Best Fence In Poems
No litter, no rules, no society scent,
just peninsula pure soul content, ideally lent.
Awed and wowed with arms stretched wide,
I stand on Key’s narrow road, on narrow land,
surrounded by two sea gems and their sand.
This dream road sea-drowns, down south’s horizon
and thrills my innocence without even trying.
Western growth is dense and a fence in Gulf’s yard.
Her wave’s sirens are blue-salt diamonds
and I am mesmerized by their titan climbing.
East unfolds turquoise enchantments unmarred –
The playful, poetic Atlantic off guard,
bewitching and hypnotic in regard.
Dazzled, I sit in the sea, shoulders deep.
Powder soft ocean floor thrones me nicely.
I could sit the day in this sea so sultry.
Flirty, allusive, emerald joys leap
as languid, luscious wet meets sun’s glee,
sending my senses high where memories keep.
These expressive ocean blues and greens
are of patterns and ways, I have never seen.
Sensual and graceful, each sea touch is delight –
as soothing in feel as pleasure in my sight.
Before me spreads endless bounty of ocean glean.
Under Florida-kissed skies, I sit wet and serene.
You wake up to commotion, throw on some clothes.
Outside you see some bloody bodies piled on the street.
People are screaming, running in all directions
away from oncoming military trucks and tanks.
Your heart is pounding; your mind shouts
what should I do? Where should I go?
You can't head back home because now
soldiers have headed there,
collecting folks and dividing them into groups:
Men separated from women,
the elderly from the young, boys from girls.
Trucks are filling fast with the different groups of people.
You look all around and see only confused and mortified faces.
The fact that all these others share your emotions
is your only comfort.
A woman breaks loose from a line crying out for her son.
A shot rings out; she collapses to the ground.
You can see one small group of people have escaped -
perhaps unnoticed - beyond a fence in the near distance.
Another group have all scattered, and easily seen,
they scramble toward a store.
They fall randomly when intermittent shots from the soldiers' guns fire out.
You stand motionless, knowing soon you will be tagged
by soldiers herding people into trucks.
Will you try to sneak toward the fence or will you remain as you are
to face your frighteningly unknown fate?
Are there more tanks beyond the fence of which everyone is unaware?
Won't those racing for their freedom eventually be caught?
you must make the decision while no one seems to have noticed you yet:
Freeze or flee?
April 2, 2019 for Laura Loo's
'Favorite Poem From Last Week (March 31-April 6, 2019)' Poetry Contest
March 21, 2022 for
A Brian Strand 1094 Poetry Contest
Behold the neck of a giraffe
Long enough to make you laugh
Can stretch over the fence in zoo
To find munchy leaves to chew
Of it's length I'm not even half!
The Autumn sun shone with golden magic
The warmth of the embrace was seen from afar
As I stood along the fence in the valley below
Inside the house are tales akin to tragic
A son had volunteered, never returned from war
The brother, when burgled, lost a limb & elbow
The mother took a job in the town's law practice
Came home too tired, to enjoy bird or flower
Tend her husband, then disabled son in back bungalow
This is the story of every house, of Al & Beatrice
Clark & Diane, Everett & Flo, by year, month, hour!
The house glowing under God's sun, hides tales of woe
I remember a time when things were simple
Music could always cheer me up from a bad mood
Friends were the only entertainment I needed on a summer afternoon
Swimming pools
Acoustic guitars
Relaxing to the sounds of Hyrule on the roof of my house
Jamming out and writing songs in a shed at the ranch
Being intimidated by a bull and jumping the fence in fear
When my best friend was always there for a good laugh
Or in the hard times, a helping hand
I wish everything could go back to those days
When nothing mattered but music and friends
When you didn’t have to worry about getting killed walking down the street
When there wasn’t a threat of someone from another country attacking you
When you didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing
Because everyone took things with a light heart
When money wasn’t a problem
When depression wasn’t there
Life was so much better back then
Why did it have to change?
burnt orange leaves on vines
cover a fence in autumn
spiderweb playground
a rippling field bends
tall cornstalks dance head to head
wild rhythms of fall
eerie sounds at dusk
send a tingling chill of fright
first cat fight of fall
Miss Muffet was a girl of thirteen, filled with youth's beauty and charm;
And a love of vibrant life zealous, like eager, vivid thunder of blue alarm.
She was a fine student, pert and popular; like the primrose popularity;
Or stars appearing at the designated hour, sparkling like crystal clarity.
Mary Muffet lived in a small town, with loving parents and her siblings,
Who sympathized with her fear of spiders; like colorful, fall misgivings.
Friends flanked their white picket fence, in fall days of glamour, striking;
And wove fanciful tales with flourish, like flowering genesis, so enticing!
Far off family ofttimes visited Fernglen, with its farms, rich with future;
For fishing and other rollicking fun, staying on 'til varicolored, fall rumor.
They lived in the house of quaint beauty, like charming red, berry sun;
Fondly gazing on pearly moon twice daily, the ritual begun on day one.
