Best Vista Poems
El amor a primera vista
No se define con los ojos.
Se define con la química inexplicable
Que toma control instantáneo
Sobre dos personas sin conocerse.
Ya sea física oh virtualmente,
Esta emoción envuelve los sentidos de los individuos
Obstruyendo la razón y en forzando determinación
Para ir contra viento y marea
Con tal de poder llegar a conocerse.
Los ojos son el portal,
Atreves de ellos comienza la atracción.
Pero en caso de un ciego, ¿que?
Para poder sentir el aura y buenas energías
Tan solo necesitamos estar vivos.
El amor a primera vista no es amor.
Es un cariño puro que brota de dos.
El comienzo de algo grande
Y la oportunidad de poder conocer,
Nacer, crecer y vivir una gran historia de amor.
Barco do Boa Vista 2
Windswept, worn and weary sails
You might think that this boat ails
But with sound and sturdy, solid mast
She sails the ocean's waves at last
There was one here not long before her
But she sailed away to who knows where
Perhaps the Pirates thought they had the right
To slip her moorings in the dead of night
All they left was her shell lifeboat
Cast ashore though she could still float
Solitary, washed high on the beach
Out of water, out of reach
So a vessel more seaworthy
Was carved and built for all to see
Ready to sail the ocean blue
Ride trade winds with verve anew
The lifeboat too was hauled aboard
Made shipshape, to go abroad
With its own tiny mast and sail
Lashed to the deck with a rusty nail
There's not much calico along this coast
To make a sail, so we made the most
Of what there was ready to hand
What was found on rock and sand
So with part mainsail from a sheet of wood
And tattered foresail flapping as best it could
Into the wind she made her bearing
Casting aside risk with daring
She knew her stays were strong and taut
To take more sail as they ought
But now she's ready to sail with the tide
The seven seas and far and wide
Barco has sailed, her voyage made
But now another's anchor's weighed
So all take heed and observe well
Another boat's on the ocean's swell
a hint of orange
filled with flakes of creamy white
evening sky sings song
A
change
of name-
rebranding
just gilds the lily.
It’s like an outlet for my emotion
Whether good or bad like a magic potion
Especially when they are all over the place
Like going around in a maze
Empty and confused
Until I read a poem, I feel infused
The visions a joy
The laughter all part of the ploy
Words take us to foreign places
Smear new alliances
Friendships and laughter
The start of a new chapter
Even those filled with sadness
Makes me forget about my helplessness
7th place
POETRY PANORAMA CONTEST
Sponsored by: LINDA-MARIE
I travelled North
Where I began my nest.
I travelled South
On a ministry quest.
Not a great success,
But I did my best.
Then I travelled East
For a brief visit,
but could not abide New York City.
So I travelled West,
An abode of trials and tests.
I fell in love with The City by the Bay.
Some leave their hearts in San Francisco,
But I found my heart there with a homeless
man at our dinner table in '84 on Christmas Day.
I fell in love with The Delta Breeze in Sacramento.
It's so much better than the Mid-West freeze.
Now, I am preparing to leave this pleasant place,
this city of trees. And saying goodbye is one of the
things I most decry. So, I think not that I will say,
goodbye, for goodbyes only make me cry. I love
hellos and think that they are good for the soul.
Helos draw us together with loving smiles.
Helos do not separate us for miles and miles.
So here I am, looking back over the years,
reminiscing the dearest of friends we've made.
I must confess that the experiences and the
memories are not easy to digest, as I
become overwhelmed with tears.
121521PS
Mountain ranges all blurry
peeking through the mist
The sun is still rising
as it does the mist disperses
Showing us crevasses
faint wandering paths
near to steep ravines
trees dotted around
A quiet magical time
follows the dawn
deer appear to drink
the eagle swoops
Every where a surprise
snowdrops nestling
in a patch of snow
startling in their beauty
Loud raucous sounds
from the nesting crows
splendid ancient trees
by the winding path
High up is the summit
we toil to reach it
resting awhile to drink
in our surrounds
At last we are there
and it was worth it
at our feet valleys
full of wild flowers
All around pure magic
the vista so fresh
its images so sharp
here is an unspoilt place
consider that you have discovered a place that was once
a exotic place for the rich and famous of the world which
is in utter overgrowth of scattered blocks of fireplace
blocks and cinder. a rather ghostly place that involves
a long drive up a two way tree lined median that
culminates to a circular drive.
directly below the circular drive a few scattered fragments of old bottom
buildings certain to have held whatever old hotels held
in the past/
all these elements of the old place look over a summit
which over looks a scalloped mountain edge into the
new bella vista, Arkansan.
now i have returned after a two month illness with my
camera in hand and ready to scoop up
the substance of this wonderful old place.
alas, .....the ground is clear.......
a big old yellow cat equipment
has taken its very soul.
there is no longer even the chimney within sight
the old beautiful children playground that i walked
on in my last visit is gone including the old jungle
jim. even the rock pathways are gone and there
is one piece of metal sticking up out of the ground
in a mound of dirt as if it were calling for attention.
nothing is here but the morning sun beating down on
my head. i slowly withdraw my camera and decide
to keep the picture of beauty in my mind from the
first visit
as i leave, i am too depressed to do anything
except stop and view a giant blackberry bush
bearing blackberries every where. i do not
pick even one. too much has been taken from
this place without ceremony.
by janetta harrington.
