Best Outpost Poems
My dearest Claudia,
For eighteen months, I've been at this Jerusalem outpost.
"Tis you and young Julius that I miss the most.
This wasn't the adventure I set out to seek-
At least, not until this past week'
A local rabbi rode a donkey into town,
While people were throwing palm branches down.
Many proclaimed Him to be their "King."
The Jewish leaders vehemently denied such a thing'
They arrested Him and a riot ensued;
My squad was called in to get the masses subdued.
Back and forth, they sent Him- through several mock trials.
The prisoner maintained His silence all the while.
"He's a traitor to Rome," the priest and leaders cried.
And the crowd wanted Him crucified'
A "Royal robe" they made Him wear
Then His own cross He was forced to bear.
With a thorny crown jammed down upon His head,
It was off to Golgotha He was led.
Lifted up between two thieves,
The day turned black and I wanted to leave'
Then I heard my Centurion say something very odd:
"Truly this is the Son of God'"
Buried in a borrowed grave- as if in a womb-
I and my men guarded that tomb.
Then some time during the middle of the night,
The rock was rolled back 'midst a blinding light'
In the morning some woman came to that "prison,"
But two beings inside said "He has Risen'"
This week's events have so drastically changed my life.
That I was compelled to tell you of them, my beloved wife.
Your Husband Octavius
Arthur Ball (h.S.L.P.)
April 16, 2006
For so long you’ve been hiding from me in seclusion
Wise Muse, I must gasp as I make an intrusion
I know your plan was to lead me to such splendor
Now I inhale a spiritual transfusion
While struggling in a world of carnal illusion
I needed to accept grace for absolution
Stone mountains, yellow flowers and a cool, clear lake
Have led me to ponder thoughts of adoration
There are times when the world’s harshness cuts like a knife
We lose too many moments focusing on strife
Above those azure skies, our Savior smiles down
And leads us to an Eden of eternal life
Inspiration now flows through my pen thanks to You
In this serene outpost, my spirits will renew
Natural beauty is one of Your greatest gifts
The dawn of a blessed new age may now ensue
*Entry for John Freeman's "Rubaiyat Form" contest
A Poetry Souper, seeing bright stars,
Grabbed his PC and headed for Mars.
He’d make some dimes by writing rhymes,
Selling them to the New Mars Times.
Traveling through the ethereal blue,
With revved up rockets, his fervor grew.
Orbiting the moon to pick up speed,
He’d bust his buttons for this brave deed.
He saw fluffy clouds for God’s gentle feet,
And wondered if galaxies were places to meet.
He visualized skipping through outer space,
Dancing with angels, but couldn’t keep pace.
He thought of Mars, as candidly prime,
Poetry Soup’s outpost, so proudly sublime!
Thousands of Martians were quick to enroll,
Clamoring to setup new poetry goals.
Little red men, each sporting a grin,
Their three-fingered fisties bearing a pen.
Female Martians seemed to insist,
On whipping out sonnets with Shakespearian twists.
The red planet shining bright in the night,
Beckons to poets seeing its sight.
Schedule your flight, and do it right quick,
For poem palaver, it does a neat trick.
From the wild western plains, I call unto thee my sister of the poetic heart,
Where have thee gone, swallowed whole by a desert storm, or lost amongst
The tumble weed of discontent.
Let the blazing heart of Texas yield thy freedom’s liberation, come home to
The pages of this sacred internet outpost, we miss your shining star, called
Friendship that you gave unto us, Linda, the poet destroyer.
From the depth of the very waters of the Ohio Basin I do call,
Let my voice be heard unto one and all, against the breath of the
Winds of dust, hear me my sister poet, let the soundings crash ripple
Like a wave upon the ocean of sand, echoing across the aroid landscape
Of Houston, we miss you come home!!
Oh upon hell’s storm the night winds do shudder and shake, with
Leaving inspirations heart to ache, what festering wounds have thy
Left behind thee, without our muse we are just the blind wondering
In the darkness of our own thoughts, unable to write with strengths endurance,
Any longer.
