Long Crack of dawn Poems
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(note: The site restrictions don't allow long epic poems, so I have split this into 6 segments, each should run straight on from the previous one.)
THE EYE OF THE SEA
Or
The Rime of the Ancient Kubla Kahn on the Road to Mandalay
There washed ashore a devil’s whore
Who claimed he’d never been paid,
Near dead from Sin, or weatherin’
Yet feared to loose his blade.
We did our best to ease his rest,
But our experts all were vexed:
The Old Wives College exhausted their knowledge;
The doctors cursed their texts.
Wracked with pain his life had waned
His eyes were growing dim,
His final words were barely heard:
Everything looked grim.
With chicken pills we cured his chills,
For strength we gave him broth,
His brow was mopped, his temperature watched,
We swaddled him in sailcloth.
Then from afar with strengthened heart
As if ‘twere heaven’s game
His mien changed, he had regained
The pilot to his flame.
In heartened mood we gave him food,
And bade his tale be told;
And so he spoke for the price of a toke
And a butcher’s bag of gold.
“ ‘Twas in the port of Herringford,
Where all the cows lie down,
A skipper talked, he claimed he sought
A crew of great renown.
The wind was high in a sunless sky,
The waves were barreling in,
And word got round of men to be found
That night at The Mortal’s inn.
At eight o’clock the bolts were shot
And all were locked within,
With muttered words of rumours heard
And lubricant of Gin.
The Captain coughed and glanced around
For conversations shed,
With laser gaze and aged malaise,
In a darkened voice he said:
‘Into the storm at the crack of dawn
We sail on the morning tide,
Let no man here betray his fear,
His passion or his pride!’
The aim of the endeavour was legend’ry treasure,
The fabled crystal ship of the Prince,
Lost years before off the Straits of Nepal,
And famously quested for since.
Our boat, ‘The Eye,’ was a Barquentine,
Just a quarter league in length,
She sailed as sweet as a sackful of eight,
With grace and speed and strength.
Twelve good men without pretence
Agreed to the journey ahead,
But the cheery tales of places sailed
Belied their inner dread.
The crew we got were a hardy lot,
Experienced one and all,
But none were fools and caution ruled
When it came to signing aboard.
Continued on The Eye of the Sea part 2
To where does my soul belong?
at times my meandering mind wonders…
Is it to the vast blue of the boundless sky
or the tangerine rays of the sun at the crack of dawn
or to those stars that glisten in it when light descends and night ascends?
Is it to the fluttering wings of the luminous iridescent blue butterflies
or the petals of gorgeous tulips that greet me to a dreamy paradise
or to the melodious tinkling of the temple bells in the morning?
It is to the mango tree that I see every day from my kitchen window
or its green leaves, twigs, trunk and roots
or the playful bushy-tailed squirrel
that scampers from one branch to another
or to the little brown sparrow
that chirps cheerfully in one of its branches?
Is it to the blank laptop screen that I was staring at a while ago
or these scribbles filling the white screen little by little
or to the flapping of multi-hued wings of my vivid imagination
that soars high and glides, as I write this poem,
smoothly transgressing the boundaries created by reality?
Is it to the tune of my favorite melody I hum often
or the swing that oscillates in my mind whenever I sing it
or to the breeze through which my humming gently wafts?
Is it to the rhythmic ebb and flow
of the silvery waves of the cerulean blue sea
or to the tiny boat far out there, bobbing up and down the waves?
Is it to the gleaming full moon spreading soft light at midnight
or the wick of the flickering candle diffusing hope in darkness
or to the buds finding way to bloom at the trench of rocky soil?
Is it to the relaxed, steady-paced ticking of the needles of time
or the lull of stillness of the pitch-dark night
or the evanescent dreams I get before sunrise
or to the sweet aroma of coffee waking up my senses in the morning?
Is it to the refreshing drizzle of the memories of childhood
or the pleasant petrichor after the first summer rain
or to the arc of vibrant spectrum of colors of the rainbow that emerges?
Unbound, yet bound….
In the all-pervading cosmic tapestry,
to where does my soul belong?
What goes on in the mind of the rain drop
that clings to the tip of a leaf
and is about to fall to the ground beneath?
“Do I belong to the leaf or to the soil underneath?”
Though amply rested, I still yawn
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
break through viz mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
germinating ideas to sprout
about as successful as
buzzfeeding, jump/kick starting
rooting brown lawn
to whether drought.
Long fostering literary creativity
analogous to prying open
figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress (for aging Pilgrim)
made come crack of dawn,
thus I temporarily abandon intent.
