.
6/11/2013
You don't see what I do
You don't see what I do,
Just b'coz you don't want to...
The vibrant beauty of mind esplanade,
Jubilance afloat in pleasant breeze,
Emotions pristine simmered in aubade,
You don't see what I do,
pretend to be a mannequin..
While heart beats in absolute rhyme,
radiate rosy blush to red cheeks,
When passion could nurture no mime,
You don't see what I do,
altruistic if you be, I doubt..
Muffled sound of cold heartbeats,
sluggish blood dragging in veins and
Frigid perpetual stare on face fleets,
Is what you have become,
Insensitive and fancy-free.
Written May 12, 2017
For "Fancy- free poetry contest" by Julia ward
I
With faces painted of edeala natural cream
With feet flourishing in undulating dance-steps
The proud dictates of the restive drums
Where the Ikolo performers are on the thrive
Each in readiness to out-pipe his neighbor –
The dancers come digging it out with the sun
With the hunters taking their spears to the sky!
Young Mbari dancers, robust, eager & joyous
Awaiting the life-panthers that must come home
After the drum-beats in the hunter’s forest –
’Tis like a gathering of spirits & humans
At the age-long esplanade of the clan, for lads
& lasses, fathers & mothers, young & old, all
Have come to the roost like a family of chickens.
Dancing in pairs, in circles & diverse angular
Movements, a genius of the earth: each dancer
Makes her to-&-fro design-gaits & flights
Like some nymphs in dream-land gardens
Their gaits are swift & in skillful harmony
Following the restive palms of the drummers!
Ah, old Emuka gets at it, the renowned piper
At his high zest, taking Mbari eagle-dancers
To the heights of lofty Iroko-dance-branches
An embodiment of every echo-throat’d piper!
& a dancer dances as if it were her last dance;
& ’tis a full sun-burnt commotion of a dance;
O, isn’t it an half-human, half-spirit dance?
Hope was mistaken
The destiny is sure
By age all I had was taken
The quest hast always pure;
As isolated as the ruins of Babylon
Tunes I heard was immature-couldn’t dance
Whispered a voice give up not! Carry on
And all desired now in abundance,
Most times we need not what we need
And time only shall tell
Attain not what’s destined with greed
Alas! Humility is appreciated ..all is well;
Today is just yesterdays
Life not a dream we’ve come to stay
Real you yet on the way
O! to regret nothing-in my bed in peace I lay.