Best Rudders Poems
Fantasy Spy
Would that I, like a Monarch butterfly,
Could fly across the fertile land and spy,
Top tree and lilac bush in the evening hush,
Swooping down above the late traffic crush.
Then on to foamy shores I would wander,
Over firs and pines, dark forests below,
With graceful freedom across the sunset,
Over Key West’s mansion and beach to go.
I would see a pirate ship in the sea,
Rushing rudders futilely try to flee.
Storm clouds over thatched roofs on the Goal Coast,
Colorful dancers, busy merchants’ boasts.
Would that I like a Monarch butterfly,
Could fly across our wonder world and spy
Love at first sight was the
language she spoke
A sight to behold
to the angels she woke
A creation with broken mold
from the Divine
The description of beauty
branded in the mind
A angelic appearance
her presence defines
What to do with this spirit?
That forever clouds my eye's
An ocean that desire
could not drain
A torment, envy
could not name
Both heaven and hell
she is the same
The possession of beauty
an undeniable claim
A wondering star
in the universe of her name
Both heat and light
brought forth by her flame
The invisible force
filling my sail
Where rudders direction
succeed or fail
Secret confessions to my
soul been nailed
my desire to possess
and my controls impaled
My eyes silence being hailed
by souls satisfaction fully regaled
The unforgettable sight
that memory cannot fail
captured by photo or ancient
paint brush. Not for sale.
Perfection and it's causes
Divinely detailed
Reflections and its pauses
hopes derailed
My love can part the oceans,
But it hasn’t reached your shores…
Sailing in the breeze with emotions,
As my heart rudders and explores.
Within the mist of heartaches,
The thunder passes through…
Shattering sorrows of earthquakes,
Exposing the love I have for you.
The deep sea swallows my soul,
I’m drowning in ambient aquatic…
Resurfacing amidst the Devil's Hole,
A delusional drift by evil’s erotic.
Sails are down the anchor thrown,
A lighthouse dims of love unknown.
June.21.2019
YOUR CHOICE(12) LOVE VERSE,
Any form or theme Poetry
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Honorable mention for contest...Thank You
We are all poets
In the same boat
The reason we write
Just to stay afloat
There's no other reason
Of that, I know
For us as poets
To stay afloat
So draw the anchor
Hoist the sail
We'll all rhyme our way
Clear outta here
Sailing the pantoum oceans
On sonnet seas
Casting our lot
In the poetic breeze
Steering riddling rudders
Across verses in waves
Until the very last day
We're made to walk the plank
As we are all poets
In the same boat
Trying our best
Just to stay afloat
I'll softly sing a lullaby this night
Sadly howling at a mournful moon.
Be still my heart of grieving blight
The perfect dawn is coming soon.
I'll light a candle in the dark
A yellow beacon of despair.
One by one the stars I'll mark
For rosy dawn in hope prepare.
Sail softly over these stormy seas
Silver tinted the soapy waterways.
Be still my heart of searing memories
The promise of dawn brings better days.
Don't rock the boat in foamy wake
Hold tight onto rudders of grief.
Be still my heart in Sorrows Lake
The perfect dawn will bring relief.
Quite a while back a fellow poet was quite vocal as to what constitutes bad poetry, giving
numerous examples. The above poem contains many of these examples, trying to prove that
one man's trash, could very well be another man's poem. Let's stir the soup.
From tiny gals with itty-bitty bippies
to larger ladies with super-dooper droopers,
we curse the “men” who design underwire iron maidens.
My “pointers” don’t bounce
(as a friend observed),
so why submit to torturous braziers?
I’m glad they don’t droop –
makes body surfing easier,
though surfboard owners argue, “Rudders help."
Despite chidings from my sister
(estranged now; I don’t miss her),
I saunter through life in comfort.
From 32A to 44 Triple-D,
who will stand unbridled with me
as we create a “bonfire of the vanities”?
On a huge wooden statue of Genghis Khan
we’ll place our bras – strap them on
and dance in a delight only primitive tribal ladies know.
You can add girdles,
chastity belts too,
and every foot-crunching pair of shoes.
On St. Patrick’s Day
we’ll march proud in a parade,
singing, “Erin, go braless” all the way!
An Evil Organ Behind Our Teeth “I’LYEZETTE”
“The tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things,
behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth.” James 3:5
We put bits in horses’ mouths,
Rudders on ships and proclaim,
Small things control large things,
But tongues no one can tame.
