Who taught the Shakespeare of a prosody
Or a book of words comes and coalesced
In every verse of Shelley romance and tragedy
'To a lady,with a guitar'escaped the summit of breast
For every physicians why the feather decents
For the every poets how they flutters
Not a hedonist but prophetic soul of fancy presents
And humns and shored on their mossy cutters
Kings and folks,sailers and merchant
Brethren and sistren speaks of bard of Avon
Thracian Orpheus wept in Shelley's mastery of poetic ardent
Therein the sullen dorado scowl in river of Devon
Ever hoped to greet mine those pierian spring
The pen snug in because mine thumbs are ageing
Sun's old rusty orb
Now molten - see?
Fizzed round of it, my still warm feet.
Shored oppositely.
I was born in 1793
I have a bronze sconce
For everyone to see
I get around the world scene
Much like Santa Claus
Much like Magdalene
Created in this image
I am also on the $5 bill
A Mt. Rushmorean visage
But now I must say goodbye
No more to be cast
No more to die
In each pocket that I tickle
No more keeping company
With a quarter, dime or a nickel
Because my worth is less than I cost
Read my epitaph
"A Penny For Your Thoughts"
Post Script:
In the death of me
A lonely one cent piece
Hold on tight to my memory
So don't let go of me in vain
Remember the Beatles
Remember Penny Lane
And I was hoping to relax
With this copper-toned beauty
That shored up sales tax
Reflection
Staggering out of the maze
his mind still swaggers
Mustering up his wit
he shored up his faith
Sulking his present state
he craves this cringing hope
Bemoaning the looming darkness
he detest this fate
Yearning for a reprieve
he is caught
napping on the trail
I.
It used to be a normal man
could work a factory
and make enough to buy a house,
see that his family eats.
But now the jobs are all off-shored,
there’s nothing much left here,
one man did try to bring them back,
they shot him in the ear.
The elites make too much cash off
cheap labor far away,
are in bed with politicos
(If not one and the same?)
No tariffs and high inflation
makes everything too hard,
young folks are renting, cannot own,
it’s all been pushed too far.
The globalists have made their choice,
they’ve sided with the few,
see their evil and don’t forget
what was taken from you.
A shored life
awakes the old
patience is a virtue
a wondrous light
a way for the world
one way passage
yielding trifles
abundant returns
nameless faceless
novelties in scrolls
constant to air
The Book of Life
accounts tallies
clearly visible
hidden from sight
chance of a lifetime
warps through glass
bottled sealed.
6 Lines
Shored-up wooden boats standing in the mud, braced by boards to stand erect,
We vigilant men past sixty, retain our dignity, and point to heaven, with masts securely fixed to the deck.
Like a thinning forest of greying painted trees, we are picturesque in a sunset with cawing gulls flying by.
Though the tide is now low, the ebb will soon flow by the full of the moon.
And when tidewaters of the sound are high, we will drop our boards, raise our sails, real in our lines, and list with a tune.
Then we shall sail past break waters with bows toward God, carrying no passenger on our final, and long goodbye.
by Martin Braun
In remembrance of the late Jimmy Buffett, who wrote songs that captured my soul, and warmed my heart while driving midnight Friday evenings in the dead of an Ohio winter. I sang "Mother, Mother Ocean" with windows rolled down to keep me awake during my business travels while dreaming of lost better times and for a future I still long for.
In you I’ve discovered a love-in-the-round
With mountaintop views and ear-singing sound.
You’ve fashioned a circle that serves to surround-
Securing the soft spots you’ve sought and then found-
My heart, now shaded and shored until Sound.
Hemmed in by the Nearness
Held back by the Now
The wishful striver, always, who
O'ercome both somehow.
Lost in an isle's sailed thrill
Sea-hazed, whilst safe moored!
As far unfound, delirious
Whilst by Time's Sea shored!
The acting soul in the cosmic drama existence,
define place in personal defeat and excellence.
Accepting the authors entire purpose role,
superimposed receiving upon its own.
Character and conduct by choices shored,
in challenges and ultimate reward.
These actors with soul in peculiar dignity,
principle cosmos to adjust legitimately.
The appropriated environment of precise,
like tones in harmony become concise.
Utterance in determined capacity,
individual notes in appropriate audacity.
The voice towards the total harmony,
singing out life through it all be.
Resultant of all in one sound harmonic sphere,
lesser sounds in soul accept as clear.
Worth of whole in cosmic association,
the body in all as divine appreciation.
Love given in nature to affect the bond of union,
improvised soul to soul dominion.
Reformed character and feeble hope surprise,
the extended soul as loving conductor to emphasize.
This All Could Be
AtTractions of the urban surfer,
ExHibits at the shored enclaves,
AbIde the faithful their sole journey,
BaSking rays of summer's retreat,
CoAstal clutter of crowds roll on,
CeLebrities of the day made true,
LuLled breaks in surf even the tide,
NeCks swivels as eyes scouts the beach,
GoOd times are roaring inland,
MoUnting waves indulges the brave,
DeLving surfs stirs the underwater sands,
DaD's and mom's diligently relaxed a tad,
InBounds revitalize the distracted weary,
EvE set in submission of the day's exchange.
2019 September 04
*3rd Place*
Pick A Title, Vol 8 - Acrostic
~~Edward Ibeh
3. This All Could Be
Good bye papa my father no more,
your knowledge had nurtured
you talents
had shored;
good bye papa my father no more,
your loins,
from which I sprang
your vision quest
to which I became;
you set my moral compass
north, south, east, and west;
good bye papa my father no more,
through my fleeting teens
to my young manhood
through all my fallacy you well
understood;
good bye papa my father no more
He worked alone in cold, intensely black
peat water. Had to feel his way. Laid down
one hundred thousand concrete blocks, around
a million bricks, and carried on his back
uncounted thousands of the concrete bags
which shored the Minster up. Six endless years
he toiled in tedium. If bored to tears,
he never said so. And if he hit snags,
he overcame them on his own. Such men –
not loud, not proud, not looking for reward –
are just the type we really should applaud.
Perhaps there were more William Walkers then:
clear-eyed, unfussy, knowing what to do,
and quietly disposed to see it through.
How many Mary Celestes sail
On the uncharted oceans of your mind?
How many lost souls vainly flail
To clamber on board, how many left behind?
So many unvisited ports
Beckon, tantalize and tease.
Does one survive on life’s orts
And accept “Destiny” with peace?
Which Ghost Ship's your succor, you ask?
Who’ll take you on board?
Are you the one who’ll set the task,
Or the one to command where its shored?
How much jettison to your account
Is toted in your Book?
How much flotsam can you count
Which you wish you never took?
The sea’s silver ripples gently undulate
to call upon the coast and tease my feet.
I am but a child. A threat, not a sign;
they let me play in the breeze and brine.
Waves in wild gyration join my summer dance,
to flash and crash upon the rocks and sand;
on to the sea, they buck then rush back to shore.
Bruised, I grope... fall...try to rise once more.
Ocean tides, crimsoned by the alpenglow,
toss garbage and sacks of religious debris.
The atheists, thieves and the devotees, watch
the spit of the evil one stick back to his own lips.
Hourglass sands are mostly unnoticed gray,
and when the tempest comes wailing, thrashing
from the sea, how disappointed it must be.
I, the child, the lost, am safe and anchored...shored!
Inspired by Craig's Seashore Theme - Not for Contest
06 February 2016
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