Best Mainland Poems
I dwell on this sandbar.
Between the shallows and the deep.
So free and yet so oppressed.
But during the rarest of moments
I truly know that I am blessed.
Do I make for the mainland.
Facing riptides of salt and teeth.
Or wade through sharpened coral hearts.
onto that cay of stagnant familiarity.
I tend to teeter toward the shallow.
but there are pools so blue -so deep.
So why do I ride this burning sandbar?
It's out of fear I tend to think.
Categories:
mainland, adventure,
Form:
Rhyme
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
Categories:
mainland, community, history, ireland, time,
Form:
Narrative
The Whole World In His Band
God wants the whole world in His band
Brothers and sisters of the land
Followers singing His commands
Connecting through heaven’s broadband.
Sing in praise all ye that do stand
On the Lord’s glorious bandstand
Sing how it is, holding God's hand
Lord and conductor of the band.
Children come along, clap your hands
To beat of drums and baby grands
With skips and hops dance to the band
For God so loves His precious lambs.
All Birds and creatures of the land
Join with us too, it's your homeland
Sea creatures from depths of sea-land
Swell the choirs of the Lord’s mainland.
The Lord takes hold of one's right hand
He's the saviour of those hearts fanned
By faithful members of the band
That lead us to the promised land.
Altogether now hand in hand
God wants the whole world in His band.
5th May 2021
Categories:
mainland, brother, children, sister,
Form:
Rhyme
today’s conch bead lei -
aloha Lahaina &
lokelani rose
nod & prayer from the mainland
grieving your loss, your song heard
Categories:
mainland, in memoriam,
Form:
Tanka
I remember…
The long rocky finger I lived on that stretched
out from the mainland in the Bay of Fundy and
the soggy little white house covered in ocean brine
that did its best to shelter us from the great bi-polar Atlantic Ocean
that would on some days roar and thrash and throw itself against
our rocky foundation, splintering itself into endless liquid shards
that would climb high into the sky, then fall on my up-turned face,
drenching me into a state of near hypothermia.
There I would stand, squinting through burning eyes,
unable to pull myself away from that wrath, when suddenly -
the sun would disappear from the sky, causing the air temperature
to plummet, leaving me shaking like a leaf as the Great roaring Atlantic
fell silent and laid itself down as flat as a sheet of glass as that massive
grey monster approached.
Off in the distance, I would hear a buoy-bell timidly ringing in a feeble attempt to warn me of the impending danger that was quietly devouring the mainland, our little house, and the Great Atlantic, as the FOG came silently creeping in.
Categories:
mainland, childhood, nature, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
This Land Was Your Land (Cherokee Version of Woody Guthrie's This Land is Your Land)
This land was your land and now it's my land.
From the Georgia mainland to the Oklahoma prairies.
From the Appalachian Mountains to the Mississippi River;
This land was taken from you by me.
As you was walking that trail of tears;
I saw above you the bird of death.
I saw below you those solemn footsteps;
This land was taken from you by me.
You were sick and hungry but forced to walk;
To the dust bowls of the Oklahoma panhandle.
And all around you tears were falling;
This land was taken from you by me.
When the cold winds blew and you was freezing;
And the snow was falling and you had no shoes.
As your mother was weeping a voice was chanting;
This land was taken from you by me.
As you was walking I saw a sign there;
And on the sign it said "No Indians Allowed".
In your defense I didn't say nothing;
This land was taken from you by me.
In the bowels of death I saw your people;
In church pews I saw my own.
As your's stood starving, I simply mumbled;
This land was taken from you by me.
Nobody dead can stop my greed;
As you go dying on that trail of tears.
The dead can own no land;
This land was taken from you by me.
