Best Look Out Over Poems
You are the river running through
unfathomable greens
glassy yellows
down in the core of the river
flicker lightness on top
You increase me…swell me…impregnate without word or deed
push me to the fore till my sail fills with your carbon
a deep blue undertow …rip tidian
only moderate and full…like a plate of food...of vegetables …of fruit…of corn
You are the dark brown peat from which I absorb minerals
vitamins … steel ...magnesium…sulfate
the pillow of my essence’s rest in your name …hurricane
You fall on me
Wash off delusion
And I am a small green thing …a fine rooted thing
Small leaves of me stretch for your chloroformian shadows
My roots dig deep
hear your drum beat in the equatorial regions of the flaming core
I bend around the rocks …look under ever beetle’s shimmering skin
in all things you can be found
Amorous and craving …a magma surface of tension and sun
in tree tops …dark places
in the dark alleys
You are the blue jay…the cardinal but also the raven
the oak knows you too well…the west wind too and swells up in my skirts…my cottons
my downy …my linen …my lead
you stand … your hands on your hips
look out over the possibilities
hungry for returns
I echo
Light housing across ….a sound burst
a wave in a vast universe of waves ..so many
too many waves
but you will hear me
Master of my heart
lover of my flesh and bone…my fat ..my thinness…my crispness…my luxury
You will hear …what no one else will ever know
and call it home
I just keep seeing them, the hooves pounding those old rain-soaked cobblestones, somewhere in the back of my mind. I feel the creeping fog against someone else’s skin, not mine.
An old iron lamp post and that old lamplighter, impressions are burned into my third eye. I knew him in another lifetime. I’ve traversed so much time, so many centuries in brief seconds.
All of my senses succumb to the lamp’s flame as it burns the oil and the scent of that old pipe that he smokes, this lamplighter.
Who is the woman in lace whose body, in which I am? From whose eyes do I look out over this emerald landscape from bluestone walls? She does not know the lamplighter in that other place. She lived four centuries before him, yet she is inside my head...my body.
Past lives reside in the soul’s backpack. We carry them through numerous incarnations and occasionally a memory escapes to speak, when we need it the most.
2-20-2023
Deja vu Poetry Contest
Unseeking Seeker
You look sideways at me
I look straight on at you
You glance towards me
I stare at you
memorize the stiches of your coat
they are uneven
it must have been handmade
You look up at the sky
I look at your shoes
They are slim and obviously Italian
You've been traveling in Europe
I look at your cheekbones
You stare off at a tree
It is a beautiful tree
though I cant see why it has captured you
I' look at your hands
they're nice hands
expressive hands
strong enough
big enough but not too big
kind hands
You turn to the left to look out over the gray blank sea
I know we're not going to see each other again
Even the stark greyness of the Cape in late November is more compelling to you in this moment than I am
I am dancing colors
I am a fragrance
of clean smells
I am sauce and sassiness and ideas and concepts
and wants
God how I want you
But you would rather look at greyness
I will never see you again
Thank you for the kiss on the dock
Thank you for the dinner and the dance
Thank you for the moment in the library when you looked into my eyes for one very long minute and I felt alive
Just before you asked me to the dinner dance
But you seem to have lost your moorings
You are like a boat
A buoy
or a wooden raft
floating
you don't know North from South
East from West
Now your sails are not catching the wind
You are sort of flapping
carelessly
aimlessly
I watch you like watching a crab scuttle up the beach
Fascinated
I will never lose my way
( That's a lie)
Tonight
You were simply a dock
that I pulled up to ...tied off
Tomorrow the sun will rise
and I will feel full and excited
I'll move on fast
throw off your bow
You were like the wild north wind for me tonight
for about 5 minutes
The wind is fickle
When the wind changes I tact
While you were in my sails I did love you
Like any sailor is impassioned by the beautiful wind
that suddenly drives him forward
the exquisite unbelievable .... unspeakable
tarp full sail pulling hard
I will miss you
But only like I always miss the wind when it dies
No more and no less
my sails will be full and my beautiful ship will be headed out to God knows where
But you my questioning friend will not know enough to follow
You will be still looking left and seeing only the gray of Cape Cod in Winter and
I guessed that they called it mustard gas because of it,s yellow hue.
Once you got a mouthfull there was nothing you could do.
Your throat explodes,your lungs implode as your brain screams out for air.
You rip the skin off your windpipe but you don,t even care.
Where it touches your skin, it burns right in leaving blisters in it,s wake.
Your skin looks like it.s boiling, how much more can you take.
You can hear your brothers moaning, they.re in excrutiating pain.
