Best Tamp Poems
The cool tamp of rain drops extract their toll
with sweet scents pervading summer's warm voice.
Life bids refreshment to its aired soul
as Heaven's passion gives cause to rejoice.
No words can be heard o'er the mist or squall
the earth falls silent in tribute by choice.
Such softness that coats earth's thirst with its hope
brings promise of wealth beyond the eye's scope.
Summer Rain Contest
Sponsored by Dale Cozart
10 syllables per line
08/30/2017
Streaking skyward the tracers rip
Into hanging soldiers
Falling about into mayhem
Pulsing through blood-filled ears
Hearing comrades scream
Understanding nothing
This is the war I found…
Hatred filled hardened hunter
Into smashed building
Homes pulverized rubble
Strewn about the decaying mass
The scorched metal burning
Bodies of the fallen men
The miasma of war I forever inhale…
Tigers rolling through billowed flame
Firing upon burnt battlefield blindly
Retreating in terror I leave the voices
Calling as I my boots tamp by arms
Reaching for safety I couldn’t render
Brothers abandoned in the Arnhem snow
These are the ghosts of war who haunt me….
Battle’s percussion on the horizon distant
I fade through the fields upon the Rhein
Farmhouses glow a midnight path
Walking to the beat of gun fire echoes
Off the walls of a shelter a little boy sits
Unafraid of the man feeding him chocolate
In the crater of a bomb…
This flash of hope my salvation from war.
Chateau Charlene pulled out all the pins today
Trying to watch Cheeky Wall fall.
Cheeky Wall has had too much experience
Showing the world her sassy, funny, hilarious side
Keeping our true feelings inside
As deep down as possible
Emotions are seething from Cheeky Wall
Into the grounds of Chateau Charlene right now
Like snakes, they slither toward her foundation,
Trying to crack it, reveal her secrets.
These two are in a magnificent love-hate relationship.
Each trying to sabotage
And take down the other
When the kingdom falls
Will the truth be revealed?
Person alert.
Smile on face?
Pretend light in eyes?
Happiness showing?
Depression and despair in the dungeon gurgles up
In a bowl of black snakes and dead pussy willow leaves.
I tamp them down
So no one knows
“Hi!” we say.
A bit too brightly.
Luckily no one
cares or even
notices.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand
We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.
We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil,
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.
We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.
We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.
Tantamount Andrea,
Your beauty crumbles my veins and compels me to whisper to desire.
My heart blossoms as the fantasizes stir to my brains,
Call it desire, bonny or may be, mirage.
You’re a princess I think of during the sunrise,
And then dreams accrue at night.
Ranee, I want to pedal with you this a thousand mile,
Through the horizon to the wild hills,
Prime-time will get nowhere to ascend but only trail us-
To the city of magnificent distances!
Andrea! We see and veer for we are like soul mates.
Let’s live a double life barnstorming Andrea!
Andrea! Memoirs about you will never seize to fade away,
Never fade away from my heart,
Just because my heart peeked farther,
And because you’re ubiquitous!
Clay is molded in my heart,
Just to keep a simulacrum of you, Andrea!
Bizarre we will be, a force to be reckoned,
We will tamp and mingle the galaxy till we vanquish it.
We will laugh, smile and cuddle all in one lot.
Andrea! Just focus your eyes on the road and nothing will go wrong!
Your Beauty is a masterpiece my Mona Lisa!
Andrea you’re my finest admiration.
Andrea! I want to share the dawn and the full moon with you.
Andrea your love is a glowing neon sign of paradise,
Your love is blithe, unhinged, my Andrea!
I love you against all the odds Andrea.
Correct me, if I’m wrong, Andrea!
All Rights Reserved
© T.m.T scripts
This Poem is Dedicated to “Andrea’
In the green Adirondack foothills lies
the haven of our old summer camp,
once a place of adventure and outdoor joy,
and the loud cries of precocious scamps,
their energy you never could tamp,
scurrying ’round on small, rapid feet,
leaping into the pond without a beat.