By: Darlene Doll Smith
Categories:
mainland, america, death, history, native
Form:
Lyric
Cymbals and fireworks crisp and crescendo through the
black of night past the chrysanthemums displays
for the year of the Goat begins.
from the mainland Chinese tourist arrive
red cars, red money, red clothes, flame with wishes for
prosperity as displays descend
over Victoria harbor in Hong Hong.
pray the ghosts leave with the noise
and peace and prosperity descend
hang your red lanterns
paste red animals on your windows
pray the ghosts of years past leave in peace
sparklers
rockets
firecrackers
Technicolor displays animate the streets
pyrotechnics fill the air, shopping markets overflow
as unattainable commodities get packed back
to Xian, Beijing and Shanghai -
powdered milk dreams - a luxury attainable here
replace the rush to gunpowder displays
smoke coats the metal heavy air
as the crowds disperse for
a dumpling morning
parading creatures of past and present
awe and delight
Lion dancers snake, kick, drum,
feet beat to the gong in hong hong
and all of China
Categories:
mainland, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
Categories:
mainland, death, history, loss, places,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Surrounded by the Bay of Conception
Bell Island anchored for miles perception
Deep deep under the mine that was drudged
Remnants of rail blind horses that tugged
Not the mainland but off Canada's shore
The iron ore mines that are no more
Deep in the ground of old Newfoundland
To far the ore that made it grand
No longer the mine that prosperity gave
But a wondrous long mysterious cave
The pumps are off the water it fills
Divers around go diving for thrills
With caution it's done for there is a list
Many dead miners it does exist
Even though the mine is gone
I've heard some divers have move on
Now some would say there is a ghost
It might be fearful scary to most
Maybe some spirit or even a fairy
This one could be an old Canterbury
None the less men will explore
That is how we got the ore
So once again you go down under
Miles of caves and all its wonder
Fulfill your quest a bucket list
Check it off and dive the mist
Follow the rope and stay the course
Find the shoe of the old black horse
Search you will with flipper and light
To plunder a relic you'll feel the smite
Of an old ghost miner with pick and shovel
He'll take it back that item you smuggle
So resist the urge to pillage and plunder
We can't get out from so far under
Take our tools you'll leave us bare
So put them down or else beware
Of the old ghost miners protecting this place
We once lived and ran life's race
We are no more to cross the Bay
Make the ferry at the end of the day
Categories:
mainland, adventure, dedication, earth, fairy,
Form:
Rhyme
PART II.
IV.
there's no turning back...
when the landscapes change, when the rains come
submerged in solitary conversations
I'm unworthy to left gifts at your feet
so I wait and sleep in this desolate bothy
shattered and painfully conscious
and it's like descending the slippery cliffs
even if some of them have withstood a thousand storms
it's been a mindless voyage led by the lack of sobriety
right when you found my incomplete letters
and your blurred outlines were drifted ashore
leaving the white lines carved in the sand
V.
how far...
would we go in a bottomless boat?
that's where I seek the point of continuation
but one day they'll throw away all of your belongings
down to the bottomless chasm of memories
and it will stalk me through the mainland
haunt me even at the bottom of the ocean
knowing that life of unfulfilled desires is like an immortal pilgrim
shrinking in the darkest nook of guilt
but I believe that our paper boat is unsinkable
in loving memory of sweet melancholy
we'll sing the shepherd's ballads by the jetty
VI.
I'll hold your hand...
through the final ascend from hazy lowlands
'cause I know there's certainly a rebirth awaiting
as lost love leaves scars in the countryside
and each night I can't resist
the lighting of the south side beacon
the ageless beacon that will shine on our way
when your shy retinas turn to flowers
and hide away from moonlit skies
I'm sinking in smoothness of your skin
stitching your heart to mine
and letting it sail away in a bottle
while you're still shivering beside me
as a reminder of our mortality
enchanted by the divine music
flying in a great heights like two starving gulls
over the freezing sea of abstractions
waterlogged and malcontented
we will abandon the terminal beach
we'll leave together in the air
and greet every star without exception
Categories:
mainland, lost love, ocean, pain,
Form:
Epic
If I was rich and could live anywhere I wanted,
I would buy my very own island on the St. Lawrence;
Somewhere between Ontario, Canada and New York,
In the 1000 Islands, well it is actually 1,864 islands.
