Best Sixty One Poems
I know you are sensitive,
not sentimental,
but it has been four years,
that's one thousand
four hundred and sixty one days,
since enlightened tides kissed
those island shores.
My soul was wrapped in worn ribbons,
mourning my misplaced muse
and you were a whispering rose,
wilting at the slightest touch.
Bleeding 3am vents,
with conflicting vowels and consonants,
the sirens of your ink screamed
for a silent troubadour to
compose cathartic bloodstreams -
but life is not as pretty as petals and poetry.
A mistress to moonlight,
I found you crying at an apathetic moon,
so I cracked open your volcanic cocoon,
to open your eyes to cinnamon
and persimmon horizons -
now you float like an empyrean butterfly.
I hope you soar forever and know
I could have written for you,
as many verses as you have seen stars,
but we cannot cultivate in fields of unfairness,
where only dead blooms now decompose,
as you keep ignoring Cupid's cries.
Despite contradicting crossroads,
my heart is deep rooted
in wayfarer's wisdom,
knowing when there are no more beats -
you will honour me with a
requiem for an artist.
Simple Musings
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
< Cascading lakes and streams
The loon stands out it seems
Minnesota's state bird
I know it must sound absurd
Adopted in nineteen sixty one
Wails and yodels heard under the sun
Black and white bearing red eyes
Wingspans five feet can make one cry
Body lengths up to three feet
Yet clumsy on lands and moss peat
They are high speed flyers
And great underwater divers
They can dive up to ninety feet
In pursuit of fish they want to eat
They are even on our license plates
An critical habitat drawn on metal slates
Twelve thousand of these unique birds
God that has to be a lot of turds
But for now I'll enjoy it's captured views
Of this beautiful loon and it's most colorful hues
Written By Katherine Stella
Entry For Mini - Blog Beautiful Bird Contest
By Constance ~ A Rambling Poet
It’s about that time again. . .
to write another summer-ending poem
there is no other season like summer -
soft breeze and the sun’s warm rays
on my lightly tanned skin
How soon the summers come undone;
I'm bleeding tears of melancholy -
for my many years which soon will be
the total sum of sixty-one.
my bright memories
are fading fading a - way
as one more summer
is stored with all the others
of this late summer baby
Written Sept. 2, 2016
for the Challenge - Write OnePoetry Contest of Broken Wings
I’m noticing the seeds I like to buy
are running out in flavor “Nacho Cheese.”
They’ve got sunflower seeds in Ranch, but I
require my nacho cheese ones. Geeez Louise!!
I look it up on Google and I find
they’re selling out. I run to every store!
They’ve got that dang “Dill” flavor, but my kind
is not in stock and won’t be any more.
I know a service station that’s still got
those seeds I love. I’m off! The hunt is on!
I’ll buy up every bag in every spot
where I can locate them before they’re gone.
Some other stations carry them. I dash
from Pleasant Grove to Provo, brandishing
my credit card. I buy them. In a flash,
all seeds in Nacho Cheese are vanishing!
I’m driving south as far as Mapleton!
The chance of finding bags of them is dire
for fellow addicts. I’ve found sixty-one
to last a year before they all expire!
A true story that happened to me about five years ago
See "About Poem" above. When I love something, I try very hard to get it!!
For the Obsession Contest of Silent One
That day we met
‘twas summer ‘63
at the local hop
you sidled up to me
You took my hand
we danced
my heart
my soul
were way up high
almost touched the sky
You walked me
to my bus stop
Bid me a fond farewell
We were to meet
same day
same place
same time
a week from now
That truly was the longest week
Oh how I longed
for you to meet
to sing
to dance
to talk romance
The day arrived
I had survived
I saw you standing there
I knew
for sure
never looked for more
We were the perfect pair
That boy in ‘63
He stole my heart
away from me
And sixty one years on
a piece
of my heart
was now gone
When you left
oh how I cried
bereft
the day you died
Looking back over
my life with you
What more could I desire
My darling dear
true love of my life
For when you chose me for your wife
my husband
my lover
there was no other
I am
I always will be…
~~~~
Your ever loving wife
Written 11th April 2022
Contest A BRIAN STRAND PREMIER CHOICE
Sponsor Brian Strand
2nd PLACE
Can I ask you dear Lord, only if you have the time?
