Best Silt Poems
There is no difference,
the saints whisper and every enemy and ally
wake to forever’s difference,
that neither knee nor tongue will deny.
Doubt bit into Innocence and sold
the first coffins wrapped in pride.
Creation became a seed – a box filled twofold,
when under silt, Eden died.
Secular tides engulf their last season
to bury God and Baal,
synthetic rainbows enlighten treason
fulfills the fool’s tale.
Escape suffering to bend
love to an abstract sum.
Detached absurdity when
a false bliss is done.
Not enough of Earth’s blood
to sustain paved veins,
a technological flood
of isotopes and labor pains.
Fiat economies root for
the drug and gun,
made the bomb’s core
hotter than the sun.
infusions of contraband’s revenue
numbs the inconvenience of sin.
A dream’s fence became headstones ensue,
declared wars we can’t afford to win.
Seeded skies less blue to breathe,
the incense of death and device,
ivory towers babel and seethe,
lies spoil the last grains of paradise.
One rich man though licked by the flame,
still sees Lazarus as a servant and to those
who tear Christ off the Cross to make him the same,
Judas still hangs in the shadows.
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Written 10.28.16
Contest: Saints and Sinners
Sponsor: Silent One
Categories:
silt, bible, christian, corruption, god,
Form:
Didactic
Calm is the silt beneath the waves
The measured heartbeat of the brave
It is the fragile petal born
From gardens of pernicious thorns
A velvety cadence under
The jagged footfalls of thunder
The pearlescent aura you breathe
From centers of calamity
Calm is elusive murmurs heard
Where sharp cacophony is stirred
Into harsh, unrelenting drums
As order wavers and succumbs
When my soul, snagged in turmoil
Stretches towards a turquoise soil
And life's timing lands out of reach
You'll find me on a forlorn beach
1/15/22
C form - Couplet contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
The syllable count was confirmed on howmanysyllables.com
Categories:
silt, care, introspection, nature,
Form:
Couplet
As sunrise silently
marinaded morningtide meadows,
our lips flowed like two streams,
merging within an exclusive estuary
so we set home upon the river bed.
At first we floated like butterflies in Babylon,
deaf to the squawks of mercenary crows,
blind to the creeping weeds,
which wandered amongst delicate petals
nor did I notice our submerging embankment.
As our estuary began to evaporate,
you left me stranded in the silt and mud.
My heart, once a blossoming garden,
evolved into a wasteland of sedges and sludge.
Still I wait for soothing streams to return,
but all I am left with is marshland of regret
and the silence of the butterflies.
Categories:
silt, grief, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
The old wood framed home stood stark and abandoned, a
shell of herself, where now new homes were standing..
Rotted roped windows wept with the rains and rattled and
trembled with each passing train..
The once solid foundation now unmoored by silt causing the
aged house to lean, a precarious tilt..
Yet inside her ancient bones still chiseled and grand with her
high molded ceilings and oak floor plans.
For over a hundred years she was home, haven, shelter, thru
cold winter storms and hot summer swelters.
Many years had passed and her families moved on.
She stands out of place where she once so belonged.
Categories:
silt, age, change, time,
Form:
Rhyme
WALKING NEAR THE WATERS
Under the warm golden hug of sunrise’s bliss
shielded by rugged ridges and flagging trees
emerged a peaceful scene.
Through the clear, somber, sleeping, water
sunlight revealed shadows spelling odes beneath;
odes unfolded by rising ripples in cerulean gleam,
touched by nothing but the gliding breeze which
seizes silt and shingles causing baby currents lift.
Sparkling like priced pearls in the still noon,
their waves, a calm heart’s pulse, speak.
I linger, tranquil, afloat in the ageless ocean’s
lea, sitting on a dry old rock-sheltered bank,
drinking the healing power from the scene.
Time is suspend; I see the lake like a child,
the ridges and trees, His grand legions line.
The shadows stretch, His noble progress to a life
unfurled during years of swarming battles.
