Long Rudders Poems
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The Queen has a navy
That floats in her gravy,
It’s sharp and its clear,
But it’s sure tough to steer,
For the rudders get stuck
In that thick, grayish muck,
And the lads in the stern
Have a penchant to yearn
For the bright shining waters
All popping with otters,
Yet they smile as they sail past
Her Majesty’s repast,
And wink as they think
That they’d better not sink,
For if sailors go down
In the gravy, they’ll drown,
And you can’t hear them yelp
Through the lard for some help,
And therefore it’s wise
On the ship to keep eyes,
And they sail towards a biscuit
And think that they’ll risk it,
‘Midst butters and jams,
And kippers and clams,
On a crumbly crag
Raise Her Majesty’s flag,
And with hearts beating proud
Face the smiling crowd,
For a deed large or small,
It is better than all,
If it’s done with conviction,
Not merely good diction,
And protecting the table,
Or more, if you’re able,
Brings honor unseen
To country and Queen.
They slip in unnoticed
just below the burning rays of the sun solstice
lighting on the last flowers of summer bare,
sweet nectar wafting in the heavy laden air,
colors brilliant, glowing, coy
orange black monarchs and viceroys,
great spangled fritillary yellows and whites,
tiger swallowtails in yellow black stripes,
California sisters, red admirals, blues, skippers,
silent and stealth like they come on windy clippers
floating and flittering in mid-August dance,
waltzing on the warm light breeze tree branch,
eye-catching, dainty lace winged soarers,
quick and slow in flight flutterers scorers,
enticed by flowered whispers between thorn and nettles
painted ladies hovering in place on petals
mourning cloakers, dark gray stokers with blended color palettes,
rudders navigating windy turns and landings on salads,
southern dogfaces heading south in transition
migratory lives gathering in submission
to climatic phenomena seen on the window pane
tempered by the sun, the surf, and rain
waving goodbye to the northern lights
hello to the southern fields and forests cool nights.
Inspired by "All a man really wants, is a girl who looks good in a bikini." - Jack Freestone
A burlesque performer named Gieter
Decided her act would be sweeter
If she wore a bikini
Peep holed, teeny weenie
She’s hoping her fans want to meet her!
But sadly her tailor from Totton
Omitted to use special cotton
Gieter exhaled to sing
New bikini went ping
Her performance was quickly forgotten!
Huge boobies resemble cow’s udders
They’re flopping about not like rudders
I have to attest
The sight of her chest
Was grotesque, it gave me the shudders!
I screamed, “Gieter you may be a star
But this time you’ve pushed it too far
Please remember this fact
Use two fans in your act
And purchase a much larger bra!”
He Lost Wind Of Her Sails
In the ocean of his mind,
always turbulent,
there sits a Bermuda triangle,
ships being lost, swallowed,
for he was once
a ship lost,
swallowed,
never to be heard
or seen, too,
especially with his ex.
In his coral kingdom,
bright colorful fish swim.
So many.
So many
tangs and angels.
Yet
he is so oblivious to.
It's
the turbulent,
swirling in his mind,
taking precedence,
two passing ships in the night,
lost,
sailing to where,
who knows.
Each without a dock
or anchors,
or rudders,
sailing,
sailing in opposite directions.
He pauses to take a look,
at her ship,
... her.
Still sleek,
her,
... her
anointed nose
highly up in the air.
He blinks.
He knows that look,
especially her diction,
authoritative and theologian.
His mind swirls.
Was that the moon howling?
Or was that her?
It can't be her speaking.
She hates him,
not giving him the time of day.
Or was that his subconscious
fluttering?
The voices swirling in his mind.
His voices from the past
stage fright, still ...
voices that never came out.
She had that effect
on him,
at a passing,
a passage of time,
two ships sailing
in opposite directions
... swelling in his mind.
connie pachecho
6/07/17
Islands in the Stream
Islands linked together like forged argent charms,
In straights of silent, surging currents,
Where Watchtowers of Fresnel lens sound fog sirens
Where sacred shoals harbor shame forgiven;
Lightships built high on cribs and Keys of truth finally seen
As bright argand lamps on chariot wheels send out beacons,
To signal sightless ships with broken masts and rudders
Through whirlpools of turbulent canals and gushing straights,
To find serene deep-water ports in chains of channeled islands.
Yet, these no islands only mountaintops of maturity climbed
From submerged land coupled at a thousand leagues
Beneath the tidal moon enchantment;
Restoring milestone harbors of illumination
Words lit by isophase candle lamps inside carved prisms
Expanding light waves of thought - recognitions of new plateaus
Topping astragals of aerobeacons with untasted adventures
Into enlightenments leaving behind each newly explored isle -
New christened tall ships navigate siren’s lure in uncharted streams.
9-20-21
Contest: Islands in the Stream
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
Hungry eyes seek substance, food matters naught--
sees the unpleasantness that drains the eyes.