Soon you find yourself praying, please God, make it rain.
The first raindrops do nothing, but as the gray clouds open up.
The water tastes refreshing, and you drink fram a porcelain cup.
By now the rain is pouring,you see yellow river.s in the sand.
The battlefield goes quiet, you look out over no mans land.
You can see your friends are crawlling now,back toward thier trench.
The air smells rank and putrid, truly an ungodly stench.
The battlefield goes silent now,the gas clouds wash away.
we clear the bodies from no mans land, now we,re ready for the day.
As I stand awake
And gaze upon the sea
And the sea in turn
Looks back upon me
I look out over
And see the moonlight glisten
I slowly shut my eyes
And very closely listen
The waves crash hard
Upon the rocky shore
I see ships light
And I set the siren to roar
The winds blow in hard
And I know death is near
The sadness of a lonesome
Lighthouse keeper is clear
As the winds blow in so fierce
The seas men must act wise and swift
They pull themselves to action
Working hard to keep the ship adrift
The winds blow in strong
As the ship crashes a-shore
The crew scrambles desperately
To survive this dreadful score
For the lighthouse keeper well knowing
His assignment fully now strives
To set out an alert in hopes
Of rescuing these lives
Now as daylight approaches
The search will reveal
There’s no ship to be found
And no bodies to prevail
Written by Neil Ofarrell and Skyler Dawn
I say his name, and ask the question,
"Did they break the mold or what?"
I look out over the audience
And the truth is so clear-cut
That they all nod,
They all agree,
What an honest man,
So guaranteed
To be gentle and kind,
To love humor and fun,
To have the peaceful mind,
To have the good day done.
My sister and my brothers,
I look to them, make the hopeful call,
That every child in the world
Should think they have the best dad of them all.
When it comes to our father,
We have fearless cards to bid,
For on having the best dad in the world,
Well, we really did.
Here, this day, on this inglorious
Field
Thy vain struggles will count no
Valour.
All hope now abandoned,
Imminent defeat unconcealed;
Erstwhile countenance display
Such waxen, languid pallor.
Surround by your dwindling
Forces
Ye will but sadly find...
That the stout keep of your
Valiant fortress is all but breached,
Once strong foundations failing -
Wherest badly undermined!
For a rigorous examination beckons
ye;
Stood before impassioned jurors
Chosen from the feared and all
Powerful families of the ignoble
Medici.
Black curtains drawn back from
Deep reveals
That look out over the enlightened
Years...
Where conceals...
Hidden between leafs of peremptory
Decree:-
A blight spread upon these lands,
Inflicted from Romes insidious
Plans -
That cause stain upon the
Renaissance of a golden century!
When clapping thunder breaks and
Brazen lightening clashes
Still I would know ye again:
A pounding, frenzied reflex devoid
Of all Godly purpose -
Detached from any amount of
Blame!
For I have sought ye out, O lowly
Meretrix;
Heaping upon you with bondage
Enforced through servitude and
Shame;
And I, O lowly Meretrix,
I...hereby command thy name.
A fastidious Advocate of intellectual
Character
Shallst I elect,
He who be a practitioner of
Theological proposal unrefrained,
To represent you -
Raised from the rank files of the
Dead and slain!
A public gallery, wherest seated,
Ghostly phantasms
That I purposefully select;
And for a judge - A deathly one:
Ill measured, worshipfully detached,
Beneath it all,
And hopelessly arcane.
This "Innocent" fool, dressed in
Guise of highest ecclesiastical
Enforcer,
Perpetuated a medieval Inquisition,
Both protracted and prolonged,
That openly boasted and rejoiced
In its zealous slaughter!
Thereby spawned a terrible edict -
"Ad Extirpanda":-
Cannon law that advocates the
Use of "Legitimate torture"!
Know thee also, Meretrix, the Pius
Pontiff,
Heaven sent,
Who in his greater wisdom
Convened over
The council of Trent:
Four hundred years spanning
Across a Reformations fears;
Reaffirmed when Pope John,
In reflective reiteration,
Was heard to chillingly hiss:
"What was...Still is"!
TO BE CONTINUED...
The old man lived in a cove
where the ocean meets the sand
every night as the sun went down
by the seaside he would stand,
and look out over the ocean
at the things that he might show
and look out over the waves
at the dreams he once did know,
some say he was abandoned
some say was left alone
some say he craved for freedom
so he wandered from his home,
the only things thats certain
is when the nights are born from days
you could find the old man staring
with the seaside in his gaze,
tis remembered around the town
as the day the ocean cried
tis the day it was announced
that the ocean man had died,
the only thing thats certain
is when the days turn into nights
you can still see the old man
with the ocean in his sights,
where the wind blows the waves
to the shore without a care
if you look hard you can see him
and if you blink he is'nt there...
