Best Faring Poems
I have felt the rain
I have bared witness to such horrendous pain
I have died a few times over
I have hidden inside a smile
The fresh scent of morning dew
A sea faring fog, coming for a landing
As I travel back to childhood days
Where meadows and the sea were paradise
Now in the dark of night
In the dank basement of my life
I have become the carpenter
With hammer and saw, I build a crate
Then I craft a box of lead to lay inside
Then still, I mold a box of silver
To lay inside the lead box
Upon which I make one more box still
Crafted of pure gold
Artfully engraving my life on the sides
I have toiled for years
Creating these fine boxes and wooden crate
Now comes the most difficult task of all
Scalpel in hand, I cut out my beating heart
I lay it softly in the golden box
I seal each box one inside the other, until I seal the wooden crate
The box of my heart has turned crimson red
My blood the final artwork on my finely crafted piece
With my last breath I fall upon the crate, quite fully dead
My heart now protected, from all of romances arrows
Poison arrows fall and black roses cry
Life is a dangerous struggle
Full of inconsistencies, challenges and pains
Life is not fair even to the fair skinned
The dark skinned are not faring better either
In everyone's backyard a little rain must drop
Whatever be your lot, set your goals and go for it.
In life, even the rich also cry
The poor in pains and agonies cries ceaselessly
The middle class have no problems 'cause they never existed
The orphans on the street go bare footed and hungry
Everyone is plagued by this turbulent journey called life
Whatever be your lot, set your goals and go for it.
Life is an endless and unpleasant adventure
Ending in one phase and continues in another phase
Beggers beg and no one gives to them
Widows cry and no one hears their voice
Everyone is caught up in this crazy web called life
Whatever be your lot, set your goals and go for it
In life, the religious are not the righteous
The righteous looks rough and rugged
Unnoticed because they have no class
For long we have been in this turmoil called life
And it has promised to continue unabated, no end at sight
Whatever happens, set your goals and go for it
The smart acts smartly by running away
They cross the sea, the Mediterranean sea
Unfortunately, you can't run away from life
Run away from it here and you will meet it there
Even though we're here, I know we'll soon be there
Only if we can set our goals and go for it
Life is everywhere, has no friends, has no foes
Life rewards, reproved and reprimands
Everyone is lotted opportunities in life
And it's their responsibility to take them
The faithful pray while the unfaithful prey
Whatever you do, set your goals and go for it
Life has no end, life has no beginning
Life is an omen, the omen never lies
Life keeps everyone busy on their own lane
Though some lanes are fast, some are slow
But ultimately every vehicle gets to its destination
Only if we can just set our goals and go for it
Life cares for no one, Life is hostile
Life is an excruciating and toilsome lot
Imperfect Life preaches perfection
Unfortunately, no one needs perfection
We're all trapped in this vicious cycle called Life
Whatever be your lot, set your goals and go for it
For nigh on a hundred-fifty years it has graced the rugged shore of Maine!
Its welcoming beacon guiding sea-faring souls who sail the mighty main!
It has weathered untold fearsome storms of gale, snow, sleet and rain;
A faithful, stalwart sentry defying such nuisances, guarding its vast domain!
Old Captain Blair, its keeper, knows all too well the perils of the sea,
For he captained majestic sailing ships for many decades, you see.
He wearily climbs the circular stair to light the candles at close of day,
And with practiced eye, scans the roiling sea to ascertain that all is okay.
Alas, one dark and stormy night the US Frigate Arcturus met her fate!
A blinding fog and raging seas doomed the Arcturus on that fateful date!
The beam of the lighthouse could not be seen! There was naught to do!
The ship was dashed upon unforgiving shoals drowning her valiant crew!
The old lighthouse still guards that stretch of sea to this very day.
Modern lamps now cast their beam while Captain Blair sleeps 'neath the clay!
After The Funeral
Tim had found his place after the party. Faring well in his urn he waited to be scattered. Compartmentalised, fragmented and united into two batches of memories.
Indian Ocean
Passionate love on beaches
Drift wood adventures
His friends and family celebrated his life. Lit a fire, gathered smoke and cherished what pastures had given them. Salutation, saltation and salt on sad skin. They rejoiced in ambivalent moments of loss and beginning. That was the easy bit. But Tim had always been eccentric and maybe the waves were too smooth on their own. Easy had not been his domain. Always up to challenges and arduous paths, het set a task even in death. ‘Go tell it on the mountain’.
