Best Paddles Poems
Calm, cobalt seas beyond the waves beckon
Baby Boomer surfer responds
he stands upon his nicked, red board
placing his precious cargo on its deck
tired arms paddle to deep water
where gulls circling the azure sky cry
and so does he, this tired, old man
he weeps as dolphins provide an escort
sunlight ascends higher on the horizon
salty spray stings his eyes and
uncontrollable tears are released
as he recalls his life with her
this promise he made
as she started to fade
weighs heavily on his heart
but he must fulfill this last act of love
“We’re here, sweet one, beyond the breakers
where you chose to rest eternally.”
carefully he bends to retrieve the urn
caressing it with his sun-aged arms
shaking the urn, he lets ashes fall
saying farewell one last time
slowly he turns and paddles toward shore
heartbroken and alone
*February 4, 2017
Is it Love
a simple bowl of ice cream
sweating from the heat
cherries on the top
huddled 'round and looking sweet
two little wooden paddles
pretend that they are spoons
as we sit beneath the stars
in the savor of the moon
your lips are all I see
as they caress them with a passion
the cherries on your tongue
in a delightful playful fashion
with our eyes intent and focused
in a stare of solemn trust
Is this ice cream truly love
or is it merely cherry lust
How curious, remote, the pain seemed now
As a fly on the ceiling, she looked down
Her body below in a hospital gown
Incessant beeps emitted by machines
With blips and waves on their monitor screens
She tried to cry out; muffled were her screams
No warmth penetrated surgeons’ white masks
“What are they doing?” she wanted to ask
“And how do I know they’re up to the task?”
The scene rolled past like a horror movie
Terror, she feared, would last eternally
But the action, the beeps, stopped suddenly
A creature of light appeared, took her hand
Something seemed familiar about this man
Had they met before in another land?
Through a stone tunnel he guided her now
Without taking steps, but floating somehow
Toward figures moving in a misty shroud
Some she recognized as they drew near
Family and friends whose love she held dear
Were welcoming her; she’d nothing to fear
Parents, an uncle, a cousin and niece
Beckoned her onward, her soul sensed release
In a radiant spectrum, stairway to peace
But as scenes from her life began to unwind
A Deity with a voice so sublime
Said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not yet your time.”
Pulled by a vacuum, withdrawn from the light
Through the tunnel again, though she tried to fight
From the ceiling she gazed, witnessed the sight
Electric currents jump-started her heart
Paddles brought back pain she’d known from the start
When later she woke, there was much to impart
But a skeptical doctor denied her claim
Her “journey” he dismissed as inane
Circuits, claimed he, had misfired in her brain
But she knew the truth, would not be deceived
Even when only her pastor believed
A glimpse of heaven she had received
* * Based on my own experience during surgery long ago.
Big Cypress stirs, heated by Miccosukee
sky hung in spun gold. Rising in the east,
morning sways with waves of river grass
as the elder paddles through waking water
in dugout canoe. Bare-chested, he whistles
an old, creek song, lost and found in tangles
of green swampland. Bronzed face chiseled from
stone gazes on soft, flush of Indian summer;
a burning heart beats with nature beneath.
In hand, he clenches twine of sacred bundle.
Beads of sweat fall from head lowered in prayer
to the Creator. His silent prayer for earth, hunt,
harvest and tradition collides with modern tribal
life, a quiet moment complicated by thoughts of
upcoming ceremonial festivities. If only,
he could step back in time to dance in ancient
garments 'round sacred fire free from tourists’ pale,
intruding eyes. His daughter and wife will sew
and bead jewelry to sell; his grandsons will wrestle
alligators; and he, the elder, will stand proud,
fighting to maintain dignity and culture under
a warm Miccosukee sky, hung by his ancestors
...in spun gold.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 11/17/13
for Shanity Rain's Native American People Contest
In May I joined in a collaborative write
with Jan Allison about a bi-polar bear
Since then the furry marine mammal
Has been treated at Arctic Health Care
Here is an update that may interest you
After six months of meds and therapy
Her symptons are even worse than before
She's being tracked; for her it's a tragedy
Lady polar bear roams the Arctic plains
feasting on ocean fish and baby seals
She goes on a rampage when hungry
A carnivore doesn't like missing meals
She loves to dive into frigid waters
from floe to floe, she paddles til weary
searching for the most protective cave
to hibernate. Beware of her and be leary
Lady bi-polar bear met a mate to her liking
and soon she'll become a brand new mama
While she hibernates with a baby cub or two
I'll fly to the Andes, in search of a lovely llama
The original collaboration from May 2017:
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/bi_polar_bear_collaboration_with_lin_lane_901528
The sun blowtorches its way into the water,
fragments, and the bottom is an aqua sky
webbed by white-hot lightning.
Here and there, legs hang like halved mannequins
disappearing into a squiggly-bright ceiling,
through which you can make out
the slurred shape of a poolside palm tree.
The deep, guttural grooon-grooon of
the water’s stomach growling is all you hear,
dredging up a similar sound from your subconscious,
last heard while you were immersed, long ago,
in another fluid world.
The water suddenly internal-combusts
in a tangle of arms and legs,
flailing in a fizz of a million tiny bubbles,
some kid having just somersaulted into the blue.
Soon, another’s face splashes down before you,
slightly albino in the shining water,
bug-eyed with silvered goggles
like a child alien from a waterless planet
discovering buoyancy.
Then you realize it’s your own kid,
wobbling from side to side,
toothy, hair waving like smoke
as he dog-paddles away.
You come up for air, breaching the surface like a
graceless dolphin,
and clarity hits your ears,
a momentarily soundless din.
You can already feel your skin heating up
in the blast furnace above water,
confusing because there are beads
running down your face and neck, cold.
