Best Twere Poems
"to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature" William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601
towering redwoods
forest dwellers born before Christ’s time on Earth
spreading arms to lofty heights
dwellings provided in hollow, cave-like trunks
wrap your spirit in the redwood cocoon
feel the cool, dark air
refreshing body and spirit
refuge from summer’s heat
speak to me, redwood tree,
tell me of times past
when Native Americans cherished the land
and Jesus preached in Galilee
out of body, one with the redwood
journeying through history
living in a time tunnel
where past meets present
trees that know what man has forgotten
ancient tribes with sacred values
surviving earth-changing cataclysms
surrounding us with secrets to share
if we dare
dwell within
this broad, mystical expanse
redwoods’ memories
by Carolyn Devonshire
for Constance’s “The Tree” Contest
April 21, 2011
"to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature" William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601:
Along a path of solitude I tread,
flanked on either side by watchman trees,
a lush green canopy above my head,
in foliage the flutter of cerise. . . .
I gasp to see two cardinals appear.
Then farther on, I spot a white-tailed doe!
She calmly meets my gaze and shows no fear.
I can’t imagine in this place a foe!
The trees, unwounded, stand with dignity.
And whether skies be bright or overcast,
they guard this realm, and one will shelter me.
I kick off shoes and stop for a repast.
Now barefoot and relaxed, I write this poem
in quietude of Mother Nature’s home.
For The Tree contest
sponsored by Constance La France ~a Rambling Poet~
For Brian Strand's
ANY OF YOUR 2011 poems any theme/any form max 16 lines Poetry Contest
Why can't she learn to do that right?
You'd think that she'd know better.
Someone should tell her what to do,
To hone her each endeaver.
What is he doing over there?
He should be over here.
He should be told where he belongs,
And make it very clear.
She never does as she is told,
Although I've tried and tried;
What she should do and how and when,
I took it all in stride.
I spoke to her, I spoke to them,
To bring her back in line;
But she is stubborn, wants her way,
But she will learn in time,
That I am right and she is wrong,
I'll teach her that I know,
Much more about her work than she,
I'll tell her where to go.
It seems my help and good advice,
Is just ignored and spurned.
I only want the best for all,
The best for all concerned.
I guess my help's unwanted,
But if 'twere put to test,
They all would see that I am right,
And my way is the best.
No matter where you go or what you do you're going to find some people in the world who think they know more about eveything than anyone else and they will do their best to force their opinion on everyone they come in contact with. Th ebest way to handle someone like this is to give them a wide berth. Stay aloof but friendly in a distant sort of way. However, don't hesitate to let them know you cannot and will not be bulllied because this type of person capitalizes on your weakness. Whenever they start something with you it's important to make sure everyone knows exactly what was said and done when it happens so you don't end up looking the fool instead of them. When they find out that instead of keeping quiet you will fight back using their own methods against them they will back off and leave you alone.
I came across a body of water -
not a waterfall or rain.
I'm not sure if 'twere a lake
or something else.
I'll go with the something else
as 'twould be more exciting...
I saw a handsome man there
floating a raft towards his doom.
12/7/2015
Caught between two storms
Payne's Gray painted hurricane
A tempest that churns ... inward
A girl waits, you see ...
Hopes dangling on a new heart
The perfect match thrums my chest
I have filled life's cup ...
Sipped of the sweet and bitter
Stained welcomes with its nectar
Worked until weary ...
Loved to depths and with passion
Swum up souls like rivers, sweet
Regrets? Yes ... and dreams
But if 'twere mine once again
I would surely live the same
Still, I'm in no rush ...
I've gazed the reaper's dim eyes
Felt his keen breath on my neck
I don't welcome him ...
But there's a new life, precious
A little cherub, dying ...
Let this storm take me
One last swim in the cold brine
One last gift ... for an angel.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Fives And Sevens" Poetry Contest, Joseph May, Judge & Sponsor.