An effort to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
(which coveted, kindled, unexpected...
futile endeavor deluges me when
least able to jot down eureka,
whereby brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size bottle nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease.
No expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning metaphorical whaling expedition
beseeching, imploring, soaking...
mine mindscape with
profuse voluminous wisdom
sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
usual meaningless gibberish or
rare profound nugget of wisdom to disclose.
While thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly laced, ginned, coined...
poetic adage gee oh
into magnum opus masterpiece
eye catchingly exotic creation
exquisite as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps yours truly
will also send near nude selfie,
a worse fate than death
cab for cutie)
and chuck stock inhibition
brokering favorable frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours of flab
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes,
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright - ******** awakened,
no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds,
no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
eccentric - born (free) this way,
how Elsa to explain (without lion)
rambling riotous rumination
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and oh...mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
I was a red-violet, sunny morning person, usually up at the crack of dawn,
When orange light poured from the east, upon revival, dewy green lawns.
With a cup of aromal coffee, I'd watch yellow sunrise creep in the window,
Enjoying the zestful song of red robin, while night and day were in limbo.
I would take walks at the golden hour, flooded in light, just after a sunrise,
In the serenity of wanton, floral summer, slowly unveiling a destiny prized.
Visits of friends were features of morning, for sunup fondness is infective,
As flowers soak up colors of white sunlight, telling of the new perspective.
Family and I fascinated flaming sunsets, fancy dancing like we had forever,
At evening fetes, long fated; like feathery, dark green ferns-wind treasure.
I lived in the house of taupe sunrise, always trending towards golden noon,
As fitful stars, flickering like fireflies, stay on course, in presence of moon.
Sunhats, sandals and pretty sunflowers, were summer sights on my street,
In tranquil days of wild seas, giving the selfsame roar, as it cooled hot feet.
Nearby stars gleamed like natural pearls, on nebulous nights of neighbors;
And the natural conversation flowed nonstop, like the whistling wind labors.
Bat orchids awaited watchful moon, yearning for caves among field flowers;
When ballerina orchids danced, entranced, by plum shadows' magic powers!
Crimson corpse flower was blooming, in a torrid wake, held in lazy summer,
And snapdragon seed pods imitated skulls, where future flowers slumbered.
One day dawned exceptionally beautiful, a sight bringing rapture to my eyes;
As plum and orange, merged with pink, gold and red-fleeing night disguised!
I went about my productive work, but I noticed the day did not seem to age,
Like a glorious history book caught open, when distraction didn't turn a page.
Although I was very puzzled, I relished a pause for precious, pretty mystery;
Like the lovely, floral pause of gemmed hummingbirds, in times of blissfully.
After several long and rapturous hours, testy time gradually began to move,
For a beginning ever looks towards the end, as if it had everything to prove!
Bill Bulldog we had named him
with his brindle coloured coat
He had the most amazing face
too many wrinkles for one so young
mischievous, cuddly and full of fun
At first the only sounds he made
that first night all alone
heartbreaking cries
he missed his Mum
He’ll settle soon in his new home
That wonderful scent of puppy
Reminiscent of a newborn babe
His coat so soft just newly grown
I watched in wonder as he slept
A Mum in love with her new pet
His face so handsome like no other
a face that could only be loved by his Mother
so many expressions you would not believe
defiant, pathetic, look at me, can we play
melting my heart each and every day
He always knew when I was down
his insight was spot on
Sitting close, head on my knees
so full of sensitivity
Sending his love into my soul
I slowly emerged from the deepest hole
The traits of a Bulldog are fairly surprising
when you first take a look at his face
So don’t be alarmed even though he looks fierce
as a bad bone would be, so very hard to trace
Only sweetness and light
for my Bill would not bite
though he’d lick you to death that’s for sure
Even welcome a stranger into his domain
but would want him to stay there forevermore
For a Bulldog really loves company
he hates to be alone
but once you are there
he will climb on your chair
licking your face as he welcomes you home
These words they describe him right down to a tee
gentle - loves children - snores loudly like me
can be stubborn, aloof and suffers from flatulence
Some foods requiring total abstinence
My darling British Bulldog Bill
such happy times together
such funny little ways you had
remembering them forever
A ritual witnessed every morn
on waking at the crack of dawn
Rolling over on his back
his four legs held aloft
Bill gently rocked from side to side
as if to say, ‘I’m still alive’
Though sadly now he’s not...
