Best Abhors Poems
Now brown, the once-blue brook meanders down
To dams where sludge has chased beavers away
As species die, our Mother casts a frown
For Nature can’t control man or his way
From fracking, tapping minerals, she groans
She coughs, red lava spews from Mother’s pores
With waste-clogged arteries, she weeps and moans
The very sight of man she now abhors
As Nature inhales toxins, man’s forewarned
Her colors change from purity to rage
Depleting ozone, Earth has now been warmed
Tsunamis, hurricanes take center stage
We shed our tears, entrapped by urban sprawl
But Mother turns her head and lets them fall
*December 5, 2018
Written for John Hamilton’s “Colour of My Heart” Contest
Inspired by “Colors of the Wind” from the movie “Pocahontas”
I have claimed to be apolitical but there are times
when the crop is ready for harvesting, so I put fuel
in the John Deere, ink in my pen and wrote...
He'll get millions of votes for that nicked ear
The vengeful narcissist people should fear
Picasso President
With malicious intent
He should be given the famous Bronx Cheer!
It looks like the graffiti on the wall
Four more years and America will fall
Trump will blow his own horn
Guilty of loving p.o.r.n.
And the rape of all the women he's mauled
There's another Trump, Junior's daughter, Kai
Brought a tear or two to dear grandpa's eye
It was her intention
During the convention
To convince people that he's a good guy
Melania was there but just for show
Since he paid off Stormy... well uh, you know
She has kept her distance
Abhors his existence
She can't be with him since he's had a ho
His Trumpeters may be humbled one day
Those who will vote for him and have their say
Those who are so headstrong
Thinking he's done no wrong
The beast who led America astray
He hasn't made the US great again
He's torn the nation apart... friend from friend
Time will tell the story
But there'll be no glory
Picasso President is no Godsend.
Trump toadies must be in a state of bliss
When his venom spews like a snake, hiss, hiss
They praise the dictator
The alienator
His villainy too baleful to dismiss
I've never liked saying, "I told you so"
But D J Trump is a jerk and a schmo
He's a divisor of men
When he's elected again
His tyranny will reign like a deathblow
I've read a few posts about Trump and yet
Not one comment did I write to upset
Another poet's view
I expect that from you
Without hostility or epithet
The Adjective Twin: A Poem of Pain
I am "presumptuous" -- and with my brother, "arrogant"
we are the adjective twin of "gentle" blame
of "gentle" wounding, of "gentle" continued "colonization"
constantly in an "unconscious" search for unsuspecting names to attach to,
so that we can remain collectively unconscious of our shadows.
We were born (and are constantly re-born)
from the culturally "unconscious" womb of (even "progressive") white privilege,
with the help of "pre-judgment" the midwife who abhors "decolonization."
And heed this warning: We do NOT like mirrors, because clear mirrors tell
(at an uncomfortable-making non-white-privileged "pace" of needed transformation)
the kind of "decolonization" truths that inconveniently bring to consciousness "well-intentioned" unconscious "Orientalisms,"
("Truths" that could potentially flourish into "Reconciliation" healing--IF allowed mirror-full-ness);
and these kinds of truth make my brother and I really (mostly "unconsciously") uncomfortable,
because we don't resonate with mirrors, with reflection,
'cause rather than truthfully being "set free"
we like to be comfortable in our privilege.
When we, the adjective twin attach ourselves to unsuspecting names
(who expect standards that befit real civility, real nonviolence, real caring)
Mother Earth's mirrors of tearful eyes break in 1,001 pieces of feel-goodist "progressive" self-deception,
that "gently" kill peace--on Earth.
Don't blame us, though,
(and definitely, but "gently" DO silence the wailing sirens of inconvenient awakening)
because we are the adjective twin,
and the "progressive" harm we cause is ever so "gentle" and "well-intentioned," you see?
By: Moji Agha (Mojtaba Aghamohammadi)
Monday, March 26, 2018
Boulder, Colorado
It seems that saucy little girls are rather smitten,
By the playful antics of a cuddly, furry kitten!
Whether she teases it with a tantalizing feather,
Or when they take their afternoon tea together!
The long-suffering kitty must find it hard to understand,
Why it must submit to her every mortifying demand,
'Specially when she places a silly bonnet upon its head!
(It would much prefer that she'd scratch its ears instead!)
She dresses it in a frilly frock and parades it in her pram,
Swaddled in fancy blankets. Oh, what a ridiculous sham!
Most humiliating of all is seeing the inscrutable smirks,
And hearing the catty jibes of alley cats - those ordinary jerks!
She insists that it take tea with a bib tucked 'neath its chin.
For table-mates a chatty doll and scowling bear to its chagrin!
It patiently waits for its bowl of milk to be properly served.
It abhors the many social graces that must be observed!
Though it suffers through the little girl's many dreadful schemes,
It loves to snuggle among her golden curls as she dreams.