Behold a phantom shade am I, a thin wisp of breeze melting beneath the
Desert sun, seeking a mirages illusion known as my sister poet, Called
Linda, the poet destroyer.
A vintage portrait of my former self, without your words of wondrous
Expression my colors run together, and bleed asunder from my canvas once
So miraculous.
But here in my winter of ice cold, in this chamber of the frozen soul,
I call unto you, with one last icy blast of breath come home, unto us,
Don’t let us freeze in this dungeon warm us instead with your words
Of kinship, and friendship.
Let my words echo unto Houston, Texas, let our Linda answer our hailing,
So inspirations sisterhood can breathe once more a sigh of relief at last.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I am trying to relate to the strategy of rhyme,
Using words to titillate from the droll to the sublime.
Do I write "a rime that scintillates" to describe a ghost
Of frost? I consult the information highway hosts
Who assimilate rhyme-chimes on internet dot coms,
Those prime verse doctors granting aid so poems do not bomb.
I'll create a word-dance show to equate a tango's flow,
So solitude and fortitude and quietude must glow!
These multitudes of disciplines provost my attitude;
Will you, for faulty demeanor, please grant me latitude?
My aptitude to mutilate (a crime I must not boast.)
Is like a marmalade of brine upon my morning toast.
I ventilate and, then, deflate my inmost certitude;
This grime will grow in plenitude, a naughty turpitude.
I'd rather ev'ry word I post would jubilate the coasts,
Mime the scent of thyme about each lyrical outpost.
This roast of rhyme will blow ego and have me eating crow
If I don't quickly disappear, you know, vamoose and go.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, June 10, 2014
I go back to Brazil in my mind,
Last outpost of romance,
Rio de Janeiro in my mind,
Dance, Bonita, dance.
Away from the gray
Of a suburban day,
Away from the streets
And the shops,
Away from the delays,
The buses and trains,
I float away to Brazil.
Oh Brazil, in love
With the Garota di Ipanema,
The Song of the Sabia plays,
In a sunny romantic daze in Brazil.
O fountain of knowledge
crescent moon of
compassion
outpost of fortune
and failure,
your watchful eye
has seen a million heartbeats
flood the river
of life
steadfast, your window
to the soul survives
pitched battles
amidst loss,
and triumphs
course
correction
I take your hand in
mine and gently trace
the outline of
your life
far from your heart,
you speak of
floods and
rivers of
delight
the sweetest songs I
hear you sing
and sadness belies
your colored rings
my wish for you
flows in my veins
to shine your
light,
forever
bright
09/09/17
2:19pm
A gray haze above
the mountain that blackened
Trembling birch in front of the cliff
The goose flies with haste to the south
over rootless stream
An outpost ... hunting and trapping time
Life on earth is fleeting
Death makes us thinking
on the meaning of life
30.08.2022
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Sitting, cradled in the limbs of what I had determined
was the most secure outpost of childhood uncertainties,
I came to the realization that I alone had just discovered
the relationship of death to life. This elder statesman of
Oak, that held high court over my uncles pasture, always
provided cover and a portent for any impending incursion
to the sanctity of my domain. But today, my old friend was
for me a teacher. With my back to his massive trunk, he
provided shelter from a chilly north wind that would foretell
the inevitable change that was this life lesson. I sat
mesmerized watching, what seemed like one at a time,
each leaf, the offspring of my guardian, as it surrendered
to the wind, cascading to its rest. The beauty of this
descent and the feather-like bed of honey and ginger
pillows they formed seemed to confirm they understood
their role as keepers of warmth and revival. It was as if no
life was ever without meaning even in its death; ever. I saw
their dignity. I, on that day, came to better understand my own.
The complexity was so simple, as defined in his explanation.
To my old friend and teacher, I remain in your arms
and forever in your debt.
