Poem | |
She stands there like she has for years
The life in her all gone
Once she wore a coat of green
And she'd be filled with song
As feathered friends of every kind
Would rest among her leaves
And as in life the same in death
Our tree will never grieve.
So all alone, she looks, this tree
All etched against black clouds
Although the life in her be gone
She stands there looking proud
And all her majesty is seen
By those with eyes to see
I take her picture once again
Try to catch her mystery
21 September 2013 @1920hrs.
Poem | |
A is for Aprons, like Moms used to wear.
B is for Barrettes that adorn young girls’ hair.
C is for Coats, many colors and styles.
D is for Diamonds, best friends that brings smiles.
E is for Elbow pads skateboarders use.
F is for Flippers folks might wear on a cruise.
G is for Gowns, to wear out . . . or to bed!
H is for Helmets - Hard Hats for one’s Head.
I is for Indian saris so bright.
J is for Jewelry that dazzles at night.
K is for Kilts used by Scotts, do you know?
L is for Lingerie, a woman’ peep show!
M is for Masks to look scary or funny.
N is for Necklaces from your sweet honey.
O is for Overalls, comfy for big men.
P is for Pajamas, so easy to fit in.
Q is for a Quilted skirts and jackets too.
R is for Rags - what our worn clothes turn into!
S is for Shorts, for a day warm and glad.
T is for Ties that we all give to Dad.
U is for Underwear. I can see France!
V is for Vest. It enhances your pants.
W is for Wig, great when hair has been shorn.
X is for Xmas clothes too rarely worn.
Y is for Yamaka - only for Jews.
Z is for Zippered, the clothes over buttoned ones that I would choose!
Oh, the things we’ve been wearing since Adam and Eve
first started it off by just wearing their leaves!
For the ABC Contest of CYNDI MACMILLAN
Written by Andrea Dietrich, a big fan of poetry and PoetrySoup.
Poem | |
People make me smile the way
their eyes shine when they talk
about something they love
when they feed me food. Or tell
me how much they love me
when I look into someone's
eyes and see it I see that look
in their eyes I see love in them
When I see someone laugh and
have fun in what they do
The way they cry for there lost
When they give me a smile and
tell me how beautiful I am
People are beautiful well some
are and I wish someday I can
find someone who will look at
me and say "you have that look
in your eye" what look?
I want to find someone so
beautiful in the inside I can't
stay away they amaze me with
what they say an do how they
will dance in the rain and know
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a
rainy day and just talk about
I want someone beautiful
Poem | |
A predator among us.
A villian in our midst.
An entity of evil,
Clouding up our wits.
Preying on the innocent.
Devouring the strong.
A sycophant immortal.
Unbound by right and wrong.
White wool adorning
The curves of their form.
Cloven hooves dragging
on the ground with the worms.
No hoofprints behind them.
just the four toed paws
dotted at the tips
by their long and angry claws.
Nature is a cruel being.
Creating monsters in her storms.
No one understands
And everyone is torn.
The prey will always villify
those who are higher than they
on the food chains bottom
the sheep will always stay.
The wolves are meant to feed
without remourse consume
The psyches of the weak
to bring them to their doom.
The sheep will bleat and bellow
in fear of those wolves
And try to justify their blindness
by stamping hard their hooves.
Hiding in the herd,
the prey upon their back
the predators facade
turns their wool to black.
Such is natures way.
No one is at fault.
The circle of life.
The predators of thought.
For who can blame the hungry beast
for eating to survive
When you people create such feasts
And tantalize our eyes.
We can not feel guilty
for gaining our sustenance.
consider this my fealty
for i shall not repent.
Poem | |
The north wind is blowing and it’s turning cold
I’m feeling quite chilly I guess I’m getting old
I’ve finally dug out my sexy thermal vest
It’s snug and warm and covers my hairy chest
It’s silky and soft and causes no ripples
Hides my boobies and covers my nipples
15th October 2014
Poem | |
Tonight I sensed the arts' demise
and thought of your indecent writ
that could be used to kill the flies
that buzz above your perfumed feet.
