Best Ferried Poems
Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'
In my university days, you burned in me
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.
Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your poetry is like a whispered secret still aglow
As a recluse, you hid yourself. From the crowd you stole.
Your poems give a glimpse into the workings of your heart
Your thoughts, bold and subtle speaks directly to me.
As I think of you, through my mind, emotions of awe dart.
Staying aloof, you watched nature and animals closely.
In your poems, you elevated the mundane to the sublime.
‘If I could Stop one Heart from Breaking’_
This poem, stays immortal in all time.
Your musings on life and nature are breathtaking.
Dear Emily, you shouldn’t have hidden your light,
Like a lamp under the bushel. Sad, your poems you buried,
Abhorrent of publicity, but posthumously came into limelight.
Now across oceans and tides, they are avidly ferried.
At
Dunkirk,
where thousands
of stranded men
lined a bloody beach,
hope was draining with each
air strike delivered by the
unrelenting Germans’ aircraft.
Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore -
their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk.
How must they have felt knowing their homeland
was so close – and yet so far away?
Horrific days passed when at last
brave civilians came with boats,
so it was that ten times
the number of those
not expected
to live were
instead -
SAVED.
Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for
JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia:
The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940.
The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured.
On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain. In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
Hitch-hiking on the road of yellow bricks
I took a chance upon a passing whim
It ferried me where thins grow out from thickes
Turns out, I found myself out on a limb
Imagine, on a limb and at my age
How could I get my feet back on the ground
My first instinct was fly into a rage
A brainstorm came, then all my anger drowned
Yet this was not my first time on a limb
Fact is, I've shinnied down more than a few
These days, instead of taking it so grim
I've learned to sit and just enjoy the view
If you're caught on a limb by some mistake
The bright side is, the damned thing didn't break
by Daniel Turner
When love lies in a crypt unnamed
And it's fire lives on lips untamed
And the wild fury wakes from it's sleep
to find the who or what it seeks
With thirst and hunger of the starving
Armed with strength men find alarming
and the valor of a silent knight
Antisipating whatever unknown fight
built for battle and not for flight
Searching both the days and nights
for the thing that illudes the sight
Made of love and things measured
identified by hopes and things treasured
Found only by the eyes of the soul
to satisfy an insatiable goal
Where only grace can intercede
and the lonely has met its chosen seed
To give to it's own special need
That one of which the dreamer dreamt
That angel for whom the eyes have wept
The secrets that one's heart has kept
All fulfilled to the deepest depth
To the place where inspiration ferried
and to the person imagination carried
All wrapped in things called thought
Inescapable this thing where it's caught
My heaven, where my paradise is you
My perfect, is everything you do
My soul has found its rest
with love, that turned my crypt into a nest
With you, my soul has been blessed
with peace, and this is happiness.
REVIVAL - A Dedication
Filled to the brink, ink in the barrel of my pen
Yet hesitant to flow as poem for days more than ten
Writer’s block or lethargy, I am unsure what and when
Like a cocoon reeled all around, my words trapped in den
No muse, no zeal, me cornered to the cozy comfort zone
Excuses I made in plenty- hell lot of work, I don’t have my clone!
Days and nights kept rolling, in my mind ,seeds called shirk were sown
Attitude of why bother?Chill! It happens to many, you are not alone
But entered little change to break this status quo
When a new message dropped into my mailbox you know
It was from this lady named Linda, dear poetess on Poetry soup!
On three of my poems that I had already posted, she sent in her scoop....
Her precious words of appreciation! left me motivated and inspired
To write new poem decided I ,my lost enthusiasm her words revived
Heartfelt gratitude dear lady, this poem to you with love I dedicate
Like an angel, to me you ferried a bundle of cheering for definite!
My words have now started flowing out of my mind's greenroom
To present before you all this poem in their free flowing inky costume!
