Best Abetted Poems
Surly Sally slipped and lost a flip flop
at a hearty party in a bungalow with Billy.
while dancing and prancing to hip hop
whirling and twirling and spinning silly.
Can you reverse and remember the flop she flipped?
Well it ludicrously landed in the party punch bowl.
Nobody noticed while they slurped and sipped
and the dancers dipped and ripped and rolled.
They dipped, danced, pranced and laughed,
pirouetted, and sweated,
tipped and turned till totally daft.
Beer and booze abetted.
The next night they stayed sober and soloed somber.
Crashing and complaining Billy’s head hung,
both believed they’d been belted by a bomber.
Surly Sally swore she felt like dung on a rung!
Let this be a lurid logical lesson,
to those who think it’s only fun and frolick to abuse booze,
Or you too could be confessin’
And for lack of the light of this litany you’re liable to lose!
An answer to a challenge for John Freeman’s Alliteration contest
by my poetry friend, Gwendolen Rix.
Every new day, the sun will rise.
As time passes, the moon expands.
Reasons to act without surprise.
Every day, the wind brings new ambition.
The river flows into the shoreline.
Every day holds a new lesson.
Every day, a new baby is born.
After nine months of pregnancy.
God promises and bestows adorned.
Stars will illuminate our nights.
Large ships navigate in deeper water.
Abetted by vast cosmic sights
Plants will surely grow.
It's an unavoidable indication!
Obvious, as we all know.
Without a problem, there is no solution.
We prefer to go right to specifics.
Valuables are found in the deep section.
Outcomes are entirely arbitrary.
How deeply one will be involved.
Outside the scope of the fantasy.
Forecast what people say, I believe.
Vague terms are complex to discern.
Events were hardly what we perceive.
1st Place Contest Win
Written: April 18, 2021
Just Stating The Obvious Poetry Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brother Jacob
Written: October 25, 2023
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Autumn saplings fall comely to the ground.
Crimson love decays, its vibrant hue around.
Cycle of nature, a dance of life's embrace,
As summer bids adieu, fall turns to grace.
In this harvest paradise, colors whisk and blend.
Cherish recalls it and shares it with Moon trend.
Akin to an odd comet's tail that shines so bright,
Smiles, abetted to be swallowed, wane in the night.
Cherish the night, as darkness bears weight.
Salient Incognito stars and a golden sedate
In this faded fantasy, dreams and reality collide.
An image is such a treat, showing scenes that collide.
Time, a forever trick, weaves its intricate spell.
Autumn leaves fall and the stories they tell
Whispered secrets of love and laughter,
Moments are frozen in time, forever after.
As the wind gently rustles through the trees,
Nature sings its symphony with a gentle breeze.
The leaves twirl and spin as dancers in the air.
Creating a masterpiece beyond compare
Autumn's canvas, painted in hues of gold,
A masterpiece of colors, both bold and old
Each leaf that falls, a scene comes to an end.
Without fear, the cycle of life will transcend.
In a season of morph, beauty is to be found.
In the quiet spaces, nature's whispers resound.
Let autumn leaves fall gently to the ground.
And embrace nature, in its glory profound.
Perhaps in another i.e. alternate world, this middled aged (baby boomer bona fide bra burner) of two well nigh near grown daughters felt caught in an invisible whirled wide web The Parent Trap.
Oft times, the languid days of his life seem to revisit a parallel universe, where sequels continue to air years since family time constituted shared watching thee designated Verizon Fios fiber optic channels favor by the youngest.
I confess sitting transfixed in from the television (back in the days when me girls attended grade school) marveling at the camera tricks purportedly played identical twins Hallie and Annie, but in reality the prepubescent actress averred asper the title of this missive.
A series of unfortunate events (perhaps abetted by Lemony Snicket) found these fictitious, marvelous, and vivacious separated in life soon after their parents divorced.
Happenstance and cutting edge cunning movie making wizardry linkedin believable existence of two exact looking innocent ingenues incorporating various tricks of the filming, directing, and acting of said nymph actress.
Some fluke chance encounter when both “girls” attended the same summer camp allowed, enabled, and provided the raw fitbits, whence each respective lass discovered visa vis via question asked and answered, that they shared the same mother and father.
Soon after this unexpected (believably conceived drama), they secretly plotted to reunite their estranged parents.
Although farfetched (which plot twist stretched to the realm of possible feasibility), nonetheless the story continued to offer appeal even after numerous viewings), when both my darling dimpled daubed daughters reveled in such small screen young adult age appropriate materiel.
