Long Descried Poems
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I spied a ship and descried the flag it flew.
It was nothing like the flags I had seen before.
It was red and blue, with white circles and yellow stars
The highlights of white and yellow stood out
like stars at night, and town lights bright.
The red like the color of the dawn and dusk.
The blue the color of the deep blue ocean.
It was clearly the flag of a sea faring nation.
As the ship got closer, you could clearly see its details.
It was a large primitive Polynesian outrigger voyager vessel,
a ghost ship as no one appeared to be aboard.
Where it had come from, the fate of its crew a mystery?
But the vessel sure knew how to sail
and knew where it was headed
as it sailed fast and free,
passed our sailing boat 'Snail'
on a true heading for a spot on the horizon.
For many years the Polynesian voyagers were decried as flotsam and jetsom.
How could these primitive people navigate through the vast open ocean
between tiny islands, pin-prick dotted in oceans of space?
It was assumed they migrated and populated the far flung oceans randomly and haphazardly
via their fishing trips and day trips being blown off course.
But research has descried their skill and fabulous knowledge of navigation.
Each island has a gild of navigators.
They use songs and stories to memorize navigation methods:
including the movement of the stars, wave patterns around island,
local currents, clouds, weather and bird behavior.
Polynesian navigators used the rise and setting of particular set stars on the horizon to set a heading.
They had wooden instruments, string and fiber maps of wave patterns and star movements to guide their way.
They skillfully know when they were near tiny islands
from the change in the wave patterns, currents
and their vast knowledge of birds and wildlife.
So don't be quick to decry Polynesian navigation.
Instead, descry its beauty, simplicity, nouse, proficiency and elegance.
The past sneers at me
Breaking open bottled up memories-
Of years of aimless wanderings,
Of days spent in unbridled passion,
The smell of cigarettes, ganja and beer
Wine and women, bet and gambling,
And the thrill of having won and lost !
Like the prodigal son, walked away from home,
Leaving behind kith and kin
Rambled through the murky corridors of life,
In search of pleasure, riches and fame
Once when I walked with stilted gait
Surrounded by friends and fans,
Amid laughter and haste
Eager to please and to praise,
Never, I knew this wouldn’t last!
Inebriated and effervescent were we
Went to ball and ballets
Fancied money could buy all we yearned
And turn this Earth-a virtual Paradise
But how swift was the twist of fate!
With no condiments,
Life suddenly turned bland.
The gorgeous castles I once built,
Burnt down to cinders like dry leaves
Blown away by the wind
Friends, I thought never would desert,
Flitted away one by one!
Now I discern, I am alone
With none to hold my hand
Or share the burden
With just my mournful shadow
Tottering along to keep me company
Having descried the truth
I should no more battle with dark shadows
Or get lost in the labyrinthine paths
I must get out into the light
I shall retrace my steps, back I will go
Embrace the safety of my home
And leave my heartache and sobs behind
Oh, I am not lost as my eyes are now open!
Placed Second
Pick- A –Title Vol.27 Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Let us roll together on the cobbled floors of
Europe and pick up, in our greedy search,
Every fallen crisp and old blade of ancient grass.
Good old restless fleas must not peck at them
Or resume haunting the spectres that follow
Them season after season.
And it must be on a Sunday —post
Sunday school—after the church bell has rung twice;
After the spell of the visiting thaumaturge on the village
Has followed the blight of the late rains of a
Second-rate April.
The scent of the market is heavy with spinning films,
Thus rolling the eyes from streets to canals,
Increasingly stunning the breaths of tipplers
Breathing with the rage of manhattans.
A scalding winter shrouds the open intimacy between fogs
And brumes, made sweet with a hootenanny.
The music is loud but soft, and weakens the restiveness of
A new week bound for ceaseless waves of inked drama.
I hasten to the old secretaire I had descried from the
Buried haunt of writers and scribes — men of quill pen.
Its blend of age, the aroma of cellared wines, and the
Blessedness of regal oak has made my day. . .
Oh, sorry, my Sunday.
“Happy Sunday to one and all!” I cry,
Reaching out to the grandmother pouch of time-bleached leather
Around my dancing waist.
And I shall proceed to buy it with European farthings and African
Cowrie shells, and manillas adorned with loud-campaigning verdigris.
~ My Faith ~
(Set deep in New England woods
of days long gone by)...
The forest held me in her spell
Enchanting visions 'round yon dell
Amidst the silence, peals of bells
'Twas then descried a carousel
Its stallions seemed to fly right by
They flared their nostrils, gave a cry
I shook with fear; I don't know why
Looked up to view a blackened sky...
All light snuffed out; the end seemed nigh
My heart's blood cold, prepared to die
I clung to Faith, yet asked God why
Then bowed my head for God's reply --
Dark spirits grabbed ahold of Faith
I could not see aught but her Wraith
“In the void of grieving heart the candles of lasting love
flicker in the wind of memory” – Quote by Poet
I heard you sing for me the song of the spring birds,
when the beguiled breeze blew for us.
