Best Accost Poems
Shaken birds shrill cry across darkened sky,
Awaken to the biting cold wind howls.
Taken by flash of lighting pulsing heart,
Forsaken stretch of night as thunder scowls.
Lost in the darkness, of pounding chill rain,
Tossed round from the flicker of leaves and trees.
Accost the meager unvarying light.
Frost thins to a slight glimmer quick to seize.
6/21/2021
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O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me
There are those engaged in pedagogy
To facilitate the drip... drip... drip
Of poison to accost a child's ear.
Maneuvering with glee and juicy decadence...
Sequestering all they say and hear.
Filled with righteous indignation
And a blind sanctification to their cause.
They pervert both judge and jury...
Twisting truth with sainted claws.
Under a veil of woeful ignorance...
They molest and kink impeccant minds.
When pressed to divulge their scribblings...
They graciously decline.
'You've not the right!' They blindly scream.
'Your fear and doubt is blatantly absurd.
We are gentle shepherds of our flock...
But you'll just have to take our word.'
For far too long we've abdicated our
Responsibility to these purveyors of disruption.
As they've repackaged long failed ideologies...
Fattening our children for destruction.
Nothing good comes from darkness
Except mushrooms and a willingness to deceive.
And proselytizing children like some fungi...
Seems unnecessarily naive.
These predators, race-baiters and gangsters
Are akin to an unruly cockroach in the night.
They happily go about their sordid business
Till someone dares to shine a light.
If you refuse to rise and shine that light...
Then we be back where this began.
But there are still foxes in the chicken-coop...
There be wolves among the lambs.
The End
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's your uncle
*Pedagogy: -the principles and methods of instruction.
-the activities of teaching.
The flush of spring has bought new life to romp in greening feed,
along the border with the forest where domestic flocks do breed.
Managed through the daylight by the fear of being seen,
the sentinels of death await for night when they are keen.
Though distant lights may glow as beacons for the lost,
guerrilla’s stream out silently in pack form to accost,
and satisfy their lust for blood without no grace or fear,
frustrating yet the hand of man. By dawn they disappear.
Far reaching eyes in anger lies where wilderness is dense,
I know my soul is being watched beyond the border fence,
locked into disappointment where flies gather at my feet;
There’s blood-stained wool on rotting flesh, with no thought to eat.
Immediate is my judgment for no trial is needed here,
I am the executor of the guilty, who dare to wander near.
Survival is the wisdom tho’ for the wily streetwise cur,
the frenzy’s not in pattern! It’s too late for where they were.
The night is cold and lonely with the urge for needed sleep,
but as the shepherd of my flock I must protect my sheep.
A pack will form again when blood is dry and lost its scent;
Until the last sheep drops their guard, no dog shall here repent.
The lead appeared Alsatian bounding surprised in its flight,
for its escape back to the bush in my sudden cheating light.
The echo of my three-o-three thundered through the hills,
with-in the change of retrospect. ‘Tis I who wants the kills.
Death took a holiday tonight where death was meant to be,
my shot was high or wide or low, ‘twas more shadow I could see.
Silence returned and in my light that scanned the field and scrub,
I knew that I was being watched, beyond a woodland shrub.
Thoughts of you accost my mind
leave me trembling, naked, blind
to all else except your face
and those lips I long to trace
thoughts of you accost my heart
and the beats go off the chart
all the surge of passion pounds
and my wanting need expounds
Thoughts of you accost my soul
baring not part, but the whole
every dream thus naked lies
in the gaze of wanting eyes
thoughts of you accost my thighs
make my breath escape in sighs
each one makes love to my core
and I beg for more and more
thoughts of you accost my time
turn the mundane to sublime
turn the dreary into fine
thoughts of you: my sweetest rhyme
Eileen Manassian
A sand-dune says to the wind that moves
Softly, passing him-by:
''Take me with thee, through valleys and groves
Whence birds frolick and fly;
Deep into a land of rain and snow,
Is where I'd rather go,
For this place holds no charm and I say,
I'm wont to fly away...''
Hearing which, the whirl-wind lifts
Herself to swiftly glide,
Whilst in fear, the sand-dune shifts,
Seeking somewhere to hide:
But before another gust, like a child feeling quite lost,
Is strewn about the sullen land by the one he did accost....
