Touché, olé, old fond troubadour—
click your heels and ask for more.
Other ways to ride a rolling stone,
passed every place once called home.
An ocean without distant shores,
keeps knocking on invisible doors.
Each wave lays claim to the beach,
then slides away beyond your reach.
You pass milestones in endless rows,
never showing where the future goes;
for on the road to what's forevermore
there's always room for more one more.
Are we there yet—or merely due?
On a horizon we're drifting through.
With a daisy chain at either end—
blooming with everlasting at each bend.
Beyond a fence, a lantern gleams,
half-hidden in the farthest dreams.
We climb the gate to get on through—
and find another glimmer in the dew.
We row our skiff with a steady oar,
dipping moreover into furthermore,
gliding freely between the strokes,
while yesterdays creak in the yokes.
Yearning for the lore of forevermore,
we moor, unmoor; drift from shore to shore;
almost arriving at every lie and lee,
we unhitch, and head, to the open sea.
The greeting is bone
on,
the meat strong
not challenging.
Flesh mounds
rise,
river valleys,
flicker nocturnal,
as tunnels run through
roughhewn gullies.
Time takes a walk
across rib backed ridges,
carved lifelines carry
flickering windows
tugging
visions behind them.
Groundswells ripple over
tremors,
topographies entwine,
openly unwind.
Hands unhitch
to clutch at words -
none
necessary.
Households unhitch, clapperboard hulls creaking -
the sound of storm-lashed rigging, as washing lines
and telephone wires twist
netting loosening foundations.
Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock,
planks bob in the swell, chests and their drawers
billow and fill.
Bed-springs gape, cupboards
turn inside out, what surfaces
is the face-up exposure
of our everyday innards.
Even as mailboxes are torn away,
we refuse to believe that a river and some wind
could move our lives so a far afield,
or that this world was really in fact,
just this shipwreck on a shore
that is always moving.
What we once thought of
as an address,
has turned out to be only a buoy
on an ever-moving wave.
this mugs jiggy i wont lie
see it caught your peepn eye
unhitch a lip
caffeine a sip
load up man and liquefy.
I wonder where this rhyme will go,
a random walk among the words.
I’d contemplate, but here’s the thing:
spontaneous is better, though.
To plan it out is for the birds;
unhitch the mind and let it sing.
I do suppose if I thought more,
it would be worth the time incurred,
and masterpieces would unfold,
but sometimes that feels like a chore,
so I just keep the yogurt stirred,
and skim off any spots of mold.
Now that’s a bit unusual;
it’s likely now you are confused,
and think I missed the mark a smidge.
No, I am not delusional;
I just lean on a deranged muse.
To write a poem, clean your fridge.
----------
A Sestet, with stanzas of 8a:8b:8c:8a:8b:8c
Tonight I shall call the shining stars
To descend down by your side too soon
And have it engulf the gloomy darkness,
Faintly the light shall snog you,
There you will behold me near you
Invisible in the darkness
For I am a shadow galloping with you
I shall be present as a shadow
Loving you with unabating power.
At mid-night I shall came crawling
Too silent unnoticed by the sleeping world,
No humans nor ghost can trace me
For I am like a clinging dew drops
Flickering upon the rhythm of moonlight
So uncertain of its existence on grass tip
For a ghastly blow can dismantle all,
I shall be present in your dreams
Loving you with vacant dwindling.
At dawn I shall come hovering
Riding on the undulating rays of the sun
Waving and greeting from heart of love,
Steadily I shall pearch on you
For you bask the morning rays too usual,
I shall unhitch the warmth you wanted
And I shall chase the coldness
Back to its snow capped mountain,
I shall Love you always.
O barren one, sing out, break forth in song!
Prepare a room, no, add a wing to host
The children that you’ve waited for so long!
Your offspring will inhabit every coast!
Lift your sweet face, o spurned, deserted, scorned!
Let go your indiscretions of the past.
For I, the Lord of Hosts, have you adorned,
And tightly, with compassion, hold you fast!
O city, desolate in smoldering waste,
Your rebuild has begun this very hour!
Your enemies are routed, flee in haste,
For I, the Lord, will stand watch in the tower!
Unhitch thy belt, get off thy weary feet;
Recline, put off your burdens and abide!
A table laid; before you, wine that’s sweet.
Come, all who thirst, drink deep, be satisfied!
(from Isaiah 54)
—————
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the ‘Songs of Praise’ Poetry Contest,
Sponsored by Robert James Liguiri
Submitted 2/4/22
Households unhitch so readily.
We watch incredulous as they float off,
hulls creaking,
rafters cracking like wind-lashed rigging.
Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock
now shiftless boards bob in the swell.
Domesticity tumbles out.
Bed springs gape,
a chest-of-drawers turns, inside out.
The everyday innards of a dwelling, face up,
barely floating:
a sure sign of those about to drown.
Households unhitch, hulls creaking -
the sound of storm-lashed rigging
as foundations founder.
Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock,
boards bob in the swell.
Bed-springs gape. A chest-of-drawers
turns inside out, the face-up exposure
of our everyday innards.
Even as mail-boxes are torn away,
we refuse to believe that a river and some wind
could move our lives to a far field,
or that this world were really in fact,
just this shipwreck
of what we thought of as an address.
The old black man came riding up
On a wagon pulled by a mule
In the wagon he had a plough
And some other old rusty tools
As best I recall it was late in the fall
Of nineteen sixty two
He said hello and told my dad
He was looking for something to do
And for a fee would unhitch Ol' B
They'd plow up the garden out back
The old man smiled as they dickered awhile
Then began to unpack
Ol' B wore blinders as he walked behind her
It only took them a bit
With all of the kids from the neighborhood
The pair had made quite a hit
Put the cash in his pocket gave her a carrot
Hooked up and went on their way
As the old man whistled to the clippity-clop
The old mule loudly brayed
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
I hear you like a derrick's chain holding the weight against the strain
I hear you like a laden train longing to unhitch the cars that remain
In every pulley and gear of your being your groaning tells the pain
And I bowed to the far engineer of our dreams lisp my refrain
And beg him oil that makes the grinding cease
And beg him day that brings our love release.
In blindness of heart we make our choice, we feeble, and finite men
The switching tracks of fate into our ken, post hoc we claim and blend
Into our desire for control, and yet the soul must still depend
Upon One who have the bigger scheme, his sweeter blessings to send
And so surrendered he directs our will
When we are calmly bowed or standing still
I claim your promise still, Lord, let not the weight of flesh now impart
The crush of dreams, or desire rags become in her trembling heart
I yield me for her, as Adam should have done from the very start
This ship of faith, we sail it blind, O love of love, pure Guide thou art
Our cradle and our shield, see now I yield
Bind on me her burdens, just let her heal.
Undo this undying devotion
Unhitch this way that I fall
I live for the power of nothing
And die for strength in it all
I’ve bled on thorns in a garden
And cried for a miracle still
Loved deeper and truer than human
With a hole in my heart left to fill
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.