Best Verandah Poems
A dusk, a glazed verandah, it's just rained,
a smell of lilac, earthworms and wet earth,
an awkward silence - the confusion chained
my tongue: “What if she’ll laugh at? Is it worth?”
A glass of wine casts the vermilion shade
over a tablecloth, a rocking chair
sways quietly, its oscillations fade
as far as you immerse into the rare
edition of “Les Fleurs du mal”* I brought
for you, a curious nocturnal moth
time and again sits on your polka dot
chintz dress, it’s getting late, a creamy froth
of lilac trees spills out of the garden
through open windows. I lament, I bide
my time. Oh, how the words of love are hard in
such an inclement May…
In June you died.
So many years have passed since then, my love.
Wine’s drunk, lilac is gone, the moth in vain
knocks on the screen, only the shadow of
your chair still sways in my delirious brain.
*(fr.) “The Flowers of Evil” by Charles Baudelaire
12.10.2019
Give Me Your Best New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Quieter than usual I stand alone in my verandah
looking over a lamp-lit street-bench.
Across the ocean a plane lands down onto the runway
where my wind- swept words would not be heard
and my mascara stained cheeks will not be seen.
Lost I whisper: "Farewell my little child Farewell
Embark on your journey...
Go chase the stars Live life Count a thousand ways to smile
Spread those wings Fly free Build up your destiny
Go girl Explore the world Ride on its golden wheel
It takes you places magical places wherever you want to be
Do all the things you aim to do Believe in all that makes you you
Walk Run Run through lavender fields Don't turn your back on the foreign breeze
Its sweet Its soft Like I described it A million nights into your sleep.
Oh my one my only child a maltese beauty
with noicettes eyes with sweetest charms and hazel hair
When was it that you turned into a lady of a kindred soul and a smile so fair
Oh my one my only child with a determined mind and a spirit sublime
In my absence Do not fear In lonely silence seek me and I'll be there
Shawling your solitude with sudden care Humming a lullaby on our old rocking chair
Covering cold nights with blankets of love Whispering stories about God above.
Oh my one my only child I know there's cursed distance that will keep us apart
but distance is only a grain compared to my heart
Its the heart of a mother that beats to your own And wherever you are
It keeps on protecting you It keeps being your home.
My child My one only child ..."
Ps : My daughter Christina is still very young, but a mother sees not only the past and the present when She thinks of her child, the future is a vision She thinks of from day one with soul, heart, and mind.
The orchestral chorus of waking birds fill the air
In augmentation of dawns awakening flare.
Sunrise paints the sky with colored wonder, golds,
Vibrant red and hues shaded soft, reminisce of old.
Dusty, cracked leather boots lay on the verandah porch
The farmhouse kitchen now awakes, toasted bread to scorch.
Creaking back door hinges sing, old tea leaves tossed from the pot.
The kettle boils, butter melts, the coarse of the day to plot.
Light is the breeze that casts its fingers through the windmills blade,
The comforting sound of scraping metal, ritualistically made.
Dog stirs, stretches sleek body, mouth wide with a waking yawn.
All of nature comes alive at the sight of such a beautiful dawn.
I have seen them stand outside my door,
pleading mother to help stage their show,
on our verandah with stony floor,
tattered clothes, hungry child, wife on tow!
dusty robes speak of miles he walked,
two woven baskets on wooden yoke,
usual wares with which he embarked,
a venomous trade to feed his folks!
with widened eyes I saw him sit down,
his sweat pouring down in summer heat,
mopping face and brow with long sleeved gown,
asks favour of water, food to eat!
rested and nourished his show is on,
a crowd of urchins get a free peep,
melody like from an old car horn,
he blows sharp and sweet but yet so deep.
speckled cobra nearly five feet long,
rocks in anger with an open hood,
heat of summer is no time for song,
disturbed from slumber, how very rude!
As child was overawed by his skills,
such deadly snakes controlled by his Been*,
there is tragedy behind each thrill,
truth of life, often hidden unseen!
snake charmer’s life is twin tragedy,
education denied from a child,
for snake it is to be in custody,
to lose their freedom to rule the wild!
let’s solve this tale with education,
help their children go to a good school,
use their skills to help conservation,
so the snakes roam free, the wild to rule!
