Best Marshland Poems
As sunrise silently
marinaded morningtide meadows,
our lips flowed like two streams,
merging within an exclusive estuary
so we set home upon the river bed.
At first we floated like butterflies in Babylon,
deaf to the squawks of mercenary crows,
blind to the creeping weeds,
which wandered amongst delicate petals
nor did I notice our submerging embankment.
As our estuary began to evaporate,
you left me stranded in the silt and mud.
My heart, once a blossoming garden,
evolved into a wasteland of sedges and sludge.
Still I wait for soothing streams to return,
but all I am left with is marshland of regret
and the silence of the butterflies.
Around me in a seamless stream, leaves cartwheel in the wind
They tumble from the tall ramparts, then seep into ravines
I've stepped into continuum, to a world beyond compare
to catch the day's reflection in still waters of a dream
Beneath me in a sheltered cove, where reeds and cattails sway
a flash of green, where frogs jump rope, with goals to break the calm
Wind clearly shares a word or two, with ripples on the pond,
and sweeps the grass upon the glass that traps the falling sun
I hone in on a water-bird, who doesn't seem aware
He dips his feet, and I can't speak,…..afraid he'll scurry far
The tranquil day is worry free, and peace is my best friend
Again, to tease, the jealous breeze has stirred the pond's veneer
Gold stretches out a wonderland, no moment's hesitation
as the low wide arms of marshland spreads, and calls for rapt attention
I want to write a poem, a verse.....and curse my own distraction
My morning's gone, and afternoon finds splendor everywhere
The sky is bold, as day unfolds, beneath the fevered brow
Beholding beauty such as this, would cause the tongue to swell
Where the slopes of other places vie or longing eyes might dwell
The heart feels quiet sympathy, they cannot compare as well
O' mystery of what I see, I've learned, and I'm compelled
If heaven shines so beautiful…I can't imagine how
If heaven shines so beautiful...Oh, Lord, please take me now
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8/14/16Inspired By the painting "Wild Symphony"
Contest: Wordscapes
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Thou art no migrant bird, O Pink Beauty,
But forced art to fly many a long miles
Looking for fresh habitat and water,
In search of new breeding and nesting isles.
And in this search of a shallow wetland,
Ye fly hundreds of miles in patterned file.
Once there, watching ye take off on webbed feet,
Ah what a sight when ye lift off in style!
Thanks to vast wetlands getting polluted,
Despite thine number threatened art thou still,
What with habitats getting degraded,
Should ye lose out, oh what a cruel ill!
I watch when ye fly in flocks of thousands,
Then settle down sighting the right wetland
Or marshland, with friends and family bands,
What gorgeous a sight ye turn lifeless land!
And now a word about thine mating dance
That pairs of males perform to charm females—
Their magical synchronised head movements,
At climax a wing salute does regale.
It's strange, O thou Lesser Pink Flamingo,
Thou art no ‘lesser'— colour nor number,
Nor beauty, nor yet dancing style ye know,
Only size that thou art any humbler!
Soon as monsoon comes to its end, I think
Of thine flocks to turn wetlands a deep pink!
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Reminiscing | 21.09.2020 |
Entered for "All Yours (May 20) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Some of the neighbors
Complain about the house across from me
It stands apart
From the neat lawns
Wide driveways
And picket fences.
Some say
The people who live there
Inherited the house from their parents
Years and years ago
When the area was marshland
And it was common to see
Hunters and fishermen.
A winding street
Wide enough for two cars to pass
Serves as a boundary between us.
The house once had a broken window
A gaping hole
That gave the house a reckless character
Like the missing front tooth
Of a mischievous young boy
Now it’s been covered by wood
Nearby, inexpensive white plastic chairs
Thin, stained and unused
Line the side of their house
Inviting phantom guests
To sit down.
