Best Riffles Poems
In moments of twilight civility
an exchange of gifts -
darkness for light..
RISING
from beyond the softening silhouette edge
you brighten like a blushing damsel
hazy haloed
unabashed in the pleasure of ripening
daydreamer
...a vivid blur of lemon drop...
veiled by a wispy fanfare of mares’ tails
windswept forth in pinkened pageantry
heralding the maturing marmalade horizon -
arousing a drowsing periwinkle sky
your prosperous glow casts a molten net of gold
slanting low across the ebb and flow
igniting the imagination
- agleam with peachy dreams -
of just-waking waters
while catching fire-tipped riffles;
rubies gathered ride the tide to the coastline
glamorizing the washed still-sleepy seaward sand
saturated in the rose-colored nectar
of your generous nature ~
Susan Ashley
October 13, 2018
*Mare’s tail: a long narrow cirrus cloud whose flowing appearance somewhat resembles a horse’s tail, often indicating high winds in the upper troposphere.*
saffron sun flames sky
melted gold joins blue riffles -
sunset swims to shore
Susan Ashley
August 20, 2017
~ Fifth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Best Haiku Ever Old Or New
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
~ Second Place ~
Contest: May Premiere 7, Any 1, 2, or 3 Line Form, Any theme
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Sometimes, I cannot help but sigh
and wonder--
wonder deep inside of me
whether I could ever be like you.
I riffle through the pages of my soul
and find a lot of them empty
Unlike yours, which seem to be bursting, blinding,
bursting, and still continuing to burst with brilliance...
So much so,
that your soul's light
has spread far and wide,
very much like sunlight's fingers
opening the morning sky curtains,
touching and warming
those who need it.
Tanglaw
Each step that you take,
each breath that you exhale,
each prayer that you whisper,
each beat of your heart
Tanglaw
I receive a smile,
and chat
with that man
who you've helped change...
Because of you,
the silent man now speaks, smiles.
You sit down to rest,
I see you talking to someone,
and I am almost fooled,
since you seem like old friends.
Because of you,
the lonely strangers become kindred.
It mystifies me sometimes,
of how you never seem to get tired.
It seems like I am the one who gets tired for you,
who gets worried for your own strength...
Then I see that glow from all around,
and I am reminded how you glean from this glow.
I see you as this beautiful ball of energy--
Never static,
bouncing from soul to soul,
illuminating parts of themselves
that even they never knew existed.
It is so amazing seeing this at work,
since the next thing I know,
the place is lit up,
Alive.
...and it is all because of you.
It makes me feel unworthy at times,
but oh how it also makes me feel so proud,
that I am a part of you,
and you are a part of me.
I have a lot of catching up to do,
since it seems I am lightyears from where you are
But I will try.
I will catch the tail end of your light,
clutch to it with my life, winding it around me,
let it embrace me--tight, so tight.
And I will never let it go. Never.
Until I also begin to glow.
Until I too, become that ball of light.
Hopefully when someone
riffles through the pages of my soul,
they will not find it blank,
but filled with gilt pages of light.
Just like yours.
Bursting and brilliant just like yours.
Tanglaw is pronounced "tang-lao"
Where I live, mothers are said to be the "light of the home"...
My memory flashes back on my most horrific nightmare…
Again, I find myself in rivet of this excruciating pain
With emaciated body, I totter to my wheelchair
Holding my paintbrushes and glass paints
Dogged enough to finish the portraits of my agonizing tale.
It’s so hard to clear up my hazy mind
Like smoked glasses- a canvas which I need to dust…
As my tears seek its way to dry
My fine hair drops at every strand
While these paint brushes of mine sweeps so fine.
My mother is so old… now alone with me
Can’t sing long lullabies anymore,
Can you sing for me?
Please put me into deep slumber
To dream that this nightmare sets me free
As I fervently pray and cling tightly to Thee.
My memory riffles through my agonizing tales one at a time
Peeking through a fizzled hope, then I see the light
As all smoked glasses are with colorful paints now
My fragile and emaciated body begin to rise
Anchored by my indomitable spirit, pale skin starts to blush
And my hair grows even more robust than pinctober’s thymes.
©2015Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Oct. 3, 2015 6.25pm
He sits in a wheelchair pushed to the curb. The people around him move aside to assure he is able to see. His shrunken body a shell of what it used to be. His breathing labored, aided by the tube that extends from the oxygen tank attached to his chair. On his head, he sports a blue campaign cap with VFW stitched in gold. He is one of America's finest, come to pay his respects.
