Best Stowing Poems
Apples ripen pink, hotly blushing,
though the ardent yellow sun grows faint;
blackbirds sucking soft honeyed sweetness.
like babies at breast, show no restraint.
Mellow ripeness splays rich-toned color;
the trees raise scarlet armed applause.
Red-brown and gray, small creatures hurry
stowing provisions for winter's pause.
Copyright, September 1, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Those walls of my captured annals falling
By steel leviathans devouring my solitude
Capped blasts dropping the once proud structure
No longer is a mans home his palace
Histories cowboys are the future’s vagabonds
Their ranges of ranches a dying lot
Borders now shrinking as the rooms collapse
Giving into the fear of the outside world
No one is really who they appear to be
Stowing and stealing all for a free ride
The trust in humanity a long extinct idealism
Falling in flames from the final battles bullet
Yesterday’s judgment is the hope of tomorrow
If the sun may ascend to the songbirds cry
No promises of integrity to hold onto justice
While the carrions crawl the balances edge
Holding within that which disaster has taught
Building upon the hangman’s piety
To breathe for a moment the sweet water of utopia
With every falling grain of the hourglass
…Time slows in the winds of obscurity
Red Beard laughed at this lad
Stumbled on the wrong ship he had
Stowing away on a pirate vessel
Turned himself in not even a wrestle
Stout young lad must be at least ten
He wasn’t sure of the trouble he was in
To the plank cast him aside!
Then the boys knees buckled….he cried
Red Beard yanked him up and stared deep
Some use of this boy, if I want to keep
To the crew or to the sea? Red Beard thought
A pupil to over see if well taught
“Take him below!” are his orders
“Food and water in my quarters”
The boy moved quickly at the thought of food
Take his mind off of his saddened mood
A feast laid before his weary eyes
Hot bread and large chicken thighs
Warm milk and cool fresh water too was in store
He ate and ate till he couldn’t anymore
It was eve before the Captain appeared
The boy was asleep his mind without fear.
Into his arms the boy went
Carried to the cot for his rent
An orphan too, was this pirate knave
Maybe this child he could save
Schooling was what first struck his mind
A great teacher was hard to find
Sailing and piracy was all he knew
“I want more for this lad. A start anew.”
…..A rapping came to the cabin door
Urgent business he had to make sure
“What is it?” Bellowed a voice
“A British flag and jack a hoist!”
A war galleon was on the horizon
A battle was on the rising
Long time ago in the old wild west
A hunter raised his gun, he was a
Round up cowboy, and shooting
Was his fun
He saw a fat wild turkey come
runnin out the scrub, he thought
of tasty vittals, and stomach full
of grub
The turkey turned towards him
and fixed him with its glare, its
proud red comb a hangin, before
its neck so fair
“Now mister I’ll admit, I am a tasty
Lunch, but if you keep on shootin,
You’ll prove my earnest hunch,”
That soon the scrub and prairies,
Where we so blithely roam, will
Quit of fur and feather, where
Buffalo did roam”
So thoughtfully the hunter, shocked
by what he’d seen, laid down his
hunting rifle, with turkey’s eye agleam
“Thank you Sir, you’ll not regret, the
stowing of your gun, there’s food and
grits aplenty, in store and salmon run.”
Remember how the bison, were slaughtered
For the train, and all them native Indian folk
Who lost the wild woods game
So keep your gun and bullets, defend your
Simple home, and leave the prairie creatures
To wander prairie home
And if you see his finery, running wild
By tree, remember he’s an emblem, of
Open land so free.
Are the Angel's feathers double dipped,
quills of gold but bloody tipped...
is wrath upon the many unknowing,
going,showing unhealthy stowing...
ungracious of the promised precious,
only looking for their next delicious...
Tough love,may be a reminder
fellows once,can be,fellows again
if only to feel,and then remember,
a part of the whole begins within'...
The rains have lasted all the spring.
We’re longing for some sun.
With advent of the end of school
We look to June for fun.
The kids have found their bathing suits
And have them at the ready.
It’s not fair in vacation time
For rains to pour so steady.
The first nice weekend that we have,
We know where we’ll be going.
