Best Southerly Poems
Ah! To be adrift upon the boundless sea sailing, sailing, sailing!
Alone with the sea and pristine sky with southerly winds prevailing.
No particular destination in mind as upon the surging sea I plod,
Nor is there another soul in view as I quietly commune with God!
Ah! To be alone at night in the desert pondering, pondering, pondering!
I lie to refresh my weary bones after a day of vagabond wandering,
Savoring the soothing quietude with gentle zephyrs caressing my face,
Gazing heavenward as constellations wink at me from outer space!
Ah! To scale the highest mountain where even eagles dare not fly!
The precious solitude of it all! I can reach out and touch the sky.
Such divine inspiration it brings to this mere mortal's languid soul,
As God's Creation beyond is revealed for me to relish and extol!
Ah! To amble down a forest path when autumn leaves adorn the trees!
Gold and crimson leaves waft about me, stirred by an occasional breeze.
I'm awed by the Master Artist's handiwork no mere artist dare portray.
This priceless solitude and beauty I shall treasure forever and a day!
Ah! To lie 'neath a shade by a rippling stream and dream, dream, dream!
Watching vagabond clouds scudding across the sky in solitude supreme!
I suppose there are folks who prefer to mingle with the multitude,
But I treasure time alone to muse and write in peaceful solitude!
Entry for Line Gauthier's "The Beauty of Solitude" Contest
Nyx opened black arms
threading her twilight fingers
and cradled my awe
to turn my hair, white
she filled my eyes with stars
firing a comet to
the core of my heart
my second breathe
carved dragons of fire,
as Aeolus filled each lung,
Terpsikhore sang music
into the life and death
of this epic
~~~~~
I taste a southerly breeze
catching it on the tip of my tongue
rolling it into my lungs
I sing appegio
to throw a shadow of night
the circle of her arms
has tightened,
and the nebula
in my eyes,
threaten to shoot
from their sockets
I have finally
felt the meteor
lodged in my heart,
move in its longing
for one last blaze
of release,
only the breath of God,
holds for revelation
~~~~~
TERPSIKHORE (or Terpsichore) was one of the nine Mousai,
the goddesses of music, song and dance. In late classical times
--when the Muses were assigned specific literary and artistic
spheres--Terpsikhore was named Muse of choral song and
dancing, and represented with a plectrum and lyre.
AIOLOS (or Aeolus) was the king of the winds who kept the
stormy Anemoi Thuellai and Aellai locked away inside the hollow
heart of the floating island of Aiolia. At the command of the gods
he released these to wreck devastating storms. Since the Winds
were often conceived of as horse-shaped spirits, Aiolos was titled
Hippotades, "the reiner of horses," from the Greek hippos ("horse")
and tadên ("reined in tightly").
Love Letters - 2 - A Collaboration With Michael Clarke-Repost
Love Letter No. 2...Janet Camden.
My most precious darlin' love I come to you across the many miles as my heart it bleeds an undying love for you.How I miss you so sweetheart. Last night I gazed upon the vastness of the velvet heavens and the tears began to fill my brown eyes and fall down upon my ivory face as I whispered your name on the warm southerly breeze. How my heart aches each day that you are away from me my love. Each day I feel a little more of me is wasting away the longer you are away from me.How I long to be held in your loving arms again.I so need to feel the comfort of your gentle reassuring touch .The softness of your words telling me that you love me and will never leave my side and that you will always be with me. Oh, to look into your eyes once more I would gladly lay down my life to know you are safe and with my last breath I would whisper...
~ I Love you~
Love Letter No. 2...John Camden.
My beloved, i find myself more and more lost in memories of you. I never thought i could feel so alone, haunted always by your smiling face. Still, there is an aching in my heart for you and home. Every night i look into the night sky and there you are my Love, my own guardian Angel, watching out for me. I whisper my Love to you and you smile, yet tears fall from soft brown eyes. I shall be coming home to you my Love, one day i shall be there in your arms, tasting your lips and lying by you once again. Tonight i sit alone just watching the sky, seeing you in every star. I think of home , we would be sitting on the porch at this time. My heart aches so to be with you. I long to hold you in my arms again and whisper my Love to you as we lie by the bend in the river. Keep that thought in your mind always. It shall give you some solace through the lonely nights my Love. You are in my thoughts always my Love. Let us make our memories in our dreams.