To liberate what's kept inside
you must allow yourself to dart
where inspiration poisoned died
cause of your mindless abstract art.
But this is wrong! The muses went
(because your odored feet emit
condensed that deathly worn socks scent) ,
outside to breathe! Lickety split!
Your mind, surprisingly, expressed
what could be taken for a verse
tormented nostrils were suppressed
their agonized intake was terse.
Your fans, inhaling the extrait
(those well worn socks let loose with pride)
decided to command in verse
what should be buried cause it died.
They called it 'poem' but was known
that flies, somehow, became extinct,
bystanders run to wear cologne,
your Sockspeare theme, was thus succinct.
Those blackened socks you wore around
with plastic sneakers, bought on sale,
became the cause the fish have drowned
and deathly scents were to curtail.
Please tell us why thy feet perfumes
became the symbol of foot-prose?
Dug up feet-ology exhumes
what should be listed to dispose.
© 10-13-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
Poem | |
Another day and the dishes have piled up yet again
So back I end up in front of the window
I do not glance up, but concentrate
On the dull, dirtied objects before me
I do not hear the voices from yesterday
I still wallow in the grime of gray
I smile in malcontent
As I lather the dishes with soap
Against my will, I look up
To see a lone, fat man opening a refrigerator
He is shirtless, bulgy, and he looks pregnant
My first supposition is to laugh
But I only look back down at the dishes
Not wanting to stare at the fat man
Not wanting to think he looks pregnant
For sure not wanting him to be my neighbor
Across the way
Against my will again, I look up
The fat, pregnant man is gone
I see ornaments on the refrigerator
Some pictures, some magnets
Family; not so different from my life
But yet, there is a transparent fancy of mystery
A flashy rage of difference in the silence
Oh, so quiet
The blazing sun sprays its light upon the hour
Not only are my hands wet from the soapy water
The deafening tone of quietude
Revels in me a mixture of loneliness and physical heat
A burning desire for something not seen
A desire for utter disgust of my newly found neighbors
But I find myself not disgusted at all
Until I look up again and see a fully naked man at the window
Across the way
Poem | |
Every time your not next to me
I fell like your being distant
Every time your saying mean things
It makes me feel like you don't love me at all
Every time we argue
It hurts me so much it makes me want to hurt myself
Every time you give me an attitude
I feel like your bringing me down
Every time your angry at things I tell you
It makes me feel like you hate me
Every time you look away from me
I feel like you don't want to be with me
Every time I try to joke around
You get mad at the jokes I make
But what hurts me the most
Is the way you accuse me of cheating
Poem | |
I remember so well the calico aprons that my Mother wore.
She made them from feed sacks that Father needed no more.
She wore them mainly to keep her pretty dresses pristine,
But she found so many other uses for them in her daily routine.
She used them to gather eggs from the henhouse nests,
And to shoo from her garden, crows and other such pests.
Toted in an apron were apples plucked fresh from the trees.
They were used for collecting pods after shelling peas.
Flowers from her garden filled the apron for pretty bouquets.
It held clothes pins to hang clothes for drying on laundry days.
Aprons were used as a receptacle when snapping green beans,
And to gather a batch of lettuce for a salad of tasty greens.
Many times her apron wiped tears from a little boy's eyes,
And wiped her furrowed brow when baking cakes and pies.
They were dandy for last-minute dusting before company arrived.
Without her apron, I don't know how Mom would've survived!
It seems that ladies no longer need an apron to wear themselves,
Since food can be readily snatched from nearby grocery shelves.
An apron is seldom worn by domestic engineers nowadays,
Since tossing supper in a microwave to heat is now the craze!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Poem | |
If you are my online styling enemy,
Then I love you more than poop and snakes combine
I'd pray to God, every night,
'Ask him to fill your room with termites
Once in a while, I'd ask him to give you grace
In hopes today, you don't expose the green monster face
Enough said for the time to be.
