Best Ward Off Poems
POTD 23 Mar 2024
THE PATH WELL TRAVELLED.
Two paths diverged, and I was thrown by doubts I had never known
To my left, thickly overgrown, was a path to dismal dimness prone.
To my right, a lovely sight-fragrant flora flamed in light
Forms so graceful, beauty rare, a wonderous vision beyond compare.
Both seduced with equal right, torn was I between dark and light.
Resisting limits of time and sight, a liminal border of cosmic might.
Hesitancy rapt with fear and doubt, the pondering heart beat aloud.
Tempting was the path so grand, but instinct cautioned of a treacherous hand.
A feathery touch, a breeze stirred, and in its sigh, a voice I heard.
Was it Hecate who whispered?
"Take heed. Beware, for each path leads to a different lair."
Crystal clarity knew what I must do, and with a heart filled with valour true,
Joyously, I strode wild and free down the well-trodden path ahead of me.
The leaves, like frisking lovers, played as I embarked my chosen way.
Future paths ~ So many dreams ~ Each a thread in life's grand scheme.
Though true discovery lay in paths, I'd roam ~
The one well travelled always led back Home.
By Maria Williams ©
Greeks worshipped Hecate as a guardian and gatekeeper who could ward off evil forces. She is often represented carrying a torch and a key and standing on the liminal border between one place and another. She bears three heads and always has a dog by her side.
Inspired by Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken', I chose to write an alternative version.
'The Road Not Taken' is one of Robert Frost's most famous poems. It's natural and understandable that many readers take the poem to be Frost's statement of individualism as a poet: he will take 'the road less travelled'.
The metaphor of the road is one that immediately evokes a journey, not just of the local or day-to-day kind, but of the life-defining sort: life as a journey, with many roads which we must travel along, and with many alternative paths which we must choose between.
POTD 23 March 2024
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star,
Red ones are juxtaposing lips when wrens are kissing;
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
They marvelously stand and hung on where they are,
In kaleidoscope of colors, they’re all glistening;
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star.
Their lasting freshness is a blessing from the altar
In orange, yellow, red and purple- they’re all amazing;
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
Their dazzling beauty is the sweetest song that soothes my scar
In its various colors, red with yellow is the best hymn I’ll sing
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star.
Ambling along an avenue of those flowers quite so far
As if leading into the vista of paradise –the most wonderful feeling
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
Bestowing its enchantment to someone may ward off war
Red gears for a blazing love , yellow for unwavering spirit of sharing
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
June 30, 2013 10.40pm
©2013by Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Fourth Place
Contest: Good Poems
Judged: 8/8/2013
Sponsor: Great Poet, Nathan A
I need to hide
to drown my sorrow
to not feel obligated to stay a secret
the darkness to blanket my self inflicted pain
the thunder to stifle my screams
the lightening to set me on fire
I need it to rain...
I need to be revitalized and invigorated
to feel serene and tranquil
to be calm and collected
the darkness to bring me peace
the thunder to direct my mind
the lightening to guide my heart
I need it to rain...
I need to escape
to feel the ground at my feet
to feel the wind in my hair
the darkness to blind my captor
the thunder to clap in approval
the lightening to sever my shackles
I need it to rain...
I need to grow
to heighten my potential
to cultivate and thrive
the darkness to shelter my fraility
the thunder to ward off any imminent danger
the lightening to strike as my weapon
I need it to rain...
I need to be laid to rest
for someone to cry for me
for someone to long for me
the darkness to resemble my abscence
the thunder to echo my voice through your ears
the lightening to flash visions of me before your eyes
I need it to rain...
(This poem was inspired by my friend's grandma who said, and I quote, "You can hug anyone you want to." I dedicate it to all the sweetie poets who give "hugs.")
You can hug anyone you want to.
It's something everyone can do.
(There are many reactions from one act.
Proceed with caution so you don't get smacked.)
You can hug any way you like.
Keep it loose, or grab 'em tight.
Hug with a manly guttural noise,
or hug like a lady with grace and poise.
Sometimes just one hand will do.
Hug the way that best suits you.
Hug to ward off tears and sorrow.
