Best Swampy Poems
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.
Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family,
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.
Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log,
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.
In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black,
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.
Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Madame Mistress, ebonies princess,
Southern comforts golden jewel,
A golden beauty down south does dwell.
She hides many secrets beneath her,
Glittering mask of mystery's mystic spells.
A dark priestess is this Cajun queen,
Black widows magic women,
Known as Ms. New Orleans.
In her crimson gown, trimmed by
Velvet's purple hues, she smiles
Behind her white lace fan.
A beguiling angel is she the devils
Own kindred.
The voodoo queen of the swampy delta,
Ruling over the shadow demons,
Whom guard the everglades.
Underneath fancy face and social grace,
Lies the misbegotten heart of a
Witches soul.
Here the trumpets sound at,
La Carnival as minstrels stroll,
Down Bourbon Street with rhythmic,
Precision's precise step.
Come join in celebrations grand parade,
The Maude Gra. Where anything goes,
Here things are forgotten as the sun rises,
This grand lady of beauty's legacy's charm.
Presses one finger to her redden lips,
Speaking not more than a hushed whispers
Sigh carried across bayou.
Thus does the Spanish moss weep, for
Those lost souls swallowed whole,
Beneath nights dark covenant of death.
Ghostly images walk the muddy side shores,
Phantom spectators existing as prisoners,
Trapped in limbos web, a thin fine line
Between the living and the dead.
Beware lone travelers, those for whom,
Seek mysteries glamor and mystic,
Of the southern by ways.
All are welcome to taste our spicy
Hospitality.
Yet beware pay homages respect,
To Mz. New Orleans, she after all takes
Great care of her own.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Johnny-Jump-Ups nestle into the forest floor mosses,
Along with dainty Jack-in-the-Pulpits hiding beneath
The larger fronds of swampy ferns soaking up moisture
From the dew-laden flowering branches of laurel
Where I find myself dreaming in the verdant woodland,
Edging the meadow beyond the cluttered beaver stand.
A canopy of vine-entangled branches, a vault-like nave,
Provides a sanctuary of sacred candles dimmed for mass
A pew-less haven for wounded souls, and tiny chipmunks,
Who scurry to find isolated spots for quiet meditation
While grebes and gallinules make up the choir ensemble;
A purple swamphen takes up the guttural baritone line.
The late morning is mine, sitting along the narrow trail
In a cross-legged yoga pose with arms across my knees,
Soaking up the faint sweet smells of sassafras and pine
And slipping into what I sometimes call my “blue funk”
Where nothing on earth matters outside this quiet shelter,
Dozing softly, I dream of a utopian sweet, elusive peace.
FIRST PLACE WINNER (TROPHY)
June 25, 2022
Submitted to: "Poetry Marathon Mile 5" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Written on June 3, 2021
Selected for FEATURED POEM
On the front page of All Poetry,
September 13, 2021
GOLD MEDAL WINNER
"5 Golds or Less - Profanisaurus" Poetry Contest
All Poetry, December 11, 2021
Appeared in "It's Still Poetry"
Poetry Soup Anthology - 2021
CreateSpace, Amazon publication
written on time’s page
with finite syllables of dust
he spelled my heritage
from earth to sky
along an umbilical line of faith
we fluttered from the lips of fingers
fully form for purpose
written on an invisible calculus
that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa mind
I have an argument
against the beginning begotten from a bang
before atom or element
I have an argument against force and natural laws
at work without mass or embodiment
for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
I have an argument
that the singularity could not become more than fragment
of energy again if a single atom explode
its forces flocking away from fusion
for energy fission to explode
a theory
flimsy as spiders web
dethroning my majesty gulped
in primeval slime unlinked history from love
minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering
in vain
the whip cracks louder than pain -
and on our black blistered backs … crumbling
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain
they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
for all our labors, lost, and grievance
what bang can buck the strain
and bring us broken souls to glory again?
Satin Winged Flowers ...by Carrie Richards and Poet Destroyer
_______________________________________
Let's watch how they cluster in whirlwind ballets,
lifting like clouds from the dark swampy ground.
Burrowed in sunlight, then full-bloomed at midnight
Bouquets of white moths wings, will gather like flowers.
