Best 2018 Poems
Twenty first of October in two thousand and eighteen
Was the worst disaster poetry soup had seen
Poems wiped off the website as all the poets slept
When the disaster unfolded many poets wept.
Some had spent hours composing their verses
But no backup made, the air soon filled with curses
Contest entries too vanished without trace
Sponsors left fuming they had nothing to place.
And the beautiful comments people said about you
Into a cyber space black hole they all vanished too
The next night the poems, to everyone’s dismay
Returned to the site, ‘twas like Groundhog day.
Some blamed the Russians, some blamed the C.I.A.
Others wanted revenge for what happened that day
But do rest assured, soup said “have no fear
Free membership for everyone, for a whole year”
Now that’s a kind act I’m sure you’ll agree
Remember worse disasters have happened at sea
The moral of this verse is to remind everyone
Make a backup of your work when it is done.
(This did happen, not sure about the free membership though lol.
But it is a wake up call; always back up your work.)
If I told the winds
How much you love me
And quickly spread the news
Blushing your horizon,
Revealing our secret
To whole wide world
Before you could brief
Your own aspirations,
Would you still love me?
If I convinced the stars
To follow you around
As you spoke to the moon
Lovingly about us;
And if they told me
Your inner most thoughts
Before you got a chance
To consult your heart,
Would you still love me?
If my night sent you
A sensuous message
Arousing your dawn
With romantic feelings
Awakening you in
An enchanting dream
Before you were ready
To feel this way,
Would you still love me?
If I swept you off your feet
With pledges of my love
And carried you with me
To cherubic heaven
For a blessed evening
In the Garden of Eden;
And then if I forgot
The way back home,
Would you still love me?
December 9, 2018
Placed 3rd in Would you still love me contest by Edward Ibeh
I don't get to church on Easter.
I'm so sorry that it is true.
I make the big Easter dinner
With my guests more than quite a few.
The egg hunt is in the morning
When children's energy is high.
I keep one eye on the egg hunt
And one eye on the baking pie.
When all the eggs are found, it is
Time to cook the twenty-pound ham.
If the children cry they're hungry,
I bring out the bread and grape jam.
Twenty-six guests at my table
This Easter of twenty-eighteen,
This is lots but it's not the most
That my Easter table has seen.
This was my ninety-ninth Easter.
In July, my one-hundredth year.
We are throwing a big party,
I am hoping you'll all appear.
4/16/18
2018 - nothing new here
He sits
slumped in his corner
weary, battered, bruised,
but not beaten.
He has survived,
studied this craft,
this art of living,
these cycles of change.
He has tasted the acrid,
bitter sting of defeat,
soft warmth
of victory’s vanity,
both fleeting plateaus.
He sees
through puffy eyes
another adversary
youthful, inexperienced,
unblemished by struggle.
He taps gloves,
nods to this new opponent,
knows that the object
is not to defeat him,
but to teach him,
that victory is a feeble friend,
defeat a melancholy mistress.
The bell will ring,
the ball will fall
the crowd will roar
the dance begin anew.
John G. Lawless
©12/29/2017
* Many years now since this very talented, very HUMAN guy left us … those holes never fill, and he is sorely missed. (This is a form I invented called “Tredicum Plus”. *
~
my brother ...
you caught me off guard -
of all those who struggle like we do
in darkness, with the
hideous demons that lurk
I was sure the victory was yours -
that the knight was astride
his steed, steadied -
armor shining bright in the sun
sword and shield, sharp and enduring ...
but alas, it seems the
devil wants the final
fiendish word …
long did I look to you
for strength ...
a flicker of light to guide
me through the murk -
the fog of pain and error and
fallibility that so often
gathers for those of us who
feel too deeply -
who see sensitivity as
more of a curse than a gift …
you understood that path quite well -
walked it many times
as I have …
you knew the beasts
that scratch at our ankles -
those shadowy minions that seek
to rake us into hell with every
step we take in redemption's course
but your light shined so bright!
you held it high and
proud for so long that I took
it for granted - depended on it …
and now that light is snuffed
the black is all the
more oppressive - all the
more glaringly heavy and deep ...
… and empty …
now the path
is twisted, obscured ...
and without the welcome of
your glowing spirit
it will henceforth be cluttered with
ambiguity and question -
each further step, taken in
hesitation and doubt …
tragedy, pain, sorrow, regret
their names matter not -
they wreak the same horrid havoc
and those ragged, merciless monsters
have claimed you …
aye, the sun will rise a wee bit
colder on the morrow, and life’s flavor
is now tinged with bitterness …
still, you left behind a torch of humble exuberance and vitality
and those of us who know the
treacherous paths of life -
those darkened 'parts unknown' -
will hold it high in your memory
and give the devil all he can handle ...
of your mischievous smile
your twinkling eye
and your fierce, fiery heart …
Rest In Peace, Tony.
Pelvic desires arise when turning manic!
It's an all-powerful ejaculation
(from mania that feels keenly orgasmic)
Pelvis and loins ablaze like fantastic,
and engorged with such climaxed sensation;
Pelvic desires arise when turning manic!
Eros peaks, then runs wild and Jurassic;
and hunts for instant gratification
(from mania that feels keenly orgasmic!)
To burn with unrestrained lust is horrific;
but the red-hot flames of this condition
force coitus to break out when turning manic:
oh! to explode without control like a sex addict,
and copulate with total abandon
(when mania feels so keenly orgasmic!).
So, call it mad, but don't call it poetic:
this disease demands total expression.
These pelvic desires arise when turning manic,
from a mania whose possession is so fiercely orgasmic.
Another year is drawing to a close.
I sit alone reflecting on the life
I've loved and cherished for these many days
recalling every cause of joy and strife.
