Best Seascapes Poems
Aimlessly I meander in expansive barren-landscape
Whipped by the assault of rustling windy gales
Embossing sandy designs resembling ocean waves
Simulating pools of water in mirage of seascapes.
Plateaus upon reddish hills reveal cracked earth
Where decaying mangled-trees in rising heat groan
As cobalt-blue sky yields to darkened dye of dusk
And blistering winds blur vision whirling sandy dust.
From the apex of ordinary I intently walked off
Letting thirst of quest confound my whereabouts;
Lost and hungry now, signs of life I strive for
Hearing the chirps of crickets and croaks of frogs.
Exhausted I fall besides flowering cactus plants
Hosting frightened thoughts of dehydrated pleas
Awakening to twittering sounds amid birdsongs
Rising in breeze from distant oasis of Joshua trees.
As the daybreak on hazy skies paints golden sunrise
Trekking for miles and miles audacity reaches hope
Dispensing staggering words incapable to explain
Dysfunction now longing for embrace of mundane.
September 30, 2018
First place in I wander the desert alone contest, sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Also, placed first in standard contest #140 by Brian Strand
NOTE: Joshua trees are found in Mojave desert in California.
The darkness seems pensive
the laughter is gone
The fire has died out
the party is done
Tonight there were many
but soon comes the dawn
The good times are over
and now there's just one
Everybody's going home
my friends had to move on, now I'm all alone
Everybody's going home
another tomorrow to face on my own
Sweet memories float by
of each happy face
Kind smiles of affection
that warmed up the place
Some couples, like roses
entwined in their vase
But now the chill silence
my only embrace
Everybody's going home
my friends had to move on, now I'm all alone
Everybody's going home
another tomorrow to face on my own
Stark landscapes of reason
blue seascapes of rhyme
The changes of season
that measure our time
My life is a train
with a schedule to keep
This depot is quiet
as I strive to sleep
Everybody's going home
my friends had to move on, now I'm all alone
Everybody's going home
another tomorrow to face on my own
Never is stillness more still than the drone
of echoes of loved ones gone home to their own.
[written back when I was a lonely college student]
“This is love: to fly toward a secret Sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life.
Finally, to take a step without feet.” ~ Rumi
Life can be a pilgrimage through rainless moors
and solemn seascapes draped
in mists of soundless mayhem,
where bleeding butterflies reflect
the fading stars etched with broken promises~
that time has abandoned.
I am a corpse of a firefly suspended
in a maroon mirage,
chained with petunias and pearls,
while my heart seeks a celestial chorus
to recite a harmonious hymn.
I yearn to write a compassionate chord,
ricocheting with empathetic embers,
silencing the fiendish
drumbeats of the devious leeches,
searing the fragile curves
of my cinnamon skin,
as I’ve long been a victim
of the vindictive voices of Satan
and his spellbound followers.
Yet nestled between temptation and torment,
a garden of miracles blooms
with lavender lakeshores,
its sweet scents of honey-rose petals
infusing the aching air,
unveiling a sky adorned with lily wings
and sapphire serenity.
O how I long to be the
silhouette of moon fairies
revising and rearranging
kismet melodies shaped in sorcery~
for I draw salt-kissed sunsets
in acrylic eloquence,
to eliminate black magic violations
still running beneath my trembling toes.
I will dance to the alliterative rhythm of
adjectives and assonance,
flowing in sync with the viking violin
within my soul.
So listen to the unlocked
tunes of restricted rhymes;
you’ll hear my name unchained from
the maleficent mantras~
weaving metaphors
screaming between resilient lines of
highlighted healing,
rephrasing the art of letting go
tattooed in raven jewels,
flipping porcelain pages of hope,
flowing within
the anthology of sprouting orchids.
I'm
the
white fog
layered on
gold-jasmine face of
the orange moon, shimmering with
shy starships and laced along hailstones of honesty;
When the sapphires of earth are etched with orchestral milky beams, smeared with ominous balms,
I want you to weave a cherry-crescent with periwinkle dreams and let aqua-pink amulets swing with gossamer threads of lotus-life,
which shall pull my sempiternal heartstrings, as frost of the last snow kisses the lunar orchards, twirling upon maroon ruins of moonwalking memories. I'll forever be that silver haze, lingering in your soul's seascapes.
I write on my pets, most often my cats.
I think I may even have written on rats.
I write on God’s gifts that in nature are found.
I write on things based on sight, smell, and sound.
I write on great landscapes, on seascapes and sky,
especially on sunsets that dazzle the eye.
I write on almost everything that I know of.
I think in particular, I write on love.
I write on romance, some made-up stuff too;
I write on things mostly that I think are true.
I write on emotions, on evil and hate.
I write on TV shows and food that I ate!