Rising from shallows, with satin-soft petals,
circling meadows in small constellations.
With great expectations, they rise in their journey.
Star-struck, while seeking the light of the moon.
______________________________________
8/25/15
Trying to recapture the joy of those winter days is difficult. School cancelled: sun shining through the sheer, white, curtains into an all too girlie room, the sound of a tea kettle's whistle, the ice cold feeling of oak boards on bare feet, between scatter rugs; I ran to the kitchen. The transistor radio sounded, still calling out school closings. The snow sifted down.
bright sun
sparkles on snowflakes –
the plow roars
Quick phone calls, punctuated with giggles, roused a gaggle of neighborhood girls. White skates in hand, I burst out the door. I rushed toward the swampy area behind the neighbor’s house. My rubber boots crunching crust above the powdery fluff. At the edge of the watery wood, I stood staring. Boys, I see the boys in there. They have their skates on already. Tommy Maloney, my crush, skated toward me.
his black waves
dusted with snow –
whoops of delight
A hummock of snow-topped grass served as a seat. I removed my boots from beneath the zip sides of snow pants and try to tie laces new white skates. Once done I stood wobbling, weak-ankled. Tommy laughs, as knock-kneed I attempt a glide toward him falling on my butt. Oh how his eyes sparkled, an Irish rogue at twelve. Kneeling, Tommy began to re-lace my skates. I remember wishing, so much, he would kiss me.
First Contemporary haibun online Fall 2013
Published in Winter Legends 2014
Santa in Florida
By Elton Camp
In Florida, Christmas ain’t so grand
Santa’s sleigh won’t slide on sand
And not many children there stay
Most of the folks are old and gray
Santa’s thick, red suit will be right
To keep away the mosquito bite
Children have to leave him a Coke
On its foul water, he would choke
In land that’s so flat and swampy
The old elf just has to feel grumpy
After Florida, Santa’s not seen later
He got swallowed by an alligator
The pieces of peace were handpicked
Picked in the heart of the night
Shredded for an aspiration
To clutch the lone torch contained by the dark
A glimpse for some unusual rank
Then comes the arrival of time
With the angst that grow by day
Comes the fast ticking of time
Hastening all; unnerved in the bay
At this moment
Love was censure by lust
In the euphoria of the game
Featured by despair and shame
The eventful spar between the dogs and the baboons
And then comes the contest of blood
The Spartans, the spectators all flood
Melancholy yet to befall
Then it begins
Passing through the span of day
Scotching rage of the sun
Little rain, little dry, little sounds of gun
But the dogs and the baboons
Tailback in fear; scowl
And little by little
Comes casting and counting
And after a little while
Anger was unshackled
Accompanied by lament
Yet, not enough raison d'être to toss away the tot and the bathing water
Then comes the voice of command
We were deprived!
It is our time!
Kill them anywhere you find them!
Rigging, rigging, rigging!
Peace was shattered
Broken into pieces
Like a bowl that fail out of safe
And pandemonium overtook all
After a little calm
Scores of guiltless essences met their Waterloo
Mostly in the cities they ad-hoc
Like those trapped for a catch
And their figures continue counting
Some unassumingly lost to the swampy woods
Searched by trained dogs and their masters
Into the depth of the swampy woods
Bled; death; covered in mud.
You can almost swim across large parts of Florida, swim and
walk a few steps and then plunge again into the cool sexual
embrace of yet another blue swimming pool.
You can almost cross the peninsular of Florida by using the
fairways, the greens, and the links of the many golf courses.
In the everglades and other swampy parts a dragonfly can flit
from one half-submerged alligator head to another flying
miles in that hopping-stones way.
Florida has backwoods cracker-holdouts where native
Floridians sit on lawn chairs where there are no lawns. They
rest and watch the snowbirds arriving on passenger jets that
never cease coming. The folks that live out there may often
pull a 'cold one' from a cooler and spit in resigned disgust,
that copious spittle seeps into the the earth to nourish
earthworms that delve and wriggle creating minor upheavals
that occasionally weaken the subsoil forming sink holes
elsewhere. You can travel from one sink hole to another;
navigate a way around sunken cars and homes by following
the ever breaking news and ‘road-out’ police reports.
