Best Swath Poems
A land unto its own as old as dirt
Condemned by voguish northern state of mind
This realm you'd be hard-pressed to disconcert
Though his'try would prefer it be maligned
The secret twisted oak and winding creek
The tapestries of moss that grace the swamp
They whisper in a language few can speak
Revealing true that fair southern beauchamp
There is no match for tender Georgia peach
To Cajun gumbo nothing can compare
And off the Apalachicolan beach
Fresh oysters make the finest southern fare
Sweet Dixie with your blemishes and charms
No place I'd rather be than in your arms
Jan. 4, 2017
The American Deep South - That magical swath spanning from east Texas eastwards and upwards through to the Carolinas
For the contest by Silent One Re: Sonnet About Where I Live
Categories:
swath, beautiful, deep, food, happiness,
Form:
Sonnet
Where to turn, oh friend I ask
I chose to turn to you,
if you'd be so kind.
Though I try hard to describe the beauty
heard by deaf ears, fall so short..
seen from eyes so blind.
Invited by a melody from the stars,
a concert of music makers enthralled-
Their numbers standing before me
cast down to Earth for you and I,
swath of angelic voices recalled.
Whether human beings or beings from a higher plain
I won't hazard a guess, nor confess, nor grasp..
yet still I ask.
Oh, but..
if you were there,
if only in this life., a trace.
heard from these ears
heart lightened in my chest
tears streaming down my face.
If you still don't understand, I understand
if you're troubled, please try to see
I'm trying in vain, so you must
imagine emotions evoked in music
a limited engagement, mimicked..
by a lone toad from a swamp.
It's me.
Even now try to recount the magic in moments..
turn away, not from beauty nor music, but strife..
hold onto a miracle, a million miraculous moments
in eve of evening..
in life.
Categories:
swath, eve, life, music,
Form:
Verse
A winged mermaid blossoms,
awash with marine snow ~
Poseidon's ocean-pearl,
breathing jasmine sirens
as iced eyelashes curl...
A winged mermaid blossoms,
when fish-angels ache for
arctic apricity,
and glacial nymphs carve a
cruel felicity...
A winged mermaid blossoms,
as strawberry conch shells,
drape the neon sea-star ~
my minty sun trembles,
and sheds its sherbet scar...
A winged mermaid blossoms,
hearts of manta rays swath
with love's ivory rose -
unfurling aqua kins,
that ruby thorns unfroze...
Categories:
swath, deep, fantasy, imagery, meaningful,
Form:
Monchielle Stanza
Splendor of soft shoulders
caressed by sinking sun
Out my window the western slope
of the thick coated Rocky Mountains
Once upon a clear cold Colorado Chrstmas
purple brushed horizon flecked with gold
filled my picture window
Mesmerized I stood staring
at this huge canvas hung in the Louver
God's and goddesses swirling about
in a swath of psychedelic clouds
refracting the colors of slow dimming light
Mt. Olympus in my living room
I was seventeen living in a dream
high up in the sandstone cliffs
carved out by the west's Mississippi
Nature, sweet mother of mine, purging
my childhood nightmare with sunsets
mountains, rivers and springs
On the banks of that fat river below
I listened to nothing but hope
Even in the echo of crackling ice
Even when she froze everything still
she made life beautiful
Never ever did she
punish my anger
but kissed it away with her love
with forests, flowers, birds and trees
She gentled my soul when I held her hand
and took me back from the jails and hospitals
every time I ran
Seventeen, fresh from my last disaster
Christmas Eve eight hundred miles
from expulsion and friends I missed
my dreaded return to the last place I left
There she was…
… arms spread clear across the valley
to hug me… her renegade child
My mother, bless her heart--
--wasn't happy to see her headache return
But my "other" mother was.. yeah
I took refuge in the painted cliffs and canyons that surrounded me
and when I came down to the valley floor
I would stop before the bridge
and walk down to listen to the big water's mighty roar…
It never stopped rolling and never ran dry
despite all obstacles
and neither did I
My savior doesn't have a birthday
but I will celebrate my hope in "His"
Just that warm sun