*Been a musical flute made from a coconut shell used by snake charmers to distract the snake
Premier contest winner (3)
Written 4/01/2021
9 syllables each line except one that has 10 syllables
‘The Snake Charmers’ poetry contest
Kai Michael Neumann sponsored
Curl of smoky streaks
Joss stick messages;
Heaven bound
~~~~~~~~~
Temple visit
Feast day moments;
Talk to the dead
~~~~~~~~~
Bright Hill Temple
Where rites bring peace;
Family gathering
~~~~~~~~~
Temple verandah,
Spacious prayer courtyard;
Surreal this heaven
~~~~~~~~~
Closed eyes salute
An inner realm calls;
Spiritual insight
~~~~~~~~~
Here we gather
Offer our earthly harvests;
Poignant celebration
~~~~~~~~~
Briefly we come
Ply food offerings;
Gratitude tells
~~~~~~~~~
Columbarium niche
Earthly ashes laid;
Fond remembrance
~~~~~~~~~
All Souls Day
By parents' niche tomb;
Familiar voices speak
~~~~~~~~~
Echoes in hallway
Death talks in silence;
Life feels message
~~~~~~~~~
Poise in strange voice
Talking in my head;
Ecstatic insight
~~~~~~~~~
Brief is our time here
In-between eternities;
Grief comes too late
~~~~~~~~~
Songbirds sing
A rustic hymn;
Salute the dead
~~~~~~~~~
Flowers sparkle bright
Crimson, violet, orange hues;
Bourgainvillea vines
~~~~~~~~~
Hurl of midday sun
Casting odd silhouettes;
Deserted columbarium
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
22 October 2014
Singapore
I see
The white painted pieces of the verandah
Scratched away by a harsh relentless wind.
It leaves behind bilged browns;
Rusted remnants
Of chairs,
Of walls.
The cement rips,
Falling below
To blend with rocks and stones
In the barren and sterile garden.
Though the tiles plastered with grimy mud
Is enough for algae to grow.
They have decayed,
Like the flesh of the once young man
Who gazed to the oceans in bliss.
They have decayed,
Like the skin of the once young woman
Whose lips quenched his eyes.
It has decayed,
Like remnants
Of a memory;
Trickling laughter and
Chatter churning from
A blend of emotions,
Have cascaded away,
Gone with this putrid wind;
A jagged silence
Now plaguing the walls.
As remnants
Of a past generation.
Dad Revisited
RIP 1924-2015
Last night I sat up in bed and prayed a little longer,
I asked god to send dad back for just one more day with great fervour.
Dad was waiting for me in the verandah as soon as I reached,
Seated on his cane chair with legs outstretched.
Suited- booted, neat crisp turban, expectant eyes so tender
The same tweed coat, the warm muffler across his shoulder.
The moment he saw me he fumbled for his walking stick,
Stood up took a few steps forward in a nick.
We embraced each other tight as he planted as kiss on my head,
I nuzzled against his warm coat enjoying the love of my figurehead.
Warm drops of love fell on my cheeks,
Saw oceans pouring through his teary creeks.
'I can't control them', he said chokingly,
Feeling the other's heart beats we clung to each other tightly.
'Let's go to the garden, the grape fruit is waiting for you!'
We walked together slowly over his leafy garden dew.
Dad showed me the new cuttings and saplings he had potted for me,
He pointed to the overgrown grass and said his workers were on leave.
He said,' Ah, for more varieties of flowers!
But the dogs don't spare them in my bowers'.
We smiled and saw the overladen grape fruit trees,
I plucked three grapefruits and said they would suffice with a tease.
We slowly climbed up the steps to our sunny verandah to sit alone,
He asked me what was it that I had wanted to tell him over the phone.
I read out my poem, '13, West Macott Road', a nostalgia shakeup,
Of our ancestral home in Poona where he had grown up.
I was reared up there, too, by my grandparents,
He wept and hugged each other, our undying love evident.
'I can't believe you had this talent and I didn't know about it till now,
You always make me cry with your emotions, but no more will I allow!'
He took out his kerchief to wipe my tears, his permanent flair,
I was still sniffing when I sighted his empty cane chair.
December 10, 2015
Contest: Just One More Day
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Saturated with fish fry smells, Bar-B-Cue smoke,
rodeo dust and sounds of deep water blues,
with teasing frothing lace spread on the shore,
Gulf Coast birth breeze blew winds
in sails to Caribbean Sea, Blue Mountain
berries, banana walk yam hills,
And coconut rain drops tapping reggae beats
on zinc roof tops on cool verandah nights,
in herb scented air, curling roast breadfruit smoke.
The tarrying there tested the soul,
matured the spirit, fulfilled long tried
attainments of deferred dreams; then
the sea recruited its journeyman again.
