Long Free rein Poems
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So once again, with grim countenance, the ship sailed on with all bemoaning their woes
Till calm seas prevailed, with balmy sun, sweet zephyr song, they came to Helios' shores.
Helios, calm god of the day, smiled upon the lads, gave of his land free rein, but with a caveat-
Helios pride was his golden herd, indolent and fat,"Do what you will, but don't touch that"
Well, as was their wont, like a terrible refrain, full-weathered from woes and want, but yet unwise,
The crew, overcome by gluttonous greed, slaughtered a heifer, for raucous feast, not sacrifice.
Wild was Helios at this blatant deceit, with terrible curse, banished them all, to wander once again.
So with Helios' curse (and Neptune's help), the ship was tossed and soon lost, all crew were slain.
It was Odysseus alone who was alive, afloat on flotsam, floating about, with fervent wish of death
But sweet surcease was not his lot, more plight was his fate - his tryst was due with Charybdis yet.
Perhaps Scylla was a better bet, in it's slavering jaws a definite death, I think he'd rather have it
But caught he was in Charybdis' thrall, a vortex which ate him whole, and threw him out as spit.
Past the maelstrom's outer whirl was our hero tossed clinging to life's last hope, verily a straw
Floated, the wasted carricature of a man, denied of food and water, no sustenance he could draw.
But perchance the Gods smiled on him, wearied of their devious, puerile games going too long
Odysseus fell on land once more, where restored were life and limb, bewitched by Calypso's song.
Now Odysseus, all said and done, was a man vulnerable to worldly women's wanton wiles
And Calypso was full besot with our hero's lusty frame, his wit, his deeds and charming smiles.
For seven years did he taste bliss, ensconced in Calypso's arms with thought of home amiss
But one day, after seven years, did Caypso, with heavy heart, let him go on pleas of our Hermes.
From Calypso's isle did Odysseus sail on raft, through storm, as was now his habit, and came to Sceria
Where Nausicca, on Athena's urge, gave succor, till he sailed with Phaecians who had trade with Sumeria
The Phaecian ships soon landed Odysseus on fair Ithacan shores where Penelope had travail,
But my dear laddies, I must hie hence, for the Dawn is nigh, of Penelope and Suitors, is another tale.
Concluded
I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.
My sister stopped to visit on her flight home from a tropic isle.
Are COVID mutants on last legs? (Most think their death’s long overdue!)
Trump’s naive crimes seem more passé though Putin dreams his lies are all
he needs to rule the world. Why court the vote of anyone? “Who counts
these days (that is not me)?” They’re twins (though Trump’s heirs own less real estate)!
Both short of stature, short of Grace, their grotesque presence waste of space!
Best trick? When they shoot their own feet (nearsighted optics fuel conceit)!
I know Sis loves me dearly, but both distance, years can cramp one’s style,
old eyes need to refocus to grok clearly she’s still there (if true!),
past’s sinews feel more tenuous, imagined slights (like leaves of fall)
suggest vitality (more green) is in recess. Fresh waves that rise like founts
through gold-laced veins in rock sprout seasons that recall springs past due date!
An argument hung in the air, that vented, proved our love still there.
It’s what we dread that dims Love’s light, the risks we take that banish Night.
I know my poems sometimes flail to friends whose pages never dared
to give their muse free rein, researching voice. I follow fantasy,
the joy it gives (fresh thoughts I never knew I owned), prefer to live
in sand traps or in rough (path forward less assured), swim nude with tone!
My time’s my own, but my delight’s my muse’s dump. My muse! Stay friend!
A poem’s puzzle for the mind! One rarely knows just what they’ll find!
It’s joy, too, when some come along and swallow content of a song!
Should I fault walls that crumble or a faded poem’s truth unshared
if it provides some shelter from harsh winds that blow for only me?
I honor masons as myself for respite that I get or give
if muse’s gifts grant you some pause, gifts’ music hints you’re not alone.
It’s ‘peace’ we wage that brings joy to the ‘heart of God,’ not war’s we end!
God needs no help to conquer death, to end life’s pain! Love honors breath!
Abundant life’s God’s poetry and ‘faith in God’ man’s ecstasy!
Long Tooth
March 24th in 2022
It was after Mom’s dad passed her mom bought canaries.
Grams felt life less lonely, I think, with their singing,
and gave her idea that flying the coop to
live close to my mom could be Southland for grey birds!
Gram’s love’s stroke unexpected (he died in mid-sixties);
Today seems quite young to be housewife left winging
her way to new home. Kids in Woodward? (1) Gold grew two,
Mom’s brood and her brother’s brood, fledglings warmed innards!
My folks built a new home for her, right back of our house,
and yard had a garden with no trees to shade it,
sweet melons that bled, and tomatoes (stretched softballs).