( I dedicate this poem to my dear poetess -Linda, Poet Destroyer A )
©Copyright Anulaxmi Nayak,2016
As I held your
Limp lifeless form
The blank stare from
Your once all seeing eyes
I felt the warmth leave
And a bitter cold
Creep over your shell
Of a figure your moans
Seemingly the only sign
Of life stabbing my heart
I am not God! But my poor
Soul whom I love so dear
I can not bare the suffering
If I could but whisper in your ear
And breathe life into your core
I would change places with you
But I fear the worms are calling
From their damp dark soil
And your soul will be ferried somewhere
But your shell will remain to toil
I hold you close one last time
As is meant to be not my choice
I feel so empty
Suffer no more love
Our parting will be short lived
A part of me will go with you
It is all I have to give
I am not God! But if I could
But whisper and breathe life
Back into you I would hold
You forever
On an early morning walk along the shore
I pondered thoughts about the ocean floor
What treasures are buried beneath its sands
Amid corals, anemones, orange sea fans
I wanted a key to unlock the seabed's door
On the crest of a wave, what had been carried
bobbled and lobbed, back and forth parried
from shore and blown across windswept seas
Miles traveled by storms or a tropical breeze
on ocean currents, their journey never tarried
In a shallow tidal pool, a conch was stranded
A gift from Poseidon's hand, I'd been handed
I held the shell to my ear and then listened
awed by the sound while the sun glistened
Waves crested until on the beach they landed
With perfect rhythmic cadence they swelled
on a high tide until its last ripples were felled
Another always followed, close upon its wake
constantly flowing as if it had a thirst to slake
quenched by rushing ashore as if compelled
Buoyantly, bottles drift on the crest of a wave
Directed by the whims of tides, as if a slave
No ebbing waters have ever ferried one to me
I ponder how many notes drowned in the sea,
bottles speared by Neptune. Forsooth, a knave!
I see her in the wispy figures of the dawn's mist
out over the lake, ferried away on gentle breezes
evaporating into the unknown...
I smell her in the husky aroma of a morning's
rich cup of coffee, as I sip her fragrance
awakening my every instinct...
I hear her voice in the still of a late afternoon's forest walk
in the winds whistling through bare branches high above me
in the underbrush yielding to my furtive steps...
I sense her everywhere I look, everywhere I turn
everywhere my spirit guides me, yearning for her
reaching for her deep in the bosom of life's embrace
In the cool of an autumn morning
my father and his friend,
Jimmy Kerin, would go
mushroom picking in paddocks
way out past the last suburban fence.
I would tag along not to pick
but feel the freedom of open land
stretching as far as the eye could see
and for the pleasure of the ride.
I would sit in the back seat
of Mr Kerin’s 1950's Skoda, taking
in the smell of the leather
and laying out along its length
like a ferried prince.
I can remember the wet, green
paddocks, the cold dew being
flipped up to coat the back
of my bare legs as I walked.
Then, seeing a carpet of white crowns
pushing up through the short grass,
plump eruptions catching
the morning sun that got my Dad
and Mr Kerin excited and set them off
decapitating the tallest with their kitchen
knives. They soon would each have
a bucket full, some mushroom heads
as big as Dad's hand.
That evening the ritualized meal
would be acted out. Dad sitting
at the table waiting, Mum frying up
the mushrooms in a cast iron pan
then making the juices into a thick
buttery gravy. It was a celebration
with Dad voicing his pleasure
on downing each savored mouthful.
Mum and us kids would look on,
none of us could stomach the taste
of fungi and instead, tucked into
tomato soup and toast.
Such simple memories seem
to cling onto life as if sensing
autumn, stirring deep in the self's soil
to poke their heads up here.
Old ships come to die
on a silent beach;
once they ferried freight.
Side by side, they lie
broken hulls; now each
bide their rusty fate.
