Best Swooped Poems
It is quiet tonight.
The only sound is coming from
the soft murmur of the television set.
I don't know why I don't just put it on mute.
I don't want to hear what they have to say,
but I guess it is better than the sound
of silence which is deafening.
It hurts my ears, it hurts my heart.
Yesterday I was happy, but that was before,
before I stepped into the dark abyss.
I think I may have been pulled in
by the apathy of death.
Death has such long arms.
I won't ask why, I know everyone must die.
But you left on a happy day, a day we were
making plans, and I had hope,
hope that we still had time,
time to share those plans.
You made me laugh until I cried that day,
and then death swooped in
and took it all away.
It is so quiet tonight.
© Connie Marcum Wong
8-27-16
August 10, 2016 Poem of the Day
Dawn slowly awakened to supplant the moon
Empty, the canopy where stars had been strewn
In repose, Luna slept after wandering velvet skies
and spider webs shimmered in the flight of sunrise
Dew drops evaporated upon the fragrant tuberose
as a playful breeze billowed my sheer nightclothes
Seagulls swooped and scurried along amber shores
A salty crew grappled with the sea on labored oars
Muscles pulled in rhythmic chorus, as if in lyrical rote
as surging waves rocked the hull of their fishing boat
They surpassed each crest and triumphed over swells
The sun's prisms painted the horizon in muted pastels
Inspired by the milieu of ruffled swirls across the sea
sunlight dappled over its surface in sequenced litany
I sipped a second cup as thoughts were being seeded
Poetry spawned inside of me; a birthing to be heeded
For as driftwood hastens down rapids to a new frontier
I needed to ledger my verses, ere they hie to disappear
August 13, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Meandering with my imagination,
I felt it flowing, silver like a fish.
This fish grew wings, and with great elation,
I caught a ride on it! It was my wish
to fly beyond the clouds. Where would we go?
The fish became a dolphin bird! He dipped
behind a hill to touch dawn’s orange glow,
then swooped, and like a pancake, I was flipped,
free falling, till he caught me in the sky!
Onto this dolphin bird’s smooth skin I clung.
His wings sun-lit, were gleaming. I could fly
as whistle sounds to me were being sung!
My strange winged creature clicked a joyful tune
when soaring into night, we found the moon!
Originally entitled "Imagination"
for the Dolphin Poetry Contest of Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
I stand here by the lakeshore, and I smell
fresh honeysuckle as I kiss the rain.
A memory that I cannot curtail
wafts bitter sweetly to me, and again
it’s May. . . the night you came by the moon's light.
The air was permeated by perfume
from blossoms colored innocently white.
But now it’s summer; yellow is each bloom.
When plump upon the vines, sweet berries, red,
will be swooped up by birds - carried away.
I stoop to touch a stem. How soon has fled
my flowered youth, and now this day chilled grey.
I bow in downpour like the vines bent low
while raindrops - glistening with my own tears - flow.
Ascending towering mountains with the greatest of ease,
laughing as foliage tickles my tummy with soft, feathery leaves.
Endless melodies, I have played, breezing through dangling chimes,
luring enchanted fairies with an orchestra sublime.
Lifting kites of brilliant colors, I choreograph the dance.
Such magnificent, breathtaking moves, never given to chance.
Designer of vast deserts, sculpting massive, lounging dunes.
Artist of the lonely face that rises from the moon.
Donning infinite perfumes; sweetest flowers; savory food,
or the salt of seven seas, when in a traveling mood.
Ghost writer of romantic voyages, sailors and pirates tell;
beached lovers on exotic islands, my gust upon their sail.
I've swooped down through lost canyons, and valleys, emerald green;
lain in meadow's tall lush grass to nap in sun's warm gleam.
My disposition revealed by soft whispers through the trees,
or howls from the north, saddled on winter's cold, pale steed.
Old as God himself, being born of his first breath.
I fill the lungs of eternity, forever evading death.
