Best Islet Poems
Jim, now rich, bought a wee li’l islet;
there he lived, with ten men and a starlet.
Changed his partner each day,
heaved and huffed till they say,
the islet is now, the town named Scarlet.
---------------------------------------------
The story's not over, he's not decadent.
Send away the men, he just simply can’t;
they built the town housing,
the roads and some building
for starlet Scarlet, whom the islet was meant.
21 April 2015
Humorous Poetry Contest - 4th Place
Sponsor : Thomas Martin
This scribble has nothing to do with the famous song of Simon and Garfunkel. It's just a story I invented.
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I bought a cottage in the middle of nowhere,
Right at the edge of the countryside,
Any curious men rarely visited it,
So I stocked it well with food
And worked all alone on my laptop
Electric poles provided current.
So I could enjoy the peace
Within the sound of silence.
I had left the cities full of noise,
Only songbirds broke the silence of the site,
But that I could bear well enough.
Within the sound of silence.
Winter came and soon I was snowbound.
That’s when a knock sounded on my door.
Reluctantly I opened up my place.
There, on the threshold stood a woman
All drenched up and with flimsy clothes.
Her beauty stunned me. I let her in.
My car has stopped, she stammered.
So I sent her up to have a hot bath,
Gave her my dressing gown and invited her
To partake in a hot chicken broth
and some ill-prepared food.
And all this was done as I stood
Mute but mesmerised by her allure
For it was the time for silence.
Bad weather kept her imprisoned in my home,
Few words were exchanged
But she felt the power of silence.
A week later, the countryside was clear of snow.
She phoned a garage to pick up her car.
Then I decided to take her on the river,
How beautiful she looked in her proper clothes.
We got in a boat and paddled away to an islet.
We disembarked and partook of a picnic she had prepared
We spoke little but we came close.
She smiled and timidly I kissed her for the first time.
I felt my heart throbbing but all was quiet
Within the sound of silence.
We married a year later and eventually
The cottage was soon filled
With the crying of a newborn sound.
We were elated and made such a fuss.
Gone was the sound of silence.
The azure ocean, home to the embedded enormous incomprehensible riches of mysteries and riddles,
More than the Mars, lies unfathomed, underneath the conundrum of oceanic colossal rhythms.
From the The Milky Sea Phenomenon, a sight captured as bioluminescence illusion,
The Purple Orb of the ocean floor of California and the Baltic Sea’s anomalous puzzles,
Like the alien spaceship put foot on the colossal quagmires of oceanic chasm!
When the underwater volcanoes erupt to perplex beyond imagination in huddle,
To probe and discern those gems of oyster shell’s luminous pearls dazzles,
Deep beneath sleeping peacefully in the ocean’s cradle!
The fatal enigma of the unplumbed immensely profound oceanic mysteries will never dwindle.
The more one plunges to pierce in deep muse its vastness engulfs to diddle!
The superficial waves in corrugation, are mere widening its hitherto horizontal hurdles.
The bizarre sounds emanating from beneath are like giant icebergs scraping the oceanic floor in madly rhythm!
The obscure oceanic realms, its myriads mystical appearances remains timeless, fancy of millions!
Eras and eras pass, the mythical mermaid’s riddle are yet to resolve,
As centuries pass, may replete with the witness of numerous human civilizations!
Like the Atlantis of Japan, from time immemorial, the oceans are abodes of colossal confusions.
The voyages disappear in the Mystic Triangle, who knows what lies beneath the mythical abstractions?
The twirling sounds of infinite ocean swirling in the sea shells are quite captivating, attract admirers attractions;
The archipelago one after the other vanished without the trace, as in Marina Trench’s aberrations;
As if the Phantom Islet of Bermeja, in its murky abyssal cradle’s magnetic composition.
The Crop Circles discovered beneath its bosom as if the signage of other world’s manifestations;
The oceanic phenomenon of green flashes meets the red tides, reveals your magnificent disposition.
Wants to plunge, swim like a mermaid in your mystical cerulean temporal lilting motion;
Oh, the oceanic conundrum more we try to fathom, the more we entangle in your cryptic chasm!
© Silpika Kalita
To ride the sea is a pleasure and a curse
as huddle of gulls, starfish dart from nowhere
enchanting frolic on breakers, they traverse
into buoyant laps with crystal tides so rare.
My arms swivel a distance while I immerse
from deep lures of an islet, beyond compare;
yet once, twice... roughest torrents did choke my lungs
engulfed by coils of a dunk, into waves’ tongues.
I awake on swamps of moss , hurt like trapped cord
from a hillside , birds echo their fiercest drawl;
reviving my anxious glides with crests adored
for the terror -thrill of waters makes me stall.