The sea, Heaven on earth, explicit thought
of days that pleased youth oft courses--denies
to the stare of his feet, wherefore and whys,
slowly his head lifts, upright, turned around,
raises palms to rub eyes, lowers ... astound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Rudders turn stern, sails fixed, helms steer abound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
The Creator last passed, blessed the Isles, ought
for the righteous--who first cheered led to cries--
so say I, the Lord of host ..., naught bethought,
lead to temptations; scripturally wise,
threshold darkness crossed, newcomers, eyed prize,
an ancient people's customs, rites, all-round,
diverse power creates oneness, propound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Afeared spread out and a kingdom compound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
An influx flourish, commitments ill-fraught,
church breeds greed, false prophets, true profits--guise,
knowledge sought by natives plots short-changed taught,
forced natives, dethroned queen, kingdom, likewise,
unlearned natives conquered by day, by lies,
time passed, those with knowledge escapes eastbound,
some accomplished, tiresome measures, homebound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Though zilch, non-native highest seat -- renowned,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
[X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X] * X[X]X * [X]X[X]
Grant, native Hawaiians were first who found,
last Hawaiian; Isles, their burial mound,
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
Moses, Exodus estranged you -- your crowned,
last -- prince by name, adoptee, choose uncrowned.
at last, life found its true purpose; a home.
The world is bending
with noses pointed to the ground
like small rudders steering bodies on busy sidewalks.
People see the sky
only as a reflection on cell phone screens
when texting friends.
Who is left to notice
light as it penetrates new leaves
in a forest where one finds more beauty looking up?
Vertebrae are fusing in a forward position
causing discomfort and distortion
on young people.
Who will see the woodpecker feed her young,
or the squirrel jump to another tree
when no one is looking up?
Those who worship the cell phone
bend in permanent obesciance
to this modern god.
Generations of people
ignore what lies above
by never looking up.
It's said a rising tide will lift all ships
And from what I have seen I've found that true
But also comes the wind that blows and whips
And sometimes sinks only a ship or two
For ships are made to float atop the sea
Yet storms determine whether hulls are sound
And even sturdy ships with rudders free
Can suddenly find themselves run aground.
Alas, my friend, that's where we've come to lie
On land where neither tides nor wind can sway
I hope once more we'll sail under the sky
But fear that on the land that hope will stay
I wonder even now what might have been
If diff'rent choices had been chosen then
6.16.19
For Choices poetry contest sponsored by Sara Kendrick
Picture #1 (What might have been)
My world spins round
too fast most times
from Greek deep roots
on Black Sea ports
crossing Jordan's River
on Catherine's Great
trains meet sailboats
greeting sea planes
flying off to sports unknown
throughout Lake Odessa Highway.
Where Ottomans
blend Spanish matadors,
heroes for Earth's day
and night bleeds forth
a calvary of SunGod force
to please titillating whims
of Lake Odessa's middling class czarinas.
I can't go home again
to straight places never born.
My mind can wavey roam
and try to swim
and fly to where and what
and whom and why
we might have been
if we had built
a fine fair fortress
for peace that loves to rock
and sing sad songs
of what brilliant sights have been
in resilient Lake Odessa.
Instead of gangs
and clicky clacks
we learn monopolistic quacks
to flap and honk
like disturbed Canadian geese
Transubstand she ate
where great America
begins to end
through Lake Odessa's mean clean streets
Not too busy
self-righteous
sleep deprived
and deprogrammed lose to lose
to win our way
back home again
where Lake Odessa healthy meets
and wealthy greets
Love's polyamorous EarthMother role
as played by odysseys of We
writing comic operas
only eros kids can consensually see
was what Me loved
most secretly
in long lost Lake Odessa.
We need a better god for now
bringing peach tree jams
singing immortality
of love as healthy wise
Reframes lost unwealthy loves
to live in jesting jarring jokes
of honeyed sweet corn
thorn tested streets
tasting ancient salad Greeks
on shores of Lake Odessa.
We reunion back
to save each other
from what might have been
without sly rudders
Tipping posts from wu wei mothers
restoring crystal castle love
of unformed flows
that buzz with lifetime mystery
and retiring tours
that sag with straightline history
Spinning sprays
bewitching licking waves
lapping soft and sandy
on long gone sacred skies
of sanguine Lake Odessa.
Crossing the Swamp
The enemy within, if unchallenged,
Will destroy the nation to achieve power.
Singing and composing to deceive the innocent,
Spinning narratives to suit their agenda.
For them, the country is a tool to use
To satisfy their selfish interests.
They hate Jesus, Christians, and Jews
And curse the United States of America.
Boldly, the bowman poles away the ‘gators,
While the helmsman rudders straight and true.
Brave Trump, “Commander in Chief,” leads the troops,
Crossing the swamp to root out traitors.
By beacon’s light in murky waters’ blight,
Proudly displayed, “Old Glory” waves
As a nation prays for freedom from evil’s grip
And for the killing of unborn babies to stop.