When the night wind changes course
sending breezes from the north,
when farmer's fields lie brown and fallow
and empty ropes swing from the gallows,
when children's faces are drawn and gaunt
and earth-bound spirits wail and haunt,
when eagles scan the barren snow
and field mice shiver deep below,
The dragon stirs deep in his lair,
the townfolk sense him with despair,
the mountain rumbles as he wakes,
he spreads his wings, the valley quakes.
He snorts and breathes a sulphur fire
and eyes his cache with dark desire,
gold and gemstones line his cave,
a sea of diamonds with emerald waves.
The trees are black against the snow,
one warrior stands to face his foe,
chain mail clanking, his sword is honed,
he goes to face his fate alone.
Fire breathing, wing-spread vast,
the warrior is at first aghast,
the dragon's chest and stomach, too,
shine with gems of multi-hues.
He'd slept so long upon his loot,
he wore a jewel-encrusted suit.
He saw the warrior's weapon glint
and chuckled at this innocent.
The dragon swooped and breathed his breath,
the warrior smelled the scent of death.
Many times the dragon dove
and set aflame the fields and groves.
Lost in this game, he gave no thought
to the warrior who mattered naught,
and as the dragon flew by low
the warrior drew his mighty bow.
The bow and arrows were Elfen-hewn,
inscribed with words in ancient runes.
The warrior held his breath and aimed
and steeled himself against the flames.
The dragon saw the arrow cocked
and turned his head, their eyes were locked.
The arrow's flight was straight and true,
into the dragon's eye it flew.
The warrior was elected king,
he wore fine jewels and heavy rings,
but though he tried, he found no peace,
he'd formed some strange bond with the beast.
The corpse was plucked clean of its jewels
and all the people danced like fools,
though he was king of hill and glen,
they never saw him smile again.
Dracula needed dentures,
That's the story I've been told
The man was getting up in age,
Nearly seven centuries old!
He refused to see a dentist,
While losing his fatal bite
He soon became a laughing stock,
Not a soul feared him at night!
The Transylvanian Drooler,
His newly appointed name
He lost his reputation,
His bite was rather lame!
Each time he'd suck a neck,
His victims failed to succumb
He had no fangs to penetrate,
For all he could do was "gum!"
No more humiliation!
It was time to buy some teeth;
His remaining shred of dignity,
Sank to the gutters beneath!
A brand new set of choppers,
Created a lovely smile
Soaring back to action,
Has always been his style!
Behold, another damsel,
How could she escape?
He swooped around the corner,
Binding her with his cape!
He took one mighty bite,
With very little effect
When he tried to pull away,
His teeth were stuck in her neck!
His face turned red as a beacon,
What a mockery to the undead
His victim cried with laughter,
Then smacked him across the head!
Dracula quit the business,
Heeding retirement's call
Suckin' down Bloody Marys,
Toothless and gummin' a straw!
Melanie chopped down the trees
(Not by herself, of course)
That Jackie planted, just so she
Could get on her high horse.
The critics all swooped in to say
It’s “empty,” “cold,” and “white,”
Replacing all the flowers
That were colorful and bright.
My favorite comment goes like this:
(Or something thereabout)
“Who switches up their garden when
They’ll soon be moving out?”
TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN
We watched horrified, awe-struck for hours while the sun died
Slowly, shorn of long golden locks, suffocated by the oncoming moon-rock.
Samson, blinded. His eyes bitten out - nothing left -
Devoured, destroyed : then completely consumed as he died in silence,
In his Stygian cave, as he gave up the ghost, as he left us alone.
Shadow of moon like a hunter’s pitch cloak encroached with vulture speed .
Birds, even the skylark, silenced, harking in their stark branches
For the inky wings of the angel of death, coming - not to Ramases - to us.
Bleak mark in the east dark: coming fast - it was upon us even as we asked
What is it? Grey through miles of mist, then raven-darker, as it closed on us,
Swooped us into its black veil, sunless, lightless, lifeless - where no bird sings,
And our breath stopped, held, unnoticed: and we, bereft, waited in mourning.