Climb Mount Everest
Fresh air healthy exercise
Dust sprinkled on snow
Would his children rise up to the dare and defiance? Could they respect final wishes? Was it one step too far? Had it been jest and on whom was the joke? Strides upon strides they stumbled to the top of the world. Caressed their blisters and bridged ascent in meaning and closure.
Serene harmony
Stunning demise flying high
Carbon clouds condensed
REMEMBER IT ALL
So many memories that leave few traces
All the friends I knew and their faces
And when the time is nigh, at least I’ll try
To remember it all
It’s been so long, a danger of forgetting
As recollection fades it becomes upsetting
And when it’s time to rest, I’ll do my best
To remember it all
The decades pass and we don’t meet that often
Is it even true that feelings can soften
And playing my last card, it won’t be hard
To remember it all
Events and times that happened in my youth
Whether fact or fantasy, but I know the truth
A photo album from which those faces are staring
Blurred but smiling, I wonder how they’re faring
Images that I still see, and it depends on me
To remember it all
What a spectacle Betty was making
of herself in the kitchen while baking.
She kept tripping and falling.
Other cooks found it galling
all the dishes each day she kept breaking.
Today it’s much better she’s faring,
for the cause was made known for her erring.
Betty now feels relieved
that her boss is not peeved
since new spectacles she has been wearing!
(this has now been revised as a quintain for Joe maverick's contest.
If you happen to see the quintain version. I'm just curious to
to know which seems more effective, this limerick version or the quintain form?)
It is said that there is an island in the midst of a fog-shrouded sea
Where there are mystical creatures, which no mortal man has seen;
Creatures that sing so enchantingly that they entrance all those who hear;
Creatures that sing with such longing that they banish all memories and fear;
Songs that lure ships to their dark death against the rocks and the crags;
Songs that lure crews to their last breaths, to be food for fish and for crabs.
It is said that a ship of Achaeans sailed past this forsaken shore;
Sailed past this fog-shrouded island as its crew returned home from the war.
Odysseus sailed past this island in the midst of a vast lonely sea;
Sailed past the legended island where the Sirens were once said to be.
And Odysseus said he would hear it, he’d hear the Sirens’ dread song,
And ordered his crew to bind him, fast to the mast tight and strong.
Then the ears of the crew were deafened with wax
And they rowed with their arms and they rowed with their backs;
Rowed hard and rowed fast till the danger was past;
They rowed till their hearts nearly collapsed.
And when they were safe and they asked what he’d heard,
Odysseus wept but spoke not a word.
He could only look back towards the island
Where the song of the Sirens he’d heard.
Odysseus alone returned to his home over the white sea foam.
Gave up his wild sea-faring life, lived quiet with son and with wife.
But every night for the rest of his life, as Odysseus lay in his bed,
He heard the song of the Sirens, he still heard their song in his head.
He heard the song still and he ached to be on that distant, fog-shrouded island
In the midst of the vast lonely sea.
When the woollen industry died,
the reservoir that fed the old mill,
became disused.
The water meadow at its head
became a swamp.
Developers,
who want to build houses everywhere,
take one look at the quagmire,
sniff the stench fouled air, and walk away.
The channels are long blocked.
The drains are long broken.
So a freed, unmanaged, unmanacled nature;
binges on the anarchy of liberation,
brewing a brackish broth of sweet stagnation.
Children are warned to stay away
from the deadly, dangerous, disease
ridden slough.
Lest the Knucker Dragon, swamp devil,
swallow them whole.
Bulrushes,
point brown accusing fingers to the sky,
blaming the heavens for their
muddied becoming and placement.
Blood worm larvae,
orphaned Fly Nymphs,
ravenous in the root and stem of grasses;
greedily gorge without discrimination,
where cannibal repast; is often a relation.
Herons, are shadows that pass over,
heading for the cleaner waters below.
Snipe scutter
in the soft mire, poking for grubs.
Busily burying beaks in the
flowering Bogbean, and Hogweed:
Yellow Flag Iris,
and Ragged Robin,
rampantly roar a rich cacophony of colour.
Beady eyed, scruffy small,
fat water vole.