Behind him stands a younger woman who has guided him there. A daughter perhaps, fussing over him, adjusting the robe in his lap, assuring his comfort. He shows no resistance to the attention, but simply sits and waits.
In the distance drums are heard, soon to be joined by the sound of horns. A stirring march riffles over the crowd, and an electricity grips their senses. Soon the call of cadence is heard. The measured tramp of boots, perfectly in time with the music. It grows louder until at last, a military formation looms into view. Uniformed soldiers, marching in perfect rows, perfect columns, gleaming boots, ribboned chests, weapons at rest on their shoulders. The crowd stirs. Small flags are waved. Cheers erupt. Pride hangs thick in the air.
The color guard approaches. Banners held high, snapping in the breeze. Some spectators remove their caps while others cover their hearts. Children, hoisted to their fathers shoulders, clap in excitement.
The old man tugs at the woman's sleeve and motions for her to come closer. She leans down and listens as he speaks, then asks "are you sure"?. He nods his head. Walking to the front of the chair, she removes the robe and, grasping his outstretched hands, pulls him slowly to his feet, where he stands with her assistance. Those around him watch as the frail, stooped body, with some difficulty, stands more erect. They see the pain etched on his face, and the tear that escapes his eye as he offers a salute as the flag passes by.
Suddenly, the cadence count stops, and in it's place is heard a command . A command normally reserved for when passing a reviewing stand. "Company, eyes right" the guidon bearer bellows, and with that, he returns the aging veterans salute, a sign of respect for an old soldier. After all, it is his flag. It is his country. He bought them both many years ago.
Bob Quigley
Jan 10, 2012
Gold Dredging
Early morning first light
Camped on the rugged, mountainous terrain
Out of our warm sleeping bags and tent we crawl
To the smells of pine and clean fresh air of the mountain
Wood starts a sizzling, spitting, crackling campfire
For early morning hot coffee and a warm breakfast
I Dress in tee shirt and swim suit,
Hubby is in his wet suit
We walked down to the creek
Pull the dredge into the creek and get it started
When he hits bedrock where gold might be hiding
I stand beside the sleuth watching the
Gravel run over the riffles
I make sure the riffles stay clean
So the heavy gold
Will deposit behind them and on the mat
I see the flash of color and utter excitement
I yell, “We've hit gold,” impatient
With my tweezers and small jar
For safekeeping and
I keep on cleaning
When the day is done, tired, wet, and weary as a drowned rat
We clean the miners mat into a bucket
By the campfire we sit and pan our gold from the black sand
After the hard day’s work we undertook, it is wonderful
To see all the sparkling gold dust in my pan
The same warm excited feeling
I felt when my husband placed
My gold wedding band on my finger
12/27/2014
Luminesence
besprinkles fantasies
on liquid love
surrounding us.
Riding the ebb and flow,
we rock
we lull,
we ripple
in the reverberations
of our aphrodisia.
Salty breezes
teases our excitement
as we salute Venus
with sexual gifts.
Moonlight waltzes scintillant riffles
across the glass-sea surface
to the bateau we sail;
as we dance,
rumba romance
in rhythmic swells,
on our Little Piece of Heaven.
Susan Ashley
July 25, 2017
A lonely wind tells me its secrets
Treats me to its scented memories
Apologizes for its inconsistencies
While hiding in a slow rising fog
She claims she is but a pawn
Held hostage by the sun and sea
Warm vapors stir the forming clouds
Icy waters chill the air below
The battle sweeps her into its path
Spins her in a tornadic dance
An unseen sun calls the devils tune
A drumroll as warming waters roil
And yet her sister lifts a falling leaf
Sets it gently on a chilling lawn
Riffles the marching rows of corn
Colors the cheeks of school bound children
Thus, she bids a hurried farewell
For stillness is the harbinger of fate
On leaving blows an icy kiss
As friends arrive in hoar frost coats
That's the last place I lived while still at home
till my heart sought to journey my birthplace.
Indulgence Sea storms, formed riffles, and cold foam.
Were dealt crumbs through our life, we needed space.
Submissive to the man culture and race;
worked every day to feed his family.
Treated the familia carelessly
Greeting a birthplace with no suffering.
Relationship with my identity
building, nurturing, and understanding.