Till the sun -Samson- with re-grown bright hair poured out behind the moon,
Miraculously rose from the dead, pushed the black cave-stone into oblivion
And pierced a hole in the veil, burning that hole infinitely, gloriously,
And we were restored to life in the smile of heaven.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Note:
A total solar eclipse is an unforgettable sight. This poem is about such an
eclipse which I saw in Weyburn, Saskatchewan i n 1977. One cannot help
being struck by the loss of the sun in the daytime. Birds and animals also react
strangely. I recommend anyone to try to see a total solar eclipse if it is
possible. A partial solar eclipse, or a lunar eclipse, are not remotely as
spectacular as a total solar eclipse.
Ella Hyde
1857- 1898
That cad with the freckle on his forehead,
That rascal man beast,
Handsome as a Greek
But devastatingly insecure,
And so deliciously young!
He was the one who stole my pride,
There, behind the Hadley tombstone in the moonlight,
And who,
Breathlessly and with trembling hands,
Unlatched the ruby red necklace
From around my naked neck that night.
It was he.
That cad who swooped down upon my innocence,
Like a maniacal Zeus
In one of his crazy costumes of concupiscence,
And carried me off to nights of brazen episodes,
Splendid spectacles in light and magic,
Of him and me embracing wildly, madly,
In dreamy dances with caresses and kisses.
Only the truly passionate
Could understand these mad scenes in the dark!
I met RS on many a night
In the long concealing shadows of Central Park.
He was my man, but he didn’t know it.
I lived my life here in this dusty town the best I could.
I believe I left my mark in some small but universal way.
At least I knew when to say no to Roscoe Settle.
Now I’d like to go back to my grave and sleep.
I am tired of this rant about The Man Beast.
At 41 I entered here after my bout with diphtheria.
The trees here are my shadowy friends now.
But I sometimes secretly wish I could meet RS.
Just as it was in 1897,
He and I kissing in the garden Gazebo at Central Park,
His hand on the small of my back.
Me trembling with monstrous want,
My ultimate Prince.
Who lied to me like a rat!
Act 1: Earth
Water
Droplets fall to earth
Meniscus lens on the world -
Wellspring of life born
Air
Gaseous brew forms
Invisible elixir -
A breath of fresh air
Fire
Destructive, cleansing
But giver of warmth and light –
Fire’s dual perspective
Act 2: Plant
Leaf
Spring buds burst afresh
Summer leaves decay so soon –
Death lords over all
Palm
Giant grass not tree
These swaying centurions -
Lives must co-exist
Sunflower
Massed bright sunflowers
Heads turn in obedience -
Sun sets on their lives
Act 3: Animal
Slug
Slug saw juicy leaf
Raced to eat this rare delight!