Mining leerdammer labyrinths in the banks,
faring fine on favoured vegetation,
prosperously multiply in stinking habitation.
The cooks in the restaurant found it appalling
how Betty messed up every pie she was baking
and how- from her tripping and falling -
dish after dish Cook Betty kept breaking.
What a spectacle of herself she was making!
Today, however, Betty is relieved
because of how much better she is faring.
All the other cooks are no longer peeved,
for Cook Betty has stopped all her erring
thanks to the new spectacles she's wearing!
(Revision of my previous post, which needed to be a quintain
for Joe Maverick's Contest)
Standing at the tavern door,eyes dark and brooding
Neath his floppy hat, stared into the crowded room,
A Raven flew from his shoulder settling in rafters high,
He smiled a sardonic smile and ordered a mug of ale.
All turned to look at this dark eyed traveller tall,
His leather boots dusty ,cloak trimmed with mud,
And from his belt around his coat hung a dirk long
No one thought to say a word they tried to look small.
Around the smoke filled room his gaze did wander
Settled on a crowd of rowdy sea going lads noisly
Drinking ale and rum and telling bawdy tales,
Just back from foreign voyage across the seven seas.
Within their midst a vision sat with a smirk on ruby lips
Long hair framed her face like waves of swelling sea,
Like kelpie mane, ran that hair ,her eyes like deep sea green,
And at once his dark eyes shone beneath that floppy hat.
The night wore on, the air grew warm, the raven fluffed his wings
From somewhere a shot rang out lodging in rafters deep,
Laughter raucous and shrill cut across the misty room,
Silence fell heavy among the gathered crowd.
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the rowdy lads
Dark eyes flashed as stepped towards where they sat,
As one they rose and laughed in his face,swords drawn,
In his hand a wooden staff and they laughed no more.
Faces stunned into disbelief at what they had seen,
Around his feet six men lay still blood seeping from their wounds,
He turned on his heel and slowly went through the door,
The Raven cawed, spread his wings as he flew out the door.
Standing by his horse the sea going beauty waited patiently,
She smiled as he approached with a swagger and dark eyes flash
He tipped his floppy hat and beckoned with outstretched hand,
She went to him in full embrace held him like a band.
They travelled the land, the sea faring beauty and the dark eyed man,
Their tale told throughout the fair sun kissed land,
From village to village and taverns where seafaring folk met,
The legend grew of the Dark Eyed traveller and his mermaid bride.
Andrew Provan McIntyre © 2015.
I spied a ship and descried the flag it flew.
It was nothing like the flags I had seen before.
It was red and blue, with white circles and yellow stars
The highlights of white and yellow stood out
like stars at night, and town lights bright.
The red like the color of the dawn and dusk.
The blue the color of the deep blue ocean.
It was clearly the flag of a sea faring nation.
As the ship got closer, you could clearly see its details.
It was a large primitive Polynesian outrigger voyager vessel,
a ghost ship as no one appeared to be aboard.
Where it had come from, the fate of its crew a mystery?
But the vessel sure knew how to sail
and knew where it was headed
as it sailed fast and free,
passed our sailing boat 'Snail'
on a true heading for a spot on the horizon.
For many years the Polynesian voyagers were decried as flotsam and jetsom.
How could these primitive people navigate through the vast open ocean
between tiny islands, pin-prick dotted in oceans of space?
It was assumed they migrated and populated the far flung oceans randomly and haphazardly
via their fishing trips and day trips being blown off course.
But research has descried their skill and fabulous knowledge of navigation.
Each island has a gild of navigators.
They use songs and stories to memorize navigation methods:
including the movement of the stars, wave patterns around island,
local currents, clouds, weather and bird behavior.
Polynesian navigators used the rise and setting of particular set stars on the horizon to set a heading.
They had wooden instruments, string and fiber maps of wave patterns and star movements to guide their way.
They skillfully know when they were near tiny islands
from the change in the wave patterns, currents
and their vast knowledge of birds and wildlife.
So don't be quick to decry Polynesian navigation.
Instead, descry its beauty, simplicity, nouse, proficiency and elegance.
Dear Mom: I'm in the Army now and faring pretty well.
The chow ain't too bad but how those Sergeants love to yell!
I thought it tough abiding by your rigid rules and regulations,
But they pale compared to the Army's inflexible expectations!