Within a similar vein, the gestalt viz zit hid within Freaky Friday (also starring the same teenage uber vixen) gal riddled with an identity crisis twas ably, admirably, and affably evincing the crisis of fifteen year old Anna (also Lindsay Lohan).
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
Martha Mae
Pretty and gay
Loved to sew
So, her husband to-be
Stacked onesies in a row
But it came not to pass, you see
For he soon discovered her strange addiction
To keep from being bored
She began to hoard
Children, permanent babysitting, or abduction
He couldn’t give her a child of their own
So Martha Mae took a few out on loan!
One became two, and two became four
And soon dozens and dozens more
He would beg and plead
“Martha, let a few leave!”
For she had so many children
It took the whole church to seat them!
He worried and fretted
Cause he aided and abetted
But George, you need no attorney
When you’re raising your own army!
Steadfast was she
“So mote it be,” said he to me
“My fortunate son,
But just today
She brought home another one
And I fainted dead away!”
Entwined
Buried it!
Deep in denial’s tomb
it grew, weed like,
nurturing its hate,
feeding its neediness
at the expense
of withering flowers.
Tortured tentacles
laced themselves angrily
about truth,
entwined themselves
in the falsity
of failure,
spreading a pall
upon success.
Suffocating fear
attended the loneliness
grasping attempts
at feigned freedom
in strangling defeat.
Release, escape,
abetted
soft petals
entwined
in the gentle touch
of a hand
offering help.
2/12/2016
submitted to Entwined – Poetry contest
sponsor – Broken Wings
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Seventeen
Of late the tepid cold only rebousse poil her coyness
Nowhere the slushy mud caked into strands of crunchiness
Even the over-mothering coots let their chicks roam all alone
Sand and soil slop in swishing puddles down her tress fullness
Darkness bloomed along her gamboling Riviera façade
Window-panes like so many cryptic poker-face cards invade
While amber-lit promenades reflect once debutante gaiety
Now swans sail in wanton jerks into the late evening jade
Cocky sea-gulls from far-off cascades spurn the land-locked lake
Screech and caw like white-crows and bully bread crumbs from swan beak
All over her borderless skirts droop stems and stalks fading downcast
And the froth and foam gather at the Prefecture’s northern gate
Was she ailing in the meniscus all summer to icy spring?
The promenade of choice girding the Prefecture like a sling
Stayed slammed and riveted with the gate gutter over-flowing
Some said ‘twas the asylum seekers broke into the building
To rob official stamps and cartes de sejour to gain false entry
Others less scrupulous thought Omar the culprit roaming free
Said some the Procureur made out a writ for his instant capture -
Abetted, said they, by the Resident Maid – our Bard sans country!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
I lost my mien I lost my unity
To the shadow of tartarus
Abided by the doom of iniquity
To the horde of vicious
Ached by the blamed chastity
To the blood of befouled gravitas.
I lost my alias I lost my faith
To the detainment of my goof
Abetted by the aphotic myth
To the trait lacked in proof
Copped by the dummy world so lyth
To the wraiths of swallowed truth.
I lost my anima I lost my chaste
To the roguish sprite
Plied by paroles jest
To the hearsays that parroted bright
Retained by the sight lest
Where I lost my being I lost ardor ignite.
___________x______________
The Good Book tells us that God rested on The Seventh Day,
To unwind upon His Throne and His handiwork survey.
He foresaw the mess we mere mortals would make of things,
Abetted by all humankind to include politicians and ruling kings!
Right off the bat, Adam and Eve made a stupid mistake,
Eating forbidden fruit persuaded by that nefarious snake!
They let God down big time and I reckon them we can blame,
For wrecking His noble plans and creating eternal shame!
God must have pondered about the fate of His wondrous Creation.
He envisaged pain and suffering as nation warred against nation.
As He relaxed on That Day He foresaw evil and sinfulness,
Hunger, strife, mans' inhumanity to man and homelessness.
How He must have agonized That Day as He eyed His Universe,
Knowing He would have to cope with a people so wicked and perverse.
I suspect He would have preferred a day of rest like most of us men,
Savoring a pepperoni pizza and watching a football game on ESPN!
Entry for Curtis Moorman's "What Did God Do On The Seventh Day" Contest
Seducing Evil No More
Perhaps at the days complete
This date with death shall not
prove to be deadbeat.
The outcome has proven quite concrete.
Tragedies that shades
itself behind deaths eyes
piercing to contaminate
like some blastomycete:
Ready to enter my blood to do some harm.
like some invading fungi who does not laugh
at the joke, but at the joker’s lack of antidotal charm.
