Best Skimmed Poems
The cottage reeks with
fluid tides of hope,
incessantly commanding.
My baby’s here.
I’ve still no word
coming down the line from Dover.
Winter’s gone...
Spring rains have come
and with it comes the tears all over.
I weep again, my child it seems,
will never know her father.
Today down by the spring
I prayed the prayer so often said,
sorrow turned desperation.
I found a ring left in the cup, since
yesterday laying there, scribed “M”
upon a jeweled stone.
My heart leaped in
expectation.
I heard his voice inside my head,
where also his face I saw.
I turned and looked...
no one was there...
please God give me
this one discretion.
There must be peace somewhere to find.
I look but must be led
by your grace and mercy.
Again at chores, the babe
asleep, the knock came loudly.
A letter from Michael O’brian maam,
please sign here for delivery.
I hurriedly skimmed,
he was dead,
two days before,
of pneumonia.
Our little Rose, still in my care,
to receive his name
if she so chose
and all else he owned in Dover.
A ring for me
it seems was gone,
a large garnet with the letter M
on the stone, had disappeared
completely.
EPILOGUE:
A seed was planted in winter,
planted in sweetness of youth.
It was a gift from Michael.
He left me alone in the spring---yet,
his flower grew in my garden.
Our error was human.
First feeling trapped, then love,
from this Rose in my life.
Forgiveness is divine.
Love is eternal.
11 Jan 2011 Charles Henderson
I scanned the shelves to pick a book
That seemed to be appealing,
From those adjacent to my shoes
To those up near the ceiling.
Selecting some that might work out,
I skimmed the first few pages,
For mostly I can tell by then
A story that engages.
A half an hour passed before
I found a prime contender,
The author someone in whose words
I’d happily surrender.
I checked it out and brought it home,
Some reading time in store
But soon enough it came to me –
I’d read this book before!
Angel rift star dust
In one hand
The sun
In the other
The moon
In the mind
The earth
In the heart
The space to comprise it all
But I have skimmed the rim of the abyss
Stood on the edge of a ledge and blew it a kiss
Took a dive from so high to enjoy the freefall
Than I stayed for a day in the heart of sheol
I got those streamlined moves timed to avoid the hate
I got those sidelined hooves signed by the eye of fate
I'm dipping diamonds in gold for the souls that you sold
I'm lifting layers of lies from the beats you baptized
Using that haptic magic
Fantastic acoustic
Let the mind drift
The heart combust
Tripping on my angel rift star dust
You have written with your heart
And shared it with, those worlds apart
Bared your soul in every verse
For us, a blessing, for you a curse
With pain you struggled to be heard
As we skimmed through every other word
Perhaps it's just not your time
For you to share what's on your mind
One day all poets get their due
I'm quiet sure, that so shall you
If not by contest winning Soup
Jan might share with you some poop
It always makes me feel like a winner ! Hi Jan lol
How blue the sparkling water brightly shone!
Stream depths of clarity held my stunned eyes.
I felt my smile grow full and skimmed some stones
while sun rays lent light ribbons to my tries.
The shoreline mixed rocks, clover, sticks and dirt
before it faded to soft, velvet grass
and endless trees grown full limbed, tall and pert.
While reaping all, I saw a jumping bass.
I loved how energy there loved me back.
Just nature gives such boundless lifts to me.
Her highs keep my esteem on healthy track
to heal since heartbreak thoroughly took me.
In earth's scenes nature aids all pain did hone.
How blue the sparkling water brightly shone!
There are stars to remind you of pinpricks
in case you ever forget the word or meaning.
There are stars to remind you how small you are
in case you are grandiose.
There are stars in case you worship them,
though I don't know why you should.
I guess there are many reasons why,
so I shall go on counting...
There are stars so "Milky Way" is not just a chocolate bar,
but has another meaning...
There are stars to light up children's eyes
when they look out of Granny's window.
(Granny's invited them to tea,
but they stay till bedtime comes.)
There are stars so Granny can explain them,
and I will stay around,
for I have only skimmed the surface
of why there are stars,
and Granny is -
ultra-wise.
