Best Flotilla Poems
Summer's sweet swans share
white winged feathers
Wild and free as they bow their
long graceful necks.
Artistic as a poet's painting
of fecund flora,
Nature's lough at Coole, their
peaceful dwelling place.
These white majestic creatures
swim silently near shore,
Aesthetics adorn blue wondrous
waters in a white flotilla
As reposeful ripples evenly extend
to encompass the heart.
Coole's liquid sheen shimmers in
Lugh's luminous aquatic
Oneness, as mating pairs begin
their winsome waltz
On placid waters where swan
calls echo in stereo.
Lilac's sweet scent in breezes
serene and romantic
Elevate the soul as evening's
elysium visions enshrine.
6-27-20
~First Place~
Summer Love Poetry Contest
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
*Coole: ( Irish: An Chúil) is a village in County Westmeath, Ireland
*Lough - Irish word for a lake - a body of (usually fresh) water surrounded by land
*Lugh-the god whose name means "shining one" was a Celtic sun god.
https://youtu.be/RsImDaZzDUQ
The difference in saying you,
a great big unseen pointed finger, or we.
I didn’t know. Some figurines
wave while others scrutinize with wizened eyes.
The analytic panics, hairs raised by static.
The simple leans in to catch butterflies. One is cynical.
The other sensuous. One slaps your hand away.
One squeezes it. Personality
like the word itself broken in pieces, a flotilla.
In the storm the words like jigsaw waves.
In placidity, the sun’s too hot or doldrum’s ebb and flow.
We will make it!
Still, even in this exchange, coarse sand,
a castle with a moat. Your motives sought - there I go again
“Y O U R…”
Sisterly size-up. Am I trying to win? I didn’t know
we were preparing to arm wrestle. I’m unshaped,
neither the flat piece of a puzzle or linked.
The dreamy sky from the beach. Salt in the air,
eyes on the horizon, lap of the waves —
the same lift I feel when swinging high and higher.
The excitement of adventure, no one’s judging
my every word. I’m breathless…it’s breathtaking
when my feet float above the ground.
There I’m in the arms of love. There I point
and God answers with his digit reaching out, touching mine.
I am reborn by the finger of God.
We will make it!
12/19/2020
Life, an infinite continuum
feeding on its own death,
and we, self glorified in its midst,
on knife's edge of infinity,
daydream reflections of time,
mirrored images that seem like two,
are only one wheel of life and mortality;
parallel realities whose paths cross
like wisps of wind...
Generations think they are new
yet we are all of one time -
like prose and poems written
in separate centuries, but
of the same struggle.
We fly in different directions
though toward the same destination,
while roses are more difficult,
more allusive to stop and smell.
Time is spent and lost on
the insignificant,
rather than the minuscule wake
of a flotilla of leaves on the pond,
or the reflection of the sky beyond.
Beneath the leaves, the roots of lily pads
and the stare of a wary carp who looks
from his world as we do from ours.
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".
The first
close-up of Mars was 1996 since then-
a flotilla of fly-bys orbiters landers and rovers
fourth planet from the Sun
roman God of war it is called
always the question is Mars habitable for living life
key to existence water is there water on Mars
could living creatures still exist
perhaps WE will become life on Mars
a continual chain of explorations finding new discoveries
polar ice caps
drifting clouds in its atmosphere
seasonal weather patterns
huge volcanoes the size of Arizona
canyons and proof of former flooding
it is rocky and cold and dry with a-
a hazy pink sky (that seems beautiful to me)
is Mars habitable for humans
the Curiosity Mars science laboratory
rover is on a bold exploration of discovery
for science
for technology
to find answers to questions and questions
did you know you could send
a postcard to Curiosity
the future holds promise with the launch in 2020
of a robotic science rover seeking life
all part of the Mars exploration
program to address the key question
the potential for life on Mars
And why 2020 you ask
well that is when Earth and Mars are
in the most advantageous positions of orbit
but for me there is another key question
would I-
leave this beautiful place of Earth
for a unknown existence
on a planet rocky cold dry with volcanoes erupting
but oh
something about that hazy pink sky beckons
______________________________
June 22, 2015
Free Verse
For the contest, Subject Mars, sponsor, Joe Maverick
Third Place
I forecast: anticyclone set, unmoving
The descending air evaporates and dries
Over Wales and England weather is improving
We predict a full eight eighths of cloudless skies
Or in other words our God had blessed the land
In the field the grass transforms to flaxen chrome
Deep green the oaks surround in margin stand
Bearing up a perfect cerulean dome
On the lake the isle floats on its own reflection
Heron measures steps and swan flotilla glides
The stillness of a painted scene retention
Thus the image ever in our minds resides
Meteorologists may tell what future holds
I will bless the present image that unfolds
Upon a sullied slate sky
of alabaster and aquamarine,
floats a formidable flotilla
of charcoal-colored clouds.
And on this mild, melancholy
mid-March day;
they dawdle, dribbling drops of rain
in sporadic Spring showers.
Winter's white wonderland
seasonally salted with brindled blotches,
magically melts away;
revealing rough-woven, ragged patches
of grassy green.
When Winter's weakened grip gives way,
bulbs freed from frosty tombs;
are awakened by the tap, tap, tap,
of April's tepid tears.
And straightaway,
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips
suddenly start sprouting;
simultaneously sending shoots skyward.
