Best Rafts Poems
"This is dedicated to all who understand this. Whether we like it or not." -D.J.E.
I wasn’t gonna write this
But
Emotions are stirring high
Cannot believe
How much time has passed
Still feel your presence
Memories
Of the slowest death
Ever felt
Running parallel
To these present seconds
An ugly revelation
Tainted the sunshine
That bared on our souls
365 days ago
So many tears
Had filled the ocean
Of despair
For love’s river
Were held back by presumption’s walls
Uncertainty
The dam’s of what could have been
Here I stand
In this present moment
Your essence still lingers
Like the flakes of a dandelion b r e a k i n g f r e e
From its home
Tormented echoes of “why”
“How come”
“Please don’t go”
“I love you…I love you so much”
High pitched resonations
Float upon
Rafts of secondary importance
And yet
This heart still knows
For it will always recall
Its truth
Promises
Empty
Played me a fool
While you held hands
With inevitable
Crossing fingers
With diffusion
Across my shoulders
Left me uncomfortably numb
All my rights
Unreserved
And all the while
I
Simply
Believed
In tomorrow
Because
My foolish hopes
Continued to warp my mind
Maybe if I didn’t look back when you walked away
Like the rules said…
…No matter.
These soft acoustic riffs
Replay in my head
You were my “Wonderwall”
“You could’ve been the one…to save me”
But I overcame
For I
Saved myself
Didn’t want to be an inconvenience for you
Colors of Fall
Your favorite season
Kinda ironic
You were like Summer & Winter
Knew when to turn up the heat
Make me sweat
Each new arrival
A summer equinox
Each departure
A rainstorm
But, when it was over
Nothing but cold
Blizzard languages
Frostbitten
Even solace’s bandages
Could not heal
But, I weathered the storm
And would do it again
Cause it was for real
…
Here I am
52 weeks have past
Occasional recollection
Of that hourglass
With no more sands
Buried in dragon’s chest
You are in my silent prayer
Always
But
Know this
Even though you are contained
Within my heart’s asylum cell block home
I loved you
With all that I had
So much
That you will be the only regret
I will ever be proud of.
© Drake J. Eszes
wooden sea- rafts float
as the hardest beads
the mildest prayers
offer layered dahlias
for Holy Queen's regatta
~ Dedicated to Our Lady of Fatima's 90th Anniversary
POTD/POTW
~ For Richard Lamoreaux's Poem of the Day Contest
-------
I was pleasantly glad to receive both awards for this
short form. It may have touched the spirit of those
who celebrate Mary's devotion as a Mother. Resubmitted 4/11/2019
How to mold a villain?
They say it takes a village to raise a child,
Yet with a whisper, a villain can be styled.
the steps are simple,
Tell them gravity's grip is no chain,
Assure them they can soar with no pain.
Convince them their value's self-defined,
Obscure purpose, keep their minds confined.
Freedom is rebellion, love mere greed,
Life's but stardust, a random deed.
Independence over reliance, A fib to be sold!
New is bold, and on traditions do not hold.
Why settle when you can leap?
Why share burdens? Power is yours to keep.
Empower the lazy, let them sleep,
Drown them in the ocean of lies so deep.
Paint pride on that man's face,
Hold the guilty in your embrace.
Pour children empty promises,
convince them, friends are nemesis.
The staircase to the top is narcissism,
While the secret to the death pit is altruism.
Raise sin to be worshiped like a sacred lie,
Leave them praising until they rot and die.
Mock Earth with a little kid, let nature cry.
Destroy the dreams of some random guy.
Let them identify with the clouds of their sky
Plant the seed of dread with the question why?
Be a tempest, blow all the rafts of hope,
gulp them like waves down destiny's slope.
Pour them only from the carafe of pleasure,
give them nothing but a materialistic treasure.
And that’s how easy it is, my friend.
For in the end,
Change requires knowledge, wisdom and bravery,
Villains are mere products of mental slavery.
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
Always seek to be guided by the North star - Polaris
But never forget to look daily at the Southern Cross
Constantly be reminded that a greater power is also stirring your ship.
Deny yourself the enchanting songs of temptations
Endure and listen to the whispering waves of truth
Fight the cold and heat that wears you down
Get enough sleep for the day will surely be long
Help strangers along the way, keep your rafts and life rings ready.
In strong winds, ride the waves but grip the helm steady
Just you, only you- the captain decides your destiny
Keep your lifeline always secure
Lest sudden waves of trials come crashing
Manage your provisions wisely for land maybe distant
Note every important turn or decision for you may need markers
Order your men with authority but keep a humble heart
Picture your goals, make vivid your plans and charge!
Quietly accept defeat and learn from mistakes but keep charging.
Respect everyone for what they are, even your subordinates.
Stay on course, veer only when necessary but be wary of time
Teach and learn from teaching
Ultimately, be the master of your time…
Vanguard of your wishes and hopes…
Winner of your struggles…
Xenagogue of lost souls…
Yoke of dependence and comfort
Zealot of faith and love.