(Syllables = 5, 7, 7, 5, 7, 7 ... counted at HowManySyllables.com)
"to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature"
byWilliam Shakespeare, 1601
Come spring, in the shaded forests near my home
Blooms the elegant and lovely dogwood tree
In a bit of sunshine it spreads its graceful arms
As if to offer each blossom for God to see...
White velvet petals tipped by the palest pink
Simplicity strung along each swaying branch
No need to boast about its reign of beauty
This spring picture it surely does enhance...
My mother loved the pretty dogwood trees
We'd often stop to enjoy their brief display
I think of her each time I see them flower
These beauties that would so enrich her day...
Barbara Gorelick 4/20/2011
For THE TREE contest, hosted by Constance~ a rambling poet~
Twere a blisterin day, on da Fundy Bay, aboard da ‘ Black Angel of da Blue”,
with a crew of 32, whilst resting a spell, wid a thunderin clap of grog ,
when da Jack o’ Cups , his Jib a hangin, spotted a Jolly Roger aft.
Aye! ye coulda sinked me! When dem thar scallywags gave chase.
So we pumped da bilge, droppin a load of crap in thar path, weighed anchor,
turned three sheets to da wind and tried to outrun dem thar sprougs,
but me mateys' deadlights twere blinded by da grog -
as useless as dem thar lanlubbers, and soon dem thar scallywags
overhauled da ‘ Black Angel’.
So! wid a heave to, we blasted dem thar swabs wid da balls off da Brass Monkey...six pounders dey be, but nary-a-one hit da mark and nary a one came back. Dem thar scuffeys' didn’t aim ta sink us, fur da botty be all dey be wantin.
Arrr! Fur sur now we be black spotted,
but I not be ready fur Davey Jones locker yet.
One more clap of thunder be what I be needin ta clear me groggy mind
and figger a way outta dis hornwaggle.
So I spliced da mainbrace and it come ta me in a flash,
da only cargo we be a carryin be Rummmmmmmmmmmm.
so we set dem thar kegs adrift and it wernt long afore dem thar
sprougs was a drinkin grog and a fine time be had by all.
~~~~~
Inspired by: Paula Swanson's contest
Awarded: Second Place
Author's Note:
In order to understand this narrative, you need to understand Pirate's language. You can
find it on the web - just type Pirate language in your search engine.
Your tempered strings and true, O ancient lyre!
Harp-like, thy graceful template shall resonate
Within the hollow confines of my soul
Not tortoise and beech, but rather the ideal
Purity of your design (here but fully
Realized by half) speaks to me
Now as ever before in my youth
Touches, as it were, my heart-strings
(Not inaptly named!) and stirs forth
From the depths of my being a song.
O! if I could master that song sublime
A tune to capture thy several contradictions
'Twere a song would outlive the race of men
Embodying form and function, earth and air
Female grace in curve and force in line
With woman's waist and hips, yet double-tusked
Shoulders square, slender neck, even a mouth
Teeth of gut, a creature turned inside-out
A half-opened signpost to infinity.
“to hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature” William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601
+++++
The house seemed smaller, seen with older eyes...
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared
But somehow we knew it would still be there....
Strangely different, ...yet the same
There was an unfamiliar small red tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid...
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...
Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives.....
...of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries...
...a place where I cried night after night when mother died...
...and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes....
Yes....it is all still there, in the little yellow house
Funny, but I'm glad they kept the yellow...
It has the same white shutters...
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...
++++++
4/20/11 Submitted for Constance La'France's Contest "The Tree"
By Carrie Richards
"To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. "
William Shakespeare," Hamlet 1601."
Long ago another planted you,
My cherished Ginkgo tree.
She tamped you in so carefully
And bequeathed you unto me.
Did she then live to see you grow
So stately and so tall?
And to see your charming bright green dress
Turn golden in the fall?
You’re clothed in pretty fan shaped leaves,
A tree beyond compare.
How many robin families,
Have nested in you, Maidenhair?
