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Best Poems Written by Diane Caudle

Below are the all-time best Diane Caudle poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

I Am a Marine

I was at a website earlier today and a lady was asking if anyone knew of a Marine 
poem since her son was being deployed.  I thought it was a shame that she didn't 
know of any Marine poems so within a few hours I had written one:


I am a Marine, I have answered a call
To defend our land and I always stand tall
I look to the flag and I love what I see
I salute America, our land of the free
I fight side by side to protect our country
Keeping it safe for you and your family.

I have carried the wounded to keep them safe
I have bandaged the cut knee of a small waif.
I have raised our flag with my fellow soldiers
I’ve given out food to starving villagers.
I’ve bled for America, still I have fought.
I would die for my country without a thought.

I stand before you a proud man, a Marine.
I’ve been to lands and the sights I have seen
From the war in Vietnam to Desert Storm
Make me proud to stand here in my uniform
My hair is grey now; I still say Semper Fi
Once a Marine, always a Marine till I die.

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

Lady of My Dreams

Lady of My Dreams

Lady of my dreams how I adored you,
Lady of my nights how I implored you,
Mesmerizing woman, thief of my heart
Enticer of men, such a passionate tart.

Spinning her web, her prisoner entwined
Captivating kisses, so delightfully divine
Golden haired diva, Angelina was mine
Bewitching, beguiling so sensuously fine.

Lady of my dreams how I adored you,
Lady of my nights how I implored you
Mesmerizing woman, thief from above
Charmer of men, heavenly angel of love.

Lady of my dreams, lady of my rhyme
Seducer of my heart, her wishes were mine
Promises of riches, diamonds, and gold
Worlds of wealth and fortunes untold.

Lady of my dreams how I adored you,
Lady of my nights how I implored you
Mesmerizing woman, thief of my tears
Phantom of the dark, Angelina disappears

Enchantress of men, and sorceress divine
My angel had vanished, leaving no sign.
Harsh morning appears, the sun rises at dawn
Lady of the darkness, Angelina was gone

Dream lover of mine how I adored you,
Goddess of my nights how I implored you
Mesmerizing beauty now gone from my sight
Captive of my lady, now I wait for the night.

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

The Latin Dancers

Midnight was approaching and the dance floor was stark
Colors of the spectrum were weaving and leaving their mark
Lights spun in brilliant flashes of reds, greens and blues.
Sparse bodies were gyrating as if music pulsated the hues.
The music stopped.

He stepped out of the shadows; on his arm was a dark beauty.
They  walked into the hushed room; the air thick and sultry.
Dancing with my partner I watched them through the darkness
He pulled her lithe body to him, how I envied their closeness.
All eyes were upon them.

Piercing rays of greens and yellows flashed up and apart
A deep bass suddenly throbbed with the rhythm of a heart
Black hair and dark skin, he danced in his tight, arrogant style
She danced around him, shaking her body, nimble and nubile
The music beat faster.

The couple twirled around the dance floor as if it was theirs
Pulsating music and scarlet colors flashed around like flares.
His sweat became hers as their sensuous lips barely met
He lifted her into the air, holding her high with the ascent.
He lowered her to the ground.

Watching the Latino lovers as they danced through the night
I felt as if I were a voyeur who couldn’t turn from the sight.
She raised her hand to him; his eyes quickly turned my way
Suddenly, I turned to my partner and my hips began to sway
My heart beat faster.

I could feel him drawing closer the faster my body danced
Strobes of red hues flew overhead, as backwards I glanced.
He pulled me against him and I felt his strong masculinity
Then spiraled me outwards, his hand gripping mine tightly.
Our eyes locked.

He held me firmly in his arms, we danced slowly then quickly
Dancing to the rhythm the music began taking over my body.
The Latin dancer’s eyes looked into mine with a hypnotic stare
As breathlessly we danced and soon I became no longer aware
Of anyone but us.