I remember coming here myself,
gazing up at the grand totem pole,
the mess hall with fieldstone fireplace,
where countless tall-tales were told,
and lordy, was the pond bitter cold!
There was a trading post for candy, snacks,
and toilets which all amenities lacked…
To scampering kids it felt like we were
far off in a rugged wilderness,
that tall white pines just rolled on
in a vast and uncharted forest,
and we were just the ones to explore it!
The only sign of steel on our trails
was a pair of rusted, forgotten trial rails.
Then I came back here as an adult
and found the revelry was long passed,
the town had bought up all the old camp,
no kids raced swiftly ’cross the grass,
it had been too good of a place to last,
folks blamed it on poor demographics,
cell phones, and parents afraid of risk.
I suppose I should be thanking the town,
because the made the space into a park,
at the very least it will be preserved,
even though it’s missing that old spark,
and youngsters sprinting ’round on a lark,
they’re even cleared out some new ground…
by tearing half the rustic buildings down.
The trading post, now a picnic pavilion,
the staff cabins now an empty field,
the docks pulled up and carted away,
the pond belongs now to minnows and eels,
not entirely sure how I feel,
out there we swam and swamped canoes,
now it’s blocked off from public use.
The mess hall, at least, is still standing,
they say it’s becoming a historic sight,
but to see it still present, all alone,
somehow just doesn’t feel all that right,
with its clap-board fading in bright sunlight,
at least the boat-house still rises near,
though it’s probably collapse within the year.
I turned away in a very glum mood,
made my way to my car rather slow,
thinking of all I had done here
that my children are never going to know,
there are few places like this left to go.
it brings a well-known though to my mind:
Damn you, damn you, damn you time!
Today's closing hangs lower than it did yesterday,
trying to mess with tomorrow's dreams.
Sitting here, dressed in a wry smile, my heart
whispers to a sky, tie-dyed with the jewel
of Navaho stone and the salmon pinks
of Tsimshian legend.
I feed myself with steam from Irish tea,
invoking the memory of my first Lakota sweat lodge,
and take comfort tracking what's left of tonight in Indian time;
tomorrow will have to wait 'til I get there.
This now is meant for savoring the scent,
sounds, and sights of Mother Earth
as she gets ready to tamp down the fire
of a troubled day, leaving my peace
under the watchful eyes of a Harvest Moon.
Each year when the summer is nigh
I drag out my planters and buy
Some flowers to plant
But somehow I can't
Make them grow, though I really do try.
I gently tamp down all the soil.
With watering, I am quite loyal.
While others' plants thrive
Mine are barely alive;
All my efforts Ma Nature does foil.
Still, just planted they look pretty good.
If they lasted, the way that they should,
I'd be shocked as they come
'Cause my never-green thumb
Would have done what I'd hoped that it would.
Quotes from the 1960 movie, Pollyanna:
Pollyanna: Why don't you come out of the front door like normal people?
Jimmy: They won't let us. I can come out anytime I want with my tree.
Pollyanna: You could also fall and hurt yourself badly. You shouldn't play in trees.
Jimmy: That's stupid. Don't you believe in God?
Pollyanna
Impregnated with positivity…relishes wide toothed smile.
Lips, cherubic-pink…so courteous…chin tilted godward.
O this angelic pekingese courts the sinner for their own good.
“Impertinent child,” man, woman, and gut, clench in good grief.
The sun rises on her, never sets — vainglorious retch.
Still…crystal illumination twinkles rainbows and puppy dogs.
In the big house, rent free, Pollyanna roams the rooftop.
What - sneaking out! Can’t be. Jimmy coaxes her down the tree.
Her aunt’s an awful louse, forcing her down. Breakneck landing!
Daddy, the preacher died, leaving her legacy, unkind.
Black and white, no insight, everything will be alright - but it’s not.
A forest vigil of candlelight - flames reach to the highest height.
She does her best to tamp the flames - aims to feel sorry for herself.
Hurts worse than she can imagine…her doubts, her pride…she hides.
Yup…she has the whole town spinning…their sinning ways, trimming.