slinking like a coyote
over the western horizon
that Christmas Eve
is all the hope I'll ever need
Categories:
swath, christmas, hope,
Form:
Free verse
We live today in a world of great tumult
And of rising uncertainty and anxiety
Which pervade the world stage like a cancer
Despite soaring technological advances
Our environment and our home Earth
Are bearing an unimaginable burden
People are wondering what must be done
To right these wrongs and adjust our course
Before we turn the corner to “No Return”
Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War
Are still with us today since the beginning
Of time and are mankind’s greatest shame
God may be with us intellectually
But mankind must be self-reliant
To survive an inattentive, distant deity
People see answers to these enigmas
Sounds are made, echoes are heard
But nothing comes back in response
Frustration reigns supreme for many
Fear and anxiety multiple all concerns
There can never be easy answers
*******
Tyranny still reigns alive in many countries
As the actions of tin-eared dictators abound
And are on ample display for all to see
Poverty is still a shameful, terrible curse
Which afflicts the most unfortunate
And is paid lip service by the wealthy
Disease is a scourge still in our world
And still felt by those most in need
And never enough is done to change this
War is the ultimate insult to mankind
And its wide-felt swath and affliction
Plagues yet our modern, enlightened world
What to make of all these challenges
Is not easy for any of us to digest
And let alone understand why
Yet understand, comprehend we must
If we want a better world for all to live in
A Sisyphean task at its very best
Man still holds the key to make change
Positive and real for our troubled Earth
But can it ever be really so in the end
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
Schoeningen, Germany (October 16, 2014)
(Tercet unrhymed poetic format)
Categories:
swath, allegory, change, earth, history,
Form:
Narrative
Wedding Night in Raqqa
Cyclonic violet vision
Etheral and immortal
She swirls her sand baked torso.
Evoking the initial collision of primordial seed,
Swathed in gossamer purple veils,
Writhing to the stomping and clapping
Of jeweled ankles
And henna stained hands.
The tribes have united for my wedding to their son.
I ,foreign and naive, swoon to the power
Of ancient rhythm and verse,
Ripe, fertile gestures,
Pregnant with throbbing pulses
And scattered beats of flailing arms,
Bleating tongues, spinning robes.
A cacophony of incessant chant rose from the dancing women,
Growing louder, feverish in their pleasure
And the nearness of release.
I join in the dancing.
They swath me in voiles and lead me to the center
I dance, and I succumb to my wedding night in Raqqa.
Categories:
swath, adventure, husband, life, me,
Form:
Narrative
It's used as an afterthought, fattening festive
arrangements for Mother's Day, Easter,
someone's birthday. An underrated vine,
enhancing center-stage flowers whose star-power
doesn't wear well. It's the "coming attraction"
that's there after the clapping dies down,
replanted by doorstep or gravestone. "Grow,"
I say, "Change my life with your traveling beauty,
your common denominator, your scrawling
signature seldom sought for autographs.
Snaking around graves at our family plot,
it's an ongoing gift, out-giving the giver
with its "overwhelming darkness", reminding us
where there is life, there is also death. Surviving,
thriving in hanging pots the less hardy exit,
it surprises and delights, reaching down from limbs
of trees for soil, unchallenged there in pine straw
until tender tendrils insinuate their way
to daylight through tapestries of needles
When the ivy becomes dense, I will know
you are there: ivy of my heart, ivy of essence,
the graceful way it swings and sways, how
it takes to new habitat in the way you, Julie,
cut a swath through New York City after lifetimes
in the easy South. We are old souls, older
than the hedera, cousin to ginseng, reminder
of the movement of the heavens, the ability
to bring things together. You were shelter,
the poets' headpiece, bringing peace
to my household. Resurrection and rebirth,
Julie, in this Easter of ivy.