Hug like you're going to die tomorrow.
Hug sister Suzy. Hug uncle Al.
Hug anyone to make a new pal.
Hug 'em big. Hug 'em small.
Hug 'em one. Hug 'em all.
Hug 'em in a group or two by two,
so the pleasure's not all about you.
Hug with a spin. Even make it an art.
Just make sure you hug with your heart.
It's as simple as a shoulder shrug.
Everybody could use a hug.
You can hug anyone you want to.
Watch your back, cuz I might hug you.
Everything around me is still
The soft lights ward off the cold
My worried heart is unsettled
Every minute makes me old
Time seems to drag on and on
Not sure I can take much more
I’m waiting for my angel
to walk in through that door
There is nothing to do but wait,
so I wonder about her day
but what’s taking her so long?
Did she somehow lose her way?
I think about my visit
My first time to see her place
In my glimpse into her life,
a weariness I can trace
She flew away to this isle
to try out her angel wings,
and in following her dreams
she untied the home spun strings
“Our children are not our own.”
Oh, great Gibran*, can’t you see?
My precious 18 year old,
Will always belong to me!
Oh yes, she may live elsewhere
Have a family of her own,
but she’s my little baby
and in my eyes she hasn't grown
I wait and wait and wait
Please, God, let her be alright!
I look out of the window
at the blackness of the night
I think of all those mothers
who wait for their children dear,
whose tired and aching arms
long to hold their loved ones near
The wait for them is fruitless
Its end is a tragic woe,
for death holds back their loved ones
The "Wait of Pain" will not go
My heart shares in their sorrow
My soul weeps for their plight
For though my daughter is late
She’ll be coming home tonight!
For Waiting Contest by James Rogers
September 9, 2015
*Khalil Gibran was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer of the New York Pen League. There recent move, The Prophet, was about him.
My descent was gradual, sedge meadows with wondrous pink orchid variations visited by never identified damselflies, my head starting to swim; erasing time, giving way to a dark canopied wetland of black spruce, difficult to traverse, sloping deer trails the safest path to take, avoiding quick-mud holes. These trails are popular in the forest, as signs reveal, death struggle remains, the saddest.
This is the area I saw the hairless half ape/half wolf like creature block my trail, stopping to look at me deeply, then vanishing like a ghost, without even a ruffle of plants.
Sometimes a plant, flower or insect calls to me "come closer" so I approach with caution; my hand carved heavy oak staff probing for danger, strong enough to ward off bears and badgers, snakes & insect saboteurs, intent on my demise.
With compass and topo I chart my course, knowing each time I visit these wild places in the forest off Lake Superior, it could be my last, so I bring back natural, wondrous souvenirs that fill my day-dreams, content once more, cleansed of my sins by Her Majesty, the forests off Gitchi Gumee.
Authors note...never venture into these wild places alone, always be prepared with survival equipment in your pack.
Redemption
She slowly uncoiled her gray streaked hair that fell to her waist. She removed her
spectacles to see more clearly the windswept icy snow clinging to the branches. A
pause, settling something deep within; then her gaze shifted to me.
I reached out, but found my reach was frozen, too stiff to touch her. For if I touched
her, the burden we shared would lapse and slide away, slinking off to be buried,
uncoiled under the ground.
A pinched, dour expression settled her features into a mask that would never
betray the inner darkness which created a shadow of an existence. A mask that I
must wear as well, to ward off the hopeless life within me, growing every moment of
the day, days upon days retreating into the too long nights, hopeless to survive in
the world we have created, together as “want” and “ruthlessness”.
“I carry no idolatries, no false hope.” A breath are these words as I receive them,
knowing they are too bold to give forth a safe humility.
The nurse, starched clothing as stiff as her countenance, paused, a look of
condemnation briefly shadowing her face, the sun passing in and out of the clouds.
She could not help herself. No matter the role we are chosen to play in this world,
we are not free of a deeply flawed human nature, ice softening dangerously on a
winter’s pond. I turned away.
I came to hours later, the rejected life in me gone, a searing through flesh never
immune to a free will taunting, tearing the fabric of life so fragile. I would not cling. A
passing briefly witnessed, a single brown leaf blown by the window in the darkened
room where we sit for tea, hopes slowly elapsing like the sea waters
receding.
