Best Wharves Poems
Galactic curls in spirals swirl, entwining twisted mystery,
where time unrolls in blackened holes, no longer bright and blistery,
but writ like runes on starry dunes enclosed in cosmic history
Galactic dust, from novas' gusts, congesting empty spaces
once fatefully flung beyond the tongue of burnt out astral traces,
may recompress and coalesce in distant times and places
Galactic dwarves, like ancient wharves with silent planets mooring
yet still in spin though long done in, hide flares no longer soaring -
magnetic webs of eons ebb, in thermal fusion roaring
Galactic tides warp space divides, call forth sublime creation
while bending clocks in rippled shocks, unfolding time dilation
that seems to crown the flowing gown of pulsars' pulsed gyration
Galactic stew, a seething brew, midst background noise and chatter
like Chaos reigns, the sole remains of missing antimatter,
with just a trace to form a space-time, curved or somewhat flatter
Galactic glue holds something new: dark energy and matter
that interacts and counteracts the ancient Big Bang splatter:
a cosmic soup of strings and loops, a universal batter
Galactic life's replete and rife 'neath lactic milky wafer,
though solar gales leave unseen trails of cosmic rays, the strafer;
but nonetheless, one must confess, it seems there's nowhere safer
Submitted 21 Aug. 2016
RELATED BY CHOICE
For my adopted grandmother Nancy Enloe
I met you at a friend’s house,
standing stately on your cane,
tall and rosy-cheeked like me.
In your smile, I basked and thought,
“Long-lost cousin, could you be?”
Like my great aunt long ago,
when you learned I love to write,
you gave me three r’s of verse:
Robert Wash, Service, and Frost,
and asked to read my own work.
Like my aunt in my childhood,
you invited me for swims.
In your pool, I splashed and laughed.
Like her, you asked to hear me play
my organ -the whole grand staff!
On a ten-day Rockies trip,
Jasper, Banff, and Lake Louise,
friends asked if you were my mom.
We smiled at that pleasing word
like Gilead’s healing balm.
One day, as we drove along,
you said just out of the blue,
that you’d be Grandma to me.
As if you spoke my own thoughts,
I grinned as wide as you could see.
Oh, once we got to be twins
in blazers you bought for us.
You knitted us two rainbow scarves
for walking in wintry air
or through the winds on the wharves.
You’ve been family to me,
all six relations in one.
How fun it would be to find
on genealogy sites
if we’re related for real.
No matter! It feels just right!
I see America in majestic mountain ranges, lush vegetation and sandy shores.
I see her in gold fields blending into deserts and the Rockies of her Southwest
or to her east – melding with green rolling hills, woodlands and lovely lakes.
I hear America in children’s voices excited for Halloween or Christmas.
I hear her in the busy traffic of her many spacious cities.
Or I hear her in the whispers of wind across her plentiful plains.
I inhale America’s fragrance in her numerous parks and forests.
I inhale whiffs of her food in her vast array of restaurants and bakeries.
I revel also in the strong scent of fisherman wharves on her opposite coasts.
I taste America in her multi-cultural cuisine served up in numerous eateries.
I taste America in my own cooking inspired by traditional foods and by new.
I revel in the taste of her movie popcorn where so many others do the same!
Finally, I feel America in her diverse climes extending for miles in all directions.
I feel America in the warmth of her people when they smile and say hello.
Mainly I "feel" America with gratitude for the FREEDOM lives were given for!
Dec. 29, 2019 for Carolyn Devonshire's Whitman-Inspired Uplifting Poetry, Old Or New Poetry Contest
Never in secluded pools they dwell,
I speak of ornate waterfalls,
they rise and fall majestically,
near docks, wharves and piers,
sparkle, gleam, smooth flow trickle,
eye balm whirl fantastic perk on tap,
stickybeak on podium rapids,
instigator signage when our trek seems dull,
but reflection is a gem warp cataract,
kinetic rebound ocean wave backbeat,
which in fact an upfront blissful target,
hardly ever missing opal bulls-eye,
environmental bubbles that somehow never burst,
indulge outlandish fare Promethean,
spurt on vermillion lanyards pendant sweep,
dream paint sunrise clementine tincture,
daub acrylic spree through pale moon orb,
squeeze tube lambent hue past frail mandala,
eternal sepia a light touch pristine shroud,
that loiters over urban life force ripple,
flaunt your image rich abundant fire
ANZAC
Few among them knew the name Gallipolli
no crystal ball foretold the hell it spawned
but in the misty dawn of 25-04-15
the legend of the ANZACs would be born.
