Best Outcrop Poems
...a tribute to those who gave
their lives in the Battle Of Britain
********
On high in blue and saffron flight,
a swoop, then upward soar again,
all through the day and into night,
the guardian of my fellow men.
I'm unaware of whom I kill,
nor sentient of the souls below
who scramble 'neath outcrop or hill,
and huddle, be I friend or foe?
No order, nor the call to arms
compelled my journey to the skies,
an instant urge, bereft of qualms,
drove me to question truth from lies
and challenge my mortality.
To vie for human brotherhood,
the measure of eternity,
the struggle for the greater good.
...inspired by a Dylan Thomas short story.
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane,
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers. "Hey, lend us yer bikes!" they cried.
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eyes.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea.
A playground where imaginations wander.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks previous,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned,
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends together,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.
Gray hills of impenetrable coppice draw down clouds in misty rain.
Limbs and leaves weigh down with invited teardrops that keeps their soul alive.
Forest floor whose dress adorn with verdant ferns, shrubs, and young trees.
Picturesque waterfall's resounding clamor rushes forth in abundance
and streams upon an outcrop of epiphytic moss draped rocks and woody roots.
A tree hollow speaks of creature’s footstep on land of encouraging beauty.
3/31/2019
Poetry Contest: Best free verse 2019'
Sponsored By: John Hamilton
On one sultry August day
In a clearing in the woods
Within a long delay
for salvaged auto goods
Amid decaying vans, under glaring sun
High above one ant, homebound, on the run...
Along a rugged trail
of micro hill and dale
Between pebbles and sprigs
Over shards and twigs
For seconds brief, beneath a leaf
‘Round a rock, willy nilly
Root outcrop, dilly dally;
Up the maple, fast
With head-on-haul in grasp
In and out of bark
Inside crevice, dark
Astride the edge, at last
Across a lichen patch
Behind broad leaves of dark green hue —
To my chagrin, beyond my view;
Out from under the shade
Into the open glade
Within the reflective collage
of glinting metals and shards
Beneath the tranquil sky — recharged!
Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly,
cloaking moor and heather, the
curlew and grouse silenced by
the haunting of a solitary piper.
Kilt clad from rocky outcrop,
the lament Land Of My Youth
echoed ridge and valley.
Beckoning the lost footsteps,
the gillie, the baker, the bankers
son, the urchin that raided your
orchard, once names, once faces,
now empty spaces at the dinner
table.
And the tune reaches out beyond
the gorse and fern to strange lands,
names we failed in geography at
school but now etched in heart
and epitaph.
The lofty peaks point skyward like
prayers some unclimbed, some
unanswered. The grass will grow
where boys once ran, the laughter
now an aching memory.
The piper stills plays beckoning
souls not names, the stag raises
its head and the eagle circles
this land of our youth. To duty
or glory from boys to men, from
men to earth. The orchard will be
quiet tomorrow and the hills less
worthy. At the dinner table a
serviette to dry the tear and the
piper will fill the glen.
Turquoise stones and sun-bleached bones
Were strewn across the sand.
Through mid-day heat on blistered feet
The cowboy tried to stand.
They stole his horse without remorse
And then they took his boots.
They left him dry to bake and die
Without the six gun that he shoots.
He caught a glimmer of a shimmer
Of water in the distance.
He tried all day to make his way
But pain became resistance.
Without shade he began to fade
And the water was no nearer.
The fate he faced without a taste
Of water was much clearer.
Then a Navajo maid saw him splayed
On a rock outcrop ahead.
Filled with worry she began to hurry
For fear that he was dead.
The water she gave helped to save
The cowboy’s life that day.
From the start he gave his heart
And wished that she would stay.
Then morning came and wagon train
Appeared within his sight.
But the Navajo maid could not be repaid
For she had vanished in the night.
Should he stay or be on his way
He had to come to a decision.
Was she there to give him care
Or was she just a vision?
the lips of sunset
caress teal outcrop
damp with anticipation
ever speeding up
and illuminating every last aspect
however reluctantly
as it
has to relinquish
its grip on reality
and find
blessed relief
after the day’s toil
to rest
a final burst of colour
in horizontal rainbow
celestial cymbals herald
the climax of the
verismo
whilst the setting sun reflects on how it squandered dawn
A Chemical Compound
in an orderly manner.
They're found on the ground,
classified by a scanner.
An outcrop in Costa-Rica -
many of these contain Silica.
Some are even Volcanic-
explosions are quite manic.
Its just like Me and You!
Special, Unique and some blue.
Igneous, Sedimentary, Metamorphic too-
I've heard that before, like de-ja vu!
It is Sharp or Smooth,
It is like a Bone,
It can be found in a Booth,
But what really is STONE?
originally written ~ 13/2/17
Pardon my condor sensitivity,
but can I be
dead serious candid with you
Everybody look down on me,
and talk mean about me
But, in the future, they’re gonna need me
even nuclear more
I’m nature’s finest,
best garbage collector
My critter pals,
when they get their fill of wilderness lost you
They say to me: pick up the trash, will you please,
when we’re through
So I do what I do best ...
