Best Stonework Poems
The ancient anguish of a hurting heart
Bequeaths no beauteous scene to me today.
It’s just a jagged chasm gashed apart,
A stream with boulders strewn in disarray.
Like rusted leaves that bleakly canvas fall
Or barren trees that bear the winter snow,
Its listlessness conceals a stonework wall
That bars the beggar from his bungalow.
A long-abandoned barn where pigeons flock
Beside three worn-out crosses marking graves,
It’s lonely as a lighthouse on a rock
Forever battered by the crashing waves.
Their ceaseless song may soothe a sleepless soul,
But how, I sigh, can sad be beautiful?
---
Date Written: January 3, 2019
Contest: Beautiful Sadness, sponsored by John Hamilton
Spring arrived, ‘Twas the dawn of man
Consciousness exploded with a Big Bang
We foraged inquisitively for berries and nuts
Soon building settlements and primitive huts
A subtle spark conjured otherworldly fire
And with it came a burning desire
Tales of titans and mythical creatures
Serpents and beasts with grotesque features
Summer arose, out rolled the wheel
Stonework replaced by the forging of steel
Harnessing power from great rivers and streams
Oceans soon conquered by ships of dreams
There were wondrous amphitheaters without a flaw
Spectacular cathedrals that left us in awe
Advances in medicine enhanced our lives
Youthful deaths seemed for the archives
Autumn emerged, the pinnacle of man
Although swarming to billions wasn’t the plan
The thriving Metropolis made man a city dweller
Piercing the sky with scrapers so stellar
Technology progressed to an unfathomable height
Our synapses fired so glaringly bright
We drove motor cars and traversed the stars
And even toyed with the idea of avatars
Winter came, and into ash we did burn
We dug our graves and had nowhere to turn
Conquered by robotics that we impatiently built
Mega cities crumbled to sand and silt
We gave godly power to Artificial Intelligence
Paying the ultimate price when they evolved to sentience
Mighty bombs dropped, and every city fell
The curtains sadly drawn as mankind bids farewell
I looked up at the mountain,
the result - I was in awe!
George, Teddy, Tom, and Abe,
were the faces, that I saw!
Faces carved in granite.
Fourteen years, to get it done!
Over 400 people did the stonework,
completed - October 1941!
Why these four were chosen,
may have been a mystery?
It's because they represent,
the first 130 years, of Americas history!
George, was Father of our Country.
Democracy was his quest!
He attained freedom from Great Britain,
and his history tells the rest!
Thomas, was president number three.
His most important deed, of note,
was the Declaration of Independence,
a document, which he wrote.
Abe, held our nation together,
during the Civil War!
He was able to preserve the union,
hence, he's one of the chosen four!
Teddy, was an advocate of many great causes!
Panama Canal trust buster, and rights of the common man!
He led us into the 20th century,
and helped foster Americas, economic plan!
An iconic symbol of Presidential greatness,
high in Dakotas Black Hills!
If you're any kind of a history buff,
it'll be one of your greatest thrills!
This beautiful National Memorial,
is Mount Rushmore, South Dakota!
When you see these four granite faces,
you won't regret, one iota!
Note:
Mount Rushmore National Memorial
Keystone, South Dakota
George Washington 1732-1799
Thomas Jefferson 1743-1826
Abraham Lincoln 1809-1865
Theodore Roosevelt 1858-1919
I was no sooner asleep, via another plain I'd arrived
It was not of this world, was my journey contrived
For I awoke in a place that I had never ever seen
Trying to understand where I am, what does it all mean
The surroundings that are before me are of a palatial theme
Furnishings so grand that would be fit for any Queen
Stonework like the Norman's, from many centuries ago
But finished to an out of this world modern, throws me so
An attraction allures my eyes, through long draped curtains
What will my eyes view to confirm my distant certain
The skies are not like ours, they are a cobalt crimson red
Planets dot their ceiling in their silent overhead
I turn as I hear footsteps, like a marching from Earths past
Double doors in gentle open, leaves this Semaj aghast
Before me stands a beauty, with porcelain skin so fair
Whilst a lavender ivy graces, her flowing jet black hair
She leans her head as if pondering, touching lips so pink
Hazel eyes now pierce me, I'm wondering what she thinks
She starts to speak a language that's very new to me
Suddenly it's broken English, what do I hear I see
I am Princess Lorena, and you were always in our dreams
It was just a matter of time when you rode our celestial stream
We know of your Scottish courage, your clannish inner self
And how you saved the Earth, from the Butterfly Winged Elves
You and your droid Etto, whom we've allured to help our cause
On our planet you now stand, like your Earth, has many flaws
We plead you to lead our army, for we believe you to be true
For in this I shall repay, I'll bequeath myself to you
This poem, written by me, James Fraser's is my entry into Constance's contest,
"Tell Her Story"
king of the castle
master of all I survey
my territory
panoramic view
rough stonework castellation
fresh breeze, muffled sounds
see people below
most will not/cannot see me:
ancient castle’s ghost
Jack Horne
DISTURBED MINDS
Pete was a handsome young boy, only fifteen years of age,
Had PSYCHOSIS, his reality severely distorted, a mental disorder,
Felt that his brain was contained in a wrought iron cage,
Knew that ultimately, his life would be harder and shorter!
