Not A Poet!

Have you been to visit Imaginary Garden With Real Toads? Kerry O'Connor has put a wonderful blog together full of magic and imagination while providing a great environment for writers to practice their craft.

Today, Brendon, one of the creative writers at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads introduced a fun challenge. Actually it is called the Sunday Mini-Challenge, though I am not a poet and haven't written any poetry for at least 20 years. So, if this was a mini there is no way I will be able to rise to a maxi!

Following incredibly interesting history of the Emerald Island he suggests that we try our hand at a poem (of any style) and it must contain the word "Island" and be about any of the islands we have found ourselves on in this life's journey.

Forgive the lack of a regular rhythm and rhyme, please. Thank the great poets in heaven for the definition of free verse. I also ask the great poets in heaven for forgiveness. Please don't visit me in my dreams unless it is with creative criticism...punitive flogging is purely forbidden and my angels will be on guard! 

Ready...Set....Go....

The Isle of Dreams: Lost and Found

For countless days, waves tossed the boat all about
Seizing the oars from our hands, the sea howls,
Scoffing at the impertinence of desperate swabbies.
Who are we to believe we could steer our own course?

Hope clambers aboard when a distant island appears.
Waves cease their rise and fall and the vessel
of insolents is pulled to the isle. We are saved,
our never-failing insolence cries out.

Is it destiny that threads  us through treacherous rocks
Fully onto the beach, free of the sea, we are delivered.
In silence, each  of us steps out of our scow
That once threatened to be our last earthly abode.

White sand blows aside and a pathway emerges.
While waves at our backs pull the boat back to sea .
We step onto the aisle the strand has provided
Walking towards a structure on a hill in the jungle.

I spied a small shop on the hillside and a sign on it’s door.
“Come Close, Dear Friends” the emporium beckons.
“What a sweet little cottage,” I exclaimed to my mates.
“Are you blind? It’s a castle!” our captain responded.

“It’s my grandmother’s house,” laughed the last of our crew.
“And she is inside with warm bread and beef stew.
We paused on the steps for only a moment
Are we dead, we all thought but dare not say out loud.

A heavy castle gate lifted for the captain to enter.
The top of a half door stood open and I reached for the latch
Pulling the bottom open, third mate walked before me
Yelling, “Seanmháthair,  where are you?

The room we each saw was exactly as expected.
But for the shelves that awkwardly hung on the walls.
Dusty bottles and vessels of all colors and shapes
lay before us, cobweb adorned, labels faded.

Assorted bottles lined a rack bearing my name.
What sorcery is this that knows who I am
And the names of my mates as I see them step forward
Is this magic or witchery that prevails.

Clearing the webs from a translucent vial
I saw myself inside, astride a great steed.
A thatched cottage, smoking chimney and
Green rolling hills in the background abound.

Another vessel from the shelf, shaped much like an urn,
Showed me a me, seated at a desk, pen in my hand.
I’m writing the book that I always imagined
Beyond doubt, I know what these bottles contain.

We let the fear of success waylay our ambitions.,  
Like cowards, we set them adrift in the ocean.
With mercy, the gods and the sea rescued our passions.
“Welcome, Shipmates, to the Isle of Lost and Found Dreams.