Pacific Coast pleaded an adopted native son home. Home
to new sea shore sands dusted in smog self negation
of urbane destruction and self nullification of community,
caught in the veiled nightmare—lurking in the promise land.
Hence, lessons learned from a gospel tower that never knew a church,
yet gave life-lived sermons that put homiletics to shame, crucifying
pipe-dream pie-in-the-sky nuances on the crosses of realities.
Atlantic waves, undulating like rhythmic buttocks, frothed
a scent of magnetism greater than the tightening hold of gravity,
attracting an uneasy soul, searching spiritual solaced sands; only
to discover that the seas all share the same shored design: Yes.
Same shared sorrowful savage slave story! Different sea: same sand.
Now awaits Guinea Coast sunsets and Cape of Good Hope
cul-de-sac early morning sunrises; then on to the sands of heaven.
Regrets are for those who fail to chase their dreams to realities.
The heavy odor of lavender polish softly opened the door
Peeling paint family holiday house timber-slated chairs
Orange-flower water the tick-tock of the grandfather clock
Pruning orange fruit trees which grew behind the house
Sunlight streaming into the room through sloping window
onto a table, box of cigarettes a carved pipe and a photo.
Hanging from the mirror by two ribbons, a little plush hat.
Sweet air scented with potting earth and horse manure
A valley tumbled into a blue-green canopy of forest gums
Humming sofly under her breath they threaded their way
Glittering eyes rain dripping eyelashes corkscrew curls
Living in a woodland forest cottage like country princesses
White painted railings polished wooden floors glass inset
Orchards laden with blossoms, tea on the valley verandah
White chocolate eclairs rosehip apple and Lady Grey teas
Vegetable garden ,lavender ,daisies , foxgloves and roses.
Thicket of hazel,holly and brambles coated the under slope
Antique French doors large wooden shutters,blue tint spiral
An orchard that glows red in the sunset from the studio
Glimpse of fine white teeth, challenging smile fan aflutter
Enchanted room night of candlelight sweetly familiar odors
Catching tadpoles + baby frogs in the lilly and crocus pond
Sandalwood Fan
On the verandah of the Moana Hotel
Not too many years ago
Under the great banyan beside the
beach at Waikiki
They would bring a fragrant sandalwood fan
to all the guests that ordered tea.
They set it before you in its own fancy stand
the most alluring fragrance wafted on demand,
when you opened it’s carved blades
and gently fanned.
Given to holders on an honor system
Understood to return on leaving…
Sadly, too many proved untrustworthy.
after a time- these fans became un-available
A friend who had shared many tea- times there, with me
one day -sent me a small gift from China
A slim package which when opened re-kindled memory
A glass topped case holding a sandalwood fan
just for me
Suzanne Delaney
Milton Brown
1822 – 1917
I knew C. W. Harvey.
Knew him and liked him.
I lived on the first floor of his Greenleaf Hotel
By Bailey Street.
Lived and thrived on the flowered verandah.
Sipped lemonade and gummed soft bread
In the swank dining room.
Talked and listened into the long afternoons
With the fine folks from Illinois and Iowa.
Most of the time,
I rocked and thought back,
And I remembered fondly
The old times in the trackless wilderness,
Seeking a permanent woman and a permanent home.
I found both with a pair of leather boots, a spade and a torn Bible.
Ye Kings and Princes of the Earth!
And to all the rich and the powerful:
“What doth it profit a man
To gain the whole world
And lose his own soul?”
We are truly nothing.
As nothing as the still wind.
As worthless as the dirt
That presently covers my still bones.
Yes, I knew C.W. Harvey.
Knew him and liked him.
He was the richest man in town when I arrived here.
And yet,
He taught me humility and dignity.
Lessons learned with a kind word
And a daily tip of his derby hat.
And after my passing into the eternal night,
He honored me with a kind eulogy at my burial
Here in Artilissa’s flower yard.
My forever resting place
Under these countless stars!
GRANDPA'S WRINKLES
====================
I sat beside my grandpa in the verandah,
And watched him gazing in the sky.
Suddenly he smiled and I noticed
His wrinkles too smiled with him
I asked,
Grandpa, why your face is full of wrinkles
Because I am an old man dear,
Said he.
He smiled again and I could not see his eyes,
His eyes covered with wrinkles.
Grandpa, are you there?
Yes dear, he shook his head,
Wrinkles look nice on you grandpa
I said.
Yes, I earned them through hard work over the years
Said he with a hearty laugh
if they can speak they will tell you great stories
He said.
