Sleep Compared To The Sea.
The tide comes in, a surge from the great sea,
And every little muddy creek and inlet
Now sweltering in the heat, will soon be filled
With the salt sweetness; even as sleep comes
After a term of toil to the tired brain,
A-surge from out the infinite, and fills
All of life's inlets with a dewy ease.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Dazzling Rift Valleys
original inspired canvas
not painted in splashed oils
etched in charcoal scratching
wind heat shimmers mirages
hot iron grains under bare foot
mica infused sparkling grey sands
waves of turbulent turning tide
surge in suck dazzling rift valleys
as salt chill water excavates myriads
of flowing leaping furrows
kaleidoscopic interchanges ephemeral
existence birthed deceased
across beachfront bay spanning
a single inlet among pristine variants
an entire shoreline of these isles enchanted
white surf rolls in awe inspiring
these are famed west coast beaches
heritage of my childhood kiwi homeland
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sonnets of the Empire: Dawn at Liverpool
The Sunlight laughs along the serried stone
About whose feet the wastrel tide runs free;
Light lie the shipmasts, fairy-like to see,
Athwart the royal city’s splendour thrown;
On runs the noble river, wide and lone,
Like some great soul that presses to the sea
Where life is rendered to eternity
And eager thought hath rest in the Unknown.
So sets thy tide, my country, to the deep
Whose face is black with thunder near and far,
And vexed with fleering gusts and tyrannous rain.
Shall the cloud lift and give thee rest and sleep,
Or wilt thou ’mid the surge and crash of war
Shatter thy life against the invading main?
poem by Archibald Thomas Strong
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In a Pretty Pickle
Sweltering Bagdad: cold sweat dichotomy
between electricity grid lock
and green zone security block,
hot air surge in a pretty pickle.
(6 August 2007 robi03_1663_robi03_0000 XXX_JXX)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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When God And I Sang Love Songs
In the beginning was the word and the word wanted me
words many words haunted my days haunted my nights
sleepless nights so tired so tired yet the word wanted me
wanting needing to sleep yet words drove me would not let me be
words lines of verse filling filling my mind time after absorbent time
poems born in the night night visions night words wanting born life
no choice no choice the word commands commanded servant soul writes
hot summer nights sped youth hair dusty blond skin beach burnt brown
wind kissed bronze naked skin sea carried surging soul safe in wave water
salt spray wave spray sea foam wave burst white foam birth born surging
sea surge ocean surge wind wide sea beach breaking over wild soul free
swimming beach sand river tides water pulse washing over through soul
riding out hard fast with death wave laughing life rhythms tide fast run
words nights of words stone dropping given in love to God life codes
biorhythms still life lost thirty minutes hours blink in deep meditations
diving into quest states mind soaring soaring
through vast layered sea deep meaning
poems freeborn so many poems written intermixing
together rhythm worship never ending
poems life love wave vibrant harmonic ad hoc fusing
soul carried I sang our life songs of life
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Ice and the Fire
The ice and the fire
a strange surge of desire
rushes over me
the fire,
the ice.
I don't know what it is about it,
mabye it's the danger
that intriques me so.
Or mabye it's the crazy
feeling I get when I'm aroung you.
You are like the ice and the fire
with a strange surge of desire
the danger about it intrigues me so
glances at me
melt me into your eyes
the fire in them one minute
the ice in them the next
The danger of me falling into them
and burning,
or freezing,
but will you stop me before I do?
or will you catch me at the bottom?
The ice and the fire
with a strange surge of desire
the danger of it, intrigues me so.
Your heart is so unpredictable
it's really dangerous,
I can't tell what your reply will be
to my words
I'm scared
but the danger of being caught
or falling into your arms
at any minute
intrigues me so
The ice and the fire
a strange surge of desire
rushes over me
the fire,
the ice.....
poem by Clara Potter Soloman
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At Dover
Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm,
That, borne on Terror's desolating wings,
Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings
The shivered surge; when rising griefs deform
Thy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,--
When thou dost mark the melancholy tide
Beneath thee, and the storm careering wide,--
Tossed on the surge of life how many sink!
And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet,
And if thy heart be smitten, when the cry
Of danger and of death is heard more nigh,
Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget;
Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to save
One who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Matchmaker
Behind my house there is a quaint little pond
And every time it rains a little green frog responds
I know that he is lonely and cries into the night
He is longing to find a mate to be complete and all right
The heat is sweltering and he swims on afternoons
Longing for the rain during the night to voice his tunes
Sometimes he is resting on a moist mossy green rock
Looking around aware of his biological clock
On the other side there is a creek behind the pool
There is a small green frog all alone and it's cruel
So I went and captured the one by my pond
And brought it over to the creek to make a bond
Now my nights are filled with silence and peace
And one would think my good night's rest would increase
But instead I was wondering if the frogs getting along
Because if not - then what I did was totally wrong
This morning my neighbor that lives by the creek
Came over to complain about the noise at night's peak
She said that there is a whole family of green frog's right there
She will never know how happy I am about that - I swear
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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The Sailor's Grave at Clo-oose, V.I.