It softly purrs in her ear as its little friend goes to sleep,
Making sure that she is safe - only then does it fall asleep!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Punctuality
Punctuality,
Responsibilities friend,
Abhors tardiness.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
1/ 5/ 2008
My brother is an osprey
with an eagle arrogance
And - although he adores a forest
I have the ‘sauce’ on him - he
abhors pine bathroom spray
His eyes are fire opals of mirth
His laughter - the dusk of an
endless Summer heat
His legs - straddle the valley of death
I picture him in a strong canoe paddling through
a river of garden flowers
his spirit rising with swift wings-
and the will to fall
Suzanne Delaney
It's in a turtle soup shop where I'm employed
It's my duty to cook vomit-inducing soup turtle
which no decent human palate could stand;
a horrid job and a salary which is even worse,
an insult to my brilliant overdeveloped mind;
Not to mention the iniquitous schedule,
though there's something much worse:
the appalling uniform which is an insult
to a nonfrivolous mind like mine;
and in no way instrumental in contributing
to social elegance but a pathological attack
on good taste and gumption!
a distorted regurgitation of undigested
food for thought!
A lavender cup with the grotesque company logo!
The unsightly checked fuchsia and gray pants!
And to top it all: a striped khaki and purple poncho!
My odious uniform! Imported from Togo!
A lovely idea had the company's honcho!
An idea that my Togolese friend rejects!
I hug him! I look up to him!
'Cause he abhors both poncho and honcho!
Cripes! Yikes!
Dinner's ready! Yucky turtle soup I shall regurgitate!
HOLY COW! It's Bigfoot, there in the brush
Lower your voices- he's skiddish
Now, hush
I know his habits, I'm privy as hell
An expert and scholar, I've studied him well
While in line at the grocery
For years I've immersed
In various tabloids becoming well versed
I even speak sasquatch
Oh, you don’t believe?!
It's a cross between Latin and baboonanese
His dads a zookeeper, his mothers a chimp
Her name is Chin Chin- his name is Chip
He's a renaissance man
Well at least is half way
The other halves savage in need of a shave
Just stash those cameras he hates paparazzi
And Jack Links commercials
And rappers with posses
He loathes boy bands and people named Josh
And meat from a can
And Spicegirls called Posh
He's against any wars
but supports the troops
And completely abhors
When his fur cakes with poop
detests media bias
mainly FOX NEWS
But believes Bill O'reilly
has interesting views
He enjoys fine wine and deep conversation
Flinging his poo and masturbation
Those would be two of his favorite hobbies
The world calls him Big Foot
His pops calls him Robbie
Each gleaming light shines like a sun
Expanding awesomely in curling fires;
Each cloud forms a grotesque face
A face that knows not its bizarre desires.
We ascend in separate ways toward the sky
To merge the fantasies that form the trance;
We turn our eyes to engage the dream
And find the song that weaves the dance.
The violin throbs with threads of silver
The french horn wails with sobs of gold
And time found notes to knit the music
That was too tenuous to hold.
In the crowd were so many anxious faces
Ready to speak, to smile or frown;
They kept motionless in those quiet places
Where dark sorrows tied them down.
In what new time or space do we yearn
To pace the thousand steps that lead before us;
In what new light or darkness can we turn
Before time ends and darkness abhors us?
The lamp is out, the dream now forgotten
The music has stopped, the candle wastes away;
Through tangled hopes and dreams we passed
To find the place where night meets day.
.
He feels he possesses a high tolerance.
Living side by side
with those he abhors
Tolerating the smells
and the sounds
of those lesser men.
He is of a proud race,
blonde hair blue eyes.
A future master of the world
he bides his time,
tolerating those lesser men.
Smiling, imagining the day
when he will rule.
When he will take
what should already be his.
Fortunately he is a truly tolerant man.
Tolerance of course does have its limits.
Tolerance can only last for so long.
He holds onto his glimmer of hope,
imagining those lesser men hung with rope,
one day their fat turned into soap!
When the time comes a joyous parade,
within a mass grave their bodies laid...
But for now he bides his time,
with tolerance he toasts with wine.
The visions in his head are so sublime
he wants what's theirs, he says "It's mein".
A sad chapter in human history, sadly these men still walk amongst us.
Read my other poem I wrote called "Tolerence" to know my thoughts".
For Debbie's "You say you want a revolution" Poetry Contest.
BLACK: A TRIUMPH WITHOUT FEAR
Black is beautiful but being black: somewhat painful...
Teased and excluded by a state of mind from some fools
Tattered roads are the ways our forefathers trod
as before, skin color other than white isn't cool.
Black for some is a sewn gown that women adore
yet years ago black is the hue, some people deplore
for being black is a ladder near to slavery claws
though hearts- wells of white, still some abhors.
Cotton fields and tobacco leaves these where the work
though toiling good and crops aplenty, still no spark
instead, weeps and wails, the constant gleaming prize.
Black history is a staggering race to hit a mark.
Our forefathers one shout: "Let freedom ring"!
It is the longing ardor, we ever want to sing
Even if there are threats to push Black people down
still, we'll follow the fight of Martin Luther King
Black history is a legacy of winning without fear
a chronicle that ebb 'til today, it never disappears,
'cause racism a changeless present story of you and me,
all around the Earth, not dormant in the atmosphere
__________________________________________________________
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Contest Name: Writings in a Black Perspective.