I think of all those walks I take near home
and thank God for the strength to walk each mile.
I praise Him for the town in which I live,
where I feel safe and neighbors wave and smile.
My friends and loved ones occupy my mind.
How little time I've spent with them! I vow
in two thousand nineteen, I'll see them more.
If I rely on Him, He'll show me how.
Reviewing conflicts of the waning year,
I think of how I sometimes played a part
in making matters worse. I cannot push
aside those thoughts that plague my troubled heart.
I have to ask forgiveness, for I know
it's my responsibility to be
promoter of good will with everyone.
Beginning now, I’ll strive for harmony.
My reminiscing would be incomplete
if I gave my church family no praise.
Next year, I still will be with them each week.
They are a blessing in so many ways.
To name each blessing of the year, I'd need
a ream of paper and a quart of ink.
I'd need to talk for days on end, but God
knows how I feel and everything I think.
Two thousand eighteen soon will breath its last
as I am thanking God for joy and health,
for all the seasons, and for giving me
more than I need--in my opinion, wealth.
Date: December 20, 2018
Contest Title: Soon It Will Be 2019
Sponsor: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
butterflies ferment
like aesthetic Autumn leaves
— sanguine sage’s brush
10/15/2018
ferment - to be in a state of agitation or intense activity
sanguine - marked by eager hopefulness : confidently optimistic; bloodred
sage - wise through reflection and experience
the great blue heron
chop sticks seeking sushi
shallow sustenance
John G. Lawless
©7/17/2018
If one is hungry
And bored
Of watching over Mecca,
What better place
To steal an apple
Than from another country’s orchards,
With fighter jets
Twanged in the sky
Like flying bottle openers,
Diving down
And peeling back a tin can roof
Of a school bus
Loaded with 40 children,
Whose shoulders are all
Strapped
With blue and red back packs
That look like little lunch boxes,
One of them
Surely containing
The sweet temptation
Of the perfect apple.
Mistaken identity, can happen.
So, a few bombs,
True,
Have to remove
The dozens of windows
And deposit
The million shards like razors
To flay the skin of the girls and boys
And, in an attempt to remain civilized
About this,
First cook
With fire and oil
The cheekbones from the skulls
Of the five year olds
Who are still alive,
And it’s important to keep fresh
The liver, tongues and hearts
Shish-kebobbed
With splintered ribs, white as serpents,
And finally, then
There it is,
The well done slab of lamb’s meat
Still clung, red as a beet,
Limbs and noses,
To be stripped
From that one buried back pack
And within it, zipped,
The fine taste of a ripe apple
Polished by mom
As a snack that was packed,
That day,
For school.
cold drape of darkness
obscures a lost horizon
fire flies poke holes
©7/6/2018
for The Poet Doctor – HAIKU in 5 7 5 only – Poetry contest
Poet of Perkiomen Valley
discovered aforementioned titled poem
about thirty months ago he wrote
impossible mission critters to smote
chronic issue yours truly does note
years later meaning today
April 19th, 2022
necessitated we allow, enable
and provide welcome to exterminator
actually management did hote
(obsolete) To command; to enjoin
hazard upon body, mind and spirit,
thus ridding apartment b44
visited by said swarming insects,
his expertise sought to mitigate
courtesy applying insecticide.
Insects created dark shadows
analogous brought outer limits
of twilight zone
resembling edge of night
in truth our one bedroom apartment
at that earlier date
affected, encroached, and outsmarted
by massive infestation of
Drosophila melanogaster light
weight winged worst
pests to eradicate
(scientific name regarding
winged flitting nuisance ignite
mentioned in title) besieged,
inundated, and thickly swarm.
dost primp and pretty
fie themselves (to
attract a witty
mate) during their
40 to 50 days city,
or suburban life
cycle long enough
to qualify for this
quickly written ditty
seemingly overnight
a bajillion biz zee
buzzing adults (each
about 1/8 inch long see
their world wide web,
thru at least one
unusual red eye,
which compound eye
of the fruit fly
contains 760 unit
eyes or ommatidia, well nigh
hapt tubby one of the most
advanced among insects,
where Google search
for home remedies aye
didst find to exterminate
these teeny weeny pests,
plus informational pursuit my
instantaneous curiosity yielded
above mentioned
esoteric tidbits,
sans accidentally disc
covered helpful good riddance
material of household ingredients
restraining me to breathe sigh
of dollop, and hope to try
one or more solutions,
which informed
this amateur entomologist -
listed forthright as:
1. Create a trap by mixing
apple cider vinegar
with a few drops of dish soap.
2. Another homemade trap is to
pour leftover red wine into a jar.
3. Mash up banana slices in a jar, and
cover top with a plastic wrap.
4. Pour bleach solution
into bathroom sink.
5. Detonate atomic explosives
as a last resort.
Just sitting in my man cave contemplating,
thinking of the year about to close;
reflecting on our world and it’s frustrating
seeing our great nation decompose.
Our Congress is dead locked in fierce debating,
seems there’s little hope for compromise;
the President forever tweets; berating
those who disagree with his surmise.
Across the sea the Russians show aggression;
Putin now is rattling his sword.
The Middle East is still without concession;
showing little hope of peace accord.
This year has been a time for feeling sadness,
losing fam’ly members and some friends,
but in the midst of all this glaring madness,
still I’m holding hope for some amends.
I’m hoping we can put this din behind us,
moving forward to the coming year,
and making ’19 so much better, and thus
gaining us a future that’s more clear.
December 28, 2018
cold tulips languish
in crystalline confinement
awaiting parole
John G. Lawless
©4/8/2018
pity the Haiku
expanding into verses
Basho curses
John G. Lawless
©9/13/2018