Long Arrive Poems
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submitted into "Premier VII Open Poetry Contest," Rob Carmack, Sponsor
ARRIVING AT EL PASO © Sara Etgen-Baker 2025
Some 20+ years ago, hubby and I took up roots, moving across the entire state of Texas for the hope of a better future. This poem attempts to capture my initial thoughts upon our arrival. (Yes, our future was better.)
The road, a ribbon of asphalt, unfurls beneath my tires,
each mile a memory, each turn a question—
what does it mean to arrive?
The sun dips low, casting long shadows over the desert,
here the horizon bleeds into the sky—
a canvas of ochre and rose.
The Franklin mountains rise like sentinels.
I wonder what pilgrims have crossed these rugged trails,
what hearts have beat against the same blazing sun.
The air is thick with dust and promise,
the scent of sunbaked earth
mingling with the faintest trace of rain.
Dust dances in the twilight,
and I am caught in the rhythm of it all,
the pulse of this border town.
El Paso, where the Rio Grande river flows,
a silver ribbon dividing yet uniting
two cultures, two languages, two countries.
I stand here in the embrace of El Paso,
feeling the weight of possibility and
the quiet promise of tomorrow.
Twilight descends, stars emerge~
tiny pinpricks of light
against the deepening blue.
I am a traveler in a world,
one that feels both foreign
and achingly familiar.
The weight of arrival settles on my shoulders—
not just a place, but a moment,
a step into the warmth of a new beginning.
Alas, I am a sojourner, a seeker of stories
finding my way in this city of
bridges, border crossings, and arrivals.
It was such a pity
When our cute little kitty
Climbed up the Christmas tree
She struggles and fights
With baubles and lights
The destruction is clear to see
Our poor Douglas pine
No longer looks fine
Its branches all battered and torn
The tinsel and glitter
On the floor they now litter
The tree looks so sad and forlorn
When no one can see
Kitty heads down the tree
Then she leaps onto the floor
She has such a caper
With the wrapping paper
Wreaks havoc with presents galore
I arrive home from work
Oh I feel such a jerk
That kitty was left alone in the house
The one present untouched
Was for a kitty we loved …
A furry clockwork toy mouse
Memories of so long ago
To my pen they now flow
For kitty is long since passed
Christmas time for me
Just a sweet memory
And our tree is no longer trashed!
Fictional write
The Christmas Tree Contest
Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
Submitted to Christmas Poems Old Or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance la France
11~12~15
The invitations have been sent out, and the venue is sublime
A Castle in the country oh how I wish that it was mine
With sweeping staircases in the entrance hall
Crystal chandeliers, oh its perfect for my ball
The guests will arrive in their suits and dresses
Their masks are in place – I hope no one guesses
Dancing by candlelight it is so romantic
Not like at a discothèque so fast and so frantic
I’ve got the most wonderful caterers in the west
Their canapés are amazing, simply the best
Ice-cold champagne served in a crystal glass
It really is apt for a party of this class
It’s secret wedding party for when my beloved and I say ‘I do’
The only thing missing from my surprise party is YOU
07~20~14
Written for Rumor has It Contest ~ Sponsored by Judy Konos
~awarded 1st place~
Your feet and hands are bound
Your mouth is gagged with tape
Your body is tied to a tree with rope
It is the dark of night where evil people stand
The fire burns fiercly in front of you
Your voice is stolen by death threats
Your mind gives up hope when rescue doesn’t arrive
Then, you survive childhood with a promise and poetry
A belief that when you are older, something will be done
Then, it comes that time and the same people are furious
Treacherous memories are relived in the daylight
While nightmares haunt you during sleep
Crippled with emotional pain, barely able to stand
But, your voice is back, your mind starts healing
Your writing continues and you are blessed with strength
The world is ready to know
Heidi Sands
12/30/18
Placed 4th in the Misery Poetry Contest.
young whippersnapper brain
pours out her last idea
flicking adjectives into dirty dumpster
nouns prance off, disgusted
without elaboration or fancy descriptions
verbs take the lead,
kicking their adverbs to the curb
your nuances no longer welcome,
a mob mentality
seeking satisfaction in a brick alley
prepositions begin to arrive at the front
under the discarded boxes
searching through the rubble of the day
one climbs up the filthy trash heap
jumping into a pile of overused words
word play being what it is,
startling, laughing, loving gerunds arrive
carrying participles on their backs.
They cannot stop hitting, hurting and killing each other
Stop! Title yells. I want some kind of legacy.
I have no words to add, being mute and respectful of my elders
I am a mere homophone,
too consternated to know these two warring factions
well enough to take sides.
