Best Whereby Poems
Springing free from glistening
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above
A distant lark now hangs in
Flight.
Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls
Into ripening bean fields
Planted in neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.
Do now these gentle Slopes
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted
Thoor Ballylee.
Sweeping briskly past a tors
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...
Now, joyfully sporting in gushing
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.
Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.
Harken then to the feathered
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on
Ye!
For few men know of what he
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths
Forever lost within Innisfree.
The give and take in love should reach a mean
whereby the two be equally disbursed,
so givers' hearts would never suffer lean,
cold hungry hours without love reimbursed.
And those who take would never reach the stage
of ravenous and selfish, one-way traits.
Such balance would create a better age,
if give and take maintained their equal weights.
But somehow this could never balance out,
for givers give beyond the gifts they bear;
in turn, must feed on crumbs, for without doubt;
the hungry takers take beyond their share.
While takers tip the scale with all they gain,
the givers, weak and thin, smile through their pain.
Sandra M. Haight
~7th Place~
Premiere Contest: Any HM Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 01/22/2017
~ Honorable Mention~
Contest: Love Justice
Sponsor: Justin Bordner
Judged: 01/24/2015
Upside Down Teardrops Falling Gently
Upside down teardrops falling gently onto a magical mirror
as crystal chandeliers of soft light filters through reflecting
a treasure of pearls that speak to a thousand bounties paid,
whilst a sanding of polished memories stone cut a diamond,
at once, that’s truly regal once upon a time in a deep dream
that shows inside a mystical castle embodied around a circle
that splits into a quarter wherein four cells hangs a real picture
of truest beauty and love that bathes inside the ocean’s breath
and sighs, whilst murmuring your name and speaking of the tides
lost at sea, whereby all of us, at the end now, shall become sacred
sailors who must freely seek out and fulfill our own human destiny.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 20, 2021 (Free Verse)
how many of you
wonder how
you find yourself
where you are now
on some fast train
that's shooting by
the world outside
and don't know why
and wishing as
it takes the bend
before it reaches
journey's end
that it would stop
to let you breathe
and disembark
then watch it leave
so you could turn
and walk right back
to all those stations
on your track
to see those places
on your list
that life's timetable
somehow missed
and walk those junctions
where you spent
time deciding
ways you went
and pull the lever
switching lines
so that they point
to better times
and open gates
that shut back then
so all your dreams
are free again
to help put right
those signal fails
you blamed when life
came off the rails?
each day we grow
we come to learn
time's just one way
with no return
but though we can't
change all before
we get to know
life's journey more
and had you changed
the way you are
your train may not
have got this far
for each dark tunnel
lived each day
led out to light
here anyway
but while those platforms
from your past
might well explain
your travelling fast
remember too
that grass unseen
grows right here now
and just as green
where taking time
might help you plan
some other route
whereby you can
move from that seat
to change your view
and learn to love
yourself as you
appreciating
all you see
before Grand Central's
destiny
while knowing hope
faith luck and care
helped drive that train
to get you there.
The Pilgrim’s Ghost of a Thousand Heavenly Dreams
Looking through a magical dewdrop we now see an enchanted
Chandelier, liquid-sparkling pure, where a mystical quicksilver
Mirrors a living-moonlight reflection of a thousand radiant stars.
These stars are heavenly focus points that reflect the celestial
Magnificence of Almighty God’s prescient intention, whereby all
Cosmic music forms a clockwork of ticks-tocks of a certain vision.
This vision streams and sounds throughout the cosmos entire on
Star beams with the dimension, power, and force of Almighty God,
Whilst casting a glorious panoply of light that illuminates the darkness.
The reach of God’s eternal light into this deep-dark void of the cosmos
Is known as “The Pilgrim’s Ghost of a Thousand Heavenly Dreams” that
Has an undeniable metaphorical place in mankind’s collective psyche.
This ethereal, eternal ghost by God’s own direction on our mortal Earth,
Allows for mankind’s curious interest in exploring the deepest-darkest
Crevasses of the oceans and the silent sacred secrets of the cosmos itself.
