Best Surveys Poems
Coral life forms in copious swarms
feast in the Cambrian chyme,
dividing their cells and forming their shells
to end on the seafloor as lime.
Tectonic churning and magma upturning
renders marble whiter than bone.
The marble is mined, but the cutters are blind
to the angel confined in the stone.
A young sculptor arose, with a bend in his nose
and a transcendent creative spark,
charged with ambition to fulfill a commission,
an angel for St. Dominic's Ark.
An artist sublime who will live for all time,
his genius is to see things not shown.
For an angel to achieve he first has to perceive
its splendor enclosed in the stone.
At dawning's first glow he surveys the tableau
of the blocks the stone cutters supplied.
In some he sees dreams of potential themes,
but only one holds an angel inside.
“A beautiful thing never gives so much pain
as does failing to hear it and see it.”
The block that he chose was rejected by those
who then lied and claimed to foresee it.
With talent and skill he falls to with a will,
surrounded by rubble and relic.
His method you see, for the angel to free
is to remove all the bits not angelic.
Michelangelo’s art for all time stands apart
but there's something further to heed.
For there's a bit more to the fine metaphor
in the tale of the angel he freed.
“A beautiful thing never gives so much pain
as does failing to hear it and see it.”
For in all our insides a bright angel abides
and is just waiting for something to free it:
to remove all the parts which harden our hearts,
to chip out the darkness and pride,
to smooth the rough patches, to polish the scratches
and unshackle the angel inside.
© January 26, 2013
In the heart of the blackest abyss, down,
Down, in fathoms deep crypt, where light
Does not penetrate, and the structured protective hauls,
Of men, are crushed beneath pressures massive
Weight, of the oceans deepest depth.
This is truly inner spaces aquatic zone of the
Unknown, a realm of stilled silence frozen
In the icy currents of the barren straights.
Where prehistoric giants dwell, amongst the
Tidal flow, ambush predators, forgotten beasts,
From long ago, living krakens whom devour
All life, hidden within their dark domain.
In Poseidon's mighty anger, the waves answer,
To his fists of fury, hurricanes wrath of vengeance,
Gives birth to the perfect storms rage,
Vessels rise and than fall in the tidal surging
Waters.
Nay do the sailors cry out to the Lord God on high,
For redemption's salvation, but the sacrificial altars must
Be appeased, by flesh and bloods sacred offerings.
Summons does the mighty lord of the seven seas,
To release the last of the ancient Leviathans.
Two thousand hands, of a thousand dead men,
Heave and pull at the tethering heavy chains,
To this devil of the depths cage.
From within interments vaulted keep,
Captivities living spawn from hell, is
Unshackled and released, to reek havocs
Devastation above.
An aquatic spider, a maritime widow maker,
Flexing and in-flexing, its body’s motions,
Towards the surface, in pulsations rhythmic
Orchestrations, the gray giant is ready to strike,
With its killing arms extended wide, to grapple
At its unprotected prey, to engorge itself with
All living matter that it surveys, within its icy reach.
As bubbles shoot upwards breaking the waters
Surface, suction cups and talon claws are drawn
Outwards, aligning his eight legged tentacles of bone
Crushing death, behold the Giant Squid, instrument of
Lethal torture, a living killing machine from the fathoms
Deepest depths.
For it is the beast, the true essence of evil
Incarnate, and none survive its destructive wrath.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The sun has arisen
To greet the early morn
and drops of dew rest
on the leaves of Eden
The continuous murmur
of a water fount
for wrens to quench their thirst
chirping gossip as the day
moves on and
in her field of promises
she surveys the earthly soil
of what colors to place
and how much time to pursue
an orange hibiscus to the left
a Desert rose to the right
a vandeous orchid on the wall
other species in random
or to lay them in tandem
and slowly they begin to sprout
breaking out of their womb
tapestries of color
joining in a birthday song
and after they flower
she sits for a while
and anxiously waits
to see them smile
Poet Destroyer’s Contest
Garden
We celebrate the optimist
Extolling his cheery ways
As the light shines upon him
We think he's worthy of our praise
He seems to have the answers
With him the future's always bright
Convincing us that darkness
Is a form of blackened light
Not a thing seems to phase him
He surveys life from on high
Floating above the misery
With a twinkle in his eye
All the while the pessimist
Occupies a gloomy place
Warning us of the dangers
That none of us wish to face
We want rainbows and buttercups
A world that is cheerful and bright
We fear arbiters of darkness
For we think they will take our light
It's wise to listen carefully
The pessimist might be right
Don't choose a veil of ignorance
Dyed in Optimistic White
Such a long-winded line!
Still for me it is fine
Slips and rolls off the tongue
Simply meant to be sung
Sense it lacks by design.