You suck a lungful of air and push yourself under again,
but not before catching a glimpse of your wife
drowse-browsing a magazine on her sun lounger,
and the two umbrellas,
the big one shading the miniature one
stuck in the snowy slush of your pina colada.
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.
THE AVANTE-GARDE OF VELLUM AND INK
The avante-garde of vellum and ink, like Cupid’s bow and arrow,
Carte blanche to choose the muse we love - imagination’s marrow.
Bullseye of introspection, a deep inkwell — my bona fide intention.
The juxtaposition — a cacophony of the archer’s winepress contravention.
Well-perched anomaly, like high-wire birds, of hitchcockian suspense.
A honeyed deja vu, a kiss well spent, on charismatic common sense.
Ennui, eventually, my pen withdraws, a flatline — without insipid beat.
Paddles renew my heart — this dilettante soon rises from her invalid seat.
My spirit glows rainbow baroque, pearls vagabond dance with abandon.
Ambrosial-sassy elan drizzles like syrup, on sweet spot pancakes land’n.
1/16/2018
Silent One’s Ten Words Ten Lines 2 Poetry
Words: avante-garde, carte blanche, bona fide, cacophony,
anomaly, deja vu,ennui, dilettante, baroque, elan
I often watched him tirelessly sifting
Grains of native corn in a rusty mill-
Those arms a kinetic flush, quicker than
July’s heat, as if glazed limestone rubbed
A wavy mane blown by summer’s tossed air :
Perhaps, I have imagined him laboring-
Muscular taut and bronzed by scorched hours
His gait languidly aloof fetching water
Across the pond, a lonesome vignette,
This image cast-off like a bag of disused husk
Far out behind, steep as the upturned leaves...
Eyes doleful flickering on late noon’s hardened toil.
While upon paddles, a man’s life seemed to rile
Where golden-rod turned to nickel's work,
That down old chutes rolled musky sweat of flesh:
I have beheld him amid dusk’s aftermath
Of sadness roaming there in faint overalls,
From his glimpses, the mill of pit and death
And each lily I clutched for him wilted, sagging-
For in my own aloneness, I dared not meet him.
Gristmill Contest for Craig Cornish
6/3/2018
In the shadows of the Montezuma mountains there lies an ethereal river
Ancient Greeks knew of it, and wrote legends, many which are lost.
She is the River Styx. Where your soul travels beyond flesh death.
It is a silent river; no words are exchanged. There is a somber feeling.
A hushed atmosphere as boats carry away newly returned souls.
An empath might hear the whisper of the paddles gliding in the water.
Gaia listens as the water is dipped, and souls return to the underworld.
Crimson River
O Crimson river of Autumnal leaves!
The snow dove leans into her lover’s eyes.
He glides his fingers o’er her soul - she sighs.
The paddles splash between seaweed that cleaves.
Surrendered lips sure shiver — blue star skies.
O Crimson river of Autumnal leaves.
The snow dove leans into her lover’s eyes.
The scented pines along the lake — chest heaves.
Adoration of dusk to dawn time thieves.
The lovers kiss the shore of deft goodbyes.
O Crimson river of Autumnal leaves.
The snow dove leans into her lover’s eyes.
He glides his fingers o’er her soul - she sighs...
6/12/2018
Madrigal Poem
a hush shivers my spine,
it reeks havoc and I no longer speak-
I traveled back in time,
the only thing I find
is the tapping of soft feet.
they keep quiet at daybreak,
and wipe a tear before bed-
unspoken words are insinuated
when you're hungry...unfed.
pull the plug,
shock me with paddles,
remorse comes so cheap,
when you're the sinner who reaps-
hush little babies,
don't cry when your broken,
for so much is said with
words unspoken.
a lonely boy follows til
he can no longer see-
and in his last breath
he whispers hello to me.
I wonder if the little birdie knows
there's no room for pain-
asking questions,
demanding answers,
driving everyone insane.
freedom of speech can
reveal so much,
as the pain of a whisper
can damage as such.
no reasons for healing,
my dealing is dead,
sanctify moments of
sorrow before bed.
sinister and snaggle-toothed
you slur with wine on your breath,
all lies hidden in the truth,
when you wake up lost...dead.
suicidal tendencies
stole you away from me,
tragic hushed ease,
the cruelty finally frees.
until the day arrives when
you can speak with love,
I shall hope with grace
you'll find healing from above.
fly away black dove...
fly away...
June 19, 2017
If you passed a rose a long your way, would you stop to acknowledge its being?
Would you press it up against your nose to smell the sweetness that it holds?
Would touch its beauty?
Or would you pick it to make it your own?
Take it home to show it off, knowing that it will only die?
You want to love its beauty, so set it in your favorite vase
You fill it with water hoping that she will live a little longer.
You set it upon your desk to admirer her at first glance.
Days pass and she has lost her beauty
Her paddles have fallen to the floor
Nothing is left to hold so dear, so we toss her away without a tear.
Would you be so cruel to me?
Not see any more beauty upon my soul!
My body is old and most die a lone
What a world I live in
With her long brown hair
And dress of blue
Against the red horizon
Her shape silhouettes through
Curvy trim
Delights my eyes
Whilst the red sunset
Fires the skies
Our solar orb
Into the darkened blue she sinks
To marvel this sight
It sure makes one think
As i sit on the beach
This i see through my eyes
It all costs nothing
The most incredible prize
To the shore she paddles
As the light turns to night
Into my arms i welcome
This most beautiful sight
On a blanket we lay
As we looked to the stars
All pristine and perfect
To be touched, but so far
With her long brown hair
And dress of blue
We fall asleep on the blanket
As the sun downs, for anew
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-8.php
white birch bark
afloat on time’s tide
paddles still
©4/28/2018