Swampland Poems | Examples

war in the swampland

most violent war
a marshland for the masses
crocodiles eat

loving their fodder
dragging corpses in water
hiding evidence

The Original Mister Shy Guy

Used to be a shy and retiring type
Back then but this is now
Like a Super Hero I burst upon the scene
To share my extensive knowhow

People have never been able to stump me
I'm a master at solving stuff
Like Einstein's theory of relativity equation
That's easy, that really ain't tough

If I seriously decide to turn on the charm
Ladies will have a real hard time
Trying to resist, they'll be driven to infidelity
Not a problem, that's just fine

Before becoming this irresistible charmer
I was timid, retiring, and shy
If you can believe that wee tidbit my friends
Got some swampland you'd might like to buy

What's that you say, you think I'm joking
Can't imagine me retiring and shy
Just ask my Mom when you meet her in Heaven
I was the original Mr. Shy Guy

Used to be a shy and retiring type
Back then but this is now
Like a Super Hero I burst on the scene
To share my extensive knowhow

(lol)

The Original Mr Shy Guy

Used to be a shy and retiring type
Back then but this is now
Like a Super Hero I burst onto the scene
To share my extensive knowhow

People have never been able to stump me
I'm a master at solving stuff
Like Einstein's theory of relativity equation
That's easy, that really ain't tough

If I seriously decide to turn on the charm
Ladies will have a real hard time
Trying to resist, they'll be driven to infidelity
Not a problem, that's just fine

Before becoming this irresistible charmer
I was timid, retiring, and shy
If you can believe that wee tidbit my friends
Got some swampland you'd might like to buy

What's that you say, you think I'm joking
Can't imagine me retiring and shy
Just ask my Mom when you meet her in Heaven
I was the original Mr. Shy Guy

Used to be a shy and retiring type
Back then but this is now
Like a Super Hero I burst onto the scene
To share my extensive knowhow



(Mr. Tongue-in-cheek)

Give Me My Illusions

It gives me comfort to believe the ivory billed woodpecker exists
Somewhere in dense swampland in the bowels of Louisiana
Where people do not often go, for it is a beauty.
Largest woodpecker in the world with a wing span of thirty inches.

It makes me sad to think that we have eliminated this gorgeous bird.
I like to think of them peeling dead bark off hardwood trees.
Deep in the forest, eating beetle larvae and persimmons.
I hope they exist, I hope they are not extinct.

Sadly, the last accepted sighting in Cuba was in 1987,
And the last verified sighting in the USA was in 1944.
I plan to keep my imagination traveling in a world of hope.
That the Ivory billed woodpecker exists somewhere.

Swampland Conjecture

Entropy evaporating
into itself

Birthing an ending
—singular truth

(Villanova Pennsylvania: Tribute To Stephen Hawking October, 2020)

Tragedy of Intelligent Man

Sandy nations of Arabia
bushes of Tropical Congo
rocky lands of Afghanistan
the dry soils of Somalia
waters of the Mediterranean
bush land of Karamoja*
forestland of Colombia
ragged dress of ozone layer
swampland of South Sudan
homeland of Aborigines
All dance to rhythm of same music
tragedy of intelligent man!

*Karamoja is the remotest
part of Uganda where the people called
Karamojong depend on cattle and nature!
Many die of hunger in a nation of plenty!

Montezuma's Revenge

Must stay close to the WC

Senior Montezuma is laughing hysterically

Thoroughly enjoying his revenge at my expense

Didn't drink the water but it made no difference

Been back home for almost a week now

No relief in sight

Getting skinnier by the minute

Looking kind of emaciated and if you believe that

Go some gorgeous swampland in Florida for ya

I'm sure you'll be interested in

Could starve myself for a couple of weeks

And the word, “emaciated” still wouldn't apply

I imagine Senior Montezuma is getting a big kick out of this

Kind of a sick sense of humour I would say!