Out of the winds' and the waves' riot,
Out of the loud foam,
He has put in to a great quiet
And a still home.
Here he may lie at ease and wonder
Why the old ship waits,
And hark for the surge and the strong thunder
Of the full Straits,
And look for the fishing fleet at morning,
Shadows like lost souls,
Slide through the fog where the seal's warning
Betrays the shoals,
And watch for the deep-sea liner climbing
Out of the bright West,
With a salmon-sky and her wake shining
Like a tern's breast, --
And never know he is done for ever
With the old sea's pride,
Borne from the fight and the full endeavour
On an ebb tide.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Autumn Interlude
I said goodbye to the bees last Friday week,
To blooms, and to things like these, for Winter bleak
Was shouting loud from the hills, and flinging high
His gossamer net that fills frail Autumn's sky.
So I said goodbye to the bees; for I knew that soon
I should bask no more 'neath the trees on some high noon
And hark to the drowsy hum close overhead.
For the cold and rain must come, now Summer's dead.
So I wallowed a while in woe and wooed unease;
And I rather liked it so; for it seemed to please
Some clamoring inner urge - some need apart,
And I felt self-pity surge, here, in my heart
As I said goodbye to the bees, my tireless friends
Who toil mid the flowers and the trees till daylight ends
Who toil in the sun, yet seem to find no irk,
While I loll in the shade and dream; for I do love work.
Ah, fate and the falling leaf! How dear is woe.
How subtly sweet is grief (Synthetic). So
I said goodbye to the bees; and then I wrote
This crown of threhodies, while in my throat
I choked back many a sob and salt tears spent.
But I felt I'd done my job, and was content.
For I'd penned my piece to the bees - the poet's tosh
Of the Autumn's drear unease. Ah, me! Oh, gosh!
I said goodbye to the bees last Friday week....
Then the tempest shook the trees, the swollen creek
Went thundering down to the plain, the wind shrieked past,
And the cold, and the wet, wet rain were here at last....
Then, a hot sun, scorning rules, shone forth, alack!
And those blundering, blithering fools, the bees came back,
Humming a song inance in the rain-washed trees. . . .
Now it's all to do again. . . . Oh, blast the bees!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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I'm Tired Of It All
I am tired of it all
I am tired of today
I am tired of the summer heat-
I am tired of all the years of trying to be something
And still being nothing and no one
I am tired of myself and my ambition
I am tired of reading the great poems of others
I am tired of Poetry
I am tired of being old
I am tired of no longer having the means to help those I care for-
I am tired of having written for so many years
And having so little to show for it-
I am tired of being an old man getting older -
I am tired of being afraid of what is going to happen to me
And those close to me
I am tired of having so many sick friends-
I am tired of having more and more people I have known who are dead
I am tired of a world in which violence and stupidity play such a great part
I am tired of all the problems that should have been solved years ago
And yet persist-
I am tired of cruelty
I am tired of rudeness and petty selfishness
I am tired of seeing the evil get away with it
I am tired truly tired
Tired of being tired also
Tired of myself and my complaints-
And my failure all these years
To make things right-
And yet and yet with all the tiredness
I know there is so much else even in myself-
I still want to live and dream and hope and help those I love
I still want to write still a few lines of poetry
that will be read by others
And help them
Dream to begin again
I still want to give to those I love
The little I still have to give
I still want to live
For life itself is life itself is still good
Despite the tiredness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Miracle Finger Nail Life Toe Hold Nuked
mangroves child miracles finger nail life
growing in fold sea margins saline coastal
in sediments hostile habitats thrive embed
life intertidal existence trees salt adapted
represents major limitation to claw species
able flows thrives in kiss cool wave embraces
high tide brings in salt water time tide recedes
solar evaporation binds toxic salt seawater in soils
leads increases in salinity till return of tide flushes
out salt concentrated soils restores salinity levels
comparable to surge ocean seawater communities
bake low tide organisms exposed sharp increases
in temperature rake desiccation then cooled flooded
by sea tide sweep plants animals to survive tolerates
intertidal salinity temperature moisture broad ranges
life limited by extreme key environmental factors
only a select few species survive mangrove habitats
when humanity nukes fertile landscapes scorpions
crawl over click radiation unaffected bask in suns
bursting nuclear years wait out ice nuclear winters
solid frozen for years in ice at thaw happily breathes
wonders opportunity new world with cockroaches
insecticide death dealing humanity hate consumed
but a blip life bubble burst scorpions cockroaches
rise up enduring man comet strikes in ages millions
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Golden Hills of Red
Deeply rooted in every valley
The faith of all men swelter
With the heat of red hills—
Oh the red hills,
Which what whose
Faith
Dripping with the
Words
Of
Interposition and
Nullification,
The
Glory of the Lord
Is made plain.
