Beside a red-wire pen I lean,
Loathing to hear the fuss
Of victims bound in barbed shackles
Squealing 'can you hear us?'
Yet, through thin bars of crying steel
I see a meadow bright,
With a sky of forty northward stars
Lighting such a rare sight:
A thousand hooves, claws and wings
Paired up in two and two,
March as a deaf'ning multitude
Of a grace known by few.
And for miles they line before death
Stored away without key.
Yet under skies no hand can cage,
Their breath may float free
And so I sing; a song of joy
That hovers o'er waters,
And inspires the doves and ravens
Who fly but once fought us.
Is there any life vibrating nigh more
Than of youthful love holding mutual hands--
Spirited love of hearts that founts from core
Of twosome exploring still old dreamlands?
That of an old couple I saw once when
On a seashore-- life’s tide waiting to die,
Still keen to walk together far as can,
A lifetime of journey’s end looms when nigh,
Geriatric hands too gnarled, yet clasping firm,
Their wrinkled visage still so radiant,
Hearts beating slow and pulse unsure to come,
Northward bound still their fondness’ gradient,
Let youthful love be a nigh bit selfish,
The old one has no angle to catch fish.
____________________________
Sonnet | 09.12.2008 | love, old, youthful
Note: An unusual sonnet, the first four lines, a quatrain, asks a question and then a Volta happens. All the remaining ten lines seek an answer, and the ending couplet seems to resolve.
Trader: wares of merchants.
Where do you keep at night?
Demagogue, hold back thy rants!
Oracle, thy sight!
Weathervane, point northward?
The master deals in snow?
Prisoner, hoist thy petard!
Chains, perform a tow...
Remember the moment?
Depends on what it had.
Far-flung fate to foment!
Fair flicker, O my fad!
Tremendous the tempered tale?
Metamorphic shale.
Fortune, got the time to fail?
Get thy garbage pail.
Prophet, poet, poison.
O serpent, hiss in time.
Rhyme and riddle, ricin.
Wind, blow hard the chime.
Eagle, ergo. Weal and woof.
Steady blows the storm.
Shingles, cover well. Hoof? Roof!
Wicker man, mare, warm...
Snail, thy trail. Never end, cur.
Mongrel, bite down hard.
Reminiscence! Where we were!
Orion, thy shard...
Imagine it today
a rag-tag procession
two-three million souls
advancing northward
Mt. Sinai their goal
A bearded prophet
leading the way
leaning on the staff
he waved yesterday
When lice swarmed down, locusts, hail
Egyptian first-born at midnight dead
Pharaoh sent forth a wail
his subjects in mortal dread
Israel reached the Sea
her joy turned wary
trapped ‘tween it
and Pharaoh’s pursuing army
Then brave Nachshon
of Yehuda’s tribe
walked into the waves
setting the vibe
The waves parted
the sea split
Their path charted
Israel passed through...
You may not believe me
~ but I was there too
Open doth my soul and thine own breath bequeath
for here in this realm of mine, none else exists
gage me in dear moon, for I hunger here beneath
the ribboning rays of blue, come be my Deist
Open doth my mind and thine own thoughts ingrace
for over there the world is whole again
no wars, no diseases, no hatred of men on each face
sewing stars on God's breast, let us whisper Amen !
Open doth my heart and through thine own hold true
like the northward river of cane that flows through me
keep me aligned to your light and I will never be blue
as long as I have you close, I will always be free
Open doth my soul and thine own breath bequeath
gage me in dear moon, for I hunger here beneath
Legs freeze and numb, held still from south to north
The touch of ants crawling upon my skin
Should I go back or should I still go forth
For, faraway's the place where I have been
Up the wild trail, devious and swirling
Thrilled soul dares to brave the bite of cold
For silver moon there is made of sterling
The gorgeous sunshine glows in shade of gold
*To my fans, don't make wild judgmental guess of my poems' interpretations, even my other poems. It's only me who knows the true meaning of my poems. It's free to read them if you're interested, if not, you have the liberty not to. This site is for lovers of poetry, not for haters.*
January 3, 2024, PST, SP-BC
gray clouds drift slowly
gathering in southern sky
Ian is coming
windows are boarded
emergency sirens loud
winds coming faster
southern sky now dark
Mother Nature is angry
Gulf waters churning
traffic flows northward
palm trees are bending over
Ian is screaming
Written September 26, 2022
I am recalling how wonderful it was to stand
At the edge of the New River Gorge overlook
And view the expanse of the ridges, so grand,
From a distance the river seemed only a brook.