My Love comes to you on a whispered breath.....I Love You.
Wild little brook in such a hurry
Lifting your face to the sun
Tumbling over the hours and days
Chatting along as you run
Hundreds of tiny glass sail boats
Blinking and glittering by
Before crafty cumulus scoops them away
To moorings way up in the sky
Babble on little brook unrelenting
Casting your watery spells
Murmuring muttering mumbles
The peel of your bubble bells
A flurry of pink blossom petals
Whipped high by a southerly gust
Showers your face in confetti
To alter your pace as it must
Hush now little brook, are you listening?
And can you hear yourself think?
With the dragonflies darting and zipping
Magically gone in a blink
Babble on little brook while we’re sleeping
Determine your course in the dark
And we will awaken tomorrow
To the flute of the meadowlark
Ah! To be adrift upon the boundless sea, sailing, sailing, sailing!
Alone with the sea and pristine sky with southerly winds prevailing.
No particular destination in mind as upon the surging sea I plod,
Nor is there another soul in view as I quietly commune with God!
Entry for Gregory R. Barden's "Rithimus Divisa" Contest (Submitted
April 20, 2019)
This is a Rithimus Divisa extracted from my original poem "Solitude" written
June 30, 2011. It rated Second Place in Line Gauthier's "The Beauty Of
Solitude" Contest, judged May 4, 2018.
Just after my pears fall off the trees
and leaves begin their turning,
evening fades to dusk in its anxiety
to welcome moon.
I sit outside and watch moon glow
arise from its sleeping nest.
The fresh scent of grilled Salmon
and charcoal-baked potatoes,
lingers across my patio;
the flavors melding upon my taste buds.
My cat sits next to me
eyeballing scraps and my iced tea
and decides to chase the few fireflies
while nearby crickets play love songs.
The soft, swift chill of dew-laden air
causes me to shiver.
I breathe in deeply and revel in
the thought of blissful
colors that will dot the landscape
in a few days time.
Above me fly a flock of birds in
southerly aim as I
glance to the pumpkin patch
and begin to
dream of pumpkin pies and
my favorite harvest veggie casserole;
autumn nights are a
delight to my palette.
9-12-2021
HELLO September Poetry Contest
Mystic Rose Rose
Southerly breeze at my back
Curlicue clouds in the sky
Folks sport sunny smiles
A privilege to be alive
It's Spring after Christmas
A treat for body and soul
Santa's stayed on in Chicago
Why rush back to the North Pole?
for my two little energetic grandsons - Presley and Brenden...
PB the polar bear cub, was born in a southerly coastal den,
And for about 15 weeks or so, he’d stay inside his 8x10 playpen,
He was born blind, deaf, and with only a few strands of white hair,
And not being a twin or a triplet, made his single birth quite rare-
After two months he would venture out, to romp in the icy snow,
Where temperatures in the winter dipped, to -70 below-
He’d often watch his mother, sitting by ice holes on the sea,
Trying to catch a peeping bearded seal, for a delicious meal to be-
PB too would become a master, at this waiting game,
But not be very good at it, until after his 2nd birthday came-
When grown he’d smell his catch, from forty miles away,
The largest, most carnivorous of bears, seals were his diet’s mainstay,
His loving mom would teach him, all the skills he’d need to live,
And if he were in danger, her life for him she’d give,
PB was amazed how polar bears, could hold their breath so long,
Under water for nine minutes – they must be very strong!
