Best 88 Poems
Until the drought of '88
Euphonic sounds adorned his walls,
as he, his wife, and daughter ate
and laughter tripped through carefree halls.
His wife caressed the ivoried keys
until the drought of '88,
their daughter sang with youthful ease;
each day a gift to celebrate.
That baby grand now bears the weight
of dust and silenced dreams once dreamed.
Until the drought of '88,
how strange such silence would have seemed.
Alas, a drunk behind the wheel
cut short his life at 28.
Unsullied joy was ours to feel
until the drought of '88.
In fond memory of my cousin Brian, killed by a drunk driver.
Haiku 88
I am a coyote
howl in the autumn
Indiana night
Can this really be year fifty-five that we now celebrate
That day of endless pleasure in your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight?
Old Fred had said to see him wed I’d have to bring a date
Then you were there with flaming hair and Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Though six years old it shined like new and you at twenty-four
The loveliest of redheads were, so then and there I swore
That somewhere I would find the nerve to ask you for a date
And one day you and I would fly that Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Was that way back in sixty-one? My how the years flew by.
It seems like only yesterday we told old Fred good-bye.
Though that party ended early our trip home would have to wait;
A night of romance beckoned from your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Cross town to Eddie Bohn’s we flew, then Pat and Pat’s till dark,
Then up into the mountains searching out a place to park.
But none could know that night there, nor even speculate
What sparks we would ignite there in your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
For that night sparked an inferno that still blazes to this day,
Though some details may be sketchy if not lost along the way.
Yet as dreams rekindle memories may the world commemorate
That birthplace of our endless love, your Hard-Top Eighty-Eight.
Sensual pink lips
The key to summer pleasure
I carry your heart
- howmanysyllables.com
Haiku 5-7-5
- Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
23.05.2016
- Copyright © All Rights Reserved
88 Keys
88 keys on a ring
is too many
to carry
to know
to manage.
But bring me 88 keys
of ivory and black
and I’m in heaven.
I pick out five,
or maybe six
to strike,
and again
then seven.
Oh, beauteous sounds of
harmonious notes that
rub together just for me.
August 17, 2016
COPLA 88 INVOCATION : This Bad Guy World
Will the meaning of the Word be plain
And what is said not corrupt sense :
Contain the word
Words cannot come alive nor complain
Utterer and uttered entwined fence :
Sense the discord
In the beginning what was the Word
Does OM of all sounds utter Truth :
Mother of words
Aren’t white lies begot by discord
Between the Truth and the Untruth :
Can lies stoke words
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Ceux qui célèbrent ‘88 – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « Celebrators ‘88 »» by T. Wignesan
(This poem mocks the bicentenary celebrations of the founding or « settling » of the Australian continent by the British in 1788 from the point of view of the aboriginal.)
Les feuilles bleu vert et grisâtres du gommier
furent emportés derrière le banksia qui penchait
avec respect suppliant sans dire rien - en deuil
dépourvus du cercle des noirs qui autrefois s’étaient assis
autour de son tronc pour le caresser et chanter des chansons
lequel firent couler les fleuves en faisant enrichir la vie
des légendes et la rivière aujourd’hui sont remplacées
par des ravines rongées par les moutons et la boue
lesquels entravent les rivières en battant la retraite
finissent par s’accumulant la boue comme un signe de la défaite
on entendait le croassement des corbeaux devenus plus lugubre
en goûtant de la chair humaine en putréfaction
sous la pureté du soleil depuis l’époque des pionniers
aujourd’hui voilés par le smog qui empêchait même les
fantômes de les s’apercevoir
les colombes de la rivière s’arrêtaient de chanter par peur
invitera le chasser apportant la mort foudroyante
le kookaburra rie étonné puis garda la silence
haletant tout en étant saisie par la peur
Les plumes des législateurs en mouvement hésitaient
comme des voleurs s’accroupis autour de leur butin
combien de milliards eux ils octroyèrent
pour fêter le Bicentenaire
et faire dissimuler leurs tueries par la hilarité
et donner voix à la chanson pour ne pas entendre le grondement
du fourgon mortuaire.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Your only friend is darkness? Heman the Ezrahite.
That's not how to end your psalm, with ache of lonely soul,
awake to darkness fall each day, to deepest darkest hole
as morning clears the dark away.
Yet you persist, Heman, to have your say,
to steel your darkened heart to pray.
Suffered from your youth, and always close to death ?
Spare your breath Heman, impugn your God no more.
The reason why your eyes are dim with grief, don't lay that at his door.
He has not acted as you say, a thief of neighbour and of friend,
though that is your belief.
And though your eyes are rarely dry,
to Him you still complain, and plead your plaintiff's cry.
Rejected? He hides from you His face, you said?
His wrath sweeps over you with terror and despair,
to surround you like a flood, engulf you in the lowest pit
and darkness that you dread.
Yet still you raise your hands to Him,
your outstretched hands are spread.
And where did this all end, Heman?
