Best Hereabout Poems
Before me lies the ocean, with its shore,
maintaining varied limits day and night;
at times, beyond its border, reaching more
than ever, thrashing out in wild delight.
At other times, so docile, ebbing low
with timid ripples that creep on the sand.
With highs and lows, the tides reshape its flow,
by rhythms that obey the moon's command.
And here, I'm like an ocean at low tide,
in quiet stillness, feeling down and out-
no energy, I let my high waves slide
and merge with the calm seascape hereabout.
But like this ocean, soon my tides will turn-
as waves roll in and stretch along the beach,
and thrashing out in wild delight, return
to grasp the joy of everything in reach.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Standard, End of 2018
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 12/29/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Tell Me A Story 2
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
Judged: 11/08/2018
repost inspired by Phil contest
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
A coyote pack was howling as the sun crowned
Zack Waverly was weary, he'd travelled around
Zack takes up the narrative, better I found.
High noon, I rode the bay into Rotgut town
With fixed intention, I weren't playing around.
A spurt of tobaccy I spat on the ground.
To finding my quarry was where I was bound.
Saw lonesome Jake sitting outside the saloon
Playing his harmonica, a doleful tune.
No time for pleasantries, gunning for Calhoun
As I went in, I collided with Muldoon
I threw him head over heels into Main Street
Then in turning to draw the bullet was fleet.
I checked Muldoon was dead by kicking his feet
Lonesome Jake squealed and beat a hasty retreat
The bar tender nodded as I caught his wall eye
A bargirl sidled to my side and said "Hi".
With her arms 'round my neck, I did not reply.
So I swept her aside as she exclaimed "Why?"
Downing a shot asked "Seen Calhoun hereabout?"
Bar keep Sam Finnegan said "With this here drought
gone find watering hole with Indian scout"
In anger kicked a table, then came a shout.
“ Waverley, you yella belly rattlesnake!"
The saloon emptied leaving 'us' in their wake
Saw Calhoun run up the stairs making them quake.
Turning, he aimed, an easy target did make.
Double barrelled gun smoke then filled up the room.
Grabbing his legs, hissed "I'd put him in his tomb"
I punch him through a winda and grabbed a broom.
Then came a 'free for all' with goodness knows whom.
The director shouted "Cut, print, great work guys"
As my girlfriend, the bar girl, said "Hey, surprise"
As she dragged me to trailer batting her eyes.
Sunlight sifts through shimmering aspens
Casting ghost-like shadows on the forest floor
Camouflaging the smaller critters shyly
Skittering among the drying brown leaves
Protecting their well-hidden burrows
Sometimes I hear them chattering warning
In sharp squeaky voices so charming,
Not unlike the chirping of the nesting birds
When strangers invade their territories.
Stray sunbeams scamper across carpeted floor
Capturing a hidden hungry hog snake stalking
A chipmunk with leering, beady black eyes
Menacingly, when all else is tranquil hereabout.
Suddenly all is dark, the sun dips behind a cloud,
The snake lunges at the unsuspecting creature
As a crow abruptly caws loudly thrice overhead.
Written May 17, 2022
FRONT PAGE PICK
All-Poetry
July 23, 2022
FRONT PAGE PICK
All-Poetry
October 22, 2022
The first monarch butterfly,
Just flitted by.
Lazily drifting through stark spring sunlight,
Seeking any blooms to alight.
Daffodils cheerily glow before front fence,
Oval ridged petals in breezes wave thence.
A dense carpet of creeping phlox, its tiny pink flowers,
By front door, were awakened by showers.
Self seeded petite pansies already in bloom,
Peek out between roses, making room.
Surveying my thorny ones, finding none to replace,
Among 350 planted, a rare fact to embrace!
Three classic garden statues returned to front yard beds,
Welcome passersby while ruling my homestead.
Wooden whirligig birds and small figurines still to set out,
Along with birdbaths hereabout.
Of slight interest, the annual lawncare routine,
But necessary before dreaded crabgrass is seen,
That mars gardens’ lush green frame,
So reluctantly, I’ll engage in that game.
mrt/4-9-21
A football *memory
Just like this sport I am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
Ornament glosses the meaning
Metaphor displaces by dreaming
Emblems contain,then extend hereabout
So now,go figure it out.
the Magi travels on the web
deftly legging at the lines
crawling around like tide and ebb
leaving gifts brushing those confines
there is wonder there, to partake
there are sightings, so exquisite
things seen clearly, or opaque
discerning is the only requisite
information and loaded emotion
moving images of hate and love
surfing past advertised promotions
the trick is just to take hold of
what the Magi drop in plain sight
secrets both known, and obscure
love can be heard in sound bites
but hate, nearby will always allure
just ignore hate that always shouts
listening only for quiet whispers
the Magi's magic is now and hereabout
imagining images of peace in pictures
magnetically pulled positive or naught
what is sought, so will be found
love you, others, too love free thought
surf linked web without going aground
gifted fob to keep your time clasped
as you give freely of your own time
the Magi's link finally is grasped
love for each other, sweetly sublime
© Goode Guy 2011-11-20
A crisp brown leaf from the sycamore tree
Silently fell to the ground
It gently lay down amidst more of its kind
Having landed with no hint of sound
How could it know of the silence required
To survive through the night in these woods
I’d crunched one such leaf underfoot in my haste
And fell prey to the people in hoods
The moon though dim, waxing gibbous, I think
Throws monochrome shades in the night
Against this old oak I am helpless and tied
There’s no escape, try as I might
What did they mean, “That’s her gluttony sated”?
No woman I see hereabout
My knees feel weak as shrivelled leaves crunch
And they fail as that dull moon…… goes out
With no one hereabout
As above streetlight shone
“Hello beautiful”
Endurance rules you flout
Daintily peeping out
Flourishing with aplomb
By each gainful degree
Amid detritus flows
Purple petunia grows
If only all could see
Limpet tenacity
Hidden in the shadows
Survival rates are slim
In mind you never dim
Name and Sponsor Hexsonnetta
3/15/21 Emile Pinet
Masterful!
lordly framed
picturesque rain stain
ing icy cap summit’s height,
vaulting off grassy green
pediplain’s sloping foothills,
impinging azure sky’s obscur
ing clouds.
blazing sunbeam painted
freshet rush to where river-rocks
are the fairest.
rosy-finch, gray-crowned,
bathe cross-winds breeze clink
ing conifers lazing at the frost rich shore,
river flow, embolden splendor.
the poetics surrendered?
ingest’d without disturbance,— by us,
graylings are of abound... thus!
When Spring flowers,
in woodlands hereabout
reveal themselves,
archangels shout-
Im a weasel snout.
Inspired by the pretty woodland yellow archangel(Galeobdolon luteum) in a wayside woodland
walk yesrterday in th Chiltern Hills.
Stale milk sky,
traffic is trawling for any surfacing light.
Rubber squeaks on the smeared blacktops.
No hills to climb in this part of town
we are flat earth
and mostly just tilted into our daydreams.
Corner shops are damp and derelict
or heaving with low class crime.
Shadows pounce if you drop a dime.
Its a crawl through a gauntlet
no one runs here unless they flee.
The car radio is set to Fox News
we haven't seen a fox hereabout in years
only concrete cemeteries,
islands of amnesia
sprinkled with stone angels,
hidey-holes
where daytime hookers gather
to pray for better weather.
A football memory
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond