Best Loon Poems
My legs ran fast; my back was strong
those sunny days when life seemed long
and whispered possibility!
A loon far off was mocking me.
Instinctively, I took a road
and asked few questions as I strode.
But as I moved along carefree,
a loon somewhere was mocking me.
While strolling on, I did not stray
far from the path along my way,
found neither fame nor infamy. . . .
but one lone loon kept mocking me.
I felt my body, like a length
of relic fabric, losing strength,
and as it tattered, I could see
the loon that had been mocking me!
It’s now with care and with some dread
I tread to where there waits ahead
the lake that mirrors destiny. . .
That lone and mocking loon is me.
From July, 2010
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19 Poetry Contest
Dappled light shimmered from a golden moon,
and peered into a grove of bent willow trees.
Arched branches swayed in a gentle breeze,
as if shadow dancing to the song of a loon
as she warbled the lyrics of her mating tune.
July 15, 2022
Bite Size Poem No 49 Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
I woke before sunrise
Beauty all around me
An overwhelming silence
I sat and took it in
Food for my soul
The loon called out
From the stillness of the lake
I knew I was at heaven’s gate
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~SUNSETTING WHISPERS~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Submitted on March 9, 2020 for contest STRAND CHOICE B sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - HONORABLE MENTION
Ka-thump-a-loon, my pet raccoon,
sings opera in the woods at noon;
I love so much to hear him croon.
At night he carols to the moon.
If you are lucky you might hear
the songs he sings most loud and clear;
he plans to make it his career
with performances both far and near.
He will audition sometime soon,
accompanied by his pal baboon
who plays a really mean bassoon;
I know they'll make the critics swoon.
I guess I'll have to go along
and keep long lists of all his songs
and iron his wardrobe of sarongs,
protect him from the cheering throngs.
He seems excited, that's for sure;
he never has been too demure.
He keeps asking for a new coiffure,
a glitter mani- and pedicure.
Last night that crazy old raccoon
sucked on a helium balloon
and ate way too much crab Rangoon,
said he planned to change his tune.
He switched his genre to rock and roll,
thinks he can sing with a lot of soul;
winning American Idol his one goal
with its million dollar prize bankroll.
Things are getting out of hand;
the raccoon's plans are just too grand;
I wish he'd join the forest band
and forget this superstar status plan.
Success can never come too soon
to a want-to-be Las Vegas tycoon
who dreams of a big penthouse saloon,
Ka-thump-a-loon, my pet raccoon.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, August 18, 2015
What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.
Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.
Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.
The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away,
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.
Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.
The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls
Bandits would not deride them
in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.
My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair,
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?
The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.
Motor is nudged to life in an arcing motion, arm pulling
cord. Vein-furrowed hands grasp the fishing pole,
slinging bait and tackle beneath one arm. Another
arcing motion, arm casting pole. Bobber spins
a helicopter course through sun-nipped air.
Loons call a soulful greeting, the moans of centuries'
separated lovers in mourning. Time trickles through
the notes of their songs. Meanwhile, bass glide
with their loud-mouthed sass,
perch and blue gills play tag. A lone
blue heron bills the murky depths for lunch.
Man baits his hook, readjusts his hat. Eyes squint
into the dark undertones of the pond. He casts
his pole, a fermata in the song of the loons. When this man
was a boy, he drove the spires of the Rocky Mountains,
frequented the five-and-dime, nuzzled
a nightly routine next to his wife, who mothered six children, raised
in a house far away from any pond. They bustled themselves
along through school as well as any fish pouncing on
supper-flies, dabbing napkins to the corners
of their mouths. This fisherman sliced their steak, knotted their ties,
held their hands crossing the street
until they were old enough to
mail college resumes,
pay for first dates.
Five years,
fifteen years,
thirty-two years and here is Granddad,
with his child's toddler learning to walk in the bowed
belly of his fishing boat. They stumble,
clanging clumsy feet on the metal, frightening
the fish away. The old man bends low,
a note in the song of the loons.
He places the toddler on two feet, guides her hesitant steps,
each pendulum swing carrying them a moment
further toward separation. In twelve years, the grown child
bends low, a note in the song of the loons, to kiss her
grandfather's forehead, as he casts off on his helicopter
course of afterlife.
GOODLUCK
Gutless muffled monarch wooed millions to the poll,
Our feeble lord enforced by pathetic speech of poverty (I once had no shoes)
On congruent grounds of pain we forced him, though we hated his coterie.
Disappointed, we wail waiting surrogate to lead to unending journey of relief
Lackluster, jejune as pervading rot lingers
Unvaried captain rocks our boat, gagged around by plunderers.
Circles of death, twinge, pauperdom and miseries mocks the reign of naivety.
Kleptocrat adorn self in regalia, loved the honor. lacks duty
EBELE
Embezzlers of collective trust bequeathed in hope,
Bandits as conniving ministers besmirched our obtuse scamp
Egregious, craven, shrieked at the sound of war (I am not a lion)
Laggard lumper loon left fanatical murderers at our doorsteps
Encumbrances from his delinquent clan divide the love for mother land
DAME
Damp squib's duchess of indecent tongue, never feels a vestige of restraint
Academic 'double misnomer' with licence to libel,
Merriment and intrigue feigned as obligations,
Edgy. encumbrance though ceaselessness forms their amity.
PATIENCE
Punk pretending and purloining to private vaults
Adventurous nerve for futile globe trot
Twitchy at the affairs of state, though Unemployed by sensible Poll
Intoxicated by serendipity, shaming all with activity
Euphemistic drama Usurps Scrappy literacy on cultured observers
Crude verbiages to amuse myriad of eggheads (my Fellow widows)
Encomium of Yesterday's approval turned sour and Tsar inept mode prevails
Jokers jostled in enthusiasm to rule, (politicking for 2015)
Onslaught from 'Boko-Haram' drove sleep from wearied countrymen
Numbed as "hoipolloi" echoed NO to mistimed removal,
Alas, the fraud, rapscallion looted the poor to a blindfold
Tyrannic cloaked his garb in power busted on the streets with the troop
Higgledy-piggledy bugled the travesty of Democracy
Amidst the rubble of a crumbling amalgam
Nigerian Lords watched the drama secured among a troop we die helpless
Sounds of the Loon
By Franklin Price
5/20 /2015
Ears tuned for the Loon
The mood of the sound defined
By listeners mind
lonely loon on lake
Looking calling for his mate
Moon beams crying too
Just learned about syllables in Haiku. Updated
Radiant crystals illuminate thee, nocturnal mistress
in the wan dawn light where darkness drapes skies
Requiem aeternam bright halo, lies heaven’s portal
Winters wispy cirrus refracting ring circling
Mohawkin bespeaks of a Christmas cold moon
…December’s icy grip
Riffling ebb and tide, spawner of loon
Let rage and ruin Not be the end of me
Rubaiyat’s rhyme in thy honor
Let the waters settle, quotes of Rumi
Mercurial doomsday ruminates Mina Loy
Reigning ascendant masking impressions
Clouds envelop, shadow’s born shorn
Ravishing stillness, stormy tasks pending…
bright white ring of light
rage and ruin’s calmly still ~
not the end of me
GOODLUCK
Gutless muffled monarch wooed millions to the poll,
Oozing pathetic speech of poverty (I once had no shoes)
On congruent grounds we let him, though we hated his coterie.
Disappointed, we wail, waiting substitute to end the reign of quack
Lacklustre, insipid and a pervading naivety.
Unvaried captain rocks this boat, gagged by plunderers.
Circles of death, twinge, miseries the reign of a drab creek king
Kleptocracy adorning imposition,
EBELE
Embezzlers on rampage, holes bequeathed for pillaging.
Bandits as conniving ministers besmirched obtuse scamp
Egregious craven shrieked at the sound of war “I am not a lion”.
Laggard lumper loon left fanatical murderers at our doorsteps
Encumbrances from delinquent clan divide the love for mother land
DAME
Damp squib's duchess & indecent tongue, devoid of restraint
Audacious domestic appendage ferrying funds
Merriment and intrigue feigned as obligations,
Edgy. encumbrance though ceaselessness forms their amity.
PATIENCE
Punk pretending and purloining to private vaults.
Adventurous nerve for futile globe -trot.
Twitchy at state's affairs though never elected.
Intoxicated by serendipity, shaming all with activity.
Euphemistic drama, Scrappy curiosity with comedy.
National dilemma by decorated buffoons.
Crude verbiages to amuse eggheads “my Fellow widows”
Encomium of approval turned sour “Power” the pipe for thieves.
JONATHAN
Jokers jostled in enthusiasm to rule, (politicking )
Onslaught from 'Boko-Haram' drove sleep from wearied countrymen
Numbed as "hoipolloi echoed NO to mistimed removal,
Alas, the fraud, rapscallion looting Criminals Lords over us
Tyranny cloaked garbs, creek professor without a thesis.
Higgledy-piggledy a travesty called democracy.
Amidst the rubble of a crumbling amalgam,
Nigerian Lords watched the drama secured, while we die helpless
The loon glides with grace
Its haunting call echoing across the lake
The sun about to set ~
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025
I woke up one late afternoon
My head did feel like a balloon
Outside on the grass
Was an awful mass
My friend was as drunk as a loon
Long before my daily ritual begins
Your call as distinctive as any sound on the lake
Beckons me with your unique overture
Each day like clockwork I see you there
Bobbing like a cork on the shimmering lake
On guard like a sentry at Buckingham palace
As I meander down the long rocky spit
We eye each other like boxers in a ring
One step past the mythical line you have created
And you will take flight to your safe haven
We are so much alike seeking our solitude
Drawing lines in the sand that shall not be crossed
For now we cautiously examine each other’s presence
Respectful of the boundaries we have set
One wrong move on my part and…
There will be a flapping of wings
Like a plane making its initial ascent
Soon you will be out of sight
Until tomorrow,
See you then my friend
Andreas Simic©
Instead of defending my liberties, I just sat on my country's great wall
designed to protect me from the terrorists enemy that threatens us one and all,
but this great wall was a fraud.
It wasn't the protection we thought
and like the Twin Towers, it crumbled and crushed us all.
Everything systematically, eventually, inevitably and unfortunately came to fall.
All of a sudden, all was gone. No more Liberty And Justice For All.
Now my every waking day is always surveyed and governed under martial law.