This ethereal, eternal ghost as resident in mankind’s consciousness fuels
Man’s desire, as divinely inspired, to see ourselves as a mirror-image of God
Himself, fulfilling God’s desire that our souls shall ascend one day to Heaven.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 10, 2018 (Tercet)
"You showed me the courage and strength
to achieve all things- I hope you are proud."
by Poet
A simple man was he, one child of ten,
who lived and worked the farm with family.
But stardust fell on him- time and again
he hid away to read his books to see
what life could offer him and he'd give back,
if he would leave the farm to chase his star
with talents that would keep his dreams on track.
And so he left to raise his future’s bar.
Concerned for family and what he’d done-
one son of three now gone, and only two
remained to work the land beneath the sun;
but still, he followed stardust trails anew.
No school beyond eighth grade, he still pursued
production of the tube-based radio,
in nineteen-thirty, when its parts were crude
yet intricate- and he became a pro.
The stardust led him to a higher plane
whereby in time he owned a factory;
employed so many workers who would gain
good living in a time of poverty.
Oh, Dad, you hushed the stars- you did not fail.
With inner strength, you followed their bright glow,
to choose this path, that led you to prevail
and help so many people live and grow.
This gift of courage you have offered me
to follow and make use of dreams to share;
to let our stardust paths lead on to free
the will to seek the best on our life’s stair.
February 22, 2015
~2nd Place~
Contest: A Meaningful Poem
Sponsor: Constance La France
Judged: 03/27/2021
~2nd Place~
Premiere Contest: 2019 Marathon Mile #23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Judged: 03/13/2019
~1st Place~
Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 02/28/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Tell Us About Your Dad
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Judged:01/05/2016
I’m burning daylight on a warm spring day,
Admiring in the park a bright array
Of peonies and pansies when I spy
Pirouetting round them, a butterfly.
How beautiful this outdoor noon ballet!
We’re sweltering; I take the hose and spray
My grand kids, shrieking in their summer play,
Just one of many other ways whereby
I’m burning daylight!
With friends I’m sitting at a street café.
We’re laughing chattering our time away.
While sun ekes out the last drops from fall’s sky,
I see the dusk, a pink parfait, and sigh!
A chill is coming, which I must delay. . .
I’m burning daylight.
Should'a Read The Fine Print
I am intrigued by all computer tasks,
and competent and skilled in every scheme
from word process and graphic arts design,
to spreadsheets, database and all between.
But, I became too confident last week
when I downloaded upgrades that were bad
for programs that I use...I acted quick...
and what a sad computer crash I had!
You see, the upgrade versions were not right;
computer froze with dreaded screen of blue!
Technician came and, for a hefty price,
it was repaired and set to go as new.
The moral is, I thought I knew it all
and cut some corners...shortened up the stint.
I learned a lesson I will not forget...
I really should'a read that dang fine print!
Sandra M. Haight
~10th Place~ Premiere Congest
Contest: I Really Should'a Read the Fine Print
Sponsor: John Lawless
Iambic Meter: 10 syllables and 5 feet per line
Judged: 04/28/2016
True story - This happened April 2, 2016, and I got my computer back a week later.
Thank goodness I had all my documents and important files backed up on an
external hard drive (done every day) whereby I hooked it up to an older computer and could proceed with my work - especially for Poetry Soup!!
The Darkness of Cold Oceans Dwelling Deepest
Into the utter darkness of cold oceans dwelling deepest,
there is far beyond any glimmer of hope an outer limit
that defines a dark realm of the true supernatural reality
existing beyond any iota of human understanding on Earth.
In this dark realm lies a catacombic-womb of dead souls
bled white from the inside-out-turning of sand-blasted
nightmares of pure evil that envelope into a desert storm,
whereby living-dead apparitions appear in the shadows.
In this Procrustean bed there lies these horribly-tortured souls
who are like fossils of a past strife-torn life—a past without
any mercy since the unloved ghosts who exist there sense a
palpable pain erupting deep within every second of eternity!