In the upstairs bedroom
A curtain drawn as blinds hangs
Brightly colored
Defiant in the face of poverty
Inside a girl hides a diary from her parents
And dreams of the day when she is grown up
Young lovers kiss in the darkness
A hungry baby’s whimper is heard in the night
A radio
Left out on the front stoop
Plays a familiar song
To an empty street.
The people living in that house
Are proud
Keeping what they have
Admiring their courage
I ask myself
Who am I to complain?
There’s a marshland where I come from –
Wet and slowly dying as aren’t we all and yet,
Still full of life like flying
Egrets and alligators roaming ‘round
Down in the bowels of this bog
And that’s not all.
Pink and purple lilies and fern grow tall
With bees buzzing, singing, pollinating
Wildflowers here and there
And other unseen forces in the air. Impossible
To describe them all, however,
As they may be partly mystical and partly weather.
Causing me to sit and daydream in this
Misty marshland waste, waiting
For summer to end and winter
To take its place.
He realized shortly after seating himself
atop of a massive stone on the park's knoll,
gazing out over the lush spring-green prairie
sewn together by a clear, rippling brook,.
that sky reflections on those softly-rippling
waters were countless murals drawn,
washed clean, and painted anew on
the canvas of life in the blinking of his eye.
Sun's accretion warmed the back of his neck,
now more intense, risen past the vernal equinox.
Breezes buffeted fresh green grasses in the park.
Thermals carried gulls, geese, and migrating
pelicans on their journey to marshes and
lowlands in Canada. When last he sat on
the great stone the fall elements were stern, cold,
and annealed; anticipating a harsh plains winter.
Loping from south to north along the brook,
a wily fox worked his way toward a wide slough
and marshland near his view from the rock.
The fox's head swept side to side in instincts
perpetual sweep. From the stone he saw himself
an interloper, a fortunate meddler in the affairs
of nature; a nature whose portraits were always
vivid and vibrant; endlessly unique and pure.
Spring Impressions
9-24-16
each gesture flickers
blazing multicolored tones
huffed breaths sing of olden notes
October shimmers
on marshland pathways bound to gleam
before winter shifts to white
Contest: October Bliss or November Dreams
7 Oct 14
In the night the marsh cricket cries,
Ringing through the starless still
A song of aurora skies.
A pale gray moon, listening, sighs,
No wind rippling the watermill
In the night the marsh cricket cries.
Shearing the dark a lost bird flies,
The melody shivers in the chill
A song of aurora skies.
Hours before forgotten sunrise,
Ants dare venture from their hill
In the night the marsh cricket cries.
Beneath the marsh water millions of eyes,
Shameless creatures drink in their fill
A song of aurora skies.
There are no fears, there are no lies
They cannot understand this thrill
In the night the marsh cricket cries
A song of aurora skies.
It has been built beyond the last frontier
on salty marshland and on tidal streams
on visionary plans, on hopes and dreams
Here comes to rest the restless pioneer
The waves and wind inhabitants don’t fear
because the levee like a fortress seems
Although the water may rise to extremes
the stronghold by the bay will persevere
The city has the water in its veins
It flows for fish and man, past work and rest
In the Lagoon ends every waterway
And when it is the season for the rains
this landlocked sea is at is very best
and leads redundant water to the bay
Lin, a Chinese friend giggled at my feeble, say,
pedestrian attempt at Cantonese,
the Chinese word for butterfly or dragon even moth
just vanished down the throat of one
so eager yet befuddled,
turning egg shell noodles under spit fire lanterns,
our laughter rose and fell amid the sotto voce banter now in train.
Me, the woodland boffin, immersed in esoteric marshland plant life,
the sort that rules the grand designs of green leaf activists.
Lin, the restless late teen nomad,
who had yet to sink deep roots,
often dwelt in backstreet fruit and flora stalls.
On occasions even flexing sylvan muscles
on craggy mountain tops.
Her flawless English honed through years of rough sea ferry ventures,
on holidays abroad in trendy sunspots,
at major meadow festivals where gaiety and buzz words sprout.