I write on opinions I’ve formed through my life,
my joys and my trials (like being a wife).
I write on my feelings and sometimes on grief
and often I write on how life is too brief.
I write on my friendships, my children and kin.
I write on some topics again and again!
In conclusion, on paper I write while in bed
scribbling thoughts coming to my pillowed head.
Bewildering static
frames the soulless—
restlessly habitual, as
crippled philosophies efflux
amidst stunted swells,
cracked and parched
despite ocean whorls that
coat wayward sentiments, of
grave quagmires rippling in
steady streams,
paradoxically cornered into a
vortex of intoxicating drifters.
Rather, the moon guides my way
amidst lulling meres,
soothing the storms
raging within perplexed
personas, sailing towards a
dawning of lucid seascapes—
home to you, my ocean blue.
It's a quaint little street, bustling with tourists
Shops selling ice creams and coffees, sandals, and seashells...
People rushing, a bike or two in the street, a car searching for a place to park
A baby cries, and mothers wipe sticky faces....chatter, and laughter..
One small gallery, tucked descreetly, into the narrow cobblestone alley
A blinding ray of sun's reflection, catches my attention
The window display, filled with seascapes, antique sailing artifacts
And one small painting....sitting, poised, proudly on an easel...
At first the glare makes it hard to see
But I cup my hands around my eyes...
A lovely rendition of this very same village
Painted many years ago...long before tourists
Long before lattes and souvenirs...
Just a little fishing village...dated 1918
The houses wearing chalky patina,
Narrow lanes leading away from the main road,
dipping down into golden sand dunes,
A small general store and a blacksmith shop,
Seagulls gliding like angel wings against the summer blue
White steepled churches slumbering in the warm afternoon sunshine
The quietness, the peaceful nature of it....simple and serene...
And I think to myself, ...how extraordinary it would be
If I could freeze time for a day,
If I could pull it out and visit it...just once in awhile
If I could bring it back now and again....that peaceful afternoon...
Walk in warm sunshine,
Where the leaves would never fall from those ancient trees,
And the gentle slopes would never know the cruel blast of winter storms
Where tears had never fallen, where age was timeless
If time could stand still.....
I hears the tinkle of the bell, as I enter the shop...
Serendipity came into play, when I stumbled upon a gallery,
I was a tourist in a seaside town, shopping midst a vast array
while blinding rays of sun’s reflection, caught my close propinquity
In one window, several seascapes, bucolic seaside scenes
but, one small painting called to me,..a harbinger of all my fantasies
I cupped my hands around my eyes...and that was when I sighed....
It took my breath, and I was kept a captive by the artist's pride...
A lovely landscape of a town, the village of my dreams
This very street now, whence I stand, but from a different theme
Redolent of days erstwhile of scenes, from time quite long ago
Before the tourists trampled ground, and shopped for souvenirs
This village poised, beneath the hills...turned back two hundred years
Where cottage homes wore faded frames, on efflorescence sands
demesne spreading wild and free, and skies were azure bands
Narrow lanes branched far away from roads that went astray
dipping down to petrichor dunes, where grasses bend in wind
A general store and a blacksmith shop, and summer never ends
Seagulls glide with angel wings, against the afternoon
The peaceful lift that lives within, how wonderful it looms...
With a dalliance of my own epiphany, ..my thoughts are wild and free
how ephemeral it would be if I could freeze this day
If I could pull it out to see and visit it...again,
If I could bring it back when I am down, ...this peaceful afternoon...
Where leaves would never fall from trees, so ancient in their sway
And the gentle slopes would never know cruel storms of winter days
Where tears would never fall, again, and age, a timeless thing
If I could paralyze this town, the way it was back then
If time could be my captive prize.....if only for awhile…
I'd smile, if once I were allowed, a chance, to step inside
___________________________________________________
3/15/16 For Contest: "A Day In A Town" Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
Required Words Used:
1.Bucolic 2. Dalliance 3. Demesne 4. Efflorescence 5. Ephemeral 6. Epiphany 7. Erstwhile 8. Harbinger 9. Petrichor 10.Propinquity 11.Redolent 12. Serendipity
15 February 2010
Morning Summons
By: Noel N. Villarosa
God’s morning summons
Placid sea and dawning sun
A walk in the sand
5th Place to Raul Moreno's Seascapes Contest: 2/28/2010
sleeping (( COLLABORATION * Don Johnson ))
by~ DON JOHNSON
The Nullabor it does abhor
the desert in it standing
The broken heart
he keeps apart
where Eagles are a landing
kangaroo is prolific cos good seasons bring in millions
they shoot them for the last hundred years,
Hoppy is still there in millions
Almost a plague after rain
The cure the joy the madness ploy, just catch a little Shiela
but broken hearts tend to self destroy
The one true love, to feel her
so searching for the lock of eyes upon the Nullabor
kangaroo does abound, dead straight the road for sure
Ironic tale sour grapes inhale,
He sleeps upon the plain
his swag is near the old Ute, and the dog is ever watchful
his protector is a beaut
~civilization calls~
he has to go back to the city streets
And searching ever searching for the eyes of lady sweet.
