Best Shouldered Poems
~
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snowcapped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
January reigns brutal, subzero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
~
Written from memory…no winter here. : )
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
life,
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
No matter what you have gone through,
No matter what you have accomplished,
No matter what you have manifested to the world,
No matter what difference you have made,
they just speak about HOW YOU LOOK
Yes, How You Look.
You must have got Gold to the country
You must have shouldered the wings of responsibility
You must have touched many lives
You must have stood by people in their strives
Still, they just care about HOW YOU LOOK.
Yes, How You Look.
I showed the photograph of a foreign affairs minister
In a thought that he would talk about her caliber
Thwarting my expectations, he said, "How short she is!"
Whoever you are, whatever you do, their eye falls on HOW YOU LOOK.
Yes, How You Look.
Met her after a long way in time,
The words she first spoke can't be forgotten in my lifetime.
No 'Hi' and no 'How are you?'
All that she said was, "Jesus. Your face. What is wrong with you?''
It does not matter if you are happy and healthy.
All that matters on the first go is HOW YOU LOOK.
Yes, How You Look.
Cotton on to the fact that
a warm smile is beautiful than rosy lips,
a helping hand is beautiful and not a manicured one,
a loving heart is beautiful than the lustering skin,
a powerful mind is beautiful than pedicured feet.
Your strength defines who you are, not your shape.
Your boldness drives you forth, not your beauty
Look not the skin but notice what's beneath it
Because, when you're in need, it is people not their pomp that comes to your rescue indeed.
Under the canopy of the pine trees we lay
My brothers and I, and our mates the other three,
They wore a different uniform the colour grey
Yet here in purgatory a smile from them being free
Oh to remember how we all played at the creek
Although their parents with different points of view,
The six of us born within sight of ‘Clinch mountain peak’
Our lot raised to suit the uniform of blue.
We faced each other on the battlefield of ‘Bull Run’
Ne’er a smile of recognition as the rifles reflect,
This is realism in a war of detriment with a gun
Following advice from those in power we respect.
Cannot speak for the others but the bullet caused me pain
Far worse than the wounds with wooden swords when fought,
At least first to go didn’t witness how each were slain
Nor with vigour their efforts from the way we were taught.
So here we are all standing before our beloved God
Waiting to enter heaven having shouldered the blame,
We’ve played our earthly role and carried opinions hod
Never the time to become adult when playing their game.
Thank you Eve Roper
for contest and inspirational first line.
Entered Mark Toney's sponsored
2022 poetry marathon mile 8 contest
poem written 2020
17/7/2022
I know I’ve made a thousand journeys,
withstood the tests of time and foe
shed the dust and shouldered worries
struggled onward against the flow.
Unconforming, seldom bending
straight the path I ever took.
Challenge was my unending passion
contradiction I forsook.
I’ve battled tempests ‘fore and ‘hind me,
I’ve seen the devil at my heels.
Seldom knowing what lay before me
never knowing how respite feels.
I’ve seen the Valkyries and Forty Furies
their mazy circles in the sky,
taunting, haunting, ever daunting
beckoning from their aeries high.
I’ve crossed the searing sands of Gobi
and scaled Himalaya’s rocky tors,
badlands, wastelands all behind me,
walked upon the Seven shores.
I’ve gazed upon the Northern Lights
and seen the Southern Cross at sea.
I’ve traveled east and journeyed west,
no home or kindred claiming me.
No ebb of tide did succor bring me,
no place of solace ever found
but grappled fiercely all that challenged,
gaining purchase on the ground.
I rose against what life beset me
with courage the gruel for my soul,
hampered, harassed, never emptied,
firm and resolute toward my goal.
But it’s finished now, I’ve done my part
and I’ve left nothing uncompleted.
No looking back, no ruing thoughts
all my convictions undefeated.
And now I’m on that final journey
through all meridians of time and space,
with hope to meet the God that gave me
aeonian fortitude to run the race.
© August, 2015
A magic mirror told the queen that Snow White was the fairest in the land!
This put Her Majesty in a terrible snit and to the woods she had her banned!
She hired a hit man to have Snow White slain but he'd have none of that!
He let her go and she trudged along a path and came upon this run-down flat.
She rapped upon the door and hearing no answer stealthily crept inside.
Snow White had never seen such clutter - such a mess she could not abide!
She grabbed a broom, mop and pail and began to swab and dust and sweep.
Weary from her labors she climbed the stairs, found a bed and fell asleep!
The unlikely denizens of the little shack worked in the local diamond mine.
'Twas a 'Grimm' looking lot wending their way home through towering pine.
Dopey the younger, Doc the intellectual, Bashful, he with the coy pose,
Drousy Sleepy, crabby Grumpy, pudgy Happy and Sneezy with finger to his nose!