Color taunts the blandness of this dull day
as a robin redbreast abruptly appears;
defying drizzling drops of grey
with its crimson chest,
ornately on display.
dandelion tufts
a flotilla of pappi
parachuting seeds
(Haiku)
04/23/2020
Let the Pens Flow - Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jenish Somadas
CHARACTERISTICS
a dedicated
focussed
display
appeared
en tempo
side by side
in
situ
a
seductive
vista with
in vogue
contrasting
hues
a
bathetic
flotilla
with
a surreal
oblivion
tender
&idiosyncratic
in
elicit
mellow
moments
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
As the storm clouds of unforeseen gloom hover low
with the shattered sky’s diffused light of uncertain future,
I gift my soul sinking within the abyss of dire darkness,
glints of lingering hope from the cornucopia of nature.
The symphony of spring cascades in the cadence of air,
in the orchestra of zephyr its mesmeric melody I hear.
On sunburst sky turning to argosy of splintered ember
the flotilla of chromatic clouds makes flaming furrows.
As the mystic mist melts on the dew of the meadow,
the blushing blades of grass adorn the crystal crown.
From the canvas of sapphire spread on the pellucid sky,
drizzles the patina of ebullience on the rustling leaves.
The flushing fresco of flowers the bursting buds unfurl,
designing the tapestry of grandeur on beguiling garden.
The flitting butterfly swarm creates collage of spectrum,
serene scenes of sublime beauty brighten somber times.
April 9, 2020
Contest : Serenity In Scenes Of Mother Nature
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
May 24, 2020
Contest : Strand No. 770
Sponsor : Brian Strand
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown"...Quote by - Samuel Taylor Coleridge ( from his writings)
From the yonder hazy horizon, the hills blue
undulated down the emerald landscape
in rhapsodic rhythmic waves rolling in view.
Its contours carved for my hamlet its shape,
where once was cradled my endearing home,
in the bounty of beguiling nature I was agape.
The fairy flotilla of cotton clouds would roam,
making pristine celestial scene soaring high
upon the curved canvas of the cerulean dome.
With the wind whistling across the azure sky,
my childhood joy soared to a great height
with the colorful kites I loved so much to fly.
A silvery stream glided with sparkling delight,
surging with the glistening charm of liquid pearl,
flowed with the flamboyant facade so bright.
On its rippling water outside the gentle whirl,
I sailed paper boats tinged with colors of rainbow.
I saw these glide wobbling in the current’s curl.
On these to a distant fantasy land I didn’t know,
but imagined immersed within teenage dream,
my unbound mariner mind would someday go.
The boats and kites from obscurity I can’t redeem,
for with the receding ebb the sands of time flee
beyond the horizon sinking with the sunset gleam.
Those childhood moments have deserted me,
in twilight hours the child within me I still see.
________________
October 2, 2022
Contest : Writing Challenge-Past Memories-"T" Forms
Sponsored by : Constance La France
The flotilla of the ivory-varnished sailing clouds,
gliding across the cerulean sky of serenading spring,
turned into the menacing fleet of sudden scare.
Its shadow of invisible danger has changed our lives,
maybe forever.
Tangled in the complex social web of modern life,
the distance created on the track of changing times,
enhanced perforce at coercion of survival instinct.
The widened crevice in kinship will remain unclosed,
maybe forever.
But I still see in the sunburst splendor of dawn sky,
rays of hope etch golden lines on gloomy clouds,
it won’t be long when surely they will melt away.
If there is a time to venerate the ravaged nature,
it’s now.
Wrapped within collapsed wings of the caged bird,
confined psyche crumbles in the abyss of desolation,
fortified it’ll rise from the debris like the sphinx.
If there is a time to keep the morale sky high,
it’s now.
April 1, 2020
Contest : What Matters Most To You
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
FLOTILLA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
her heart, once a crammed attic,
overflowing with yesterday’s dusty relics,
became a barren room.
each secret—a silent, fragile confession,
she scrawled on paper thin as skin,
slipped into the throat of antique glass.
a cardboard ark, ferrying her bottled truths,
down to the shore she walked,
where the sea sighs secrets of its own.
a flotilla of confessions and longing,
a bobbing armada of regret,
pushed by the tide—away, away, away.
she raised her hands in farewell
releasing all her burdens,
their echoes fading on salty winds
Mother Nature has all but consumed
Their little graveyard by the sea, where
Sands bleached white, slide
Across the cemetery floor
Drifting like pale capsized hulls
Floating between tablets marking
The long forgotten dead
It was here, fifty two years ago that
I held my Grandfathers weathered hand,
More so for the want of a brace
Than the sympathetic touch of a Grandchild
My little hand lost to the wrist, gripped
By a generation lost to the elements
I watched him kneeling by their angled stones
Tracing their names; first his father’s father, then
The mothers, with a finger crooked by age
The sandstone letters crumbling in the wake of his trace
Grit sifting through his heavy fingers; history, being erased
Returning it back – to where it all began
I followed behind his shuffling shoes
Kicking up dust that settles on the bones of ghosts
My Grandfather’s voice lost to an ocean breeze
Is he speaking to the dead?
Whilst our shadows lengthen, then dwindle into dusk
I imagined, back then as I do now
Of a graveyard full of pirates and thieves
With their ship resting - just out there
~ At sea
But for the stout chimney and hearth, beyond the grounds
Baring testimony to pioneers that
Once toiled this barren coast and now
Standing defiant, resolute against the
Advancing flotilla of sand
He is buried just beyond the little graveyard
My Grandfather, next to my Grandmother
On his farm; or
His father’s farm before that
My farm now…
On a hill
Overlooking the sea, where it all began
8 Dec. 2014