Best Northeast Poems
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.
Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family,
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.
Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log,
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.
In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black,
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.
Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
From out my window, I could see the creek
Its ice, a satin ribbon on the snow
Our winter holiday was just one week
Each day with skates down to the creek we'd go
Upon the birch trees, cardinals would rest
Beneath them lay the prints of hungry deer
For this was nature's turf and I, a guest,
Enjoyed the first few months of each new year
Today, upon a sandy beach I lie
With memories of Northeast winter days
It seems the years since then have just flashed by
But winter's wondrous song in my heart plays
Evoking thoughts of loves lost long ago
Now resting 'neath a shawl of virgin snow
it comes in rapid progression
parting reality with subtle lisps. brown eyes
a forest floor of fern
ever changing with the seasons
(a smile, a smirk)
preying hands collapsing
across sable skin too soft to wear. desire
wanting nothing more than
a moment prescribed as birds fly northeast
( a touch as noticeable)
just a sidewalk untraveled. saturated
by the wishful wisp of morning
softness of dew fingertips, thrust of a pulse
wanting nothing more than to be inhaled
(breath chasing the calm)
sensation measuring the lazy waltz
of the second hand,
time calculating reflections. frozen
in the simplest seldom fleeting look
(walking while talking)
our embrace mimic the trees
arm in arm--stride in stride
you have become myself. scent
of winter chanting a glance mirrored by deflection
(welcome the bundle of fire)
twisting our words imitating sounds
nearby vultures at a feast. carnivores
circling our mouths with no purpose
wanting to say what we know
(speechless sleep)
awkward postures resembling
Greek gods bathing in spilled nectar. measurement
of mathematical equations
melding together thoughts through
(a passing glimpse)
Lord you know all things
There is not even one word on my tongue
Or in my heart that you a haven’t heard
Before I have even uttered them
I am full of awe of you- Selah
Even in my down times when I feel unwell
You are here with me
Your presence is everywhere
Even if I aren’t sensitive to know this at the time
But you give me little reminders
That all life is precious to you
Like when I receive a kiss from a friend
Or a kind word from a stranger
Yes- you are always vigilant to remind us of your care
For I am more valuable than even a precious Sparrow
Therefore;
My heart shall rest in Hope and Your faithfulness - till my change shall come.
© Brenda V Northeast 27th April 2012
While rambling like a vagabond in a seraphic poetic submersion, in a remote region, witnessed the most captivated sight ever,
a sleeping valley rippled in wild blooms, as sparkling in mystical celestial beam, in the mesas of the clouds, the Dzukou Valley,
a remote dale at the border of Nagaland and Manipur,
in the untrodden tableland of India's Northeast!
The picturesque landscape was ringing with the
once in a lifetime scene of emerald shades of hillocks
paving the way for azure mountaintops,
luminous flowers waving in the winds amongst the tall grasses!
The vale was tweeting and twirling amidst the virgin vegetations enriched with the spectacular sights of verdant forests,
exquisite flora and fauna,
serpentine streams, myriads of panoramic pink
and white wild blooms that dot
the vast caldera of the valley and its' verdant meadows,
alongside the meandering rivers of Dzukou and Japfu,
appeared as the absolute paragon of serenity and tranquility!
Surrounded by the whispering platonic hills,
with numerous colorful flying creatures,
the valley seemed as smuggled over
the dewdrops' fragrant feral fruits,
Oak and Rhododendron forests are a feast to the eyes!
Half way up and any signs of tracks disappear,
and one is just left with wheezing enigmatic bamboo thickets!
Botanists' delight, trackers' paradise, seraph's psyche,
rovers' riddle, is reclining placidly ,
the untrodden earth's lulling lullaby,
in the abode of the divine Lily's
anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
a rich biodiversity hotspots
of endemic species, the Dzoku Valley;
an uninhabited unsullied phosphorus valley
Note:
The Dzüko Valley is located at the borders of the states of Nagaland and Manipur in Northeast India. The valley is known for its extremely rich biodiversity, seasonal flowers and flora & fauna. It is situated at an altitude of 2452 m above sea level.
© Silpika Kalita
Moon shines its pale
Enchanting light
Upon forest floor
Where winged creatures
legendary, pale and sleek
Spin and flit and dance
To the invisible orchestra;
Of Blue bells ringing
Hummingbirds humming
Fireflies buzzing
And dandelions singing in tune
With lilting fairy song as they sing
Melodies that echo through forest pines
To the Fairy Queen bathed in the light of
The August moon
© Brenda V Northeast 12th July 2008 Rewritten on 21st/ 01/2012 BVN
Wings flutter
off in the distance
as I shuffle through these stones,
tasting the energy trapped in each,
scouring my lands
for my lost crystal,
that which can mend
what I’ve torn asunder.