Written 2018 in memory of our darling Bill Bulldog
Contest My companion and friend who never complains
Sponsor Eve Roper
1st Place
Contest Strand Select Q
Sponsor Brian Strand
3rd Place
Christmas Day has arrived; the thought fills me with such dread
For over twenty years they’ve come to me; it's doing in my head!
I get up at the crack of dawn to get the turkey in the oven
Gran moans about my cooking – she belongs in a witches’ coven
I always arrange the festive table last thing on Christmas Eve
I don’t sit next to granny; her table manners make me heave!
My sister is so overweight; you should see the size of her fanny
She belches loudly when she eats, so I’ll sit her next to granny
The taxi arrives at twelve o’clock and I crack open the sherry
When they sit down at the table they are starting to get merry
I slave over a hot stove; no one moves they act too grand
I’ve given up asking for help, they treat me so off-hand
Well this year I’ve rebelled and put laxatives in their soup
I’ll smile secretly when off to the toilet they will all troop
The soup has been devoured and I clear away the plates
When the laxatives take effect they’ll be in dire straits!
The turkey has been carved; all the vegetables are piled high
Uncle Albert grosses out; he needs a trough in a pigsty!
Turkey, and all the trimmings they will quickly devour
Granny moans about the sprouts she said that one was sour
I quietly sit seething whilst they get all get steaming drunk
Uncle Albert farts loudly – he’s worse than a blinking skunk!
Christmas pudding is eaten, followed by juicy mince pies
Sister Annie stuffs her face, as more fat piles on her thighs
Single handily I clear the table, and then we open up the gifts
It costs me an utter fortune; you should have seen their lists
Annie has knitted me the most disgusting baggy jumper
I smile sweetly and thank her, but I really want to thump her!
At four o’clock the taxi comes and they all go off home
I sit by the fire with a cup of tea, I’m so glad to be alone
Next year it’s going to be different; I’m going to go away
Booked a luxury cruise – I’ll be abroad on Christmas Day!
C form contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
12~30~16
A TAXPAYER SPEAKS
Years ago when filing tax forms reared its proliferating death’s head
I cursed, perspired, and thought about moving to a foreign homestead
As a low-income taxpayer I felt too unimportant to hire an accountant
So I filed and filed for years, at all times a very incompetent combatant
Penalties-plus-interest plagued me and I could not raise a skilled defense
Prolonged tax failures destroyed my sense of self-confidence
It was past time to explore options to end to all this tax nonsense
Waking to a new day I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn
And scoured the yellow pages for a tax advocate to call upon
After detailing my sad tax history they agreed to take my case head-on
My tax life was now covered by tax experts with knowledge and brawn
My “Tax-Saviors” wasted no time plunging into battle early-on
Past tax filings were messy, chaotic, confusing and jumbled
Yet they contended, defended, persevered and never crumbled.
I have learned that tax advocate giants who defend vulnerable taxpayers
Give Tax Dictators headaches for they are tougher and tenacious tax players .
A tribute is due these Tax Defenders who aid us so nobly
And recalling the moving inscription on our Statue of Liberty
(An Emma Lazarus 1883 poem composed in New York City)
My tribute follows and is submitted very humbly
(please forgive the “re-phrasing” substituted for clarity):
Give us your tired, your poor, your tax-ignorant masses,
Yearning to breathe free who have no one to file their taxes
Oh, send these huddled and tortured masses,
(Who feel so inept and like derisory asses)
To Tax Saviors who lay waste to all kinds of tax matters
Rescuing taxpayers dwelling in indecision and tax-law tatters
These Tax-Saviors welcome all with an open-door policy
And any taxpayer who makes the journey
Will at last enjoy fear-free tax filing yearly.”
(However, new tax laws are being drafted by devious Tax Dictators
Who derive joy from harassing captive taxpaying participators!)
OLDE CHARLIE part two
A simple g’day and not much more,
A man of simple tastes and trends,
Mostly seen most days
Three days growth on chin,
Olde Charlie,
Came from the olde school,
Of the way he thought
And reacted to most things,
A man of the bush,
A man with a down to earth spirit,
Not caring much for town
A product of the bush,
A cockie from a bygone age
And from the land as fourth generation lived
On a piece of squatter dirt chosen,
‘neath the hills of blueish haze,
Old Charlie had seen
All manner of things,
From flooding of plains to the west,
Bushfires that came close near the bottom paddock fence,
Of dry days that gave way to cloudless blues
And not a skerrick dropped to fill troughs,
For his beloved Droughtmasters to taste.
