Best Geographic Poems
Clans, Ilks and Tartans
Woven into threads of red and black,
Girded by grids of white,
Distant plaintive bagpipe memories
Of sunset over Kilmaurs –
A crest that bears a unicorn
Touches royal roots
As a poet’s tribute to a patron lost
Watches neighbors Campbell and Montgomerie
Then looks out on the seas from tidal lands
Of Ayrshire in flings and reels with swirling kilts
When explorer’s feet recall on new world shores
The mew of seagulls soaring –
Politicians, engineers and entrepreneurs -
Over Fork Over – Cunningham, a clan of auld.
Blocks of green and wine
Stripped with blue
Look back into the heather
Covering highland hills of country dances
Where spring wanders in hunting kilts
Beneath clear cerulean heavens,
Boldly enduring;
A crest that bears a coronet
Of storied noble and knight
Whose melancholy legend
Whispers in glens and gloaming
Of standard bearers for a king
Watched by Ogilvy and Stewart
Lindsay, a clan of auld.
Like sunlight bouncing off of autumn leaves
In crimson, golden amber, umber greening hues -
A sword dance of squares and lines in twirling kilts -
Near the sparkling waters of Loch Lomond;
Clan neighbor Graham and cousins MacCammon
See the crest adorned by a coronet
Prize of battle;
The wind remembers
Tiny windswept island Clarinch -
A battle cry of Clar Innes -
Campaigns of kings and exiled queens –
Chieftain’s seat sees a president and prospector -
Hence the brighter honor – Buchanan, a clan of auld.
Cousins of the same ilk
Bear the names of families -
Of highland lands
And lowland memories -
Seaside and mountain territories -
Kilts wearing colors interwoven patterns
Born of clans with
Tartans telling legends and the stone of destiny,
Plaids dancing at the piper’s hand,
Ancient names, though maybe hidden, still live –
Cunnyngham, Lindsey and MacCammon
Of Buchanan –
In Celtic refrains like iridescent whispers
Woven through clans of auld.
This is the story of my Scottish heritage through the mottos, the tartans, the history and geographic references to the clan homes.
The mark of a world elite not seen in Casablanca
but gives a serene-feel for any stone to become a lover.
Sweet Paris- Europe’s geographic butterfly
so captivating and orgasmic, better than any screensaver.
Land and water, city mates in wonderful and nice Venice
prosperity and suitors flocking in like an angry river.
Standard of living, magnified with rare lenses in silent Geneva
proves that if you cannot be the heart, be the liver.
America crossing borders, settling in Sidney
exploits of the human mind, nowhere near over.
Oh Africa! Buckle up and don’t say never
Asia is your excellent teacher, learn and wait not forever.
SOUP SAFARI
, , , ,
here I am in NYC...packing after a safari –theme night party
with Soup members two nights ago, filled with awed revelry.
shrieks whistling on linked arms during a photo shoot,
as live cheers of Constance and Andrea went “ whoot!”
while Debbie and Michael hosted “Tag, you’re ‘It’ “games
bringing Nikko and Sara to compete in spelling members’ names…
I still remember Robert H. reciting his comic spiels, what a blast!
our jaws locked from clapping at Dr. Ram’s impromptu dance act,
till Kashinath segued into a sitar rap in his flashy jungle attire
prompting Linda to donate PM prizes, much to our hearts’ desire.
on our table, an exciting blend of brew amped repartee’s pitches
amused by Brian fleshing parts of short forms without glitches,
enter wacky Sydney applying geographic values to long verse usage
with footnotes on how worlds expand over time from poetic vantage,
oh, how Gwen sparkled with pleasantries as cups of jokes poured
most memorable of all, the warm personal shares of soupers' world
that drew us closer as real people with scraps here and there
recalling red-cherry days and funny bloopers’ wear and tear…
and as I leave from 8th street hailing a taxi to catch a plane,
notes and album tugged this heart, anticipating next gang’s chain.
copyright
, , , , ,
DEDICATED TO P.D: get well soon and take your daily dose your soup!
*notes: with admiration for soup members included herein... all in the
name of pure fun!