All these observations are a mighty huge exaggeration and
a rather shaky hypothesis for sure but so is the notion of
Florida.
Florida exists in the heat of the moment where all things
merge into a Disney Fantasy one often displayed upon front
yards, where ubiquitous flamingos preen; plastic garden
adornments that in Florida are a protected species.
On Willard Creek, a marsh does lay,
upon a soft soliloquy of a dormant day...
The moss medusa within her array,
spreads a garden green for our display...
The water lilies conveniently convey,
as the toads watch their passive prey...
Where butterflies boast their ballet,
as sunshine seduces the swampy bay...
Watching rushes, shrubs and sedges grow,
at the edge where rivers flow...
Tempered turtles hiding in their burrow,
as snakes slither in the meadow...
Wading birds chirp on their chateau,
the insects crawl from their embryo...
All is calm amidst the snarling slow,
and spiders spread their webby row...
The Willow wallows as to weep,
and her branches bundle reaching steep...
Beautiful butterflies earn their keep,
as they slumber within their sweep…
The feisty fireflies flock like sheep,
as the crickets cradle before they creep...
All this theatre before they sleep,
marshes, and butterflies for all they reap.
____________________________________________
July.03.2020
butter flies and marshes mellow
Sponsored by~ Kai Michael Neumann
Placed 7'th...Thank You
Thousand thoughts rummage the grey fluff.
Gloomy, godawful voices thump in self-talk
"I'm an idiot, a loser,...... it's all my fault".
Autopsies of the past, tear my flesh,
Regrets of a decade, devour my heart.
Rant of betrayals suffocate my breath.
Capricious sentiments egg me to a wreck.
Loud conch shells stalk me in heavy weight.
I sink in the abyss of "What'll people think?,"
I wish I could not hear what my mind says.
Isn't that echo the shadow of my sound ?
With a mind of steel, the Ventriloquist vowed,
I'll flash away that swampy dummy puppet..
I'll end the endless sabotage of that parrot..
It's my journey, .. my thoughts, ..my dreams.
PLACED FIFTH IN THE CONTEST
13th January, 2019
Plucking the Poisonous Parrot Contest
Sponsor Maureen McGreavy
Crazy Mick the Irishman, with trademark bike and overcoat,
wheeling his way back into town, classed as a tarnished silly goat.
His hair was long and curly; spoken words barely understood.
His manner gave impression he's up to no flamin’ good.
Shopkeepers grew an extra eye toward their advertised outside,
watching Mick out on the street as up and down he'd ride.
This man was on outcast; different to the folks they know,
a little dirty; is a vagrant, and he acts a little slow.
Mick’s first stop the butchers shop; bargained for a ‘snag’ or two.
The butcher he felt pity, so threw in an extra few.
This pleased Mick no end as he left the butchers door.
His feast was quick and final; ate the meat been given raw.
The pub through past experience had little time for Mick,
for beer became his nemesis; urged forward his fighting trick.
Too many times Mick’s antics had forced him to the street,
with bloodied nose, blackened eye; always getting beat.
Compromising was the bottle sale - take half a dozen and then go.
Sit over by the railway line and then drink them nice and slow.
Young kids without feelings teased Mick in his toxic state,
laughing as he chased them, for he'd stagger and gyrate.
When Mick disappeared, our town wondered where he went.
Had he found a home! Had he died! Where has his time been spent!
It seems in potato season when the pickers were required,
Mick was slogging in the paddocks where potato tops had died.
The 'swampy' people honoured Mick, for he had no fear of sweat.
He'd bend his back the furthest; earnt the spud farmer’s respect.
They saw a different person than the townie’s man un-trusted.
Hard working in the hot sun; not the drunk so often busted.
Mick perished one cold winter, alone inside a pickers shack.
Long after picking season ended, so what had brought him back?
He must have known his life was ebbing; left for where he felt no shame.
Spud farmers heads bowed 'round his grave - but not one townie came.
Pray, if the Gods love us all so much
Why is it that they never do open the skies up
And save us?
Why is it that they remain silent
Letting our hearts bleed
Letting our tears pour
Letting our delusions get even more
Misleading?
Do they really love us then?
