Best Moats Poems
Door to Nowhere
Royalty have Chateau’s
With moats and drawbridges
Artists have colors
Paints and brushes and dreams
The poor have soup
And Marie's gateau’s
The lonely have open doors
To nowhere
I let my baguette go hard and stale
So I could stab myself with nourishment
As my blood flows slowly
Through that door with no hope
I with no rope, fade away
Two impish girls by a ridge of the sea
frolicked with wavelets lapping merrily
as pink buckets swayed, in each little hand
where clusters of moistened grains polished the sand
bedecking castles on bright August skies;
mermaids we dressed in ferns waiting to dry.
Patty and I guarded the moats from the bad trolls
with candles on gates as swooshing tides cajoled;
a vignette we held in deep friendship’s mind
when crests besieged our kingdom, how unkind
as we fought the tides with shovels dug around,
our legs standing firm to parry the roaring mound.
But on our twelfth year, she caught a fever;
Patty grew hazy, our beach empty right where
all sandcastles dissolved from red to gray
and no more turrets to chisel away .
Now, summers without pails are a memory
of two impish girls, on ridge of the sea.
………………………..
Memories of The Sea: Isaiah Zerbst’s Contest
5/14/2015
As rust falls from the anchor
Where do sandcastles go
when the tide engulfs the view and
lonely shorelines crest in tear drops
beneath white capped dream chasers,
foam laced erasers combing sanded wishes,
taking towers in the water's rage
as moats become minor indentations
on a beach bathed in the moon light,
moving gleams in metronome tickling
as our hearts wash out to sea
drowning in the depths of forbidden love
and with my final breath,
salt water drenched I profess
that forbidden or not, I love you
and the lighthouse shines its orbiting light
as I go under for the last time
happy in my declaration
as rust falls from the anchor
and I wait until we meet again,
on the island of meant to be
No sounds are made, her world is hushed
She dances in darkness to music not heard
Imagines things that to us would be absurd
Lives in tranquility, where nothing is rushed
Through Braille she lives with fingers as guide
She weaves through valleys, mountains high
She'll never have to witness a loved one die
No evil to see or hear, no lies she will hide
No sorrow do I feel for her lack of the gifts
we take for granted, ones we abuse; misuse
She's better off not seeing life's colorful hues
or the black and white of men who cause rifts
She builds her castles without moats of fear
Soars in the clouds upon gold and silver wings
In mumbled but beautiful voice, she sings
She makes me aware that angels are here
Political life isn't cheap
moats are costly to clean when their deep
big bucks for a **** movie
and a duck house thats groovy,
it's enough to make Gordon Brown weep.
Let true love find me to be the ever fixed mark of constant gaze
The spectacle of her thrilling eyes, and she to me the dearest prize
A coral when the heart stampedes, or fickle fancy frivolous strays
For love must be a leash of common trust, the pole beyond the skies
So shall we not shiver when seasons change the wind and mist comes
A dark impenetrable fog before the yes, a marsh around the mind
For we by love is added as one, most accurate of all majestic sums
Trust must be the key to vision when love alone stumbles here blind
No arc of sight away in flight, bending ever to a proud inconstant sun
But holding hands we chart our course, finishing better than we begun
For all nature shall around us spin fresh vortexes of an ancient desire
But trust shall preserve us body, soul and skin only for our own fire.
What else shall by our light be drawn, like quivering moths must retire
Into the dust and cinders gasping at our feet, hope their fractured glass
Let true love be constant in this faith, for God's peace cannot expire
Through every storm his ways do hold, so upon him all anchors cast
So what then this buzzing, this jealous sound, is it of frail frying wings
Does some flame the fragile heart deceives, or nestless memory stings
Ah, sentinel not the virgin beauty of my sheets, my fortressed pride
This castle is built of stronger walls, the drawbridge is up, I'm alone inside
They ragged armies may their runted horses rattle until they neigh
Pure hubris, the harried hustlings, trust is a wall faithful and secure
To smooth for any tool to clasp, all tempted grasp will only slide away
And these walls have moats without and within, none crossed before
You alone have I shown where to swim, and how to unlock this gate
To you my center constant holds, only one holy grail keeps my faith
See not my stern behind my bow, point to the haven of your arms
See not my flags fly for you alone, your port the weather ever charms
It's firm the mast that keeps my sail, look from your castle, I come
O sweet the winds that drive me to your shore, what constant tide!
You the true Polaris of my compass stone, my fiddles and my drum
Love not all alone that carries me, but trust that steers me to your side.
worn-out dreams and briny tears
hung upon the moon
sorely borne from long-held fears
they lit the night of June
with silvered light of sour notes
that echoed from her soul
and fell as rain to lie in moats
around the life he stole
O, harsh black sea
I thought about...
The distance to the moon...
