Best Remoteness Poems
meandering
along the hinterland
relentlessly I search
for innocent love
in the remoteness
of unspoilt territory…
a hopeless romantic
making inroads into
inaccessibility
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Categories:
remoteness, innocence, love,
Form:
Free verse
" I Smote Thy Heart"
by~ Richard Pickett
Upon the morrow, I shall take aim
with this slender feathered shaft at the heart of thee,
it shall pierce thee in the coldest of manners. Thou shalt
know from whence it came. From my sorrow, said sorrow
left upon me by the daggers of thy withered soul.
Beguiled by thy mask of innocence,that thee wore
as brilliantly as the Barrister, pleading before the magistrate.
Thou shalt plead mercy of passion, I once possessed only for thee,
that I remove the bolt from thy heart. Yet... I shall smite thee,till
thy blood runs as cold as the stone upon whence thy lie.
by~ Poet Destroyer
Strike on whom my ears deceive,
your sadness pierce ye 3 times therefore.
Straight liketh dagger of dragon teeth under thy heart.
A grace alone thou sprouted in remoteness ways.
If it ware not thy heart, ye fancy, into thy face
I have besidis all thy pain
No thing to want if it ware not Mad
Hold on to all things even as ye see, in every angle.
Nothing doth matter; thy aim shall endeth all sorrow
I have founded but makis me happiest thou ever was,
Thou shall not beggeth, taketh the dagger
Now thou its to late, smote thee very slowly
Thee hath my heart in deep shallow waters ;
Bloody lips do what ye list and dredge thee not
Smote thy heart, I care not,
Love whom ye forget, my sweet innocence.
Wherefore I pray mercy or shall not.
But love whom ye fear no God,
Do what must,
My tears shed thousands of grains of sand.
Morrow, will soon cometh, shall I hold
as you taketh away, from your
~ Femme' Fatal ~
A collaboration with * Richard Pickett
Categories:
remoteness, confusion, death, lost love,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
The Little White Church
The little white church engulfed by the immensity
Of Western Hemlock, Red Cedar, and Douglas Fir
On Nootka Island in Nootka Sound
Confirms the remoteness of the Yuquot Village
On the west coast of Vancouver Island.
The green of the trees towering above and around
Glorifies the whitewashed wood of the chapel.
Surrounding the path leading to the entrance
Are coastal ferns leaning as if pointing the way,
Akin to a Westminster Abbey in the rainforest.
The windowless facade structure faces the ocean
As a defence against the wind’s many directional forces,
While crosses protected in the yard by a picket fence
Bear testimony to Christ’s presence
Among the Mowachaht/Muchalaht First Nations.
Above the door to the house of God,
A steeple rises with a cross on top
And a bell that tolls to call the “people of the deer”
Of Friendly Cove to gather, worship, and pray
In Jesus Christ’s name, Lord and Saviour.
***
Note:
“The Little White Church” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting of a local church located on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada, by Canadian artist Emily Carr (1871–1945) entitled “Native Church” (1929).
Categories:
remoteness, christian, culture, history, native
Form:
Verse
It’s night
And I think of you so far away
And I annullify with thought the remoteness
Categories:
remoteness, love,
Form:
Free verse
A few quiet hours of solitude, detached from life by choice,
Apart and withdrawn from humanity - the world;
Solitude, tranquility - O, sweet the peace and quiet,
In this self-appointed quarantine, this silent retreat.
I savour the stillness, the distant sounds of traffic and sirens,
A wind-mobile tinkling, the birds twittering, unseen;
O, I am not forsaken with loneliness, the opposite be true,
This is a state of alone on my journey in discovery.
Like the solitude of a lighthouse keeper, by choice - silence,
O, splendid isolation, seclusion, aloneness, remoteness;
I love this time where I can find my soul and my words,
Cut-off from worldly matters and in a state of alone.
Did you know, one can be in solitude even in a busy crowd,
O, yes - in a used bookstore amongst tattered books;
At the library engrossed in the rows and rows of knowledge,
The art gallery - lost in beauty - of lovely flowers.
And of course, lost in the famous poets and artists of the past,
As I am today - in my detachment and reclusion;
In a quest of reading, learning, writing poetry and solitude,
O, sweet the breeze blowing and a little cat purring.