Categories:
swath, friendshipeaster, cousin,
Form:
Narrative
for me ...
I stretch a coursing arm ...
my fleshy tendril of electric
actuality, spanning fingers
wide to encompass my full
and fiercely sensual quarry ...
I touch the tapestry of you -
silken warmth of anticipation,
digits close around absolution
and imagination, so I draw it
all gently, quietly, IN to the
blackness - the inky pool of
obscurity that I yet inhabit ...
now ...
close, ever gentle, your eyes ...
do you perceive the wonder??
There is NO light there, yet ...
it is NOT empty - no blackness
but that which holds a million
instances of energy and color!
A maelstrom, indescribable that
you rarely consider, yet it swims
there subliminal with every blink ...
a world of dark mystery AND
seemingly enigmatic chaos,
pulling, subconsciously, on your
being, thousands of times EACH
day ...
such beauty herein - such
extraordinary sublimity and
pulse ... do you feel it? Can
you own it? Does it pervade
the sinewy substance, thine?
Does that soft veil of vitality
close warm arms about you?
See! Do not open your eyes ...
don't fall to that aberration,
for there is a permeation of
static noise inside your lids ...
stay true to that conundrum,
and spread your senses, all ...
there is an awakening here,
I know ... it's an honesty and
verity not known to the many -
I am on the other side of it,
saturated and whole ... let it
absorb your being, allow it to
soak the essence of you, and
your eyes will alter - sharpen
focus ...
slowly, they'll adjust with your
spirit, and a new reality shall
swath you in its tender cloak ...
sacrifice the bright, for those
without eyes - know a truth,
astounding ... and live again ...
for me.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Open Poetry 3" Poetry Contest, Charlotte Puddifoot, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
swath, analogy, appreciation, introspection, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
On a far off, lonely hillside
a living spectacle awaits
where aspens spin their golden crowns
and sleepy maple trees awake.
A place where winding paths are lined
with multicolored canopies
where gurgling streams are tickling
frogs and fish and buzzing bees.
A swath of pumpkins in a patch
in varied shapes askew appears
a hanging scarecrow’s crooked smile
fails to raise the raven’s fears.
As autumn’s sun fades wistfully
a crisp cool breeze sways branch and leaf
a lone horned owl is hooting low
reminders that fall’s days are brief.
As sun’s soft rays in beams surround
kissing fields in copper tones
stillness comes as dark descends
and hugs warm Autumn’s afterglow.
Written on 10/22/2018
Categories:
swath, autumn, beauty, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
My next brain needs a bigger cow catcher.
The one I have now barely clears wolves and bears.
I want a scoop that will clear a huge swath.
Can push away skyscrapers and fire stairs.
To be able to blade away snowplows too.
Would make my heart leap with sheer crazy joy.
A blade to whisk away all sad, all thoughts of blue.
A fifty-five foot cowcatcher of fun, oh boy!
Categories:
swath, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form:
Light Verse
Each day presents a choice of paths
As we journey through life’s meadow,
Seldom do we foresee the aftermaths
Making our way in sun and shadow,
Knowing not what the future may hold
With certainty, we valiantly press on
Placing one foot after another, boldly,
Through eve’s night and morrow’s dawn,
Until time comes to stop and rest awhile
To reflect on the paths we chose to take,
We find ourselves greeting with a smile
Most of the decisions we chose to make.
Hopefully, the better choices outweighed
Overall, we took the right paths,
A swath of right and just decisions laid
With no one accusing us of the aftermath.
Written October 1, 2022
[Thanks to Mr. Robert Frost for
inspiration to write this poem.]