standing tall in khaki pride
he held his wife and newborn son
don’t worry love be back real soon
we’re gonna make them jerries run
the women waved tear streaked farewells
from wharves as troop ships steamed away
and crossed horizons far from home
to face the trials of unknown day
excitement written in their smiles
proud and brave and some so young
they sang ‘Australia Will be There’
and to the winds their voices flung
no notion no suspicion
of the fate their journey faced
as on that fear filled morning
into fiery hell they paced
and in that violent misty dawn
sixteen thousand heroic hearts
stormed a friendless beachfront
for king and country do their part
their bravery knew no backward step
as lacking grit to see it through
would be to turn their back on mates
and no such thought would they pursue
for eight long mud and blood filled months
they dug their trenches fought their fight
and dreamt sweet dreams of those at home
morning noon and haunted night
the mettle of each beating heart
for eight long months was tested
too many souls would not return
by the time the guns were rested
so far beyond imaginings
that nightmare task was set
sixty thousand heroes
“Lest We Forget’
Few among them knew the name Gallipolli
no crystal ball foretold the hell it spawned
but in the misty dawn of 25-04-15
the legend of the ANZACs would be born.
Stateless
…thatched houses catch fire
sparrow tires from romping in the coned-flower chestnut
tree
alights on the road
tires crunch macadam
sparrow perches on live telegraph wires
winds sweep the plains
topple high-tweeting power poles
sparrow haunts deserted godowns
caterpillar cranes tear down loading wharves
sparrow unloads wings on marshalling yard
trains shuttle screeching now forth now back
sparrow glides then tumbles in air-pockets
temperature plummets
snow flakes
magpie in the châtaignier shrieks disgust to the skies
melting snow runs down eaves
air sizzles with imminent
thunder
Zhen of a sudden clapclaps righteous terror
The Eldest Son of High Heaven has high business to supervise
tapeworms bore deeper into the ground
the cicada scarcely calls to mate
wet hungry ruffled sparrow
has no chestnut tree to go back to now home to transiting seagulls tries to alight on spring-green spare Pawlonia chockfull of crows
averts the mulberry tree à la feuille de platane
fishing gear lie splayed against the trunk
the dense dripping prickly hibiscus hedge
affixes
house-full
sparrow perches on the terrace rose pot
the neighbour’s Siamese cat’s ears perk up
sparrow rolls its eyes
April 24, 1997
From the privately-pub. coll. (rev. 2016): longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris: 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
I collect eyes. Burnt ones.
Of the last summer.
Arms chopped off.
By a tide of sand.
Reflections of uncollected water.
You, hunter of flowers…
Oh, wharves!
Oh, sea goings!
Winds in the sails of the white ships.
High wings.
The swelter of August swallowed you.
But today it’s September and the oval autumn.
And your voices I hear…
Back Creek Smells
My nose senses the unseen,
Like a final Act’s scene,
When I arrive near the Bay,
I sense my sinuses are gray,
From inhaling the city.
Fish scents replace the gritty,
Creosote soaked wharves,
Instead of perfumed scarves.
Smelling imitates tasting,
Licking’s like nostrils basting.
Something’s earthy of water,
Meet mother Nature’s father.
The odors of Back Creek,
Have no comfort for the weak,
But a fragrance it has,
If it was music, it would be jazz.
On the edge of barren, corroded shore
Where sailors ply their trade no more
No tenured harbor gallant fleets to moor,
or docks to greet restless crew, strident commodore
No expansive peers into the mighty ocean waves bore,
or rustic wharves to accompany the dank decor
Gone are the tradesmen whose skilled hands weathered ships did restore,
and the tawny, burly arms of the itinerant, shuffling stevedore
No inquisitive merchants the cargo's value to score
Yet the drifting currents grainy sketches still store
In the eerie winds the rasping breaths of stevedores soar
Through stormy gales, commands of disembarking captain's roar
Timeless silhouettes of wafting masts hover o'er ocean floor
Apparitions of ruddy sailors from briny mists pour
Out of the steamy fog, pirate ghosts still yell encore
From foaming waves, drunken sailors one more drought implore
Come, let us together consider the finer things
Like mystical pyramids and fringed silk scarves
Stones that bring comfort to the aching bone
Intricate ebony statues the lonely man carves,
A secluded stroll through a shaded pine grove
The glimmer of a blue diamond in natural light,
Warm feelings borne of proud accomplishment
A billion stars shining in far galaxies in the night.
