Cordoned Poems | Examples

The Journey Within

Shall I embark on a dangerous journey -
    into the realm within?
I pretend to know it, 
    but it is largely unexplored.
Much of it abandoned and forgotten,
    cordoned off and forsaken,
      with signs that say, "Warning: Keep Out".
    Deep caves and winding caverns,
      hide a variety of ogres and fiends: 
        the monsters of memory,
        the demons of despair,
        the devils of desire and disappointment,
        the dark angels of anger and abuse.
Could it be that among these treacheries,
    I might also discover
      overlooked hidden treasures:
        vulnerability,
        kindness and empathy
        and, just maybe, even 
the forgotten capacity to love?

Consciousness

All this global speech that once lauded your greatness has vanished.
My lips are crying today because of my misdeeds.
The harvest was completely washed away in the high winds.
Diseases and sicknesses, with fire, threaten scavengers. 

Because I am shy, I cry slowly and sloppily.
If someone's feelings are bruised, a wipe may be beneficial. 
Companions with crooked mustaches. 
Backstabbing and spying are both kinds of treachery.

Who grasps what happened to the planet Earth. 
Shame no longer benefits them, so why would they desire it?
An anxious atmosphere pervaded the air. 
I'm here to assist you, and I'm grateful to God for this gift. 

A natural area has been cordoned off.
The headbands must be reconnected. 
Probe the misanthrope and share the etch news.
The sand on the road will cease if they reach their home.

If I yield barefoot, my final inference is consciousness. 


