Best Instinct Poems
Three Sonnets tell a story, in sequence.
[From the narrative poem, "Don't Go to Wyoming Alone"]
I. Natural Instinct (Chivalric Sonnet)
He saves a wad of cash and designates
the stash to finance trek in far-off land
in hunting boots and custom gun he built
for me with love and hope for trophy grand.
"Is this a trip I've dreamed about?" I ask.
"Can I enjoy the hunt, savor the kill?"
I contemplate the danger in that land -
will heat, dry thirst and bugs defeat my will?
Might this be atmosphere I cannot stand?
Excitement builds as I heft gun with ease
and find the answer soon on target range
as my bull's eye displays my expertise.
Though I have no inborn instinct to kill,
my reason tells me not to waste this skill.
II. Lost Vacation
Our trip is planned, we'll soon be on our way,
he's called and found the perfect spot to stay.
The husband leads you out to hunt the wild
as room is cleaned, clothes pressed, wife cooks gourmet.
Alas, things change, his current bent is new.
While Mom and I go west without a clue
he flies the skies to satisfy desire
from Air Force days where first the hunger grew.
But circumstance forced him to stay aground,
our funds were tight and kept him budget bound.
Since children now are wed and off the corn
he's free to choose to play or bum around.
When we return from trek out west by train,
he's spent vacation cash to buy a plane.
III. New Dimension (Couplet Sonnet)
What fun we've had in years of golden age
as we, in freedom's row, our thirsts assuage.
We climb above the ground in utter glee
and view the earth below from Cherokee.
We join a pilot's group and meet new friends.
We travel now as time and space portends.
Each time we fly we bring two more because
two empty seats invite our friend's' applause.
But soon we build a smaller home down south.
I close my ears as words come out his mouth,
"The plane's for sale, I need a tractor now
to plow off snow and grade the road." It's how
our trip to Africa, in quickened time,
became a tractor. Surely, that's a crime.
My best friend walks beside my soul,
Not always seen, but always whole.
We talk in ways the world won’t hear,
In jokes and jabs and thoughts sincere.
We’re echoes in a common shell,
Two minds where one truth loves to dwell.
We share the heat of daily light,
And wrap each other through the night.
55 seconds still, no sound,
Yet louder peace is rarely found.
In silence, storms begin to slow,
We trade our highs, confess our low.
One day, the world will understand,
How friendship doesn’t need a hand.
Just rigorous, kind observation
A glance, a pause, a revelation.
I met him once not far, not wide,
But looking from the other side.
A mirror framed our secret blend
Myself, and still—my truest friend.
(Response to And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou)
Refusing to ever descend after
My mother, grandmother, great grandmother
Have all endured broken wings
To ensure that I would one day be able to catch wind
I rise
Because Maya said so
Explaining to me my existence
Is never burden
Not curse
No, I am heavenly
Her voice like gospel
And I will always respond to good news
I rise
Because I was birthed from dead flames
So you’re damn right I’ve been through hell
I rise
Because too many
Will find satisfaction in my downfall
I’ve been hunted like duck season
Aiming at my every move, so yes
They will be upset when I make it out alive
I rise
Cuz I know no other direction
Built into me like going south for winter
Internal compass passed down
Through North Star guidance
This is instinct
There is nowhere to go but
Up
I do not believe in the instincts of innocence for mankind. One could make an argument that someone could be innocent by word or deed, but mankind is complex. Other than our basic needs, our instincts are to learn and gain knowledge. Innocence is somewhat like virginity, and once it’s lost, it’s lost. One can be innocent of not thinking of or doing something bad by some standard, but that would be more about following rules, and the moral nature of a standard and the person. There is sacrifice and forgiveness, but in the truest sense, forgiveness may make one not accountable, but it does not make that person innocent again except in the eyes of whoever is judging. Even accusing someone of being naive could be a choice of giving trust a chance...not so much an instinct of innocence.
Edward J Ebbs - August 22, 2015
Written for a Contest, The Instincts Of Innocence
Violent attack,
An aquatic invasion:
The tigress’ hunt.
The window sill in prisms of light
reflects a half-opened treasure chest,
damp in sandalwood mold: in there
a mixture of unlived passion of my art
lays on ---dried paintbrush, unfinished
verses, torn ballet slippers, and sepia tickets
for unseen musicales; that behind the cataract
night’s hazy pale of night, I struggle
with denying the fragile voice of instinct
which urges these veins to fulfill
my own sense of brightness
as I dismiss the echo of this heart
pining for expression’s release…
yet I remain listless, needing to pour
a zeal from running empty.