The rivers rise, released, unrestrained
Reborn of unrepentant rain
Recalling remnants of rimrock gained
Wrecked residences, drifting rafts, remain
Though dawn's rays reveal ruin and regret
Resolve ran through the returning vets
Of robust wars, whose rigors met
The rate the sliding roadblocks set
The ramparts raised, unrestricted
Remorse, redirected and evicted
Replacing rusty banks, constricted
Rebuilt runs regulated, predicted
They'll ride the restored, irrigated plains
Until the red ridges reclaim the range.
3/26/18
New Guinea Kokoda Campaign
In 1942 the Japs appeared, took all the islands north.
Our troops were mainly school boys and for New Guinea bound.
13,000 Japs landed, climbed up Kokoda and came forth.
As Yanks, Macarthur's boys took over Melbourne town.
Churchill said "No we can't help, let them take Australia too,
we'll take it back later in a few years."
Our P.M. got most of our men home, to fight our war it's true,
Though Churchill tried every trick but tears.
The Thirty Ninth Battalion, old men and school boys.
400 kids to do the job, oh yes these few.
They met the Jap whose weapons, were anything but toys.
Militia boys, with old 'threeo's' there to use.
Our boys could only hit and run.
Or be surrounded and slaughtered like the roo's.
The Jap he had it all, mortars, machine and mountain gun.
New Guinea we could more than likely lose.
War seasoned 2/21st Brigade it's then they climbed the trail.
Came to meet the Jap so many thousands there.
They tried to stop em, many died, but no they wouldn't fail.
These men so game and earnest every where.
Battle hardened 2/25th Brigade now came to do its bit.
Replaced the dead and wounded, and the few left on the trail.
Our men charged the Jap trenches as the 25 pounders hit,
used cold steel, Yank Tommy guns and leaden hail.
The Jap ran back o'er the ranges with fear he was instilled,
with just three battalions snapping at his rear.
At Templeton they stopped, got surrounded there and killed.
Aussies made them pay the price, much dread and fear.
The Kumusi river was in flood, where Horii's men pulled up.
The General's men they'd stopped again to fight.
When five hundred died upon the bank they'd really had enough.
So they tried to cross the river in the night.
400 drowned there in the flood with General Horii too,
from capsized boats and rafts and other craft.
They retreated back to Gona and to Buna they were through,
their ranks so thinned, they hadn't cause to laugh.
Our Pilots flew with the Yanks, to bomb and strafe and kill.
Then our Tanks appeared with Mortar and Field gun.
With better support now, we sapped their very will.
Our mountains choked with dead now Kokoda it was won.
by D H Johnson
The great expanse of the Mississippi
just outside a sleepy little ledge-locked
town in western Wisconsin called Maiden Rock,
is where we like to picnic in October.
Above the north/south railroad tracks at a spot
overlooking the river is our favorite picnic table.
A century old working well with an ancient iron, creeky
sledge-handle provides fresh water.
Freight trains constantly rumble past in both both
directions, frantically racing against the coming winter.
The river, 3-miles wide at this stretch, surges a steady
dominoes of whitecaps down the river.
White Pelicans, with their striking long yellow bills,
huddle in vast rafts of white, just off the current, resting
and feeding on small fish, their migration only
beginning.
Barges, heavy-laden, plow south, pushed by stout
baroque tugs. Behind us, straight-up, limestone
bare bluffs tower, Bald Eagles circling lazily
alongside.
Mom likes the local handmade cheddar-brats, grilled;
on sprouted 9-grain buns with ice-cold spring
water!
the brats are spittin' sizzlin' cheddar!
time to go!
10/25/14
"Steamboat is a-comin' 'round the bend!"
My! Oh my! The wonders it might portend,
As it stopped by sleepy towns along the Missisip',
Dodgin' stumps and wayward rafts on its monthly New Awlins trip!
Its arrival was heralded by the town drunk who had nothin' else to do,
And the denizens who didn't flock to the wharf were very, very few!
The steamboat 'General Custer' was indeed a spectacular sight,
With fancy-topped stacks and palatial pilot house painted red and white!
The pilot rang the big brass bell, then folks began a frenzied rush.
The first mate let fly some dirty words - 'twould make a teamster blush!
He had ten minutes to lade his cargo and didn't suffer fools gladly.
Passengers scrambled on and off the boat fightin' each other madly!
There was a colorful parade of characters disembarkin' from the boat:
There came a preacher man clutchin' his Bible wearin' a black frock coat;
A soiled dove slithered ashore much to the delight of the local swains;
Followed by a shifty-eyed gamblin' dude with intent to swell his gains!
Drays, carts, horses and men vied for space to unload their freight,
Fightin' and cussin' and the mate hollerin', "Hustle! Hustle! It's a-gittin' late!"
The pilot rang the big brass bell and the steamboat was on its way agin'.