This achingly slow-death falls into a sentence as forgiveness
now is impossible and a weathered-weakness of bowels spiced
from this seabed's loving memory appear as a bright-white pearl,
and the golden sun rises and sets as rats spread the Black Death!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – August 15, 2018
(Quatrain)
(Dedicated to all those who have died alone.)
They cannot fit, they cannot go along,
and the reasons are wide: pride, fear,
even love never tempered by time,
illness of the heart or mind, or simply
bad, bad luck: life throws them away
until they throw life away....
She was one of the gentle ones,
the unlucky ones-- a flower child
who missed her time, an era she
might have thrived in, free, alive,
unencumbered by family ties....
If she had come age in the 60's,
she might have lived into her 90's.
But lost and afraid in a cold world
not of her making, with her bird-
like heart breaking, she ate her
last hoarded apple, then lay down
to sleep and sleep and sleep until
she awakened safe in heaven's lap.
--judged NA in 'Will to survive' contest, 10/15/20--
[The poem was based on a true incident whereby a young woman suffering severe depression and paranoia was released from a psych ward without anyone informing her family; she stayed alone for weeks in an empty, unheated house in winter subsisting only on half-rotten apples she had picked up from the ground in the back yard.]
Less than twenty-four hours after dashing off a poem
explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel
from the anus of this guy
which bout with rectal obstruction
found me doubled over with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil, which akin to Drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract supposedly loosening the stools,
which optimism (product didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent to cease LivingSocial would try
humph enjoining this lvii year old married male
to cede victory to the grim reaper, who would vie
as winner de jure to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge to bolster this Uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered out five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
thence mouthing retraction of former thought to cease existing
though a non-bull lever in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture
and asks a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
Form:
Been the piece of the stage ,
seen the life of the remainings
of the before one’s also .
Touched not any of the ups .
just watch “the tired” once .
A crack of doom and the reckoning
whereby strong and if storms ,
wish to make it shaked at least swung .
Now deaf the desire and none is a throne ,
but somehow it will ring , and you be the thrown .
Deep sees , and waves the helpless stable ,
still there and even without the fifth able .
Will not wish I ,
you weigh any heart beatings any more ,
cause the closed doors are not yours , no more .
Form:
Whiteness, whereby, glory shines, shadows cringe,
Fluttery descent sparkles,
The proclaimer of peace.
2019 September 28
howmanysyllables
10, 7, 6
Whoever finds themselves alone,
To make their bed a slab of stone,
Goes there but for the grace of I
To contemplate the reason why.
Who knows the journey each have led?
The horrors which they may have fled.
Financial ruin is one such fate,
Or just hard luck, the loss is great!
And so, a life where pride is lost
To forage bins at any cost.
Where passersby will turn their heads
To go home to their comfy beds.
A placard scratched out more in hope
Disguises that they fail to cope
And thus, the empty cups reveal
The hopelessness they can’t conceal.
The cold and bitter winters night,
The cardboard box for which they’ll fight,
May stave off hypothermia
But do little for insomnia!
It’s miserable to say the least,
The fact that they will never feast
Or just to shower, enjoy a cuddle,
Instead a lowly fire they huddle.
Have we now become so cruel?
Whereby society will often drool
On celebrities who matter not,
Whilst these poor souls are thus forgot!
Let us pray
with soulful lips
from our hearts
to the Spirit Divine;
Let us pray, and let
peaceful solace us
refine: a thirsty mind
quenched only when
remorsefully sipped Christ's
sacrament of sacred wine –
and the bread dipped in,
for the body, without such
transformation, is a ship
gone astray, on a sea
of corrosive brine –
let us pray, and let God
sooth our fears, with
shapes of love and
peaceful contours, raptures
of healing forgiveness –
let us pray, whereby
with Christ's dearness
more our souls securely
align, forsaking the
Devil's enticing satyrs –
restoring blessed light to
a world desperate with shadows –
let us pray, that we trust only
in our Heavenly Father's
guidance when it comes to
man's earth, and all
Life's Spiritual Matters --