Songs sunrise to sunset serenaded, on dappled, silent, Sowerby Street;
But, a scorching summer bled scarlet roses, at the red butterfly retreat.
Near neighbors stayed on a first name basis, in unending, plum seasons;
Of days and nights of green nature; like teal surf, which never weakens.
Summer's glory was in the tiny details, like prayer plants, giving praise;
When sun face orchids, wore sunny smiles, in colored fields of noon haze.
And jade baby toes plants were crawling, through hours of soon history;
In honey days of bicolored hibiscus, filled with heady scents of mystery.
Mary attended a church celebration one day, along with her whole family;
And food was served indoors and out, as pink robin sang of gold, happily.
Mary had such fun playing games! There was much laughter and talking.
Then Mary had a craving for cheese, so like shadows, inside went walking.
Once inside, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider, who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.'
As Mary screamed and ran, causing a rumpus, she drew a lot of attention;
But, was suddenly embarrassed by her overreaction, like fall's suspension.
Little Miss Muffet was thence more mature, a natural result of getting older,
And fear of spiders was left behind, like summer blossoming, grown bolder.
"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts keep my drooping eyelids open wide."
~ Shakespeare's Sonnet 27
Often, when my body craves nothing more than sleep
my mind wanders in gardens where thoughts take root.
I ponder why the fervor of poetic ideas flicker and seep
into my psyche as if I must follow the Pied Piper's flute.
I cannot stifle the waterfall's cascading inspirations
for the palpitations of my pulse cannot staunch the flow.
A chorus of whispered voices begs me to take notations,
not to be forgotten before dawn's pink skies begin to glow.
I've failed to silence the visitors with burgeoning verses.
Their Sonnet seeds are planted with end rhymes in a row.
There's no ignoring their demands with my abusive curses.
I wonder how I might convince them to be quiet and go.
Once, I tried counting sheep, but I heard fairytale lines
drifting over a fence in my head, and meowing of a cat.
I tried to drown them out with music but in the confines
of my sleepy mind, lyrics came flying at me like a bat!
I'm not amused when my muse tells me I'm being lazy.
On reflection, I must speculate that she's the instigator.
I tell her to go away. I can't write when my mind is hazy.
She mumbles words I cannot hear. Why do I tolerate her?
I've given this bane, this insane lack of sleep some thought
Usually, I refuse to give in to ponderings and stay in bed.
Battle lines were drawn, and though vigilantly I have fought,
if I'm to sleep, I will surrender and write what's in my head.
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
This story I am about to unfold,
is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
yet ends, running up a painful lather.
Down the dirt road, where he lived, when young,
was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer, did sell ‘em.
Being a boy with several brothers,
who were always doing as boys will do
dDdn’t take long, for one to dare the other,
to steal them a watermelon, or two.
Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
as he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.
He looked around until he found the one,
that was the biggest he could carry.
Cutting the vine, hefting the melon up,
running towards the fence, in a hurry.
Well, that old farmer was wise to boys,
had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
His double barrel shotgun, he had poised,
to make sure, no more melons, he’d steal.
The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa’s backside got peppered as he trot.
I think nothing more need be said.
This is my favorite poem because it is a true
story about my Grandpa. He was more than a Grandpa to me.
He was my Dad and best friend. My teacher and fellow
trouble maker.
He always called me his "little blue bird of happiness".
Dedicated to Henry Miller
She floats to me towards, like a Jazz...
Defiantly jumps in my green back yard.
She’s waltzing through the fence in Sunday morning.
I’m having cup of coffee with a joy.
My cigarette is melting far away.
I’m singing K.D. Lang with puffy smoking.
Just fly, my robin, fly, up to the sky
And bring me youth from 70-s “Convention”.
“Oh, She is so beautiful !”, - I’d say.
I’m looking at My Angel with delight
And watching her brown hair in the wind:
It flutters like white sails in the ocean.
Her eyes are calling me with sunshine light.
You came to me ! My Muse ! My Inspiration !
I’ve waited here so long for you
By dreaming in the late dark endless night.
I am playing you this Bossa Nova song
When sundown touches sunrise in the morning.
I’m making every sound like a craft
And stitch-by-stitch my melody is playing.
My voice is low and gentle, cricket’s sound.
Oh, Bossa Nova... Portugal...Brazil…
My soul groans under Argentina...
Guitar and maracas are touching my heartbeat.
Hiroko Tokuda and Henry Miller, I
Became the captive of your “Water Colors” dreaming.
I wish I’d start the paintings by my heart.
He woke up at 3 o’clock, at once,
And cracked the shadows of imagination.
His timeworn brush was touched by magic hands.
Musician… Artist…Writer…All in One…
He’s got so many talents in one person.
Why can’t I take a brush and start explode
Myself upon the canvas on the cloud ?
Is Kundalini still asleep in my poor mind ?
Am I a frozen Snow Queen with no movement ?
Gomen-Nasai ! Please, forgive, My Muse !
I do not justify your expectations.
But I have hopes that, one-day or night,
I will wake up and take my brush and colors
And Bossa Nova will be dancing on the wall.