The mountains, embracing the water’s edge,
Covered in verdant greenery for eons of time
Looking to the south a high steel arch bridge
Awaited the young poet conjuring up a rhyme.
Far, far below waiting for the next coal train
A wayside station, from up here merely a dot,
If one listened closely, river whispered a refrain
While the lad marked his memory on this spot.
A vast breathtaking scape emotionally crushing
Northward, a dam resembling a gigantic comb,
Gates lowered holding back the water rushing
Above the worn weathered rocks awash in foam.
Soon, I shall return to this primordial wilderness
Not far from the place of my birth, so long ago
A place which in spirit I’ve never left, I confess,
Where the lovely waters of the New River flow.
Written May 20, 2022
'pon gnarled bare oak limb
one silent mockingbird sits....
northward gaggle flies
Wind whistled through the towering pines
Blasts of arctic winter tendrils slowly dying,
While warm southern breezes wait patiently
Until early spring beckons them northward.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
"A Strand Poetry Contest"
Poetry Soup, January 13, 2022
written January 2, 2022
summer thunderstorm
follows the river northward
soaking our garden
May 28, 2021
Orson Welles and company put on a show
which was broadcast in 1939 over CBS radio.
It was based on a book written years before
by H. G. Wells whom many readers would adore.
Martian invaders landed in Grover's Mill, New Jersey,
and marched their way northward into New York City.
Many listeners considered this production terrific.
The sounds of an invasion appeared so realistic.
Unfortunately, the broadcast started some panicking.
So many people thought this was the real thing.
Welles had to announce he was downplaying any fear.
"Don't worry people, the Martians are not really here".
Based on the 1939 CBS Radio broadcast of "The War of the Worlds"
“Now, I know in my experience
that Jesus’ light is stronger
than the biggest darkness.”
Corrie Ten Boom
THREE HOURS DARK AND COLD
heroes’ slight clothes clinging.
cold blows inside-out.
shouts and terror, eyes front.
swoop of red cardinal
daily invites with its melody.
the warmth of hope —
eyes rise above fray.
soul delights in heavenly places.
frostbitten feet
discouraged, anchored
in faith, fly ever northward.
angels all around
reflect each face before God’s crown.
2/22/2021
Based upon story told by Corrie Ten Boom
who survived a concentration camp
Driven by courage and inherent strength;
Dream of worlds vanish, transcending forward.
Wonder-less towards the horizon length,
Vagrant clouds sail with the wind's breath northward.
Dream of worlds vanish, transcending forward
Desert path, mountain valleys enraptured.
Vagrant clouds sail with the wind's breath northward
Between O-Cassia trees and recaptured.
Desert path, mountain valleys enraptured,
Fumbling golden flowers on the branches,
Between O-Cassia trees, and recaptured
Outstretched towards sway of shining patches.
Fumbling golden flowers on the branches
Wonder-less towards the horizon length,
Outstretched towards sway of shining patches
Driven by courage and inherent strength.
11/23/2020
Pen a Pantoum Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: D.W. Rodgers
Shadow Poerty guidelines
I look down
Upon its frosty glass
And wait
For the internals
To settle
Should I
Move northward
Into the heat
And bulldust
Humid air
And all that is
Unfair
Among
The green and black
Do I go west
Beyond the setting sun
To beaches and tracks
To walk
Before
All is said and done
Or do I tread south
Toward a gulf
And burnt out plain
Where people believe
They are more enlightened
But really
There just frightened
Turn back east
And get back into
The fray
Add my shoulder
That rugby crunch
Where old boys
And new chums
Dook it out
There is
A fifth choice
One can
Look within
To find
That
Moral direction
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