And gold too were biscuits Grams baked for our dinners!
Plains folk quail at Thanksgiving and rarely enjoy grouse
or grousers that much, though their plates boast a surfeit
they’ve worked for, don’t shoot birds that run or trust windfalls!
It’s folks who will stay and work late plains call winners.
There’s collusion these days, watch Herr Trump stroke the Russians,
see Trump not pay taxes, pay off whores he’s ducking,
and huge corporations (for raping the planet)
will cede Trump free rein! “Guys, just keep me in power!”
But the caged birds of COVID now color discussions!
They die with our parents, our children! Hear sucking?
That’s Trump at his best as he deep throats a bare hit!
Please pardon! Methinks the whole world needs a shower!
Brian Johnston
July 8th in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
(1)Woodward, OK, was a small town in Northwestern Oklahoma
that I had the great good fortune to grow up in and escape alive.
Several of my close friends from there were not as fortunate, and
suffered more damage! No blacks were allowed to live in city limits
on either side of the track! There was a “shoeshine boy,” but he
had to leave town before sunset and lived in the country. Even in
college at the University of Oklahoma in Norman, fraternities
were whites-only. Approved off-campus housing was allowed to
discriminate against blacks. My landlady (in my 4th year) told me
that a ‘black skin’ was the mark of Cain! I still weep for our nation!
For years I'd written myself notes
with names of some I can't remember.
Those I've cheered; stood and applauded.
Protagonists who played Romeo
to my Juliet. Shakespeare would've lauded.
Scribbles that should've been love letters
that would've made me a better person.
There were more than a few endearing roles,
romantic ones, comedies and life's dramas.
Names that have faded on the playbills.
Sometimes I struggle to remember them all
as I recall tears of both joy and sorrow.
There were times when love was undeserved.
Times when I swerved off the virtuous road,
and followed the wrong path that led to heartache...
Regretful am I for having played around
and like a fool, I broke hearts, including my own.
I realized that I had to love myself to be worthy
of love from others. Not the kind that smothers,
but the type that gives free rein to roam and return
instead of burning bridges on paths I'd walked.
Learning to love myself allowed me to see
that there was no need to give up the stage
and wage war in a rage at the time-stealing thief...
the makeup artist who painted wrinkles on my face,
and silver hair that causes a thespian grief.
Age... that sordid bandit who addled my memory.
No standing ovation for comedy that's not divine,
nor for refusing to recite my farewell lines.
My scribbled notes have become love letters
that I should've boldly written to myself long ago.
My emotions are still engaging, for I mourn
the absence of loved ones who are gone
but often appear in reveries and dreams.
I walked in their footsteps but not the light
that gleamed in their eyes on opening night.
Stars still glimmer and shine in mine
but I'm no longer star struck with delusion,
for I stopped wearing the veil of illusion.
It's not what I've done or the words I've said
that I should love about myself. No...
the One I thank and love the most is God above.
A personal view of the Devizes Neighbourhood Plan
and the referendum on Thursday at the Town Hall
All careful plans of men may fail and fall
And falter, crumble; leaving broken stone
No reason to devise no plan at all
For no man lives by wild chance alone
There has been an edict from on high
“Thou shalt build houses here within ten years
Three hundred homes and thirty three.” Then why
Not have a say and ease those planning fears
This Plan has seemed quite hard to understand
To many folk irrelevant, a bore
Yet now the vital hour is at hand
The issue far too pressing to ignore
“What consultation has there been?” the voice
Comes from the floor, comes loud and with an edge
“No one told us that we had a choice
And where are all the leaflets, in the hedge?”
It goes like this; the Trust have made a plan
Consulted up the Brittox, in the post
Collated all the info, then began
To work out where we wanted homes the most
They spoke with parish councils, factored in
The traffic, schools, the shops and open space
They put in measures to avoid the sin
Of building ugly stuff that spoils the place
Without the Plan the builders have free rein
To ride roughshod across our lovely land
At which point, just don’t bother to complain
The horse has bolted, galloping, unmanned
If jobs for boys there are let them be ours
Let local builders lay their firm foundations
On brownfield sites, not green fields full of flowers
With guidelines from the Plan’s considerations
No plan is perfect; yet no plan at all
Will simply give us no control, not clever
Consider this; vote Yes at the Town Hall
Or mourn the loss of favoured fields, forever
by Gail
They looked forward to spend the weekend
in this haunted aged castle
Who believes in haunted stories?
It was evening when they arrived
the table was set for twelve guests
even if there were only four of them
The food was served in silence by the host
They just wanted to enjoy the meal and
jump to bed early
Suddenly the one empty chair moves
pushed half a meter backwards with one
scraper sound
The sound reaches right into the spinal cord
Everyone agreed it was scary
But who believes in haunted stories?