I saw sadness mingled with joy in his face
can't you speak on their behalf
I asked.
Yes dear, but my memory has left me,
leaving these wrinkles as my memory
Said he.
Sent from my iPad
Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill
Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face;
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With trials and tribulations—Grand Canyon invisible walls
Mocking the abyss of Middle Passage ocean depths
Carpeted with ivory bone trees rattled by circadian waves
Splashing stilled sandy sea shore stones sunken in time.
Beginnings begin with the eruption of sunlight;
Rays flowing lava-like to chloroplast genes
Of generations of quantum leaping Greens
Synthesizing seminal spirits spewing
Audacious faith—audacious faith blooming
Mushroom cloud determination rising
As a risen national family tree;
Branches thrusting tentacles forever upward.
Streaming through, flows a river Brazos
Whose residents often crawled, netted and hooked
Their way to the Hill—accepting all aching
To give or receive freely—nourishment.
A gumbo gathering of love supreme;
Charged sable soul soars—sailing
Pillow puffed verandah skies;
Stoking old horizons—searching
Mountain top promise land dreams.
Where I have been I have just begun to go;
Returning to the beginning—
To tap the toasted roots anchoring the journey’s
Design—etched beneath the shade of limbs
Of an ancient Chinaberry tree
Looking out over the Hill—
Shadowing shelled street that oysters built.
The senior poem now resonate an ebony perspective:
“…It’s sweet to dream of Venice…It’s great to think of Rome…
But when it comes to living…There’s no place like home…
So it’s home again and home again for me…”
My Hill—My home…My family tree. Here I grew; here I be.
If nowadays we have become so wise
And are proud achievers
Who have explored the world from our cradle;
If these days men would hear with their eyes
And men would speak by their actions
And would prefer to reason with their flesh;
If today you see chicken gnaw bones
And billy hunt and prey on rodents,
Do not stand to stare or wonder,
For these are the last days!
When a day's old child would stare,
When teens have now become bachelors;
When at twelve you have known
Men and women and fulfil God's injunction
To procreate and litter the earth with waifs.
If at twenty six your name goes
With the scholastic print of Ph. D.
And when at thirty sitting at your verandah
Having coloured teeth from tobacco and kola.
What else are you waiting for my friend?
Do not wait on what the earth has to offer,
Prepare your bed and die,
For these are the last days!
If nowadays we have become so wise,
If today we are proud achievers,
We are like the young child, Umu,
Who sighted a ripe mango amidst dozens
Of unripe mangoes up in the tree.
He detest the burden of climbing
And would never think of waiting
For the mango to fall to the ground.
In his excitement, he pulled up the young stalk
Of a healthy peer tree and
Threw it up at the mango tree.
He threw it up again and again and before
He could struck down the one ripe mango,
He had plucked and emptied dozens
Of unripe mangoes to the earth.
He picked the one ripe mango
Among the others and left in triumph!
If nowadays we have become so wise,
If today we are proud achievers,
When an infant would reject
His mother's breast because he has no time,
Do not stand to ask why or wonder,
For these are the last days
That shall give birth to a new era!
RESPECT YOUR FREEDOM
I glance through my verandah window,
Birds flying over my head freely.
I imagined myself floating like them,
In pain complicated, reminiscence shown deeply.
The afternoon breeze breeds an aroma,
Like fresh cologne of summer ivies.
Unlike bad odors always ventilating thru my nostrils.
All I see is beauty of nature’s creation down peak Lang Street.
I cease to be virtuous persuasive!
Bearing in my mind the righteousness of every individual,
But the world is never consistent to inhabitants,
And all that nature has conceived seem to be miscarried.
Felicity we used to have is now buried by the avalanche.
No matter the yokes our fore fathers burdened,
The chains they footed, we still not free, not in this degree.
Natively as indigenous but still feel like apaches.
Our roots are rooted out like weed indeed unfreed!
Visions screened in our minds succeed in destroying
Beauty of our lives in noble disguise.
We imbibe intoxicants excessively in excuse for our guilty conscience!
Will in moments of grace my pure words ever attain quality of deeds?
Freedom blinds us to the unknown!
The powers we possess lead us to temptations!
We enslave and indulge ourselves in injustices!
Yet we jeopardize our freedom through contempt and hostility!
Crime and violence generates prolonged vendetta
To our fellow white counterparts through racism and brutality.
Respect your wealth and take no part in exploitation of immature women!
Respect God’s Temple and never take part in the prostitution society!
Respect your freedom.
By Willem Pietersen