Best Plying Poems
When Whitman said
make your life a song,
had he spoken to old whalers?
Did they tell him of nights becalmed
on a pacific salty sea,
when no sound of lapping waves,
or rope stressed wood,
could interfere with the silence in the hold?
Did they tell of a time beyond sleep
long after the oil lamps were shut down?
When the silence of the briny deep
was broken by the eerie songs of whales,
oozing through the wooden walls.
Did they know, then, what they heard,
or did they talk in hushed tones
as ancient seamen did,
of harpies and sirens and
devils of the deep.
Did some say, "Those are our prey."
and recognize the song
and even familiar melodies and laments
from earlier seasons spent
plying these same seas.
Short songs and long songs,
and new songs built upon old songs,
pod songs and fractal songs,
and interminable songs of pain
and love songs that can be heard
by those who hear
from one edge of the basin
of the sea, under to the other edge.
Do you have a song?
Have you worked on it each season?
Is it short and repetitious
or have you worked to improve its sound
each turning of the moon?
Is it deep and subtle?
Does it provoke a laugh?
Would I recognize it far away
on a dark and briny night?
Would you mind if I wove my song
in and out of yours?
Do you have a song?
Poets often pontificate
In their particular poems
By punching words into
Pre-determined form
Plying on rhyming
Placing their phrases
In perfect presentation
With proper punctuation
Perhaps to receive
A few platitudes
Possibly some praise
For its perfection
Words On The Go - playfully plying wordplay
A Reverse Rant, not averse to a terse verse
sublime rhymes of the times, no Writer's Block to unlock
a poem off the shelf To My Teenage Self
Who Would I Bring Back? We the People, our Secret Selves
The Transcendent Ms Vincent beckons Morris the Thesaurus Tortoise
to leave his shell and ride Arabians to Zebras
and write Cities of Sonnets, Graduations, Fascinations, alliterations
and Heartache's Milkshakes that take the cake
it's the Little Things that give her wings
as dulcet words awake and sing
we open our peepers For The Silence Keepers
Dressing Up Silly Words to spring forth, sing forth, bring forth
her streams of Dreams and April themes
of Pondering Poetry or Roses Of Agony
A Kindness where once was Emptiness:
Two Roses, a September Serenade of Green Anniversaries
made a parade for the maid in the waylaid shade
uncommon comments - the recipe is reciprocity
Her Legacy, Her Epitaph: a tear, a smile, a laugh
you write of The Stars -
of this mystical, magical, mythical, metaphysical
wonderful world of whirled words
If Only You Knew you help us to see
what Poems Can Be
// In tribute to the inimitable style of our wonderful poetess and Solitary Scribbler, Michelle Faulkner, in honor of Your Birthday on the 8th day of this Brief November: thank you, my artistry sibling, for your "rage of kindness, blinding your grieving ghosts". Keep writing and inspiring ~ John]
[Capitalized words are titles of poems by Michelle]
~The Green Eyed Lad~
Nah Then, I’d like to spin you a yarn and weave a story for you to enjoy
It’s about a lad I know and I would have liked to have met as a boy
He is well traveled and I believe well read
His family worldwide they now seem to have spread.
Age is there now and his maturity abounds,
A deep sense of fun though is still around.
His eyes are green even though I’ve not seen
He says they are fading, but I bet they still gleam.
We have never met we are miles apart.
But I don’t have to see him for him to capture my heart
He has a deep affection for the place of his birth
He writes with a skill a longing and mirth.
It would have been nice to play up Wingate Nick
Share spice, have fun, and then take the mick.
We could have made up such fanciful fables
But we can’t go back or wish no, no one is able.
And round Heber’s Ghyll and perhaps Sugar Hill
At the bottom of which the Post Office is still.
His words that soothe and manipulate my senses
Upbuilding and mindful, no need for defenses.
If ?we met for a dinner He’s say “Get yourself outside of that” I think…
Because that’s the way they speak, they are violets that don’t shrink
It would have been fun to meet him weaving and plying his trade
Bought up with the clickerty clack that the weaving looms made.
But time passes us by and at too great a speed
Events mold our lives how they want, and not how we need
So to this green eyed lad I say thanks for being there
You know who you are, it's up to you if you share….