Or are we hated
To such an extent that we deserve
Our sorrowful fates?
Why, if loved I am by the rulers of the cosmos
My prayers be sent then
To them
To take me out of this murky swampy land
Before my bones get too old
To carry myself
Before my body refuses to keep on
Shouldering me!
Pray, I am sure the cosmos hears me
Knows it too well
Of the allegiance I hold to the Gods
I lived, merely to find my purpose
Purpose which turned out to be void
As, in the end, the world unveiled herself
And brandished her sword haughtility at me,
Causing my glass cage to break into irrecuperable pieces!
I have nothing left for me here
No duty to carry out
No dues to repay
And I am defeated by the mundane existence!
Why, I shall keep waiting to see
As long as my will remains with me
I shall keep waiting, to see
If the Gods do love me!
I shall be sure of their feelings
The day I shall unzip my mortal self
And unfold my wings,
Set for worlds which are yet to be explored!
An eerie mist spreads across the swampy moors,
At midnight's tolling hour, beware peasant or royal,
Whom travels the hidden roads and lost by ways, lit
From the light of the elliptical moon.
Here underneath illusions dark shroud, cryptic creatures
Revel in the shadows of mortal fear.
Stay upon the well-worn path my friends,
For evil specters, may lurk beneath the thickets wild,
Within the forest depths of undergrowth and evergreen.
Baba Yaga, appears from the vaporous fog,
Behold a withered old hag is she,
Wrapped in filthy torn rags discarded by society,
A wondering spirit of discord, feasting upon,
The souls of the innocent.
Accursed is she this vampiric witch, with the
Poisonous breath of whispering death, and smiling
At the bedsides of her deadened victims!
Lusts changeling of betrayals wounded heart,
A seductive temptress, enticing mankind’s mortal flesh,
With illusions of passions flame, seducing the weak,
Than possessing and consuming them utterly!
She whom blazed the trail for Hansel, and Gretel
Of legends folkloric fame.
Beware no candies sweet, does her house so rests upon,
But nay its skulls and bones remains piled mountain high,
What an alien looking thatched hunt, balancing upon
Giant chicken legs!
Singing in mischievous incantations, this darkened creature
Stirs her caldron pot black, tossing another poundage’s
Flesh and sinew into it just for tastes, good measure, as the
Wicked embers bite, at the chill in the evening air,
Laughing with a sinister cackle, dinner is almost ready,
Come along children of the light, I'm willing to share!
I'd dare not attempt to sneak a peek, inside if I were you.
All you God's faithful, and little children alike,
For in the woodlands wild, a mysterious phantom
Stalks the unseen path by night, and her name is Baba Yaga!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Electromagnetic Radiation
Secretly – unbeknownst to me – you were holding out a light
of hope for me to see, to reach for, to bask in, some day.
If I had only the foresight, the insight, the wisdom to
have seen, to believe could become a reality some day.
You were / are the Angel that held the light of my essence
in the palm of Your, hand, so gentle yet strong.
I am so SORRY that I sentenced to death, to the grave,
that flame of hope – that in my stupidity had extinguished.
The Mist in Decay
Into the quagmire of, into the swampy dregs of
aloneness have I relegated my soul, my spirit –
to become trapped inside a forest of putrefying
driftwood images – lost forever the potential
for love from, or to love and have that love be desired.
Love is now left to rot, in the black arms of Hell’s
icy embrace ( forever and a day ) because of my lack
of wisdom, my lack of faith – in myself, my desirability –
in your motives, your reasons for keeping me at bay,
for continually pushing me away.
I am so SORRY Moneca, for my lack of wisdom,
for my lack of faith in any kind of future,
in were you stated you wanted to go with me,
in my blindness, my stupidity, my ineptness,
my perceived / projected insecurities.
I am SORRY that in my stupidity, I believed
that what you constantly conveyed to me
throughout our time together
- expressed verbally and in your physical reactions
to my attempts at expressing affection for you –
would not be seen through the veil of blind love .
I am SORRY that I believed in what you said to me,
what I thought was a truth, was a reality, was my fate.
I am SORRY !, I am sorry that I could not see,
would not see, did not see.
Love
Bill .
B. J. “A” 2
October 6th 2007