_____________________________
May 27, 2015
Poetry/Verse/"A Few Quiet Hours"
Copyright Protected, ID 05-677-503-27
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted into the Standard contest, Late April
sponsor, Brian Strand Judged 2015
Third Place
Categories:
remoteness, art, poetry, poets, solitude,
Form:
Verse
A Sad Christmas
There was a time when passion ruled their life
But time and ailments stepped in to betray.
She never felt she'd be that aging wife
But as years passed it just worked out that way.
He was still giving, faithful, kind and true.
Like siblings now, no romance was a part
Of a sad distance that between them grew.
She felt remoteness deep within her heart.
She tried to fan the flames with poetry
Yet discontentment shown upon his face.
Her rhymes just bored him, it was plain to see
No romance for her lingered, not a trace.
She tucked away her love filled photographs
Resigned that dreams would be her epitaph.
12-14-18
A Sad Christmas' - December 2018 Writing Challenge - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Dear Heart
Categories:
remoteness, christmas, lonely, lost love,
Form:
Sonnet
The breeze of the morn she sought.
Her eyes were wild, as she thought.
Her hands tremble like a leaf on a tree.
She marked her steps silently.
Sylphlike is her frame.
She was a lady not a dame.
Within a distance, she looks back.
The mansion, she found, was in blackness.
So many skeletons remain.
Her cape begins to skein.
Angst, she releases a sigh.
The tears she would cry.
Lithe, she bends,
as agile as the breeze as the wind.
Interchangeability she disallows,
as she raised her head up to the clouds.
Perhaps, she thinks, life has been lived.
Ideology misconstrued she perceived.
This lady was once of rank.
But, now her spirit sank.
No authority does she has.
Moreover, no one cares.
The breeze of morning she seeks
to find inner peace.
Her story, she feels, must not be shared
too much pain to reveal.
She will not let the world in.
A dead life ends.
The beginning of a generation is her discourse.
She will stiffen her backbone and reform.
Solidify from the melodrama, she walks within determination.
Her ideas begin to form via life manifestations.
She hears the past as if it was now.
She frowns and shouts aloud.
“Why has my life defeated me?”
The vision recedes and she feels that victory is guaranteed.
“Who will cut me down?”
She ponders, as she turns around.
She had secluded herself to well.
She was not the one to change that.
"When my existence," she reflects, "is so well kempt
idiosyncrasies are mine to consider."
Remoteness defines the trees.
She has entered the morning breeze.
Pulling her cape close,
she breathed in to establish hope.
Via internal dialogue she spoke.
“I must linger in the unknown.”
________________________|
PENNED ON AUGUST 17, 2014!
Categories:
remoteness, age, angst, cry, deep,
Form:
Rhyme
I have walked this path for all my life;
Following ancient footsteps.
Chasing Tecumseh's dream;
Guided by ThunderBeing.
Often in darkness;
I traveled alone.
Always circling back;
To my peoples' home.
Walking a trail;
That most forgot about.
In times of long past gone;
Me and my Creator.
Retracing time;
Facing fears.
Conquering myself;
Walking between the worlds.
Pausing at crossroads;
Resting in shadows.
Awaiting each new day;
Carrying on old ways.
The horizon is upon me;
The new day is dawning.
My vision is clear and keen;
For what do I see before me?
The End of the Path is ahead;
I scout no more as I did before.
I awoke from Tecumseh's dream;
That even he could not achieve.
Time for return to life as I knew it;
Before I discovered this trail.
I came from a world of remoteness:
And to it I will return.
Medicine Woman retires;
To grow old with peace of mind.
For walking trails is for the young;
And they had a chance to learn.
