Best Thirds Poems
I set the stage for tropical romance;
among my rocks have sirens’ songs been sung.
Yet some who dare to traverse my expanse
into the briny depths of me are flung.
Inconstant as the sun that comes and goes,
I’m calm as windless day or still of night;
then furious as hurricanes that blow.
You cannot know my mind nor guess my might.
By ancients I was feared and deified,
and still two thirds of all the earth I rule!
Let humans learn the ebb of every tide,
but he who disrespects me is a fool.
The plight of humankind will be its worst
when I and land for sins of man are cursed.
Magic is everywhere, but stage magicians,
have no clue, as to what it really is.
Magic built our universe.
That something so complex, as the universe,
could be born of a few elements of pure…magic.
That, intelligent organisms can grow,
from carbon and evolve; that’s magic.
A flower, bush or a tree, unfolding from a seed;
that’s magic.
Real magic; the nature of everything.
An atom, cell, molecule of DNA…magic.
The Visica Pisces in the seed of life,
gives birth to the flower of life.
Metatron’s cube is geometrical magic.
That, all that exists, is composed of numbers;
real magic.
Ideas are born of, dream magic.
Whole civilizations, are birthed into existence by…
dream magic.
Magical wonders, reflected in young eyes;
stir the emotions and captivate the senses.
Scientists…magicians…they’ve no idea,
of how real magic works.
The magic that creates all life,
is beyond known physics;
metaphysics and its comprehension’
lie in hidden realms, where human ego,
blocks science from going.
The real magicians;
those who dare to cross the line,
ego has drawn,
are persecuted and maligned by colleagues.
As magical history unfolds,
wisdom is revealed.
The same science that says:
“humans use only one third of their brain capacity”;
all too swiftly, negate the other two thirds.
Society, self-limiting;
minimizes its own knowledge;
its own magical existence.
Doubt is a game, played by fools;
while belief, is the magical wonderland,
of materializations; yet to manifest.
What exists. in the imaginations magic hat…exists.
Just wave the wand of belief and produce.
Skeptitis, is an overwhelming malady.
Its swollen tendrils,
have kept the world in,
stagnation; far too long.
Belief is the only cure;
the magic of faith,
does move mountains.
Sinking pearls of stone, in an obligatory skip
before the plunge
Haloing the horizon in silver riddles
and the earth is still.
No tides to bite the green watered breath.
No new moons eclipsed by the earth's turn to greatness.
And we laugh.
Laugh in salty brine and cosmos air.
Following the stone's tunnels in a dive into the blue.
Capturing smoothness of hair and palms.
Breaking the evening ocean floor in rhythm
as we catapult to surface calm.
Silver tipped fish wings scatter in water rings.
Algae backed hermit crabs skitter on crackling legs.
And we are the epitome of glee tonight with a fist full of ocean
and two thirds of a wish never ending.
Written: May 08, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand.
Art "Sitting at the Dock of the Bay' Oil, Plein Air Series, by Michelle Held. My Poem titled "Quiet Pier’s Lament" was written using this artwork as its inspiration. It's better to read the poem while looking at this artwork.
***********
seagulls fly to the sky
over broken planks and rusty nails
searching for what has been lost
they sift through seashells and sand
scavenging for leftovers as I
look for traces of you
river drips its brown-blue hues
at low tide. I hear the water hum
and cries of birds
as I search for you among grains of sand
at the end of rickety pier
a girl stands on one leg, arms stretched wide
balancing ~ as quiet as a breath
` patient as death
her pterodactyl thoughts
soar on the sunlit wings of pelicans
or plunge into the depths
the strong bodies of eels
this life, a feeble pier
anchored by shallow utility poles
cut into thirds, like hot dogs
still hovers over a muddy bank
with each storm, new scars appear
the wind is gusting left and right
weakening what I hoped would endure
crushing under the weight of every fresh verse
now it's a relic, floorboards askew
washed away by relentless waves
with nothing to hold up my old desires
my thoughts drift away each night
yet, each month I sit in the same stiff chair
struggling to share anything new
All I am is an aging pier
with gulls perched on my rotting posts
in an
angst- saturated
moment i find you there in
my travel bag, injured by the neglect of
a poorly screwed-on sparkling water bottle cap:
my beloved poetry notebook of fifteen years. You are
now one-third soaked and stained at the top. I shudder to
think of throwing you away or burying you in the cemetery of
old college diaries and love letters. You were my faithful collector of
anxiety and pleasure, cleverness and drought, loneliness and victory;
oftentimes tucked away for months at a time as creative energies were
diverted to other outlets. Like a loyal dog whose master travels away, you
never gave up on me. How many times the tears stained your inky pages
long before I even knew that sparkling water was a thing! When friends
moved away, or betrayed me (how i wished THEY would move away), when loved ones died too young, or old ones lived too long (how they wished THEY could die instead), when my son was slaying dragons and my daughter was breaking up with an inattentive boyfriend; when my wife struggled with her sisters, or when I agonized through physical therapy or cancer surgery, you were patiently there for me. Even as my joints and stitches eventually healed, you continue to be my invaluable companion, both for my history you contain to the left, and for the blank, hope-filled pages to the right. Like me, you are aging, stained, lumpy, scarred, but two-thirds useful as i write under the stain.
