Best Pitches Poems
The Butterfly Flutters By
On a steamy, sun-drenched, summer Sunday,
tree leaves delightfully dancing to the tune of
a warm, welcoming, wandering breeze blowing,
metamorphosis now complete,
no memory of being yesterday’s creeping caterpillar,
the butterfly flutters by.
Blatantly, brazenly, boastfully,
showing off beautiful, brilliant, blue-black and brown wings,
gracefully gliding through a breathtaking, glorious garden,
the butterfly shyly pitches from blushing,
boldly-colored, buds to fragrant flowers,
cunningly outmaneuvering a competing, hovering hummingbird.
Slyly snatching a satisfying taste of tantalizing, syrupy sweet nectar
from attention-craving, Golden Flame Honeysuckle vines,
the butterfly flutters by
cheerfully and completely satiated -
perhaps, already dreaming about
tomorrow’s anticipated sugary feast!
05-25-2014
Contest: Highest Views (08-30-2015)
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
Placement: 10th
Contest: My Last Contest (02-17-2015)
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Placement: 4th
Contest: The Butterfly Flutters By (06-03-2014)
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Placement: 3rd
My heart yearns not for the mountain-way
With its green of grass and tree;
My heart calls out for the ocean spray
And the sound of the surf-roiling free!
Give me a land with its feet in the sea,
Its low-swelling shoulders nearby;
The voice of the waves is like music to me
And the cry of the gulls is my cry.
Cast me not out on your hot desert sand
Where the salt-tanging airs never rest.
Give me space on an ocean-washed strand
With a flicker of foam on its breast.
When the storm clouds build to a thundering groan
And the wind whips the trees on the shore,
With a rip and a roll and a deep wailing moan
The swell charges in with a roar.
Still, even then, with the needle-sharp spray
Dancing its pain 'cross my face
My soul ventures out and is swept far away
On the crest of a fast ocean race.
Thrilled to the core by the need to be free,
Not bound by this weak mortal form,
It pitches and dives and races the sea
And rides on the wings of the storm.
Lighter than down and stronger than steel
With a knowledge as old as the sea,
That this is the way my soul shall feel,
Perched on the brink of eternity!
Entry for Chantelle Anne Cooke's "Devotion To Ocean" Contest
Won 2nd Place in the contest
Not Ready Yet
Give me just one more day of Christmas jubilee
Not ready to let go of Christmas, yet
Or stop gathering flecks of stardust
Scattered from the Heavens
Still reveling in the sweet aroma of frankincense
Or bovine straw
Lingering on evening's breath
To walk by candles in the window
Enchanted by twinkling lights of welcome.
My heart pitches a tent
On hillsides among olive trees
Craning it's neck to hear newborn angelic carols
And longs to cradle the pure cry of Love
Again and again
Infinite Love I can hold and understand.
Stay one more night, sweet season of hope,
Beside me
Not letting the lights twinkling with wicks of joy,
Festooning trees and doorways,
Dim with memory
Or exchange red and green for blue and ice
On starless nights.
Not ready to eat
The last crumbs of Christmas manna
Or leave the firesides of desert travelers
Stargazing.
Just one more night precious holiday
And then you can slip away
To walk from Bethlehem to Jerusalem.
You Know
By Elton Camp
The conversation has only begun
When I realize it is with a moron.
On every thought he does bestow
The foolish phrase, “You know.”
Just how could I possibly know
Until he proceeds to tell me so.
“I really like sports, you know.
They just put my heart aglow.”
“I met Joe Montana two years ago.
It was just such a thrill, you know.”
How could I know just how he felt
When with his idol he had dealt.
“I like baseball pitches, fast or slow.
That’s the throwing speed, you know”
To learn that I simply couldn’t wait.
On word meaning he kept me straight.
Then golf he includes among the rest.
I learn that it is the sport he likes best.
“I just love to hear Tiger Woods crow.
In playing golf he’s the best, you know.”
His praise of sports continues to flow.
About all he may say, he thinks I know.
“Once, to the World Series, I got to go.
And there I had so much fun, you know.”
For sports tickets, I spend lots of dough,
But it’s well worth it to me, you know.”
I wonder if it is well-spent to his wife.
And how about the children in his life.
Into all of his chat, he continues to throw
His favorite phrase, one that I do know.
“Well, I guess that it’s time for me to go.
It’s been great meeting you, you know.”