But, He has a wealth of hope and stood amidst
the sudden ripples; unmoved by fear, for He
can hold the shifts. He who’s polished tough
and wise has championed in a sunken time.
He matured. He populated good influence
calling others to imitate his stance. He promised
life without fear cherished with gratitude, and
his shared touch was not dulled by passing years.
His memory endured, so many remember Him.
______________________________________________________
~Inspired by the painting: Lake by Georgia Engelhard ~
***For the painting, Debbi Guzzi's Ten Paintings, Ten Poems, Not for a Contest, thanks for the wonderful experience.
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
9:17am, January 14, 2015
Categories:
silt, inspirational, jesus, life, spiritual,
Form:
Narrative
As kids, we were brought to the beach
at riverfront...sea out of reach.
Our sand was like mud;
neath water, silt crud.
I'd wallow with fun, laugh, and screech!
Now grown, to the seashore I go
where sand is as white as the snow.
I don't go out far
beyond the sandbar
for fear of the silt down below!
Sandra M. Haight
~6th Place~
Contest: Sea Tales Limericks - Old Or New
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
Judged: 08/04/2018
Categories:
silt, beach,
Form:
Limerick
Even the gulls have ceased their squawking
V-formations over eerie, calm seas
Is it you? The ferryboat man?
Making your way across waters without breeze
No lapping waves, sand fine as silt
Makes no sound as I leave footprints
A misty morning, no shells crack ‘neath my feet
The red orb rises, causes me to squint
Alone with my thoughts by the River Styx
I sense the passage from this world to the next
My mind on heaven seems transfixed
I stand and stare by quietude perplexed
The ferryboat man reaches shore
A wave of his hand beckons me
Without a word I board his craft
Before me lays the journey to eternity
Serenity comes as we cross the river
A world without sound surrounds me
A world that I willingly choose to leave
All senses drained now, as death I foresee
*For Paula’s “Breathe in the Silence” Contest
Categories:
silt, visionaryworld, sound, me, sound,
Form:
Rhyme
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
O river of rivers,
The queen river,
Flow as you wish,
Gather silt forever
That on your shores
Men may harrow, then sow
The seeds of happiness
And sorrow to grow.
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
O river of rivers,
The starry river,
Your blinking waves drum
Of Behula's shiver.
I too am lost,
The tattered merchant fool,
My peacock barge rides
Fate's whirlpool.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend,
O river of rivers,
The wise river.
Who would speak for us?
If not you, may be never.
Yet the mountains rise
From the hearths' ash,
You are silent, while
The history is brash.
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
O river of rivers,
The hungry river,
The consort of Ruin.
An arrow in Falguni's quiver.
The infinite wasteland beckons
Hold onto heart's dream,
One more sun above
Anguish and scream.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Form: Bhatiali
Date: 19 / 11 / 2016
Bhatiali is a form of folk music native to Bangladesh and Bengal. There is no place for Taal (a term used in Indian classical music for the rhythmic pattern) in pure bhatiali. Even rhyme is not that important. Generally, these songs are sung by the cattle herders on the fields or the fisherfolks living off a river. Among the several subjects of folk music in all of Bengal, that includes Deha-tatva (about the body) and Murshid-tatva (about the guru), Bhatiali deals with Prakriti-tatva (about nature). Probably the most renowned poet of this form is Jasimuddin. Some of Rabindranath Tagore's songs can also be categorised as typical bhatiali.
Categories:
silt, allegory, beauty, fishing, mythology,
Form:
Pastoral
Rust sleeps without the churchyard
on the blunt perimeter rails,
on the bloom of iron stabbing up
into the pelt of rain.
Rust sleeps upon the fence posts
where the wire is nailed to wood
and the metal burns an ochre tint
beneath the sodium arc.
Rust sleeps atop the hinges
of the pub door so to screech
a shrill alert to drunken ears
of some returning ghost.
