Best Sward Poems
Flanders: Summer 1920
The summer zephyr softly grooms
The golden ripening barley field
Makes gentle waves of feathered plumes
And earth by nature’s hand is healed
Mere two years since these fields were torn
The bland mild landscape ripped and stained
Dark gashes scarred the growing corn
And blood splashed red the fertile plain
Now scarlet poppies dash the sward
And sway as in bucolic hay
Thus all is peace in sweet accord
The lesson learned, we’ll not replay
The war to end all wars has schooled
The nations hence by peace be ruled
Locked in my cabin I can bare to think
turn to the rocks and let it smash and sink,
our voyage's end seems to be on the brink,
alas a RAIDERS ship now turns to a mild drink,
"captain" a voice at my cabin door screams out,
as I reach from my sward and stand firmly stout,
" our ship lyes in the thickest of fog and without,"
if I listen to the words they are words of doubt,
I steady my hand with a drink and my fate as well
I open the door and the a crushing angry sea I smell,
one step out and calm my ship sits still and without yells,
looking into the eyes of the broken I see withered shells,
how could this be this is my ship and it escaped me,
a tyrant in my days of old I sit calm speechless as a tree,
no mutiny no sabotage only a crew unwilling to hear my plee,
a ship over run by blind servants and disregard for my decree,
the ski clears as the seas water turns blue,
a smile from faces as if waiting for an accrue,
a dead mans ships drifts on waters and starts anew,
my body plunges into the sea and even at my death I knew,
the soul tamed by ones lovers kiss has no purpose,
a mans word floats unheard willingly disregard and missed,
and a captain can only rule until another strips him of his ship,
now forgotten and gone this ship floats lost and unequipped.
Our religious institutions
Are now filled with spiritual prostitution
Worshiping dollar bills
Instead of the one whose blood spilled.
Preachers administer biblical laxatives
Making many thin
Where is the Holy Spirit?
Who is supposed to shine within?
There is Accountability
And Responsibility
When your flocks is left emaciated,
Emotionally raided
But you’re afraid you’ll be hated.
The word of God is sharper than any two edged sward
If you eat the real gospel great will be your reward
Complicated the living word that is simple
Afraid the sheep won’t leave with dimples.
Ear tickling messages burning in flames
When you were supposed to bring Gods name fame
The truth hurts.
Hurt me with the truth!
Eternity is a long time to suffer for my youth.
Hypnotically medicated
By an enemy who is dedicated
Did you ever really give God your all?
Did you really answer his call?
The assignment rest in the makers hands
And, yes there are spiritual demands.
Everyone these days is offended
I rather you offend me now
Cause the word says every knee,
Every knee will bow!
You’re Hungry with in
Because you worship your sin
Looking everywhere but to the king
Ruler over everything.
Many cry into the wind
Pride stops you from confessing your sin
The wages of sin is death,
Do you know if you get a next breath?
The waves are crashing
The earth is groaning
Masses are roaming.
The rain longs to wash it away
But only you can choose life today.
BY: Sabina Nicole
His day was shattered when Harrison Ford,
Crashed his plane on the golf course sward!
Thankfully, he escaped with only a minor contusion,
But he sure created a humongous divot in all the confusion!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Now
I dream
Aimlessly
Always searching
Looking, seeking yet
Never finding
My lost love
Gone long
Ago
Eyes
So deep
So tranquil
Soft and gentle
Yet full of such mirth
And happiness
Joy was found
In her
Eyes
Black
Silken
Flowing hair
Framing a face
Delicate and bright
Those dark tresses
Caressing
Skin so
White
Blood
Red lips
Ruby bright
How I long for
Her passionate kiss
Setting aflame
Such hunger
In our
Blood
Joined
As one
In our need
For each other
Our bodies entwined
Moving as one
In loves bliss
Our souls
Linked
Days
Spent in
Each other's
Loving embrace
The world put aside
For our pleasure
And delight
Each long
Night
Tears
Gently
So softly
Falling upon
The empty green sward
Wherein she sleeps
Nothing but
Endless
Tears
Tranquil day, Spring on the flood,
birds busy with their careworn caution
just see how their skills unite to feed
and stay the course of life as plants
via for so successful photosynthesis
as we garden out of delightful duty,
amateur to our joy in the carefree sun
and quiet times in mid week as even
the traffic is sunny side up as most
neighbours at work and children at
school, so a rare tranquil state to dig
delightfully the postage stamp kitchen
garden and mow the lawn post noon
as the dew departs and the sward though
winning no awards except mine for not being
too wet or too dry, just right to walk, run, sit
on with the curtain wall of beach with barbican
trees of defence to keep us safe from cars and trucks
and soak any surface water underneath this green
copper beauty beach hedge, the envy of the neighbours.
