Best Swamps Poems
When Thor struck his hammer
upon the flat ground on Earth
it was the pieces withstood the blow we named rock,
constructs we came to know as the mountains.
Even before that time
I crossed my fingers
wished I'd one day experience
...you.
I knew you before heavenly purity grew wings
before angels blessed hearts
invoking what we now know as love for our brethren .
I held you in the sphere of my understanding
as the lover I'd never meet but always carry
in the most cherished of my thoughts.
When Zeus handed me his quill and inkwell I knew
I would only use his gift for my inspired notes to you.
Though I was not blessed a poets words
like Robert Browning
he who took Elizabeth Barrett into his heart from the first time he read her
so I did with you.
Only laid blood on parchment
to declare the love you inspired in me.
Like a schoolboy's first kiss
was the day my eyes embraced the body of your work.
Before the first pine broke the ground, the first lark sang,
the first orchards rare enchanted the rainforests.
Before the first chameleon blended
into the multicoloured break of dawn.
Before infinite rows of wheat invitingly waved from the fields to greet Hera.
Before liquid rose to separate into
creeks, swamps, rivers, lakes with fish of all kinds
wasn't it me who rode the first seahorse just to make you smile.
Anything, all...
possible
with the swirl of a letter
the turn of a word.
I found an immense love tracking the shores of your fine poetry
always a chill that ran up my back.
No one.
No one!
Only you.
Your fine talent,
gifted,
honed
perfected...flaws and all...
moulds
sculpts,
breathes life into ordinary words,
creates poetry
owns me.
September 26 2016 MY
Categories:
swamps, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
In the daylight hours, I spend my time
So high on a perch, in a lofty pine
Where I fluff and comb my pretty plumes
And wait for the rise of the silver moon
I bob and weave on the top of the tree
Watching my world, in dimensions of three
My golden eyes fixed, on the fallen leaves
As I wait for the night, so patiently
At the set of sun, and the rise of moon
In the Croatan forest, near Camp Le Jeune
With a piercing screech, I take to the sky
On the wind, with silent wings, I fly
Over forest and swamps, on a winter night
Dipping and swaying like a wind-blown kite
In search of a rabbit, a rat or a bat
Until I find one, there's no turning back
Over Emerald Isle, and wind-swept dunes
I fly, so freely, beneath a silver moon
For miles along the Atlantic shore
Engrossed in the din of the ocean's roar
I hear from a distance, the stir of a hare
And see her dining, on sea grasses there
Her nibbling nose, like a lure, to my eyes
As I, with the speed of lightning, fly
Then swooping straight down, without a sound
I wrap my talons, so tightly around
The slow, soft beat, of a dying heart
As bits of fur, fly away in the dark
A Great Horned Owl, I'm a bird of prey
With the wind at my back, I make my way
With the chill of winter, a melt on my breast
I return triumphantly to my nest.
~~~
For contest sponsored by Eve Roper
Owls Personification
Placed: 2nd
Written: February 12, 2016
Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Categories:
swamps, bird, flying, nature,
Form:
Personification
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Categories:
swamps, daffodils, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
In life they take and take, dignity, peace. In life they trick us into nothing. Lower than soil; deeper than roots; sunk in swamps.
In death we live,
find paths past moon
and stars.
In life they destroy thoughts; desecrate bodies inside out; remove friendship; weapon spouses; alienate our children. They plough fields of fear; sow four seeds: shame, guilt, doubt and confusion; reap submission and self-harm. Their scythes we turn against ourselves. They grow... and grow.
In death we wash
our clothes in water clear
they will be new
In life our chains are made by man; their hands obscure us from the light; their hands rob us of food to feed, of clothes to cover; their hands make us shiver naked, invade and take.... and take.
with fingers spread
we wash our skin free of sin
we give forgiveness
In life we do not understand ourselves; dive head first into seas and mud; believe we are evil sinners. Puppets for far too long.
Our deaths their win
face them alive
and be complete
In life their winter will come soon, their blood will freeze, their organs crumble, their minds will scatter, food for birds, their shattered conscience preserved; they will do penance, time and again and again
We shall sit with our backs
against the tree
eat the permitted fruit
and be free
***
Copyright © Darren White
January 8, 2017
Categories:
swamps, death, life,
Form:
Free verse
My island slept for years in the care
Of Tainos, Caribs and Arawak
Their canoes on the sea breast bare
Dreaming of milk from manioc
The swamps unscarred, trees secure
Batos and songs rinsed in the azure.
