Best Intercept Poems
she roams cross the land her heart so bitter blue
leaving behind frosty morning dew
icy veil sadly unkept
laden woe upswept
she speechless
wept
left dreamless
numb regret windswept
no kind soul to intercept
cold bemoaning howling winds a clue
she roams cross the land her heart so bitter blue
AP: 2nd place 2020
Submitted on January 22, 2023 for contest WRITING CHALLENGE - ANDAREE sponsored by CONSTANCE LA FRANCE - RANKED 3rd
and July 7, 2019 for contest VERSE A FAVOURED THEME sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Crew of scoundrels, scalawags
Skulls and crossbones, on her flags
Hull held low by money bags
The fruitful Pirate's Lady
Upon her splintered deck they rove
Safely anchored, hidden cove
Her belly stowed with treasure trove
The faithful Pirate's Lady
Treasure hidden, booby traps
Clever riddles, cryptic maps
Soon to return, to ivory caps
So fleet the Pirate's Lady
Sails at full, for seven days
On east horizon, looms her prey
They intercept with cannon fray
The frightful Pirate's Lady
To stop her tears flowing endlessly,
remembering eleven years ago,
a helpless injured body, beaten
By her own hands,
smashed her head on the wall,
dripping a fountain of blood.
That day, she hypnotized
her spirit and soul
Not to abandon her,
but carry her wounded shadow
To her doctor,
lamenting for help.
Her youth was evaporating,
she needed to stabilize
her elderly emotions,
to stop living in the past,
if not, her future,
will never be lived.
Cured Today.
She did intercept to abolish
Her melancholic delusional thoughts,
and involve her dreams
To wake up,
project a beautiful ambiance.
She did nourish her desire
not to surrender,
to the unhealthy society,
but enjoy sharing the love
To remain affectionate,
even sentimental
towards life.
She will embark her thoughts
To lift her compassion,
imagination, and forgiveness,
fascinate her existence with
The will power,
to fight to live.
She will then, become strong,
befriend her emotions,
kindness and sensitiveness,
all her loyalties,
to allow her soul
be occupied, with joy.
She will feel the urge to
Find a place in time to withdraw,
dream how to replenish herself,
Forbid her mind to remain
ailing,
and survive.
She will then, live with a mission,
become saturated with gratitude
Being alive,
in the present time.
Therese Bacha
Just like football I am waiting ,
on the side line,
To go up on the field,
Yes we are playing Goodooga,
Aboriginal big guys, tough as steel.
Here comes Albert racing faster,
Trotting down the bloody wing,
Gotta stop him, take him head on,
Hit his ankles, the hurting thing .
Fell him like a big old tree,
Pot belly lands on me ,
I’m a still a seeing stars,
Shadow sparring,
all round me ,
Get up you silly Galah.
So there I was out on the wing ,
Waiting for a pass to me.
Intercept, Albert's a coming ,
he passes ball, dodges see .
Just a few of broken arms,
Black eyes worn with pride.
Rugby Leage what a battle ,
Carry the ball through the other side.
Running for the other goal,
Sidestepped Albert, got there see.
Not a bloody forward pass, (illegal)
Planted it between the trees.
At 17 I was in an interstate game,
between Dirranbandi n Goodooga, we lost. (shame)
Dancing breezes
Bursts of sun
Crisp apple autumn day
Leaves twirl upwards with a flourish
Spurning twigs that yearn to cling
Lovers pass by, their laughter lingers
Dark clouds obscure the sun
Colors change to shadows blurred
Gone is the beauty in the rust and gold
Longing is found in the chill as the sky surrenders
One drop of rain falls and a lonely blackbird takes wing
Windblown and cold
I breathe in your sweater's scent
Never more
Will you reach out to intercept
A falling leaf
____________________________________________________________________________
Collaboration between Sharon Weimer and Carrie Richards
for Debbie Guzzi's "Twining" contest
I am full
Of emptiness
I long for longing
Crave contentment
The insensate pain
Of intangible touch
Indecipherable ciphers
Choreographed madness
Craggy comfort
Of blunt condolence
The decorum of anarchy
Deserted crowds, social solitude
Miles given to intercept steps
At the dawn of abundance
I see only
bones of ghosts
Whose meager admonishment
I forgot to unlearn
Unredeemed
And unrepentant
I am in love
With loneliness.
9/20/19
We nurture them within our bodies, birth them in a blinding pain,
suckle them on breasts so swollen, till we think we’ll go insane.
We kiss away each painful boo-boo, bandage each and every wound,
show them that in spite of roundness, peas can stay upon their spoons.
We intercept their nostril’s flowing, be it green or white as snow,
wiping gently ever hoping, for the day they’d learn to blow.