Whispered words of love under the firmament,
Wonder of the senses, feelings, touch, and sight
Intricacies of a threadlike web brown spider wove,
Cool mists that bathe the worn Mississippi wharves
Scoops of frozen custard piled high on sugar cone
A fine restaurant neither can afford, going halves,
Enraptured by intricate trills the coloratura sings.
EIGHTH PLACE WINNER
written April 25, 2022
[Verso-Rhyme]
submitted to Brian Strand Premier Contest
sponsored by Brian Strand
I collect eyes. Burnt ones.
Of the last summer.
Arms chopped off.
By a tide of sand.
Reflections of uncollected water.
You, hunter of flowers…
Oh, wharves!
Oh, sea goings!
Winds in the sails of the white ships.
High wings.
The swelter of August swallowed you.
But today it’s September and the oval autumn.
And your voices I hear…
The ocean rolled with white caps
Rising and falling in scattered
Wind blown sprays,
Waves breaking viciously
Upon shoreline rocks,
Jutting wharves,
Tied up little fisher boats.
Sea gulls overhead, as if angry
At the ferocity of today’s ocean
Whipped up by this autumn gale,
Shrieked in flight
As thunders roared
And
I enjoyed it all.
A W.C.Hull Poem © 2000-2022-017 (A)
The canal poked like a finger
into the wrinkled abdomen
of the Port. Along its length,
ketches once bruised
wooden wharves unloading wheat
shipped from outports across the gulf.
Pigeons stalked the spill of grain
from hessian bags torn
by wharfies hooks. Port Adelaide’s
pigeons were kept well fed.
I can remember being harnessed
to a pole and taught to swim
in the cold, dark waters of the canal.
I thrashed and kicked but could not float.
I did not have my fathers dolphin grace
whose aquatic triumphs were engraved
on a silver trophy that stood proud
atop a fireplace shelf.
In its final days the canal slowed
to a halt. Wharves were empty
and gave way to rot. In the end,
dump trucks cascaded fill down
embankments until it choked.
A car park now seals its grave
where plastic bags sail endlessly
across an asphalt lake.
A shopping precinct recalls its name
in gaudy signage.
Memory still has me dangling
on the end of a pole, flailing arms
desperately searching for something
solid to hold, suspended
like a lead weight
above a cold abyss.
O, elvenstone! O, elvenstone!
O, would that you could be my own.
To quest exhausted, all these years,
And not obtain those pointy ears
To sharpen sense, to hear my phone.
O battle axe! O battle axe!
For thy pursuit, my patience lacks.
Through garbage bins in fishing wharves,
Midst arguments with boorish dwarves;
My neighbor’s tree needs forty whacks.
Fine coat of mail, thy filigree
Would sure enhance the likes of me.
So tightly woven, silver, pale
Protect unwanted barbs’ assail
When getting honey from my bees.
Thou mighty blade, enchanted runes
Do grace thy hilt but not those hewn.
Sure, separating sinew, bone,
Ne’er losing edge in dirt or stone,
When Saturday, the hedge I prune.
I think that we can both agree:
When I immerse in D&D,
I get so caught up in the game,
Imagination is to blame;
Sometimes I blur reality.
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RPG - role playing game - I used to play Dungeons and Dragons some 40 years ago when you used dice and mapped everything out on graph paper. I imagine things have changed a bit since then...
When the boats washed up surfless from wars
We dived from the United Fruit Company wharves
Like gulls naked in the light of their eyes
Marking where the shining metals fell
Below the howling hoots, and kiting scarves
We plucked our lunches from the sands
Then finless rose to wind again
They were entertained by our necessity
And all we worth peripheral to the hilarity
That refused us a place of dignity then
Opportunity to display ourselves as men
And sometimes my being had no presence there
I was a shadow in the jungle, an image of fear
Harboring animistic beliefs that could transform
Margins of civilize safety and shatter norms.