***by~ POET D:
Searching and searching till weak eyes fall asleep.
~civilization calls~
Calls the plague of raining streets!
The sleeping kangaroo took me into the abyss of sour grapes.
A wildlife with wildfire turned over by wildflowers.
Seascapes; full of sand that no one dared to understand!
Drowning underwater in a universe that had no expand.
Where the passer-by's felt the expression of sadness in his sleeping face.
All it took was experiencing the world with one lonely look.
A grain of salt, in the night sky!
Where clouds ‘walk-sneak and / clouds-cry like a whirlpool’,
Tears from a near by fountain deep in a valley.
Where we can sing for roo's sleeping heart.
Death in a wild flower mourning asleep on the hour.
Seeing’ is believing when Shiela appeared.
Drying tears with her sweet eyes over the desert lands.
A Collaboration with *DON JOHNSON
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
She is whimsical midst-escaping
blackness & beige stagnation,
reverberant betwixt musicality &
fictitious paisley fabrications,
recognizes the actuality of her
enigmatic spirit's frivolity,
well-defined by her quirky
quintessence serving her far beyond
periods of reflective flourishes,
has never been a slave to social
expectations nor gravitas of
worldly-minded undertakings,
materialism is not her cuppa tang
nor an applicable proposition,
heartfelt inclination is e'er creation
and the freedoms it relishes,
you may catch glimpses midway
seascapes & ocean's roar or
summits of splendiferous
mountain's sumptuous loftiness,
swaggers 'bout configurations
and milky way's artsy effulgence,
plays amidst wistful forests with
nymphets and poisonous toadstools
sashays 'round wildflower meadows
blanketed yonder moon blushes,
sun-kissed & star dusted she's
collectively nightfall 'pon daylight,
envisages building soaring air castles
amidst macrocosms high-rise skies'
timelessness whence humankind
shall humbly recognize enlightened
ceremony of incommensurate
resoluteness & obsessive commitment
furthermost nature's conceptualizations
Building Castles in the Sky Contest -Steven Henderson
Horizon sun risin'
Shines bright light on foamy waves
Brine soaked beginning
For Raul Moreno's Seascapes contest
Good night to the smiling
moon asia land burnishing the
seascapes of you and me,
strokes of soapy filled waves
washing the shore brandishing
white sand, gleaming.
I was here before, with you and
you and you.
Twisting and scraping our way
like crustaceans lifting ourselves
parts one over the other till we no
longer were the sea but the limbs
on trees dropping seeds back through
the crusts of time.
The Gaspe Peninsula dancing to music only she can hear,
She starts in the Appalachians of Northern Alabama;
Until she plunges into the sea at the end of the Gaspe,
The Mi'knaq Indians called it, the place where land ends.
She murmurs the music of the Scots and Irish settlers,
With fiddles and violins strumming and Gaelic lyrics;
On summer days, she is wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows,
That ripple in the fresh, sea breezes of the Saint Lawrence.
There are many wind turbine forests, a hundred miles high,
And the sound of the fiddles scream in her heart;
Along her shores she is rich wilderness, red cliffs, and forests,
And always the salt-tinged wind is caressing her soul.
Her peaks rise up to the azure blue sky in sweet solitude,
Birds swoop and glide her towering open rock forms;
And she hears accordian, gentle and soothing, weeping so softly,
And scattered are quaint villages and towns with bright roofs.
Many a shipwreck lay off her shores and the violin is sadness,
And the Blue Whales come surfacing and diving deeply;
Their blow-holes, blowing plumes thirty feet tall with a whoosh,
In the waters of the mighty Saint Lawrence that flows.
The fiddles are piercing and the piano cries as she nears her end,
Land plunges into the sea, and her journey has ended;
She is dancing to music only she can hear, of seascapes so beautiful,
Of boreal forests, pristine waters, wildlife, and high mountains.
_____________________________
October 5, 2015
Short Story/Music of the Gaspe
Copyright Protected, ID 15-714-669-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
We've been sailing on this beautiful sea
Enjoying the view while feeling the air
Like dreams as kids we wanted to be
The sailors of this ocean we share
Wandering up high and down low
Feeding our eyes with clouds and seascapes
In motion of the current we float and we go
The feeling of drifting, with you, is my escape.
Together, we voyage in this course
Without ends, no limits, let's savor the ride
To fight at last the lethal remorse
I love to sail with you upon the tides.