Olde Charlie and best mate ‘Blue’
And at the crack of dawn this day
A brew and a bone began,
Then on the track that wound to back paddocks up top,
A mother and calf gone missing
Strayed from herd in paddock distance far from home,
Heard in distance dingo’s cry sent shudders,
For olde Charlie knew of their ways,
And in this time of parched earth being felt,
A tasty prey could be
Tucker for this native dog,
Who on instincts needs to survive hunger pangs,
And if Olde Charlie’s mother and calf succumbed
To be a dingo’s dietary supplement this day,
So be it,
But Olde Charlie he knew of better things,
And of a mother who’d protect her progeny most
When it came to the crunch,
And on a rise straight ahead Olde Charlie saw
Why Olde Blue had raced ahead,
A calf crying for mum,
As mother and indigenous dog had drawn together
And both now lay inert in dirt,
And in the ways of the bush wisdom
A bullet to each was suffice to the sacrifice of mum,
And with tenderness not usual of tough man of land,
A calf carried all the way
And back to the herd the future now saved.
A simple g’day and not much more,
A man of simple tastes and trends
Olde Charlie’s a true rough diamond of Oz.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 18 Jul. 20
Upon a whim arising on this sunny springtime morn
hearing birds perform their songs at the crack of dawn
my knapsack packed already with a tasty picnic lunch
bread with cheese and wine
oh such a scrumptious tasty brunch
so full of joie de vivre am I for the day ahead
a slow ascent upon the bus as we reach *Beachy Head
then on to Belle Tout lighthouse where I alight instead
for on this glorious sunny day
in springtime sunshine I’ll make hay
Catching the light in stripes red and white
warning all mariners of dangers at night
a beacon of hope in a cobalt blue sea
her beam shining out majestically
Meandering gently nature's gifts I espy
a host of golden cowslips as if sprinkled from the sky
perchance if Wordsworth had beheld such beauty as have I
his host of golden daffs would have a rival for to vie
wafting gently in the breeze their lemon coloured blooms
a more stunning sight is seldom seen on sunny afternoons
I wander through the woodlands approaching Birling Gap
uneven ground negotiated, avoiding a mishap
then I espy the smallest orchid I have ever seen
with purple blooms and spotty leaves
exquisite flowers I could gaze for hours
secreted for her own protection
her subliminal message for all…
‘Please do not disturb me as
you stand here to observe me
for my beauty - my shape - my hue
and please leave me in situ, for all who pass just like you
as they pause awhile admiring the view’
Written April 2019
Contest Strand any form any theme
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st PLACE
*At 152 metres Beachy Head is the highest of Britain’s chalk sea cliffs, attracting nearly half a million visitors each year. The name ‘Beachy Head’ is believed to be a corruption of the original French, meaning ‘beautiful headland’. Some of the flora and fauna to be found at Beachy Head are purple and bee orchids, bluebells, primroses, cowslips, oxslips and hedgerows crowned in white - baby lambs and wild seas and so much more - just stunning!
He:
Pardon me,
It is I, the peasant gentleman.
From yester’s encounter.
I apologise for not revising nobility.
But as I said I have seen you before.
She:
I doubt we have met.
I never forget a face,
Perhaps you mistake me for one of your women.
He:
Ha-ha, I may not be a man of noble raising.
I would have loved to have women;
But my dignity I value, even as a man.
Many affairs would not serve my purpose.
She:
What is it that you want from me?
I do not care of your affairs.
Or anything of your interest,
I would very much like my space now.
He:
I had my doubts before,
Now I am sure you will recall our numerous encounters.
As your tongue is still as bitter.
They called you Amanda, of which I’m sure you still are.
Pardon me, I did not mean to startle you.
She:
How could you possibly know my name?
He:
Ah! Finally I have broken your daze.
Though the look on your face is still amiss.
I believe you could never remember me.
As I looked a little different back then.
She:
Well, given the impression.
Maybe we did not run in the same circles.
As I said I never forget a face.
Is this altercation necessary?
He:
Pardon me,
I mean no harm,
Let’s forget I know you, nor you I.
Please let me lend an ear.
Pardon me but it sure seems like you need one.
She: sighs deeply
He:
It would not help to keep all that agony.
You might wrinkle, my mamma always told me.
Some say confiding in a stranger eases your woes.
I will not judge you.
She:
At the crack of dawn I rose up looking….
Ha-ha, I was looking for my children.
I was looking for my husband.
I did not find either.
All I found was an emptiness.
He:
Terrible endeavour that must be querida.
At our age one would like to have it all.
But that’s no reason to despair.
Is it not that we all serve a purpose?
She:
I should be on my way.
Pardon me this time.’
I have cats to tend to.
© Herzel Poshiwa
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