Rust sleeps upon the riverbed,
suicide pushed into the deep,
trolleys severed by the silt,
dead baby prams beside.
Rust sleeps in feasts of coma night
and eats small mouthfuls of the moon,
spits corrosion at the stars
and dulls this razor life.
Categories:
silt, death, life, philosophy, sad,
Form:
Verse
“THE APPEAL of the SEA” ©
The troubled torrents upon the beach pour
Constantly claiming the sands of the shore
Vexed for good reason with purpose assured
Pounding and thrashing some threats are here stored
Restless in action and heady with need
Racing so often much creatures to feed
Dashing & splashing inciting some fear
Meanwhile inviting to those with more dare
Roaming all over companion the sky
Giving all color no matter how high
Crashing & churning with consummate ease
All as if playing or perhaps in tease
Shifting & prancing is just to get back
Sustaining the life with all it may lack
All finding succor in shallow & deep
Determined by nature each one to so keep
Ebbing and flowing is one & the same
Feeding all nations in His Holy name
Moving forever as if in a dance
Honoring nature not merely by chance
Shimmering often pervasive in sleep
Still holding your stare while yet dancing deep
Embracing rivers regardless of state
Where else could they go before it’s too late
They too conspire to dump more than silt
Aided by humans who bear the most guilt
Were it to be steady as lying in bay
Then all would be lost to rot & decay
Not only its tantrums will it best be known
But giving with pleasure for life to be sewn
We should be caring for both land & sea
Long taken for granted by both you & me
C-More ®
Categories:
silt, environment, nature,
Form:
"Going All Bruce Lee"
It’s like holding water
in your hands.
they say, be like water
as if on the drop,
the turn of H20 on tap,
one can go all Bruce Lee.
he was rather gung-ho;
but the subliminal message
he projected, without malice
in his lithe fluidity
brought on dreamy visions
of going all soft
and compliant.
one might say
malleable,
with the flow.
water has its hard moments
like when it turns to ice.
frozen in cold
abrupt moments.
I read a poet, tonight,
she says,
“consciousness swims slick
outside my fingers,
trembling perceptions
pure and round.
Infinitely slow
I close my grip,
entrapping and watch
them drown”.
I felt that.
I felt that.
Memories of what was
solid once, drift down
with the heaviness of time,
weight sinking through the
lightness of water.
Sun shines
through water.
it touches
the top to mid-section
doesn't mean it rhymes
in time with
what is beautiful
and poetic. Sometimes
the beauty lies, ugly,
at the bottom,
covered in silt.
drowned.
you know what I mean.
I know you know
what I mean.
Sunshine never
touches that place.
but treasure and
objects of beauty
lie there, waiting to be found.
the silt residing
with sunken treasure,
that which also lies
with car wrecks, sifting
rotting useless tenure,
carries residual essence.
there is found forgotten
moments of beauty and
pleasure in the discarded
flotsam and jetsam
washed up on a shore,
like memories
begging to be gripped
in palms that want
to be read. it aint shiny and new.
shells held to an ear,
there is message
in the sound;
we are just, content
with the mystery of it all.
"Empty your mind.
Be formless, shapeless,
like water.
You put water into a cup,
it becomes the cup."
Me and drowned
Bruce Lee, in the end
floating memories.
war came in like
a flood, no ark
nor shipped
platform to be
saved.
Memories dissolve
like aspirin.