Til next boat, the drunkard is on the skids agin' guzzlin' his jug o' gin!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Give them clear mountain lakes,
And kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, rowboats, and canoes;
Dads and sons with fishing poles.
Give them clear night skies,
Filled with just enough moonlight
To find shadowy paths--
Navigating by starlight.
Give them old patch jackets
To remind them of their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them some traditions
From American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
To teach them who went before.
Give them Boy Scout handbooks,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
And young Scouts wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read.
Stories around a fire,
Patrols of Boy Scouts to lead.
All Scouts want is just a chance
To watch wildlife and touch native plants,
Go snipe hunting and backpacking,
And earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
And to cook and laugh around a campfire.
There’s just not much more for a Scout to desire.
After Derek Walcott’s Poem
We have this in common
Sandy spit
Empty hours to walk alone
Needing to find use
For the forgotten
In the eyes of other people
Washed up
Softens all tones
To sandblasted blue glass
Eyes, drawn out toward sky
The driftwood branch has stars
Or rafts toward uncertain lands
Toward a fire pit nest
where paper cups makes castles
and feathers, a reedy sail
for those whose wings
have fluttered far and long
and settled down
on a temporary, final beach.
The sea roars as it breathes
in and out, to rise, in the tides,
along the shores of all the seas
as one, moving where the moon guides.
Waters lapping the isles tiny beach,
gently touching her from beneath,
seeking the mountain out of reach,
among rocks like jagged teeth.
On the water little rafts float,
above the sacred, ancient beds.
Down, down they go with plunging stroke,
past the coral of blues and reds.
On the floor a searchers leg is hung.
Working they fail to set him free.
That night, a funeral song is sung
for the one who now breathes with the sea.
On one summer night’s boldest game
We hunted and attacked vicious pirates,
Riding on bubble rafts of spokes and rubber
Our young skin caressed by the velvet air;
This mission devoted for an honored Celtic God.
Yielding our mighty wooden swords,
We protected the river to save the children
From all the evil and greedy villains…
While enchanted minds conjured fierce tactics.
Across a tousled upland, then down again
Through muddy creeks and grass alike,
Slingshots whacked the likes of Captain Hook
Pausing only for a drink near the meadows.
As the four gang mates of the Lost Boys
'The Pan was with us', and Tiger Lily too ;
Embarking yet on another episode
Till my friends and I dared a shipwreck trap .
While moonlight peeped through a blue of cloud,
Suddenly, a yell halted our weary feet…
Mother's voice chimed, “Guys, time for dinner!”
Between reality and play… we still wandered!
Contest: Jesse Day's Tell A Tall Tale
7/5/2016
In Your Mercy
In Your Grace
You have Blessed my life
With the Gift of Motherhood
A Bounty so Glorious it leads my Soul
Our Family has had to cross many stormy seas
Many lessons learned as we find safe passage in each other's rafts
You have Blessed my life
With the Gift of a Genuine Kiss
Equally returned by the Innocence of a child
It Strengthens my essence to follow Your commands
As You Prepare Me for the Task ahead
I am the Heart of a Servant
Lead My Way unto This Day............
Life is a mere dream
A fleeting shadow that fades
with time; awaken!
Seniors Style
'Twas the night before Christmas at Rock-Away Rest,
And all of us seniors were looking our best.
Our glasses, how sparkly, our wrinkles, how merry:
The punchbowl held prune juice plus three drops of sherry.
A bedsock was taped to each walker, in hope
That Santa would bring us soft candy and soap.
We surely were lucky to be there with friends,
Secure in this residence and in our Depends.
Our grandkids had sent us some Christmasy crafts,
Like angels in snowsuits and penguins on rafts.
The dental assistant had borrowed our teeth,
And from them she'd crafted a holiday wreath
The bed pans, so shiny, all stood in a row,
Reflecting our candles' magnificent glow.
Our supper so festive -- the joy wouldn't stop
Was creamy warm oatmeal with sprinkles on top.
Our salad was Jell-O, so jiggly and great,
Ten puree of fruitcake was spooned on each plate.
The social director then had us play games,
Like "Where Are You Living?" and "What Are Your Names?"
Old Grandfather Looper was feeling his oats,
Proclaiming that reindeer were nothing but goats.
Our resident wand'rer was tied to her chair,
In hopes that at bedtime she still would be there.
Security lights on the new fallen snow
Made outdoors seem noon to the old folks below.
Then out on the porch there arose quite a clatter
(But we are so deaf that it just didn't matter).
A strange little fellow flew in through the door,
Then tripped on the sill and fell flat on the floor.
'Twas just our director, all togged out in red.
He jiggled and chuckled and patted each head.
We knew from the way that he strutted and jived
Our social-security checks had arrived.
We sang -- how we sang -- in our monotone croak,
Till the clock tinkled out its soft eight p.m. stroke.
And soon we were snuggling deep in our beds,
While nurses distributed nocturnal meds.
And so ends our Christmas at Rock-Away Rest.
Soon you'll be with us; we wish you the best.
(Anon.)