Our world leaders need some help, they are in quite a bind
Could you throw down a blessing in hopes they will see?
Please help them look in their hearts and guide the powers that be
In sixty-one days, election time will be here
Could you help guide our voters with a message that’s clear?
Can you comfort the dying from age and disease?
I give you my life, to do with what you please
I also pray for the poet, may your holy spirit fill their soul
Give them beautiful lines so they can help to console
Provide strength for the weak in their hour of need
Thank you for your love and your life-giving seed
I have just one more, if it’s not too much to ask
Could you help Robert Lindley, if you’re up for the task?
He has a weak heart and his wife is quite ill
Maybe you could heal them both, they have a child at home still
September 3, 2020
"From deep within my heart
I always catch the scent
of my Beloved. How can I
help but follow that fragrance?" By Rumi
https://spiritualgal.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/img_9903.png?w=293
AFTER LIFE
Her scent! Her scent! The best of life!
I watch her move - the smile, the curves.
Sixty-one years she’d been my wife.
The light projects - my mind observes.
Perfume, present, in our sweet home.
Doesn’t rise, though coaxed, from purple urn.
T’her closet clings, like honeycomb,
The pleasant scent of clothes well worn.
If I could, but, follow the trail
And find her form in great beyond,
Upon her shoulder, lay, inhale,
My darling, court, renew our bond.
Her scent! Her scent! The best of life!
Her pulse, unique, as is my grief.
Sixty-one years she’d been my wife.
And when you’ve loved as I…so brief.
7/13/2022
Rhyme Rumi Quote
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Rhymezone and howmanysyllables.com
8 syllables per line
109 words
I have an awful memory. It's sad.
Seemingly destroyed by that madman
Who, sixty-one years ago, pulled out
Without looking,and crashed into my car
Sending mine careering towards death.
Ha! I've got news for him, wherever,
I survived!
But you robbed me of some dreams!
Dreams that, like all memories, are passive
And cannot be completely lived again.
But it is the words... sixty-one years !
Who would have thought there'd be so many?
Amongst them, through the gaps pervading,
Are gems: Memories to be grateful for.
The tin box of silver thrupences
I hid beneath a floorboard in 1952!
Did anyone find it? Or did they rain
Down upon heads of demolition men
Like angel's tears at all destruction:
At things that should have aged and died
Naturally, in the most usual and intended way.
Gone tomorrow but here today.
© Allen Ansell 2024
When first we met so long ago
who knew our love would stay aglow
through a full sixty-one plus years.
With every smile- and sometimes, tears-
still holding hands as in those days
when youth wrapped us in lovers' rays.
So blessed are we- though weathered now-
to still embrace our wedding vow.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Lay It On Me - 8x8
Sponsor: Charles Messina
Judged: 01/16/2020
A NEW VALLEY
You walked through many valleys through sixty-one short years
With a dear wife beside you, a woman you loved dear.
She helped you in those valleys with comfort, love, and prayer,
Reminding you your Savior was walking with you there.
But one day came a valley where you would walk alone—
That comfort of your spouse now was silent and was gone.
You looked there in her casket with one sad final gaze
And knowing now the valley would be alone to face.
You knew, though, from experience that it was not you two
Who faced those many valleys that you each were led through.
There was ANOTHER presence so real and yes Divine;
It was the blessed Savior who now you knew you’d find.
There now in this new valley we call a shadow drear
You think of His dear promise, “no evil will I fear.”
As you walk this new valley, remembering your wife,
The vales you walked together—the trials and the strife—
Keep walking with her memory, for that is never wrong,
And keep forever treasured her ministry in song.
Keep walking with the Savior, for He will guide each day
As you walk through this new valley, He’s with you all the way.
Those songs and happy memories will make your valley bright,
The presence of the Savior will brighten every night.
I know you’ll walk this valley with courage and with smiles,
For you know you’ll see this loved one in heaven after awhile.
--Dedicated to Dr. Lawrence Grandy after the passing of his wife, Carolyn.
J-une nineteenth, eighteen sixty-one,
O-ne Filipino was just born;
S-un had begun to brightly shine;
E-vening had yielded to the morn.