------------
6/23/2018
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me as I
skimmed stones across the tiny ripples of rock pools.
Small scaly creatures and stones sliced toes like knives but
we were full of excitement then,
craning necks and nets at the alien life under water that
swilled any blood away in a salty sting.
Until that day.
My rock pool filled with tears/spit/teeth from savaged parents
covered and muddied by seaweed from miles out - dragged against
flotsam and jetsam from the seabed. It all tipped endlessly into my rock
pool in a careless hurry/rush/smash like workmen at skips.
I went back to those pools and streams, like tears, crawling from the lake.
Found it was lost and
drowning within its own water:
a roof slate, a car, a swing from along the coast. A doll’s
head that just bobbed and plopped.
It would have been sucked and spat
upward, surging towards the sky with plastic arms praying,
in the deluge just moments (days?) before.
It’s not my rock pool anymore. It’s not our town.
People killed by geography:
Subduction – Subtraction of me from my family.
Subsidence - Insidious silence that lulled people to exposed sand with palm trees over heads like question marks… before the wave even Noah would struggle to sail.
Tsunami… you and me.
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me
31/10/18
Beneath a pale sky of bleakest white,
Songs carried by the eastern wind,
The faint sounds of flutes and lesser known cries,
Reveal a surface less skimmed.
The slowest of flicks by a wise older wrist,
With contentment despite all the noise,
A story to tell at the call of five bells,
Displaying of true grace and poise.
Manicured plants, slow songs and arts,
Early Sundays a skew,
To walk on this road, a foreign mind wanders,
To feel one of only a few.
This once was a place of long pondered dreams,
Of esthetic smoke screens,
Of mystery wonder and awe,
Now shrouded behind bureaucratic decline,
Can China be China once more?
I hear a melody floating in the wind
Lyrical whispers played in F sharp
as though a violin had been chinned
or an angel is caressing the strings of a harp
It dried the tears of willows, weeping
Tickled the ears of a slumbering dream
drifted past my window as tea was steeping
with a love sweeter than skimmed cream
I read in solitude, I found peace.
I read with love, I felt exulted.
I read when I was lonely, I got a companion.
I read when I felt sick at heart, I embraced ecstasy.
I read histories and spoke to the people of the past.
I read biographies and met my mentors.
I read fantasies and widened my jaws at the magic lamps.
I read poetry to master vocabulary.
I read war tales and realised the value of peace
I visualised orphan kids and felt the pain behind hunger pangs
I read love stories and learnt the best life lessons.
I skimmed through adventures and learnt embracing fears.
While I read,
I became a sailor and traversed on salt waters greeting the storms,
I turned into a detective and loosened the knots of unsolved mysteries
I sang with the cuckoos, danced with the dragons and merried with the magic mats
I felt pain, I felt love, I endured every emotion of my unknown friend.
Read to explore,
Read to exercise your brain,
Read to travel,
Read to know another world,
Read to socialize,
Read to boost your morale.
Read children read, for it makes you what you thought you could never be.
As I ambled around the village pond
I skimmed a stone through reed and frond,
In distress, ducks took flight
Guilty I, to cause them fright.
Protesting loudly in their quacking
My common sense seemed sadly lacking,
I never thought that stone I chucked
Would cause such grief, to little ducks.
the years haven’t dulled my love for you
more than ever i treasure
our growing closeness
i love you more with every passing day
and just can’t get enough of you
you taste like love on a spring day
we’ve had a life that’s blessed
we’ve only skimmed the surface
so much more to tackle
on our long bucket list
you taste like a delicate dessert
exquisite on my lips
how i long to rid your body
of the cancer so cruel and vicious
i’m helpless
with only warmth to offer
you taste to me
bittersweet
like precious tears
on a winter’s solemn night
Read on air by invitation ~ August 29, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2021
Submitted on August 27, 2020 for contest STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (28) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn't grand,
this bell upon Ivy’s desk –
just hammered tin
nothing distinct,
a traveler's relic,
perhaps,
or bought for pennies
at the county fair.
