Meridians Poems | Examples

A Fallen Leaf

Held in my hand a fallen leaf…
let go before the season: should 
I not question the reason, even those
of God? Or only the foul-play of
man?

Determined I traveled the veins,
like a palm-reader reading her
mark, some earnest applying thought
mystical craft – traveled did I the 
many meridians, like bread-crumbs
along a forest path...curiosity eating
away as I passed -- 

What learned I cannot say

What felt I cannot pray

Over-looking the greatest treasure

in retrospect found

entered the light of another day

Map-Maker

With compass and sextant, paper and ink,
Bungaree, Nanbaree, Matthew and George
and a cat and a crew were at sea.
They went sailing and sailing, around and around
in Eighteen Hundred and Three.

The Investigator’s navigator calculated space
by meridians and parallels to draw Australia’s place.
With Tasmania as an island, and Bass Strait in between,
he mapped the coastal outlines with ink like lines of lace.

On an island east of Africa, where dodos used to roam,
he wrote a book, and drew more maps, in prison, far from home.
He’d travelled as a scientist; he’d met Frenchman, Baudin, 
but, here to mend a leaking boat, they would not let him go.

The governor of the Isle de France let pirates prowl the sea,
but arrested Matthew Flinders as a spy and enemy.

Around Good Hope, after the siege - 
from Mauritius, now British (not French),
back to London, sailed Matthew Flinders,
not knowing his days were brief.

Map-maker, map-maker, making a map,
right ’round Australia, and finally back.

Map-maker, map-maker, thanks for the book,
of Terra Australis and the journeys you took.

Running Man

Running man, the road is yours
As fleet of foot you fly
Across meridians of day
The miles going by
With no Achilles in your heel
And glory in your eye 

Be long, your longest run
The winding road you take
Which brings you out and back again
With torment none, nor ache
To still the beating spirit
The beating heart awakes

Take to the hills today
The hurt that bears no sorrow
The grief that falls unburdened
Within the running hour
That it may still your struggles
Your troubles disempower

And with your footsteps bear you on
Through all of your tomorrows –

Poetry Is, Is Not

Poetry is not the
manipulation of lyrics,
as the mechanic tunes
to sound using ears – but,
deeper yet, vital articulations,
the spirit manifesting its
vibrations (essence-forms)
onto paper, for the eyes
to read and the mind to
soulfully respond. Poetry
must electrify, surge across
interior meridians, leaping
established barriers prior
to explosively exiting! 
Poetry must carry the
nature of all that is
unseen, pleading to
surface, to know the love
and warmth of others, 
as a child needing 
weaning and burping –  
poetry is not an art...
It is our God of Living
Words.

Your Love Echoes In Time

 I once had your love which sailed on the shores of sorrows,
Broken hearts did shove the tears thru echoes of morrows…
For it is only time, that I have to find you on Cupids arrows,
It would be a crime if our love escaped the nefarious narrows;

Guardians of time, give me entrance so I may find my love again,
For I shall climb the portals of passion to stop the ravaged rain…
My love is lost amidst chambers of time and obtuse Oblivions,
In a frigid frost I circle and navigate thru loves morbid meridians;

Where calamitous clocks hold back the hemispheres of devotion,
And providence blocks the wheels of love and eternal emotion…
Father time of infinity bring me back to the day that we first met,
Restore our affinity of ambient amour before the Time Lords forget.





June.09.2020
Time Poetry
Sponsored by 
Chantelle Anne Cooke

Placed 1'st...Thank You

Burst: On the World Behind Eyes

Press your eyes with 
The strength of the
Index and the ring finger. 

What do you see? 
See the shifting orbs of luminescent aqua, 
Starry-eyed fireflies wafting in a 
majestic, arrested stasis.

See the fabled constellations 
Form and appear, illuminating 
The dark void. They tell 
Stories of primitive times, 
Clinking and clunking clubs
Banging on the dusty ground
While newly-minted fire crackles,
Bursting with the galvanizing spirit 
Of God’s creationist firepower. 

See the subdued hues ooze freely, 
Seeping into each other to form
Fractious fractals, each corner and 
Angle forming the triangular wings 
Of angels singing the songs of 
Heavenly peace and joyful sublime. 

Take your index and ring finger off your 
Eyes. What do you see? 

See a darkened world seemingly dejected, 
But with glinting color orbs all around, 
Threatening to burst through the sun-kissed 
Meridians, lingering in purgatory. 

One only needs the strength to find them.

Nova

(The supernova observed from
Earth in 1572 was a major event
in human thought, because if
stars could explode, then they
couldn't be eternal lamps,
hung out by God.)

The cold stars glimmered 
where they hung 
in their accustomed places 
on the underside of heaven. 

The imperceptible gavotte 
proceeded up aloft: 
those little silver lamps, 
dipping or climbing, 
went about their business 
oblivious of human time. 

A scholar of the firmament, 
incurious, unthrilled, 
at ease with the inevitable, 
the trueness of meridians, 
stared up, unflinching. 

The milky smudge of Cassiopeia 
swam into his lens's narrow field, 
and our student of the permanent now saw 
that which he knew he could not see. 

It caused no greater shock 
than a snarl of irritation. 

We always miss the moment. 

The quiet glory of that tiny cloud 
of far-off starstuff 
marked the noiseless passing 
of some unknowable sun. 