Though the tongue is small
It can stir intense emotion,
When it lies, then alibies,
Pretending deep devotion.
In lessons of sowing and reaping,
We’re slow to observe the field,
For the seeds we plant,
Determines the type it yields.
The Little Red Devil Behind the Pearly Gates
“The tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things,
behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth.” James 3:5
Bits in the mouth of a horse, change its course,
as does the rudder on a ship at sea.
Small things affect large things,
as little tongues affect you and me.
Though small in size, it’s no surprise,
the tongue sows seeds of trouble,
when it lies, then alibis,
And starts to speaking double,
Providing lessons far reaching, in sowing and reaping –
when will we ever learn?
We must take it for granted, the seeds we have planted
are those on which we earn.
Poetry Soup contest
Umbrella
When, picking up from where it left off last,
the gales begin to blast the good rudders,
anchors or anything that underpins
a muslin day or when, ineluctably
caught up in the searing frenzy of
earthly pangs shaking up the innards of
another silken day or again, when
the carefully manufactured myth of
social ceremony needs to be propped
up with the vigorous mien of a noble
bearing, one seeks out the folded up,
dormant vitality from some corner
of one’s psyche, dusts it, opens it up
and finds under it relief, rest or class.
By S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Form: Sonnet
27-3-14
For Kelly Deschler's contest
They are steered like rudders on ships
Their port lies between my two lips
My day is a drag
Lest my mouth snags a bag
Of Doritos Nacho Cheese Chips
He Lost Wind Of Her Sails
In the ocean of his mind,
always turbulent,
there sits a Bermuda triangle,
ships being lost, swallowed,
for he was once
a ship lost,
swallowed,
never to be heard
or seen, too,
especially with his ex.
In his coral kingdom,
bright colorful fish swim.
So many.
So many
tangs and angels.
Yet
he is so oblivious to.
It's
the turbulent,
swirling in his mind,
taking precedence,
two passing ships in the night,
lost,
sailing to where,
who knows.
Each without a dock
or anchors,
or rudders,
sailing,
sailing in opposite directions.
He pauses to take a look,
at her ship,
... her.
Still sleek,
her,
... her
anointed nose
highly up in the air.
He blinks.
He knows that look,
especially her diction,
authoritative and theologian.
His mind swirls.
Was that the moon howling?
Or was that her?
It can't be her speaking.
She hates him,
not giving him the time of day.
Or was that his subconscious
fluttering?
The voices swirling in his mind.
His voices from the past
stage fright, still ...
voices that never came out.
She had that effect
on him,
at a passing,
a passage of time,
two ships sailing
in opposite directions
... swelling in his mind.
connie pachecho
6/07/17
A father ails, a son's lover's lament
Steel rudders committed, what hues to lament.
No courage, the lover feels not what to speak
A channel untuned to the feast of lament.
Tradesmen and saints, what heed they at all?
The father feigns slumber, a weak heart's lament.
The lover replaced, made a crater unwhole
His plea unreturned, an unpromised lament.
One tender father, one lover's fair bones
Their son and companion, shared in lament.
Islands in the Stream
Islands linked together like forged argent charms,
In straights of silent, surging currents,
Where Watchtowers of Fresnel lens sound fog sirens
Where sacred shoals harbor shame forgiven;
Lightships built high on cribs and Keys of truth finally seen
As bright argand lamps on chariot wheels send out beacons,
To signal sightless ships with broken masts and rudders
Through whirlpools of turbulent canals and gushing straights,
To find serene deep-water ports in chains of channeled islands.
Yet, these no islands only mountaintops of maturity climbed
From submerged land coupled at a thousand leagues
Beneath the tidal moon enchantment;
Restoring milestone harbors of illumination
Words lit by isophase candle lamps inside carved prisms
Expanding light waves of thought - recognitions of new plateaus
Topping astragals of aerobeacons with untasted adventures
Into enlightenments leaving behind each newly explored isle -
New christened tall ships navigate siren’s lure in uncharted streams.
9-20-21
Contest: Islands in the Stream
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
A moment on the Cyber Café at Fewa Lake
1.
In the Mug of the Fewa Lake
Reflecting the pure blueness of the sky
With the fluttering of the Fishtail
My eyes sparkle with
The taste of organic coffee
That chills my throat
By the tranquil and serene Fishtail
My whole heart at ease
In a mug of coffee.
2.