No polished gleam,
no silvered tongue,
just simple weight
in weathered wood
it clung.
But when her hand,
thin-veined and strong
from chalk-dust,
ink,
and garden-loam,
reached out –
a stillness fell
across the room
like held-in breath.
Then came the tap:
a single, clear,
unhurried ping
that seemed too small
to hold such things.
Yet out it flew!
A silver thread
unspooling fast
across the dew-wet
pasture grass,
over the stile
where Billy paused
his milking-pail,
through orchard rows
where apples hung
like sleepy moons.
It skimmed the creek
where minnows flashed,
startled the crow
on the fencepost,
sailed past
farms
where hay
was baled…
It flew!
That tiny sound,
that humble ring,
had wings.
It called the freckled boy
still wiping sleep
from sun-shot eyes,
the girl whose braids
were barley-gold,
the quiet one.
It gathered them,
like scattered seeds
on shifting wind,
to this one room
schoolhouse
where maps unfurled
and numbers bloomed
and stories hummed
beneath the rafters,
warm and low.
The bell sat still.
Its work was done.
Just hammered tin
beneath the sun
that slanted through
the dusty pane.
But in its silence,
echoed plain:
the scrape of chairs,
the turning page,
the hopeful rustle
of a bygone age
being called –
not ordered,
summoned –
by a sound
that knew
its own small
but mighty
weight.
I saw Mary in Peru
as pastel chalks skimmed over
a gray concrete sidewalk, felting the surface,
baby blues and pinks vibrated with naiveté.
The artist knelt
each stroke given in homage
to the Mother of all.
I see Mary.
The Quechua see
Pachamama, earth-time mother,
the oval shape of her beatific head
tilts as if she’s watching—
when as the dragoness she rises,
she shakes
the ground.
A son of Lima dressed the dreary gray day
with earth stone. Chalk forms Her breasts.
He prays. We are all children
at the feet of the Mother;
the celestial sun and moon were
birthed
from her loins.
I saw Mary as he drew with diligence.
I saw my mother and myself,
let all who birth be
praised.
First Published in About Place Journal Vol III Issue II
Through cloudless skies of azure over land of pastel hue.
bringing forth my heart to flutter and my speech again ‘true blue’.
So pleased to touch my land again when stepping off the plane,
and better still the old hometown, alighting from the train.
There’s old familiar childhood that I’ve lost for twenty years.
Near strangled by my Mother; then near drowned by her tears.
While Dad stood proudly waiting, I s’pose he could understand.
When Mother finally let me go, we shook each other’s hand.
They made me feel like royalty, Mum couldn’t hide her joy,
with question after question (for I’m still her ‘little’ boy)
Dad acted as a waiter like he’d never done before.
Five times we raised our glasses’, before I said “No more!”
I asked about my old mates, and if they still lived in town.
Mum grinned ‘done well’, ‘gone west’, divorced or ‘silly bound!’
We’d laugh about old memories until we nearly cried,
of course there was the sadness for the couple who have died.
Mum’s home cooked meal was ‘manna’, and soon remembered most,
though it was Tuesday evening, this is the Sunday roast,
home made ‘mint sauce’ and mustard, milk warm from the cow,
stewed fruit with separated cream that I never can buy now.
Mum spoke her inner feelings and whispering she’d say,
what is the gossip of the past, that little mattered anyway.
But Dad was Dad, he hasn’t changed, his face had altered though.
I skimmed across the surface with what they only need to know.
The ticklish subjects came to light, ‘how are the kids of course?’
Am I coping on my own since I finally got divorced?
Placing ‘yes’ where it’s appropriate, and ‘no’s’ don’t go amiss,
Mothers see their sons as angels. There’s no need to alter this.
It wasn’t late but late enough, sleep is needed by us all.
My single bed was waiting there. Heroes still adorn the wall.
Dad spoke subdued as he stood up. I’m sure I saw a tear,
“Son don’t wait another twenty years. Next time we won’t be here.”