Best Marshy Poems
A Song at Sunrise
He sang the song at sunrise, to the morning dawn
It rose into the atmosphere and carried on and on
It fell in gentle rain upon the barren lands
It moistened upturned faces and was caught in outstretched hands
It blew within warm winds across the marshy fen
Was whispered through the waving reeds and reached the hearts of men
This song is never ending all around the earth
The song that started long ago with our sweet Saviour's birth
POULTER'S MEASURE that is in alternating 12 then 14 syllables lines and so on
(the form always commences with a 12 syllable line)
Courtesy of Brian Strand
Margaret Foster: 18th February 2010
No one scoops up the vast subtleties
Of my mind's water
Quite like the hands that adore me most
There are no holes,
No overflows, nor spills
This soul does not filter away the essence,
Does not pluck the bloom before it has shown its worth,
Nor does his powerful hands have a heart to ever remove it
From its marshy field of poetic influence
But when it rots,
He simply refuses to discard
And instead regards pollution with avid wonder
For he knows with a nod I have it in myself to teach
And I have it in myself to heal these inner hells
So when these waters flow freely again
In search of new blooms and clear horizons,
I will find his precious hands sifting, provoking the currents
Admirably never losing sight of our love's purpose
The poem that I write,
Is the one that I fantasize of writing
The one that my muse, celestial being
Made of mysterious essence,
Regards as the celebration of my fall,
Here, in a world devoid of meaning!
This poem recounts of how
The shadows of my life
Get dissipated
As love resolves its senseless issues,
And kisses its broods
With the lips of my passionate tugs!
This poem recounts of how
The climb back to the heavens
Will be smooth,
Laden with light hearts,
Laughing souls,
And fragranced with flowers,
All having true and pure love,
Engraved on their petals!
This poem recounts of how
The life that I lived here
Turned out to be magical
Having, as guide, the angels,
Who kept whispering to my ears
That I am to keep on believing in faith,
That I am to bear in mind,
That the cause of life
Remains the ascent into the spiritual realm!
This poem recounts of how
The bits and the pieces of my toils here
Had their own purposes,
And how,
They helped me build myself up
Into what I ended up being,
A Goddess, fallen, for the sake of love,
But saved, by the comforting arms
Of that same love!
Pray, this poem is a celebration love
Though it be written today,
Someday,
I shall read it to Love,
And tell him,
I kept my hope high,
I kept treading in marshy lands,
I kept swimming with sharks
And I kept having dinner with vipers,
Knowing that somehow,
Someday,
Your grey veil of negativity
Would be lifted
And you would pull me
Into the garden of eternity
As it was deemed
By the Gods themselves!
3 September 2019
He sang the song at sunrise, to the morning dawn
It rose into the atmosphere and carried on and on
It fell in gentle rain upon the barren lands
It moistened upturned faces and was caught in outstretched hands
It blew within warm winds across the marshy fen
Was whispered through the waving reeds and reached the hearts of men
This song is never ending all around the earth
The song that started long ago with our sweet Saviour's birth
Jewels of Africa.
The saffron Queen spins the lilac sky,
her rays flick crimson cinders into Royal Blue Oceans.
Submerge, sizzle, frizzle...going, going, gone! ...But Not.
Cumulus clouds drizzle pepper fog over pink Flamingos, homeward bound.
Tea-green Botswana bush,
teeny, tiny Hummingbirds hover over brink-pink Balsams,
feast on elixir of nectar.
Royal Albatross rides the last whip of wind.
Sulking Stork swoops through veiled mists above marshy meadow ponds.
Sword sunbeams lash chrome, coppery twilight.
Mooned dusks, a violet cape cloaks bathing blooms.
Nightscape sky sparks, preparing morning’s thin blue...aurora hue.
Camouflaged branches stretch, tickle studded clouds
as ribboned roots cling to crevice homes.
A spook- silver ring appears from nowhere, pearling ripples aluminium.
Beams spill across the sea like lines of glittering fire.
Ethiopian wolves howl composed solos,
phantom echoes shudder Tarantula’s lair
as Flax Lily spurts scent...Frankincense and Lime.
Sultry Savannah’s secrets passed on by rhythmic lip-smacking Baboons,
cracking jokes in the knitted canopy,
teasing and tickling clowning Hyena’s below as
a blinkered platoon of Jet Wood Ants march to their Majesty.