Surveys give it a like,
Same to Andrews/Van Dyke.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Pleiades S Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Merryman
Placed 3rd
© 21st April 2021
so, i got to thinking
about all those words
planted in my language
where fertility grew them
to leave and stalk and pod
the farmer's words scatter
my fields like seed on clod
watered by thundering flashes
awash, fertilized and germinating
progeny seedlings, my own growth
in some time-lapse photography
writhing their creamy roots
into earthy loam and droning
on through a summer daze
into fruits of sweaty labors
on humid chlorophylled days
silks sultry green, stalking me
through rows and rows as far
as i can see, if i squint
the farmer, suspended in time
stands with his hands in pocket
or on some implement toed to soil
and surveys life's prospects
for this season, before the
days bake the green back into
the humus and the cornucopia
spills the field and orchard
this verse of the farmer's song
picked and stowed away cool
eyes closed now, ears gently
strain to hear, worldly phrasing
come from where? my larder
or some ancestor gleaning meaning
and dropping it into her apron
to carry home to hungry minds
to feed them something of today
and sustain them through a fallow
solstice and the chilled breeze
any cultivation harvested over
picked clean and harrowed flat
nearly time to plow it under again
while the farmer gazes the horizon
and sips something in his cup
© Goode Guy 2011-08-22
You taught me how a mortal should live
And this I value more than what Kings give,
Your meek gait from the church into the grave
Such long-lasting wisdom and inspiration gave.
You read the Scripture under the noontime shade
And this taught me lasting lessons that will never fade,
That hope is dead that comes not from the Savior above
And that the rest men seek in vain until they seek his love.
Had you left behind colossal measures of gold
Such that all before me unrequested bowed,
Vain I would grow and think everyone stunk
And treat my fellow men like unwanted junk.
But kind heavens loved your darling kid
And something greater upon him did,
The rare gift of faith the Almighty gave
And poured the water and blood that save.
When he surveys his surroundings and sees
The twinkle of the stars and the dancing of the trees,
He thinks of the eternal wealth of hope past death
And mocks the cares that come with fleeting breath.
[This poem first appeared in the anthology, "The Soul and the Singer," Young Publications, c. 1968. It was reprinted in my first poetry chapbook "The Lady in the Pink Hat," Candor Press, 1969.]
God rises from that distant hill
And surveys His wonder in silence still
Without reproach or bitter muse
For mankind's hostile subterfuge.
Not yet incensed with holy wrath
Against the impoverished aftermath
Of beauty laid in ruthless stubble
Amid earth's bent and broken rubble.
The mount remains in glory crowned
Majestic height is capped and gowned
And quietly repairs the ravaged simple
Chosen for the Almighty's temple
God rises from that distant hill
To frame the noble triune will
Responding to inhuman guise
With piercing but loving emerald eyes.
[From the note at the beginning, this poem was written sometime during 1967. I was twenty-six years old, at the time, but I had been writing poems since I was in elementary school. Most of them have been lost over the years.
This particular poem was always one of my favorites, and I was delighted to have it appear in an anthology by Young Publications, 1968.]
FIRST PLACE WINNER
for "The Throwback Challenge" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
March 8, 2022
Alone she sits at a table for two
In the corner bistro off Main
Cole Porter’s "I’ve Got You under My Skin"
Wafts softly throughout the room
After hours of lingering hope
She watches happy clients come and go
Bubbles of happiness fill their chatter
Laughter walks out trailing behind
Alone she sits and surveys the room
Even the wait staff now seems scarce
Time has vanished like steam in air
A waiter hints it is closing time
Table lights now give out a faint glow
Too much to bare, she decides to leave
But…O, how she loves him so! And though it's late
Still, she stalls… perhaps he will show up soon
10/'09
For Brian Strand's Contest-A haiga to Edward Hopper's "Automat"
Where the water washes white surfs across
Sand banks porous with green dreams in our hearts
Where the sun surveys the wet desert of loss
The salt thread like blood stitching together our parts
Find me there wandering the wailing shores
I am a new citizen with ancient desires still
Living on the restless rim of of crinkled azures;
Watching history bleach my memory of will.
Here I pine to see my mother whole as I am
Here I pray for justice from the impaled lamb
This Caribbean sea that pens my rage in me
Water where my ancestors footsteps no imprints leave
Of vast voyages now void on the Atlantic lea
This Caribbean sea in modern voice I cannot grieve
My people sundered like a broken ship
Mastless, anchorless, drifting drumless on weed
My people bleeding from tongue lash and whip
And no Cudjoe, Tacky, or Boukman to intercede
I am a citizen of the rim, a place undefined
In the subtle representations where I'm maligned.
Here in this world of diverse languages and shade
Across the bloodless salt of shrivelled water we trade.
Cuckoo Dancers
Discarded dusty beer bottle lying dormant on the tracks
Commuters await their carriage
Adorned in business like macks
Trees sway in gentle breeze
Capable of more tension,
Performing their shedding of leaves
Far too many to mention.
Pigeon jumps on pigeon
Mating season for all to see,
Another squirrel scurries across the tracks,
Across leaves and debris.
Solitary heron surveys the scene,
The dance of the platform,
The cuckoo dancers ensue.
Discarded shower gel lies half empty on the tracks,
How this could have got there, no one can tell
One person steps forward to check for his train,
Another steps back with woeful refrain
This pattern continues to emphasise my point,
Stemming from this anxiety a new dance I anoint.
