Best Terraced Poems
Deep golden choirs ringing out
their scarlet anthems with a shout;
blood orange whispers echo
as the violet innuendo
scatters all about.
The dusky pink clouds fade to grey,
the gulls, the sun, soon fly away;
this sunset's lacking just one thing -
your voice to help me sing
the colors of my day.
The evergreens are violins -
crescendos of December winds
conduct the hills.
With rhapsodies of terraced hue
the sky resolves to royal blue,
but where are you?
The rainbow arches high above
and in it I see cascades of
your multi-colored resonance
I reach... and feel the presence
of your ardent love.
Absorbing this, I realize
through many shades of changing skies
that you cannot be tied to one,
for your love is the sun
by whose light I see with iridescent eyes.
Surrounded by tranquil turquoise waters,
Guarded on sides by oceans three,
In the east by the Pacific,
On the south by the Celebes Sea,
And on the west by the south China Sea,
There is an archipelago on the blue water crescent,
A group of islands, called Philippines,
Encircled by a girdle of gleaming silver,
With its shores of stretching sandy swell
That lulls the restless waves to sleep;
A land of green vegetation and terraced terrain!
It houses picturesque and breath-taking views.
Vast beaches of ivory sand sprawl before our eyes
Dolphins leap over seafoam, palm fronds wink
Soft breezes waft and cotton clouds float above.
Anyone will fall in love with these tiny strips of land,
Of rugged hills and meandering rivers
Of placid backwaters and blue skies
Of gibbering monkeys and celestial monarch birds,
Of strutting peacocks, pigeons, pheasants, and parrots.
The powdery white sand of Boracay
The Chocolate Hills of Bohol
The Caraballo Mountain ranges,
And the Cordillera Mountain chain of Luzon,
The Rice Terraces of Philippine Cordilleras
All these give the country a solemn investiture.
Volcanic peaks, standing mighty and tall,
Proudly line the landscape, dotted with dense forests
Where birds sing melodies and Tarsiers with bug eyes
The tiny primates, endemic to the Philippines roam and jump
Amid the slumbering hills, there is fecund soil,
Turned into orchards and plantations,
Its population with perseverance and patience
Work in the soil relentlessly and in unison.
Well known for their hospitality, they receive tourists,
And outsiders with warmth and camaraderie.
In this paradise of mixed fortunes, tragedy comes unforeseen,
In the form of natural calamities like typhoons and cyclones,
But nothing can tear the people apart and they prosper,
With resilience, bent on sustaining their tradition,
Adding value to it each day and proud of an identity of their own
This beautiful land of velvet waves and crystal sands
Lying as a pendant in a crescent of emerald cluster
Rightly deserves the title- the 'Pearl of the Orient'
The hawk lay upon the lazy late afternoon
air currents;
Floating, circling, spiraling, ever downward.
Its wings spread wide, white feather-tips splayed.
It teetered on the updraft
above the terraced alluvial plains
in the lea of the Himalayas.
Landing with a compression of desire
upon the crumbling limestone outcropping,
It stood preening.
Waiting,
For the next breeze.
All things being equal, as they are upon this day,
The time of light and that of dark equivalent of span,
We sat upon the beaten bench above the traffic crawl,
Sipping from the draining hours as they broke and ran.
Aloft the terraced houses, huddled ramshackle and spent,
A shepard sky of red delight beneath the stars above,
As dimly they revealed themselves when night came closing in,
Soft focused glitterati beads that shone on fledgling love.
And looking in her eyes I thought of all that was to come,
Of all the kingdoms I might walk if she were at my side,
Bedazzled by her tilting head, the bronze cascade of hair,
A chisel jimmied in my heart and snapped it open wide.
All things being equal, as they were that vernal point,
When spring had risen in her breast and sang within my head,
Little did we realise these moments had a twin,
Equality in darker terms when Autumn dared to tread.
My blue terraced pot is alive this year,
Growing basil, chives, oregano and sage.
It sits on my patio in the filtered sun,
Ready for creative culinary inspiration......
Maybe after I finish this glass of wine.
I live in a quiet country village now but as a child I grew up as part of a mining community .
This is my tribute to those wonderful people.
Slag heap as high as a mountain
Cobbled streets covered in grime
Every time the heavens open
Gutters turn to rivers of slime.
Terraced houses of depression
Broken men gasp for breath
The tolling of the old church bell
Announcing yet another death.
