Long Southwards Poems
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* Paid my heed my friends for the frost giants begin their march southwards,
* and their hounds of winter ,shall Slather and bay awaiting direction from their masters
* as then ,
* they fall upon us .
* Even the sun wains back at the feel and shadow of their March.
* Our brothers the oaks stand true ,
* as these giants now put breath upon them.
* And so it is ,
* the sacred grove now sent to slumber,
* until the giants and their hounds, call for retreat.
* The longest night approaches and no advance can be made in our labours,
* For the ground is now of stone and freezing fire ice .
* We shield their attack with fur cloaks , glowing hearths and summers blessed mead .
* Our friends, family and forgiven foes gather and give thanks to the old year and for its bounty.
* Calls for the sun to return and warmth for the soil ,
* echo amongst all present .
* In the coming born year may our land , wives , and beasts be fruitful.
* Now darkness is abound,
* but for this bastion of kindred folk , the hounds of winter now tearing at the door , scream their howling and send their cold and shrills, about this protected steading .
* Grandfather places his knowing hand upon a beam "The carved runes in this lintel shall keep the frost wolves from our door, since ages past, and so mote it be" .
* All nod and agree at this given truth.
* But
* Not but for the silver light of our lady would we know anywhere else existed this darkening , he exclaims ! .
* A drum starts to beat softly as the crones of this gathered tribe begin to chant .
* Our oldest tribe member steps forward, for on this night they will carry the youngest in their arms .
* Together it will be their honour to sing for the log of Yule to then be consumed by this ,
* our holy fire .
* As the longest night starts its ending and the folk kneel beside the sacred glow messages are shouted to those who have passed through the great veil .
* They hear our shouts of love and joy , they hear us call their names as we tell them , "all is well ".
* We send our gratitude ,thanks and blessings may they be,
* as we have been, on this longest of all nights
Rather lost, they stare over the divide,
how best to circumnavigate this obstacle?
They can see a path gently sloping down
but it is far off to the north two days ride.
West is back from whence they had come,
east is an impassable cliff of sheer rocks.
They can not see far to the south but maybe,
they talk it over and head into the unknown.
Tumble weed rolling by pushed by the wind
as playfully it blows them into their path.
Miniscule trees dot the flat plateau
and small shrubs popping up here and there.
In a hurry they head on swiftly southwards
and soon start to descend to the valley below.
Billy is pale with anxiety as they push on
his wife Betty is due to give birth.
Sammy casts worried looks at his friend knowing
there is little he can say that will help.
At last they reach the valley and gallop on
Just another five miles will they make it in time?
Their horses now struggling, sweat pouring off them.
Billy's homestead comes into view cattle scattering
as they gallop through the herd and into the yard.
Sammy hangs back as Billy dashes in to Betty.
In full labour she screams "Where have you been?"
"The preacher is here to wed us. Did you get the ring?"
"I have it here" said Billy and without delay they were married.
And within minutes the twins arrived a boy and girl both bawling.
"Geezers you cut that close Billy" said Sammy
as they slumped on the front porch drinking beer.
"We made it in the nick of time" replied Billy
flushed with the joy and fulfilment of life.
written 17/09/2014
contest: Cowboys in the Badlands
sponsor Isaiah
A lovely oaken doorway
in an old creaky shop;
I stepped through one day
and saw a bunny hop.
A sleeping faun
lay upon a rock,
in hours, predawn
he wore a red frock.
By his side lay golden panpipes;
the daisies had lulled him to sleep.
his hair was red and yellow striped
and to his side, I did creep.
Should I awake the little lad?
I wondered as I stared at him;
if I did, would he be mad?
The result might be rather grim.
He had to be about six or seven,
a cute young thing, snoozing sweet.
Did danger lurk here, was my question,
something perhaps, he couldn’t defeat?
I opted to awake the lad
and tapped him on his furry shoulder.
Introducing myself as Shad,
I smiled with, ever generous fervor.
I told him that I was a friend,
my hand he shook quite eagerly.
His tiny finger did southwards wend,
I followed him quite speedily.
He took me to his cavern where
I met his whole faun family.
They fed me the most scrumptious fare
better than at any human’s eatery.
I had come, to Kriniocland
a place beyond the human realm
The fauns told me of things so grand
with amazing things, I was overwhelmed.
In Kriniocland, the flowers sing
and stones undulate when they breathe
the trees in greenwoods feed off fairy rings
shielding roots within their wreaths.
Some golden panpipes, I was given
and taken to where I had entered in.
When I arrived home it was half-past eleven;
I was sad to leave that magical glen.
Measure of society by embarrassment,
being a part of that state establishment.
The informed shared interest that knows,
wasters that claim to be the institution vows.
Bound to rigid ness and as politic direction sold,
crippled down industrial economics manifold.
They speak about the future with excuses of term,
the apparent freedom labeled to confirm.
Fountain of endless information provided,
to cut out every possibilities confided.
Heartless encyclopedia of laws that bend,
credited shares that southwards went.
Documentaries are the new CV’s,
desperate actions tell a story in degrees.
Seeing the worth of our ecological disaster,
recognizing the evil in the name of profit master.
Being the statue and a number without a will,
and constantly forging out the nonsense bill.
Expectations show that mirror of our mind,
reflections of trusting governance what we cannot find.
Patterns of generation by bounded sorrow,
shifting statistics for more to borrow.
Great souls take on true responsibility,
attention seekers doing so through hostility.