©~GG~ 17/08/2012
Manic Melancholia
He flew high as a kite with no ceiling concealing his madness
A hawker plying his trade with all prayers lost preying on reason
Sold out flapping wings and the wind soaring no sores attached
No strings yet a puppet found but not lost scraping skies all in one
He struck the most delirious chords strangled the care of his mind
A hanged man falling a bruising garrotte noosed losing the plot then
The parachute opened on impact buried the mania deep under cover
there is a brothel there down the street,
built like a palace three stories high,
hear anklets jingle on dancing feet,
with singing and drums as you pass by.
I have chanced within once as a youth,
to savour pleasures of sinful flesh,
in wine and smoke did not see the truth,
the tormented souls trapped in evil mesh.
pretty they who were plying their trade,
vibrant bodies in their early teens,
stained glass windows, moroccan lamp shades
a sale of bodies for living means!
men of wealth leaning on cushioned seats,
aged lustful men aim for a score,
clapping and rejoicing with the beats,
toss money up asking for encore!
men of high repute frequented the halls,
those who spoke morals and values too,
even priests, scholars bought at these stalls,
of suffering they caused, had no clue!
girls were from different parts of state,
some sold through poverty by their own,
some stolen from home or lost to fate,
some orphaned young, some reasons unknown!
here was a trade all chose to ignore,
law makers, elite just let it go,
each year the numbers grew even more,
bodies sold, though their young hearts cried ‘No’!
religion morals preached everywhere,
man’s hypocrisy in full display,
parents showed their own children love, care,
suffering of these girls none would say!
late one autumn I stopped to enquire,
found doors locked, no lights, no sound, no sway,
said one “come morrow, if you desire,
Brothel is closed for Gandhi’s birthday!
4th placement in Premium contest
written 13/02/2021
They closed the brothel contest
Kai Michael Neumann Sponsored
9 syllables each line
7 stanzas!
abab.... rhyme
plying females with manmade bait ~ is not an animalistic trait
beasts instinctively lie in wait ~ a misogynist will dope its date
By
David Kavanagh
Prose
Poser Poised
Plying
Playfully Plump
Potency Purposely
Plucked Plopped
n'Propped
to
Pop
Pomes
in Poems Person
***
The war is ever-nearer to the boarders of this land
Seeping forward through the woods
Releasing acrid echoes of doom ahead on energetic tongues of stowaways
Lucky to survive their ordeal
Here they are welcomed, and in this cozy tavern
Their woes are hidden in the shadows while they warm their feet by the fire, regaling their heroic tales of escape;
growing ever grander with the generous plying of ‘the innkeeper’s secret’ special brew
‘It’s a secret,’ he tells me, as I take a sip;
Warm amber fills my mouth, washing my throat with a sense of sweet spicy sunshine..
Suddenly I know, how despite being closest to the edge of conflict, this tavern will be Sanctuary …
Spying the patrons and the ever arriving newcomers from my shaded alcove seat;
Spotting frantic newcomers; a beacon of fear in a sea of jovial patrons slurring songs of old, arm in arm with one another
It’s not hard to see that this tavern if filled with patrons from both sides…
But it seems that the only person seeing this…is me
‘How do you do it?’ I ask under my breath, reluctant to destroy this mirage of comfort before me.
‘It’s a secret,’ he smiles, melting into the crowd.
I try to follow, but my legs are soo heavy, anchoring my flying torso to my seat, my will fighting my body to stay in the now,
´HOW!’ I shout out, a cry of desperation …
He turns back, only once, with a cheeky smile and a wink for good measure … then he is gone … like he never was
I wake to the sound of twittering birds in a cove of dappled sunshine, before me a meadow where once stood a cozy tavern…
All that remains; a tangled arch of wisteria and jasmine …
And the eerie susurrations of songs of old,
Inviting all in … to the toadstool ring.