They have the hampers all cleaned out
For picnic food we’re stowing.
I will rise early on that day
And chicken I’ll be frying.
They each will ask for favorite foods
To please them, I’ll be trying.
Their daddy will gas up the car
And tell us all to hurry.
He’ll want to go while sun is out
And weather not a worry.
We’re heading for Cranberry Lake
Next to the picnic ground
Separating the two waters.
The other side is Puget Sound.
It’s all part of Deception Park,
Every visitor’s destination
When they’re in Northwest Washington,
One of most scenic states in Nation.
There will be a crowd of other folks,
All soaking up the sun
And trying out the waters
Eager for some summer fun.
Our son will try the diving board
To prove he can be bold,
The girls will test lake gingerly
and howl if it's too cold.
They will have hearty appetites
For all my picnic fixings.
I will have brought potato salad
And other salad mixing’s.
Chocolate cake and water melon,
Will be part of the desserts.
By now we are so hungry
We will eat until it hurts.
We’ll go home at the end of day
All happy and contented.
It has been one more special time
To keep us all cemented.
For Carol's " Picnic Time"contest Won no. 4
Overnight, they could read each other's minds.
They were embarrassed and retreated.
Almost immediately, the streets were nearly empty.
Inside their homes. The people hid, stowing away in bedrooms.
The homeless, perverts, and streetwalkers were the only ones that went public.
Their intentions were always straightforward and obvious
For a long time, they knew themselves and what everyone was thinking.
Over time, some got closer to God.
Others drifted even further into the scrub of life.
Some went mad.
Hanging themselves on the most private parts of their minds.
A thing possessed by power desires exert
turns into an object inanimate and inert.
A life untainted and vibrant if captured
by the bloodstained clutch of lust tart
rolls like fallen beads, the string ruptured.
The senses drenched in acidic insolence
don’t repent for a moment the presence
in dismal heart the perennial obsession
of fostering desires in their grey essence,
decimating the spirit of their possession.
A body accessed by instincts of desire vile
existence is no longer animated, it’s futile.
The sunken piteous mind breaks asunder
at threshold of disgrace where disdains pile.
Where has sanity gone, times don’t ponder.
The conception called life adored and prized
a precious treasure to be preserved with pride.
When it wrecks to crumble in an object ravaged
the heart spawns hatred stowing love aside
and doesn’t find a place for the soul shamed.
September 22, 2017
A Hint at What Is Beautiful :
Lovely is the 'bless your heart'
Wrapped with appreciation,
Offered to peace inclined individuals
Who make a special effort
To nurture shrapnel singed casualties
In the midst of napalm sedated air,
Conveying their humankind, unobtrusively
Also, unassumingly, in our
Blood recolored, avarice unhealthy,
Detest eaten world.
Lovely is the occasion,
At the point when the heart apathetic
To euphoria or distress, just trusts
Whatever this life brings
In any case, discovers time to simply be.
By Yoonoos Peerbocus
A Crazed Girl :
THAT crazed young lady ad libbing her music.
Her verse, moving upon the shore,
Her spirit in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Stowing away in the midst of the load of a steamship,
Her knee-top broken, that young lady I pronounce
A delightful grand thing, or a thing
Nobly lost, chivalrously found.
Regardless of what debacle happened
She remained in edgy music wound,
Wound, injury, and she made in her triumph
Where the bunches and the bins lay
No regular comprehensible sound
Be that as it may, sang, 'O ocean starved, hungry ocean.'
By William Butler Yeats
A Baby View of Abortion :
I came as tomorrow
Swaddled in guiltlessness
To your warm womb
Mother… …
Without your decision
Or on the other hand mine
Bound to up date
With time
Our human tree
Be that as it may, before adoration
Developed into fragile living creature and words
What is incomplete creation-
A precipitation of blood
Turned into my greatness.
By Yoonoos Peerbocus
A Ballad of Heaven :
He created at one extraordinary work for quite a long time ;
The world go by with elevated look;
Some of the time his eyes were dashed with tears ;
In some cases his lips with giggling shook.
His significant other and youngster went dressed in clothes,
Also, in a blustery garret starved ;
He trod his measure on the banners,
Also, high on paradise his music cut.