Within the state of human legacy of grace,
we can rise above the sense of duty pace.
Within the state of human legacy of grace,
we can rise above the political bureaucratic maze.
Service in perception of honor provided,
caring governance not complicated.
Nineteen nosey newts nudged nasty nautical nannies
Eighteen eager ermines excitedly edged everyone’s ego
Seventeen sacred slugs sat sideways searching seagulls
Sixteen slippery snails slid southwards sipping sangria
Fifteen flowery foxes fell forward fondling fuchsias
Fourteen frantic fleas froze fighting frightening fanatics
Twelve twiddling tigers told thirteen tasteless tales
Eleven elderly elephants embellished eighteen ebony earrings
Ten terrified tardy ticks tricked two thirsty Turkish tramps
Nine naughty nasal know-it-alls knew nothing nearing knowledge
Eight elastic earthworms echoed eighty edgy Egyptians
Seven solemn snakes slithered slowly sensing sunshine
Six sassy silk-moths sceptically squished spinach selfishly
Five funny fatties feared following fancy French fashion
Four fantastic faithful Finnish flies faked famous farcical facelifts
Three tenacious terriers thrilled twelve tipsy throbbing thespians
Two tireless Tanzanian tapirs tittle tattled tirelessly throughout Tuesday
One obedient oily octopus offered obnoxious orangutans oranges outrageously
Have you ever known a skier’s mind
when the leaves turn yellow and red?
As frost forms before the drive to work
and the lawnmower is put to bed?
When all you feel is a bracing chill,
and southwards all the large birds have fled?
The first taste of what is lying in wait
will start a snowstorm within our minds.
While leafers drive, see orange and brown,
inside of our poor brains you will find
a landscape painted all up in snow,
we keep watching the low temps at night.
See Fall is just an appetizer,
not a final flourish before sleep,
taunts us with hints of snow on the air,
we start praying that it’ll fall deep;
doing a snow-dance, gifts to Ullr,
do not let this year be mild, please!
Reading what’s new at our best mountains,
web-site says they’ll be opening soon,
a ribbon of white amidst the brown,
spotting those first tall snowmaking plumes,
can’t wait for frigid air in my lungs…
I don’t care if you think I’m a loon.
When we first met, in love we used to glide
on waves of bliss like pairs of sunglow swans,
now we slowly totter,and try to hide
our orthopaedic socks and thick long johns.
We still hold hands like back on that first date
but now it's less a gesture, decades on
else I'd walk off ahead then have to wait
while you found something firm to lean upon.
You said you'd like a skirt to match your eyes
I did my very best but must confess
I went to every shop but no-one buys
or maybe no-one sells a bloodshot dress.
you run your fingers through my hair a bit,
these days I marvel just how fast it goes
these greying locks ,well, what remains of it,
from off my scalp and southwards to my nose.
Annoying habits met with just a sigh,
you snoring on the sofa after tea
or ducking as my nail clippings shoot by,
or leaving used bags out when making tea.
Love's outer shell is merely just it's name,
inside it's precious pearl remains the same.
Why square? I wondered
Drifting together in a stream of faith;
Broken promises, shattered ambitions, hopeful desperation and the misled
Like a river we flow
Revolving, spinning, orbiting
Here, at this very place
Here lies the direction for those who seek
But why square?
A myriad of people from various walks of life
Flocked in this once barren land
Like migratory birds they came, with a call to answer
A rhythm to complete
As did the one who built it
But why square?
Perhaps it’s the rigidity, or the flaw-seeking locals,
Or the bawling puppets who stick like mould to stone
Wonder if it’s justified to ask so many questions
After all, it is not meant to complicate
Repulsiveness surged in me
Now’s not the right time...
To commit is to surrender; bare and defenseless
My mind’s a web and heart infested
Perhaps
It’s for those who spiral southwards
For in the square’s a circle of solace
Creaking, cracking, booming…
You hear the sounds before the bridge,
mountain quiet amplifies it,
step out on the old iron truss,
and a mess unfolds before you.
Creeping, slipping, shearing…
Long breaks in what was once smooth glass,
seams by the shore where current came,
set the center moving slowly,
broken ribbon slowly pushing.
Grinding, pressing, crushing…
Like slow-motion catastrophe,
chunks shift and jostle as they move,
strike rocks on bars, break down small trees,
smears on the ice, stained by debris.
Pressing, straining, slashing…
Ice so blue it’s almost glacial,
piles up on curves and pillars,
jams the path, water bubbles up,
sends swells racing across the ice.
Chugging, seeking, streaming…
Picks up speed as it heads southwards,
to the big rivers waiting there,
the parks down by the shoreline will
soon be buried under the crush.
Logs stacked by a decaying shed;
scent of burning embers from chimney’s
wafting past my face;
I breathe in the crisp evening chill.
The woodlands, a palette of color
waiting to be laid out on a canvas
by my bristles;
VanDyke orange, red, brown and yellow;
I watch the yellow passing by the sunset
and it blinks to deeper orange hues.
Oils blending, scent of linseed
and turpentine mingle with
the log fires and overhead
flocks darken the skies
winging southwards.
The setting sun lends it’s
hues to the naked trees as
leaves float endlessly downwards
to rest upon an emerald bed.
I glance up from my palette to see
a doe standing there,
right beside a Douglas fir;
her eyes trust mine
and in that simple moment I know,
there is a God.
10-6-19
Enter the 'Best free verse July-December 2019' Poetry Contest
John Hamilton