My dearest enemy, my mentor
I want you to know, you taught me well
Tonight I Will Put On My Enemy's Clothes
And I'll be the fake friend that hugs you
Hugs, Hugs, Love, Love Linda
Poem | |
Torid, hot, pleasant
Dodging, vacating, eliminating
Heart, stove, forest, quiet
Lighting, warming, sparkling
Poem | |
There's a little history to this particular poem. I know I wrote it when I was 11 or 12 years old. I wrote it for my Grandma Dorabel, who is today 90 years old. I also wrote it for my uncle John who had been taking care of her at the time; I didn't want to leave him out so I put on the letter: For Grandma Dee and Uncle John! I wrote this short little poem along with a drawing of a cat and some flowers. However, I actually never sent the picture to her! My parents and I must have forgotten to send! To me that was unacceptable! I thought to myself today when I found the picture, I must send it now! The picture is now on its way to her, so I am happy she will at last receive it.
You can send me a bouquet of flowers,
You can order me a box of chocolates,
You can buy me a fancy outfit,
But flowers don't last,
Chocolates eventually disappear,
Outfits get out of style,
Yet Love never fades,
And it's the most precious gift of all
Poem | |
(and long brown stockings)
I detest these stockings,
they're coarse, brown and ugly.
I hate the garters more;
elastic circles that cut off
circulation and fail to halt
the laddering down my skinny legs.
If only . . . I picture myself
in warm jeans and no teasing
from Tommy Rogers.
I put the garters to better use,
roll the repulsive stockings
down around my ankles.
"Who gave you
jointed toothpicks for legs?"
I lost it.
Now, Tommy has a black eye
and my nose is in the corner.
Poem | |
laying in your bed
the permanent ring in the
of your blue jeans
i’m missing you already
Poem | |
A Woman’s Worth
When she walks in the room
she wants people to stop and stare
not because they’re whispering…
what she got on girl, what’s up with that hair?
But because she looks good, conservative and chic
looking her best from head to feet
she knows the spiked heels and look at me blouse
will make all the men become aroused
she knows that look would make conditions tense
but how she’s dressed builds confidence
she doesn’t do loud make-up, green hair or tight skirts,
if you don’t know, how will anyone else know your worth?
Not trying to be Nicki Manage,
never putting on a fascad
being original, still blending in
all because she’s good in her own skin
She looks pretty
and carries herself well,
clothes should hide
what only time should tell
When a man calls us out of our name
boy, do we get offended
Aretha told us the Rule of R-e-s-p-e-c-t
It’s usually us that bend it
Wearing anything to work,
any and everything to church
talking that ghetto talk
walking that ghetto walk
telling your friends, girl, he don’t respect me
your friends telling you that you save nothing to see
Asking him out first
Not knowing your worth
You didn’t give him a chance
giving all of yourself on a one night stand
sitting there wondering why he didn’t call
now you’re starting to feel about 2 feet tall
think back, yall never took the time to ask for number and name
now you’re feeling so ashamed
It wasn’t your smile or your smarts that got you here
that drink, you didn’t think
Oh, is that a tear?
Men respect us based on how we think of ourselves
they measure us on what our body tells
what is your body telling?
that you have something you’re selling?
there’s so much you can tell with your body
you don’t have to be revealing to be a hottie
besides, I have daughters and they’re watching me
I try to always give them something beautiful to see
what are we teaching our little girls?
that our bodies will further in this world?