God Almighty is exclaimed—
God Almighty, God Almighty, we are
Fr—
Red Hills,
Sweltering with the heat,
obstacles that are made clear,
In times of heat and
Injustice—
Sweltering with the heat of—
What will eventually be transformed
Into an oasis of—
Red hills.
poem by Andrew Z Hsu
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Twilight And Peace
O GREY and dewy Twilight,
Thou, who comest softly, bringing
Silence sweeter than all music,
Song of bird or mortal singing;
Thou, who walkest with thy shadows
Through the mountains and the meadows,
Hither come, hither come;
For the morn was dull and dreary,
And the noon was hot and weary,
And the hours that followed after
Were too full of care for laughter,
And too full of toil for many and too full of tears for some.
O grey and dewy Twilight,
There are those within the forest
Who are waiting for thy coming
And the potions that thou pourest,
Bringing balm to feathered bosom,
Wilted leaf and withered blossom —
Bid them sleep, bid them sleep;
For their morn was dull and dreary,
And their noon was hot and weary,
And the hours that followed brought them
Arid winds that evil wrought them,
For the crushing heat lay heavy on each little flower and breast.
O grey and dewy Twilight,
There are those in town and city
Who are ailing, ailing for thee;
For thou hast the balm of pity,
And the cooling calm that lingers
In a mother's gentle fingers —
Soothe them so, soothe them so;
For their morn was dull and dreary,
And their noon was hot and weary,
And the hours that followed after
Were too full of toil for laughter,
And too full of want for many, and for some too full of woe.
O grey and dewy Twilight,
There is one thou dost resemble;
And I feel that 'neath her footsteps
Even now the airs do tremble,
And the shadows fly before her,
And the silent stars bend o'er her
As she nears, as she nears —
Man and maid to joyance wooing,
Doves in concert with her cooing,
Round about her love and laughter,
Golden plenty speeding after,
And a magic in her presence to make sweet the salt of tears.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Otter Creek
Past meadows, beyond trees, down muddy banks flows otter creek.
King fisher in branches, perched, poised.
Skydiver, bullet from above, silent splash, into otter creek.
Muscles plucked from their beds, shells discarded, gathered for fun, pass up not one.
Trout fry swim swiftly, cray fish beneath rocks avoid seeking hands, pincers poised, threatening stance.
Kids crossing fallen logs, catching frogs, skipping rocks, swimming in otter creek.
Mud wars rage, picnic blanket laid on the green glade near otter creek.
We follow paw prints, beneath willow tree roots, den site dug deep into muddy banks of otter creek.
Within the town of Franklinville, hot summers day, sister, niece, and I, our dad's.
Never saw the otters of the creek, only paw prints, left proof of an existence.
In memories I venture, hoping, just a glimpse.
To sit once again, past meadows, beyond trees, down muddy banks, there it flows, otter creek.
poem by Gary Kedron
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Bubble Of Life Floats and Flies!
I am that bubble
On that infinite ocean,
I know I am eternal,
except that fills the bubble!
I am that infinite
One of infinite thoughts of the infinite!
Infinite filled breath into infinite bubbles,
I am one of these
Each day he transcends on Earth!
He is her great lover,
She is his fertile wife,
More fertile ones he has.
Everyday she becomes pregnant,
Everyday she breeds billion bubbles of billion species,
Some with brain and some without,
Some with hearts and some without,
But every bubble she breed, are with stomach,
hunger and thirst
Anger and lust
This was mechanical
Till they decided to breed which are their own copy,
With all capacity to understand parents,
Then that came the species of bubbles
Which can see back!
And more than understand,
This lovely child stared weeping on arrival,
Making others happy!
when bubble grew up,
Understood parents,
Sister bubbles
Brother bubbles
Dictating mother,
But not the father,
Mother is soft and caring,
Felt for children and fad them with the best,
When sons Grew, sometimes taller
Than Father,
Started to say I know mother,
I don't know, whether I have father,
Since father was hiding in everyone, who filled his own breath inside these bubbles,
He was helpless when ignorant bubble say there is no ocean,
When bubble learns,
All is his,
Understand what is what,
But for that bubble, jumping and dancing,
With that nuclear arms in his arms,
when adam had Eve in his arms,
Eve had serpent to seduce,
Man made parents stay apart!
the stay apart, still not divorced,
When the divorce, bubble bursts,
But bubble when tries,
To live, it may burst,
When it wants to burst it may live,
This is what we enjoy
And call as life
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Trouble Mover
When the wind blows...