Tomorrow we can only envision; today we must let go of a part of us we will never
again possess. A coursing through the veins of life no more, we push, and push, an
existence wishing to sink into the yawning chasm of what is unknown and coming
for us.
They’re playing bingo in the lounge bar,
between ten and dinner time,
pensioners arrive from near and far,
to try and win a bingo dime.
I’m watching from me usual stool,
and hear numbers shouted out,
while drinking beer that’s nice and cool,
waiting for the ‘bingo’ shout.
While there is laughter and loud groaning,
depending on their bingo luck,
some others claim of their disowning,
because bad luck has struck.
They are not sitting at a bingo table,
but in a corner all alone,
knowing for now that they’re unable,
to leave the tavern comfort zone.
The Barley Tavern offers shelter
for the likes of Lukey Brown,
who’s problem’s not a mere welter,
but a simple wife put down.
We all know that a woman scorned
can breed disaster to a tee,
and many times a love is mourned,
that’s why I offer therapy.
I brought a beer for Lukey Brown,
who gave me a nod and smile,
and after I was sitting down,
I put Lukey up on trial.
“So what’s the go old Lukey mate?
Why are you feeling so morose?”
And Lukey took a while to state,
“Are all women bellicose?”
Lukey really had me puzzled there,
‘What does bellicose all mean?’
And Lukey states “it means beware,
the wife’s about cause a scene,
and all because she made remarks,
about a couple down the road,
and my reply it set off sparks,
and bellicose so quickly showed.”
Then I supplied more therapy,
shouting Lukey another beer,
to ward off living dangerously,
but to learn to live with fear.
“She pointed to a couple in the street,
who played a loving sexy game,
kissing, cuddling, and no way discreet -
then! Why can’t you do the same?”
“Why can’t I do the same I said.
Have you gone stark raving mad!
I got the stare that means I’m dead,
everything got worse than bad.
With crude insults I copped the hurl -
- can you get me another beer?
I said no way, I don’t know the girl;
and that’s the reason I’m in here.”
Muddy Water's Gramma gave us licorice
I walked the old Kenwood neighborhood with my twin little brother and sister in tow,
'hold there hands and look both ways before you cross the street'
No use trying to talk my way out, knew it was the only way mom would let me go.
October's new moon, peaked in and out of passing clouds,
leaving the night gloomy in stygian darkness.
Faces painted, carrying our paper bags, dressed in raggedy linen pillow case shrouds.
Low sad sound of a guitar's slow lick, pitch in open E, played a few doors down,
accompanied by a soulful song sung:
'Well, my mother told my father,
just before hmmm, I was born,
"I got a boy child's comin,
He's gonna be, he's gonna be a rollin stone,
Sure 'nough, he's a rollin stone..'
I knocked on the door, our shrilled chorus trio called out Trick or Treater's round,
Clutching a Bible in her hands 'to ward off evil spirits'.
Gramma Della turned on the porch-light, framed in screened doorway,
emitting a joyous whooping sort of laugh, invited the three of us in.
The bright-eyed man sat at the kitchen table, looking up from his guitar emblazoned in Formica reflected glory.
In the corner, a pretty girl, dressed as Cinderella, sat cross-legged on the floor..
with what looked like a million dollars worth of candy.
Muddy, who had ceased his song at our knock, nodded our way.
With curious smile that was both happy and sad, in smooth, measured voice said
'Oh don't you look a fright'.
Della handed out licorice that year, the same as all the years we once knew.
But what us kids remember best, and last, the man who sung & played the Catfish Blues.
What I didn't learn 'til later, a picture placed in Muddy's view of the living room.
Little Walter, with his harmonica cupped in hands,
who died just a year earlier, a day after Valentine's moon.
Inspired by McKinley Morganfield and his Grandmother Della Jones
You get a heck of a sound from the church. Can't you hear it in my voice? -Muddy Waters
The wind raised the wave with pleasure over and over,
exploding with its weight embracing the jagged rocks.