P-hilippine greatest hero's life
R-emains inside the people's heart;
O-ur freedom is truly enjoyed
T-ill the whole wide world falls apart.
A-n instrument he bravely used
C-ompleting his goal was a pen;
I-t had made a big difference
O-n the country neath the heaven.
R-emembering this doc’s birthdate
I-s forgetting the daily strife;
Z-one of pure nationalism
A-ims to share the hype hero's
L-ife.
Form: Quatrostic
Can this really be year fifty-five that we now celebrate
That day of endless pleasure in your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight?
Old Fred had said to see him wed I’d have to bring a date
Then you were there with flaming hair and Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Though six years old it shined like new and you at twenty-four
The loveliest of redheads were, so then and there I swore
That somewhere I would find the nerve to ask you for a date
And one day you and I would fly that Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Was that way back in sixty-one? My how the years flew by.
It seems like only yesterday we told old Fred good-bye.
Though that party ended early our trip home would have to wait;
A night of romance beckoned from your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Cross town to Eddie Bohn’s we flew, then Pat and Pat’s till dark,
Then up into the mountains searching out a place to park.
But none could know that night there, nor even speculate
What sparks we would ignite there in your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
For that night sparked an inferno that still blazes to this day,
Though some details may be sketchy if not lost along the way.
Yet as dreams rekindle memories may the world commemorate
That birthplace of our endless love, your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
The war between the states had just begun.
Blue and gray met at a place called Bull Run.
The North blue army marched from Washington.
This was in April, eighteen sixty-one.
The South achieved victory on that day.
Men wearing gray sent the Yankees away.
A hopeful quick end lasted four long years.
A high price was paid with both blood and tears.
Robert Pettit 4-5-12
OL'E TY COBB OF YESTER YEAR,
WAS A GENIUS IN SPIKES, OR SO I HEAR.
HE RAN THE BASES WITH A BURST OF SPEED.
LIKE ADRENALINE JUNKY IN TIME OF NEED.
STOLE SECOND BASE WITH HIS FOOT HELD HIGH.
A SERIOUS THREAT TO SPIKE ONES EYE.
LIT UP THE CHARTS, WITH ALL HIS STATS.
TRIPLE CROWN WINNER AND THATS A FACT.
NINETEEN-ELEVEN (1911), COBB SET THE PACE.
WITH A FOUR-TWENTY(.420) AVERAGE, HE STOLE EIGHTY-THREE (83) BASE.
LED THE LEAGUE IN TRIPLES FOUR (4)TIMES.
HOMERUN KING NINETEEN-O-NINE (1909).
CHECK HIS STATS, HE LED THEM ALL.
THAT TY COBB COULD PLAY BASEBALL.
THIRTEEN THOUSAND-0- SEVEN-EIGHT(13,078).
NUMBER OF APPEARANCES MADE AT THE PLATE.
DON'T FORGET THE BASE ON BALL.
TWELVE-FORTY-NINE (1,249)AND THAT'S NOT ALL.
FOURTY-ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-SIX (4,186)HITS.
THE RESULTS OF THE WAY HE SWUNG THAT STICK.
BATTING CHAMP ELEVEN (11) DIFFERENT TIMES.
WON NINETEEN TWELEVE (1912)WITH A FOUR-O-NINE (409).
LED EIGHT TIMES, IN TOTAL WITH HITS.
LED STOLEN BASES WITH A TOTAL OF SIX.
EIGHT-NINETY-TWO (892)TOTAL STOLEN BASES.
IMAGINE THE LOOK ON THOSE CATCHERS FACES.
TWENTY-TWO-HUNDRED FORTY-SIX RUNS.
AFTER TWENTY-FOUR SEASONS, HIS CAREER WAS DONE.
HE ONLY STRUCK OUT SIX-EIGHTY(680) TIMES.
OVER TWENTY-FOUR SEASONS, THAT BLOWS MY MIND.
HALL OF FAMER, THATS A FACT.
WITH HIS NINETEEN-THIRTY-SIX HALL OF FAME PLAQUE.
GEORGIA PEACH IS DEAD AND DONE.
JULY SEVENTEEN SIXTY-ONE. A
A HUNDRED YEARS HAVE COME AND GONE,
THAT TY COBB LEGEND, STILL LIVES ON.