SOUP SAFARI
, , , ,
here I am in NYC...packing after a safari –theme night party
with Soup members two nights ago, filled with awed revelry.
shrieks whistling on linked arms during a photo shoot,
as live cheers of Constance and Andrea went “ whoot!”
while Debbie and Michael hosted “Tag, you’re ‘It’ “games
bringing Nikko and Sara to compete in spelling members’ names…
I still remember Robert H. reciting his comic spiels, what a blast!
our jaws locked from clapping at Dr. Ram’s impromptu dance act,
till Kashinath segued into a sitar rap in his flashy jungle attire
prompting Linda to donate PM prizes, much to our hearts’ desire.
on our table, an exciting blend of brew amped repartee’s pitches
amused by Brian fleshing parts of short forms without glitches,
enter wacky Sydney applying geographic values to long verse usage
with footnotes on how worlds expand over time from poetic vantage,
oh, how Gwen sparkled with pleasantries as cups of jokes poured
most memorable of all, the warm personal shares of soupers' world
that drew us closer as real people with scraps here and there
recalling red-cherry days and funny bloopers’ wear and tear…
and as I leave from 8th street hailing a taxi to catch a plane,
notes and album tugged this heart, anticipating next gang’s chain.
copyright
, , , , ,
DEDICATED TO P.D: get well soon and take your daily dose your soup!
*notes: with admiration for soup members included herein... all in the
name of pure fun!
* Gwendolyn Rix, Brian Strand, Sydney Peck, Myself
* For Michael Falotico’s Table for Four/ P.D Soup Contest
* by nette onclaud
Hearing talented young voices provides such pleasure
In our quest for America’s latest idol treasure
Next year the judging panel will not be the same
The man we love to hate will leave for bigger game
What will it be like without the infamous scowl
Of the Brit who tells it like it is -- Simon Cowell
“That was simply dreadful,” says he with a wry smirk
“You came off karaoke; it just didn’t work.”
Randy asks, "Yo, Dog, what's with the off-key pitches?"
Ellen’s there for laughs; she leaves us in stitches
Kara strokes her long, brown hair, bats her lashes too
Asks Casey to remove his shirt, flirts as he follows through
But Simon never offers consolation prizes
Contestants' egos crash down as their anger rises
If he tells Big Mike he sounds karaoke
We may find Simon adrift in the Okefenokee
Choosing a replacement will surely not be easy
Adam Lambert? Paula's return? Oh, it makes us queasy
Simon will be missed, the show will suffer ratings
Viewers may depart for loss of the man they’re hating
Guarded by towering hills on the East
And flanked by the Arabian Sea on the West
With its easterly shore of stretching sandy swell
That lulls the restless waves to sleep,
There is a land, my land of green vegetation
Nestled among palm trees and paddy fields.
Oh! I am in love with this narrow strip of land
Of rugged hills and meandering rivers
Of placid backwaters and blue skies
Of gibbering monkeys and singing cuckoos
What rich diversity you graciously provide
A land dotted with temples, churches and mosques
Where Hindus, Christians and Muslims cohabit
Where diversity flows through her arteries
And unity beats through her throbbing heart
Here souls dance to the timeless rhythm of music
Of diverse genres, vocal and instrumental
Classical and folk, sung either as solo or in groups
With the accompaniment of (2) 'veena',(3) 'tanpura' and violin
Their varying pitches beautifully synchronized!
In the serene dawns and dusky evenings
The atmosphere gets abuzz with the soft strains
Of (1) ‘Sopana Sangeetham’, the ethnic music of Kerala,
It comes floating from inside the Hindu shrines
Flooding soul’s enchanted shores,
And opening the floodgates of piety
In healing murmurs and throbbing notes,
As the symphony builds up its circuitous round
It descends down as a stream of blessing
Drenching devotees in its moistening sweetness
Like the drizzle of dew drops from heaven
Making hearts ride in the palanquin of joy!
May.21.2023
If your Birthplace- Country was a Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Anoucheka Gangabissoon
This poem is about Kerala, a small state in India, which is my birthplace and its geography and culture.
1.Sopana Sangeetham is a form of Indian Classical music, developed in the temples of Kerala. It is sung, sitting by the holy steps leading to the sanctum sanctorum of a shrine.
2.Veena- a stringed musical instrument, one of the oldest of Indian musical tradition, played sitting cross legged, capable of producing all oscillations of Carnatic music
3. Tanpura- a drone instrument of Indian origin used mainly in a concert of classical music, creating a melodic background, but not a melody.
The wind rustled through the trees
forming a whispering melody
the higher pitches made a whistling sound
while the lower pitches were soft moans
as the wind intensified and released
in harmony a song was created that
only nature understood
it continued with a definite rhythm
now accompanied by a drum roll
as hands of thunder joined in
they both took a deep breath
started their harmony
enjoying a night serenade.
The wind persisted in blowing me about,
whipping the willow branches with its beat.
It continuously raged, a tempest storm,
a force of nature that never bows in defeat.
Now, its companion has soaked me through
Rain has chilled me right down to the bone.
It's brought weapons of hail, the size of plums,
pummeling me as if it were throwing stones.
My tears have mingled with drops of cold rain.
Gale force winds have taken me to my knees.
It sounds as if it's screaming my name...
I reply, "Release me from your throes, please."
If wind and rain could screech in laughter,
I'd swear I heard them cackling like witches.
My thoughts were scattered; I was filled with fear,
as wind hurled hail stones with well-aimed pitches.
I had no strength in me to fight nature's opponents.
Combined in combat, they held far too much power.