Cerulean blues flashed over us as he flung my head back
His lips bent down to mine, his eyes piercing and black
Our hearts beat together as one and my eyes closed for the kiss
But colors changed, music was subdued; something was amiss
I opened my eyes.

It was as if I’d awakened to find that their world didn’t exist
And the Latin lover I’d danced with was no more than a mist.
Circling couples danced around aimlessly and suddenly I froze
Violet hues slid over the walls as he walked into the shadows.
His eyes met mine and he vanished.

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

The Bitterroot

About eleven years ago through a genealogical search I found out that my adopted 
father is Salish Indian, thereby making me at least half Salish.  I dedicate this poem 
to the Salish people:


The sun rises and calls our people to the land
The babies clutched, children taken in hand.
Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air
Quickly we assemble for the journey
Voices speak quietly; our people are ready.

Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky
Keeping watch over us; sentries from high.
We walk past the spring where the water runs deep
Life blood of our people, quietly blessed
We trek along its path, continuing our quest.

A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes,
It whispers in ears and tells of the woes
Of a woman who cried for her starving people
A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears
Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years.

The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster
It moans and speaks for every ancestor
The land that we walk upon is our heritage
This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker
Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator

Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks
Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks
Searching  for wild game and berries for the table
Teaching our young of flowers and fauna
Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva.

The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush
Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush
And find the small plant, the guardian of our land
The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil
From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil.

Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout
Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout.
A young voice cries, “I found it!”  Excited and proud.
Young and old group to see the succulent
Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant.

Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder
The plant is taken and then held tender
Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator
For once again we harvest in tribute
The symbol of our ancestors,  the Bitterroot.

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

Sunrise Versus Sunset

“Ok, I need to know, which do you prefer, a sunrise or a sunset?”
The question was odd, who was this guy?  Hadn't we just met?
I pretended to ponder on it carefully and tried to look very sage.
To choose one was to decide which of my appendages I preferred
My arm was a chosen  favorite so should I leave my leg deferred?
The elf was insistent.

I said I didn’t care, I shrugged my shoulder and he almost fell off.
I started to laugh at him but instead I just gave a bit of a cough.
The little guy looked up at me and I tried my best not to smile at him.
He looked impatient and I sighed and thought about the puzzle again
I suppose I preferred sunset because it always got a lot of attention.
The elf nodded slowly.

I made a decision and I said that sunrise was good because
It meant the start of a new chance and then I gave a pause.
The little guy looked impatient   I sighed again and he said, 
“Do you really have to do that?  Answer my question, hurry up.”
I looked at him and thought about producing one good hiccup.
The elf glared at me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on the front of a cereal carton?”
His face turned red and I decided to pay more attention.
“Sunset is good because it means that soon there will be a new day 
Although it depends on when you ask me this question, you see
What if tomorrow doesn’t come, then sunset would have to be…”
The elf was losing patience.

“Are you hungry?  My neighbors brought some food from next door.”
He didn’t bite and he definitely wasn’t interested in eating a S’more.
He didn’t like it when I said I usually slept through most sunrises.
He told me I had only a minute left and then I would be sorry I joked.
He stomped his foot, pulled a pipe out of his pocket and then smoked.
The elf had a mean look.

 “Ok, I pick sunrise are you happy?”  I wondered if he’d leave
The elf puffed on his pipe, “You’re just trying to get rid of me.”
The smoke entered one of my nostrils and I tried to suppress it.
With one giant sneeze the tiny elf’s body went head over heels
He landed on one of the brownies in a plate with a few squeals.
The elf was still.

“Eat your way out of there, I have got to get some sleep tonight.
I’m sure you’re just a bad dream.”  I started to turn off the light
But I’d left the TV on and Fiddler on the Roof was playing that song,
“Sunrise, Sunset”.  I decided it was too coincidental.  I got the plate.
And I grabbed a brownie. “I love it when my neighbors cook this late.”
The elf just held on.