* Gwendolyn Rix, Brian Strand, Sydney Peck, Myself
* For Michael Falotico’s Table for Four/ P.D Soup Contest
* by nette onclaud
Labyrinth of Sighs
Wondering through a labyrinth of sighs
More platitudes with attitudes that never question why
A litany of afterthoughts about where we go when we die
An emboldened range of rude retorts refuting the reasons why I cry
A canon blazing wartime over a century ago
The night sky spent stargazing, wondering what we really know
A multinational conglomerate just phasing out more duplicitous advertisements that “flow”
A hungry orphan on a street corner, with nowhere else to go
Self-aggrandising promotion everywhere I seem to look
The wealthy uprising causing commotions, celebrities writing books
A typhoon on the island coast, Turkey on the day the earth shook
A morbid day that hurts the most,
An undignified Capatalist crook
The arrogant certainty of western superiority
The way the monotony forms around typecast minorities
The precedence of material goods conspiring to take global priority
The contradictions of individualism that consume the vast majority
The medical anomalies and surgical advancements
The incredible atrocities of cosmetic enhancements
A formidable ferocity of genetics and semantics
An incredible philosophy of frenetic theological pedantics
A sincere gaze of solidarity into another persons eyes
A mere phase of different polarities that use scientific graphs to signify
A Purple Haze of creative improvisational genius that cannot be quantified
A confused daze of inconvenience as another witness is proven to have lied
Returning to the central point of a theoretical discourse
Concerning a fundamental joint possible hypothetical recourse
A burdened soldier after war suffering the agony of remorse
An ancient boulder from the shores of civilisations geographic historical course
A curious mathematician, an inspiring original think
The spurious contradictions of a political candidate on the brink
A furious proposition concerning a scandalously placed eye wink
Human connectivity and the endless search for the missing link
Copywright Elizabeth Moroz
A lifetime of waiting, stacks of National
Geographic half as tall as me, piled on
every step. A girl with nothing to do but dream.
The yellow-black jackets buzzed, I flowered
as I turned the pages. The relics of Tutankhamun
fascinated: gold, turquoise, lapis and the slaves
in mud-brick houses they live in still.
I longed to be the Pharaoh’s daughter;
I kohled my eyes.
Egypt called to me. Pyramids, deserts baking,
heat mirages, and oases of palms with still blue water.
The twenty-first century’s reality is far different.
Cairo teems with discontent, Mubarak’s campaign
posters hung from each lamppost.
Two weeks before the Arab Spring, I was there.
The only safety found behind the gun-guarded,
razor-wired gates of the upper class, and even then—
A country espousing religious freedom was killing
Coptic Christians in the streets, and bombing churches.
Cairo’s one poster child synagogue stood empty,
except for tourists—dark, decorative, haunting,
full of tales of Christ’s sojourn in Egypt?
The pyramids rose hen-pecked by pollution
through a surreal orange sky. Masked women
walk the male dominated streets. Women
live in fear in or out of the hijab.
The majesty of yesteryear, the pyramid of Giza
squats like a discard in the ashtray of desert.
Vendors and tourist litter the site.
Baksheesh is the only God in Egypt,
baksheesh and the horded water of the Nile.
