Best Tern Poems
Grim fog, I praise the shelter of your drear,
the sundown ghost morose not grandiose,
I walk alone - but, no -- with my despair;
a bittern bids a bitter adiós.
The breakers so in agony they gnash
and gnaw the strand with thrash of foamy green,
the tempest witch brings ironfisted lash
alas, the eye-of-storm epiphany unseen.
Free, free! The tern who flies in Gemini
above beloved peak and shore and wave,
sun-painted wings, away you went -- so spry,
so fierce! Bluebird pierced and buried in your grave,
..and the stars understand; a fateful fall into the sea --
Damn the deep! It’s jostle docile.. my scream to meet the scree!
Susan Ashley
June 29, 2021
~ Fourth Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mille 11
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Contemporary Sonnet
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
*bittern: any of several tawny brown herons
*scree: an accumulation of weathered rock fragments at the foot of a cliff
*a Modern / Contemporary Sonnet is a poem of 14 lines addressing any theme of the poet's choosing. It does not need to adhere to any set rhyme scheme, syllable count or meter, nor does it need to include a volta. The only true requirement of a modern sonnet is that it consists of 14 lines*
. Alive...
. the sea ..
. skins the globes
. ever beating heart
. To depth untold…as of old Alive...
. fissures open, part and part the sea ...
Infinite the brash bold wave, whose ever beating
origin defeats the convoluted skull caste mind
all rationale retreats. Liquid, luminous, laughter’s lee Alive...
the hidden hearts source pounding sea. Alive, alive, fresh free…. the sea ....
Return, depart, with missives free…of dangerrrrr, darknessss, and deep
where sailors linger e tern allyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy...............
Like morning light break forth of eastern skies
And astound with beauty the waking eyes
So did my heart before you rose to praise
A seraph in the nectar of flesh, May's
Brightest bloom in the garden of gladness
The purest form of earth's bare loveliness.
To you, O joy, O let me sing
Let me tell of love first coming.
Cho.
Awake the woodland choir for my song
Awake the primal hour of spring's soft throng
Awake the lark not yet on wing
Awake the world, an anthem bring
Of praise, of praise to beauty, praise
To the sweet rainbow of our days
Sweet fragments make the rainbow bloom aloft
Light splintered is yet in beauty so soft
And whole, the healing balm of my parched soul
Each little wonder a stair a bright stair
A garden of glory on heaven's scroll
I climb to suck the breast of worship here
I seek your worth and find God there
Uplifting me from mortal care
Inside the tabernacle of the soul
Wild and dusty, the dry harmattans roll
And every tender tree gasping for rain
Beheld sapphire arid sky and pray in vain
The pearly cumulus would sable turn
Where on the eye pivots the graceful tern
And then so suddenly you came
The phoenix of another name
Too deaf the deft pianist fingers toll
His litany your virtue to extol
You the image's bone transformed, transcend
All that desire loves and love declares right
Eden's broken wings yet make praise ascend
As prayers in the fluid light, a flight
Of rapture, leaving silent stars
And earth's tumult to jealous wars
Nothing but you, and you alone exist
O sacred symphony of heaven's bliss
And all earth shambles fore you fall again
To rise in your glory a better tale
The joy of beggining the end of pain
Lighthouse eternal, love that cannot fail
Sweet still the night aglow parades
Yet star like flowers morning fades
Morning melted into mist, grass perspired
In the cool, leaves transpired droplets of bliss
The rainbow my thoughts like heaven attired
Beauty its providence hasten to kiss
Time had divinity at its leafed door
And seas and rivers in long triumph roar
The rhythm of earth so to begin
To break the carnal rule of sin.
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered ribbons of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w - i - n - d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, akin to a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
k i n d n e s s
is the petrichor perfume
enveloping the sky,
between~
you and I
as clouds splatter juniper sprinkles,
coalescing stubborn storms,
rinsing away stained foams
with raining roses,
serenading hymns of heaven,
calming the internal conflicts
like soft rays of morning stars…
Tonight, I follow the distant sirens,
echoing sagas of the soothing sun,
seeking c o m f o r t
through soft feathers,
unfurling love laced in lilac
and lavender,
while candles and crystals
radiate radiant rubies,
elevating elegance,
enhancing z e s t.
For in the corners of my heart~
thrive twinkling tendrils
of tulip twilight,
wishing upon swirling sparks
of firefly wings;
'let this world be a diamond haven,
where compassion is the dialect
that eases thunder-struck seas..'
So remember…
I’ll be there when curtains close.
Listen to the breeze
carrying my prose,
written with timeless glitters.