Women hardened to this life
Stop to pay respect
Tomorrow it might be their man
Death is something all expect.
Miners at the coalface
Toiled with shovel and pick
No respite from the torture
In seams just two feet thick.
15 years old and fresh from school
Their destiny was to be found
Lurking in the total blackness
Of a life spent underground .
Yet what hearts those miners had
They live forever in my memory
The drive, The caring , The passion
For all who lived in their community .
Those coalmines are long gone now
Be it for political or financial gain
Community spirit broken
Only shadows of the past remain .
Where once did proud miners dwell
Lie estates devoid of soul
Still the ringing of the old church bell
but no one to hear its toll.
In this time , this town, you'd grow
In this town, this time, you'll feel at home
your poor plenty more than rich enough
to crack the faultline,
your cup half full, half overflowing.
You stretch your legs and wings and mind and laugh
Find friends too easily,
and hand frayed throw cushions
to basement strangers.
But is it your life?
Tomorrow you'll return to the terraced houseboat,
to the gulls and the buoys
and there's a fresh breeze blowing
through fused stamens along the towpath,
coaxing brilliant notes
from your empty letter box
and spinning ancient coins
under a tear-shaped moon.
The chimes are natural now
not flat, not sharp, not late,
not ringing through your dreams like an ice-cream hearse.
He'll phone you at the weekend
She'll pop by with that book, that child, that unfinished thought.
And you'll drink methode champenoise
straight from the bottle
Like winning at Monaco
or from your shoe,
and chase your other lover
upstairs.
Now write a letter to yourself
and copy it to the moon.
Take the ferry to the island
and drive back across
the broad causeway.
In this time , this town, you grow
In this town, this time, you feel at home
My Dream Vacation
To return once more to Italy where the forgotten places
still remain in harmony, echoing, antiquities graces.
A private car, traveling through Tuscany in the open air,
with the breeze blowing through my hair.
Where sprawling, fertile, grape vines and gnarled olive trees
grace the terraced mountain sides, their fragrance lingers in the breeze.
Ambling on foot, through Cypress groves, on padded paths of moss,
leading to a village square, where time has all been lost.
In the piazza with its’ cobbled stones, pausing, to hear the fountain sing,
Then stepping up to the carousel, to take my chance, to grab the golden ring.
Listen to the peal of church bells, ushering in mid-day,
climbing up the time worn stairs, to the Basilica to pray.
Kneeling at the altar, a Crucifix hangs, glazed in white
surrounded by Arch Angels, below an apse in gilded golden light.
The voices of ancient sages, whisper vows of silence, speak;
in cloistered columned courtyards, nature’s beauty that I seek.
Evening unfolds to a kaleidoscopic dome, filled with stars;
in a café, nestled in the hills, I begin my memoirs.
Date: March 5, 2022
For: My Dream Vacation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L. Milton Hankins
Placed 3rd in contest
Manchester, born and bred, within a stone throw from the city centre
One of a family of nine kids and our mother as our mentor
In a place called Hulme, full of vagabonds and snot nosed scruff bags
Rope for belts, football boots with studs cut of as shoes and clothes of rags
Hulme was a hard place to grow, terraced housing, paved back yards and broken glass
The sound of gospel hung in the air as the black community attended daily mass
Sugar butties, porridge was the food we ate
No fatty Big Mac’s with salad-less salad on a false plastic plate
Trying to smash bottles that were laid out on top of a wall
From twenty or thirty yards with a cricket ball
Hopscotch, hula hoop, hide and seek were the games we knew
No X-box or computer games on the streets that we grew
There was social intercourse, chatter, friendship, warmth and love
Non of the Facebook, twitter, linked in and all that false stuff
Now the kids live in a pit of sole and isolation
As they tweet and twitter their nonsense across the nation
50, 000 face book friends they have never met, seen or knew
I wouldn’t swap what I had as a child
Would you?
Tiny crocuses soon peep their purple heads
Above the lingering pale green foliage
In my upper yard's terraced flowering beds
Robins on my lawn will hungrily forage
Building their sturdy nests out of sticks and threads
Young folks are considering dates for marriage
Days when I open the windows for fresh air
And belt out the loudest show tune, if I dare!
Written February 11, 2021
For "Spring Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
[Ottava Rima - eight 11-syllable lines
checked with PS Syllable Counter]
THE PASSING TRAIN
Iam inside the fastest train,
This is not my very first time
Nor there is changes to define,
Same destination on my brain.