In frustration
I abandon my quest,
deciding to find
my feathery deity,
the wind carries her scent to me
and I head Northeast,
diving through brush
and dodging trees
like only a Lycan may.
She must have picked up on my intentions
for I sense her
heading towards me
so I veer more northward,
there’s a place I know.
As I draw near
you can hear water
cascading off rocks,
when I arrive the moon is up,
clouds curled beneath it
as if it were a white pearl
resting on gray cushions,
to the right
the beginnings of a river
being fed by the waterfall,
about 80’ tall
careening off the three
stone outcroppings
and filling the air in the clearing
with a fine mist,
the left is ringed
by long needled pines
which have supplied the ground
with a soft cushion.
My winged beauty
lands on the third outcropping
whipping her hair back
under the waterfall’s edge.
I sprint to the water’s shore
and leap to the first,
as my claws connect
bound to the second,
paws touching
then legs thrust me
to the third
where I bring myself erect,
better to ensnare my love
within my arms.
As I bring her close to me
she raises her left hand up
and caresses my muzzle and cheek
with her claws,
I bend downward
and gently
sink my teeth
into the side of her neck,
she springs off the precipice ,
me entwined,
and glides down to the pine needle bed.
As we land
she pushes herself up,
drags her right claw
down my chest
and leans in to drink.
I drag one nail along
each shoulder blade
and let her blood
drip down on me
while I lick my claws clean.
After hours
she crashes down
into my chest,
exhaustion settling in.
I cup my hand around the back of her head,
hair entwined
in my fingers
and as she uses her wings
to blanket us
we drift off
into a pleasant slumber
while the stars blink at us
and the night creatures
serenade us with their calls.
Wood Fairies There Often Play
Deep in that far wooded glen
was a place made for men
Was not so easily found
complete with Nature sound
Comfort for man and beast
just a mile northeast
Great to rest my soul there
peacefulness makes me aware
Wood fairies there often play
stacking rocks in my way
A test to see me step aside
watching from where they hide
Daring to find resting sleep
my soul they try to keep
No malice,just a loving desire
to share their eternal fire
Each visit I must bid adieu
with a, "so sad to leave you"
My friends of the wooded glen
thanks for allowing me in
Always this is the sweet reply
see you in the by and by
You are most welcomed any time
our uniting is most sublime
Each Spring my trek begins
to again see my little friends
As I slowly walk my way in
I marvel at this far wooded glen
Robert J. Lindley, 05-23-2015
You look at me and see a northeast highway after winter
Cracked, worn, roughened by conditions not meant to be endured.
I was once the most beautiful cobblestone pathway through a garden of ripe, unpicked fruit.
I was the apple whose sweet center no man could resist tasting
But you see affliction where held addiction.
You think my mind feeble, that thoughts slip through my brain
Like water through a child's fingers in a sudsy, post-playtime bath.
But I was once the network that ran every station in the steel-girded high rise
And ran the split level in the suburbs. I never needed to reboot.
A victim of time, still in her prime.
I look in the mirror and don't understand who that old woman is who gapes back.
I have long blonde tresses and eyes that rival Liz Taylor on her best day.
This, this is a shadow -- a black and white picture version of a colorful scene.
Inside I am 25, still as vibrant as the peacock whose feathers once graced my favorite hat.
I'm a tomb . . . of an ancient bloom.
February 14,2016.
Be Still.......
I will walk with God
In the beauty of the morning
While the dew still lies upon the ground
While the birds still sing their morning song
And while the evening sky still twinkles like neon lights
And the sun still rises with its golden glow bathing everything in glorious light
And in The evenings quiet where I live has entered its time of rest at calling dusk
He still holds me tight in His warmth under downy wings soft like clouds that puff and blow across a horizon that only God could grow to water and shelter a land dependant on His goodness-
Yes I still walk with God in great expectations- reliant on His promises of always being with me- And He- even amidst the horrors of war famine and disease and evil atrocities born from the darkness of evil- His promises are still new every morning that I wake- and He still bears me through the trials and carries my burdens and makes them light- He is still my Father- And He is still My Lord and- He still- Knows my name.