Pete’s father, was the local village mayor, his mother a social worker,
His father had influence and could exercise force, he had LEVERAGE,
After a FRAGMENT of conversation, promising his son was no shirker,
Secured him a job with the carpenter, a daily lunch and a beverage!
Pete would BEVEL, making slopes and angles in wood and stonework,
But was disturbed, his mind chaotic, could see it in his eyes,
He met Kylie, a young girl with the same condition, this did perk
Pete a little, visited a DERELICT house, confused, neither world wise!
They often discussed how different and unwanted and crazy they were,
And came to a firm decision, a determined blood RESOLUTION,
They would die together, and hugged and kissed, their beings astir,
No more meds, feeling bad or ugly stares, they would find a solution!
They made love, not knowing why, and began quickly walking home,
Passed a SINKHOLE, so dark and deep, if water could find a route,
To disappear, so could they, jumped in, so no longer did aimlessly roam,
Life was a cheat, gave a wrong ILLUSION, no one heard either shout!
EIGHT WORD CHALLENGE POETRY CONTEST
SPONSOR KAI MICHAEL NEUMANN
"toity poiple boids,
dehd upahn da coib,
noh muh chiopin or
boipin,
or eatin doity
woims..."
I found a dead
sparrow this
morning,
sideways on the
stoop,
strangely unblooded,
gifted by clever
cats,
it fed my morning
reverie,
always heavy on my
shoulders,
in the early frozen
hours,
of frost's last
gasp,
my damp spring
mantle,
as I cling to a
fading memory,
of my father and his
voice,
slow step and aqua
velva,
now etched in lonely
stonework,
small words for
larger deeds,
and look at the
small sparrow,
with its lifespan
like a handclap,
and wonder if a
creator,
so vastly beyond
time,
just got bored with
forever,
and thought for
shitz'n giggles,
I'll make frantic
mud men,
amok among creation,
with half-lives of
remembrance,
lasting only as
whispers in wind,
or one (maybe two)
generations,
if our names are on
a label,
or painted into
frames,
hung in plush
hallways,
ignored by
commuters,
too busy dying
themselves,
or just one of the
unlucky ones,
who bleed out on
front pages,
and wonder to
myself,
as I drag the last
few gasps,
from my cigarette of
choice,
if I'm the cat,
or the sparrow.
Ashes to transcendence mid infested holy waters
naught bearing ascertained compassionate divinity,
mad puppet masters fleecing wings in lieu of
ceremoniously exorcised influential malignancy
at the right hand of almightily held hallucinations
strapped over barrels & sanctimoniously flogged,
no show of mercy notwithstanding devoted defenses,
residing within sacredly inventive corrupt corporations
embezzling enterprising riches' dutiful abstractions,
bless them Father for they woefully neglected
the word of all gods' intent and persuasions, serving
no higher purpose than to gild collective repositories
of sinfully en-massed wealth in the name of religion
and the sacrificed blood of Jesus' crucified convictions
written upon coveted covenants' ingrained biblical bluffs,
struck settling false witnesses' far-side excised stonework
The Life of a Breakwater
A walk on the sharp shingle led to where
The dry, smooth surface felt warm to our feet,
The pale grey stonework embedded in the beach.
Those steps so broad and long led down into
The calm sea. We paused, luxuriating
Where the Summer sun caressed the concrete
And the water washed languidly over
The next step, a shallow paddling pool
Of sun-warmed water. But then, the cold sea
Brought a shiver as the sun hid its face
With dark clouds predicting a future state.
After long years, seen only at low tide,
There are jagged teeth covered in green slime;
This monument, discarded by progress
When the old beach was sculpted and renewed,
Lies hidden under the restless waves.
High tide splashes along the shoreline and
The smell of the sea air never changes.
the Bougainvillea creep ...
tip-toe along the rough stonework
little woody tendrils of
life stretching for ... what?
I fear, to prove me not near as
hearty as they …
April's chill weep streaks
the glass doors, each raindrop
hesitating as it trickles down ...
stops ... trickles again …
as if deciding on its next route
or waiting on approval from above
in no hurry, it seems
though the warming soil aches from
winter's negligence ..,
buds, pregnant with moisture
shivering in the brisk air
thorns tipped in waxy black oil
to warn away the uninvited
(ah, but I have my own dark thistles -
barbed and black-edged
ominous ... and dark)
soon the vines will be bursting
splashed in exuberant color
oh, few are adorned such as
these in their splendor
dressed in their Sunday best and
Easter bonnets
the very breath and bloom of
life, joyous …
each year more grand and
wondrous than the last
placed here by nature's grace for
me to adore -
to savor and study from
my quiet little corners of the day
as it crawls ever closer to
the shade of the eaves
and I draw nearer to
my own shadows ...
my own silent, somber rest.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Bougainvillea" Free Verse Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
Brings back aromatic, delicious yesterdays.
Our San Francisco les journeees!
