Best Fences Poems
We long for relationships
that know no borders,
in which hearts can roam free,
frolicking with each other,
and galloping at will
through fields and streams
in broad daylight,
and spontaneous affections
can nuzzle unrestrained.
Yet on our humble ranch,
it is the broken horses
that we so often ride.
Connections become curtailed
that once headed for the horizon,
by trial and error taught
to shield certain wounds
and mind necessary fences,
in many a peculiar pasture.
They're all talking walls and fences,
words meant to force us apart,
the world has lost all it's senses,
where did this craziness start?
I'm walking up here on the ridge,
already making a start,
building a shiny new bridge,
this flyover straight to your heart.
Contemplating atop the “Great Wall,” was Neruda comparing similarities of this and “Machu
Picchu?” Was there more commonality beyond stonemasons craft? High stone walls ancient
cities, “great walls,” lesser ones (Berlin) are designated barriers between peoples/ideologies
for protection. Long standing cultural isolation results.
Constructing a fence of wood at Isla Negra afforded symbolic protection. Wooden slats
allowed words over and through pickets to the world beyond. If “Machu Picchu” was “a trip to
the serenity of the soul,” fences and “great walls” lie on opposite sides of that.
Neruda’s prolific poetry rose above politics unencumbered by walls, fences or dogma.
for contest on Pablo Neruda
I've been mending fences. It's a long ride down a straight line. You can't do this kind of work unless you have the strength and the spirit to live with solitude. There is nothing out here but scrub brush, vultures, and the sky. I start each day over a campfire of loneliness. The coyotes songs ringing in my ears. There is only one thing I want in this world and that is peace of mind.
The tongue is a fire, it can inspire,
or burn, everything.
The words we say, have so much power,
to build up, or devour, everything.
How much better to think first,
not expecting the worst,
from everyone.
So much happier you will be,
having friends and family,
living as one.
Don't live life without thought,
fixing mistakes from thoughtless talk.
Everything we do and say,
has consequences.
Don't spend your life,
burning bridges,
mending fences.
John Derek Hamilton February 21, 2013 Revised October7,2015
though her lips may smile
an ineffable sadness
lies behind those eyes
for despite my best
intentions, never would I
see them shine for me
tis not a fairy
tale, our paths must never cross
dark matter fences
Torn and tattered leaning in disrepair
up on tiptoes little eyes want to know
lost with flying forms of trepidation
hiding memories one cant let go
Hand painted soldiers with drips of white
once straight arrows pointed to the sky
plastic suitcases meticulously strewn about
cloistered chickweed climb making daffodils cry
Stone crumbles under small weathered frowns
dreams of the next Simone laid to rest
tall grass softens another fateful fall
escaping a sharpened prowess put to the test
Sights plighted a place most aristocracy fear
but bubble gum giggles are often heard
the dirt and dust so easily brushed off
a fortress full of fantasy in world that's blurred
He's aware
of the yard he lives in --
aware of the fences
that define
his constant existence
He feels his life
is missing
from the world
outside those fences --
He's very afraid
of what lies beyond them, feels
very safe,
having such a perimeter
contain his life --
and yet,
just
yet,
when roaring lightning
cracks storms into his skies,
all he can think of, all
he's impelled towards,
from the very deep in-side-
out of his soul
is to panic & bolt,
cause himself even bodily harm
just to
find a way
out, find a way
to dig free, to
leave those fences behind --
to run amuck, un-
entrapped, seeking
freedom from fear
in the very places
that he sees as offering
no safety, no
familiarity
Then, when he calms
down,
when he's done
with his run,
the sole object burning
in his primitive mind
is to seek again
the warmth and comfort
of familiarity and safety,
and he
returns to his yard,
settles back down within his fences,
and pretends to himself
that he'll never --
No, he'll never
do that scary thing
ever again and then,
as if to prove it to himself,
to convince himself he
really means it this time
he enters into the house
yarded by those fences
and goes to sleep, goes
unconscious,
and dreams of freedom
inside the walls
of the house inside the yard,
in the center
of the fences
that circumscribe his world
High Powered Fences,
Beyond Your Vote
Armchair Politian's sitting beside Ceasar(a),
believing or at least making believe...
that they are for the people,
and not against.
"They" have been there too long.
Rot is strong, coming from the corpses.
They point thin-sharp fingers,
and makeup rules,
using the tools, of the trade.
Lies like snakes,
that live on both land and water,
in every form of underling,
pressed into service...
for the queen, of nothing.
Lowlife voters pleading for honesty,
from dark web media that has sold out.
The land-turtles living in office,
fighting over the scraps of the victory garden,
a warning of war already in the distance.
Like bugs eating their own fallen,
while striving to start a new colony,
they chant over the electric lines...
martyr-ism.
Of a hero, no, of a monster.
How is lifting evil up okay?