As death is now my escort;
Invasion needs no persuasion.
I've awakened myself, to realize such a thought.
Finding my words nesting, in some confessions plot.
That is why I never sympathize with evil.
Abetted, by the fluid allure of death.
Follows me like fresh fish with a trail of flies.
In poetic terms, it’s easy to describe
the evil that is flowing, like sewage in a flood.
Around every corner, I have found,
The hatred from which I strive to hide.
Led me to find a peaceful place near the trees
Where peacefully, I now reside.
Sitting alone with one trusting friend, as
we admire the color of the trees in the quiet.
We meditate and sit in amber silence.
Without anticipation of the judgment of each other.
I stood in awe
and watched him work
unyielding metal, forged in fire, now bending,
moulding to his will somehow, unending,
the blows raining down,
the hammer's kiss
drowning birdsong and the forges fiery hiss.
I work the bellows
to disgorge icy blasts
of compressed air into the heart
of the white hot coals,
which, like the souls
of the damned, roared and cracked
and spat like banshees.
Sparks spiralled and danced
as the hammer glanced,
hither and yon
on burnished metal
until they settled
on baked clay,
made that way
by years of toil
in broiling heat
and myriad feet.
Still the muscled farrier sweated,
aided and abetted
by eager apprentice,
noting the swing
and anvil's sing
and muscles taut
and iron wrought
to shapes in steel
to rim a wheel
or shoe a horse
or gate a field.
I watch it yield
to the blacksmiths will
and still he works,
heating,
hammering,
turning,
whilst I,
learning,
stoke the fire and work the bellows
until the day mellows
into evening and the last piece is tempered
in water cold which scolds the air in clouds of steam.
Damp the fire, kill the flame, a last swig of cider then,
time to go,
follow the crow,
tired men.
Footsteps weary, tipsy as fools,
the sweated brow cools
in the twilight air.
Home to wife and children,
home to those who care.
Arrogance absorbs
an ambition
as asses attack asses:
all are astray,
aghast and alone.
Amidst atrocities
and abhorrence,
an angel aspired amity;
amaranthine ardor: agony, absent...
Arms appeared
and accorded assistance;
all are abetted,
amidst apprehensions.
Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note
recalling how I felt like an ass
and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered
(as a heavy metal kid Rocker)
toward befriending a brass
see gutsy, horny,
and MainLine snooty upper class
action button down
(grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting
forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned
by the instrumental
Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School
(mud flapping, ornery hearing,
and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)
music teacher oompah crass
tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire
to master the Coronet
analogous to pursing lips
blowing tightly held grass
blade between two abetted,
cinched fastened opposable thumbs,
which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac
to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass
(ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)
with one steel funnel like mouthy mass
that probably explains, how such a gal
could easily emulate
facial pucker earning pass
to illustrious honorable first chair
and blasts gratitude akin
as Gabriel would declare
heavenly expressions conducting
angels thru atmospheric ether
alighting on mortal ushering melody
with rites of harkening
springtime Renaissance Faire
solar rays golden raiment
splays rainbow fragments off
beveled, bellowed, and
bedecked polished flare
audiological sound waves trick
saw toothed reflected
silhouetted orchestral shadows
to dance as conductor's baton gear
musicians horns ensemble
epochal feast to hear.
I not sure I’ll renew my poet’s license this
year, most of the keepers have been kept
with the biggest ones caught, stuffed and hung
on the walls of tumbledown fishing lodges.
Although there are rumors, that the big one
Bishop caught and released back in 1946
still swims somewhere in the dark waters
between Nova Scotia and Massachusetts.
These days, Brautigan would have to wade
much further upstream to go trout fishing in
America as bass have taken over the lower
reaches, which have warmed due to climate
change, aided and abetted by ATV's SUVs,
Jet Skis and those monster Bass Boats
with their three hundred horsepower engines
which race across the waters in those TV Bass
Fishing Tourneys, even though I must admit I
I sometimes watch them in the channel’s free month.
but now I must paddle and haul my canoe over three
portages to find cool water and a bit of peace and quiet.
Then too, poetry isn’t what it used to be
with rhyme, rhythm and form relegated
to dusty archives in lonely libraries.
Nowadays, everything is computers and
online, with pen and paper abandoned, as
Instant Instagram Poets proclaim over this
“new” medium, spouting their infantile
insights regarding the mysteries of life
and love into an existential echo chamber,
leaving us unpublished old poets grumbling
in our garrets as we scribble by candlelight.
.