Remember how you used to chide me about making up my bed?
It ain't no different here except Sergeants berate me now instead!
I couldn't wait to leave home to get away from your reproof.
Mom, I must admit things weren't half bad living beneath your roof!
Remember how I used to toss my clothes all about my room?
Sergeants won't tolerate that and for such will lower the boom!
I guess I really had it good when I was living under your wing.
When I finish my hitch and get back home, I won't gripe about a thing!
Remember how I used to ignore your threats and lay in bed 'til noon?
Now, the bugle toots at five a.m. and awakes the whole platoon!
Mom, I look back now and regret that I gave you any sass.
Now, I keep my mouth shut and suffer harassment from the brass!
Remember how you used to fuss at me for coming home so late?
Now, the Sergeants rant and rave if we ain't in bed by eight!
Mom, when I get out of here and am again under your wing,
I promise I'll do what you want and never complain about a thing!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 8 in Mom Contest May 2010
I spent a year or two aboard
A sea faring vessel
Through the gale and through the rain
With Lord Neptune I did wrestle
Me Capitan was a wise old man
With experience beyond my years
And when he got to talkin
You shut yer mouth and opened yer ears
One night after supper this he said to me
Whiskey was made for drinkin
And the sand was made for shores
If a sailor gets caught with a married girl
He best not lose his oars
I spent some time locked up
In a hard walled Turkish prison
All that time inside
Left me my home a missin
And While I was a hostage
My roommate was a rat
Scaly tail and whiskered nose
Twas on my bed he shat
And one night after supper this I said to him
Whiskey was made for drinkin
And the sand was made for shores
If I ever get back home
Ill kiss the ground down on all fours
I found myself in confessional
There to tell a sin
I waited in the booth alone
Until the priest was in
Sitting there debating
Of what I thought I should say
How should I tell an old ecclesiastic?
About a wild young man’s way
And so when he stepped in, this I said to him
Whiskey was made for drinking
And the sand was made for shores
I got caught with a married girl
But I didn’t lose me oars!
You deserve so much more that I give
In deed she is
She lights the green light
A woman of letters
Once upon a time
Under the moonlight tales
We hear the sky
Meeting with angels
In the blue clouds
A different mother
The onset of the nucleus
I can tell the history
Though, I wasn't there, but she was yesterday.
The Achilles heel in nefariousness.
She is always right
A serpent in the egg to the rainy days
A different mother
Acumen to the future
The beginner of the end
A Shepherd of sheep
The villain of a hero
The architecture of humanity
She imprisons herself
In a royal house
Faring for her seeds
Almost a laughing stock
In her child's play
She has a Penelope's web
For her kith and Kin
She begot love
The merchant of honorary
The nurserymaid
A different mother
The Christmas Flowers
Growing in summer
The birds fly
Feeding from her colourants display
She walks in the rain
When her umbrella is no more
At night, she wakes a million times
For the new born baby
A different mother
As busy as a bee
She build the Nation
To and fro
At a stake,
The good Samaritan grows her flowers
Ill at ease, her swan songs grow
In the memory of the future
But in the morning,
They are like thankless arrant
A different mother
Why not now?
Time has denied your harvest
Why become an uphill task?
Even on the rainy days
Through fire and water
A bolt from the blue clouds
She lays the golden eggs
OH! MOTHER OF ALL
Thy seeds shall not die
They shall spread thy golden bed
When thy night comes
Thou shall eat thy food
When thou shall hunger
For them in the evening
Even the dark night shall lie on thy feet
Till thy heavenly dinner comes
(By Precious Opurum: Nigeria)
Copyright © odiboy 2016
VOLCANO
This artistic and ancient civilisation settled on these fertile slopes a millennia ago,
in peace with the land they live in complete harmony for they are not a war-faring race.
They plant crops and grow grapes on the lower slopes of the huge towering volcano,
everyone ignores the billowing clouds of steam issuing forth, they know they’re safe just as their parents knew.
At midday the earth rocks and then the volcano explodes, sleeping mountain awakes with a massive roar. Fire and rocks fly forth in all directions and lava flows down the steep slopes.
Villagers run away scared but many are caught in the fall of hot ash and rock,
as the burning lava destroys their crops and town they know the end is near.
Falling ash covers everything and everyone so that they’ll be hidden for three thousand years, entombed to their end.