1/11/2017
Familia: Spanish for family
Indulgence: alcoholism
Foam: abuse
Dizain
rhyme scheme is: a. b. a. b. b. c. c. d. c. d. with a 10 syllable count
pages of a book
printed, written in all fonts
characters, small or bold, tweet
stories of the world
sketches, images of sorts
facades of all, not cajoles
phases of a book
happy faces on each book
tinged in satin or white trim
riffles of a book
like thumbs skimming on waters
waters of life on pages
< O ye how the west has gone won
now wipe those trails of tears my son
dance the ring of fire for fun
speak and learn native ways
learn not to speak with riffles gun
rustle bacon beans Hey !
Written By Katherine Stella 7/3/11
Entry For Dr Ram's
Rime Couee's Contest
G.L. All
Quick bold drums start out loud
Pounding out the terms of war
Race through the frantic jungle thick
Rhythms of pursuit take to the beat
Let the chase begin with heart in mouth
Track down the sun burnt frantic man
Stripped naked by his captives
They pushed him into foliage of the doomed
Now running through entanglements
Strangled in the vines for ancient crimes
Hate has no boundaries when not of the clan
Primal blood can not be satiated
Carbon men shoot long arrows, cannon fire from the camp
Small dark people with evil minds advance
Send the prey into unkind environments
To grounds and undergrowth with shouts
Demise looms on horizons mist for him
Already tortured from the womb
On pounding feet he bleeds while pressing through
In strange surroundings with open wounds
Shots ring out after the enemy make the naked prey
Lay eyes on him in day light with pure hate
Follow every footfall falling on the ground
The ugly trees take a couple of hits
Splinters fly out, shatter living wood, as their demise is sure
Old riffles and loaded guns come with the hunters
Limited only by so many bullets screaming through the trees
To kill their prey, to bring the head back intact
Numbers don't lie. Momentum is on their side
Why the man has gone missing is a mystery
A cause for strain with sweat and grimace
Small men with evil minds intent become confused
Bugs gather around the fugitive
Make configurations for a meal
Moving keeps him from them and their appetite
He runs in heat with fear and heavy lungs
Filled with humidity he breaths no peace
Keeping quiet requires concentration
The wind must cease to speak for silence
Hiding is a science
Snakes want more than the mosquito
No time to turn about or study wings or feet-less creatures
Insects survive by flying from disaster
He follows them into the swamp
Lives under water for awhile
A long hollow reed for breathing
Comfortable for a time with larva breeding
Tickling his frail and fragile body
There is nothing wrong with wanting to survive
Life, like bullets, fly by
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
Near Dover Arkansas can be viewed on most any night
A puzzle documented as, ‘The Dover city lights‘
Folks from many miles around, some even out of town
Eyes fill with wonderment when the lights begin to clown
I have viewed myself, no proof of science I found
From the mountain above, as interest begins abound
The lights flicker in different colors, energetically
They dance and prance, leap and treatment for all to see
This outstanding thriller performs an impressive show
In a valley below, on Long Pool waterway, well I know
In the night sky are voices, with many thoughts and theory
As the lights pretend ghostly pranks, their trade quite scary
One popular legend has it some old miner lost his gold
Lights are many who died believing, “still searching are lost souls’
To a Native Indian raid on a wagon train, some attention is laid
If so the braves were plenty, for the lights are many charades
My personal suspicion, it is the moon’s seduction
In riffled waters below, anomaly is moon’s concoction
Perhaps the campfires in Long Pool park below, give show
The utter mystery glow, in Big Piney riffles below
For and in Honor of Carolyn Devonshire
And Contest
I was once, a little child with no idea of who I would grow up to be.
I was once, a little child wanting a hug and love.
I was once, a little child wanting a word of kinds.
I was once, a little child with anxiety, fear, and dread that swallowed me whole.
I was once, a little child that wanted a word of support.
Like the story of the Little Engine That Could.
Yes, I can.
Yes, I can.
I became the rain that began to fall in a steady drizzle.
The fresh crystalline snow that fell from the sky,
And soaked up the rays of the sun.
Waves of riffles danced through my thoughts.
Broke the chains and erected walls
Taking the child farther and farther away.
Feeling the wind upon my face
Beneath the light of the full moon
To new advantages.
I became the bird that flew across the sky,
The trickle of water from melting snow,
The movement that ran upstream,
The breath of air that filled my lungs.
I became the seconds and the hours
That brought the day and nights.
Lost myself in a new life.
Fears disappeared
And self-esteem grew with dreams.
11/13/20202
It's a part of me -
Life and the perceptions and philosophies you hold Poetry
Sponsored by: Silent One
Life Is Not About Who You Once Were.
It’s About Who You Are Now,
and Who You Have the Potential To Be.