The little munchkins arrived home to find this beautiful creature in their bed!
She awoke rubbing sleep from her eyes, stared in disbelief and nearly fled!
Eventually, Snow White became a mother figure to that chaotic, motley crew!
She tucked them in bed, cooked their grub and settled beefs when fisticuffs flew!
Each morn the dorks shouldered tools heading for the pit to earn their dough,
Singing a quaint song they made famous, "Hi ho! Hi ho! Its off to work we go!"
Mister Disney made this classic film in 1937 when I was but a mere child!
Even today in my dotage, watching it with my grandkids, I'm still beguiled!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for First Place in Linda Marie's "Disney" Contest - August 2011
the eagle watches me
from high above
it has finally come to this
I stand on this ragged lookout
this jagged rock
alone
my friends are gone
Bruce "Bear Paw" Perry
Billy Fly and Blackpowder Bourgoin
died in these mountains
one by one
we shouldered hardships together
fought a winter
that pinched three toes
from my right foot
and took a bite of my left ear
I'll never understand
those flatlanders down below
where spring means mud
eating pigs and chicken
when they could be roasting elk
but the boosway is gone
rendezvous cancelled
no beaver left
heck, there's no wild Indians left
they've all been herded
into reservations
near the forts
a pitiful place
for a proud people
what is left for me?
where will I lay my trusty
Hawken gun?
perhaps I'll work
in a trading post
or guide wagon trains west
I've earned every tear
these mountains had to offer
battled bear, wolves, and hostiles
but my biggest sorrow
is leaving
I close my eyes
and I'm there
spring ice melting in the river
trading with my Indian brothers
smoking the peace pipe
the rustle of golden birch leaves
on an Autumn ridge
a misty waterfall
soaking me to the skin
throwing peat moss
on the roof of my log cabin
I think I'll just linger here
while the birds are singing
It is but of your fire
That I whither to this pain
This lonely life of love bemired
This shouldered weight of blame
Oh love, fair love, return to me
The glory once inside
For if a chance there ever be
I accept and offer pride
Oh love, fair love, return to me
The dignity of self
For so it seems that in this dream
Beauty lies in stealth
Oh love, fair love, return to me
The rhythm of thy heart
A lonely beat is lost at sea
With a life torn apart
Author: Runping Chen
The desk sends forth its particular fragrance
That gladden people’s hearts.
That is the sweet-smelling of the old camphor bodies
And into the impression of my childhood immerses.
The shade extended my fellow villagers’ strolling;
Countless summer nights embraced people’s joyful cooling.
The huge and tabescent trunk held up
The wind and frost for generations’ living.
The refreshing breeze was kissing the head of the tree.
Kindly pulled the old camphor closer
Some strands of cooking smokes
Vaguer and vaguer.
The production teams’ whistles were resounding over the village,
And grownups shouldered the sun and moon
Hurrying to the hills and fields
While the old camphor collected the children’s imaginative yields.
--In its chest
The childhoods would not be lonely and flurried
Counting from the stitches of leaves
Thousands and thousands of suns.
Many rivers of time were flowing around;
With no sense of time, the sadness I’ve known.
Since I was away, many shifts of the sunrise and sunset
I came back home and found the old camphor fallen on the ground.
It’s lying on the ground with no voice and sound,
Being dying and breathing
The merely last fragrance of its life
In front of the horrible carpenters who circled around.
The carpenters held their stainless saws
Ignoring the old camphor’s itches and aches.
On its shoulder was an owl
With the mouth open, and family ruined after all.
Prizing up the mouth for no use of vomiting sadness,
The birds sang no songs any more in the sky
Because they could hardly find back
Houses and household articles among the green leaves.
Children carried in both hands the remains of the old camphor’s bones,
Hating to pile them in the firewood house.
When the setting sun was sliding down the west hill ridges,
I walked back and forth around the old camphor tree.
There's little left now, Lawson, mate, of your home by the hill,
Except, a guarding sentinel, the chimney stands there still;
To some it's just another site, for tourists passing through,
Perhaps they've never read your works - how sad, but maybe true.
Eurunderee and childhood days, please tell me if I'm wrong,
Instilled in you mixed memories and feelings, oh so strong.
Yes, monumental moments mate; the hardship and the joy.
They brought to mind old childhood days when I was just a boy.
Is that your Dad with shouldered axe and wand'ring off somewhere?
His cross-cut saw with him as well. I'm sure it's him, I swear.
The dark haired lady on the log and scribbling on a pad;
Your Mum I guess at work on verse; she taught you well my lad.
Old grandpa Albury's visiting and dons his greasy hat.
I know it's him, no other soul could ever shout like that.
The muck on brother Charlie's face. It's not Jim Nowlett's brew?