First Published in here & there magazine
in the UK
Exploring the suburbs at Melbourne
Glad are the late nights’ burnt
Bustling Bourke Street Mall
Epitome of a retail therapy’s call
The archaic Flinder’s Station
Scheduling warrants attention
Cho-chooing to Sydney
Never costs a kidney
The surmountable Clothes Hanger
Climbing it is not a head-banger
The romantic Sydney harbour
Releases lovers’ masquerade and cover
The stunning Opera House
Pit stop onwards to the south
The flora of the Botanical Garden
Seemingly children running at kindergarten
The national parks of Wollongong
Hitting the musical notes of the gong
Rekindling memories of Bosman’s Bay
Is a paradise comes what may
Forgoing the isle of Tasmania
That would be the fear of Cradle Mountain mania
In the southern city of Hobart
Where we could relish a tart
Sailing off to Perth
That was never my berth
Discovering the untouched Fremantle
Goes to show an adventurer’s mantle
Diving the Great Barrier Reef
Provides a temporary relief
Coasting the white beaches of Gold Coast
The locals are but good hosts
Annihilated by the waves of the Pacific
Almost make thee panic
Crisscrossing the plains of Adelaide
Part of the best plans’ laid
Allure of the Red Centre
Australia’s stunning epicentre
In the midst of a red desert
Harbour hopes to return and not divert
Discovering the monumental Alice
Go head to head with some malice
Sailing across Katherine’s Gorge
The fissures is a sight to watch
The northern tip of Darwin
Just like the pinnacle wanting to win
Ode to the Northern Territory
A journey of national geographic really
Viva the land of Oz
Paradise and grandiose she was
Unleash the kitty
The little boy thought of himself witty
Locked up in his room infront of the screen
Submerged in the screams
A lasting string that will follow him to his teens
Internet tasted like mint, to him
Abundant and innovative, yet aromatic to
His flaming desires
And that national geographic!
Oh my oh my
Exotic women in their little strings
Covering their little things
TIDES OF TIDINESS
If I was God, the geographic world I would bless:
I’d start by tidying up my world map for it’s a mess.
First let’s examine the ideal - man-made edges can’t be beat.
Look at places like the USA -Canada boundaries - wow they’re neat.
Saskatchewan and the Four Corners - geometric perfection.
Australia’s states too, and Africa, especially the northern section.
It’s the instinct of all poetic geography teachers
To want to tidy up the world map’s ragged features.
The British Columbia coast needs sweeping with a big brush and
All those islands pushed till they’re joined to the mainland.
Same goes for the chilly south coast of Chile:
So many islands and peninsulas - it’s just silly.
And also the fjorded Atlantic coast of Norway:
Smooth? Neat? Geometric? No way!
The Canadian archipelago too might as well be joined up together
Cos it’s one frozen mass all the time in wintry weather.
Of those messy lakes of Canada and Finland we have no need:
With God’s giant blotting paper I’d make them recede.
And don’t get me started about the crazy course of a river.. . .
Pure logic and efficiency I can deliver:
The Amazon rises only 60 miles from Peru’s Pacific coast
But clearly it felt the need to have something to boast.
It should have gone west instead of 4000 miles east to the Atlantic
A wasted effort, silly choice - it ended up being absurdly gigantic.
And I have bigger complaints, such as South America
Being fitted back where it belongs into the coast of Africa;
And the Red Sea’s coasts, moved apart like edges of torn paper all raggedy:
Dunno whose idea that was, but it ain’t foolin nobody.
Obviously they should be stuck back together jigsaw fashion
To satisfy my geographical neatness passion.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
*This is the latest in my series of Nutty Geographical Poems.
Take a glance at your bedside atlas to see the places mentioned.
MAP OF EUROPE - OBJECTUM SEXUAL *
O coastline with cool expanse of blue Atlantic
Your curves and indentations drive me frantic.
Sometimes thrust out peninsularly;
Sometimes studied docilely and scholarly;
Land stretching from White sea and Iberia
To Black Sea and Siberia.
O Europe, my virgin obsession geographical
Is verging on possession sexual.
Other continents are jealous - Africa is so island-poor, so peninsula-penniless,
And of rivers, capes and bays it has many less:
It would give a pretty penny to have just one Iberia, Jutland, or Scandinavia
To excite its smooth coast and other geographic behavior.
Australians would love islands with romantic names Capri Lesbos Rum Eig Frisian
Or an archipelago-infested sea like the Aegean.
South Americans cry themselves to sleep at night because they lack
Such Nordic coastal features as Trondheim or Skaggerak
Beijing would give all the tea in China because she must
Satisfy her desire for an Italian-shaped peninsula, a bootless lust.
Of course Asia feels no envy, for it has kukri-shaped Kamchatka
And the only large island in the world, Sumatra,
Which rhymes with the best singer in the world, Sinatra.
This Map of Europe is something I just have to possess.
My life is incomplete without its caress.