Dawn draws indigo voiles over Nephthys, Goddess of Night
slashes of Sunrise surge shadows as the Bush Lark spangles jewels in the air.
The Alize wind dies in respect to heavenly panorama...
Mountains reflected, seen to be varnished into still, smalt-blue sea.
The seas have gotten choppy
the ships have all been moored
the winds have gotten mighty
a shiver's slipping through the door
The docks are all now empty
the lighthouse has gone dim
the seagulls all are nesting
up on the marshy hill
The sirens are now blaring
the skies are dark and gray
the storm has reach the shoreline
there's panic in the air
The flags are torn and tattered
there's destruction everywhere
When the storm has finally ended
and a calm has now appeared
one lone mouse's found scurrying
searching for his home
his hole is blocked and broken
no one hears his calls
he's lost and cold and lonely
a teardrop starts to fall
each step he takes is painful
joy is never near
his life is all but over
he's no longer here
An agile Cinnamon bear
Saunters across rusty snow
A treacherous avalanche path.
Meandering through fields
Bathed in Indian Paintbrush
And Columbine, Purple
Elephants forcing their faces
Through marshy creek beds.
A futile attempt to find
Berries so near to tundra and sky,
The great sow tears open
Rotted logs, finding morsels
Of insect meat.
The day moves into night
And yet another sun rises,
To the scope of a killer, lurking
In the vast green of the pines.
The sow strolls to creeks edge
For her last luscious drink
Lapping the cool crystal waters
Of her youth.
He watches motionless...
In all the field's beauty
She falls motionless there
Staining the ground as red
As the Indian Paintbrush.
I cried when I heard
That my memory of yesterday
Today lay dead.
I pity that poacher
The kind of man blind
To beauty and grace
Who killed a Cinnamon bear
And ran off with her head.
Form:
The velvet blanket of night gently lifts
revealing a gauzy veil of gray,
seduced by the morning sun, usurping the day;
water ripples through the breeze, it hums and shifts.
In marshy bogs of clustered coves,
amongst the cattails and slender reeds
schools of fish gather, in their quest to breed;
graceful herons meditate in a protracted pose.
The stillness of the morning serenades
the dreamy sail boats waltzing on the lake;
balanced and smooth leaving no wake,
the voice of peace and serenity pervades.
Date: July 17,2022
For: A Quiet Place Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Placed 3rd in the contest
Eastern dam
A vast expanse of
Captive water
Long grass and reeds
Marshy acres where
Where the dike’s inadequacy
Overflowed
The hoarse call of
Mating geese
On flighty wings
Ducks plummeting
To a watery landing
A gilded Teal
A fledgling Heron
On awkward limbs
A Meadowlark
A Whippoorwill
Sweet breeze caressing
Gentle doe
Knee-deep in swamp
Gazing intently at
Shadowy rider
Perched contentedly on
Looming horse
High on a distant hill
Near Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan 1968
My dog named “Hicks”
'The dog that licks the frog he found in the log'
that delightful, disgusting dog that lick the fluffy, hairy frog he found in the marshy, low log
My dog “Hicks
the dear, domestic dog that lick the fancy frog he found in the lovable log
depressed, dazzling the legendary, lumpy dog
the determined, dumpy dog that wants to eat the fantastic, famous frog he found in the loud, lost log
the funny, fat frog he found in the large, long log
the dank, different dog that lick the fake, fine frog he found in the loving, loyal log
the depressing, dark dog that licks the furry, frightening frog he found in the lit, little log “bark” “ribbit-ribbit rip” Swhoop YUM….
11/22/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
A golden day, my mother said.
She had taken my father (who was dying - in the final stages of metastatic lung cancer, his face swollen and disfigured from the medicines, his once thick head of hair long gone from the radiation, his sure-rootedness now reduced to an uneven, unsure, unbalanced, slow unsteady sort of halting rolling step) to a place in a woods where they could see the tinseled leaves glittering in the sun,
Hear them moving in the breeze,
Smell the woody, loamy aroma of decomposition underfoot.
It was near a river and so water could be seen in the near distance.
One of the last good days.
A goodbye to the life they had
Lived.
A golden day.
See the sun.
Feel it's warmth.
Feel the air.
Hear the insects, the birds,the crunching of the leaves.
Smell the freshness,the marshy fecund scents.
See it all.
Feel it all.