As the bashing of rapids drills more pain on board
this dread, dread of drowning snuffs a night-breaths' pall...
though I cringe, hurt again from a sail, outright,
I’d rather face danger to unleash my fright.
If it hurts so bad, why do we do it?
Contest of Silent One
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[11 syl lines per requirement of the form;
10 syls likewise acceptable]
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6/19/2016
Sail most by north, by west the least,
until the moon sets in the east.
There, in a sea the colour of custard,
ye'll see the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard
where locals speak like buccaneers,
calling you ‘me dirrr' and us ‘me dirrrrs'.
Their pirate accent's quite inexorable
though, than ours, their grammar more is flexible.
They appear to verge on being mammalian,
a little bit like South Australians
(I'd never for the sake of mirth
deride the folks who come from Perth).
Hard left, first manatee you see,
or right, your choice, you're free as me
(it's nix to do with politics,
a pox on all elected plicks).
Sail till the sea turns sweetest violet
and there you'll spot the cutest islet
(had we to rhyme with ‘sweetest red'
it'd be a continent instead).
Here, when poetry is long dismembered,
lies the place of rhyme remembered.
Yes, you have come upon a land
that any poet would think is grand,
where almost everybody aint
any kind of ffffflamin' saint,
but seldom use the worst of curses,
when they converse in freeish verses,
or communicate in playful rhyme,
pretty much whenever they feel like it.
Fifteen years old…I trekked the river-bend, dived
Around balmy ledges, held by a curiosity
Nourished in toddler years,
When Father would tenderly utter of lighting
My adolescence anchored on the salty
Yet fragrant curls of a bay’s fathomless wave
Now imbued within: Viewing the shift of clay,
The marvel of paper boats leaning on rocks--
This soul became fearless calm noble,
Until modernity drove an islet to the ground;
And as I take a long, last gaze at a crumbled site
A part of my innocence rushes out with it...I wail.
The Last Contest, for Silent One
12/1/2018
Rose fingered dawn appeared early today
at the island, East Brothers Light station.
From Benicia hills I caught the first ray.
Now, absorbing my share of sun's ration
on this islet in San Francisco bay.
I early watched the night, battle, and chased
by the minions of a bright new day.
On the East wind, a train's horn as it raced
to who knows where or what destination.
And I wondered, too, as to my endpoint.
Sitting here in mellow contemplation,
face filled with the solar afirmament
of a life not without worth and valued
at least in the number of good years totaled
Into the sea spring tides of the river flow,
Out of sea tides does the rising moon glow.
Glittering waves roll on thousands of miles,
All rivers are robed by lunar beams in piles.
The river twists and turns around the green field,
Snow pellets on flowers the moon rays yield.
The air is frosted with the moonlight sensible,
The white sand on the islet is clearly invisible.
In one color the river merges with the dustless sky,
And in the azure dome the lonely moon rises high.
By the riverside who first saw the moon shine?
When did the moonlight first find a human sign?
Life runs on endlessly from generation to generation,
But the moon remains unchanged years in succession.
No one knows for whom the moon is there waiting,
Yet the river constantly sends off the water flowing.
Like a wondering cloud I parted with you in weep,
Leaving you standing at the ferry in sorrow deep.
Which family has a traveler in a boat tonight?
Who is lovesick in a boudoir lit by the moonlight?
The miserable moonlight moves up and down the stair,
But it should focus on the dressing table you prepare.
The moonshine on the curtain cannot be rolled away,
The beams on the washing-board are brushed but stay.
Gazing at the same moon we can’t converse through,
By moonlight I wish my sincere love could reach you.
The message goose cannot fly higher and farther,
Text-like ripples are written by fish’s jumping on water.
Last night I dreamed of the fallen flowers on the pond,
I couldn't go home although it is mid-spring beyond.
Even the river will soon run out of its spring tide,
Into the west the brilliant moon will finally slide.
Slowly the tilting moon hides itself in the sea haze,
And we’re thousands of miles apart with vain gaze.
How many enjoy reunion when the moon is bright?
On swaying trees the setting moon sheds woeful light.
(Tran.)
I have stood atop of great mountains high
where I felt to close to heaven and cloud
and measured His stars while wondering why
no earth bound splendor was burnished as proud.
I've witnessed in time sunbeams dance, and set.
My eyes graced on all color light might build.
Tasted breath of ocean's misty islet.
I've been forgiven and with love been filled.
I have wondered in fields of fresh flowers
their perfumes begging my humbling sighs.
I've never found in moments are hours
a beauty to match your sparkling blue eyes.
Islet is cold.
Iris is not.
The moon is frozen.
The sun is hot.