If not backed by the lies of a religion,
as dark as those that hide their face,
like cowards do,
and bow.
You have read it at the end of every book.
It is the same sunrise and sunset.
It is just another day,
no matter what the media say.
They scream and yell and cry,
like Hinny Penny and the Sky.
The facts quit... not quite the case.
The prayers of a country,
saints gathered knowing all are coming.
Standing up for the weak,
taking back and remembering.
Waking up the old to dance again...
on the government franchise,
we should own from the illegal gotten gain,
the children of the political elite,
and supreme, cheerleaders of the third world.
The larks in the media,
busy telling us...
all they want us to know.
The reality is "they" do their best business,
lying to us all.
There will be an accounting.
There will be, a fall.
The time is coming.
That is the call.
Muddling through the thunder walls
With eyes of stones and fatten bones of your disorder
Where swords and mad lizards crawl
So here’s to you and you're so out of order
While first I lay in my stepping stew of sorrow
Dripping dewy cheeks with blackened eye lids of pain
To the second hand I shall borrow again and again
With your concealed heart and bloody red line that stains
Devour not my soul for I have but a numb spot that won’t fade
Inner strength must come from the divine above
The cold curled up spoiled mind’s eye
So take me hand your push and shove love
Out of the pits of hell you drew and crashed
Blindsiding me into a state of shock
Take back your fighting words and retracted
So salvations make all things clarified and pave the way for harmony
Should there be growth with such groaning
With my slashed seething hands
Raising up leggy dark fences
Two voices rise from a car driving down an abandoned road.
Barbed wire fences close the road in.
We are alone. Different and shunned from the rest of humanity.
Two voices sing a duet from the soul, crying for freedom, pleading for hope. Wishing
with everything they have that things would change.
Heartbreaking beauty is on the other side of that fence. Hills and trees and grass,
so beautiful it makes me cry, and for a moment my song stops as I'm struck
speechless by the sheer majesty of those hills and trees.
Fences dot the hillside, like cattle pens, but there's nothing there.
Fences outside fences. A sure way to make sure we will never be free.
We can run, but there will always be fences.
Why can't we have our freedom like we deserve to. Why must we be different when
we are so very much the same.
Why must there always be fences outside fences.
Why must there always be fences when we deserve to be free.
They all tell me that I love someone else
But I do not share, I keep to myself
I do not tell them, for experience
Has kept me from dealing experience
To those who could not care less about one
Who needs a person to talk about tons
Of feelings she’s bottling in, of stuff
But when she plays her cards, she has to bluff
For fear of spreading her gloom, if she spreads
It, she will have trouble finding other heads
To rest her weary mind, pessimism
Cannot lose to happy optimism
And so others avoid her, leave her gaze
They do not partake in those awful days
When she is so down, she cries at days’ end
Before she snapped threads, now too hard to mend
They all tell me that I love someone else
But I do not share, I keep to myself
I do not tell them, for experience
Has kept me from dealing experience
he’s the cream of the fetid crop drop my dream off at the bank and cash it in sin grins demons demonstrate and deify stratified simpletons who caress videos with pornographic poverty mediocrity meditates on mushroom clouds stalking world peace foreclosed homes stripped fixed and sold to the highest bidder the inane riddle chuckles in every direction rock-stars teenage cop cars crowd the camera-addled peasant lanes fire pistons plug the hole first down and ten yards to go score and win next season begin again push push push once more beyond the wall hear the women call they want you with a painted smile to finish the last cracked concrete mile denial of the loss sets in as he gets ahead of you and there’s nothing you can do except sit at home and stew over the fences you fell through
Behind the posts and fancy lines,
a poetess is blue.
Her picket fence is yellowing
and hanging all askew.
~ ~ ~
Inside her barbed and wired heart,
cruel words have shut her in.
It's perfect on the outside,
but sorely hurts within.
~ ~ ~
The gate through picket fences
swings open but can close
to either bring her happiness
or keep her filled with woes.
~ ~ ~
The fence - secured - so long ago
has all but fallen down.
She tries to keep it stabilized
in spite of shaky ground.
~ ~ ~
The barricades will crumble yet
from dead and useless weight
and words can either shelter her
or impale her at the gate.
~ ~ ~
She walks away on cobbled stones
cracking beneath her feet.
Let's hope she can remember
that life's a two-way street.
Digging those holes; inserting those poles;
Imposing those limits; what is and what goes.
Jumping the fences; crossings the lawns;
Playing with starlight; till fun time is gone.
There in the large house; those of I am;
Offer cake to the hungry; they do what they can.
On the wings of the eagles; egos do ride;
In the color of rainbows; selfish can hide.
Penned to the art form; contention can churn;
The rules on the fences; tomorrow might burn
Simplistic perhaps; yet does it not rhyme;
Does that buy us entrance; universally sublime?