We give to them each ounce of wisdom, try to teach them everything,
suddenly, for unknown reasons, screw it up and give them wings.
We mourn a bit, those cherished moments, when on us they did depend,
days when we were super heroes, possessing wisdom without end.
We watch the journey proudly knowing, as they soar into the light,
Mother’s wisdom, though not perfect, lends the wind that gives them flight.
The candles are extinguished today and the crucifix covered in black
for the One whos life was once bludgeoned with ignorance and greed
As He readied for heaven, he took each heavy Pontus whack
for sake of a world that could not accept nor believe, His Holy Creed
Some repented while others shouted profanities and ignored His tears
as He carried the Cross towards His final resting place, He slowly wept
the sky, grueling dark unbending, did not shed the rain nor smear
while His laced up sandals walked the sand without God's intercept
"But If I, With The Finger Of God," He once implied before he died
but this was not to be, for the Son of God belonged to man's transfix
He walked through throngs and herds as he closed the great divide
they watched, as clustered Halos grew around His bloodied Crucifix
But If I, With The Finger Of God could wipe away His pain
be more then just a writer recalling His death with ink and quill
The world would be changed as I know it, and He would Reign
Yes He is the One who died but also, the One they could not kill.
I was born in a spoken Word
a universe of infinitesimally low entropy
energy and matter
pressed into order
incredibly dense
God breathed
Since that first compression
I have been sliding
toward indifference
toward equilibrium
and yet your existence remains
statistically staggering
You are temporary whirlpools
in my river of chaos
the bloom of a flower
the warmth of a coffee cup
the span of a human life
beautiful because they are
fleeting states
of disequilibrium
You live in the pinprick window
between my highly ordered beginning
and my ultimate stillness
the Heat Death
where every particle
surrenders
its last difference
You call it paradox
that life seems to break my rules
but life does not break
the Second Law
it discovers
the loophole within me
the narrow passage
between collapse
and creation
You intercept sunlight
like a waterwheel
catching a waterfall
performing thermodynamic work
building order
from my downhill slide
But there is no free lunch
to create a pristine room
you must sweat
breathe heavily
radiate heat
you make the room ordered
and the air around you
more disordered
Life does the same
on a grander scale
to keep your body
your brain
your memories
in a state of low entropy
you consume
transform
and return
chaos
back into the room
You pay me
an entropy tax
you become
a masterpiece of order
only because you turn
your surroundings
into a stadium of disorder
faster than they would decay
on their own
You are temporary
stardust
golden
brilliant knots
tied in my fraying rope
tight only because
energy continues
to pass through you
And still
after knowing
the fate of stars
after hearing
the silence waiting
at the edge of time
you plant gardens
An Elderly.
Introduction tells you,
Who shall you believe?
Listen sometimes to your senses
your sadness or your joy.
If you are downhearted you cannot
perceive any happiness or joy you will
feel stepped on.
Temptation tells you,
Who shall you believe? Even if you open
up a pathway, can you reinforce your legs
to take a stride without your cane?
Can you become independent mount
Up the stairs?
Can you open your Door pay homage
to your unfurnished Home? unable
to set up due to your age?
Or will you act as in a theater playing
the characterization of a tough actor
capable of running after its shadow?
Happiness shares,
Who shall you believe?
Your happiness tells you rotect your image
as if its still young.
Fly with your spirit like a butterfly,
venture through the clear skies.
Intercept your freedom
as long as its lasts.
Rejuvenate your thoughts to reserve
a seat in your positive will power
where you are your own master.
Weaknesses orders,
Who shall you believe?
when you slept young and woke up old.
Why tolerate that body transformation,
why presume you are still young when
definitely you are old.
Strength begs me,
Who shall you believe?
Why are you shivering before waking up?
Because you woke up old, you know it means
You are a looser.
Gather your strength to face your reality,
deny wanting the impossible to happen?
Seek, look, understand, seek, look, feel the truth,
if not, your fate today will wither.
Sorrowful prays,
Who shall you believe?
Your sadness orders you
Remain downhearted as you cannot perceive
Happiness.
Your friendly thoughts indicates you to look far
And open the entrance, where the philosophers
Meeting is taking place, enter and impose
your knowledge, dictate your long lived
teaching, allow yourself listen to the echo
Clapping at the end of your speech.
Courage is the truth,this is who you
should believe the you of the now.
This is accepting all of the above,
when I will come out from that
Door proud of my cane.
Nothing is impossible when I remain
hungry to want to live.
No matter how old or young, I am.
Therese Bacha
17 November 2013
Struggling.
When will I intervene
to stop my tears
from flowing endlessly.
When will I take action to
invade my happiness
hiding in my closet.