Discarded crisp packet bounces gently across the tracks
Reminding me very much of a man on the moon,
Station clock shows the train arrival is now late,
Man grunts, swings his brolly...he is clearly irate.
Discarded cigarette pack fades gradually on the tracks
Whilst woman fixes make up, man kills time by playing with his phone,
Amazes me how people just can't leave them alone!
Man lights his cigarette in a reluctant fashion,
His car has broken down and he hates public transport with a fervent passion.
A multitude of people are gathered here today,
Business attire the name of the day
A brief case, a brolly, a black bowler hat,
And in some extreme cases
A flasher mack and a comedy 'tache!
Suddenly in the distance
A growing light appears,
A communal silent sigh of relief
As the train begrudgingly nears
Man stubs out his cigarette
As the train makes its approach,
In anticipation of his selection of coach.
Discarded Autumn leaf floating lazily across the tracks,
The platform is now empty
Awaiting its latest cuckoo dance!
Copyright
S Rose
In a weightless state of tranquility,
paraphrasing relentless thoughts of motion
in my head into words, which 'til now
have laid dormant in unsung verse, waiting
for you to shine brightly upon them.
Freshly painted impressions mark
the beginning of halcyon days, where gulls
hover just above waves that barely
kiss the shoreline, burying tiny toes
beneath the coolness of wet beached sand.
To what shall we compare thee or can
your effulgent beauty be measured
by metered stanzas of verse taking form
on rice paper and egg shells so that the yolk
slips out draining lucent into the earth's core.
Your wisdom surveys the high seas,
coursing through cavernous veins that harbor
quietly in safety channels, as zephyrs
challenge moist underbrush among youthful
lips, blowing innocent kisses in playful semblance.
Oscines sway in sync beneath heaven's domain,
bathing in rays of sweet luminosity,
as sun-drenched fossils rise, reborn,
reclaiming their gaiety to shine unobstructed,
teething along crevasses of incandescence.
Embrace these Sun days, reflecting
on fireside chats and old storybooks,
reciting euphonious tales that burn mellow,
rising to greet the eyes of omnipotence
with chants of celestial song and dance.
And to this place we call rapture,
let wings of sober doctrine reveal
where grace resides within Sol's castle,
waiting for the children to come forth
with clasped hands in joyful unison.
Such days will greet warmth openly,
without hesitation, so the orbiting
star becomes ever more pliant,
allowing whatever name you choose
to objectify it, to stand always...
Bright, within itself.
The silk clock melts on the horizon’s crest,
As shadows aim their arrows at the sun,
A marble eye surveys the tangled sequence,
Before the silver journey has begun.
The target is a mirror made of breath,
It shatters into singing hummingbirds,
To dance across the emerald fields of light,
Without a single, cold, acoustic word.
A telescope looks backward through the void,
Where vision aims to catch the quiet fire,
The geometry of space is now transformed,
To fulfill the spirit’s waking, slow desire.
Now rests the focus in the palm of sand,
A feather weight upon a heavy tide,
It waits to bloom upon the seeker’s point,
Where aim and destination coincide.
There at the gateway
To Heaven or hell
They come
When their living is done
To eternally sleep
Beneath the black clouds
That seep
Like ink
On a satin white sheet
Where the Raven stands
With a gun in her hand
Long tresses cascading in black
To touch the back
Of that plume-like gown
Of tiered layers
That fall to the ground
~~~~~
Of in the distance
There in the light
That boarders
The brink of night
Birds of a feather
Circle together
Screaming their song
Of fright
As---
The Princess of darkness
Surveys her kingdom
There in a sea of mist
Where those stone ships list
Lost souls set adrift
In a picture of---
Horror
And
Delight
~~~~~~~~
Written by: Elaine George
Inspired by the picture
For the contest: Among the dead
Eyes the color of twilight hours,
looks down from a canvas throne.
Captured for an eternity,
her languid form, in repose.
Queen of all she surveys,
within these crumbling walls.
Moth eaten Brocade, silk spider's web.
Marble stairs and dank halls.
Once the matriarch of a dynasty,
that lived beneath this roof.
She still exerts her own will,
as watches, uncaring, aloof.
She is within the very mortar,
that binds these ancient stones.
Her blood is on the very air,
that chills you to the bone.
The floors and she are now as one.
Listen! You can hear her footsteps.
There within the mournful wind,
hear her laughter where she once slept.
The ballroom still hosts soiree's.
Muted music of bygone years play.
While in the South Rose parlor,
you can feel her pull take sway.
She will conjole and pout,
until you agree to stay.
Then she'll lead you to the cellar,
where all her guests must pay.
These windows, on a stormy night,
show shadows walking by.
Tattered curtains fall into place,
while evil hides from prying eyes.
But do not feed the impulse,
to enter and investigate.
For within these walls, her spirit dwells
and for fresh blood, she lies in wait.
Paula Swanson
For the contest: A Creepy, Scary,
Haunted House Poem, Please
Sponsored by Constance La France
Placement: 2nd