///NOTE: the shape above roughly mirrors the unstained portion of my notebook, which I will continue to use in its deformed and lumpy new state!
Also, no poems were harmed in the making of this poem. I write in pencil, so the water didn't render any previous pages unreadable, thankfully!///
Love Letter to Adonis
My dear Adonis, you who even charmed
the goddess Aphrodite and the Queen
Persephone, it’s I you’ve now disarmed!
One look into your eyes, I did not mean
to fall in love with you so hopelessly!
I understand two thirds the year you are
required to split between Persephone
and Aprhodite. Oh, she is a star!
But neither of those two could love you more
than I! This mortal woman’s love is true!
My beautiful Adonis, I implore
you, give me just a little time with you!
I want you so! Please, my beloved, bring
your love to me when you’re reborn in spring!
April 4, 2018 For Viv Wigley's Love Letter II Contest
GOODBYE SECRET GARDEN
Once upon a time, my father planted a Christmas tree,
It stood tall and proud, a landmark for all to see,
But lightning struck this magnificent sight,
Which every Christmas shone with lights so bright,
It had to be cut down, despite my desperate plea!
We cut two thirds down, felt sure it was safe and sound,
The last third, I landscaped a secret garden around,
I didn’t want my dad sad whenever he looked down,
Or to be unhappy and maybe develop a frown,
Each flower was planted with bliss into the ground.
But now we are about to sell our home, I’m sad,
For memories were made here, most of them glad,
Will in time fade away I fear to say,
And don’t look forward to the day we move away,
But our new home that we built is awesomely rad!
In the soul of a photograph
What do you see
Many different people
But never me
Laughter and joy
Captured emotion
Light and shadows
An artist's potion
You don't often ponder
The eye behind
The rule of thirds
The horizon line
It isn't common practice
To see what isn't there
To think beyond sight
To really care
We're invisible people
Or so it would seem
But minus the glass
Aren't we just the same
I can capture emotion
Because I feel it too
I have passions for miles
That I can sort through
I'm gentle with children
I have my own
I don't miss a detail
They aren't little for long
Though you weren't aware
Of my, unseen, presence
I'm behind every photograph
Despite appearance
That exact location
Same time, day and year
I was there too
As much as you're here
I said something witty
I got you to smile
You simply forgot
After a short while
I made loud, sudden, noises
Twirled, danced and shook
It was a success
As your baby did look
I told you where to stand
To catch the sun as it crowns
The place we were at
Was a place that I found
None of this matters
To anyone else
But it's my photo too
It's a piece of myself
333
3 thirds of Me
1 ounce of Tea
The EACE that starts with P
My Christmas Gift 2022
was one I didn't expect
Though I've prayed for it often
I assumed the Universe would neglect
I've preached Radical Acceptance
And truly thought I achieved said practice
As days continued I realize I didn't
fully execute and attack this
But This Christmas I rose with a
seemingly more open heart
Because not only have I stopped calling the wrong people family,
But I actually finally see my lack of family
as the source of my Lion Heart
It is a strength now
I am grateful for the chapter in which you are apart
I release the fear of being alone homeless, without
I will always have people around- its truly no way out
In this era of disconnection
there is always a "desire" for connection
sooooo.... I have no reason to fear
God is Here
Gu is Here.