No longer could I hold either of them at bay,
I cringed and withered as if I were a wilting flower.
Fingers danced, a melody untold,
A bass sound, a promise to unfold.
Special tones, a language of the heart,
Thumping pitches, a passionate start.
Brief records, a love story cast,
From cries of the soul, a message unsurpassed.
Past the mind, a whisper so true,
Straight to the heart, where love’s promises accrue.
Bass sounds hummed a constant refrain,
Preserved melodies echoed through the rain.
I love you, the notes whispered in the breeze,
I love you, a love that would never appease.
Last notes of tones, fading into the night,
But the echo remained, a burning light.
I love you, a promise whispered true,
A bass sound, with preserved melody,
I love you,
I love you.
A symphony of silence, please untold,
Melodies yearn to break free and unfold.
Bass sound, a promise to keep,
Preserved melodies, love’s whispers sleep.
Special tones, shapes in the air,
Language only two hearts can share.
Thumping pitches, a rhythmic retreat,
Promises whispered, never to be beaten.
From the soul’s cries, music takes flight,
Human voices pierce through the night.
Bass sounds hummed, a constant refrain,
Preserved melodies whisper through the rain.
I love you, the notes softly sing,
I love you, a love on the wing.
Last notes fade, a promise held so true,
I love you, whispered anew.
I love you,
I love you,
I love thunder clouds,
those flashing battles in the sky,
the sky-high drama sooths me.
As I take my rest,
I imagine great ships
locked in a titanic conflict,
and wonder what side will prevail?
All those dark and light angels
in their armored vessels
so close to each other
engaged in one clashing melee,
until it is hard to tell which is which!
Love to feel those loud reports,
the mighty reverberations
of this eternal arial warfare,
as it rolls and pitches,
turning in circles
around my peaceful mind.
The sun sleeps in well past dawn
as snow and ice fill the morn
The bright red cardinal
nowhere to be found
Darkness reigns well past eight
tempts the workday: Start late
Children shiver, lips a-quiver
Moms can't resist this bait ...
But the world chugs ahead
her engine ignites, wheels revolve
Locomotive roars, the sun snaps-to
~ inertia pitches forward, into the flue
Junior school
Years gone by and we are all still fools
For the silly things we laughed at school
Farting and burping and breaking the rules
Making large bubble gum circles whilst swimming in the local pool
Playing tennis in the summer because Wimbledon was cool
Weekends on muddy pitches pitting your wits to tackle and duel
Flirting glances at girls although not knowing how it was cruel
Teachers bursting veins in their heads shouting to try and teach monkeys who scratch their arses and play E.T with their cagoules
Making grass bunkers in the summer with mates and a girl would show you her white knickers for some toffees and a daisy chain to amaze at and to drool
Remembering the children’s faces and the world we left behind to know that we had better times when we were all still fools.
June 6, 1944, known as D-Day, allied troops landed on the beaches, an
unpleasant day that started in the early morning hours in
Normandy, France, and turned the tides of World War II. The
effect was the beginning and the liberation of Western Europe and
tanglement from Nazi control.
Exhausted they'd given their lives and we remember them.
Each soldier has their own story of the chaos;
none are the same as they were moved by impulse of the moment.
Their heroism and bravery displayed by troops
has served as inspiration to all our Allied countries.
7/14/2018
Poetry Contest: Juneteenth
Sponsored By: Edward Ibeh
John Lee Richmond pitches baseball first perfect game on June 12, 1880.
United Colonies changed their name to the United States on June 7, 1775.
Navy Captain James Lawrence said, “Don’t give up the ship!”, on June 1, 1813.
Electricity is discovered by Benjamin Franklin and his kite on June 10, 1752.
The Treaty of Versailles was signed to end WWI on June 28, 1919.
England crowned Henry VII King on June 24, 1509.
Emst Enno, Estonian poet and author born on June 8, 1875.
New York held the first fly-casting tournament on June 18, 1861.
Tour of the U.S. by the Rolling Stones started on June 2, 1964.
“Happy Birthday to you”, was first sung on June 27, 1859.
What could I really know of the breaks
in the land
huge canyons bleeding red cut by the wind
with the snow swirling around our tires
barns upright
and fallen to a tumble like icebergs
windshield riming over with a crust of ice
we scrape madly inside
trying to keep cold out
speed slowing
slowing to a crawl
always on the lookout
outside line appearing and gone,
no worries about
cattle led inside to safety to be watered and fed
but what of us?
Will we be trapped clutching a candle
wanting a chocolate bar,
waiting for a tractor?
and all the flat seeming land seems to have ditches
and roof pitches and rushing trees, and a swirl
of slumbering snow
to lumber down in drifts and piles
no fire would ever warm us
temperature dropping
dropping
until finally we see it shining in the dark
a lantern at a farm
a fleet of snow mobiles to greet us
scurry is off
before our ears turn blue,
would they fall off?
Luckily, not tonight, not in this blizzard,
we have home.