The snow silently cloaked the land
falling slowly but insistently
creating large drifts against the walls
bigger and bigger get the flakes
A world of white where ever you look
gnashed here and there by trees
sticking up their bare branches
which are now also snow laden
Sheep struggle through the drifts
helped by the shepherd and dogs
fast as a flash the collies mark
until the shepherd digs them out
Still relentlessly the snow falls
roads and trails disappear from sight
I look out over the white landscape
and feel as if I am in the clouds
written in 2013
Chloe
Chloe's are the smallest hands
smaller than the hands e.e. cummings gave the rain
Melting the snow of my white glove
together we look out over the white domino tombstones
Chloe's are the brownest eyes
Wet and sad like a spaniel dogs
Tracing the shiny brass buttons on my uniform coat
Chloe is to young to understand why i clench her hand tighter
each time the guns fire for her Daddy
To young to hate me for not saving him.
TREE HOUSE
My
Idea
A simple
Tree house
Kids wanted it so
I built it, hand-made
Stone-base to avoid wet-rot
Lower level a stage for kids’ shows
Uprights were his football goal-posts
Imagined as the gun-deck of a pirate ship
Upper level the main deck for crew of pirates
Or an airy sleeping-house for nights camping out
Final top level for look-out over the sea, two miles away
Always adding new features: ladder up, rope fence, trapdoor
With hand-saw and hammer, no power tools. Becoming complicated
Always unfinished, summerwork only, too busy at the office to finish it
It became too elaborate, too complex: tree house to end all tree houses
In five years the tree grew bigger: original planks and branches out of alignment
Growing kids’ interests and needs fell out of alignment, waiting too long for the house
Kids were small when I started the house. When we finished it, it was too late for them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTE
Based on an actual tree-house I built for my three kids in the back garden of the house.
.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck for nette onclaud's Contest "ANYTHING HANDMADE"
I awaken to the lovely snorts of my sweet English bulldog,
Frankie sits up in my bed, legs out, looks sort of like a frog.
Toddling down the stairs assessing the light from the window,
We know whether the trip outside will be short or rather slow.
Terrified of thunderstorms, she’ll do her job with no delay,
But she’ll wander and sniff, taking her time on a sunny day.
While Frankie smells the grass and deposits her little gift,
I make a tea and look out over the river, it gives me a lift.
Blue Herron feeding and carp jump, the temperatures scorch,
Cardinals, Bluejays and yellow Finch fill the trees by the porch.
You breath in the fresh air and appreciate the nature present,
Peaceful and filled with hope, its a typical morning, no big event.
I refill the bird feeders to keep my feathered friends coming back,
Then Frankie and I go inside, mornings we’ve perfected the knack.
Written August 9, 2012
By Lee Ramage
For Francine Robert’s contest
“A couplet- morning”
I look out over dawn's horizon and I see light,
a new day is dawning with each dreamy plight.
The mountain's peaks are so bold in it's height
leaving only the future to reach for with a heart
full of life.
Soul weaving is what I have done and I have patched
all that growing through life, had undone.
Spiritual awaking with such grace, has left such a warm
glow upon my face.
Each encounter now will be new and I reach out each
day to give and to receive all that is true.
A full heart and no longer an empty soul, I will be the
best I can be for me and every needing soul.
Sometimes I take a walk
Down Pioneer Road
Destination lookout post
Hoist my own colours
On that white flag pole
To let them all know
The master's in residence
Settle in the boss's chair
Look out over the ship yard
And pretend that I'm in charge
Mine is the permit required
To sail or dock
Load or unload
Board or disembark
Shift that boat
It spoils the view
Don't park that crane there
I'd rather my picture was not obscured
By your crisscrossed steel beams
Somebody dim those lights
It's way past time
You all went home
Then lower the flag
Walk away satisfied
A days work done
In however many minutes
I feel allowed
To dwell a man in charge
Ship yard's master in his own mind
I puffed and panted up the steps (and thought
about the novel Dracula, in which
the character called Mina ran up there)
and gasping, wheezing crawled towards the top
to look out over Whitby from the cliff.
The view was simply beautiful, I found -
enough to take one's breath away (but I
was breathless as it was, and so I tried
to catch my breath!) I didn't want to think
about the trek that faced me as I left
to walk back down those steps...
Remembering a visit to Whitby & climbing the famous 199 steps
written 6th January for Constance's B 'Breathless' blank verse contest