Tell me that I am the name,
the crooning tern that glides above
resilient ripples’ whispers.
Tell me that the mauve moon
veiled in mellow mists
reminds you of me…
as I still weave k i n d n e s s
in kaleidoscopic ink,
to erase the darkness
that f a l l s upon your silken silhouette.
It really is
As they say
Ain't it funny that a difference
24 hour's in a person's life can make
As 1 day and moment in time you
may just well find yourself
Standing on the prescipus of a
be that canyon , building or world's
edge
With 1 foot already off hoping and
praying for any reason at all
To stop you from taking the next step
Then somehow or other a thought
arrives at just the exact right time
Which makes you go online click
on said this here poetry soup site
And that very reason you have
been seeking forth doth finally
appear
And so surprised are you without
you thinking or prior knowledge
You are taken 3 steps back till
the very same edge is now firmly
out in front of you
So you can then safely return to writing
Part 2 of this in particular story
To thankfully and luckily enough be
once able again to sincerely thank
Jenna Logan
For the unimaginable difference she
has made to my life
From just a mere 24 hour's ago
I do not know what I have I done
or I did to deserve such a complete
360 degree turnaround
All I know is that I am ever so
eternally thankful and grateful
to you
For this is yours more than it is mine
P.O.T.D
Just deserved reward
And when reading and scrolling
through the many comments
It becomes abundantly clear 1 hell
of a lot of people feel exactly the
same way
And lastly may I finish off by saying
thank you to all of those of you
good kindhearted people who
took your time to comment and
reply with both love and affection for
Jenna as well
You also in tern couldn't have made
me happier than I was before
Being Taciturn
(TASS-uh-tern)
By: Miracle Man
8/29/2018
She’s often outwardly taciturn in a group setting,
Opting to be inconspicuous, “Like a fly on the wall.”
Being attentive to others while mentally vetting,
Often, her shorthand is chosen method of scrawl.
Purr Verse
Give me a mole or a moose or a mouse,
Make it quite small, or as big as a house,
Buy me a bear or a big ol' black bat,
But I beg you please,
Do not give me a cat!
Mail me a whale or a wart hog or worm,
Something that crawls or that creeps or can squirm,
Pass me a buck! Send a hare out of place,
Or do a bad tern,
But a cat I can't face!
A snake I can take, (though I quake at the thought),
Or a skunk or a hunk of some "gross" thing you've caught,
An eel or an owl or a newt or a gnat,
Or some fleas, if you please,
Just don't give me a cat!
However, there's one thing that I dislike more
And that is a rat! Oh, a rat I'd abhor!
If I found just one little rat in my flat,
I know what I'd do -
I'd go get me … a cat!
My love is like an Owl
Knowledgeable and deep and wise
My love is like the Raven
With magic behind its eyes
My love is like an Eagle
Its lineage crowned most high
My love is like a Lark
So swift and scarce and shy
My love is like the Peregrine
Soaring silent above the hill
My love is like the Dove
Spreading peace and good will
My love is like the Stork
Bringing life so fair and bright
My love is like the Sparrow
It’s intuition for life’s fading light
My love is like the Albatross
Floating high on fair winds
My love is like the Crow
The darkened portent that it sends
My love is like the fabled Tern
Crossing continents the status quo
My love is like the Penguin
With its tuxedo in the snow
My love is like the Mynah
Able to sing any song or say
My love is like the Rooster
Heralding each brand new day
But most of all my love is like the Lovebird
Her loving song oft heard
That perfect pair to my person
And the inspiration for these words
the tern seems content
as it hovers in the wind
spinning wheels
I'm flattered by Nina but need to take her to the cleaners,
and splat her inbetweeners with fluid from wieners.
Don't mock or beat down Bath when you're Bristolian,
you were all conceived in a seat in the Odeon,
and you should defuzzle that muzzle after a dozen shots
or your muzzle will rot,
it puzzles this Bard from Bath when you say I act hard, that's daft,
I craft the first draft with regards to retards,
but I don't spar like "gangsta", more prankstar, thank ya.
Hip hop Choco-latte,
ow the Arty Farty Party is to tarty for a starty,
this is too easy I laugh at thee, not smarty,
Bath's beautiful with history it stores,
Bristol looks like it fell out of a horse,
we've got James Dyson and Jane Austin,
you've got Baldrick and webbed off spring.
Of course you went off course with the Bath beige bit, nit witt,
but if we are beige, Bristol... sage and onion,
If I'm rhyme goo you're rhyme ga ga,
rotating between that and blah blah,
Nina Parmenter my off par mentor turned mental,
I'm a stray away from putting this to an instrumental,
cus I think you're menstrual, coincidental
you say my mouth before my mind,
this is written down, no noise,
talking out your behind.