So with that I unwrapped why I begged for family
& now 've loved myself into a more peaceful perspective
I love my Gift!
True Radical Acceptance!
I did long and pray for this- God has delivered
No tree necessary (well, not the ones in the living room lol)
My family is in the galaxy helping on other planets like I'm doing too
Some are playing human here on earth too
And I truly believe me no longer desiring for the unworthy to be my family will get me to reach my REAL family.
The family you come from is important, but the family you create is
PRIORITY - never let the first destroy the latter
I will never again desire the traits of my neighbor as family
I will never desire the traits of my toxic family
I desire Love- what's real-
I desire the traits in ME
The ones I know come from G-O-D
Not spiritual escapists who only love you when they have their D-R-U-G
My gift this year is Life-changing
No more asking why... the answer is Because!
Because - you're worth it
This gift truly came to save me like an Eagle's Swoop
And I honestly couldn't have done it without my distant loving creative family
Thank you to the ones I've gained here on Poetry Soup.
Big Love
Big Gu XX
I'd rather not relay on heavy words
to weigh the beauty in a proper way.
A third of human languages, two-thirds,
nay, all of them would never outweigh
the heft of weightless beauty on the scale
of ruthless time. Eternity will measure
a downfall, a moon, a nightingale,
a hug, a kiss, a tenderness, a pleasure,
an unexpected daybreak. Farewell,
my poor weighted love. Abiding time
is going to put its deadly spell
on every stanza, meter, form and rhyme.
But you are an immeasurable form.
When beauty comes I wonder where from.
MAY 2019 PREMIER 4,ANY FORM,ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 14(F O U R T E E N )Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
He was out of Woodie Wonder by the stallion Sunset Hue,
A freak thought breeding purists, who would surely end up glue.
For greys were so unfashionable he'd never get a start,
But this colt was a fighter with a truly valiant heart.
His origins were New South Wales, but sold up Queensland way,
'Twas Pippos, Coorey, Bishop and McMicking bought the grey.
A Goondiwindi syndicate, who gave the colt his name;
Gunsynd ... the punter's darling ... who raced his way to fame.
He'd never be a Peter Pan, a Carbine or Phar Lap,
No Tullock or a Galilee, but still a gallant chap.
Bill Whelow was his trainer and John Edmonds rode The Grey,
Till finally at Eagle Farm this colt was on his way.
It was the Hopeful Stakes that day in nineteen sixty-nine,
Young Gunsynd flashed from thirteenth place to cross the winner's line.
His trademark was his courage, his will to want to win
And how he made the crowds all stand to cheer the grey horse in.
They loved The Grey's performances; a showman through and through
And though he never always won they saw him as true blue.
Before and after races, he would play the press and crowd
By standing to attention while they clapped and cheered aloud.
With twelve wins to his credit Tommy Smith was now the chap,
Who trained Gunsynd while Langby won the Epsom Handicap.
He was the punter's darling, for he never squibbed a race,
That's why the folk all loved him, for he never did lose face.
The white and purple colours were well known at ev'ry track,
Australia's best known jockeys sat astride old Gunsynd's back.
The likes of Olsen, Higgins and young Langby rode The Grey
And flashed to blist'ring finishes, he raced no other way.
In over fifty starts Gunsynd had twenty-nine great wins;
Some eight point five times second placed, but took it on the chin.
Six thirds and unplaced in ten starts throughout those grand five years,
His name was up there with the best who'd raced to great careers.
Though sold to stud in New South Wales, Kia Ora down near Scone,
Queenslanders all adopted him and saw him as their own.
He'd put old Gundy on the map and right down to this day
Gunsynd is still remembered as The Goondiwindi Grey.
Symmetrical chords:
Same roots, thirds, augmented fifths...