Categories:
swath, life, meaningful, uplifting,
Form:
Quatrain
A little ways north of Mill Creek
the beach runs round
to a single wide arcing swath
Where the tide stems landward in shattered segments
fast against the open mouth
of sea and sand and barnacle
There is also a cliff near the free stone rising
above the under-base of a million waves
throttling a darkened face
Somewhere out of sight
from landlocked eyes
salt water still churns
And churns for a million years
oblivious to the damage
inflicted on the crumbling mass
It's as if the big bass drum
of agonies from time immemorial
strums a one note dirge
And thereby summons the shelving mist
to curtail the pitiful death
from the tired eyes of a dumbfounded poet
Who loiters in the wet hiss
like a reporter in search of tragedy
and finding none, returns to home
Categories:
swath, beach, , memorial,
Form:
Free verse
On the cusp of summer the trees stand expectant, unsure,
not quite willing to let the fading sunlight be bygones
Still, some embrace the inevitable, shedding their leaves
at the first rumors of fall.
Others wait, reluctant to surrender, clutching their leaves
throughout the long winter darkness, much
like a doe clings to her stillborn fawn,
until spring forces them, brown and dead, from their branches,
But most trees fight the good fight, all the while knowing
that death comes with the frost and, resigned to fate,
they emerge, victorious in defeat,
blazing a colorful swath in the memories of we
who occupy mere days in their centuries of their existence.
Categories:
swath, autumn, earth, leaving, november,
Form:
Verse
Year five of the Great Depression.
April 14, 1935 another Sunday of church services praying for
The rain that wasn’t coming.
And the sky turned mean and angry, as daylight was obliterated into The blackness of night. The wind scoured the land, sweeping
Everything in front of it like a plague of ancient locusts.
A great migration of dust lifted up, blowing away a swath
Of the American dream, leaving only memories before 1935.
A relentless burning wind emptied out what little hope the
Migrating towns had left.
Every inch of top soil was devoured, while dead cattle were strung out Against the barbed wire fence line; marked boundaries didn’t count for much anymore.
A blizzard of death coated whatever was in its way, across the
Empty fields of the Great Plains, the haciendas of New Mexico, the Empty towns of Oklahoma and everywhere it touched.
Black Sunday’s revenge was absolute, falling black snow, six feet deep.
Dust coating the lungs, blinding the eyes, swallowing the homesteads.
An inky black wall spawned from hell spread its wings, soaring Hundreds of feet high. When it ended, nothing would be the
Same in these places.
The barren Dakotas.
The endless plains of Kansas.
The mountain peaks of Colorado.
The great dust bowl of Oklahoma.
The arid lands of New Mexico.
The vast Texas cattle ranches.
America, Sunday April 14, 1935
Hard times.
Categories:
swath, america, history, weather,
Form:
Narrative
The wilderness has been improved of late,
Or so they say.
The maple trees where sticky syrup oozed
Between the cracks of scarred and broken bark,
The wild apple trees whose crooked branches
Cradled clumps of crudely woven twigs,
Have been replaced by houses, row on row
Of painted boxes gleaming in the naked sun.
The narrow trail, a divine doodle
Traced across the earth and kept in place
By centuries of coyote and bear
And deer that bounded zigzag up the slope
Lies tame and straight beneath the asphalt sweep
That cuts a leveled swath across the peak.
The blackberry briars that pressed against the path
And tore the skin from little hands that wiped
the purple stain on Sunday clothes,
Are cut away, and soft green grass grows in their place.
“Superior development, and more to come,”
The realtor explains,
Not knowing that I was here before.
I scan the hills for one certain house,
An Improvement on a three-room shack
where squirrels chattered in the rafters
And wasps built nests against the eaves,
And berry bushes dirtied up the window panes.
The modern house is pink with snowy trim;
A cement sidewalk leads from drive to door,
And tulips nod obediently by the steps.
Beyond the manicured lawn,
The last undeveloped forest hugs the hill,
And stubborn briars spill onto the planted grass.
“I’ll buy the house,” I tell the man.
He sees me looking at the woods and smiles
Apologetically. “For a slightly higher fee,”
he says, “that bit of forest can be cleared.”
“I’ll take it as it is,” I tell him.
“The blackberries might still grown in there.”
Categories:
swath, creation, environment, mountains, nature,
Form:
Free verse