And how the Band-Aid boats might float
over celestial moats between
What is lived
and what is dreamed
Concealing jagged edges
of chemical-induced stitches
that hold the guts of hope
within the starry-eyed seams
O, liars moon
Stain not my eyes with starry runes,
don't promise me elusive bliss
Instead I beg of you
O, harsh black sea
sink me in your dark abyss
and drown me in
my dreamer’s wounds.
We have been coaxed by honeyed words,
Deranged by colonized thoughts, my sons.
Our sinews have furnished their bans
While we are submerged in poverty’s fangs.
You hold to each others’ throat
Nourished with daggers from intruders’ moats.
Is this how you want My bloodline to end?
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Dopey . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Walls wash through as waves
imposing, interceding my thoughts.
Embodied in opaque transparent panes
maze shadows distract my steps.
Setting stone to mortar without end
walls rise as fast as they fall,
alleyways, ever changing, prowl my mind.
Indifferent to my purpose they shift
open and close my course at will.
Chaos ensues at imposed barriers,
mind in turmoil seeks trapdoors of escape.
Am I prisoner or refugee of four walls?
A new pathway opens unbidden
yet past matters lie unresolved.
By who’s design reign the opening
rising and falling of my mind walls?
Is it my choice after all to choose
or by unseen influence or force.
My thoughts are but gossamer dust in drift,
moats, floating through the walls of destiny.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
2/21/16
Shining gold on mellow blue Melting mass aglow for you Floating, rolling feel the heat Melting down the frozen sheet Big and round, the ants do crawl Blues and browns surround the ball Sparkle, shining through the space White on black do they lace Deep inside the rolling mass Fires of Hell on slicks of oil Steaming moats beneath the soil Truly impossible we say to you Living within the Cosmic Blue
My people have always known dust.
They brought it in boxes.
Across trails covered in tears.
To red dirt and black oily clay.
They wore it in their clothes,
and watched it rise from their feet.
Watched it sparkle like stars in the sunlight around them.
They weaned their children on dust.
They let dust make homes in their faces.
Surrounded with moats of worry.
They lay down with dust.
They lay close to one another and whispered,
damn this dust,
dust,
dust.
Before turning to dust.
E.G. Maynard.
46 & 2.
3.
I walk along the margins, of the shoreline of the sea,
gathering abandoned shells, in search of a sea star;
a tumultuous tide rushes and bellows ~ wild and free.
I build castles, bridged with moats and towers with glee;
sculpting sand for a grand chateau, designed for a czar.
I walk along the margins of the shoreline of the sea.
My glory dampened; no building here, has a guarantee.
Hungry seagulls swoop for fish, on frothy foam and spar;
A tumultuous tide rushes and bellows ~ wild and free.
I stumble upon sand crabs, scuttling near dunes, so wee.
At the rim of the horizon, sailing ships, appear from afar.
I walk along the margins of the shoreline of the sea.
I venture to an obsidian ledge, at a ninety angle degree;
waves slamming and crashing, dispersing into a reservoir.
A tumultuous tide rushes and bellows ~ wild and free.
Gazing at the view, images of impressionists I see;
the masterpieces of Courbet, Degas, Monet and Renoir.
A tumultuous tide rushes and bellows wild ~ and free;
I walk along the margins, of the shoreline of the sea.
Date: August 8, 2022
For: First Person Villanelle Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L. Milton Hankins
Rhymes verified on rhymezone.com
Walking along the ocean shore
Kicking up the golden sand
I feel the warmth of the rising sun
On the back of my freckled hand
The willet and the sandpiper
Dash into the approaching waves
As the sand crabs and quahogs
Burrow down, hidden away
Sea weed and sea grass
Are washed into the beach
Holding scallops for the shore birds
And for the sand fleas, a feast
Flying high above
A seagull takes a hungry look
A brown pelican suddenly dives past him
Knocking him for a loop
Young families on brightly colored blankets
Blow up beach balls and remove their shoes
Children jump over the white crested waves
While a surfer dives her way through
Sunscreen on tiny little bodies
Hats on round little heads
Sunburn is not an ocean treasure
When little ones go to bed
Plastic pails and shovels
Are carried across the golden sand
Dreams of sandcastles and moats
Become shapes under little hands
The life guard stands in his tower
Binoculars in his hand
Watching surfers and swimmers,
And those safely on the land
He is able to see in the water
Things others do not know
Rip currents and rough waves
Keep him constantly on his toes
The pier is in a distance
Waves crashing underneath
Crusted with mollusks and barnacles
It is no place for bare feet
Along the pier overhead
Are fishing poles and chairs
Fishermen casting for dinner
While fishing stories they share
The afternoon sun rises higher
The wind dies down a bit
Surfers come into shore
Their bodies lean and fit
Off in the far horizon
A small sloop glides quickly by
The wind filling its red sails
Speed causing the bow to rise
A cabin cruiser motors past
Fifty feet long at least
A party on board and a dingy behind
The guests are in for a treat