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

Wells Fargo Man

I wrote this poem at 2 am last night when I couldn't sleep.  I enjoyed writing it 
immensely and I'd love to see someone sing it to the tune of Wells Fargo Wagon 
from The Music Man and put it on You Tube :)


Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
You see he’s comin’ round just to get my home
Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street,
You see he’s comin’ cause I can’t pay my loan.

Oh please Wells Fargo man my husband died last year
Oh, please can’t you see it upset us awfully
He worked while I stayed home so that’s what I hear
Is the reason we’re in trouble financially.

Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
And he’s coming round just to take my property.
Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
He’s gonna take it and he doesn’t care who’ll see.

You see, Wells Fargo man I’m trying to sell my home
While you try to scare me with that word—foreclosure.
Now, your bank won’t lend out money from bad loans
While your hands are grippin’ your money tighter.

Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
And he’s comin' just to take my land from me
Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
Just to sell my land for his own greed you see.

Oh, Mr. Wells Fargo man you were nice so long ago
You signed our loan and you used your diamond pen.
Now you say we’re three months over due, uh oh.
Yeah, you were so nice, remember, way back when?

Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
He’s comin' round just to put that note on my door
Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-comin’ down the street
And he doesn’t want to hear from me any more.

I see him comin' down our street with a glint in his eye
He’s plannin' how much he’ll get for sellin’ our home
But Wells Fargo man, we’re not even gonna let you try
You see, you gotta listen to the endin’ of this poem.

Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-runnin’ down the street
You see, he’s runnin' as fast as his dressy shoes can go
Uh oh, the Wells Fargo man is a-runnin’ down the street
My dog, Killer’s, after his ass while we enjoy the show.

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

Take a Chance

Go Ahead, Take a Chance and read it to the end:


Thirty years from now how would we look?
If only there was a way to look it up in a book.
I thought about it as I saw you standing there
You had an imposing look, an indignant air.
My friend nudged me forward to take a chance

Were you really what I had been looking for?
Or was I, as usual, looking for so much more?
All the questions were raised within my mind
As I studied your features to see what I’d find.
My friend nudged me again, “Give it a chance!”

I knew if this worked I’d owe her a big debt
And I wondered if I should take this big step.
I studied you once again from top to bottom
Looking for problems I could run away from.
I wondered if you were worth taking a chance.

Of course I would show you off to Christine,
I knew my best friend’s face would turn green.
She’d say, “Where were you when I needed you?”
She’d look annoyed, and I knew that it was true
And that she wouldn’t have given up this chance

I was surprised to see you were so much older
I thought to myself, or was I so much younger?
Would age really matter between you and me?
Neither of us was as young as we used to be.
I studied you again, should I take this chance?

Would we both look the same as we grow older?
Will I lean upon you then with my tired shoulder?
I smiled at you shyly and then looked around us.
My friend nudged me, saying, “What’s the fuss?
You’re not getting any younger, take the chance.”

I closed my eyes, wondering if this was meant to be
And would you, looking so solitary, open up to me?
Would I be able to get past all your built up walls?
And when I’m gone all day because my work calls
Would you be glad that I’d finally taken a chance?

Looking at you, I thought about a cold winter’s day
When the weather outside is all stormy and gray
And I’d shiver and think about turning the heat on
I knew you would warm me from dusk until dawn.
Then, I finally knew you really were worth the chance.

I shook my head out of my reverie and smiled again.
And I turned, looking at you and then my good friend,
“I think you can say this one is sold finally.”
We hugged and she nailed on the sign carefully:
“Last Chance Realty Company,  Why Not Take a Chance?”
                                     SOLD

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

The Master Artist

The Master Artist Pt 1  --Pt 2--the ending, is the next posting

The artist’s tray was loaded with colors, each pastel waiting for its turn:
Hues of indigo blues lie impatiently, sparks of carmine seemed to burn.
While English chrome colors lay in anticipation for the Master’s touch.
The yellow ochre pansies readied to fill the void on the painter’s scene.
Each hue was waiting for its turn but chosen first was the yellow green.
 