Faraway in the foothill
A heavenly village
Of the stone houses in row
From the black slated rooftops
Pours the rains of golden rays
By the blushing evening
My tender lips taste
The beauty of village green
Into mellifluous nectar
In a mug of coffee.
3.
From the field of greenery
Resonates the incredible laughter
Of the village girls
With the flocks of sheep
Back to their village homes
Reveals their enticing beauties
This dusky moment creates
The heartthrob of the village
As an allegory of folk song
In a mug of coffee.
4.
On the west side of Fewa Lake
In harmony with the Eve
A charming couple, newly married
Inebriated in ardor and fervor
Cruises on a wooden boat
Into the waters of the Fewa lake
With dancing rudders itch
The ripple and surge of
Foamy and bubbly love
In a mug of coffee.
5
Around the Annapurna range
Tiny airplanes
Like the white butterflies
Fluttering in the air
The corneas of the eyes
Kiss the tops of the Himalayas
In the Annapurna ranges
Perceive the gesture with
Miracle and marvel
In a mug of coffee.
6
In the lucid and clear gloom
Before the breaking of dawn
The Eyes of the Sarangkot
Grasp the Himalaya ranges
Glowing like the blaze
Of the golden mountains
My beholding eyes in awe!
As the sun rises up the East
The Himalayas resume
Its splendor into silvery beauty
In a mug of coffee.
7
Like the fairy in Fairy tales
With imitated wings
My beloved glides high
From the lofty height of Sarankot
Her eyes scribble the poetry –
Serenity of Fewa,
Tranquility of Fishtail
Vivacity of Pokhara,
The visitors in bliss
On the verge of Fewa lake I’m
Waiting for her to land
The metaphor tastes sugary
In a mug of coffee.
*
Hark
The captain spoke to the sick and starving
As he bobbled on the bow
And began
We will go there
Pointing his crooked finger as his dark, salty body dropped
But with each upsurge he made another point
You are here because you got lost
I'm here to take you home
Down surge
I'm not sure we will make it
Upsurge
But you have strong oars made of Spanish mahogany one at a time
Down surge
Some of you are weaker and will think of dying
Upsurge
Others will pick you up because you are worthy of love
Down surge
Your stomachs are full of toxic blubber meat
Upsurge
You will endure for the purpose of Her
hug at port, wet and tired and lost
Down surge
You will not endure if you are proud
Upsurge
Down surge
And just his eyes.
Only sounds of orphaned oars and flapping sails and rusty rudders.
Two whales appear, each pick a side.
Guiding, with twin wakes, and moving the boys toward there
Upsurge
Down surge
The whales were moving them there.
Screaming to their distant loved ones
I'll be home soon
My world spins round
too fast most times
from Greek deep roots
on Black Sea ports
crossing Jordan's River
on Catherine's Great
trains meet sailboats
greeting sea planes
flying off to sports unknown
throughout Lake Odessa Highway.
Where Ottomans
blend Spanish matadors,
heroes for Earth's day
and night bleeds forth
a calvary of SunGod force
to please titillating whims
of Lake Odessa's middling class czarinas.
I can't go home again
to straight places never born.
My mind can wavey roam
and try to swim
and fly to where and what
and whom and why
we might have been
if we had built
a fine fair fortress
for peace that loves to rock
and sing sad songs
of what brilliant sights have been
in resilient Lake Odessa.
Instead of gangs
and clicky clacks
we learn monopolistic quacks
to flap and honk
like disturbed Canadian geese
Transubstand she ate
where great America
begins to end
through Lake Odessa's mean clean streets
Not too busy
self-righteous
sleep deprived
and deprogrammed lose to lose
to win our way
back home again
where Lake Odessa healthy meets
and wealthy greets
Love's polyamorous EarthMother role
as played by odysseys of We
writing comic operas
only eros kids can consensually see
was what Me loved
most secretly
in long lost Lake Odessa.
We need a better god for now
bringing peach tree jams
singing immortality
of love as healthy wise
Reframes lost unwealthy loves
to live in jesting jarring jokes
of honeyed sweet corn
thorn tested streets
tasting ancient salad Greeks
on shores of Lake Odessa.
We reunion back
to save each other
from what might have been
without sly rudders
Tipping posts from wu wei mothers
restoring crystal castle love
of unformed flows
that buzz with lifetime mystery
and retiring tours
that sag with straightline history
Spinning sprays
bewitching licking waves
lapping soft and sandy
on long gone sacred skies
of sanguine Lake Odessa.