[90766 Log 003]
7/18 20:12
Nate-- Touchdown! The crowd goes wild!
Agent-- So your going back to the outpost now?
Nate-- Yeah, Forest is my home. The outpost there is too.
Agent-- O.K. I'll stop by and see you soon.
Nate-- I'll be there. I'll play your song on the way home.
It's still "Say Anything" by Cartel right?
Agent-- You got it. I love that song.
Nate-- Memory like an elephant...
Agent-- Body of a Tiger?
Nate-- yup.
Agent-- Stay safe out there.
Nate-- you too...
[90766 LOG 001]
7/18 13:23
BETA-- Sir, The facility has issued a search for-
Agent-- I know... it's to late now
BETA-- Protocol states: any AWOL officer or agent will be
terminated after six hours of absence
Agent-- They won't get the chance
BETA-- Where do you plan to go?
Agent-- North. To New Athens.
BETA-- What do you need there?
Agent-- A place to stay for a while, I have a friend who
lives there.
BETA-- What will you do with yourself?
Agent--I want to...I don't know, the juries out.
BETA-- To lunch?
Agent-- Yeah, 'to lunch'
7/18 16:42
BETA-- We have been walking for three point nineteen
hours, We should stop to find transportation.
Agent-- I'm working on it. I know of a Federation
vehicle outpost a few kilometers away
BETA-- I do not have knowledge of that station.
It must be a stealth operation facility.
Agent-- Something like that...
BETA-- Ah, That explains it.
[recorded audio feed]
Agent-- Honey I'm home.
Unidentified-- Is that- It can't be. Who's there?
Agent-- It is me...
Unidentified-- No, your dead you've been dead 2 years
there were seven reports of soldiers watching you die
Agent-- I lived, don't you know your own brother?
(foot steps around the corner)
Unidentified-- So the Federation faked it? Made you
one of the Specs?
Agent-- Yeah, not as great as they make it sound. How
have you been Nate? Still hanging around here, huh?
Nate-- Yup, never gets old. Flying Blades and eating and sleeping.
Agent-- Small talk aside, I'm going to New Athens. I need
a ride, do you want to come?
Nate-- Hmmm...sounds like an adventure but I won't stick around.
Agent-- Why not?
Nate-- You know why. I'm an operator, not a solider. I can't fight.
Agent-- O.K. little bro... When is takeoff?
Nate-- In five...
Missing the Real... Red, White and Blue
rip yer guts out if yer able
put-cher colors on the table
red fer war and green fer envy
now dance yer jig with righteous gravy
you sell yer soul to istanbul
with lucre' from yer cock and bull
yer eyes they puke-up venomous snakes
for feasting nations, raise the stakes!
maybe- drop a bomb or two
that's how we roll in katmandu
our boys you send them to their graves
defending what? new amerikan slaves
the time will come, you'll see it soon
we won't build yer brigadoon
so give us back the land we love
crush all the cannons, send us doves
and we will once more strike-up-the-band
sing all the classics....ain't America Grand!
***inspired by PD's jammin' slammin!
07/17/10
5:55pm
helpful note: am reacting to a young Man's death in Afghanistan
two-days ago, from my town, defending an outpost in Kandihar,
he died alongside his two mates....we're all having trouble swallowing it....
is when he of the Mount of Olives
whom you believe keeps the night watch
catches you by surprise with a wash over your spirit
like Baptism, when he suddenly exists "de facto"
as you are walking, just as you always do, on
blood-red carpet toward a priest who will place
in the palm of your hand bread for which
you are the supplicant, when words you recited
by rote only moments ago become alive
in bas-relief as solid as sentences carved in stone,
and the song you were humming softly
because you have always loved the melody
resurrects a white-robed schoolgirl
in a long ago choir stall. Those words,
the familiar music, tugging at your heart,
"O saving Victim, opening wide the gates of heav'n
to man below," assail you with such a sense
of presence, that you are like the angelic child
in front of you who has fallen fast asleep,
certain of the safety of his mother's arms: Body
to body, warmth to warmth -- trustful of the lanyard.