Although other trees have broken,
‘Neat the north wind’s violent gale;
You, Ginkgo pay no heed at all.
To winter’s abusive rail.
Your forebears came from China,
Where they were long revered,
And studying under their branches
An old sage with his beard.
Your kind was here as early
As the first ferns and their spores.
No tree has longer history,
Your fathers knew dinosaurs.
Strange that old Mother Nature,
Decided you should survive so long,
While we humans sometimes die before
The last verse of our song.
The answer to long life and health,
Is in the leaves of the Maidenhair tree.
If you let me pluck a few of yours,
I’ll brew up my cup of tea.
If only the one who planted you,
Had known of your power.
She could have drunk of Ginkgo tea,*
And been here for happy hour.
* Ginkgo leaves are touted as being healthful . Won a 5th place
Joyce Johnson Revised April 19, 2011
From my private files, not posted. undated.
For Constance's contest "The Tree"
" Pirate's Kids "
Pirates bein' such the noisy bunch~
'Twouldn't surprise me 'twere true my hunch~
Bein' o'course all Pirates once were kids~
So oft then were findin' better use fer fids~
Linin' ship's decks in such orderly a fashion~
Pots pans & buckets a'taken from the galley~
Kids o'those ships with fids would be thrashin'~
On these collections known then as trap alley~
Now in this day of technology supreme~
Kids o'the kids o'those kids are still seen~
Their decks may be a'ship or even in house~
Yet that fearsome noise still does all crew arouse~
Me now havin' found a great collection of traps~
Does so now imagine if'n a special kid mayhaps~
Who's a kid o'some sailor & so inclined to make noise~
Would he I wonder in such play find his joys~
Black as pearls Polynesian & of Pacific so deep~
'Tis now the color of these traps I then so do speak~
Aye's though a question must be mayhap set aside~
'Til a time when stars apart do no longer collide~
SeaWolf
©
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Country this guy they detest,
And save armpit noises he talent had none,
He thought they were funny and thought they were fun.
He thought that his 'talent' would make him a star,
But no one did care for the young Lochinvar.
He left San Francisco and charged straight ahead,
To Lower Manhattan is where he was lead,
But ere he was granted his first interview,
Producers were tipped-off and everyone knew,
His act was so silly and really bizarre,
They wouldn't audition the young Lochinvar.
Yet boldly he walked into Carnegie Hall,
And tried to astound them and tried to enthrall,
He made armpit noises and tried to impress,
(The day was quite sunny, but here I digress),
They dropped him in feathers and rolled him in tar,
'Twas nearly the end of the young Lochinvar.
"I won't be discouraged", he told them that day,
And then made his mark as he waddled away,
With sticky black footprints of feathers and tar,
He walked to the corner and bought a guitar,
Thinking, "I will be wonderful, I will go far",
But life would get worse for the young Lochinvar.
He took a few lessons, the Chet Atkins way,
With that and his armpit he started to play,
The audience booed him and tossed him outside,
He fell on his ass and it injured his pride,
And Lochinvar whispered, "Twere better by far,
Had I stayed with the armpit and scrapped the guitar."
He went to a bar and he drank a few beer,
He thought it would help him and give him some cheer,
But all it did give him was heartburn and pain,
And from that day onward, was never the same,
He'd never be famous and never a star,
'Twas the end of the line for the young Lochinvar.
He moved back to 'Frisco and rented a room,
Was the height of the Hippies, with flowers in bloom,
At Ashbury Avenue, corner of Haight,
They thought he was wonderful, thought he was great,
Now people throw dollar bills into a jar,
It's life in the '60's for young Lochinvar.
"To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. " William Shakespeare," Hamlet 1601."
Window covered by a sycamore tree
Constant friend of my snowy Maple days
Memories spring as insects on a tree
Turn my gloomy days in glorious days
Hippocrates got his inspiration
For research in medicine to begin
Buddh sat under it for meditation
The enlightenment of mind to attain.