the answer to that question is no
the BIBLE says train a child in the way they should go
what we need to understand as women we deserve respect
but sometimes what we give is what we usually get
when most men see a woman in low -cut shirts, short skirts and high heels
to him you’re worth about as much as a happy meal
if I’m a meal, I’m Crème Brouleé , Beluga Caviar, Laute Truffle Chocolate, with 1945 Chauteau Vintage wine,
That’s who I am all the time
Be who you are,
can’t be me, I’m taken
If you think you can live as someone else
you’re sadly mistaken
I’m a woman every week,
365 days a year
I don’t clock out
I wanna make that clear
Ok, sometimes I can joke and be crazy,
but I never forget that I’m a lady
so girls, get it right,
you can stay on your grind
FOR A REAL WOMAN IS A WOMAN FOR REAL AT ALL TIMES
Poem | |
It’s a mother-in-law’s right, her prerogative
To ‘drop in’ on her son almost any time,
But a mother-in-law should always be prepared
For almost anything she may find.
So, Mother Cready dropped in unannounced;
But as she approached her son’s front door,
Suddenly it opened. “Ta Da! Do you like my happy dress?”
His young wife stood there in her ‘all in all’…nothing more.
“Oh, my word!” Mother Cready exclaimed with surprise.
“Why are you naked? Are you insane?”
Just as surprised, the young wife pulled her inside.
“Please, Mother Cready…if you’ll just let me explain.
You see, when Mac has had a rough day,
When he’s been under a lot of stress,
Sometimes I meet him at the door
With a smile and a kiss in my happy dress.
It always relaxes him and makes him happy,
Then he makes me very happy too.
It works for Mac and me, Mother Cready;
Maybe it would work for you.”
“We’re too old for such.” scoffed Mother Cready.
“Perhaps if we were young like the two of you.”
But, on her way home, she decided
She was definitely going to try it too.
So, she bathed and put on some nice perfume,
Fixed her make-up and her hair.
She was thinking some very sexy thoughts,
But she had to hurry…no time to spare.
She heard her husband’s car in the driveway;
And as he approached their front door,
She threw it open. “Ta Da! Do you like my happy dress?"
She stood there in her ‘all in all’…nothing more.
She saw a little grimace cross his face,
But that was not the worst.
Then he said, “I appreciate your happy dress, my dear;
But maybe you should have ironed it first.”
ALTERNATE LAST VERSE
“Well…your ‘happy dress’ could use some ironing;
But my birthday suit could use some starch.”
He kissed her. “Bet you and I can work it out.”;
And off to bed they marched.
Poem | |
The one hanging there that doesn't have me in it.
Yeah, that one.
I remember when I felt pretty
I remember when I felt safe
I remember when I felt valued, secure, even loved.
Of course I can't wear it now
I remember when women were regarded as less than cows
And if you don't, maybe check you're history books
Or you bible.
That dress, though,
That was me
A me that only those closest to me could ever see.
Yeah, maybe it's not freeform...
But it's my dress.
Poem | |
Gifted with 3 things on a deserted Island what do I bring .
Having clothes on, a smart phone wet not smart at all
For you have hope in store when you can not make a call ..
~ A sharpest of knives that starts fire
Ugg boots Australian built resilient
A pot to boil water pure from the salt ~
This being a hard choice for it's these I desire ~
Belgium chocolate, coffee with evaporated milk
Tea & sugar to last a decade , paper , pen
A goose down blanket under stars ,warming like silk
my favorite books , The four agreements
A working I pod, guitar, for music is my muse ..
A Bible to read so I can keep my faith higher ~
After becoming one with all nature I call this my own
Now bring me a prozac and a cell phone
" A special forces man ...oh no , temptation, I may not come home ! "
Yet being true to self , and my soul unfolds..
~ For I love and miss my children , what is life without them to hold ~
"written for Shadows contest on 10-8-13"
Poem | |
“I’m the unknown gardener my name is mentioned in the bible, but no one need honor me.
Just a pauper, I was in the garden that day, but my only contribution to grace works was filthy
Hearing a rumbling it seemed from deep inside the ground, I looked toward a tomb which had a
huge stone place over it’s mouth. As I looked I saw a steady lighting flashing, so bright it
dimmed my sight, emitting from the tomb around the rock’s edges.