I see you wearing glasses Bristolian,
but I'm from Bath we're different classes, I'm nearly done,
if people in Bath are strange then Bristolian DNA aint got range.
And I sense your bitter remain poke, "Bath Farage",
I'm Mr. Bath At Large,
so LEAVE WON of your remoan votes in the garbage, that's GAR-BAAGE.
I know your only joking and fun poking
through rhyme freedom and I sometimes free dumb,
the outcome of a lout on one, shouting out me bum,
but you saved it in the end with a bit of innuendo,
good poke, I'm off to play Nintendo,
you're tender when you bend so I wont stick it in your endo,
I'm a good bloke.
Tidal flats reveal their light grey heads
They replacing green-grey sea in dots and dashes on the horizon,
They toy cheekily with the extracted tide, enjoying their dry sun bathing
An island of ginger sand, void of seabirds, spoils the sea-mud horizon
The tide stands poised, ready for its return journey
Precursory quibbles, sent to shore, make birds at float bob
An easily missed, brief localised splash tells of a tern diving
Orphaned seaweed florets appear to move while submerged in the shallow water
Boats confused and beached on the mud, leaning towards their angle of choice
Paddlers explore the shoreline and water up to the ankle
Crystal white flickers from the water as the sun is reflected from the rippling sea
The tide returns stealthily and punctually, floating stranded boats and refreshing the sunburnt mud
My Love, Big Daddy
By Immaculata Ortner
Your skin glows like the Apple, blossoms Sweet as the Rose in the purest hope of spring.
My yearning heart rises to your Clarinet voice and leaps like a Lion at the whisper of your name, Big Daddy.
The evening ascends in on a great Damara tern wing.
I am calmed by your raiment that I carry into the twilight of comfort beams and hold next to my face.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of water.
As my hands falls from my beach wear, it reminds me of your caresses.
In the hushed, I listen for the last roaring of the spring.
My heated breast leaps to my dress. I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret starving so that we may happen as one, breast to breast, in search of the glorious purple and spiritual Justice of love.
Birdwatcher
This passionate, keen Ornithologist,
Is an interest, I profoundly pursue.
With the upmost of dedication,
To Black Tern & Long Billed Curlew.
Never a Twitcher, or just an obsession,
Binoculars on hand to observe.
Redstart & Greenfinch, also Reed Bunting,
Come into focus on a birdlife reserve.
Warblers & Wagtails, singing all day,
Sounding so sweet in the garden.
Robin & Chiffchaff scurry around,
That’s my bug meal, if you pardon.
Black Tailed Godwit & Purple Sandpiper,
Great Skuas & Dunlin share low tide.
Petrels & Fulmars, big Herring Seagull,
All I can name from a secluded bird hide
Baby birds, it's said, are born not knowing
their notes. They learn them from their mother's
throats in the way children learn their ABCs
at parental knees, muh muh muh becoming mother,
da da da, daddy; cheep cheep cheep, a cantata.
That being so, do poets find a poetic ear
in the sphere of their predecessors?
Young, with island sand and salt my milieu,
my concerts were the calls of shorebirds,
the forlorn foundling cries of gulls, the staccato
siren of a tern, should you carelessly venture
too close to her nest; the stuttering dance-step
of sandpipers, miniscule but mighty. Then,
there were the rest: foraging land birds, seeking
fare left by the incoming tide, their darkness
incongruous on the purity of a beach.
There was a time, walking to my garage
when I found a songbird dead in my driveway;
its small body supple, still warm to the touch,
not ready to die just yet like all of us. I
placed it in a box (ashes to ashes, bird to sky),
laid it to rest under the fig tree in my backyard,
and not knowing its persuasion, I
fashioned a cross of sticks over the fresh
earth, believing we shared the sanctity of
simple beauty, the brevity of life.
Near a lake where I live now, sibling to the sea,
briny by proximity, birdsong is rampant
in early spring. I have heard the 'death bird',
he of the shrill one-note filled with foreboding,
who heralded the passage of a dying husband
in an interminable summer of illness. Here,
there are the sharps and flats of ordinary
choristers, and one whose mother was surely
a coloratura soprano in a former life.
This one whose concert halts me spellbound,
turns me to stone (not salt) with his serenade of
couplets, no two the same, some so comical I laugh
out loud to the absent cars and senseless concrete
of my parking lot. He sings and sings, never
abated, nothing by rote, and I? I wait, heart in
my throat, should he be the songbird from
under the fig tree, reincarnated.