What Matters…
What Matters Most…
… is Real Laughter
Not Lurid Echoes
Not Just To – Gather
But Staying Close
And Less Clatter-Chatter
Less Lies and Boasts
More Sweet Pitter-Patter
On Calm-Home – Coasts
… And Strong Rafters
And Stronger Posts
Preventive Measures
For Unneeded Dose
And When Bad Guys Scatter
‘Cause Good Guys Accost
… So, Need More Lone Rangers
… Less Alter Egos
And Real Treasure
Not Trinket Woes…
Real Pleasure
Not Powder – Rows
Peace and A Cracker
Than Quarrels and Pot Roast
And To Know Better
… Than To Just Suppose
… Happily Ever-After
Not Lost Co-Host
And When Love Shatters
Hate’s Glass-Frost…
… And A Holy Helper
For Human – Uh-Oh’s !...
That’s What Matters…
… What Matters Most …
I was a runner
fleeing from homespun horrors that
wrapped around my delicacy like a tourniquet
Only a child attempting to bestir
the warrior dormant within;
having no idea the enthrallment
she reveled in,
I learned to accost my demons
Nigh, even at the wide-eyed age of eight,
scarred
shattered
broken
I found, in a hand-crafted cardboard crate,
my only chance at freedom
Every Saturday I'd sneak away
to my makeshift universe
that gave life to dreams unspoken --
I would crouch and crawl
through thorn-encrusted branches
enclosed in a thicket,
sunbeams cutting into the tangles
alighting my face, piercing my eyes
The oceans breath
cascaded over the brush,
and everything, suppressed,
would fall into a hush
until I breached the winding path
Amongst the jungle of weeds/rose garlanded structures,
high above the jagged rocks
and wide open mouth of the watery abyss,
my hideaway centered --
flimsy cardboard walls,
brightly painted bold brazen symbols protecting all who entered,
tightly sealed with an invisible lock
opening only when voices of forgotten children fluttered through the air
I'd stand silent beneath the incandescent sky,
for just a moment,
breathing deep the silken salty breeze
and thrust my arms out to the sides
like the seagulls hovering over the loud, fathomless cavern of the sea,
Losing myself in the mist
There, watch, the clouds part and light shafts blackest night
particles of doss drift through a ray of white.
Ah, revelation unasked for, and unwanted,
coming endlessly unasked, and never daunted.
I see the bitter blight of man's neglect lay
upon the once fertile field of summer hay.
I see a mighty ocean writhe and foam, die
and n'er a voice is lifted, n'er an angry cry.
I see children put their parents out to die
and parents who accost their children with lies.
Ah, revelation unasked for, and unwanted,
coming endlessly unasked, never daunted.
In low tones we chatted
On the steps to her porch,
We talked of the decades
Since I’d carried her torch—
Of love we knew nothing
During young naïve years
Of kissing and fondling
‘Til I left her in tears,
For the navy enticed
With ships and adventure:
I sailed away keenly
Aware that I missed her,
Each ivory cloud roiling
I watched sculpt her face,
And the foam in ships’ wakes
Emulated her grace.
How her leer glowered down
With each floozy I’d bed;
Her glare did accost me
From the face that I wed.
But that marriage was fey,
On a short vine it died:
I had loved only once
So to find her I tried:
Thus we sat on those steps
Last night swapping stories,
We confessed of our lives,
Our failures and glories …
And the kiss that welled up
While lightning bugs popped,
Led haltingly bedside
Where our slack clothing dropped.
We then gripped and embraced
Through a torrent of mirth—
Time relented at last
And our love found rebirth.
October 22, 2016
1st place: Long Distance Love Contest/October 19, 2016
For 1st Place Only Poetry Contest
Laura Loo
The shrouds of clouds slim whim accost the sun —
The phat and fat, ruddy red and horizon muddy one.
Underscore of wavy grass, a sea of bees, life’s core.
A hiss of bliss, a slap, a tap of tippy-toe on crazy shore.
The forest rests on the pregnant breast of the fireball.
The teasing test of wheezing labor on a neighbor’s shawl.
The quake of vermillion beads, the wake of creation’s seeds.
No weeds in rebirth, the girth of bittersweet tease, broken water bleeds.
Crusty-Winter’s crossed. Trim sails from rusty nails and splinter’s cross.
Behold the boast from coast to coast, warm the cold, the lost.