© Jack Ellison 2014

Biggest Deer

Spring makes union with the sun
Young fawn is having fun
Down the river the fawn will run
Playing in nurturing like her mother rays of the sun

As during the summer her mother fawn will caress
Her soul spirit of the forest will bless
The big bull has grown his antlers with success
He wonders deep in the forest among field of iris

The autumn comes with cool green mist covering the swampland
The huge bull is standing in the center of moorland
The Bull Moose makes roaring sound as in eerie shadow he will stand
The mating season is coming and his influence bull wishes to expand

Spring is united with sun autumn is with time
It shows that everything has beginning and ending somewhere in time
But despite of that some actions are timeless and that is sublime
Moose is king of deer and will be one for long time

The Original Mr Shy Guy

Used to be a shy and retiring type
Back then but this is now
Like a Super Hero I burst onto the scene
To share my extensive knowhow

People have never been able to stump me
I'm a master at solving stuff
Like Einstein's theory of relativity equation
That's easy, that really ain't tough

If I seriously decide to turn on the charm
Ladies will have a real hard time
Trying to resist, they'll be driven to infidelity
Not a problem, that's just fine

Before becoming this irresistible charmer
I was timid, retiring, and shy
If you can believe that wee tidbit my friends
Got some swampland you'd might like to buy

What's that you say, you think I'm joking
Can't imagine me retiring and shy
Just ask my Mom when you meet her in Heaven
I was the original Mr. Shy Guy

Used to be a shy and retiring type
Back then but this is now
Like a Super Hero I burst onto the scene
To share my extensive knowhow

© Jack Ellison 2014

Spill

Hurricane of oil
nears the pristine swampland of
Louisiana's future. 

[Written after the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010]

Under a Miccosukee Sky

Big Cypress stirs, heated by Miccosukee 
sky hung in spun gold. Rising in the east, 
morning sways with waves of river grass
as the elder paddles through waking water
in dugout canoe. Bare-chested, he whistles
an old, creek song, lost and found in tangles 
of green swampland. Bronzed face chiseled from
stone gazes on soft, flush of Indian summer;  
a burning heart beats with nature beneath. 
In hand, he clenches twine of sacred bundle. 
Beads of sweat fall from head lowered in prayer
to the Creator. His silent prayer for earth, hunt, 
harvest and tradition collides with modern tribal
life, a quiet moment complicated by thoughts of 
upcoming ceremonial festivities. If only,
he could step back in time to dance in ancient 
garments 'round sacred fire free from tourists’ pale,
intruding eyes. His daughter and wife will sew
and bead jewelry to sell; his grandsons will wrestle 
alligators; and he, the elder, will stand proud,
fighting to maintain dignity and culture under 
a warm Miccosukee sky, hung by his ancestors
...in spun gold.


By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 11/17/13
for Shanity Rain's Native American People Contest

Red Red Rain

The still waters of the swampland smell like death and feel like fear.
Dangling moss whips through the wind as darkness nears.
The sun fades and the moon appears.
Mirrors reflect the otherside, the call, the ritual, and the cries.
Shelter is formed for the wandering souls.
Faint music fades through the red, red, rain.
Nightmares reflect awful pain.
Realities fall with the red, red, rain.
Danger unfolds and mystery remains.
Doors swing open decades of truth.
Practice of darkness in pursuit.
In the fall of the red, red, rain.
Laughter unlocks the secret again.
Chemistry reveals a code to explode.
Imaginations disconnect and identity unfolds.
The spirit world glides isolation to cold, with the parted soul,
that runs through the red, red, rain.
Orbits the swampland in the call of the wild.
On this great journey mile after mile.

Now You Know

You are not with yourself today.
Conversation was stopped, from cloud to cloud.
Now you know what you did not want to know.

No longer the pathless destiny, 
comes near you, you go towards the
bushes to collect the ash, the burnt out
remains of a theme, a design, a horizon.

In memory of books, which are not read
by anyone now. Pages lay wounded. Black
stones trying to hear the sounds of dawn.
The tremors were increasing in the swampland.

The wolves were in howling rage. A daring
gift of death, tormenting the spirit, human
flesh, you watch through the twilight,
through the terror of betrayal. Each tear drop
sacrifices the eternity.


SATISH VERMA

Siren

It is whispered in the delta blues, a fierce burning sound
That moves up from the waters edge and drifts and swirls around;
And snakes lithely through the grass and weaves through the trees,
For driving down the strongest men on cartilage-ravaged knees.

In the lemon groves where germinates the womb of bitter fruit
Giving birth to tangled mandrake plants, tart and sour at root;
Crackles the taste of a vampires’ kiss that curls up the cyanosed toes
Telling rumoured morbid tales of black souls that no one knows.

On the death clock strike of twelve a putrid gas, a humid swell,
Rises mist-like from the earth in a pandemic glimpse of hell,
Then the wraith levitates like a witch in the wood and they say if she points at you
Her song sucks the soul out the drums of the ears until all life is through.

It is whispered in frightened tones that the siren she sings a siren song,
That claws men from their lovers’ beds, even if they have done no wrong,
She will break the heart like kindling, and boil the eyes in swampland oil,
And suck the bones until they crack, then return them to the soil.

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