Impregnated with a gulp, this blue-eyed, bow-tied, Pollyanna.
They shut her up but good. Her goodness flew. Hit them in the pie hole.
With wicked widespread grins, they cheer the impertinent snipe.
9/24/2021
Sijo
Ah, to reminisce,
to peer through rose colored glasses
smooth the edges of
pointed encounters
tamp down the burning
embers of memory
smoldering in silent seclusion.
To change the tone
texture and import
of echoed retorts
polish the participation trophy
sitting alone on the shelf
knowing that time
does not heal
nor dreams dissipate
those moments
and yet….yes yet…
I question the roots
of such reminiscences
anecdotal recollections
based on the youthful folly
of ineptitudes inexperience.
For the older I get
the better I was.
John G. Lawless
3/18/2021
THE FIRE INSIDE
I have to tamp down
the fire inside
for not all are stoked
with flaming eyes
my cheeriness
might be their demise
the fire inside
explosive it drives
the quiet insane
so i try extra hard
to contain myself
the gypsy dance
leaps and thrives
with clanging bells
a crimson skirt
circumnavigating
the darkest night
the fire it burns
in rhythmic bursts
crackling in time
to poetic verse
sunshine yellow
and orange tongue
the reflection of
happiness
11/10/2017
The Fire Inside Contest
1st Place
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst trumped,
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
transsexual therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
Cup of love
I create you
And consume you
Every day
Froth you
Grind you
Tamp you down
Extract all there is
From your little bean
Then I
Pour it into your frothy foam
And that first sip of heavenly you
Makes me love life
Yesterday I noticed
Your heart rose to the surface
After my first morning kiss
And I took a picture to show the world
Someone loves me
But as I was cropping and zooming
I noticed what I thought was a black hair
Running over your rim
Gross
Not mine
(like the ones left
on my pillow).
On further inspection
I realized it wasn't a remnant
Of... bittersweet
But you were cracked
From top to bottom
Broken
Broken thing
Can only broken things
Love me?
No, they can
Ans they do
To hold a butterfly and
Not hurt its wings
So delicate
I can't hold you closely
Even when you're so
Feathery soft
You tickle my heart
Fly--fly away--love
Before I break you
Or waste your magic dust
On anything that could drag you down
Like this cup that loves me
That I'm sure I broke in some
Clumsy manner
And never knew
Until it fell apart in my hands
Fly-fly away-love
Beneath a callused skin of light
the hunched and mustered
clap a prayer between a leaking sight.
It is the earth that mourns itself,
whether baldly thrown or loamy laid
the silent soil repaints its sullied shrouds
far beyond any atoning sorrow,
or cooling heart.
It is none but a laboring pity
to lay down the past
as deep as a weeping sky allows
or raise a hand only to tamp down
a new-turned mound.
Restless are the skewing worms
ever churning a blood-born mud,
eyeless they cover the once begotten,
cloak a hard pressed present and loss.
as the missing
deafly retreat beyond our ken.
Hear now the trilling birds,
how they far-fling their buoyant hymns,
see how they hop between their own bones.
My identical twin sister came to school with me once
Many moons ago.
We wore the same clothes, and the same socks and the same shoes.
Only our underwear was different.
I had her walk through the cafeteria, then I joined her.
This made quite a stir.
One hundred and eighty-four wound up screaming children.
Almost as loud as the school secretary when she met my sister
Not knowing I had an IDENTICAL twin.
One of my favorite children jumped out of his seat, an absolute no-no at lunch
And ran right to us. The principal who had come out to try and tamp them down glared a bit,
It stopped him not a whit.
“Two Mrs. Krutsingers!” he yelled, clapping his hands.
I laughed.
My sister did not.
Uh-oh. A clue.
“Which one is which?” I asked him.
“Easy,” he replied, pointing to me. “You are the REAL Mrs. Krutsinger.”
This pleased me greatly.
Was it my shining personality? My terrific rapport? My exuding kindnesses?
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Caps on your teeth,” he said smugly.
And he was right.
I smiled too.
Never underestimate a second grader’s ability to
Truth you to reality.