Flowers, arrive. Your heart just cannot stop it’s thunderous beating.
Already, heady from the aromatic aroma, running for scissors, you
are in a love coma.
Hands trembling, you cut off the paper., the huge red ribbon, you
pinned in your hair, even though, your man is not there.
Peeling down the paper, is a gigantic Gardenia plant, that transports
you to Hawaii, it’s scent overwhelming!
All day you hear romantic music, lost in a cloud.
You say his name sensuously…..and out loud.
His gift is wrapped, all ready for this night.
Two lovers, on a scarlet, star-covered sofa!
The universe is most perfectly right.
1/6/2023
I came where warmth had learnt to outlast flame,
Not by ascent, but by remaining near;
The vapour lifted, paused, then forgot my name,
As steam does—faithful only to the air.
The vessel bore the grammar of long hands:
Its rim worn thin by wrists that came and went.
One palm approached—then checked itself—no bans,
Just habit pausing into judgment spent.
This broth had practised patience twenty years;
I counted weeks—my age still learning weight.
Here time was tasted, not arranged in tiers:
What lingered longest proved itself most late.
A spoon mislaid its purpose in the air;
A line was read, misread, then left to cool.
My verse—still breathing—entered unaware,
Not finished, yet not asked to finish rule.
No sound accused the moment into law;
A nod occurred—small, private, easily missed.
Someone revised the word final with a drawl,
Then doubted even that, as cooks insist.
Thus sense accrues the way a broth turns dense:
By not insisting, by remaining there.
The carrot softens into acquiescence;
The onion learns the virtue of delay.
I broke my line—
it did not ask for pardon.
Not strong enough to prove, nor weak to flee;
It stayed, the way a bowl stays warm in kitchens
After the reason’s gone, but heat agrees.
So this—if names must be endured—is home:
Poetry Soup said softly, once, and set aside.
I ate among the old, unknown, unshown,
And found that belonging does not arrive—
it remains.
The monk did not arrive with thunder,
only the cedar-smell of rain on wool,
a brass bowl ringing softly at his side
like a small moon struck loose from sleep.
I asked him how dust learns to carry God,
how bone and bruise and breath become a lantern.
He pressed one palm against the earth.
"Listen," he said.
So I listened
to sap climbing the dark ladders of trees,
to river stones knocking their blunt prayers together,
to my own blood beating its red-winged bird
inside the cage of my ribs.
All my life I had mistaken motion for meaning.
I ran after bright doors,
gold noise, city smoke, applause sharp as pins.
Meanwhile, the soul sat patient as an ember
under the tongue of silence.
The monk spoke again, low and slow:
"Light does not enter you.
It remembers"
Then something loosened.
The night air tasted of iron and wet leaves.
A stray dog slept beside the shrine steps, dreaming.
Far off, a train unstitched the valley with its thin blue cry.
And there
not in heaven, not beyond the mountains,
but here, in this trembling heap of living dust
a small flame turned toward itself
and knew its own name.
Appreciation Amidst Irma©
After watching Irma terrorize Florida and the Caribbean
This is what appreciation looks like
I appreciate that
I have hydro with which to make my morning coffee
That the roof is still on my home
The car I drive is on four wheels and not on its side
There is a place to jog this morning free of debris
The roads to get to work are safe and passable
My job is waiting for me at its usual place and time
The basement is high and dry
The bus will arrive to take the kids to school
And it is not a wading pool
There is no search and rescue
Nor a curfew
No evidence of a storm
Well rested after a night in bed
No howling winds and banging instead
Hunkered down in the dark would not have been a lark
Thank goodness for the early warning system
The many helping hands
So many agencies to heed the call
Standing up against the wall of flood
Thank you to all the brave souls
Who were out on patrols
We appreciate that which we have
And a speedy recovery for those that have loss
Of any kind
Andreas Simic©
Strangers Date
Lets meet as if strangers at the bus stop, she winked as she spoke
You sit on the bench like any other ordinary bloke
I will arrive with a red rose
You with a white carnation you expose
Like total strangers meeting for the first time
Late if you wish, but I'll be on time
You look with breathless anticipation, and I return a sweet soft cheek kiss
You close your eyes feeling all the inner bliss
Then your eyes flit across the street to the bar
You say, Come on it's not at all far
You wink, Maybe a cocktale or two
Dinner later at someplace new?
We can share a bottle of wine
While we wait for this meal so fine
When it's all done and time to go
Hand in hand our romance will grow
When at last we are home
And no need to roam
I'll thank God for this wedding band
And the one on your hand