12//14/2015
Where Echoes Hide Contest
For John Lawless
a spermatozoa competition
for there is an ovum to won
so they race
to fertilize
and fight until they're left only one
Animals just know
The praying mantis looks above
The clam closes down
The turtle’s head hides inside
The spider seizes the fly
mind still on his work
he picks up the ringing phone
on instinct---
the way he reaches for his lover
before opening his eyes
Tanka 3: Return to TOP TEN - Poetry Contest - Shared 4th Place with Franco Gonza
Sponsor : Andrea Dietrich
25 March 2015
Motherly Instinct
Mother and daughter, 35 and 13.
Public transportation, their carriage pulls in. Mom drops her matches, quickly picking them up. Stepping on the bus, the mom senses the hunt, as wolves seethe and inhale the scent of young prey.
Aging wings are beautiful, yet stretch not far enough
to shelter her young from the burning lasers leering holes through her daughters tan perfect skin.
Mother stares with a purpose, intent to offend. Calling out the most savage of the grinding javelina, spitting fatal venom across the bus at the savages.., her daughter phone-stricken, oblivious...
The bus approaches their stop, the mother
hisses and strikes, She scoops up her young, shielding her from the putrid stench of raw split-hooved perversion.
In her purse a flask of cheap liquor store gin. Casually pouring from her hand to the floor leaving a trail as they step out the door.
The sidewalk is the home of the next match that she lights- inferno ignites the domino game.
Onto the bus the intention made known as their flaming faces melt into clay down into their pants, leaving puddles of burnt tongues and hair on the seats. The mother laughs in revenge, but the dream is cut short.
“ Mom, this is our stop. How can you sleep on the bus?”
They exit the bus, she tries to regroup
“ Mom, you dropped your matches….again”
As owls to oaks I know you,
in ancient springs,ravines and sunlit scenes,
persistently pushing passions and hushing lovings,
my immoratal instinct allowed to blossom in terrestrial precincts,
combined with you vulnerability is a prospect I render to the wicked,
salt is for sins, as sand is for sundown reparations,
with undefiled freedom wonders fly on winds
and no beast can deny my wins with you over fears by the years,
phobias of mean faces, painful places and shadows of my core crooked,
You are my star and I am your shine,
the mountains we climb, how strongly we do -
J.A.B.
Ripe, fresh, new and tender are names she should bear.
I am 17, she’s 16, both alone and innocent
in a partially illuminated room.
She possesses while seated,
expanding hips, lines of fleshy diversions,
small dark shadows and shades of secrecy- what a bodily landscape!
Crossed and well catered thighs, partly covered by a mini
the fatal bullets of lust are triggered by this tempting feminine shape.
Pumping emotions, just flowing like rolls of textiles
so lengthy that it cannot be measured by any tape.
Changing sitting position causes a flash of her underwear,
stimulating powerful focus like a longing ape.
And rapid chemistry-change from the signals of my sight,
produces great salivation already tasting like grape.
The heat of the moment fights morality and ego
with a telegram in the mind centered on rape.
But my reputation has already gone into oblivion
so what’s left of my honour, I’ll not scrape.
Instinct
March 29, 2014
Instinct
Destination aimless
love floating like
a fragile butterfly
scrutinizing
surfaces on which
to safely alight.
Between the
terrestrial and
the celestial
discerningly;
My love hoovers
beaming in on a
familiar stream of light.
Another traveler
circling same time;
Together we land
in a poppy field;
Allowing ourselves
this time, perhaps
to trust happenstance.
Innate Instinct
Morning dove sits upon her small brood
Warming and feeding her two small fledglings as they grow and mature
She knows precisely when to turn her back and push her young out into the world
Oh, please Morning dove, share a bit of your innate instinct with me
Giuliano’s mom
On
tiptoe,
I slink to
the open door
planning my escape.
Just as I make my sprint
for the outside, I am stopped
and scolded for my brash attempt.
Fates! Why must I be hapless captive
by the vexing mistress of this dwelling?
I wait until the night is sober black
to claim revenge for her abuses
against these natural instincts.
A fallen vase will rouse her
as she sleeps and in her
daze I shall tangle
around her feet
and she shall
sense my
wrath!