We keep in touch through text and pen as often as we can.
Meeting up is fun.
I hope one day my knowledge of those mystic eastern tongues
will stray beyond the basics of some tawdry travel phrase book,
the one I’m prone to cart around the world but seldom use
Contest : YOUR PERSONAL FAVOURITE
Date judged with N/A : 4 th August 2021
A spec, lazily floating upon : “ The Gulf Blue Water “
And then there were two specs, entwined together Spot
Black hole, in the Beauty of “ The Gulf Blue Water “
A spec to a SPOT ( it even sounds so much Stronger )
When two Spots meet : Meld : Creating an “ Epic Drop “
Yet to the East, West, South, North Thousands of Drops
Mixing and matching; Defiling “ The Gulf Blue Water “
Let’s flash : To the future of the shore: Where Oysters Dance
As the alarm of “ Destruction” sounds off in “ Lazy Blue Waters
To the land and marshes : Prepare for Doom : from the “ Black Gulf Waters “
A Tsunami of Hell’s Fury Designed by Mankind’s “ Ignorance of Nature “
Who’s here to help us “ Marshland Security “ ASPCA “, The Government??
Inspired by " Team POETRYSOUP'S Contest "Gulf Oil Spill"
For some time a young man had not seen his lover.
He made haste to join her soon as time allowed.
Riding on horseback he sped home to see her.
Ride he did from Georgetown to Pawleys,
Riding to her in lower South Carolina.
Eager to see her he acted fool hardy,
by marshland and swamp instead of by road.
The short cut he took was riddled with quicksand.
Both he and the horse were lost and ne’er found.
The young girl declared she would never again love.
Time needed to heal, she began to forlornly
walk and remember the young man she once knew.
Mourning her lover she walked every day.
On one such excursion, she saw a young man.
Dressed in gray approach at a distance.
When he drew near she recognized her beau.
She knew he had died but now lives again?
A touch to her lips brought her to silence.
“Please leave immediately, there is great danger”
Without saying more he vanished away.
Finding her parents she told them the story
They fled to the mainland making great haste.
The hurricane that night was fierce and deadly.
Lives were lost and many homes destroyed.
Save their’s and a neighbors whom also was warned.
No one can explain the subsequent sightings.
Foretelling the safety of those whom are warned.
Of their lives and belonging which stayed safe
in the wake of a terrible, terrible storm.
But the young girl knew that which they didn’t.
In a river marsh, where pondweeds and cattails grew in warm clime,
the fair girl found a tall, black egret
with whom she could have a chat;
and was it the same one that her parents rescued from the wild?
Among bulrushes taller than she actually was,
the anxious girl told that bird one of her wishes:
to hop on his back and fly as the happiest butterfly,
and find her mom whom she remembered singing a lullaby.
" Take me to my mom!" she begged the wading bird.
" Nobody ever takes me there to visit her" she exclaimed.
" She may be miles away from here...way past the blue ocean!"
He replied with little confidence, lacking a sense of emotion.
The fair girl kept on begging, until the black egret finally nodded.
" Thank you, kind bird...now let's fly and depart from this marshland!"
So the two of them ventured into a cloudy sky expecting no rainfall...
not until they had gotten there safely and heard that sweet mother's call..
The Marshland
In the middle of the fen where the soil is full of rotting foliage,
roots of tree from the time the land was a forest,
a dam where ducks swim and as is the way of ducks noisy in
their chatter with each other, social bird with no musicality
I mean have you ever heard of an opus titled:
“When the ducks sing in Covent garden.”
Yet they like it here and can spot a Cheney miles away and
thus avoid getting water-boarded. We used to go there
the farmer and we dug into wet soil square sized turfs
which dried in the sun and in the fall we had carts full and
primordial roots that burned brightly when snow fell outside
visitors flood park
capture giraffe in marshland
looking down at them