I pick the bones clean, rotting flesh and all
I devour the things other animals
don’t got the stomach for
Circling up above,
my telescopic olfactory senses
are searching downwind
I see some fool lost drug mules
thirstily water struggling in the wilderness
They’re slowly dying ... disoriented
since wandering out of the way
Now unbeknownst to them,
the desert will be their last score grave
Once they’re dead and baked,
I’m gon have me a good cadaver brownie cake
Those stashed hash mules done football kicked me good,
‘cause I’m flying high ... higher than before
Man, what an extra-point desert score!
After that sickly sweet rancid taste of victory,
I hear my coyote friends give a howl alert:
pick-up on
Death Valley off road tourist route,
cavern aisle four
But it’s too early for a lunch break,
way too rigor mortis early for me to be eating fresh meat
That poor adventurous soul was compass challenged,
and got sextant separated from the tour group
And he just pauper purchased an early expiration date,
but some things I just can’t bring myself to eat —
I hate fresh meat!
As for now, I’m waiting patiently,
perched on a craggy, desert mountain outcrop
Waiting hungrily ...
for that Big Mushroom feast in the sky
Until that special day arrive,
it’s the same ol’ mundane work routine
Garbage carcase collecting is a thankless job,
but somebody gotta do it ... ain’t that right?
Excuse me, Ms. Mountain Lioness,
can you hand me a rib cage toothpick
from that dead prairie dog
Just give me a cleanup call
when you’re through with the rest of it
babbling brook flows -
gently down the outcrop stream -
musical journey
The Deer and the Lion
The deer climbed to the top
The hill was long and steep
At times it had to creep
The rocks would outcrop
It would not stop
It would not sleep
Its life it wanted to keep
It felt like it would drop
Yet stopping meant sure death
For the lion was close behind
It could barely catch its breath
Sanctuary it had to find
It could lose the cat on the other side
It had to get there to save its hide.
Some pin memories delicately
and precisely like butterflies.
I, however, use railroad spikes.
This morning was spent well,
walking along a high desert trail,
close to some old railroad tracks.
My sister had shown them to me yesterday.
I am looking for signs that I was ever here before
today.
A boot print, perhaps, to match with my own
today.
Some lightly crushed sticky poppies or some low
purple lupine or yellow cactus flowers to bring back
the remembered scraps of yesterday's conversations.
Note that spring has passed with a large ant mound, bigger than
yesterday. Did I really climb to the top of the rock outcrop
moments ago?
Looking North down the valley, sun at my back,
Arkansas rippling nearby, and I'm moving along the tracks now,
Paralleled by old fashioned telephone poles, so low to the ground,
pottery and glass connectors on each one sparkling in the early morning sun.
Memory take note! This could be a decent poem.
Old rusty metal parts everywhere piled haphazardly by a thousand repair
crews running these rails forty, fifty, eighty years ago.
Are there any still around to remember those days on the rails?
Making my way back to my niece's house that I left some hours ago
and I pick up one of the railroad spikes in my path.
I'll put it in a drawer next to the spike that I and my young son found
near to his dying grandmother's house some years ago.
I knew that we would never be back and I wanted him to remember
those times.
I mean to ask my mother when I get back to my niece's house if
her "Popdaddy" ever prospected these hills.
I imagine him coming out of the hills to share a cup of coffee
with the railroad repair crew some eighty years ago.
My mother fades in and out of consciousness, unable to connect
her random disjointed memories. Will she have an answer?
Or will she ask me again just who I am and
what part of her life was I.
Two spikes to mark the passing of two ladies
and myself.
I'll put them in a drawer together, and some time, someone,
perhaps a grandchild,
will ask about them,
and I'll say,
"You know, I picked them up somewhere,
I just don't know exactly where,
or why."
I travel 'long the winding track
Seeing mostly green, but a tree trunk black,
The orange and brown of a falling leaf,
It settles and nestles to a bush beneath,
A rocky outcrop where the wallabies bound,
The hidden tinklings of bellbirds sound,
A wispy fog emerging from a gorge,
Enveloping sheer cliffs that wind and rain forge,
It feels so good my walking track,
Although often away it always beckons me back.
the illuminating sounds of summer
first there is birds sweet sernarding amidst cottonwoods
and if your lucky enough even capture whispers of the wind speaking
down in a lustrous valley of green and don't forget about
echoes of an eagle encircling the blue yonder looking for it's mate
or you can capture sounds of a babbling brook flowing
down an winding outcrop stream but to me
I think my favorite sound thus far is the laughter of my child's voice
and the sizzling sounds of hot dogs and hamburgers
being made on my grill as were watching fireworks display
from the back of a twin engine houseboat floating down
a rivers edge Oh the sounds of summer would be nil
if I would awake from this enchanted dream
Walking along, the edge of the cliff,
What is that prevents the slip?
The horizon beckons you to take a step,
Into the glory, of the dusky sunset;
You look, down, see waves, lapping rocks,
A thousand feet below the outcrop;
Seagull, feasting on overzealous fish,
Divine beauty and the beast;
Vertigo seems a lost affair,
You have conquered your visionary scare,
Surreal, as it appears to be,
The fresh wind kisses your face, from the sea,
You follow the wind path, and turn around,
Unfaltering, you take a stride back to known ground