(Really inversions)
Spare a thought
For buffaloes, bulls and bears groaning, mourning, starving
Under your collar don’t blow hot
Making rivers and rodents sad, carving
Space and time you don’t own
Encroaching on privileges animals and plants possess
In their comfort and discomfort zone
You dare to distress and stress
Best to minimize the plight
Reptiles and rabbits confront every morning and afternoon
With no morsels of grub in sight
As savannas and simians croon
Shambling in starvation style
Bulging bellies boast as labels of stables and fables of gluttony
For a convoy of jalopies cruising in single file
Pay last respect to Tony
Who’d passed on in pitiful poverty
Impecunious
Although in death no novelty
Comes through under the guise of ingenious
Crafting of manipulation
But you’d do well to sacrifice creature comforts to elevate the fate
Endured by long suffering trees and tigers whose daily nourishment ration
Ought to funnel a debate
On the injustice witnessed globally when a tiny few
Gorges on two thirds of world resources
With neither care nor clue
On the abuse fauna and flora sources
Suffer
Dwindle
Prefer
Decrease as the self satisfying spindle
Spins and spins
With little thought on air and water pollution
Pins
On environmental dissolution
Metamorphosing the Earth into a less habitable planet
Treated with disdain
Depleting the Earth’s net
Worth as polluters gain bargains again and again
Super profits
Turning a blind eye
To sarcasm skits, bludgeon bits and tendentious tweets
Lying inside a liberal lie
That all’s well
Environment concerns mean nothing
As imbalances and inhospitable elements swell
To spell doom unless you start caring for Mother Earth and her everything.
Look at the baseball field.
The poet’s words, a sword to wield.
To these pleasures I consistently yield.
But heavenly joys I often neglect.
Where are the heavenly spires?
The bosom that protects against the eternal fires.
Where in worship no one tires.
And the holy one’s face is clearly seen.
What is the reward that is beyond our sight?
How are we to navigate through the night,
With an invisible joy as our guiding light?
How can wicked hearts love one who is perfect?
And this thought perplexes me:
The one weeping in Gethsemane.
For his alienation from the holy trinity.
A fellowship not known by mortal men.
And yet my heart tends to go,
Towards the summer, and to the snow.
My love is for things that I know.
But the holy fellowship I‘ve never seen.
I can boast of the poet’s words.
I can admire the fish and the birds.
I can point to harmonies written in thirds.
But the Holy one’s face I cannot describe.
Man in his mind’s eye.
Can conjure up griffins and fairies that fly.
As well as fraudulent gods in the sky.
But a true deity he cannot draw a picture.
For the company of friends we are grateful.
In our camaraderies we are playful.
But we don’t desire to sit at the trinity’s roundtable.
Of that friendship we are alien.
And if there is a heavenly hymn able to touch my ear.
My eardrum may never again resound, I fear.
The face of the savior unclear,
To a mere golem returning to the mud.
By Robert J (Bob) Moore © 2016
I am a British soldier, been a soldier all my life
and back home in England, I left 2 kids and a wife
now I’m outside Sebastapol, with Cardigans Brigade
waiting to fight the Russians, Cavalry on Parade
We are part of Raglans Army, and we’re ready for the fray,
Light Dragoons and Lancers, and Hussars were there that day
We rode our light fast horses, for mobility and speed
Unarmoured, armed with lance and sword, skirmishing our deed
we have our orders “charge the guns” believe it we cannot
but ours is not to reason why, to do or die our lot
we sit our horses and wait there, for the word for us to go
hoping we won’t have to, a mistakes been made, we know.
We started down the valley, toward the waiting foe
riflemen to right and left, were shooting as we go
three quarters of a mile we rode, sprayed with shot and shell
600 of the Light Brigade, went charging into hell
A Russian battery to our left, another to our right
500 yards ahead of us, Russians, are starting to take flight
Line one went through the battery, 2 Regiments in all
the cost was great as all around, we saw men and horses fall
The second line of Cavalry, now charging through the guns
Cut and slash the gunners, as they turned to run
then came the third line, to complete the duty so assigned
to finish any gunners, or rifleman they could find
The charge is done, its “threes about”, and retire back up the hill
once more to brave the Valley of Death, Though the battle continued still
through the Russian skirmisher, rifle fire and cannon shot
the end for many brave soldier, who’d given all he’d got
And so the brave 600, with two thirds left behind
after a charge against 5000, returned, only to find
the heavies had not followed them, momentum had been lost
the charge, although magnificent, had not been worth the cost.