We swallow
all we love
and understand,
the meaning of it all
hits us on review.
eventually,
we float
immortal
into other worlds
on the next tsunami.
dry bed
or wet,
we sink, we rise,
we float away
into other worlds.
we accept
the contract.
we ride the next wave.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Categories:
silt, dark, imagery, muse,
Form:
Narrative
He looks of far and in between
White hair with diamonds from the sky
A wood of wiry glow around
Expressive fingers, braiding braids
Forgotten strands of gold-spun hair
His feet swept pebbles in the surf
Small indentations filled with silt
With every look I hoped to see
His eyes on me with how I wished
To will his want to be for me
Be loved without a shred of doubt
To have his golden eyes on me
To magic shameful into proud
***
© Darren White
4 foot iambic blank verse
Categories:
silt, beautiful, beauty, desire, emo,
Form:
Blank verse
The waves crushing her tiny body with striking blows
White creamy wash caresses her golden skin as the wave slows
Moving sluggishly towards the horizon
Because of a recurring vision she hopes she’ll arise in
Her feet digging deep into the sand as it sinks between her toes
Emersed, with arms folded she prepares and off she goes
The cool oceans breeze kisses her beet-red cheeks
It knows what she’s come for and what she seeks
Sunshine drips onto coppery auburn locks shimmering, it lifts
A pale honey-wheat straw sunhat spins away and drifts
Almost completely submerged in salty brazen waters
Compelled at this point with the nauticus mythic plotters
Shut against blaring sunrays are her deep emerald eyes
Her sunburnt face gazing up at vanilla skys
She meditates on what had before appeared, a glimpse
Of the siren with long flowing raven hair and other nymphs
Teeth chattering to tapping sounds like wooden castanets do
Contain her trembling lips she can’t, they turn purplish merlot-blue
Shaking from an Autumn’s cold spell, she imagines she’s a mermaid
But diving in opaque murky silt wasn’t what she had expected
Her bare flesh emerging from impure poisonous rot of green
Blood red ripples dripping from the clouds that are unseen
Neither she nor the fierce Cyrene, Apollos wife the naiad should dread
Numbing overcomes her at last she hears the siren singing in her head
Paralyzing fragments of her hallucination now bestow
A gifted sacrifice her (secret thoughts) needed for soothing waves to flow
In the distance a cranberry sun sets, now streaks of pink implores
A darkened blue-green sea, maroon and sapphire shores
A beautiful mermaid appears and thanks her for her secret thought
That only love for the deep blue sea (the ocean is life) and to all this be taught
Categories:
silt, fantasy, ocean,
Form:
Rhyme
An ant was digging in the dirt, he worked and toiled so long.
He looked upon the work he’d done and decided it was wrong.
He’d only made a little dent in a job that was too big,
so he decided to find some friends to help him with the dig.
He gathered up a couple mates and showed them all his plan,
to save their world from predators and that’s how it began.
Pretty soon the group he formed had made a giant stride,
in their quest to mine the earth and make a place to hide.
Other ants began to hear of what he planned to do,
each asked if they could lend a hand and be part of his crew.
More and more the ants joined in and worked with might and glee,
it wasn’t long before the group became a colony.
Ants with more experience helped share the things they learned,
the new guys did as they were taught, and respect is what they earned.
After all was said and done a mighty place they’d built,
they looked around to find that they’d moved lots of sand and silt.
More, in fact, than any single one of them could do,
the job was so big in fact it took more than a few.
And in this tale is wisdom that was drafted by the ants;
many hands make lighter work and help the circumstance.
Categories:
silt, analogy, animal, inspirational,
Form:
Rhyme
Conches scattered in shifting sands,
Ocean's painted art from high tide,
Caring not of past life inside.
Lovingly cupped in tiny hands,
A child of six years finds great joy.
Dirty hands bother not, this boy.
He lifts one to ear where he stands.
His bare toes dug in dampened silt,
Near sandcastle that he just built.
Dancing to sounds of seashell bands,
He squeals shear delight at the tune.
A sight that makes his mother swoon.
Ocean music, he understands.
He remembers time on Dad's ship.
Dancing stops and a tear does slip.
Conches scattered in shifting sands,
Lovingly cupped in tiny hands.
He lifts one to ear where he stands.
Dances to sounds of seashell bands.
Ocean music, he understands.
Written 11/25/17 for
Craig Cornish/Constanza Contest.
Categories:
silt, childhood, death, nature, ocean,
Form:
Rhyme