Placed 1st
© O. E. Guillermo
7:40 pm, March 16, 2015
Unquotable quotes - III
When in Rome, do as the Roman Nero.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the vain and the
insane.
A grenade a day keeps the refugee away.
Cut your coat according to your girth.
The kettle calling the pot back.
Like father, like son; like mother, like neither.
Singing in the rain can get you pain in Spain.
Singing in the rain in Paris can get you chicks who do
the twist with fairies.
A sound heart in a sick body is like a tart groggy with
toddy.
The sun also rises best in the West.
Who said beggars are not choosers: they can choose the
place and moment they beg.
A white tiger abhors orange.
A policeman’s girl always wears handcuffs behind her
back.
A lawyer who licks the back of hands always gets paid
first.
A judge who yells at you tends to reduce the sentence to
a phrase.
Building castles in the air with sand is cheaper by far.
A marathon runner remembers the thighs but not the
laps.
At the end of the day is when you make your greatest
mistake – you go to sleep.
Churn milk to make curd: churn speech to make turd.
Pounding rice as a marriage rite brings no surprise on
the wedding night.
One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard out of a
teetotaller, but it sure signals a dry summer.
Cricketing jargon
The late-cut is the shave you missed out.
The off-cut is the cover drive turned phut.
The leg-pull is the batsman’s bras de fer to the leg
spinner.
The long-stop is the twelth man on the field.
The straight drive pierces the umpire’s reverie.
The full-toss is the fast bowler’s slipped disc.
The ton-up comes after the spin bowlers give up.
The innings defeat is the army beating the retreat.
Test matches end up in ditches for pitches.
A bumper is an un-coded message from the bowler to the
batsman.
A bumper is an overt warning to the inveterate blocker.
Tail-enders get to face the best batsmen all-rounders.
Umpires inspect pitches at the start of a match for coins
dropped by lawn-mowers.
An over-throw is a fielded ball flung by an outfielder at
the umpires and which misses the wickets by miles.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
the swinging swings
of the ups and downs
of the unbalanced scales
of justice now hang stilled
and suspended in bigoted air
anchored by the selfish weight
of the 5th amendment privilege
that remains a death sentence
choice for the defending
underprivileged innocent…
brutalized innocent mortals
whose spiritual morality abhors
death penalty finalization but
whose same moralistic
spiritualization upholds the
thy shall not kill commandment
must likewise demand the unwritten
beatitude of justice for the forgiving
meek consistently brutalized by acts
of non-good samaritan atrocities
chiseled in abject crucifixion on zion
mountains of molded injustices...
today’s waiting and being
of good courage has become
the teasing test of waning time
tic-toting life’s hours of redemptive
realities caged in the belly bowels
of a seemingly abandoned noah-like
arch sailing a treacherous sea of hell
with sour flowing tears from bitter eyes
stayed on the prize of promised equality
we still sing sweet amazing grace songs
applauding the coming resurrection
of our declared redemptive liberation
for like those of moses out of africa
we are the new exodus people sojourning
the shadowed valley of death with undying
faith in the promise of that beautiful morning
when time breaks up in eternity setting god’s
beloved hued children free at last…
French Revolution
and the heads that rolled,
did not get old,
just crimson in the barrel,
revolution warmed, Napolean dawned,
Europe burned in bloody hell...
The slaughter of war that man abhors
the French had their turn in the barrel,
they suffered a hundred years later, in the great world wars,
the balance sheet parallel….
Don Johnson
Inspired by John Smith
So, I'm told I have 100 billion neurons
(by someone ignorant of youth's indiscretions)
each with about a thousand synapses,
to connect its own specific grandeur or fear
to a grand of other neurons and their neuroses
and all of these cadre's and feeling tentacles
are always moving - reaching - searching,
for input and an interested listener
for minute sparks of insights they may have,
maybe a few a second, and over the course of time
they begin to add up - these datum of days
Significant amounts of minutia and marvels
in my minute-to-day-to-decade-to-lifetime
collection of me, in my own Icloud of inputs
what more could a sentient mind want but
a spoonful of sugar, and some free radicals
to really open up the ol' data pipes
BIG data, is what life's all about
these days, of statistical medians and means,
trying always to crunch our cramponed boots
to the top of the standard deviation curve
and look out at all the rest of
experience below us, our own vista of life
Racks of digitals softly hum to us in our society
and like us, this evolution (perhaps) of life
abhors to throw anything back to the world
without gleaning profit or meaning from it,
no digital potato peels or binary bones tossed
without a specific mission statement satisfied
So, it's not so different today, in "modern" times
as it was back then, when chain-mailed or toga'd
or animal skinned, or just buck-naked, we took
in everything that we could as individuals,
and stored its meaning, its grief, its joy,
part of our memories stock-in-trade for
the core analytical questions of "what?" and "why?"
© Goode Guy 2012-11-16
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_data