© Brenda V Northeast 16th march 2012
At the savage, indigo sky,
draped in snow, claw the mountains high.
By the cirque, a base, sheltered 'neath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
A field of kash, in autumn swirl,
the dark braid of that village girl.
Mother's white, unwavering faith,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
Skin burns through the synthetic girth,
frozen blood inseminates earth.
Echo of loss shudders his breath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
At the savage, indigo sky,
his gun sings the ballad of death.
------------------------------------------
Form: Kyrielle Sonnet
Date: 27 / 10 / 2016
Siachen is a glacier located in the eastern Karakoram range of Himalayas mountains just northeast of the LoC between India and Pakistan. It's also the highest battleground on Earth.
The loneliness of night cloaks a desolate sky.
Drizzling rain clings to devitalized windowpanes.
Staring, longing for an escape from reality.
Ruminating thoughts keep sleep at bay.
The flicker of the television hums in the other room.
Dragging myself, I sink into the doldrums of a discarded sofa.
Turning up the volume, the weatherman describes a tempest coming from the northeast.
Burnt out, silhouettes of notions run rampant.
Even the soft glow of the TV has become too much.
The wind is starting to howl now.
I can feel it whip around the boards of this old house,
Like ancient bones rattling through the ages.
The porch blinds suddenly, violently thrash.
Getting up, I close them before slipping into my pajamas.
Preparing for something just out of reach,
Always a centimeter from my grasp.
I lay in a desperate bed.
Ever-expanding darkness shrouds me.
Yet no relief arrives.
Swollen eyes no longer produce tears.
Vocal cords no longer produce sound.
Just silent screams going unheard into the mattress,
As sanity finally slips through the threads of unyielding fabric.
I listened for the rain,
it emerged slowly now and again
from a crepuscular caliginus sky,
the tenebrous mist that trickled down lightly in the by and by
as if they were drops of salted tears
shed by an unseen entity's fears;
it was the dream that seemed far away
to hover throughout the day
with scattered light cool breezes
beating and flushing the tree leaves into the eaves,
spitting, spewing, snaking, swirling for all to see
stretching just above the distant canopies;
for once the weather predictions were spot on,
it remained overhead for three days within the briar
each day more intense than the prior,
no reprieves as it fell west to east
and cycled back again from the ocean to land to feast
on shorelines, forests and homes as if a wild, relentless beast;
the drops were big and cold
chilled by some northeast winter's scold
quiet then loud drumming on every roof,
streams and puddles formed aloof
into places where footsteps once abound,
the earthy musk odors rising from the ground,
now the lush grass rolled over
patted down the pelted clover
bowing in submission to the stormy drover;
I heard its' tumultuous cry
rocking, pitching while on the fly
without a whisper or a word before it died,
I heard it,
the rain sighed.
My pen pal and I both had a passion for poetry books
The city library was thought of. We met in her nooks.
Shush! Shush! We heard from a librarian, truly staid.
With face of a rooster, we knew she was an old maid.
Two pen pals forever, we only had one day to meet.
We knew it would be fun, endearing, exceedingly sweet.
We ditched the library, my forever pen pal and me.
We headed northeast, where two terrific poets should be.
We picked out a spot where literary mermaids danced and sang.
Faeries and brownies came along with a hull-a-balloo band.
Dictionary gargoyles got frisky, and gave us some sass.
We rolled our eyes, ignoring them, and their syllable grass.
It was a fine time. Two poet pen pals having a blast.
Collaborating hard, ideas in spurts, and real fast.
And that is how we two pen pals finally met, and had some real fun.
If you doubt this incredible tale, you are not the only one.
It's rocking an empty flowerpot perched
in a pine tree: 'RockABye Baby in the High Top,'
its contents shell shocked in this February
of zero wind chill. It's the heart's empty nest,
cold ripple of a lake that threatens to overtake,
were it not for higher ground. We've wind
from the northeast, sharp and heartless,
harbinger of storms, but I am Barrier Island,
formed by one who taught me by salt, sea-
shell, and the sting of sand, bitter winter spray
in remembered summer. Land bound,
one learns to light where something shores us.
So here am I , despite trade winds, the Skull
and Bones of picturesque pirates, failed
story tales where even the wind lies.
In the lake one small duck, sustained by
its currents paddles my direction, drawn
by intuition or design of a kindred spirit who
would sail, dive with delight, endure
the cold solitude of seagulls at evening,
seeking harbor far from their ocean.
They are white flags signaling Yes,
You will find your heaven.