Thirty months would pass, before PB was out on his own,
This 1500 pound bear, for 25 years, would call the arctic tundra his home-
She muddles an unusually warm December
dark drooling deep afternoon
Drizzly wait,
not long before her hungry needy kids return from school,
recomposing herself against a grey back porch wall
Knees up,
peering out
listening for wonder
How her life is the same,
and different,
compared to her backyard river
flowing surely and widely
but silently south
while a raucous river of cars in front
shuttle up and down self-stated highway's over-fueled Advent
of relentless unholyday traffic
Punctuated
with rambunctious horn blasts,
or perhaps warmly intended "Hello"s,
"Just passing by...."
EarthJustice passing
water toward southerly Sound,
carbon-eaters to her back
across a dusky front yard Advent
of early evening's commercial family business,
industry,
institutions for competing corporate commodification
flowing toward stealthy syncopated impatience,
and then by-passing away.
By-passing,
messiah's mass faltering
to sing in her faithful
but worn thin heart and hair,
hoping her river loves co-redemptive Sounding ocean
even more than busy motor air
surging through more urgent toxic time
investment to completely commercialize
UnBirthing Wonder's purgative sacred flow
into therapeutic nature.
Flow,
transubstantiating home and families
into consumer markets
floating down her river of mid-December's discontent
with waiting.
Discontent,
gloaming river fog
Spreading miraculously radiant
around one uninvited yellow street light
waiting for her family's magic blue bus
delivering this December night's
transforming rebirth.
Until I've seen, Melbourne days
was not just emptiness in play
I know I'll see
What I didn't see,
the September soaked symphony
of Vivaldi vines climbing,
jacaranda booms,
tremolo spilling eaves
Until you know this suburban kid's righted the wrong
I'll verse on my way, you as the bridges in my song
Making choruses of dreams that could soon belong
And urban princes and their Porsches
Lost in winters, cold in summers
They adore to ornate you, over muskwood and glassy silvers
But can they look up to the night,
And know wonder in the sight?
In that blue-hued veiled Van Gogh I see your stars
These hardened hands carrying letters I send
will wear me down to some sorry end
And this I know
But I'll go knowing
the Chapel charade was the pretty noise
of sonnets chasing sunsets,
drunk Welsh poets
tearing tails for London wisps
Until it comes, a northern boy without southerly blues
The swaying Yarrans, sparkling flutes, Victorian flues
Keeps Flinders Station stepping full of over-priced shoes
And boney bonny dames, old money games
Skirts for winters, surgeons for gains
They climb to lower you, for fifteen lights upon their names
But can they look up to the night,
And know wonder in the sight?
In that blue-hued veiled Van Gogh I see your stars
In the setting sun the Sioux Tepees look like vandalized pyramids,
the Tetons themselves appear as though angels raped
by the savagery of centuries yet noble in barbaric beauty and warrior ethos,
a Scalp Dance is begun, torches up high on the outside
a bonfire big and heavy be the center spirit,
the drums awaken from the caves of ancestral courage
and the voices of a thousand Mothers plead for the pride of their sons,
drumbeats raise the heartbeats into the heat of glory
as the rattles rake the mind with the cost of blood,
warriors enter the pit with bravery to prove and fate to appease
feet pound the earth and scalps shake on power rods
the currency of victories swing wide and thunder smacks the stars,
Afterwards, Chief Partisan presents us with squaws
pretty in young passion and fertile to the touch,
there is a custom of strength transfer through intercourse
they desire the seed of our spirit,
indulging in their spells of native kiss could leave us vulnerable
to capture or even assassination
we can't afford to be reckless in pleasure or mindless of morals,
I am unwilling to father a hybrid pioneer amongst a probable enemy,
embracing these temptresses gowned in scanty furs
could even politically bind us to the Teton against their traditional adversaries,
we must avoid inciting intertribal conflict at this juncture,
Morning has arrived with a think fast attitude
the messages between our nations is unequivocal
the Teton are intractable in their belief of invincible independence,
they have their arsenal, warriors, and horses,
feeling that they own the thunder and the fear of their neighbors,
the Chinese and New York fur markets
along with taxing river passage have to date guaranteed them wealth
and the British have armed them for profit,
however, the arrowheads of the United States are aimed to strike their arteries
and we won't stop until they bleed out into oblivion,
the Sioux shenanigans have resumed as we gather up and get ready to push off,
exasperated, we convince Black Buffalo that it behooves him
to persuade his people to let us leave without hostilities
and they do as we toss them some tobacco sticks,
once on Destiny, anchor up,
the southerly winds lift our vessels towards autumn's genesis,
J.A.B.