And though the watcher did not know, 
he was party, too, 
to a monumental dying.

You Are Day and Night To Me

You are day and night to me—
Much more,
My before 
And yet to manifest
Within You I circulate
While beyond You
Still more of You
I seek to elevate—
The vine of my spirit
Reaching up, and then
Further,
Each leaf of me suspended 
The craving
Is light—
I am in balance…
Elevating for illumination
All of me
Grasping and lifting,
Following transparency 
Of new veins
And meridians,
Seeking mastery
While saturated
With love....

Waiting For the Muse

I scavenge for pressure points—
Press between ruled lines
My expressive probe,
Looking for literal nerves,
Meridians
Defining the direction
Of my poetry,
The resistance and flow of its current

Was I born to sleep,
Or be electrically charged,
Wired—
Magnetic pulses of activity—?

It is late night,
When I usually write—
Without a shrill, shadows silently come and go,
Nod—A suspended presence—
Not a word passing between us—
The air,
Tingly
Like sky and earth
Just before lightning bridges the gap—

Lassie's Song

Joyfully chasing blue tail bunny rabbits through fields of dancing daisies....

Watercolour skies in lavender hues reflecting from, the marmalade moon

Mystical monarch butterflies brushed amid glittering orange and black

Gathering around Tinkerbell with her maroon magical wands silverish trails

Waving atop a cheerful cherry blossom as calling unto Lassie from across this

Motif meadows musical picturesque scene; Autumns, cresendo dreams ? 

Crossing into evanescents evergreen pastel forest with its translucent trees 

Met by a school of sprites led by Peter Pan, smiling at his girl as he takes her

By her lovely hand; whispering words as chimes in love and majestics

Tangerine notes of meridians metaphorical, welcome home.... 

*******************************************************************

....“Lassie's Song” *

Seven Days

seven days a week... the intervals in between
can shape twilight into scented ambrosia
    and turn noontime to boiled potion of tan,
dusk smears the sky darkening bronze
        while an eve, a textured chameleon... 
  the shrill and serenity of minutes
can blaze the air with  time's ecstasy 
or numb the splintered liver of pain's regret. 

are these days that pour of subway’s sweat, 
then emboss  night with a vault 
of celibate, white stars? coffee and newspaper
expire as the hours dwindle into clockwork ticks.
and hands cradle an endless space
bathed in the moist kiss of dawnbreak
floating on a veil graced by 
             life's alchemy, unbidden...
 
seven days a week: a deep hole lost
in a melee between men and beasts,
defining not the terms and conditions
of human traces that linger or stain
the lines of meridians blending haste with
                            pace?
             there are no answers, 
i just wade like a child becoming a fetus
without all these adult specs rendering
white stars,celibate...
           in seven days a week.




Space and Time Contest
new poem
use of small caps is intentional
2/12/2014

Acy-Punctre Energy

Acapunctre energy,

Back about 220 before Christ,
The yellow Emperor  gave his advice,
Comissioned by Emperor  Houang-Ti,
Use needles to direct the energy,
Acapunct-urely,

So close your mind dismiss the word,
Use western medicine, drug-dog-bird,
The drugs won’t set you free,
More blockages you will see, 
For the narrow-minded nerd,

All sickness is channel blockage freeze,
Your chakras bog down with crap and wheese,
So get your 7 chakras to flow,
Breathe in imagine it’s grow,
Rainbow colours here increase,

 and will nerve meridians to turn-on go,
Get rid of all disease,
The will in charge yes please,
A healthy thought, is so!!! 
If mind block you release???

Don Johnson

Lassie's Song

Joyfully chasing blue tail bunny rabbits through fields of dancing daisies 
Watercolour skies in lavender hues reflecting from, her marmalade moon...
Mystical monarch butterflies brushed amid glittering orange as black; gathering 
About Tinkerbell with her gentle maroon, magical wand silverish trails waving atop
Cheerful cherry blossoms while calling to Lassie from across this motif meadows
Musical and picturesque scene; Autumn's cresendo dreams ? Crossing evanescents
Evergreen pastel forest with its translucent trees; met by a school of sprites led by
Peter Pan smiling at his girl as he takes her by her lovely hand whispering words..
Chimes their love majestics, tangerine notes meridians metaphorical, welcome home.

Lassie's Song

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joyfully chasing blue tail bunny rabbits through fields of dancing daisies....

Watercolour skies in lavender hues reflecting from, the marmalade moon

Mystical monarch butterflies brushed in glittering orange and black

Gathering around Tinkerbell with her maroon magical wands silverish trails

Waving atop a cheerful cherry blossom as calling unto Lassie from across this

Motif meadows musical picturesque scene; autumns, cresendo dreams.... 

Crossing into evanescents evergreen pastel forest with its translucent trees 

Met by a school of sprites led by Peter Pan, smiling at his girl as he takes her

By the hand; whispering words as chimes of love in majestic, tangerine notes of 

Meridians metaphorical, welcome home.... 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

....“Lassie's Song” *

Mercator

MERCATOR

Dude who in a  cartographic essay
Made  Canada  five  times  bigger than USA,
And   Greenland with room to spare   
Much  bigger  than  Africa way down there.  
But his  meridians  all went parallel -
So when sailing your carrack or caravel
You could follow straight lines to get there:
Which proved  at last the world was square.

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