The Stone Pulpit
Norway has many fjords and dramatic mountains
The water in the fjord is deep blue and clear as
a baby's tears that mirror a part of a mountainside
where a big rock has a flat top, attracting tourists
because it looks like a pulpit
Many visitors enjoy the thrill of sitting on the edge
of the pulpit, and deep down there is the blue sea
For a depressed person, it would be easy to let go
I would have thought the murderous edges would
be fenced to stop such a suicidal attempt
I wrote about the danger, only to be censored by
Facebook, which is monitoring my post
I was also advised to seek help for my fascination
of people whose problem I can only imagine
Categories:
flat top, 4th grade, absence, abuse,
Form: ABC
Crisp grasses reflect ghost-white;
Ethereal shafts of moonlight.
Tenebrous shifting shadows;
Declivity of dolerite rows.
A lonely spirit roams freely —
A fresh headstone in the lee.
POET'S NOTE
When written in English, sijo may be written in six lines, with each line containing two syllable groupings instead of four. This arrangement was exploited by the modern sijo poet, Kim Unsong, who introduced end-rhymes to the couplets.
***
dolerite: It is a hard stone akin to shale. It caps many low hills, which have a base of sandstone. This lends a flat top appearance to the hills. It is a common feature in the Great Karoo area of South Africa. Diabase is the preferred name in North America.
tenebrous: dark
Categories:
flat top, africa, analogy,
Form: Sijo
With fingers skipping
across my flat top box,
an interlude echoing upon the air,
I am jettisoned into other worlds.
Acoustic tones of jazzy blues,
rings my ears and pacifies the pain.
Resonance of the wood sprite;
stresses the secrets I harbor in
the hallways of my mind;
intonations the colors of me.
Fingertips waltzing between
ebony-floored frets;
revealing timbre that lay within,
feelings read by cedar and spruce;
a treasured gift from the timber woods,
a altered spirit, is my guitar;
a miraculous flat-top box.
Categories:
flat top, appreciation, muse, music, poems,
Form: Prose
A man went to the mountain
He heard there was a stone fountain
On a steep flat top
He came to a stop
A rock got loose
He had to choose
A way to avoid the stone
So he stood still like a crone
It fell to the ground
To join a great mound
To find the stone fountain
He continued up the mountain
Categories:
flat top, mountains,
Form: Rhyme
Come to the azure window
Its still here in my dreams
The glowing moon a light- house
Your compass is the breeze.
The breeze would fill the sails
The moonlight leads your path
The window will be open
to reach-out for my heart.
They say its gone forever
Desperate waves destroyed it
There' s no way you can reach
There's nowhere you can climb through
and ever rescue me.
.
The rocky arch of nature's wonders
deceived by a restless sea
Collapsed, hit by a rough- storm
lies buried in the deep.
But is there somebody out there
who dares to ride the tide
To swim against the tempest
till my vacant arms He'll find.
Is there somebody out there
to save me from the day
to hidden coves He'll guide me
and takes my breath away.
Come to the azure window
Its still here in my dreams
The ocean-spumes lap on-shore
with fluting melodies.
PS-The Azure Window was a natural mesmerizing arch on the island of Gozo,with its flat top
over the sea at Dwejra Bay.On the 8th of March 2017 it collapsed due to stromg winds and rough'-seas,and now this landmark is gone,not to be seen.
Categories:
flat top, feelings,
Form: Free verse
A weed that’s known as Queen Anne’s Lace
Is here and there and everyplace –
Along the highway, in the fields,
Deaf to every sneeze it yields.
Tall and straggly, it’s beguiled
Flies and bugs where it grows wild,
Lured not by its scent outstanding
But its flat top, great for landing.
Humans, though, don’t like it much
For like dandelions and such,
Its profusion proves, indeed,
That it’s just a lowly weed.
Oft, I rush to weeds’ defense;
This time, though, I’m on the fence
For swaths of land might lose the race
Against the spread of Queen Anne’s lace.
Categories:
flat top, nature,
Form: Rhyme
arrow straight cedars
atop a flat top building..
survival doubtful
Click on "About This Poem"
Categories:
flat top, nature,
Form: Haiku
Note
Pete Barnhill was befriended by the late great Johnny Cash.Both were around 13 years of age at the time.Pete learned Johnny his very first chords on the guitar.The rest is history......
PETE BARNHILL - MY TRIBUTE
Pete Barnhill was born with a withered right hand.
All his life he fought a crippling disease.
His old Gibson flat-top, could play a mean tune.
Incessant infiltration of the breeze.
As a polio child, he was teased at school.
Mass of metal worn on his right leg.
But a friend was made, back in those school days.
And a lesson we should never forget.
Pete taught Johnny
in a shotgun-shack
a tub-thumping rhythm like a train on a track
among the cotton-fields
in the Dyess land
where the folk were poor
and the dirt was manned
A bedrock for bedlam down that old dust road.
Playing Jimmie Rodgers tunes and the songs of Hank Snow.
That railroad rhythm, came from Pete's goldmine.
Hear that embryonic baselines now, on Walk The Line.
Kindness is a language, that the deaf can hear.
Kindness is a Language, that the blind can see.
When a gift is gone then another comes along.
Lessons learned from Johnny for you and me.
Categories:
flat top, health, old, old,
Form: Rhyme
If I were a stone, flat top and bottom
Skip me across a calm pond
And I will glide along
Russell Sivey
Categories:
flat top, life, nature,
Form: Kimo
His salt and pepper hair,
The short, flat-top cut,
The brown and gray mustache,
Surrounded by the five o’clock shadow.
The man I fell in love with,
Tall, dark and handsome,
Reduced to a cold, uncaring tyrant,
Ruling my life with an iron hand.
Staring, lifeless, dark gray eyes,
With pupils black, and big, and round,
Bloodshot from the ghastly drugs,
That flowed violently through his veins.
Hands that once held mine,
With tender love and care,
Suddenly balled into hard, mean fists,
Like two rubber mallets, ready to strike.
For years the anger enveloped me,
Like a butterfly that tries to break free from a cocoon,
Wrapped tight in the web of anger,
Like a newborn in a blanket.
The very being of my life,
Was slowly and painfully sucked out.
By the hatred and self-loathing,
That singed the candle of my soul.
But the flames of orange and blue,
Burned hot, and bright, and strong,
So that I felt nothing the day you left,
Except relief, and room to breathe.
Categories:
flat top, husband, loss, recovery from...,
Form: Romanticism