Cutting out dead plants in serious style and pleasantly potting
assorted plants for a bounty of baskets that defy weeds to do
their worst as ours is a garden of England, so weeds warn that
flowers, vegetables and fruit will fructify successfully if we do not
take it too seriously for you know what they say, a perfect garden
predicates a lack of a love life, but she or he who loves a garden
cannot surely be loveless in their own life now that Spring has sprung.
Pen is a silent friend
Pen is a silent friend,
Its power is greater than......
The storm and the thunder, the waves of the sea
The weapons of destruction, if you think and see
Pen is the mirror of heart and mind
Its power is immortal and wide
Sharper than sward
In its every written word
It saved the histories, the knowledge and the memories
The wisdom of the scholars, imaginations and dreams
It gives spontaneity to the feelings and emotions
Free from hindrance and hesitations
Its silence is deep than the depth of the sea
Its calm shock is greater than the earthquake
In its silent power hidden great revolution
It is the silent solution in the problems of resolution(s)
Command on words is in your hand
Pen is your silent and powerful friend
Pick up the pen and write something
Bring in words everlasting spring
Its price is not, but more than diamond and gold
Pen my silent friend is very old.
All Rights Reserved
Poetess S. Nadia Azam Shah Bukhari.
Black gold, velvet beauty rose bud
Lost in thy dreams you carry
Found dying in mourning flood
Glancing upon your last stanza’s guard
Silent mantra and strips of sward
Love song breathe sadness, farewells wary
Pain thunders unmanageably hard
Shard ashes buried once tainted by lifeblood
10/27/2016
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- Poetry Contest : One Specific Rhyme Scheme
Sponsored by: Laura Loo
Rhyme A - B - A - C - C - B - C - A
A cowboy don't need no plushy pew or a rantin' preacher,
Pontificatin' from his pulpit aerie as his spiritual teacher!
He gits his religion from (to him) a more gratifyin' source,
Cherishin' God's Great Creation from the saddle of his horse!
He sits on a log contemplatin' the rigorous work to be done,
Sippin' joe from a tin cup, admirin' the risin' of the sun.
He saddles his faithful horse, Clyde, for the long day's ride;
His old dog, Rex, with tail a-waggin', trots along at his side.
He lifts his eyes up to yon Pikes Peak a-thankin' the Lord,
For sech majesty and the herd of antelope a-grazin' on the sward.
He crosses a stream and pauses listenin' to its soothin' hymn,
As water caresses stones - sublimer than a cathedral choir to him!
He dismounts, removes his sweat-stained hat and takes a break,
'Neath a ponderosa pine savorin' the breeze from a nearby lake.
Cheery meadowlarks serenaded the old cowpoke in acapella style,
Easin' the strain of his challengin' day and makin' livin' seem worthwhile.
His workday was endin' and he ambled home along the dusty trail,
To the bunk house where he'd be fed beans and bacon without fail.
As the sun settled in the west, a glorious spectacle caught his eye;
The Master Artist had painted a most beautiful sunset in His sky!
No! A cowboy don't need no cathedral in which to worship the Lord!
His redemption is reverin' God's Creation for his eternal reward!
It is awe, but another day of doing of non pleasure.
For the pleasurable is not of reach.
Yet, it is the unforbidden fruit of my work that yearns to speel out on
these pages of creation, of which I cannot reach.
For colored sketches would send them to their plot.
And I am but a loser in this untriumph novel of life.
No Nobleman to coo my nights of need.
Many of empty goblets to hide the night that is not to be spent.
So be it.