~ Darlene Doll Smith
Categories:
remoteness, journey, life, native american,
Form:
Classicism
quiet
a few hours ofsolitude and silence
detached and withdrawn
fromeverything (nothingness)
oh sweetthepeace and tranquility
in this self-appointed
silent quietretreat of mine
far from all responsibilities
I savour thestillness the sounds
distantandmuted (faraway)
a wind-mobile tinkling somewhere
birdschirping (unseen) sweetly
stillness softness peacefulness
Oh happiness
Iamnotforsaken with loneliness
but just alone with my soul (hushed)
such splendid
isolation
seclusion
(remoteness)
I love this time cutofffromtheworld
aloneness
forgotten are worldly matters
Ihavethrownthem away
detached quietness tranquility
and
I am inner deepwithinme
lost in beauty (silent)
wrapped in the warmth ofmyquiet
infinite thoughts
________________________
July 24, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/I love to be quiet
Copyright Protected, ID 15-694-316-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Prompt - Quiet
For the contest, Time to "Be", Prompt - Quiet
sponsor, Casarah Nance
8th Place
Categories:
remoteness, introspection, peace, solitude,
Form:
Free verse
She stared up, intently, watching the Peruvian skies pass composedly above. She was dazed and disorganised about the steps leading her hither. Her eyes descended upon her hands, hands that were dry and sallow from the days of climbing. She clutched her fists searchingly, hoping that her two index fingers were still graced by her grandmother's heirloom. She surveyed the uncouth distance with its eerie remoteness and summoned all the remaining strength left in her limp body and continued the long expedition. She passed imposing mountainous regions and extended arid areas of desert. She felt the tepid wind with its suppleness play with her legs and she heard it sing echoed incantations as it passed on into the twilight. She stopped but for a moment, and wandered how, at this point of time, life had forged itself in its current form, in its current melody. She continued her long, galling walk - every step felt consigned to oblivion; every effort allayed the previous one. She felt the echoes of her long-lost love permeate like some record saddled in skip. She fixed her eyes on her shadow. 'How did you manifest? ' she would ask, speculatively, occasionally trying to shirk and weave her opaque reflection. She couldn't avert her mind from a particularly fond memory in which, on a very placid English afternoon, she would sit by the nearby river with her childhood friend, Ruby. She always had a penchant for memories of Ruby when she found herself addled and aggrieved by some hardship. But Ruby was not here, she was absent like her maudlin love - forsaken and remiss. The mirage enticed her, coerced her and terrorized. Tears began to fall like fragmented moments of yesteryear. The mistral gales howled hauntingly and the sun continued to blanch and braise. A bird, cowled and suspect, perched itself on a nearby tree and watched the lady clamber through the brazen sands, and asked itself: 'but, why? '
Categories:
remoteness, absence, adventure, lost, lost
Form:
Prose Poetry
I avoid the light that invades the space of the windows
because it perturbs the nuances of my thoughts:those
frigid sepulchral memories of yesteryears' love lying
uniformly beyond a damp partition of consciousness,trying
to escape as a means of a venerable excuse for me to
decimate this flesh and soul which gives residence to
those effulgent ponders that waver restlessly and tangent
upon the structure of the optimists' creed that was bent
from capricious minds and hypomanic-states to which nothing
states of the verities of the now abysmal dolor which rings
through my heart with incessant intonation of a melody
that schlepps through my senses in remoteness of euphony
which springs forth from mouths of angels vocalizing of their
freedom.And within those octaves I hearken of the loss
of my freedom which I once embraced in the solitude
that abraded piquancy of vibrant day,having worn it away
to evince the cold moments of paltry existence when those
unawakened fleeting thoughts(which are semblable to windows
of graves)allow no memory of yesteryears' love bereft
to evade,and no glint of light to invade the eyes of death.
Categories:
remoteness, inspirationallight, light, love,
Form:
Free verse
The random swaying of the truck on broken roads roused me from my slumber. The same random swaying that had pushed me past the threshold of sleep. There were snow clad mountains till the eyes could see. Beautiful lush valleys with green rolling meadows and a merrily meandering mountain stream. God's abode? Yaks were grazing in the meadows, their plump bodies gyrating to an unheard mellow rhythm. I checked to see if they were wearing headphones and then laughed at my foolish thought. The road got worse than the worst that I had ever seen. I wondered if there was a word beyond worst to describe it. But the randomness of the potholes and bumps had an almost uniform quality to them. Maybe that's why I kept slipping into sleep. Sleep that kept interrupting my attempts at clear thought. But the broken fragments of my thoughts were nothing new. Despite being away from the comfort of my home, thousands of miles away, how is it that my thoughts remained the same. My life, my family, my child, my love, my loss, my victory, my defeat. Why was I so full of MY self? Why couldn't I transpose my thoughts into the body of that farmer there. What would he be thinking? Is he thinking about me in this broken truck, trudging along this broken road? Even in this remoteness, why couldn't my thoughts be remote from me?