As the sunburst sky flushed your face in halcyon hue,
how adorable you were to me, you had no clue.
Wandering in the wasteland, after the gloomy night,
I found me in your gorgeous garden.
I brightly sparkled like the pearl of ecstasy,
perched on purple petal of your rose as a drop of dew.
From the ethereal trove of eternity,
the treasure of transient time we got to share.
Like the surreal sunburst sky my yearning in reverie flared,
I descried the dawn of the dormant days of my dream anew.
In the blue firmament of your fathomless eyes,
my fervor had flown to the beautiful nest,
we built to become the ardent abode of our own,
a secured shelter for my memory as the storm blew.
The sonorous sound of your vivacious voice
sailed on fervent breeze in the silent sky of my longing.
The melody mesmerized my marooned mind,
I became complete when you made me new.
Drifting in the meandering turmoil trail of destiny,
you departed like the melted mirage of providence.
Within the caved-in dune of despair I felt deserted,
my untold words, ‘you’re mine’, I heard sadly rue.
Your enthralling essence remains attached
with my bereft being as a steadfast shadow,
lingering in the dark abyss of my hollow heart,
where the candles of enduring love I light for you.
quintain
From my wheel chair facing their veranda
I could not distinguish the girl next door.
She looked somewhat like my niece, Miranda,
except for her hair halfway to the floor.
(Miranda always kept her hair shorter.)
I turned the music down so I could hear
the conversation that was taking place.
Although I consider myself a seer
who reads expressions on a person’s face,
I discerned the voice of a reporter -
well-known correspondent on radio.
She posed some questions, most of which I missed.
Once she turned her head towards me, just so
and I caught one, clearly getting her gist.
“Is your neighbor watching us from her deck?”
Taking the hint, I retreated inside,
unaware of how obvious I’d been.
It was then I saw what she had descried.
Eavesdropping had not caused her chagrin,
‘twas the field glasses hanging ‘round my neck.
Slowly he creeps,
I just wish his coming can be descried
And that I can fight him off.
He turns a joyfully atmosphere despondent,
Diabolic they is he,
Yes he is the despot.
He came knocking,
He forced his way into my abode
And my body gave way to my soul.
Alone he left me in the middle of the desert,
I shouted, I yelled, I bellowed
But my voice was swallowed by the silence,
The silence no one can shut.
Onwards I go
For there is no return.
Fortune I have had,
Respect and good looks;
How frivolous they look in the sight of my new world.
The church bell groaned,
Tears streamed from eyes of loved ones,
But I am gone.
Take courage lover,
I am gone but not forever
Perhaps I will meet the eternal bliss
And there I will wait for your coming.
Take courage lover,
You won't see me again but not forever,
Hope to meet you someday.
A Parody of Sir Philip Sidney's Sonnet 31 from Astrophel and Stella
With wobbly steps, O Youth, thou climb'st the stairs!
How clumsily and with how red a face!
What! Dost thou trip and fall about the place
and pray thy folks sleep soundly, unawares?
Perhaps thy little brother who now sees
thee fall can be persuaded not to race
and broadcast to the house thy plunge from grace.
Thou could'st bribe him with money and say "PLEASE!"
Whil'st thou cling to the handrail, bleary-eyed,
now in thy shameful state, O Youth, pray tell
are friends thou partied with, like thee, unwell—
in fear, lest their condition be descried?
Those youth who guzzle beer in lieu of milk
will bring ignominy on all their ilk.
May 9, 2015
~ No Soul Descried ~
He sauntered out and rubbed his eyes
No soul descried, left or right
Were all the rumors true, not lies?
Mid-day the hour, not dark midnight
He scratched his head, pressed on downtown
There, windows boarded, sealed up tight
Deserted sidewalks, void of sound
Most all stores shuttered, dark their lights
Now stares at him a frightful sight
Two heads, four eyes; test-tube, thin frame
His ray gun gleaming -- Awful plight!
The human prays, his life fair game
"Am I alone? Last man alive?"
God paused and smiled: "Hand-picked ~ Survive!"
Iambic Tetrameter
I was gently awakened by euphonic cooing
of mated doves perched on aspen branches
whose golden leaves rustled sweet silver songs
I rushed to open my wooden dormer window
and hum a greeting to their soft morning trills
With hands splayed on the ancient stone sill
my face welcomed the sun's auroral warmth
I felt the chill of Autumn's breath biting the air
and exhaled in contented sighs of appreciation
for the stunning beauty of this mountain valley
To paint nature's colors without dreary compromise
would require a far greater artistic hand than mine
While gazing from my cabin's primitive casement
I descried a canvas stippled in blazing pastoral hues
framed by the rustic charm of my bedroom window