10/4/2018
Battle XI/Sponsor - Juli-Michelle
Life means I can talk to my friends and others,
When the untravelled sea fills with brothers,
Pleasure rushes the uninhabited areas we just don't sail,
And when we semiotically emit our meaning, we will prevail;
Freedom rings with resonance resounding and pervasive,
No need for more traditional others to be abrasive,
No bears or wolves, no chides, jibes, and no probes obtrusive,
Your identity is your construct, your speech is conclusive.
And my books! Alas my books. They proffer so such contentment,
A breadth of knowledge with no suggestions delinquent,
Nor are there any accusers to accost,
My mind and spirit which upon some can be lost,
Possibilities endless, bringing depth of character,
They glint and glide, swimming in grammar;
Multiple amounts of information councel my hesitation,
Brimming particulars restrain inhibition.
But oh my computer: How elegant is she!
Believing in my easy registrations as well as my errors to be;
Such possibilities, moulded so neatly into my space,
Without the communal glare of uniformity’s trace;
Personalised desktop, memory and input method,
It accepts me unquestioned with no staff or flogging rod;
I program to set the user interface alight,
With the functionality and procedures of the user’s plight.
However, I can also give myself my own system,
Personal software from my own inclination;
Knowing some designers do not have in hand,
The shortcuts that only I seem to understand;
A software engineer’s god complex should not surface,
The digital space is a privilege to influence, place;
I love determining the screen and its sounds,
Where freedom of knowledge and data abound.
But the gift of poetry delights and ignites,
Hurtful regressions lull in its sight;
Its credibility only ever stoops to concede,
That only your introversion may expression impede;
Language caressed, dignity nursed,
You never need to be at all reimbursed;
Its haters are silent for fear of rebuke,
As truth, imagination and love are its hook.
I watch as roaring winds accost
withered leaves that would soon be lost.
Branches, once laden green, beware ~
November will strip your limbs bare.
Your clothes swept to the muck and mire,
raked onto their funeral pyre.
Wet from drizzling rain, they are tossed,
weeping, as if they had been glossed.
A windswept death does not seem fair.
It fills me with grief and despair.
I would raise them up high...higher,
each leaf escaping flames of fire.
No headstone with name 'Leaf' embossed,
etched with November's snow and frost.
Fallen leaves have no Winter lair,
no warm warren as does the hare.
If Nature could somehow transpire
to save them, 'twould be my desire.
November 29, 2020
William Kekaula's Lay November Contest
checked with HMS
This manifestation of colour that springs from a genome , eternal, nourished, weathered and fashioned by a dyadic fornication cradled in time.
A pigment of hues in an utterance of undertoned, ubiquitous discourses, leaves an impression of stereotype and a plethora of lasting self fulfilling prophecies.
Eyes of blue, green, grey, brown and black see a world in chaos from within the dark, see a postcode lottery determine who lives in peace and who’s under attack.
Born from this colossal chaos are children of men, pure beating hearts that know no colour, that know no attack and are born of wonder. Little beating souls, Tabula rasa’s cleansed from the outset by a Nature's nurture and positioned by fate to their eternal mother. LOVE, love is the battle cry of the ages, But Race, creed and colour, somehow becomes loves significant other.
To breathe is to live and to live is to be, but how can one be if their colour determines, fashions and moulds their destiny
This heightened hierarchy, Noble, dynastic and imperial accost the paupers and protect the privileged. This blend of white creates a world of grey just another spectrum added to this Strata’d state of play.
For no colour will protrude into my life for they tried to make it black and white, yet may they see the four seasons come, may they take back and change what they have done in return, for a speedy recovery of an illness yet unknown, as its no longer children who are above their throne. Can they take on their challenges and reveal their day, can they take away their loneliness and their dismay, from this magnanimous world that is diluted with hate, where its profits before margins, it's no social state.
I Slept with a Female Mosquito – part IV
I have gone gnats!
My residual blood is boiling and bubbling
Whole frame sweltering and shuddering
Discolored rage – lend me some wrath
Should I or should I not,
Read her the riot act?
Does she know me any well –
A P.S now; been senator
Been governor, been chief, been prompt
In every cabinet
A minister here, a commissioner there
A chairman here, a spokesman there
A director here, Acting vice president
Do you know the cost of my person?
To accost fester and feast!
Madam Ambassador, speak for your people
The swarm is listening, whiz
That’s the envoy’s mark, man
Unswerving agenda, schemata
Trade, communiqué, summit, matrimony, prospects
Bilateral rep, the diplomatic proxy
Speak for them, gnat
State your mission, miss.