Oh yes, in the heart of islands I would live my dream,
Talk about off the beaten track, not connected to land;
A retreat and a haven from the world and so unique,
It would not be a river cottage but a huge mansion.
No rustic and charming for me but stunning and beautiful,
Located in a deep water channel on a private island;
I would relax on my deck watching huge ships and boats,
But the mainland would be a motorboat ride away.
And there I would find bike trails and hiking and markets,
Wonderful restaurants, theatre and even a casino;
From my deck I could go fishing and have endless silence,
I could swim from my own beach and go scuba driving.
There are many historic ship wrecks to go exploring,
And the Boldt Castle, build for love, it is a tourist stop;
If I wanted to go to the United States there is a bridge,
Or just be alone with my very own trees and nature.
I could take a river cruise to somewhere or lay in the shade,
If I was rich then I could just write poems all day;
Oh I can just imagine how amazing it would be in the rain,
And I would call my private island, Dreamer's Island.
_________________
October 25, 2015
Verse
For the contest, If You Were Rich, sponsor, Mystic Rose
Second Place
Categories:
mainland, dream, home, water,
Form:
Verse
It was on a Sunday morning in the village where I stay
Out walking with my dog, I heard some pensioners say
Did you hear about the earthquake, it was somewhere in our State
No magnitude has ever been like it, it's impossible to relate
Quickly I headed home, to view this terrible news
Upon turning on the TV, I'm in horror at what my eyes now view
The awesome Golden Gate Bridge, against an azure bluey day
Lies broken, distorted and twisted, as if it's foundations had given way
The camera now focuses on the mainland, capturing plumes of choking black
Freeways lie twisted and contorted, trains running from their tracks
Gas lines spew throwers of flames, sirens resonate in blaring sound
What was level hours before, have dropped from it's original grounds
Many reporters are now on the scene, as they pan out across the blue
From the helicopter of CNN, Alcatraz disappears from their view
Slowly the island it sat on, as if by magic, now it has gone
Words are heard through the speakers, what the hells gone wrong
The daylight turns to black, a city lies in shreds
Memories of 1906, when three thousand plus were dead
All through the night, tremors came and went
Has history repeated itself, the San Andreas Serpent
I am awoken in the morning, having left the TV on
Panic stricken reporters screaming, most of San Francisco's gone
Where once stood a city, lie pillars of battered ruins
Deep gorges surround them, in bloodied scattered strewn
There's a break in the programme, it's from Yellowstone National Park
The land is starting to rise, incredible is the remark
Geysers that once flowed often, have receded in their shower
Are we about to witness, another of her powers
Back to the CNN studios, more footage of the morning
Towering inferno's in sickened tears, the clock, the warning
I fall to my knees in remembrance of the date
It's December the 21st, has earth met it's fate
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-17.php
Categories:
mainland, angst, fantasy, hope, life,
Form:
Quatrain
TIDES OF TIDINESS
If I was God, the geographic world I would bless:
I’d start by tidying up my world map for it’s a mess.
First let’s examine the ideal - man-made edges can’t be beat.
Look at places like the USA -Canada boundaries - wow they’re neat.
Saskatchewan and the Four Corners - geometric perfection.
Australia’s states too, and Africa, especially the northern section.
It’s the instinct of all poetic geography teachers
To want to tidy up the world map’s ragged features.
The British Columbia coast needs sweeping with a big brush and
All those islands pushed till they’re joined to the mainland.
Same goes for the chilly south coast of Chile:
So many islands and peninsulas - it’s just silly.
And also the fjorded Atlantic coast of Norway:
Smooth? Neat? Geometric? No way!
The Canadian archipelago too might as well be joined up together
Cos it’s one frozen mass all the time in wintry weather.
Of those messy lakes of Canada and Finland we have no need:
With God’s giant blotting paper I’d make them recede.
And don’t get me started about the crazy course of a river.. . .