Contemplative he became yet never dreaded ;
For dependably on the midnight skies
His rich symphonic score showed up
In stars and zones and universes.
He thought to duplicate down his score ;
The moonlight was his light; he stated,
'Listen my adoration,' however on the floor
His better half and tyke were lying dead.
John Davidson
The undertaker anticipates a better day
His plans include some needed lawnmowing,
He winds up two ne'er-do-wells stowing
Without resources their expenses to pay
The mere cost for a proper putting-away,
While his grass continues to grow knee high
As he waits for a moneyed man to die
Someone to keep his creditors at bay,
Such a day does make for sleepless nights
Hoping for the best, needing the worse
To make the payment on his brand new hearse.
Written September 8, 2022
an explorer--trudging through the here and now
picking up what works and stowing it in my knapsack
tossing away the discrepancies of what doesn't
a coward--wondering about what might have been
backpack empty except for dreams
that never see the light of day
Grandpa Francesco Proia,
from Caserta, Italia,
a clever stowaway
in the bowels of the ship
bringing him to Ellis Island,
Feb. 4, 1905.
Gruff ways,
often snarling a guttural “Huh,”
a lack of English,
never-ending hand gestures,
made me fearful of him.
But awestruck I was
with the romantic notion
of his stowing away.
Bootlegging homemade vino
during Prohibition – another
plus as he captured my imagination as
un farabutto – a scoundrel, a reprobate.
Add in his being a coal mine boss
in Marianna, Pennsylvania,
and I had a genuine hero.
How many other children
claimed such details about their grandpas?
Never telling anyone
of my naïve admiration for him,
family loyalty prevented me
from bragging about him.
Living to just a few days short
of his “hunnert” birthday,
I loved and admired him to the end.
Even when the ship’s manifest
I discovered for La Lorraine
listed him as a passenger
in steerage, not a stowaway.
Chilling to me is the cool misty rain.
Filling fuel on the fire to warm me again,
Willing my thoughts on the now to remain,
Stilling all those that are cause of the pain.
Come my sweet child and sit by the fire.
Strum for me a tune, one I would admire,
Some pretty melody, ‘ere we retire.
Hum along with me as I draw you nigher.
Years have gone by since you sat close to me.
Tears I have shed for the sweet used to be.
Fears are for the future that I can foresee.
Nears the sad moment you’ll want to fly free.
Knowing that you will be leaving some day.
Stowing sweet memories, wishing you’d stay.
Growing to womanhood, you’re pulling away
Showing more interest in boys than in play.
How many railroad ties will it take to get from here to where I'm going. Aimlessly rolling along the tracks without noticing the boxcars of baggage I'd been stowing.
So I slowly started sifting through forgotten freight as my rebuild picked up steam. Piecing myself back together with my updated route now clearly seen. It took grinding my gears to become aware that it's better to swap in hope for fears.
Eventually I'll find my way to where I am supposed to be. But for now I'll just ride the rails with my engine running wide open and free.
What is behind ?
So many who wear masks, behind which to hide ?
So many who wear a veneer, upon which to ride ?
So many who wear a veil, behind which to slide
beyond their true, sober, reality ?,
beyond their hidden personality ?
One has to wonder ?,
what lies asunder
in the mind
of man kind.
B. J. “A” 2
February 26th 2013
Strange how the germ of an idea,
expressed today,
would materialize,
in a poem
written some five years,
one month, six days apart
Growth of a Mask
A Wake
This, my mask of death – for a funeral pyre -
for the burning love I have for you – for my desire.
This mask, I grow to hide ( to grieve behind ) my tears-
absorb them all, as well as all my fears.
( in grief for my love – stillborn – lost in your womb )
as I dance, with hope, on the grave of that beautiful flame
trying to give it life – keep it growing, clowing
while you are dancing around it, knowing,
as a whirlwind, you can extinguish it – a game ?
In time’s passing – I do believe – I will be just a name
as time, experiences become history, time keeps on going
on and on and on towards an end – showing
me that this is fate for this friend, memories stowing.
In retrospect, this may be my motivation for a beard,
behind which I may hide all that I had feared
B. J. “A” 2
January 20th 2008