Grace brought you seer to David's throne
leading worship and rejoicing,
Fourteen sons, three daughter's grace your home,
and you played your gifted part,
as King danced with joy and might before God's homing ark.
Your dreadful psalm of deep despair is not for you Herman,
but tells us that our God's aware of how men speak in grief.
Of how their thoughts in darkest places challenge divine grace.
Yet He holds them as they struggle there, though trials be not brief,
He sustains their glimmered faith.
The one who cried, My God My God, why have you forsaken me?'
was not forsaking you, Herman, but hanging on that cross-barred tree,
love's mercy gift for you, Heman, pinned to that mercy tree,
love's mercy given free, Heman, love's mercy set you free.
Yesterday evening broke brains so I wanted to assemble expressions of consolation. All the beauty of the words, every word, from submarine to wheat fields and Long Island cocktails, kissed skies by Jimmy, blue, yellow and why not pinky black, snow, wine and vanity. From excuse me dear to goodbye I hate you, from hopeless dreams to aquarium memories, from nowhere, ahh so beautiful nowhere, favorite things of Coltrane at the sundown Madalena’s landscape, world and science, runner poets, fisherman, poetry-man, fishing meanings in the non-sense ocean of spirits. Flowers not to be forgotten, hundreds and freedom too. From wishes to shadow, from shame to joy, short word but important too. Walkers these verbs, blood in our papers, I hope this helps, my friend, ancestors, from Iberia. Thank you again to put all these words together, somewhere near nowhere 88.
I saw her walking out the door,
Eyes met as we took the lift,
Hands touched, when we hit the bar,
I asked her out, that was her gift.
Went for a drive by sea and shore,
We watched the tide, I sensed a shift.
She took me to her room and said:
“Before we start, my name is Ted!”
The moral of this tale is plain to see,
Where there’s a doubt, retreat hastily.
SPRINGTIME WINS
~~~~~~
Winter stalling, snowing,
hiding springtime deep!
Snowdrops stretching, growing,
waiting for a peep.
Fauna, flora ready.
Winter not caring!
Springtime holding, steady,.
awake preparing.
Thawing beckons springtime!.
Hark, the robin sings!
Warming, caring sunshine.
Yay! A bluebell rings!
Springtime hiding summer
up its fertile sleeve.
Wanton, summer thunder,
doth springtime perceive!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2/11/18
88 Syllables - Poetry Contest, sponsored by Joseph May
Reuniting with old friends is always lots of fun,
Because it’s been years since we’ve seen each other.
Back at the ballpark again for baseball in the sun
Swapping stories about our new lives as mothers.
It’s hard to believe so many years have gone by,
Yet, we all still look the same…well, almost the same.
We should keep in touch, even if it’s just to say, “Hi,”
And meet once a year to see Mike and Pattie at the game.
Although we live in different parts of the country,
I’m glad we all made it to our little gathering.
This get together means so very much to me
And the fact you all call me your friend is flattering.
So, as the weekend begins to come to an end,
I want you to know that I’ve enjoyed it very much.
Reminiscing about the old days with my friends
Keeps me young at heart…and it’s that heart you’ve all touched.
Beware of 88
By Elton Camp
My poem, vile bigotry was mocking
A comment came, against it talking
Any trace of civility it did lack
I’ll admit that I was taken aback
“I know what’s wrong with you.
You’re a lover of the filthy Jew.”
His rant continued for a full page
One filled with hate and rage
His pen name he then did state
A strange one, it was Wolf88
Another, supporting words did spew
His screen name contained 88 too
Could this mere coincidence be?
I pulled up Google so I could see
I learned about Neo-Nazi code
That from hate groups flowed
The evil meaning I then did get
The eighth letter of the alphabet
HH the insane Hitler did heil
Thus the comments full of bile
summer of delight
friends in all the right places
taste of happiness
Gentleman locks the door I hear
Click
The sound of it echoes in my ear
It’s time to begin, my interview…
”...come into site of me…”
A voice in the darkness calls
Silence becomes the walls and
He motions my move with a hand
Enticing sound of a leather band
”...panties on the desk…” he says next.
Sir, my firm nipples confess,
I carry not these unruly mess of
Misguided obstructions
In the codes of my dress.
Allow me please another course
To demonstrate a skill of choice…
I want, to come and work for you
Just a matter of time ‘til you’ll want me too
Execute the tasks of this interview…
A little cream in your latte ’s due, I notice.
.
Darkly heals of pointed action
Saunter soft to a hard attraction
... it was said, to put the whips on
Chest over desk in a slight horizon
Spread like an eagle and facing the Sun
Inspired to oblige… is a team player, Bond.
Prying eyes on the intercom
Taking notes and recording songs
Nothing isn’t noticed, her eyes a grin
Lifting skirt and exposing skin
Fabric of her blouse so very thin
Refreshing foam against the rim
In a cup of desire filled to the brim…
”...do you type…” he asked again
Like a wild fire replies the Wind
88 plus words in the whisper of a mind.
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