Then came doom laden caravels came
Prancing with Conquistadores
Their swords to slaughter, then to shame
The Ave Marias slutted by whores
Whose blazing balls of canons denied
The sufficient death of the crucified.
My island was the Mary Magdalene held
For ransome in the frying lust
For gold, the continental wars spelled
A trembling virginity in the dust
A lost of idyllic grace, where bloody men
Sowed the evil inherited again and again.
From Spanish to French, Spanish to British
How callous is all history
A spectre publishing the marginal brutish
Shrivelled glory of identity.
And still my Mary, her alabastor box a gift
This tropic wonder, this lignum vitae of thrift
From empty tomb to broken hearted disciple
Evanglizes the Mahoe dawn
Over the Blue Mountain where peace ripple
On the motto, still the fawn
In the forest brings the stag to court
This island stands ready to file a good report.
Categories:
swamps, places
Form:
Verse
She Goes Back
By Lillian J. Jeffrey
Whispers flow like a river
she will be sold
sold or rented like a cash crop
Born on a Maryland plantation
her mother works the big house
Harriet runs barefoot in the woods
side by side her brothers, nursemaids
her younger brother, childhood ends at five
She is rented, sleeps on a cold, cold floor
shares food scraps with dogs
wounds yarn slow they say
checks muskrat traps in marshes
barefoot in icy waters she looks
Her lungs fill, fill with fluid, her body burns
she is sent back coughing, coughing, holds on
fights off bronchitis and measles
her mother helps nurse her back
Rented to take care of a baby, clean house
the baby cries, she’s whipped, whipped, she runs
runs like the wind, tumbles into a pig pen
pig fights for potato peels
Her stomach empty, rumbles, she
returns to her mistress, the whippings set
her back on fire, she is sent back.
Rented, rented to load lumber
hears Nat Turner led a revolt
losses fighting for freedom
rebellions spark hope in her heart
whispers spread she will be sold
Her master dies, the new master
rents her to a local builder
the builder permits her to rent herself
she makes money, saves, saves, runs, runs
bends with the wind.
Empty of fear, full of dreams of freedom
doors open, slips of paper lead her way
through the Underground Railroad,
a network of shifting safe houses
Her heart skips a beat,
beads of sweat roll, roll down her cheeks
she crosses, crosses the Mason-Dixon Line.
Free at last, lonely, life stands still
like a still life of shells and bones
she is cut off, she longs, longs for her family
The sounds of rattling chains, cracking whips,
echo in her ears, she hears her mother’s
cry, hears her mother's cry, she goes back,
helps her family, friends escape, escape
on foot, through cemeteries, swamps,
around hills, she never losses a passenger.
A will as strong as a rock
a will to endure, persevere
a will to help others
nineteen times she goes back
Shoes worn, spirits strong
more than three hundred slaves escape
Harriet Tubman is nicknamed “Moses”
for her fearless bravery,
thump, thump, thump
bounty hunters on her trail.
Categories:
swamps, anger, devotion, hope, passion,
Form:
Alliteration
Swamps are like places where dinosaurs roam
shadowed by ancient moss-draped trees.
A prehistoric world in shades of green.
I paddle my pirogue through algae foam.
Around me it's taciturn and serene
as I collect for whittling, cypress knees.
Fishermen, hunters, and I call it home.
Nature's garden profuse with wildflowers;
cattails and swamp iris in brown and blue.
An alligator, inert near the banks.
I sit and gaze at the beauty for hours.
For my primitive domain, I give thanks -
for the bass I caught, simmering in stew,
and for herbs I use for healing powers.
In the swamp, it's as if time has stood still.
Under lily pads there lurks big bullfrogs
hiding from herons and the egret.
I can hear them calling out their trill.
Time in my cabin I never regret.
Life is peaceful in these foggy bogs.
I ready myself for night's misty chill.
Sinister snakes slither in shallow brine
and cling to low branches overhead,
trying to catch the last ray of sun.
I descry them while checking my line
then gather up moss, and when that's done,
I will stuff it inside my mattress bed.
Living in my swamp suits me just fine.