Pure logic and efficiency I can deliver:
The Amazon rises only 60 miles from Peru’s Pacific coast
But clearly it felt the need to have something to boast.
It should have gone west instead of 4000 miles east to the Atlantic
A wasted effort, silly choice - it ended up being absurdly gigantic.
And I have bigger complaints, such as South America
Being fitted back where it belongs into the coast of Africa;
And the Red Sea’s coasts, moved apart like edges of torn paper all raggedy:
Dunno whose idea that was, but it ain’t foolin nobody.
Obviously they should be stuck back together jigsaw fashion
To satisfy my geographical neatness passion.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
*This is the latest in my series of Nutty Geographical Poems.
Take a glance at your bedside atlas to see the places mentioned.
Categories:
mainland, passion, world, places,
Form:
Couplet
6 a.m
It is time to wake-
After being bludgeoned by sleep.
A quick brush
And a quick wash
Off to the bus-stop in a quick rush.
It’s another day
To work for a pay
Loose soap lather-
Sticking senselessly by the tip of the ear
And white Vaseline still to sink in the hair.
This life is a rush
Get late and get fired
No one cares if you are tired
Or couldn’t spare the time for a notch.
Brown suit,
Black trouser
Loosened zipper
Man! You are a walking sleeper.
We all filed-up
Looking like men heading for the concentration camp,
Yawning helplessly from an unfinished sleep.
This city life,
Is just a life of strife.
We hop on the bus,
So eager to seek solace in its confines.
Heads hanging loosely,
Snoring trumpets at its crescendo.
11 p.m
Free from the day’s toil
But held captive by Lagos traffic.
Sweating and panting from heat,
Squeezed like a crumpled note at the back seat.
Dinner on third-mainland Bridge,
A stick of gala and Asala*
With a bottle of water to quench the hunger.
It’s business time for the street urchins
From Iyana-oworo to the bridge that links Alapere,
They disguise as beggars-
Or hide in the shade of dark like scavengers
Watching out for victims to prey on.
The day weans itself away;
Broken down vehicles,
Long tankers stealing the lanes,
Pedestrians ignoring the bridge,
Hawkers shouting their wares,
Tanker horns blaring like hooting train.
Six to Eleven of our lives
Stolen by the struggle to survive.
Office pressure and less leisure,
Street madness and no cure.
Traffic Thieves,
Problematic Passengers,
Howling Hawkers,
And Lazy-ing LASMA**
All add to this insanity.
* A Yoruba dialect for Walnut
** LASMA reference to Traffic Officials of Lagos State
© Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke
Categories:
mainland, confusion, life, mystery, places,
Form:
Narrative
April 23rd,
The seductive smoky weed descending from Kabiru swept through my nostril
Cracky creepy shanties sneaking
Pulsating stench sneering from gutters
Churning and choky smoke oozing from the BRT buses
Area boys bullying
Police officers begging for spiritual currency
Perputuality and patriotism is our uniform
Confusion descending from the State House
Fashola’s spectacles is missing
Tinubu is snoring
Okada’s boys on rampage
Mama Risikat with assorted bottles of combined
I embraced a cup to shine my eyes
I embraced street live
Growing up in the hood
Swimming with the skally wags and hood rats
My dreams are illegal in Lagos
A meter from my nose
Is a sawmill and smiling garbage as high as Babel
Emeka’s blaring speakers echoing;’ do me, I do you, God no go vex’
Beside me, is a 2 storey house
The city of scam
‘Boys go hamma’
Unliag coconut heads with their effizy
Adeola’s gap-tooth snowballing
My naughty pen crying, ‘chop my money’
At dawn, the muezzin whispering’ Allahu Akbar’
O’ Lagos, your womb is polluted and punctured
Your dreams cut through third mainland bridge
Swaggering and swooning it trails
Lagos, a confuse city.
Written by Awoh Kingsley
Dedicated to Adeola
26th October, 2012
Categories:
mainland, places,
Form:
Prose Poetry