Image #1
Under dark protection of the night the gruesome two-some take to flight,
To exhume the grave of the recent buried, in a wheel barrow the bodies ferried,
Body snatchers creep at night, the open coffin brings delight,
Strip bare the corpse of wealth adorned, delivering the body before the dawn,
One with a shovel the other an axe, with powerful blows the coffin cracks,
The lid split open the crypt undone, access gained to the disrespectful ones,
Cold as ice the body lay, undisturbed until this day,
Burke reached in to rob the dead, as Hare watched on, his greed be fed,
"Help me Hare this one is stuck", his feet were sinking in the muck,
But Hare looked on his face turned grey, as Burke was being pulled away,
The ground beneath began to crumble, as Burke and Hare began to stumble,
The grip of fear had them tightly bound, as the corpse took hold of both their Hands,
Burke screamed "For God's sake help this is no joke", and that was when the Spirit spoke,
"Burke and Hare your fate is sealed, by the hand of death from which you steal,
Tonight The body snatchers me, as I ferry your souls on deaths black sea,
I take your life's to pay your debt,
Too long you taunt and tease the dead",
The ground opened up and fire shot through, the screams of torment echoed Through,
As Burke and Hare could not break free, from the depths of hell they could not flee,
Falling deeper underground, their bodies never to be found,
Yet listen close by graves at night,and you will hear their screams of fright,
A warning as they burn in hell, never desecrate a corpses shell.
enjoy the reed
now displayed as a satisfactory deed.
* * * * * *
A Senior Moment - written months ago commemorating
the graduation from a vaunted charter school
in Bend, Oregon of thy lovely youngest,
this papa could not attend -
geographical distance constituting the primary determinant.
* * * * * *
Valedictorian treads across makeshift platform
i.e. most likely auditorium stage marked
by hushed audience inhaling, notating,
and regaling gleeful lightness of buoyant feat
(but me Yeats heavy of heart) feted for 2017 Redmond
Enrichment Academy graduates, who attained,
a milestone vis a vis earning their
high school diploma, and ready to launch
bountiful daunting challenges, yet sure
footed each young gal and/or guy
will exude joy and sorrow upon grasping their
high school diploma aware a sound education
sent each on their own future path
while pomp and circumstances issues forth
by adroit musically talented underclass
* * * * * *
man, which emotional celebrated achievement
evoked by keynote student speaker,
but also underscored via that well worn mortar
board, linkedin, kickstarter, Joyus
tune (composed by Sir Edward Elgar –
subtitled March Number 1) acknowledging
cheers, eliciting grownups immense Kleenex
moistening overpowering quintessentially
simmering ululating wrenching yowling
as tassels flipped (maybe in conjunction with
a non twittering uber bird) to the left side
of the caparisoned newly anointed future
Dharma Bums, professionals and/or trades
persons momentarily stung with sadness
to depart favorite classmates and teachers
who voluntarily cosseted, ferried, and
* * * * * *
capitalone did flickr imperceptibly, kneaded
and leavened LivingSocial, and massaged MineCraft
outlook plenti full confidence, faith, and inherent
lettered oblations serve as snap chatting,
Experience your most opulent dream.
Taste solitude as one sampling rare and
ancient wine from fluted crystal goblets.
Be exhilarated in reaching toward the heavens
in 'primal scream' ecstasy
after climbing a hazardous rock massif,
and there inhaling rarified air
no other human being ever breathed.
Possess courage to explore
deep caverns and nether-world sanctums,
while holding fast to the vision and reason
that keeps one safe in plight.
Cast yourself upon the boundless ocean
depths, and fearing not a rogue wave,
be ferried safely through moonless,
liquid nights on waves of blue-green foam.
And believing you possess none of these
traits or aptitudes, dream passionately
while living humbly. Know self-esteem
while holding fast to modesty.
Walk the earth knowing nature and man
as companions and helpmates. Leave footprints
in the soil that are a clear path toward
truth and safety. For bravery occupies every
heart, and fear is cast aside with each step
that courage and fortitude take.
Live each day then, to the full. Go forth,
and experience your most opulent dream.
6-2-15
Experience Your Most Opulent Dream
*******************************************
Amid a star ferried night loves tears came falling ~
Into Your beautiful eyes, their dreams were calling
Through the whispering tides a heart left drifting
While I stood by Your side; the pain was melting....
And the moon cast her glow as a choir bringing, joy
To sweep this night with heavens Angels singing
As I stood by Your side; these tears left falling
Unto tides that wash away the pain; still drifting
Afore loves moon cast a light; dreams went calling ~
Upon a star ferried night; and hearts were melting....
*******************************************
....“In Your Beautiful Eyes” *