Desdemona sat sighing under it
In agony to hear willow song treat
Flying to Egypt Mary stopped a bit
Crann ban “Money tree” in Irish spirit
To demystify health, to personalize
To me sycamore is to poetize.
** The notion of a "mirror held up to nature" has been taken over for any mimetic theory of art — the idea that art should represent reality and nature as closely as possible**
+++++++
Revised and Reposted May 4, 2014
Form : Shakespearean sonnet in Pentameter
Dr.Ram Mehta
Contest: Shakespeare by Frank H.
=========================
Dr. Ram Mehta
Date: 4/19/2011
Fourth Place win in :
Contest:The Tree sponsored by Constance La france-A rambling poet
=========================
* I wrote a sonnet Maple Memories in 2000 while living in Windsor-ONT
and was posted on 6/29/2005 on PS as Maple Memories.
The present poem is re-written for the contest.
** Maple Days- Maple is the national tree of Canada.
* Buddha is pronounced one syllable
To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature,
embracing truth as only reflection can hold.
While our mind concocts fastidious pleasure,
in search of mottled excuses bent to unfold.
Some threaten openly, words of censure,
hurled against the family tree displayed therein.
Yet which innocent, casts with stoic composure,
a stone of malicious word for the game to begin.
While the tree of life muddles fate in quiet solitude.
Its restless soul begging for optimistic pleasure,
It thinks its time before the mirror, but an interlude,
when in fact, the angel Gabriel takes his measure.
Only the tree of knowledge, cannot be maligned.
Within the face of it, read this significant truth.
From a reflection, the soul of man, you will not find,
only the sweet, sweet face, of innocence of youth.
© Apr 17 2011 Charles Henderson
for Constance "the tree" contest
a family tree, tree of life, tree of knowledge
(note: The site restrictions don't allow long epic poems, so I have split this into 6 segments, each should run straight on from the previous one.)
THE EYE OF THE SEA
Or
The Rime of the Ancient Kubla Kahn on the Road to Mandalay
There washed ashore a devil’s whore
Who claimed he’d never been paid,
Near dead from Sin, or weatherin’
Yet feared to loose his blade.
We did our best to ease his rest,
But our experts all were vexed:
The Old Wives College exhausted their knowledge;
The doctors cursed their texts.
Wracked with pain his life had waned
His eyes were growing dim,
His final words were barely heard:
Everything looked grim.
With chicken pills we cured his chills,
For strength we gave him broth,
His brow was mopped, his temperature watched,
We swaddled him in sailcloth.
Then from afar with strengthened heart
As if ‘twere heaven’s game
His mien changed, he had regained
The pilot to his flame.
In heartened mood we gave him food,
And bade his tale be told;
And so he spoke for the price of a toke
And a butcher’s bag of gold.
“ ‘Twas in the port of Herringford,
Where all the cows lie down,
A skipper talked, he claimed he sought
A crew of great renown.
The wind was high in a sunless sky,
The waves were barreling in,
And word got round of men to be found
That night at The Mortal’s inn.
At eight o’clock the bolts were shot
And all were locked within,
With muttered words of rumours heard
And lubricant of Gin.
The Captain coughed and glanced around
For conversations shed,
With laser gaze and aged malaise,
In a darkened voice he said:
‘Into the storm at the crack of dawn
We sail on the morning tide,
Let no man here betray his fear,
His passion or his pride!’
The aim of the endeavour was legend’ry treasure,
The fabled crystal ship of the Prince,
Lost years before off the Straits of Nepal,
And famously quested for since.
Our boat, ‘The Eye,’ was a Barquentine,
Just a quarter league in length,
She sailed as sweet as a sackful of eight,
With grace and speed and strength.
Twelve good men without pretence
Agreed to the journey ahead,
But the cheery tales of places sailed
Belied their inner dread.
The crew we got were a hardy lot,
Experienced one and all,
But none were fools and caution ruled
When it came to signing aboard.
Continued on The Eye of the Sea part 2