The lighting stopped as suddenly as it had began, as once more I heard a scrubbing noise and
saw two celestial beings in shining apparel, as they rolled the huge stone away from the mouth
of the sepulcher. I was amazed, made weak in the knees, my countenance was overcome.
One of the celestial being said, “Fear not I am Michael, the archangel, I came to attend the
Master. This day thou also hath somewhat to offer unto him.” I wondered, amazed within myself
as I pondered in my feeble mind, ‘What on earth could a meager pauper have of worth to
A beautiful being stepped forth from the tomb, such the like I have never before seen or after!
When he spoke his voice was as the sound of many waters, such as a gently rushing water
fall. He said, “Behold I am the first, and the last, I was alive and was dead, and now I am alive
for evermore. It is finished!”…The two angels, I saw no more.
“Thy name is called Ishmael, born after the flesh, I have heard thy afflictions. This day it
behooves thee to be a signet necessity of my Father’s will, representing all of mankind,
for their righteousness of concepts be as fifty rags. Give unto me thy clothes and I will
cleans them for thy are metaphoric of the fleshly unrighteousness of all humankind.”
I gave him my clothes and I understood not, but I felt amazingly clean. He clothed
himself with my clothes and said, “Remember this day, for flesh will prophesy this truth in the
last days. In an inspirational writing that I will give thee utterance to write. You will entitle
it, ‘The Unknown Gardener’ then you will understand the signet!”
With this, He vanished from my presence. This same day has became know as Easter morning, the day of resurrection.
And the fleshly concepts of sin as the casting off of filthy rags! My natural senses returned and I arose from the vision.
I was astonished for seven days. At the end of which I wrote the understanding of the vision. This is what Easter means to me!
For and in Honor of Gwendolen Rix
And Contest: What Easter Means to me!
Poem | |
Bob had a special talent
That only worked in his men’s store.
He had ‘clothing ESP’.
He knew what his customers wanted…and more.
When customer would come into his store
Bob would invariably say,
“Hello. I'm Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”
And he was always right,
Never missed a color, fabric, style or size.
He even knew the necessary alterations.
Customers couldn’t believe their ears and eyes.
Meanwhile, in another part of town,
Joe had a pounding, relentless migraine
For every minute for more than five years,
It had driven him near insane.
He’d lost his job to the pain.
Then, he lost his wife.
He had lost a lot of weight and rarely slept.
Yes, his was a miserable life.
And, of course, sex was out of the question…
Even a little self-abuse.
There was nothing left for Joe but pain.
He felt his life was of no use.
So, Joe went to his doctor.
“Doc, please help me end this pain.
Give me something to make me sleep
And never wake up again.”
“You know I can’t assist your suicide.”,
Then he looked sad, perhaps ashamed.
“I never dreamed it would last five years,
But I know how to end the pain.”
“You can make it go away?!
Tell me, Doc! What’s the word?”
“I’ll have to remove your testicles.”
Was the last thing that Joe heard.
But…when he came to, it struck him.
Sex was out of the question anyway;
But he might enjoy his meals again,
And he could sleep for days.
“Please check me in, Doc.
This opportunity I cannot shirk.”
So, the doctor removed his testicles.
He did his very best work.
A few days later, Joe waddled along,
Headache free and feeling pretty nice;
But every attractive woman he saw
Reminded him of his sacrifice.
He decided it was appropriate
To do something nice for himself for a change.
So, he went into a travel agency;
And a six month cruise he arranged.
As he left the travel agency,
He was excited, feeling ready to go;
But for such a glorious adventure,
He would need new clothes.
As he walked along, he saw Bob’s Men's Store.
He walked in, only to hear Bob say,
“Hello. I’m Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”
“How could you know?” asked Joe.
“It’s a gift. I don’t know how, but I do.