The times for some may stir uneasy.
High tides surge,
And can knock some off,
A rolling courage wave.
Settle down!
And a calm will ease to please.
If one surrenders...
Their faith will prove,
God is a trouble mover!
When the wind blows...
With clouds and sounds of roaring thunder.
A brewing stew tricks to mix and kick,
Bristles in one's way!
The ship that sails may tilt and threaten,
A quick capsize.
But God is the 'Entity' that saves the brave!
When the wind blows...
The times for some may stir uneasy!
High tides surge,
Knocking many off a courage wave!
If we settle down a calm will ease those queasy,
Surrendering to prove...
God is a trouble mover!
Settle down...
You can't save a choosing loser!
If we settle down,
We'll know...
God's a trouble mover!
Settle down,
And let God be the trouble mover!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Advice
I must do as you do? Your way I own
Is a very good way, and still,
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,
One over, one under the hill.
You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,
That the prudent choose each time;
And you think me reckless and rash to-day
Because I prefer to climb.
Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
We are not like peas in a pod,
Compelled to lie in a certain line,
Or else be scattered abroad.
'T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,
If we all just went one way;
Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,
Though they lead apart today.
You like the shade, and I like the sun;
You like an even pace,
I like to mix with the crowd and run,
And then rest after the race.
I like danger, and storm, and strife,
You like a peaceful time;
I like the passion and surge of life,
You like its gentle rhyme.
You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
And crocuses, framed in snow;
I like roses, born of the heat,
And the red carnation's glow.
I must live my life, not yours, my friend,
For so it was written down;
We must follow our given paths to the end,
But I trust we shall meet--in town.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Regret (1846)
LONG ago I wished to leave
' The house where I was born; '
Long ago I used to grieve,
My home seemed so forlorn.
In other years, its silent rooms
Were filled with haunting fears;
Now, their very memory comes
O'ercharged with tender tears.
Life and marriage I have known,
Things once deemed so bright;
Now, how utterly is flown
Every ray of light !
'Mid the unknown sea of life
I no blest isle have found;
At last, through all its wild wave's strife,
My bark is homeward bound.
Farewell, dark and rolling deep !
Farewell, foreign shore !
Open, in unclouded sweep,
Thou glorious realm before !
Yet, though I had safely pass'd
That weary, vexed main,
One loved voice, through surge and blast,
Could call me back again.
Though the soul's bright morning rose
O'er Paradise for me,
William ! even from Heaven's repose
I'd turn, invoked by thee !
Storm nor surge should e'er arrest
My soul, exulting then:
All my heaven was once thy breast,
Would it were mine again !
poem by Charlotte Brontë
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I am India
Again I will emerge
again I will surge
Though troubles are there
challenges are there
But
I am India
I owe the will
I have the fire
Don't laugh sarcastic
don't show me statistic
You measure a nation
with his kill power
Don't you know
the miracle of a will power
I am India
I owe the will
I have the fire
I'm not worried of
the few hands active
against me ruthlessly
For I'm convinced of
billions hand who are
holding me quite earnestly
Again I'll emerge
again I'll surge
Because
I'm India
I owe the will
I have the fire
poem by Bharat Mehru
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Primordial
Love is throwing your heart in the burning fire
and being willing to see it come back a frozen hulk;
and doing it again
time after time.
Love requires that we set fire
to our brain,
and watch it burn
all in Love's Name
and Passion's Call.
Love is heat;
Love is fire
and we
are Mashmellows
of the Flame.
Love is time lost.
Who can remember
how long
the Loving Night?
Love seethes
with searing heat
because once lit
flames surge
and take away
our oxygen;
and we
swoon in the Euphoria.
Love is Yearning's Call
peeking from behind
the Banyon Tree;
Love's sight
peering between
the leafy leaves
fixing on figure and form
and then is lost
in a single lover's returned glance;
then
both fall down
to Soul's Depth;
most times
never to return
from that
Landscape Primordial.
Why?
Simple.
One does not interrogate The Flame
One does not expect explanations of Fire.
One does not await memos from the Heat.
Forces of Nature exist within themselves
and we are the Willing Slaves
which obey and cannot resist.
Extinguish the flame, ban the heat
and we are merely hulks
in the vestibule of existence
feeding but without life,
seeing but without sight
breathing but without heart.
Ahh
Would we have all of this any
other way?
We are always, its seems
in the cold and damp
willing to re-light the fire
feel the heat
even if there is pain.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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