If I didn’t have it, my world would be a mess.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
NOTES
1 * “Objectum Sexual” is defined on GOOGLE as erotic
love towards an object of any sort.
2 N. B. This poem is purely fiction
Known for one, behind which are many more,
a Land well carved into
geographic abundance and anthropologic history.
A land of majestic fjords and of the midnight sun.
A land possessed by the people of colourful clothings
and known for rearing reindeers.
A land of the troll
both that of the scandanavian folklore
and the largest object ever moved by man.
A land of the “tran” against rickets
and one also full of romance to the brown cheese.
A land greeted with a great history of raiders
but having a landscaped virtually void of castles.
Now a modern terrain
and an advanced pasture of the Scandinavia,
glorified by its topmost position
in the eventful tussles of the winter.
Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated,
and Life
were spread out
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold
metal and pleather chair
and thought about
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose,
or another pointless prop.
Images cavorted as
Gino’s quick hands
floated around
my teenaged head
and his silver
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.
The thug’s greedy plan was ill-fated.
“Beware of the dog!” the sign stated.
Sharp teeth pierced his butt.
He screamed, “Get off, mutt!”
Desire to steal quickly abated.
For Samson, fame was just beginning.
This brave dog would set the world spinning
with such doughty deeds,
supplying the needs
of many while great kudos winning.
He quickly developed the power
to fly. There exists not ONE tower
inhabited by
trapped ladies who sigh.
Now all the bad guys hide and cower.
This thug-throttling canine has muscle.
He comes out on top in a tussle,
but he’s brilliant too.
To Mensa* he’s new.
Competing with him, humans hustle.
This grand rise to fame was engendered
when Samson so actively hindered
an evil guy's plan.
Now many a fan
admires him for services rendered.
howmanysyllables.com 9--9--5--5--9 per stanza
He-dog--canine version of "he-man"
*Mensa is the largest and oldest high IQ society in the world.
In an annual Mensa competition, usually held in April, Mensa teams from around the U.S. and Canada compete within their local geographic area.
March 16, 2022
That special season of our lives
When we are at the pinnacle of
Our prime, a time that glorifies youth.
Sultry showers under flowered bowers,
Scintillating scents where love blooms
In damp drops that lightly cool the skin.
Sunshine spilled over me in warm waves
Along the verdant hidden path I explored
As an aqua pool gave way to my dreams.
Birds were watching as I skinny dipped
Beneath the waterfall in a crystal pall,
I never knew you were watching too.
A photographer for National Geographic,
You got your shots, but I was in your thoughts
As later you conveyed to me so joyously.
One sleepy summer afternoon in humid June
We fell in love and returned to that lovely spot.
It will be there, we will always share our ecstasy.
7-3-16
Summertime Contest
Sponsor Janis Thompson
Common arena, not necessarily geographic
Ordained by a group of individuals confined in a territory
Meeting and interacting be it coincidental or intentional
Making contacts and creating lots of webs
Understanding and communication between different people
Not necessarily having same interests or ideologies
It could be a place like Essex or the internet, like facebook
The most important is interlinked communication
Yes, just like a garden with herbs, shrubs and exotic plants
As a rainbow of the sunset descends
and the balmy breeze washes over sand
that tickles between toes and carefree hand,
I’m in the company of valued friends.
The deceptive calm of darkening sea
where the cormorants dive for their last meal,
the leeward shadows of the rocks turn teal –
I would not wish in other place to be.
The windsurfers had furled colourful kites.
Easterly wind had died down for the day
and sharks are out to forage and for play
in riptides, lurking out of reach of lights.
I lift my eyes to the offing distant,
the aspect of which is ever constant.
INSPIRED BY:
Sonnet VI,
by William Lisle Bowles
Poetic form: BOWLESIAN SONNET
***************************************************
*offing: (n) The sea-level horizon is the geographic horizon at sea level. One of the best places to see the sea-level horizon is a beach. The ocean and the sky provide a clean, flat line where the Earth seems to meet the sky. If you’re standing on the beach looking out at the sea the part of the sea that ‘touches’ the horizon is called the 'offing'.