You’ve suffered five years with an ailment,
Found relief, so now you’re taking a cruise.”
Joe could not believe his ears.
How could this stranger possibly know?
"You're right! That's amazing!
And I'm going to need new clothes."
Bob then laid out a fabulous wardrobe
All the right colors, fabrics, styles…and each size.
Joe was incredibly impressed.
He could hardly believe his ears and eyes.
“How do you like the wardrobe?”
“It’s wonderful!” Bob could see that Joe was pleased.
“Now,” said Bob, “What about undergarments;
You know…shorts and tees?
Let’s see…medium crew neck tees, all cotton.
I believe that you prefer white….
And jockey shorts, all cotton…. 34s.
Yes, I'm sure that’s right.”
Joe beamed, “You’re an amazing talent
And I just this second realized,
You've laid out this entire wardrobe
And only missed one size.”
Bob, surprised by his mistake, asked, “Really?
What did I miss? I did my best for you.”
“Well…you’re right.” said Joe, “I do wear Jockeys,
But…well…I wear 32s.
“Oh, no!” said Bob with an ugly grimace.
“That would be a serious mistake.
Thirty-twos would be too small,
They would cramp your balls.
You’ll get migraine headaches.”
Poem | |
Old Paddy went to the pub dressed in green
The oddest sight the boys had ever seen
He wore thigh high hose
All covered in bows
Of cross dressing he was crowned this year's queen
Poem | |
Felines have a versatile paw
That unfolds a razor like claw
An apron has strings
That cats see as playthings
While scratching chef's butt 'til it's raw
Author's Note: This story was related to me by an attractive and shapely associate who claims she sometimes works in her kitchen dressed only in her bra and an apron.
Poem | |
The notorious gang
Clearly stated in the news
Is now declared Saint
And a pretty slut
Infamous to everyone
Is now called Mary
This political thug
Who attacked lives' belongings
Is now made the judge
In a time like this
Where vices are made virtues
What's that all about
Poem | |
There’s a lady dressed in white.
She smiles in the morning light.
There’s a man who’s dressed in brown.
He scowls as the sun goes down.
There’s a girl who’s dressed in blue
Who got her hands stuck in glue.
There’s a boy who’s dressed in red.
It’s not his clothes, he’s just dead.
Poem | |
Beloved, your ear is a small shell; I will whisper Om Namah Narayana
Beloved, our lovely daughter is too young to tell, Om Namah Narayana
You were water, my life, a spring from which I’ll never again draw
You were pure joy, my wife, again I moan, Om Namah Narayana
I will dress you in red for you were a ruby, even the sun set in awe,
I will live though I am dead; Lord Vishnu, I groan, Om Namah Narayana
Here, kneels the remains of a man, already despair has begun to gnaw,
Here, my soul drains, as I once more whimper, Om Namah Narayana
We will fight for change.. forever... forever... til every frozen heart thaws
And may those guilty ... never... oh, never.... hear Om Namah Narayana
This poem is dedicated to the 1,127 people who were killed in Bangladesh, in a building collapse on April 24th, 2013. 1,127 people.... the number should bring us to our knees and move us to action!
About this poem
According to Hindu beliefs, if someone dies alone, the sacred prayer, Om Namah Narayana is to be spoken into the ear of the deceased.
It is difficult to translate the full meaning of this mantra. The SamaVeda (Hindu Scripture) reads: "'Om Namo Narayanayeti mantra upasaka Vaikuntha bhuvanam gamishyati', or "Whosoever chants the 'Om Namo Narayana' mantra reaches the ultimate goal Vaikuntha planet where one attains eternal blissful life." Vaikuntha is the supreme spiritual abode; there is nothing that exists beyond Vaikuntha, Vaikuntha means 'no desires'.
May such a tragedy never occur again.
This is not a traditional Ghazal, as I have not kept syllable count AND
I have played loose with the rhyme scheme.
But this came from my heart, and so I listened...