_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_
January 21st, 2016
Human Nature Contest
Sponsor: Marugu Mo
Categories:
swamps, life, nature,
Form:
Verse
I made a trip to New York
and surely looked like a dork
staring at the sky
scrapery so high
(and sometimes ogled a nork*)
I took a walk to the dock
heard so many kinds of talk
from seething masses
(and some were asses**)
all I could do was just gawk
I went out to Ellis Island
'cause Woodie*** says it is myland
and it is yours too
it just wouldn’t do —
to exclude folks from the high lands
deserts, swamps or wherever.
I think we should endeavor
(since most of us once,
were just immigrants)
to welcome them forever
or give it to first peoples,
tear down our pious steeples.
Stop saying we care
(if it is hot air)
Stop our slaughter of sheeples!
I tend to ramble a lot.
My trip to the melting pot?
Was a WOW I’d say
and maybe one day
I will return at a trot.
Salute to souper Ilene
(a fan of, I’ve always been)
and to that Billy
who is so silly****
They live in that crazy scene!
~~~~
asteriskus explanus:
*aussie slang word (google it)
**not all were asses — overall I found New Yorkers much less rude than I had expected (based on what I’d been told)
***Guthrie - the folksinger
****According to hisself, souper Sillybilly Thekidster
Categories:
swamps, nonsense,
Form:
Limerick
Kind-hearted, loving and compassionate
Dane Ann would jump through hoops to please a friend
But by a treacherous quest she’s beset
In Everglades’ swamps she wants to descend
She seems to think she can take photographs
Of huge alligators and crocodiles
And though Dane Ann has many well-honed crafts
When I speak of the danger, she just smiles
On shore gators run 50 miles per hour
So two mature ladies won’t pose a threat
Their teeth so sharp, personalities dour
One look at us their appetites would whet
Dear friend, I’ll take you where you want to go
Because I care very much – je t’adore
You want close-up shots; the fear in me grows
As gators draw near, will you shut the car door?
*Je t’adore is French for “I love you.”
Dedicated to Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen who thinks she can outrun the gators :)
Categories:
swamps, adventure, animals, funny,
Form:
Quatrain
On a dark Friday night, creature crawling
The darkness silenced, frogs in swamps shuts
Croaking and the hissing create muted at once
To perceive the whistlers whistling in turns
PaMushika-shika, To board home, Combies
After being dropped off by the combi Pahasha
I opted for a quick thriving by the darks, Ana
Sisi Pamumvuri. A quick one to say, quench
My absurd sexual appetites, lips left so dried...
Two steps forth, leaking my white rimmed lips
A bite too, appreciating a sultry maze in front
Never did I thought of my ED condition. Oh
Had long forgotten about understanding my ed
And his symptoms, Ed and my lifestyle as well
His common causes I had drawn a blank eye.
A short skirts fitting her slendern torso, as of
My utterance she became the defined beauties
Of the night, Eh... so eloquent alike Mugabe's
Speech in Native language, mocking the chaps
Whom taught him of vowels a e i o u. A ei ou
Quick to react, she gets to talk business as of
Her routine, A five dollar note for short time
Not a bad fortune for her well decorated torso
In her dark room I found myself in, undressing
And her radio, powered on spelling the melting pot
It spelt of the misfortunes of the domains vividly
How we queue in long impetuous lines to refill
How the price hiking and shelves emptying wry
How the bond note manifest into bondage, more...
And more dilemmas spat by the voice in her radio.
The heraldings left me a quagmire, I was stunned
In a state of confusion and conflicts, I was naked
So rinsed were my thoughts of independence awry
And to her nakedness I found not any pleasure more
An ED to her rescue, Victims of circumstances
Never did I thought of stress to lead me an ED
Depression, anxiety, and alcohol often trigger it.
In this case maybe my physical factor of diabetes,
My kidney disease and blood vessel diseases been the culprit.
An Erectile dysfunction to her rescue. Victims of ED.
Categories:
swamps, allegory,
Form:
Quatrain
To ride the sea is a pleasure and a curse
as huddle of gulls, starfish dart from nowhere
enchanting frolic on breakers, they traverse
into buoyant laps with crystal tides so rare.
My arms swivel a distance while I immerse
from deep lures of an islet, beyond compare;
yet once, twice... roughest torrents did choke my lungs
engulfed by coils of a dunk, into waves’ tongues.
I awake on swamps of moss , hurt like trapped cord
from a hillside , birds echo their fiercest drawl;
reviving my anxious glides with crests adored
for the terror -thrill of waters makes me stall.