Seeing the aged shoreline spread like an endless rover,
of eroded pinnacles. No ship dare seek its locks,
for its nonexistent shore has suffered severe shocks.
She hugged her woolen shawl, tightly around her shoulders,
to ward off the chill, and walked along the cliffs, looking
out onto the sea. Waves crashed against battered boulders,
stirring the cool mist and briny fragrance. Concealing
the love she once shared, but lost to the seas bewitching.
7/27/2017
English Quintain, ababb, 13 syllables
Treasures Given That Will Forever Last
The red rose, colors that such pure joy brought
gleaming wet from last night's slow falling dew
are as divine gifts in darken world caught
begging Nature's gentle hands to renew,
Your life, that gave so many a new start
now has withdrawn into a waiting room
many born that deep wisdom you did impart
to ward off hard blows of world's gloom and doom,
Seeing beauty, its sheen causing a glow
of memories some bitter, most so sweet
tho' heaven may be waiting its next show
to extend its hands to your dear soul greet!
The red rose, your life, seeing beauty cast.
Treasures given that will forever last.
Robert J. Lindley, 12-20-2019
Sonnet, ( A Poetic Dedication To Our Beloved Mother )
Manus tuae viae ducem divinus.
We are ordered to provide notice to avoid a global psychosis.
Your dedication to take this medication will give you the perfect prognosis.
Take your pills to ward off those ills. They affect your brain, you’ll all find.
It’s better for society that we remove this anxiety from your very unhealthy minds.
It’s a worldwide confession that we all have depression, A phenomenon from the beginning of time.
The men in the labs provide capsules and jabs ... to refuse will become a crime.
A lifeless body
A hollow shell of what once was
She once spoke with passion
Laughed at a simple joke
She loved fiercely
An unconditional love
She was so happy
Shone brightly from the inside out
But then it all changed
She spoke scarcely
They saw sadness in her eyes
Eyes that shimmered with unshed tears
What had happened to this girl
Why had she lost her shine
Now she lays motionless on the ground
The blood pools under her
She's curled up
As if to ward off cold
Written on the wall are bright red letters
"I just wanted some one to care"
In the corner panel,
there is wisdom’s stoic face
she glimpses two leitmotifs
anticipates in the lover's embrace
her Egyptian demiurge beliefs
draped in internal paralysis
prepped in anxiety of inner toils
of verminous void, an empty analysis
Seeded branches of goldleaf coils
they reach for the distant stars,
certain the sky was made to be entered
uncertain what the dynamic interplay draws
between abandonment and chaos centered
over a noxious malignant blue moon's gnaw
atop the tricked out terrace in Vienna
outside the castle's canopied balconies,
painted moods leap colors that swoon sienna
jilter’s jitters capricious can’t ease
Flora sweeps over the underneath, not even
Mati’s aegean’s blue and aesthetic white
concentric circle or any charms zinced of Zen
can ward off downcast eye scans left and right
the black bird spiraling arabesque
a memento mori of mortality perched
Its red eye, a pin of hidden fire blottesque
Its cows are shadow whispers besmirched
From the borderlands of my breaking mind
From the edges of my reckless whimper
From my storm-torn splitting, undefined
begets perpetual yearning, as simpler
Eye-like rosettes evoke cycles of life tiers
In this, my blue period, I paint everything gold
An untarnished brilliance mirrors
the unchanging of God’s radiant nature told
Its divine purity keeps me from insanity
from the unsettling, unforeseeable bends,
an existential uncertaninty
This tree bares the fruit of life that blends
never knowing where it will take me,
Heaven, Earth, Underworld’s conscience
and a future inherently unpredictable
Indeed, there’s opportunity
salient for growth and resilience
The optimistic side of me wants
to believe that my fear
keeps me safe.
That there's a reason I
check over my shoulder at the slightest
Noise.
That it’s just the caffeine
making my heart flutter. That
if I reject comfort and live
my life with my hair standing on
End,
that will somehow ward off
disaster.
That there's a meaning to
the snuff films I get it
4k anytime I
Dare
to close my eyes. That locking
my door eight times a night is a
positive trait, because I just want
to keep my family safe.