Written: July 03, 2021

1st place contest win

A Brian Strand July 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand

Love Chimes

You are so rare, for you I'll dare, all pain I'll bear,

I shall be brave, your mighty slave, your love I crave,

You set me free and let me see that you pull me,

Your shining knight, I am your light who keeps you bright,

Love me ever, your scent a myrrh, leave me never, 

I am your wall, here when you call, you are my all,

Cordoned paths, but you're my garden of love ardent,

You show my way, I'll do as you say every day,

You are my sun, my special one, let's have some fun,

Let's create art in my heart, will you play your part?

~~~~~~~

08.14.2020


Contest: Keen Observation I 
Sponsor: Funom Makama

Under the Dreadlocked Trees

His hair is alive,  
serpents writhing, a man Medusa of the tropics, 
as if he wore the demons 
of colonialism and injustice on his head, 
unforgetting,
a dung-brown-and-black hologram of 
the ganja-fueled reveries inside, 
the broken record of fight and redemption in his ears 
masked by an ancient face, all taut leather, 
placid with a sheen of absorbed light. 

Bloodshot eyes, not insomniac,  
but from the weight of things that, once seen,
cannot be unseen, 
scleras color-coding history, 
the blood of dead slaves on white.  

Yet the heat-chilled island calls a daily truce.   
In the shade of the commodious palm tree, 
the bleach of sun cordoned by a shower of shadows,   
even the gluttony of Babylon 
and the promise of Zion can share a siesta. 

Looking out to the silvering sea beyond the beach, 
exchanging a patois-scented greeting 
with two passing brethren whose hair hang like roots,
he puts fire to a fat, white-jacketed spliff, 
herb smoke curling up, 
rising,
rising,
a slow exodus up into the dusty fronds above, 
hung with the fruits 
of a tender mantra as, 
ever,
the spirit of Marley 
sings.

Vengeful Revenant

Oh, there are some hurts that nobody reckons
when a rush of rage, pain and revenge beckons 
about a wanton act of mayhem and spiteful action,
In the silent nights it beckons, oh how it beckons
belying my irenic ideals, beliefs and just conviction. 

Hesitant and much fretful I stood at the threshold
of a cordoned off bloodstained room, dolefully cold,
at this time a most dismal of moments and piteous
to wrap my head around this grim spectacle I behold,
My beloved and I lay bleeding—murders most vicious.

To find the one who committed this dastardly act
I vowed to exact vengeance, unravel one sole fact—
Towards my wife’s unfaithfulness was my hostility
It’s I who staged this scene of murder-suicide pact,
my suspicion was not without merit of her infidelity.



~5/12/18
~Premiere II contest by rob carmack

Bleeding Heart

Hesitant and much fretful I stood at the threshold
of a cordoned off bloodstained room, dolefully cold,
At this time a most dismal of moments and piteous
to wrap my head around the conception when told
my beloved lay bleeding—a murder most vicious.

Oh, there are some hurts that nobody reckons
When a rush of rage, pain and revenge beckons 
about a wanton act of mayhem and spiteful action,
In the silent nights it beckons, oh how it beckons
belying my fond ideals, beliefs and just conviction. 



~Rhyme Time with 5 contest by Laura Loo

Building

The pillows on our couch inspired
Imaginative play.
My son arranged them carefully
In his creative way.

They formed a fort or hideout
Or a castle or a ship
Or just a group of stepping stones
On which we'd often trip.

That happened many years ago.
Today I watch and smile
As the son of that same pillow boy
Constructs in his own style.

His building blocks are blankets
Used to make his own "hotel,"
With divisions for his parents' room
And sister's space, as well.

He cordoned off the "bathrooms,"
One for girls and one for boys
And when there were no more blankets,
He built walls made out of toys.

I'm glad I got to witness
A new generation's boy
Use his mind and hand to build some walls,
The kind I can enjoy.

Cyberworld

Couples desperate to gloss their matte lives
Hug each other in the hallway
For a picture baiting likes and comments
Before retiring to separate bedrooms for the night

Kids older than their years 
Feed on the gruel of smart phones and tablets
Their cyber avatars cordoned off
Live parallel lives with integrity

Friends professing love and allegiance on Facebook
Sharing jokes and ‘Good Mornings’ daily in chat groups
Turn abruptly from ‘Milk’ to ‘Apples’
On chance sightings in grocery stores

Written on:03/02/2017

Vintage 4th Vortex

Fireworks bulging from pocket decay --
Mostly the boys; but, a few girls held rockets.
Back-in-the-day, when it was still okay
To stick metallic cutlery in electric sockets.

The four corners cordoned off.
Block upon block awaiting dusk,
Impatient for that fiery cough
Of blockbuster, gunpowder musk.

And so it begins, for all ages and kin:
Tots sparkling in volcanic river lava;
Adults ignite pails of every which sin;
Eardrums assaulted, nerves of java.

Grasping hot candles and crackers in hand
We, being dumber than a dead-end,
Tear a gaping hole in the side of a friend.
It was a good day -- until the end....

Onwards Men,Victory

Onwards men 
Let us succumb 

Like a lion with its pride  
We shall certainly play our prey 

Off we March
Into the fray 

Hold your rifles to your heart 
Squeeze and muzzle out your fears 


Hold the line
Let's reunite 

Release the gas of integrity 
Let our quarry   bleed in peace 

Out from no-mans land to the Isle of doom
The Pen will prevail us lasting victory 


Onwards men
Let us succumb 

Such are swarm of locusta
We'll devour to all ends 

Down we go
Cradle your Spears 

Invoke the senses of your being
Crush, destroy no confessing defeat

Out beyond  the missiles range through the cordoned plane
We Hum a hymn, our salvations whistle 

Onwards men
Round up the troops

Sound the cymbal and it's tears
We shall taunt our ears with courage 

Drop those shields 
Vibrate your throats 

Far and wide we'll spread these tales
Historical legends they'll bathe in our eminence 

Far to the darkest dreads into the deepest trenches
We'll bare the boast and eternal throngs of peace

My Library

My neck crooked backward,
I stand between the stacks
feeling the weight of centuries, 
the distilled wisdom of minds
who graced the earth with golden words,
words that pace the pages -
vellum, parchment, fine and common papers;
words, cordoned in lines, confined,
yet powerful tools to set one free, 
a roamer far from home,
across universes,
beyond time's reach.

The light filters through high windows
downward to where I peer with squinted eyes
teasing out a jewel - 
a title, an author, an adventure, a friend.

The air is charged,
the static of adventure,
heartfelt journeys of a hundred thousand writers,
their souls etched upon the pages
for ones such as I to stumble upon decades,
centuries later,
dream maps
thought castles,
imaginative quests.

Quietness reigns.
The elements of books -
leather, cloth, paper and ink -
infuse a rich elixir,
a mind expanding potion,
companion to best wine and oldest friendships
seasoned,
mellowed,
treasured.

© Faye Lanham Gibson, August 11, 2015

There Is No Bookmark Mighty Enough

there is indeed a place in my heart
cordoned off for only you
though you left me seeing black,
my love for you remained infinitely intact
as a result, there is no comprehension of a covenant
for no one comes close to the flawless fusion in which you so elegantly possess
knowing this, i intentionally retrace my steps everytime i think of you
it has overtaken every chapter of me, and i bear no regrets 
i am proud to be glad that there is no bookmark mighty enough for the collage of memories and their anecdotes
i would dispose of the whole library of my life to be reborn to spend just one more moment with you
it does not even have to be a hint of a minute....just long enough to joyfully savor....

Moving Poem

"Write your dreams," said Carolyn Kizer,
(She, the wiser of our workshop fools.)
New rules for us, so I rise from bed, 
still cordoned in sleep to record this one 
of many in which you star, now far 
away, to help you pack, knowing you'd be 
back always, from where without me,
time took you.  In the midst of this, 
you turned to embrace and enter me 
with such ferocity of passion as was your 
fashion, anyway; the door shut against all 
comers, no pun intended,  until our first-
born knocked and entered as he did 
that February day so long ago, and when 
you were gone, he said, "I never thought 
of you as lovers," and I said, laughing, 
"How did you think we got you? by 
divine design and direct intention. " 
Husband of late, you attend me now, 
it seems, only in  the parallel 
universe of dreams.

Haiku About Bats

tiny black shriekers
swarmed the evening sky above
cordoned the estate

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