I think it's the sound of an explosion that pushed me firmly back into my senses. But was I in my senses? I felt myself fall. I could sense falling into a deep space with no end, searching for a foothold that wasn't there. Where did the hills go? What about the meadow? The river? The farmer? I suddenly could see my thoughts going in reverse like a VHS tape being rewound and finally the flurry of images stopped and you filled the screen of my thoughts. That's when I knew I was dead
blood red river
a paper boat tumbles down
my baby's cries
Categories:
remoteness, feelings, loss,
Form:
Haibun
Curve on the lips pointing towards the left,
purpose in concealing smile by theft,
fear concluding the tilt dutifully kept,
sheen so sacred for the humanly unkempt,
lie defeating truth and questions attempt,
to bury secrets and the joy when you wept,
need to monopolize the time which left,
madness and intensity thoughts forget,
dependency nurtured and eyes never slept,
fate divine and destiny inept,
an act occupied for the search to wait,
lie pities truth and puts on bait,
mysteries and lies famished minds ate,
faith and ego loneliness bates,
preference of truth gifted mind hates,
appetite for imagination creates,
remoteness from object who deject,
unrequited expression to the faces reject,
fables of a drunkard enthused by intellect,
memories alive must you forget,
innocent cries must they neglect,
euphoria weaved in mystery,
occurrence of mastery subliminally,
a beam frowning continually,
answers buried faithfully,
bluffs me entirely,
uncanny riley of a smiley.
Categories:
remoteness, mysterytruth,
Form:
Lyric
I will board a plane
and visit the grave
of that brave soldier
who left his country
to defend the principles of liberty
banned by a heartless dictator
who praised a pure race.
In ocean-washed Normandy
the fierce battle went on for days,
American and British
invaded the desolate beach,
here the Normans
called their home eventually,
and leaving Sweden
and the glaciers behind them in March,
their bellicose plans
were temporarily put on hold...
until they found free land
in a milder place called
Southern Italy.
I found the grave
of my buddy Albert
and my weeping might
wake him from his long sleep;
it's November and clouds seem like sheep
going to their pasture before winter sets in
with vengefulness, that'll make all graves shake...
no, it's not Resurrection Day, only an admonition.
No snow has fallen yet on the granite graves,
all the names of the fallen soldiers
can be read clearly, but doomed to silence
they aren't spoken and proclaimed heroes;
here, sorrow prevails with its essence...
is this a monument built to the bravery
of thousands, forgotten by memory,
but not by the ones who were saved
by the bravest warriors who ever lived?
Flowers left on this grave
will whiter and dispersed
by the frigid wind will have
the same fate of the leaves
floating and coming down to rest
on frosted meadows not yet
buried in glistening whiteness
and in a solitude bitterly awaited.
Who has never pondered death
in this sombrous and sorrowful place
separated by human remoteness,
has never reflected on his own; Albert's death
was a sacrifice for freedom to give others a chance
at being free when terror reigned through Europe...
only defeated by the courageous valor of soldiers
who is remembered by me in this poem of perennial hope!
Categories:
remoteness, death, freedom, friend, grave,
Form:
Rhyme
Caves are dark, dank, sinister havens for rising damp
Mere cavities in the ground, veiled from light of day
Yet caves are heralded, admired and cherished
For a swarm of reasons, just mind the bats
Caves are drop inns
Hikers and natives welcome finding a cave
They provide shelter from wind and rain
A great place to stay the night, light a fire
To enjoy the cosy charm of safe seclusion
Caves are art galleries
The walls are dotted with new and ancient graffiti
Hand-prints, paintings, scribbles and scenes
Made by artists with no where else to hang their stuff
Revealed by flickering flames and dim filtered beams of light
Caves are museums and dumps
Visitors leave their junk in caves
Animals topple in and get trapped
Caves are a great place for animals to die
These dumps are bliss to archaeologists
Who drool over skeletons, artefacts and such old-time junk
Caves are cathedrals and awe-catches
Endless aeons of dirty drips yield fabulous
On floor and ceiling displays of
Glistening stalactites and stalagmites
The cavernous space, silence and eerie dankness
Makes visitors gasp with adoration and awe
Highlighted by the uniqueness, isolation and remoteness of caves
So duck-in to a cave when you pass one by
and you'll discover the ins and outs of caves
Caves are awesome and strangely welcoming
Despite their darkness, dampness and malevolence
Categories:
remoteness, natural disasters, nature,
Form:
Free verse