To take a thought and shape a poem
Takes patience, and a clue –
The patience for the diligence
Required of a muse
The clue for clever subtleties
Engaging poets use
To form connections yet unformed
Reveal with clarity
The mysteries that men have known
Throughout the centuries
Unraveled with apparent ease
In fonts of industry –
To trace the riddle of a thought
Decrypt it as it bends
To find epistles in a phrase
And coax it from a pen
One finds a poet at his craft
Plying, with keen intent
The words with which to move the earth
And all the universe
Workplace harassment is rife, alive and well,
Occurring too often in this pseudo company.
Derogatory, condescending words roared, inches from your face,
Sounding like a battlesque symphony.
People in charge making foolish demands,
Then usurping workers places, employing visible stealth.
Not being productive, effective or profitable,
To any of the workers, or for the companies health.
Forcing workers to feel small, inadequate, not bright,
Forcing workers to accept their lot in life.
And, to any workers who bring up any questions,
Publicly back stabbing them, with a knife.
Workplace harassment in this office, it’s cruel and demeaning,
To the folks just plying their trade.
It’s easy to see the bullies in charge, strutting around,
Ready, waiting, clasping a shiny switchblade.
"Fireflies and Sea Poppies"
glow up
a short life
buzzing by
lighting up the
shoreline
caves
they're heading for
silent crowded sanctuary
stick fast like glow worms
fire lit to cold walls
words on the body
of the conscious all
written thoughts
burning in soliloquay
hear the call
red sea poppies
standing scarlet
marked in high tide
do not look back
full front facing
the Ocean,
for more;
a small large life
bound to the
uncompromising
future
full front facing
still standing tall
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Gods of the sea;
Ino,
leaving warm meads
for the green, grey-green fastnesses
of the great deeps;
and Palemon,
bright seeker of sea-shaft,
hear me.
Let all whom the sea loves,
come to its altar front,
and I
who can offer no other sacrifice to thee
bring this.
Broken by great waves,
the wavelets flung it here,
this sea-gliding creature,
this strange creature like a weed,
covered with salt foam,
torn from the hillocks of rock.
I, Hermonax,
caster of nets,
risking chance,
plying the sea craft,
came on it.
Thus to sea god,
gift of sea wrack;
I, Hermonax, offer it
to thee, Ino,
and to Palemon."
"Hermonax", H.D.
Am I to seek the darkness of disdain?
Drawn by some passion for solitude
By the gentle sound of falling rain
Where I find my emotions imbued
Am I to find myself forlorn?
In the shadow of some cloud
Darkness plying torment’s scorn
With the quiet being too loud
Am I to feel guilt here alone?
In my desire some selfish greed?
Some love I have never known
A furtive dream of my need
Am I to imagine as each droplet falls?
It says to me in a very special way
Listen, listen as my spirit calls
And catch the verses it has to say
Will the magic of this falling rain?
The serenade it plays for me
Embrace me again and again
With its seductive melody
This is your day in the sun,
Your day of triumph,
Of commitment,
Of promise and intention,
Of New Beginnings,
The end of loneliness.
This is the new foundation,
The plying together of bricks and mortar
The bricks to give colour and shape,
The mortar to give structure and soundness,
So that together you are an impregnable fortress
With doors of heartfelt love,
Windows of vision,
Rooms of peace and generousity,
Furnishings of service and beauty,
And a garden of sweet memories to grow.
I wish you success at every turn,
Joy on every path,
Delight in all the little things of life,
Deeply rooted and vigorously sprouting shoots of loyalty and love
Nurtured on the fertiliser of experience and wisdom,
And
LONG LIFE TOGETHER!
She couldn't believe her luck with the knock at the door,
This day of all days, the one day she can will a way.
One can only trap with the appropriate bait laid;
She preened herself in the mirror plying red "trap set"
Winking at herself with the smack of the lipstick case.
She knows she's got one this time. (He'll make the perfect plate!)
Fine meat wrapped in brown, clean shaven and recently bathed;
The fresh scent of his flesh had her drooling already.
"How may I help you" (to myself? she thought with a smile)
"Oh hi" obviously surprised by her beauty, brash
As pheromones filled his lungs he forgot who he was
"I'm uh"... "You're here for dinner" she whispered in his ear
Taking the package and closing the door behind him.
17.10.13
Composed for Russell Sivey's
"Halloween Scare"