Winds blew lightly against the canvas and upon each color that he lay
Each sound had a melodic lilt as the grass seemed to grow and sway
Under a fountain of colors, each strike radiant upon the colored field.
Cerulean blue skies lightly painted waited for a stray, pearl-grey cloud
To float above the lively meadow, yet no spring rain would be allowed.
 
The artist was tired, yet couldn’t wait to return quickly the next day.
Morning came and his fervent fingers reached for the pastels that lay
Undiscovered upon the palette—more hues waiting for their chance.
He painted a sapphire blue creek moving snake-like up then down.
The artist smiled wisely, painting groves of trees of Van Dyke brown.
 
Afternoon came and pastel shades were glazed upon the flowing water
As the creek rippled over the violet stones painted on by the Master.
He seemed to lose all sense of night and day as each hue told a story.
Colors flew from left to right and the meadow seemed to come alive
Ruby hues were topped upon the phlox as fragrant flowers did thrive.
 
His hand would not cease until he had painted the bluebird at its song.
The misty meadow was melodious as he painted crickets to sing along.
The artist looked upon his growing scene and knew what it still needed
But his hand was weary and the pastel scene would wait another day
For colors that still lay brightly unused upon the Master Artist’s tray.
 
The next day he painted against the sky purple hills gently sun-kissed.
His hands worked with great passion as twisting trees seemed to tryst.
Pastel colors floated upon the land as pink butterflies flew here and there.
Sounds of songbirds were singing as his meadow seemed to nearly burst
With every color and every hue that the great artist had fervently dispersed.

 
Part Two has the Master Artist poem ending that I posted after this one-- 
(PoetrySoup doesn't allow enough space)

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

Life Throws a Curve

I can almost guarantee that this little poem will put a smile on your face by the time 
you get to the end of it:


He said he loved her and then she gained some weight
Sixty pounds worth
He said he’d love her more and she would look great
Sixty pounds less

Isn’t that the way that love always works?
You’re loving each other with all of the perks
Loving each other and you’re getting along
Life throws a curve and you’re writing a song

She told him she loved him and he grew a scraggly beard.
Six inches worth.
She said she’d love him more if he didn’t look so weird
Six inches less.

Isn’t that the way that love always works?
You’re loving each other with all of the perks
Loving each other and you’re getting along
Life throws a curve and you’re writing a song

He told her he loved her then her mom came for a stay
Three months ago
He told her he’d loved her more if her mom went away
Thirty years or so.

Isn’t that the way that love always works?
You’re loving each other with all of the perks
Loving each other and you’re getting along
Life throws a curve and you’re writing a song

She told him she loved him but then he grew pot for sale
Three acres worth
She said she’d love him more if they didn’t end up in jail.
Three years worth

Isn’t that the way that love always works?
You’re loving each other with all of the perks
Loving each the other and you’re getting along
Life throws a curve and you’re writing a song

He said he loved her then she ran over his cycle,
$3,000 worth.
He introduced her to his rich friend, Michael
$3,000,000.00 worth

Isn’t that the way that breaking up always works?
Yelling names at each other, who needs the perks?
No longer loving each other, not getting along,
Michael’s stuck with her and I’m enjoying my song

Details | Diane Caudle Poem

The Master Artist Poems Ending Because There Was No Room

--Ending of The Master Artist poem----

He worked for several days until one night when he was nearly through,
His hands clapped together in delight and the bright pastel dust flew.
Bright colors of pastels flew up into the night sky; the colors iridescent.
Magenta Mars and pastel stars shone down upon his nighttime creation
The Master knew he was almost through and he was filled with elation. 

His mighty canvas seemed stagnant and he blew hard upon the dust
The pastels swirled and his pastel world seemed to twirl with the gust.
He stroked his beard, nodded and then painted what had been missing.
Red ochre and flesh tones of two people, then an apple they had wrested
From the tree that he had painted last—for on the seventh day he rested.


Diane Caudle