But then the pleasurable passion of a Nobleman nor a position of wealth
was never what it hast been said to be.
For is it just a dream within my imagination.
Yet I am but a boy?.
Neah, in thus life of passion and woos?.
It is that of the late nineteenth century yet I have been placed in a sixteenth century mind.
Awe, but thee is a Goblet and thou is a sward of time.
And to appease the sweet mind of thine innocents is to cut my own throat, for it is to be
pleasurable to abe beyond thus world of wretched time.
Awe, for the severed flesh beneath my chin is but a mere sting as the liquid of red
brilliance begins to seep.
For as I lie here in the warmth of my blood chills run through my body.
I begin to soil myself in a sense of my final satisfaction in thus life.
And as my sights fail I was to take a final glance at the greenery outside my window.
At last I have fallen fast asleep for a final time never to awaken.
How I shall miss my Goblet.
Copyright@3-2010 MaryM.McShirley/Kilker
A mist is coming off the dishwasher sea,
Noon daylight is wearing thin,
A dormouse rustles last year’s leaves
The village sward shines verdant green
So much is done, so much will come,
So much is still to do!
So, we’ll make a friend of the soft grey dawns
And by light work the long evening through.
© Joe Maverick 08-10-2010
The sun it shone on sky deep blue
today the birds on wing,did sing,
sculptured trees tried on their clothes of green
sprinkles of Spring peeked through the sward;
The sun awakes early each day
shadows shorten across the lawn,
day by day afternoon remains,
wood pigeons mate and mate again;
Gardening columns into colour bloom,
daffodils and crocus aroma rooms.
Spring is coming soon - and thank the Lord!
Resplendent blossoms renovate each tree.
It cannot get here quick enough for me,
Nor does it linger long. The shining sward
Gleams, garlanded with daisies. Every pond
Is laced with life! I love to see the spawn,
Surmising that the lambs, so lately born,
Can frolic in the fleeces they have donned,
Occasioning the watchfulness of ewes.
March hares are up on haunches, sparring hard,
Ignoring me with haughty disregard,
Neglecting normal safety norms. For shoes,
Gigantic oaks wear boots of bluebell blooms,
Surprising us with old-and-gnarled-and-new!
Obliging insects fertilize the plumes
Of furled-out flowers, iridescent blue,
Narcissus and nasturtium, breaking through!
Sunday 26 March, 2017
Tranquil day, Spring on the flood,
birds busy with their careworn caution
just see how their skills unite to feed
and stay the course of life as plants
via for so successful photosynthesis
as we garden out of delightful duty,
amateur to our joy in the carefree sun
and quiet times in mid week as even
the traffic is sunny side up as most
neighbours at work and children at
school, so a rare tranquil state to dig
delightfully the postage stamp kitchen
garden and mow the lawn post noon
as the dew departs and the sward though
winning no awards except mine for not being
too wet or too dry, just right to walk, run, sit
on with the curtain wall of beach with barbican
trees of defence to keep us safe from cars and trucks
and soak any surface water underneath this green
copper beauty beach hedge, the envy of the neighbours.
Cutting out dead plants in serious style and pleasantly potting
assorted plants for a bounty of baskets that defy weeds to do
their worst as ours is a garden of England, so weeds warn that
flowers, vegetables and fruit will fructify successfully if we do not
take it too seriously for you know what they say, a perfect garden
predicates a lack of a love life, but she or he who loves a garden
cannot surely be loveless in their own life now that Spring has sprung.
DREAM OF HARMONY WITH NATURE
I was four and green, wet behind the ear,
And legs damp below the knees,
Brushing past the moist sere,
The bed of roots and and shoots, the trees
Spreading over the woodland carpet-mass.
Underfoot, the spongy sward of my viridity,
Of last year’s leaves and this year’s grass
And next year’s fertility,
Crumping slightly and springing back into place
When I passed by,
As if I’d never left a trace.
Overhead, a flood in my sky
Of swaying leaves of birch and aspen,
Numberless emerald fish flitting in the stream,
Setting my eyes swimming under the sylvan ocean
Of a yet-unfathomed jade water dream.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Paula Swanson's Contest "LIMITLESS"