Walk.
When will I hypnotize
my spirit and soul
not to abandon me,
nor elope with
my liberty.
Action.
When will I embark
lift up
my compassion
imagination
and forgiveness
to fascinate
my existence.
Smile.
When will I stabilize
my elderly
emotions to stop
living in the past,
if not, my future
will never be lived.
Expectations,
When will I get ready
to walk a path full of roses,
ask them advice
how to find peace
in my within.
Ready To Act.
When will I become strong
befriend my emotions, kindness ,
and sensitiveness,
plus all my loyalties.
Wake up.
When will I feel the urge
find a place in time
to withdraw,
dream
how to replenish myself
otherwise
my mind will remain
ailing
to survive.
Venture.
When will I nourish
my desire
not to surrender
to the ugliness
aggressiveness hatred
living around us.
Echoing.
I should intercept
hypnotize my melancholic
delusional thoughts,
But involve my dreams
wake up,
project a beautiful
ambience,
remind me to
dream again.
Therese Bacha
13 August 2013
Hidden, perched on high,
The Peregrine Falcon echolocates the
bird-in-flight warning song.
Only when intercept is optimal, takes flight.
Soaring over 100mph, wings and claws
cantilever for precise capture.
There is no app I follow, only the rhythms
of nature my Father passed down to me-
"listen to the wind"
"harvest the gifts of the seasons"
Wild Tansyleaf Aster carpets this river bottom
forest. Stepping around deep imprints left by
a heavy Buck, the symphony of migrating
Warblers sweeps through my wooded wind.
Brambles I avoid, Deer Ticks I hope to discover!
and mud sink-holes I traverse; as I approach
the unmistakeable glint of the Giant Golden Morel!
04/18/15
© All Rights Reserved
Jumping the jam,
I am peter pan,
doing a man,
don't know his name at this dam.
Down-stream is a clam,
up is a nap-
I creak when I walk,
never stop for talk,
just smoke a lot,
and hope for a magical robot,
to intercept the hotness right outta the golf.
Reading a lot,
speeding at the shop,
rotating at the main evacuation,
suffocating during masterb#***$!
Stoning without stoners to bank it,
waiting for sin to just spank it!
I read the riddles,
and rape the shingles-
right off red roofs,
of old men sitting in bagels.
I retort the regime,
I run from the scene,
I do all the same drugs,
I hate all the same thugs.
Somewhere over Europe
A B-17 flies
Strafed and damaged
In her enemies skies
The flak has taken
Its toll on the plane
This crew so brave
In this theatre of war campaign
Many hours have passed
With no sight of the channel
Only land ahead
Is it our instrument panel
A shout is heard from the rear of the plane
A Messerschmitt ME-109, beside us flies
We are sitting targets for another kill
The pilot turns his head, as i look into his eyes
He is making a gesture
For us to turn 180 degrees
Do we believe our enemy
But we eventually agree
He continues to fly
Like an escort of question
Were we right to agree
His degree of suggestion
For up ahead we see
The glint of blue water
Our horizon of hope
Are we saved from slaughter
Moments later
As i turn my head again
A wave from the German
As he banks his fighter plane
We are now well over the channel
As we sight the white cliffs of Dover
Our B-17 in struggle
This mission near over
On the runway at Kimbolton
The fire crews stand ready
Will our plane take the landing
Is our undercarriage steady
Touch down we make
As we talk of our flight back
About the German fighter pilot
Who refused to attack
It is now many years later
For we were lucky, we grew old
As we assembled on anniversary
Our story could now be told
For he had kept it his secret
But now we have to say
Franz Stigler and his German fighter
Is why we are before you today
He was scrambled to intercept
The enemy that we were then
When he arrived we awaited
The fate of us men
When he viewed our plane
He couldn't believe his eyes
Why something so shot up
Still flew in his skies
When he returned to base
In his reports he states
It went down over the sea
And sealed our fate
After all these years
I am so happy we have met
We have lived many years
While our lost colleagues have slept
I thank you Sir
For sparing the lives of my crew
As we stand together for peace
We salute you
This is a true story from WWII, written by request for Sara Kendrick,
who loves to challenge me, and i thank Sara kindly for the opportunity
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-6.php
Collapsed so they say long ago
due to Cleopatra’s long nose
that pierced a General’s heart
got him stuck there in love
till the army was demolished
what terrible accident in history!
Every man, every women
big, small, learned or never
empires, kingdoms, nations
a Cleopatra with long nose
will appear from no where
to intercept and bury surely
things that matter in life
Crumbling effects she brings
the way of life in this world
a mystery it is, doubt you may
but we all live in the world
we know not its laws of work
finger-crossed and dumbness
are the ways but not the habit