Bird swooped, slug no more
Ant
Ants march home in line
Communal desire on show -
Nature's will prevails
Butterfly
Winged beauty flutters
Abstract painting on her back -
Looks often deceive
Act 4: Man
Crescent
Curvaceous glory
The home of wealthy leisure -
Rich built upon poor
Gaudi
Parabolic waves
Acknowledge natural forms -
Colour outlaws grey
Dubrovnik
Sun shines on pan tiles
The town's uniform new shell -
War scars fade slowly
Act 5: Machine – the final chapter
Computer
Bits, bytes, ones, zeros
So Charles and Ada conceive -
IT’s Pandora’s box
Robot
Man and beast replaced
Same task over and over -
Objective carnage
AI
Boolean bible
Artificial ignorance -
Logical ending
Postscript: Evolutionary finale
Obliteration
Human destruction of earth -
Annihilation
Poetry Soup Featured Poem: August 16, 2020
On the plains in the Texas panhandle
The fight for survival is real
As I watched from the derrick
On a short smoke break
A scene rather harsh and surreal
A cottontail bunny was having his way
In a pasture of gold knee high grass
When a hungry coyote, prowling late in the day
Caught his scent on the breeze as it passed
The bunny must have sensed, the coyote was near
He ran circles and made figure 8 bows
Confusing the canine, wound up chasing his tail
While the bunny escaped down the road
But nature has a way of being quite cruel
As a hawk observed from above
As he swooped down, the poor bunny froze
In a scene void of malice and love
With the rabbit in tow, still kicking and screaming
The hawk not making a sound
Somehow lost his grip, dropping his prey
Who died instantly hitting the ground
In all the commotion, the old coyote
Had watched and raced to the kill
Snatching him up and never looking back
Running swiftly over a hill
I stood there amazed, as the scene played out
This microcosm of struggles and strife
Then thought about destiny, no matter how hard you fight
The unfairness and the fragility of life
by Daniel Turner
He stood shivering in the biting cold
Shreds of dirty, flimsy clothes clung to his frame
All around his fellow skeletons huddled
Waiting for the inevitable walk to that sinister place
His wait had been longer than most
He had been subjected to terrible cruelty
He had seen all of his friends and family go
Yet in his mind he had remained free
His physical torment seemed detached when lost in his memories
His little girl chasing her puppy in the bright sunshine
Friends and relatives around the festive table laughing, chatting, eating
Walking hand-in-hand with his beloved around the moonlight lake
But the freezing wind jolted him back to the hellish reality
He looked towards the barbed-wire fence which bounded his world
There sat on the top wire was a little bird
It sang the sweetest of tunes seemingly just for him
It looked at him as it sang with such innocence
And then with a flutter of its tiny wings
It swooped towards him, turned and glided back over the fence
It pecked at the hard earth before flying into the woods beyond
He knew it was his time
Into that building he trudged
But he had a strange sense of elation
Closing his eyes at last he was free
The morning light shone brightly
The little bird was at his side
It guided him on as they soared through the sky
With the shackles of hell cast aside freedom now prevailed
He and the little bird would never go back to that place again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To commemorate the liberation of Auschwitz on 27 January 1945.
It rained on and on.
the fire in the hearth
had long died out.
hunger grew,
frustration raged.
vultures swooped down
to feed on flesh in the night
half willing, half resenting,
surrendered, rather subdued,
desire spilled over,
bristles pricking
from organ to organ
thrusting and tearing
devouring in greedy gulp
waves surged past the log
passion spent,
hunger appeased,
purse strings loosened,
silver coins tinkled.
amply paid,
her wages of shame……!
the toil not wasted!
nights came one by one
creatures of the night frequented her more often
and the scenes were constantly replayed
though she abhorred them,
there was no other go, but yield
‘exploring hands encounter(ed) no defense’.
each night closed in smutty h(r) ut,
when the h(r)ut turned a prostitute,
she started to rot.
feeble she grew,
languid she became,
body thinned,
energy waned,
ailments plagued,
and
immunity lost!
now,
she lives an outcast.
a luscious fruit
blighted by the worms!
no more nocturnal invaders…..
no inebriated blather falls in her ears
only the hoot of owls !
___________________________
June.16.2022
Placed Fourth
Creatures of the Night Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Julia Ward
The Raven
Walking slowly on my way back home,
I passed beneath dense trees and then though,
The setting sun was at the deepest chrome,
A dark silhouette came through with me too,
A Raven's swooped striking with its beak,
And left me wondering as to why ?
Its harsh croaks came from above the trees,
And then I heard the baby bird's cry,
That dark plumage and mysterious eyes,
Intruded into Raven's nest, crushing eggs,
Lacking vision of the higher skies,
Will the villain pay on piercing pegs ?
No compassion, ready to play foul,
Raven's wraith is as bad as the owls !
Written Oct 3rd, 2014
For contest 'The Raven' by Kelly Deschler
Inspired by poem'The Raven' by EA Poe
Now entered into Kelly's "My last contest"
Awarded 4th place
Now Entered for "100 in a row contest-17" poetry contest by PD A