Again on the side of the road with my head under the hood,
A firm jiggle on the starter wire and start again she probably should.
More than a month’s salary to get her fixed, I cannot afford to pay,
So every time she conks out on me - the hood goes up before I’m on my way.
The burn on the side of my hand is from touching the engine when still hot,
After that rather painful lesson learned I can now reach in and touch it not.
Beggars can’t be choosey so I still drive the old family clunker,
Once I graduate and get a real job, I’m driving her into a bunker.
A station wagon older than me is not conducive for getting a date;
The rich kids on the other side of town use their Camaros as pretty girl bait.
The electric window in the back of the car no longer goes up, it just stays down;
The heater is broke so in the winter I drive a car full of snow all over the town.
On days when jiggling doesn’t seem to work, I revert to using my thumb;
Camaros pass by with pretty girls inside and I really feel kind’a dumb.
It’s a character builder I tell myself since I really have no other choice,
I jiggle again and beg her to start in my nicest and most sincere voice.
The taxi speeds down the highway
zig zagging to miss the potholes.
It slows as a horse and cart crosses,
followed by the owner's dog.
On the other carriageway people wait
hoping someone will give them a lift.
An old Cadillac smokes its way down the road.
In the town, buildings are like well-worn pairs of shoes –
they fit, still function but have seen better days.
But the people are well nourished, clothed and clean.
Smiles of genuine happiness are all around.
This is a country which lives to a different pulse -
Ché its heartbeat,
Fidel its lifeblood.
People are living the revolution where others have failed –
common wellbeing before personal gain,
society’s hallmark is equality and colour-blindness.
Educated and cultured, enjoyment is beyond the material.
Musical rhythms set the daily pace.
There is a determination to live and succeed despite hardship.
But is it only hardship when seen through Western eyes?
The freedom of spirit is to be admired.
But what does the future hold?
The greatest challenge is yet to come –
influx of other peoples from not so far away.
¡Cubana!
I AM VISTA
i am artificial
i am disposable
i am programmable
i am binary
i am machine
i am obsolete
i am error
i am problematic
i am incompatible
i am vista
there is no light
on the faraway screen
i do not like this energy
i exist too nervously
the monitor is watching me
i am overdue for servicing
Belmont wallows in westering
twilight, sheep graze in cold
pastures, hares scamper,
ignoring a circling hawk.
Blackpool's urban sprawl crawls off
up to the scarred horizon, the Tower*
pricks the heavens like a syringe,
spilling the blood-red sun.
Evening falls, I'm all alone
and free to stare,
a wondrous, star-flecked firmament,
a phosphorescent flare!
The Buena Vista
We met innocently, yet always at the famous,
crowded, Buena Vista Cafe.
Renowned for Irish coffee and it's view
of the spectacular, San Francisco Bay.
Over Irish coffees, we shared our days.
You, the journalist and I, the teacher.
After awhile the jabbering ceases.
We are now out in the Sam Francisco
foggy night.
Kisses blessed by the moistness of the fog,
It feels so tenderly, touchingly right!
A magical cable car appears and whisks us away.
Up, up, up, those picturesque hills.
Then romantically down,down, down,
Into a candlelit night of delectable night of
Osso Buco and risotto.
The scent of aromatic garlic and oregano,
Pungently slithers through the thyme-filled,
still night,Bay Area air.
Panagiota Romios
4/13/2018
Though the pallid water fell high
And bathed the blue rocks continual clean.
Though to the deep,
The cattle walked over the centuries-old glaciers
Though the horror of Sindh could be heard
And the hurry of her water seen.
Though the calm cool lakes created
Long lingering waves.
Though by the early evening,
Nomads’ flock viewed of the far
Walking to the far-off.
Though in the lush meads the horses’ dung in air
An unknown fragrance had spread.
Though the goats grazed ‘long the standing hills
And the buffaloes churned stock-still their heads, held eyes.
Though the horsemen galloped across the vale
And took the white women-visitors long ride.
Though the lofty road wayed ‘mid the Zojilla hills,
High, along the Sindh’s cedars’ shore.
Though in the north
The cloudy summits lived in frost and chill.
Though a country lad on the road’s side
Stared sweet of half-open eyes—
The passing visitors’ vehicles,
And tempted me to kiss.
Though to the uphill,
An old alone nomad reclined on a lonely rock
Looked beautiful—lost in thoughts.
Though the Nature was in her sheer youth,
Though I was flying in fervor and verve,
Every vista asked about you
And turned, all delights into despair.
That ancient mount climbs
Until crowned by cloud,
A feat I observe
Each glorious morn
While snug in this bed
And knowing with smugness
That prince of an outcrop
Through this window peers in,
Full of envy for soundness
Of love in my marriage,
Love thriving more lively
Than deciduous trees
Arrayed on tall slopes,
Love gushing more surely
Than springs spawning brooks,
Love even more steadfast
Than the great rock itself,
So wake, dear wife,
Rouse to this day—
For that envious mount
Let us flaunt, once again,
The beauty and essence
Of love.