A golden day.
mother-made moments should be soft and squishy
not filled with terror or just plain icky
mother-made moments should comfort and soothe
not leave you feeling like you've been royally screwed
they are supposed to feel like super softie towels
freshly out from the dryer
or like a kite on a breezy day
effortlessly flying higher and higher
mother-made moments should be strong as a boulder
full of helping-hands-up you'll remember when
you are older
mother-made moments should wipe away the tears
address, then erase all your fears
with lovey-dovey hugs
and mugs
of freshly made hot coco
with the mini marshy-mellows floating on top
mother-made moments should leave you feeling wonderfully wise
squaring off your shoulders as you
look at people directly in their eyes
they should give the gift of loving you just where you are
saying your apple-cheeks and eyes are brighter
and prettier than all of the stars
mother-made moments should always be truly for your best
should be there always whenever you need a rest
offering wise counsel
and a pencil to take notes with
mother-made moments when scooped up altogether
should be a big fluffy bundle of love
waterproof in any kind of weather
a lifetime legacy celebration of truth
that there is nothing
and no one
she loves more
than you
that's what mother-made moments should be
I walked into the castle
Up on the hills and in the glens
There she was dressed in white satin
She was wide eyed and smiling
The princess of sleep, mist of the morning
A fantasy to keep
She was an angel, all in virgin chiffon
Her life a bed of white lilies
She slept her years away
In dreams of better days
Her heart was tormented, grasping vitality
Years and years did pass
As suitors and kings came to see
Wishing for the hand of a sleeping princess
For she charmed them even in despair
In her tower, alone, solitude her only kiss
She wished for a knight in black armor
To rescue her weary soul
Travel to untold lands of happiness
Where sleeping life’s sorrows were banned
She dreamed of dances and musical romps
Dreams that never came to pass
As she slept her days away
At dusk she’d wander off, away from the castle walls
Never to return
She walked into the marshy swamps
Life was at an end
She prayed the swampland ate her whole
Never to be seen again
The ogre saw this saddened soul and felt a twinge of fear
For he cared about this sorrowful stranger
As she woke to drown her sleep away
This ogre could not bear
Surprised he jumped and pulled her close
Why do you, princess come here in despair?
She looked up at this muddy smelly soul
She smiled as the ogre saw into her wounded heart
For she knew, from somewhere deep within
She would never sleep again
Dressed in the kingdoms finest robes
She knew she was naked before his eyes
The ogre was as shocked as she
As he saw beneath her skin
This he knew was the kindest heart
The voyage was about to begin
Together they marched heart in hand
Happily sharing life’s torments
Leaving the War Behind
for Elihu Burritt, peacemaker
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
- H. W. Longfellow, “Christmas Bells”
1863, your old friend Longfellow almost
despairing. What a year! The Union
torn. Chancellorsville. War’s ravenous mouth.
And then came Vicksburg, Gettysburg.
The whole land lay in a bloody drouth,
the cannon thundered in the South,
and Elihu, you sailed away. For years
you let the ink flow like a sea
to float the cause of Peace. Yet you found
no peace at home. Was it a personal
surrender, to be England-bound?
And with the sound
of waves and seabirds, did you leave
behind the burden of a homeland
north to south a battleground?
Could a foreign landscape comfort
you? Or did war images confound –
the carols drowned
in military march-time in your head?
As summer waned, the loss of Chickamauga.
Brother killing brother in a marshy fen.
Elihu, did you never quite give up
the distant hope – oh where, and when? –
of peace on earth, good-will to men?
Carnal woman has sweet smell of fragrance
To create the finite atmosphere of fantasy,
With potent powers and primal ambiance,
Beguiled intruding hearts entrench in ecstasy.
A carnal woman filled with burning stars,
In lust for love adventure walks through life,
What powerful might touches men senses?
The margin of errors is sharper than a knife.
Wildest desires to rule in tempestuous waves,
Taking brave souls on a journey for two,
Through beautiful glades and marshy places,
Demands stopped where slippery flames flew.
And own innocent dreams lost in a moments thrill
The muddy air of flaws transforms into delights,
A bliss that can be more sublime than present will
Trapped in ruin vows by many lonely nights.
A kiss to cover sins for eternity is an exquisite
Genital fire, nothing more than cloudy explosion,
To ruin integrity and scars leave the saddest merit,
Glowing warm in ashes on the floor of compulsion.
Where fascination can see no light in the dark,
Character holding together thighs and magnetism,
Loosen by talk and the blighted spirit scarlet mark,
Nocturnal reincarnation precipitate ecstatic mysticism.