The morning has come
and it’s time to get up.
Rise and shine my people!
_____________________________________|
Sponsor Andrea Dietrich
Contest Name The Great ITTY BITTY Poetry Contest
Date of Entry. 03/30/2014
lush slopes mirrored
round an islet of pines. . .
verdant bounty
where clear water
reflects the mountains’ splendor. . .
a lovers’ château
at the ridge's feet. . .
sunshine in guise
of daffodils
pure water’s pool
where valleys converge with hills. . .
autumn in bloom
white magic. . .
evergreens sliding
down the mountainside
in ice blue water
the crystalline palisades. . .
our secret treasure
where amber-tinged clouds
embrace lofty white peaks. . .
a sacred cross
among wild flowers
water cascades from green cliffs. . .
an endless spring
Andrea Dietrich/ July 4, 2012
inspired by the pictures in PD's
Haiku mountain (week) Poetry Contest
For PD's: Enter the #1 poems only.... (entry must be from my past contest) please do not submit a #1 win if it's not from one of my past contest :-)Poetry Contest
On a lonely islet, on top of a precipitous cliff, in the farthest sea,
a bird built a nest and kept clinging onto her empty nest though
all birds were, feeding their chicks with abundant food from the sea
and rose to adolescence, left for a southern island for warmer climate.
As time elapsed the vexed bird sank exhausted under a fierce storm coming by the raging waters smashing the shore, picks a pebble,
and returns to her nest. She sits on the stone as if it is an egg
she was incapable of laying one, and transmits the warmth of life
that comes from her weakening heart.
Surroundings become darker as weather worsens, and in this darkness that no way to distinguish waters edge from skyline the rolls of thunder pierce the ears and a thunderbolt strikes the rock to smash it
in pieces.
Nonetheless, this pathetic mother bird sits still, rather, she pulls stone deeper into her bosom because her only desire was to transmit source of life to this lifeless stone.
After transmitting all her body temperature to this lifeless stone,
therefore, her strength gave out at last, this mother bird barely
rising her slender neck to look up at the sky to appeal her
cherishing desire, a thunderbolt strikes her back as thunder rolls,
a billow surges to swallow the isle.
At this tragic moment,
though mother bird perished, a beautiful chick with downs
brighter than dazzling sun hatched from this thought-lifeless stone.
~Fragrance of clear mist swathes the bouncing air,
Dizzy where jasmines and blossoms unfurl
That serenity ripples everywhere,
And gulls hover above a wavelet's curl:
Through morning sail into pastoral bliss
Orchards flaunt their Riviera attire,
While an islet lies warm as sunset's kiss
Till birdsong drools in rhythm of a choir.
Glow of evening sparks its luminous eyes--
When bathing of pasture ends, to rest
Afloat my dream island how this breath sighs
For her verdant trees, her water dance fest.
Lovely isle beneath a tropical moon
Enticing my roam like a ballad’s tune ~
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3/14/2017 Where I Want To Go
Contest of Nicola Byrne
Rhymes checked at ryhmezone.com
Syllables verified at howmanysyllables.com
mint whiffs eucalyptus perfume
drifting on leaf’s tranquil feather
splendor of God’s pines in full bloom
greener than drapes of spring weather...
as I look back on islet bright
...my essence inhales each splendid sight!
© all rights reserved
. ….. …. ….
For Brian Strand's Two to Fifteen Contest
By nette onclaud
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Thirteen
Oh! Woe! Woe! On pubic islet the dirty deed’s done
Bloodied needle leaves stain the Zen-rock cobbled garden
The derelict torn womb spills seminal fluids on the ground
Fallopian tubes shredded by the elements count down
Her mons veneris rough-scaled and crushed by bombarding rams
The cicatrised wooden ramparts no more serving as soil dams
Not a lamina of palmate leaf even so much as shaking hands
Where the maple tree once swayed to vulva-lapping tom-toms
This soggy desolation of mud and gangrened charred rock
Three weeping willows drooping wan lifeless at the water mock
Where even the wild fowl desert the juicy period spoils
Tell-tale signs of the Lady Lake’s pilloried grief in stock
Where the surgeon’s thrusting irons reigned now stands the shiny
bridge
Three dark as dungeons evergreens bear lurid witness knowledge
Of an unwholesome demonic deed done to the locked-in Dame
Look! That Ancient Bard of Nishapur will surely acknowledge!
Hark! The tulip-lipped Lass from Lahore walks downcast on stones!
The Maiden of the Main lifts her head to utter bye-bygones!
Pale Ol’ Khayyam still roams dreaming of the Dame of the Lake!
Yet the foul deed still resounds up to the highest heavens!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013