They understood that it was
several guests at the table than invited
Perhaps residents from earlier eras
After the meal they sat in silence and listened
Low muttering and the sound of knife against porcelain
and glasses that clinked
Where reality is no longer sufficient
and the imagination is given free rein
Neither the dog nor the guest found peace at night
whose slumbers their eyelids were wide open
The experience of what was real and true
that night no one can confirm
They tried to ignore it at first
but could feel someone breathing down their necks
Doors that were locked from the inside were opened
by invisible hands
The floor creaked and there was a cold grave breath in the room
The weekend was cut short after this one night
Hey, who believes in haunted stories?
Their memories are now tattooed and haunted
Incomprehensible to people who have never experienced this
26.02.2023
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- H - Words - Poetry Contest -
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1st place in the contest
There once was a playful little boy his imagination 'Oh' how it would soar
dreaming of nights of dragons and forts becoming the warlord of his blankets
and cardboard.
On a weekend day he requested to build a fort so the dragon he could slay
all the time his little mind running into overplay.
So being a kind mother him having no brothers or others
I gave him free rein not knowing his fort would look so strange.
From room to room he ran with delight grabbing any item in sight
preparing for his brave and final dragon fight.
Chairs were moved and tables were flipped even our cat would hiss and spit
while Polly our parrot sang Oprah in the background with a nervous twitch.
Finally, hours later and all out of breath he runs to my room his small hands
tugging and pulling yelling for me to come see his display.
With a large gasp my breath had escaped, what a colorful sight I did see
as he jumped up and down screaming whoopee!
All my panties were hanging at the top each one a special window
so he could see the dragon coming for him to slay all looking like a windsock.
His choice of weapons with colors of red, black and pink were all
of my thongs he had carefully turned into sling-shots.
Each one holding a hard candy he had proceeded to suck on
so they would all stay in place and lined up ready for his offense.
With a gentle pat on his head and a forced smile of dread into the fort we slid
while waiting on the dragon we ate candy looking out his windows ahead.
T Reams 10/11/2015 Contest Sponsored by: 'Team Poetry Soup'
Moonlight glistened like stars on the snowy mountain lane
Ascending to a mesa above the timberline
Horses from the valley ranch often grazed with free rein
More than once fillies had climbed up the steep incline
One morning after the mare Midnight had disappeared
Ranch hands formed a posse and set out to search the hills
The raven-black horse was loved; for her safety they feared
A winter storm set in; hands faced heavy snow and chills
As night approached, dejected posse members returned
The ranch owner consoled them and offered his deep thanks
All felt their rescue mission failed, hung their heads concerned
As snow piled high, blowing, drifting into heavy banks
Three days of frigid weather kept horses inside their stalls
Passing Midnight’s empty booth made rugged cowboys sad
It was on the fourth day they witnessed an end to snow squalls
A sight on the mountain trail turned many faces glad
Midnight slowly plodded down the hill, nudging her foal
A painted pony, black with vivid spots of white
The colt looked like her mother, covered with flakes of snow
Hoof prints down the mountainside shone in morning light
Midnight had taken shelter inside a tiny cave
Just large enough for a determined equine mother
To rest a few days after birthing a stunning babe
A miracle, ranch hands said, unlike any other
Theme: Horses and Snowflakes
For Constance, a Rambling Poet's "Horses or Snowflakes or Horses and Snowflakes" contest
by Carolyn Devonshire
“Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.” — Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When starlings were swimming in the azure lake
When bats and owls began their nocturnal ride
When all the Earth under a dark blanket lay
My Muse, like a sweet temptress, came to me
To set this captive free, to give free rein to my fancy
She sang into my ears the lovely strains of a placid melody,
Bathing me in sheer delight, creating in me a passion too intense
To articulate my disjointed thoughts into vibrant melodies of beauty
Soon fireflies of thoughts came flitting like bees around a looted honeycomb
In a butterfly net, I trapped them all clustering together in a clumsy heap
Making my darkened zone bright with little arcs of shimmering light
I placed them carefully in an ordered strain, word after word,
In meaningful sequence, fashioning them into a beautiful symphony
When your Muse comes knocking at your door
Delay her not, but let her in and go for a merry ride with her
There, let her magic wand kiss and caress you
From head to foot and all over awakening your fancy
From deep slumber, that songs of passion are born from you,
Gushing forth in streams of honeyed dew,
For poetry is a life cherishing force!
Nov. 23.2022
~Placed Third~
Poetry is a Life Cherishing Force Contest
Sponsor – Sotto Poet
Re submitted for Brian Strand Contest. No.1170