He surely can't believe that tale, 'cause none of it is true.
I see young brother Peter mate is tending cows again.
You mentioned how they liked to stray. You're right, they are a pain.
Is that a horseman riding up and pack horse by his side?
It can't be old Dave Regan. No! They told me he had died.
If Billy Grimshaw's teams passed now, his bales of wool so high,
He couldn't swear from being bogged; the bitumen runs by.
The gold has long but disappeared, though grape vines grow here still;
Red wine is known around the world; I know, I've had my fill.
I can't stay any longer mate I've got a way to go;
To join up with my poet friends, up Queensland way you know.
I'm glad though that I stopped a while to reminisce with you,
Like Banjo mate, deep down within, I saw you as true blue.
Silently it travels,
along this tree lined way
Shouldered by the softest green,
nature on display
~
Carved of destinations,
inviting is the scene
Heading off to nowhere fast,
lost inside a dream
~
Evergreen endeavors,
now heed the nightly call
Whispering on fragrant winds,
lingering this fall
~
You and I together,
love becomes the view
For nature is so beautiful,
when it’s shared with you
~
Twas the night before Christmas
He sat near the street
With his dog in a blanket
Warming his feet
The sidewalk was cold
His windbreaker thin
He longed for a scarf
To cover his chin
He wished that his pants
Were free of the holes
And dreamed of new shoes
Without paper soles
He played his violin
With a melancholy ring
Like the sound of an angel
Which made the heart sing
Where once he had played
To whomever he choose
But his life took a turn
When he fell for the booze
The snowflakes fell softly
And peppered his hair
As he faintly heard carols
In the soft evening air
He counted his money
And wrapped up the dog
Shouldered his knapsack
And walked through the fog
Tomorrow was Christmas
To him one more day
To walk in the streets
With his violin to play
Pain, which of my pains derides me more
The pain of love that no longer flows
The pain of suffering along life’s weaving path
Or the pain of knowing you’re no longer here
No longer here for me, yet still exists
Painful memories revolve in my hurting brain
Why can’t life be a simple act of breathing, living
Not a painful burden to be shouldered alone
Pain in the heart can be one a surgeon can help
Yet knowing deep down the knife cannot cure
The pain of knowing, of living a dream
Why not let me die……. pain no more
When I lay there pale of skin,
Creases of pain no longer line my face
Don’t cry for me as I have lived ……
No more to cry out in inhuman tones….
…….all is at peace……
Penned 12 November 2016
Contest: Shooting Blank Verse - John Lawless
EATING OUT
Seated uneasily at the edge tables, café males alone, silent -
Focused on eating, heads moving, looking around to defend,
Guarding their plates against enemies and, finished, quickly leaving.
Am I feeling different from these? Or not really believing?
This man, round-shouldered predator over a fresh kill,
Shoveling in untidy dangling heaps on a fork, devours his fill,
Bare arms laid either side of plate, his shaggy hair a lion-mane.
Salty meaty-stuff in great hunks : it’s feeding time at the zoo again.
Elbows-off-table, not for manners, but for speed,
That man’s cutting with edge of fork and filling his need,
Stabbing the meat like it was alive and needed subduing,
Levering huge pieces into his mouth and rapidly chewing.
In rapid action their jaw muscles ripple :
It’s a job of work to be completed as quickly as possible.
The chewing muscles in sync with moving ears :
Must finish it all off - before any enemy appears.
Café-females are nested in the central tables - to chat, to think.
In table-groups of two or three, discussing the food and drink ,
Sweet cakes’ crumbs carefully swept with back of finger,
They eat only incidentally, no purpose for them, they linger -
It is a process, not a product, an experience, an exchange of souls.
Select one from a plate of small sweet rolls,
With small bites chewed slowly, elegantly, with thought,
Sitting up straight the way mother taught.
Hands occasionally touching for spoken emphasis in speech,
Unhurried, they pause over coffee and talk intently each to each.
Heads move neither up nor down nor away to the side.
Over each other’s faces, appraising, their eyes roam wide.
I assess these people closely, and rub my chin-stubble in thought:
With the eyes of a poet I mentally note their features as I ought.
Drink up my coffee quick, and move to the counter for more meat pies
Before any enemy arrives.
The church of Saint Ann is by the river
Fifty sad mourners standing at its gate
A cold December chill made them shiver
Ice on the roads caused the hearse to be late.
Twenty minutes late, then it did arrive
Six pallbearers shouldered the coffin in
The mourners couldn’t wait to get inside
Leading the mourners were the next of kin.
A lovely service and the choir sang
Readings were read by friends and family
The service now over the church bell rang
All made their way to the cemetery.
The coffin was lowered, more prayers were said
Then on to the wake for hot soup and bread.
Written on 13th July 2018