When times make me wary, where do I seek strength to carry
me through? I pray the chaos, loss, and grief won’t tarry
till all are bereft, with nothing of our “normal” left.
God of Grace, please let not our rock of hope be cleft.
When typical closeness isn’t safe, I know loud verboseness
against restrictions won’t banish the moroseness
or ease the burden many experience worldwide.
God’s Word says “PRAY.” I do, each day, that He’ll stem the tide.
When life becomes surreal, what, besides prayer, helps me feel
peaceful—when the world is not on an even keel?
loved--when I can’t be with friends and family?
free—when my tiny corner of the world is all I see?
wind chime music, stately trees, a southerly breeze;
frequent newsy phone chats and drive-by waves that appease;
knowing He’ll “never leave me,”* though pestilence may rage.
assurance that someday His healing hand will turn this page
Deuteronomy 31:8 The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you;
he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged."
Date posted: April 23, 2020
Grace and Solitude Poetry Contest placed 4th
Sponsor: John Hamilton
One month deep and winter wears no crown.
Warm Southerly breezes still with scepter rule
without a complaint from newly budded trees
and blades of grass, green as an emerald jewel.
Japanese magnolias have all bloomed too early.
Pink and purple petals fall softly to the ground
breath of Mariah whistles through the branches,
leaving them torn and heaped in a pastel mound.
Squirrels scurry in circles up and down the oaks.
Ripe acorns still hang from the old ancient arms.
There'd been no need for squirreling them away,
hints of Winter weather had all been false alarms.
No need for coats and boots that weigh too much.
Nature doesn't mind the lack of a chilly Winter blast.
It's great not to worry about having to shovel snow.
I'm pleased by the attempt of Autumn, holding fast.
It happened in a second
In the twinkling of an eye
Our vessel was driven unto rock
By a strong southerly wind
And so we lost power in the sea
This led to the shipwreck
Though many on board could swim
But only a few could made it
For many was drowned
When we came to the shore
We found a nearby Island
A place of mystery
As silent as the grave
No home was occupied
Every house had been quitted
We saw a street called Lonely
And so we trod slowly
For a while, more than a mile
We came to a mansion
It captured our attention
A house build with cedar
Maple trees and cinnamon flowers
We took bold steps to enter
Through the gigantic golden door
But the house was dark and empty
One could barely see through the foggy
Except the Inscription on the wall
“Trapped! Welcome to Hell”
Everyone starts to shiver
Suddenly we heard the door slams
Just like the thunder struck
Closely we held each other in panic
Hoping it would ease our fright
But the door slams continues…
With a thick loud voice echoing
“You are doomed’’ he says
With a creepy sound like that of frog
But when he was about to come forth
An angel appeared and struck him dead
Follow me and live! He said
He led us through a part
That leads to some villages
Go! Preach the gospel
You are the chosen ones
Survivors to tell the story
When I think about the woods I’m
Humbled by the architecture of the naked trees
Solid, tranquil, every reaching as I climb
Higher towards the southerly breeze
In Beaulieu, when it rains mother can be seen
Dashing out between the showers to pull the weeds
She misses many stuck in between
Which the wind carries and the plant reseeds
At the river mouth the water turns
And the swans take off graciously over the tide pool
The ducklings settle back into the ferns
Settle down hazy mist and make the evening cool
Strong floral scents carried far on a zephyr
Echoing sound of match point from the court
Baby calves playfully jump and softly nose the heifer
Hear their mooing chatter as they lightly cavort
The donkey foals have such big heads
Post-like legs with sturdy feet
They need big pillows for their beds
They look so cuddly and oh so sweet
Hey where’s the water gone?
Someone’s pulled the plug
When will I see the return of the swan?
To my home, my tranquil drug