Of winding streets and moonlit sweaty-love
soaked sheets.
North Beach, homemade Italian fresh baked
bread and cheese.
Our favorite, Osso Bucco, when we were in the
mood.
In our shining, blessed, Marina neighborhood.
Days we stood on the historic Eureka ferry.
The wooden steamboat, on which we planned
to marry.
Days of poetry of Kerouac and Ginsberg.
And admiring 'The City's,' stonework.
Walking up and down blessed hills.
I close my eyes, now reliving it all at will.
Ah, those intimate poetry nights, just for us two.
And that is exactly when melodious foghorns blew!
And on our memorable garden roof,
the Golden Gate Bridge in full view.
At night, it glowed with amber hue,
Lit for us, Mon Amour!
Years have mystically slipped away.
But you and I are forever-lovers
in celestial, star blessed play
Love's memories do linger close.
Forever us, my moonlit, memory's
most fragrant rose!
"The Eureka"
Poet's Notes
The EUREKA is the largest
wooden paddle steamboat in
the world.
It once ferried commuters.
It is a historic landmark now
based at the Hyde Street Pier
in San Francisco.
This is the ship I was to be
married on. The inside is so
beautiful!
Images of the Eureka are
online, FYI.
Thank you, Panagiota
August 25, 2020
Midnight
Neon lights outlined stalls
in braids of red and green
in the dim cavernous hall
of the railway station.
Muted drum taps of passing feet
and crisscross talk were pierced
by stabbing announcements
of departing trains.
A stairway tunneled upwards
to the street
where a wall of daylight
met squinting eyes.
Stonework still wore the soot
of steam trains long silenced
from impatient panting,
their age had passed.
My age was diesel with its fumes
pumping out incessantly
without pausing for a breath.
Guttural piston beats
pulsed the air with shudder.
Some of us still left home
riding dreams on train tracks
or else sailed them to England on P&O.
Most stayed at home
and waited for the ballot.
Out of step with the sixties
the railway station languished
in its nostalgic façade.
Newspaper banners headlined protests
and the Vietnam war.
Through its ageing concourse
young men moved in haste or haze
towards uncertain destinations
An ancient castle’s rowdy crowds were thinned
By war and famine. Once its fortress fell
To fire, its people left it to the wind.
In time, the spirit of its aging well
Perceived the surging danger of decay
Which mired his quiet will to live within
The lonesome corner where his stonework lay.
Soon, shadows stretched between him and his kin
Along the merry valleys. Then, one day,
The winds of long ago began to fade
And many birds began to run away
From winter’s frozen curse, and gladly made
Their nests in trees that quenched their silent thirst
Around the dying well, which gladly gave
His breath of life and cradled up the first
Bright hopes in generations. Thus, the wave
Of solitude began to cede its space
To greener leaves of future joy and, soon,
The castle’s walls—now donned in ivied lace—
Became an altar to a rare and sweet perfume
Which spread its scent afar beyond the sea.
On sensing this, the spirit blessed the ways
Of his ancestral home and, glad to see
Such joy, he breathed away his final days.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
The cottage has changed
And not only the cottage itself
For buildings exude more than just their fabric
They say something about their owners
About their occupants
About their time
When last I was here
The dwelling communicated a solitary inhabitant
In touch with nature and self-sufficient
Sustenance from the land was evident all about
The stonework looked as old
As the wood by which it stood
As I look at it now
Gone is the garden produce
Replaced by manicured lawn and parking area
It radiates the clean and safe refurbishment
Of the commuted family
It even looks new
Thankfully, the lane remains the same
The footpath by the clough is still here
Over the stile and into the wood
Thick with the scent and colour of bluebells
A pheasant calls
A jay takes sudden flight
The canopy is still quite light
Spring is still quite young
Ferns unfurl their fronds among the wood rushes
And pink purslane grows strongly on either side
As the undulating path
Criss-crosses the tumbling stream
Nothing has changed here
Perhaps a few less feet tread this way
Certainly no other traveller passed today
Yet, only a stone’s throw away the mills are now apartments
Strange that the flock at the church
Is no bigger than yesterday!
A less allegorical flock
Is grazing the pasture
As we leave the wood behind
It has been a good start to the year
For, with every ewe
A brace of lambs
So, too, the meadows are as I remember
A rare thing in such an age
The ancient field system is still intact, and
The village is little changed except for the cars
So, with the circuit complete,
How will it look when next I visit?
Paris was built gray, though in summer,
the trees and the umbrellas upload color.
The architecture spills over
into gay shades of silver and pewter.
Edinburgh is gray, gray are the plastic rainhats.
Damp kilts gamely fly a little color.
The stonework is granite gained,
and in late arriving Spring
color creeps up the hilly streets.
Shanghai flakes away in gray
a lacquered gray
that gilts the Huangpu river.
The skyscrapers are creamy
and blush in the sunlight.
The girls are silk flowers
in gray designer Nike’s.
Nowadays,
those who world-travel no more,
and those stuck in their own mud,
spin a grey alchemy into colorful words
which they then send
to places
worth writing to.