As the bashing of rapids drills more pain on board
this dread, dread of drowning snuffs a night-breaths' pall...
though I cringe, hurt again from a sail, outright,
I’d rather face danger to unleash my fright.
If it hurts so bad, why do we do it?
Contest of Silent One
--------------------
[11 syl lines per requirement of the form;
10 syls likewise acceptable]
--------------------
6/19/2016
Categories:
swamps, courage, fear, hurt,
Form:
Ottava rima
I need a Hand from Heaven because Hell is all around
Enemies come with force to take a Godly man down
Smiles turn into frowns and frowns turn into tears
Flooding the valley with my hurts, hates, and fears
Making it clear...like a crystal chariot
Exposing evil ones...like creeping Judas Iscariots
With whips and lariots I get slashed and rubbed raw
I need a Hand from Heaven cause I can hear the devil call
I need a Hand from Heaven as the gruesome grip my soul
They push, pull, and drag me into the swamps they call their homes
I run but I can't hide as I turn another corner
LIke a fish out of the water, in the pan and on the burner
It's getting warmer as the heat comes in a hurry
I need a Hand from Heaven as fire turns into fury
I need a Hand from Heaven way down here in the depths
Where darkness swallows light and my savage soul is stressed
I wanna be blessed and to live in holy power
I want freedom from this dead zone where the devil gains his power
I want liberty from lunacy
God, will you bind this broken heart
I need a Hand from Heaven as You lead me through the dark
Categories:
swamps, god,
Form:
Blank verse
She’s a poet with no name
A pseudonym her claim to fame.
Without sight she moves countless hearts
When with passion and panache
dusts off her mind,
Swamps the world with allegory
And tells it as it is and when
She touches the joy on cherished lips
Feels the warmth of our smile.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Categories:
swamps, joy,
Form:
Free verse
The leaves were turning red and gold;
And frost was in the air.
When they rounded up the Acadians,
From Miquelon and Saint Pierre.
It was a time for groaning;
A cry from Cajun lips.
When they rounded up those Frenchmen;
And loaded them on ships.
So they came to "Louisiane;"
A strange and far-off land.
But thrived mid pines and cypress.
A hardy, cheerful band.
They learned to build the pirogue,
And find odd sorts of meat.
For in the swamps of "Louisiane";
The Cajun had to eat.
They learned to cook the Gumbo;
Which is a special dish;
But key to their survival;
Was a little Red Craw-fish.
The "Mud-bug" some folks call it.
But it's cooked with lots of love.
It's found in shallow water;
Which the South has plenty of.
It is a time for dancing;
It is a time for fun.
When the Cajuns get together;
And the the Red Craw-fish are done.
You boil them in some water;
And throw in lots of spice.
Some corn and some potatoes;
And some ice tea would be nice.
The Cajuns love their Craw-fish
Though it's been 200 hundred years.
Since they left their home in Canada,
And cried those bitter tears.
But the Cajun is resourceful;
Making use of what he can.
He thrived to spite the English;
To prove he was the better man.
Categories:
swamps, allusion, angst, celebration, community,
Form:
Rhyme
Thickets, Swamps And Forests
Travelling through the thickets, swamps and forests
The trail you walk takes you through an unseen world
Massive trees shade the rocky trail
Trees born of recent fires reach for the sun
Others older as your country itself shade their offspring
Ferns reach their fronds reach out searching the moist air
Dew left by the cool nights sparkle like diamonds even in the shade
Moss covers the rocks where springs flow from the ground
Springs of water made pure by grey, cold limestone
Animals of every kind hide in the dense thicket
Fearfully watching your every move
Few people care to see what you are seeing
The beauty of everything nature has ever created
Beauty to be left alone by those who wish to destroy it
Those who wish to make every forest a hotel
Those who wish to cut down trees to make paper
And those who just hate anything left in its natural state
Thickets, swamps and forests are like beautiful women
To be loved, caressed and cherished
Allowed to grow in their own ways and not be shackled
Love the wild world the way you would a woman
In all her beauty she will return the favor and be there for you
More beautiful and gracious year after year
That is Mother Nature’s promise to all who care about her child
If only we could answer her
Protecting the thickets, swamps and forests
The world would be a better place
Categories:
swamps, hope, introspection, nature, beautiful,
Form:
Free verse