Then, at home in Sunday calm, the chameleon sky
is an uncomplicated azure, no cloud in sight,
(though marshmallow cumulus delivers
its own delight.) Beyond a lakeside screened-in
porch, three ducklings navigate their outpost,
becoming more and more adventurous,
their every paddle sending a V for Victory,
trailing in their wake toward the Watcher in the Rye,
while a platoon of turtles periscope the surface
with an inquisitive why? And nothing, but
nothing, interrupts the anhinga, drying his wings,
outspread to the sky like Jesus in anguish
on the cross in these moments so
sublime, you gladly, but gladly, would
go under for the third time.
Seraphic faces, shapes slicked in rubber,
With Iron Lungs strapped to their back,
Terra Firma’s tether, now growing slack,
Frog footed adventurers adrift in space,
As they slip from this world’s iron bonds,
Down the sapphire glide, of the Mother’s face.
The needles on their compass, steady…
Their heart’s desire, magnetic north…
To find in full this life’s embrace,
To see it’s bounty surging forth,
And back, into the cool blue keep,
Of the Mother’s womb, the Origin Deep.
To mend the split of time and space,
That mutes our ancient, inner voice,
And molds us, holds us, in our place…
To transcend the blog of buzzing noise…
We here descend, our souls complete,
With our counterpart, the Origin Deep.
All thoughts provoked, illusions stoked,
Settle now into a listless sphere,
Where life’s divergence flows into one,
With all its’ member cast, revered.
To dance the rim of our first keep,
And unify in our Origin Deep.
Here, rivers of air, so breathe your lungs,
Here, bottomless blue, so breathes your soul,
A map of coral dot ladder rungs,
Here guides your thrust-kick vortex bold,
Pushed down, held up of nature’s law,
Of nature’s God, now drift in awe.
Then return thou, man, to landed cares,
Crawl back upon my outpost shores,
To feel your weightless flight a dream…
But leave your fins there at my door…
A manmade webbed foot monument,
To your long lost lover’s deep lament.
For token, I’ll hold your souls with me,
To find them, will your bodies yearn…
I’ll feed and clothe them as my kin,
Till you collect them on return.
When you my chamber curtains part,
And merge with me again as one…
To run the rim of life’s first keep…
And find again your Origin Deep.
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What we Read, is Where we Go...
His Limbo Soliloquy
Actually, I like lockdown. I already was before COVID anyway,
but now I’ve got my privacy. No family feeling forced to visit
or hold vigil in my netherworld, he confides through the phone.
Both of us former Army soldiers placing us on common ground
made introductions easier with the usual “where were we when”
comparisons of duty assignments all military members embrace.
Though sharing multiple telephone calls these past seven months
since my assignment to be his companion as a hospice volunteer,
I have yet to meet him face-to-face due to pandemic restrictions.
Using his bedside number at the nursing home I can call anytime,
not worry about visiting hours, ask if he’s busy, got time to talk.
His answer’s most always the same, Just busy here being alone,
too close to death to complain. Clicking me to speaker he begins
what he calls “me-memories from a time when when was when.”
Mostly musing of being anywhere but there, lost in an actual place,
blurring “what was with what is” behind and in front of his shadow,
recalling dreams as a younger man, of a future in past perfect tense.
And times talking of present times from his no man’s land outpost,
All days end as they begin in purgatory, today recopying yesterday,
cared for by hosts of faceless masked angels not letting me die alone.
Forgive me only thinking of myself, I just need you to hear I’m here.
Inside I’m your age, the two of us sharing a brew at the NCO club,
years ago and oceans away, comrades-in-arms talking of our day.
To me he’s the sergeant with permanent change of station orders
in transition for his final mission, ending his time on active service,
in hopes his God is religious and his terminal assignment is good.