Black Canvas Capricorn… White Tropic of December...
Original version – August 2006
Fixed Version – August 2008
White picket fence in the rear view
Coordinates in the GPS
He honks as he leaves the driveway
For a three day trip to the west
They call it the white line fever
And it's addictive as crack cocaine
The need to be out there trucking
Injected right into your veins.
The kids are sleeping on the porch
The dog is tugging at its chain
She smiles and tells him be careful
It looks like we're in for some rain.
They call it the white line fever
And it's addictive as crack cocaine
The need to be out there trucking
Injected right into your veins.
He doesn't care what he's hauling
As long as he's out on the road
Crisscrossing county and state lines
To pick up yet another load.
They call it the white line fever
And it's addictive as crack cocaine
The need to be out there trucking
Injected right into your veins.
He's got her picture in the truck
That he talks to late at night
Driving alone in the darkness
With not another car in sight.
They call it the white line fever
And it's addictive as crack cocaine
The need to be out there trucking
Injected right into your veins.
Truck driving runs in the family
His granddaddy owned his own rig
His daddy was always saying
You can drive son when you get big.
They call it the white line fever
And it's addictive as crack cocaine
The need to be out there trucking
Injected right into your veins.
People ask him how he managed
To keep driving for all those years
He tells them about a picture
And the sweet sound of shifting gears.
They call it the white line fever
And it's addictive as crack cocaine
The need to be out there trucking
Injected right into your veins.
Rusted golden knob,on the left of a parched
and partially painted door.
Turn clockwise,close my eyes and push
Screeching,squeaking keeping eyes closed no peeking
Dust,musk and dander fill my nasal passages.(sneeze)
Open my eyes low and behold images flash through my mind.
Hastily and apace my recollections reappear,
While witnessing a single spider falling slowly to the floor.
As I step into this great empty space-just past way of the door.
Looking,seeing a gander rising my eyes to head level,
Piercing airborne gilings and dancing soot,
Flickering rays from the sun infuriate my sight like I am a midnight devil.
Light roaming in and around from a dingy sliding glass window,
A vignette emerges of the old wooden fence in the backyard.
This is where we lived-And that's where we played hard.
TILL WE MEET AGAIN
Have you seen the sun smile recently?
I have seen him smiled in the season of my
Song in the year of the great harvest of yams.
Everyday is a gift, every moment is a blessing,
Every life holds a beauty of its own, but the
Day of our calling we cannot escape it for
Life and death has a common boundary to humans.
Tell every one that I love them very dearly,
To ijeoma; tell her that I won't forget those
Days when we danced naked under the rain.
The rain kissed her smiles with a holy kiss
Which beamed with a mountainous dreams of love.
Tell Ugonna of my pains, suffer not the enemy to live
Bring back the abducted girls from the forest
Keep singing those songs to mother for peace.
Forsake not the shrine of our forefathers,
There our lives began after the harmatten
Live every stone untouched and every woman in
The family compound should not become widow for long.
I am going not in joy but in tears since I can not
Reject the call of the ancestors.
Lower the hurricane lamp in the village square
And make peace with the gods for I must
Journey down beyond to tell our forebears the harm
They have done to us.
They abandoned and sold us to the enemy
I will tell them of the falling fence in the compound,
I will tell them the oil that have dried in the mouth of the gods.
No one is able to baptise their mouths with oil
Because we have none to give.
Take care of the mourning sheep in the compound
Treat the children well and give my sister the right
Man forget not the tradition of our people,
I will keep watch from beyond till we meet again.
TEN MINUTES THAT DIDN’T SHAKE THE WORLD
They seemed to talk only in metaphor or simile
And in what they call stream-of-consciousness -
These two young women in the café overheard yesterday -
About something boring to the point of unconsciousness;
And a small athlete called Richard something-or-other
Although they referred to him colloquially as Little Dick.
Maybe he was a friend-with-problems of their mother:
They spoke of age, alcohol, hormones, and bad technique.
Literary comparisons about throwing a raw sausage into a train tunnel backhand;
Jokes about stifling a yawn, making it look like open-mouth osculation;
Counting ceiling tiles in rhythm: ninety seven, ninety eight, ninety nine, change hands;
Oxymoron, bathos and pathos were all used in their discussion.
Diversions (like trying to recall the cost in the grocery store of small shrimp,
Or wondering if your contact lens has slipped or are you just sleepy-tired )
Didn’t help. They said Dick’s performance was badly timed and as well as rather limp
(Must remember to have the car’s weak battery charged before it’s retired.)
His sport may have been with aircraft in flight
But his free-fall diving ended when he pulled his string too soon,
She said, like a New Year’s rocket launched before midnight ,
He opened his champagne bottle at 8 am, before the speech at noon.
Perhaps a racehorse was involved, but as far as I could gather ,
A very small racehorse which burst away from the start line too early
And arrived at the first fence in a lather
And, she said, that’s not designed to make my toes curly.
They obviously found his performance confusing
And indeed, by all accounts rather supine.
However, his efforts seem to have been amusing
And at least it gave the girls literary opportunities to shine