Once a green field now harvesting,
But I don't know the reapers song
Because Iam moving along,
The harvesters are jollying.
Staring at the passing houses,
Whether the same people staying
Those cows the same ones seen
grazing,
My memory minimises.
At one place a dirty black pond,
An oasis for cows and birds
The long legged white birds play
sports,
With the cows to show sign of bonds.
Cauliflowers forms a jungle,
Mango trees looks like broccolli
Dry terraced fields a moor broadly,
Corn hairs like king's mane in
shambles.
The round sun began to set in,
Slowly like a blazing fire
The western sky dance with desire,
I saw it from the moving train.
Watisungla Ao
27/03/2013
As she stopped atop the terraced stairs
her tiny ,yet sensual figure .seemed to take on a glow
This beautiful woman, daughter of mine
Was shining ,like a glistening gemstone of varying hues
And all living things around her seemed to stop their daily chores
And breath in her angelic beauty.
She stood radiant in her snow-white glory. unaware of her glow
Her long gauzy veil moved gently , ever so slightly
As a breeze passed and uttered a sigh of admiration.
The sun beamed down warmly as the puffy clouds paused .
This was her day and all of nature stood enchanted
As she seemingly floated down each step with natural grace
All breathing seemed to stop , waiting for her entrance to complete
her smile, so radiant with love and delight, emitting her innate beauty
And the luminescent waters mirrored her beauty in natures surroundings.
She walked in beauty , harmonious with nature on that day
And all the Angels in the heavens stood enthralled, whispering softly
As she floated along the green of Summer's carpet
And the flowery petals opened wider to catch the colors of her beauty
And watch Christine, the most elegant of flowers , on her ceremonial day.
New crumbled men shift sleeping ash along the wretched Nile,
While tongues of Gods once worshipped fast and glory in their bile.
Their textured sand speaks ancient text of terraced tombs below,
But the desert dance continues on to ruin what doth grow.
FLYING ON THE WINGS OF NOSTALGIA
I know the land where the lemon-trees flower,
the flushing meadows in spring are flooded in color,
the waves of morning mist rise from orchid valley floor,
grazing the emerald hill-slope to the azure sky they soar.
Drifting in time from my mooring far away
with the painted memory not yet gray
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
The cascading brooks flow out of the snout of glaciers,
the rhythm of their dance mountain’s swirling air shares.
Along the chiseled contour as silver strips they meander
in the lofty and terraced terrain where I used to wander.
Drifting in time from my mooring far away
with the painted memory not yet gray
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
Rows of rugged ridges merge in the horizon with the sky
where the charcoal clouds gather, with wild wind they fly
over the ever-green pine forest and melt there in torrent,
the music of rain reaches the crescendo at each moment.
Drifting in time from my mooring far away
with the painted memory not yet gray
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
Piercing the rain-washed sky beneath the arc of rainbow
the high peaks glow as the setting sun gleams on snow.
With the moon beams silver dust falls in divine serenity
I know the land where nature blooms in astral beauty.
I want to fly on the wings of nostalgia
to the land raised high in the Himalaya.
July 12, 2018
Contest : Pretty Poem Please
Sponsored by : Julia Ward
A World Shattered
http://www.freemalaysiatoday.com/category/nation/2017/11/15/penang-to-pay-funeral-expenses-of-mca-mans-family-members/
Here in Bolehland, this has to be the saddest news to date...
The occurrence of a fiery tragedy, to leave a solitary victim in its wake...
Such a tragedy makes the famous Tragedy of Macbeth a mere blip on the emotional scale....
Imagine the emptiness that floods one's soul when all family members are suddenly struck dead....
This poor man, a political Youth leader , was working the night shift as usual....
When he received a call that his terraced house was burning down .....
He would have been panic stricken as he hastened to his family at home...
Only to find the burning ruins of his castle in which his beloved wife and
children called home .....
Only the Almighty can explain, why death to his family members were so ordained....
Only his God can provide the relief he must need to withstand this devastating defeat...
We cannot hope to feel the insufferable pain and loss this young leader suffers...
Or share in his grief while standing firm and upright as a man after this cruel act from heavens....
For Lim Swee Bok from Penang, may he have the solace and blessings in the God he trusts.....
In this test of faith and belief when his world on earth collapsed, only God he can he trust.....