Best Accoutrements Poems
Do you sometimes see a Zulu Warrior
Staring back from the mirror in the morning!
A nasty fierce looking bad tempered dude
Obscenities flying out without warning
Crabbing bout having to make a living
But enjoying all the many accoutrements
If it wasn't that, it'd be something else
People just love to complain and vent
A shower and shave, you're almost human
Not one person will ever suspect
That a member of the Zulu Warriors tribe
Was a coworker of great respect
Do you sometimes see a Zulu Warrior
Staring back from the mirror in the morning!
© Jack Ellison 2012
veils escape the province of the sea
like sea lions bouncing balls
presenting their accoutrements.
the silken fare, in the center of the square -
everyone sees the princely dyes.
off to the side, a nun, on her knees
tying shoes, wiping tears with her scapular,
the forlorn child formless and empty, like the earth
in the beginning, until God said, “Let there be light.”
Dorothea, a gift of God, reveals that glory
unseen, untouched by the ladies of the night.
the child swaddled in the nun’s habit, like an embryo -
she hears the mothering heartbeat — as if the ocean,
clear as glass, showed off its icons broadway style.
the child overwhelmed, has no name
for the empirical pounding in her chest.
Sister David they would call her in the penguin house,
a woman after God’s heart, but Dorothea herself
made the covenant.
the veils like clouds swirl all around
in a seaside mist, the dustbowl urn,
“ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”
her mother’s breasts like a harbor
to the seamen, so many of them —
did her father arrive with the rest?
she would never know,
but of this she did — this gift of God
looked into her spindly eyes, made
her habit a boat that sailed far far away
to an island that would shine all day.
children of the silken winds,
battered by retreating shore
found solace together, overrun
by the habits of nuns, with
hands that soothe and discipline,
teach that the flipside of the beach
has warmth and a perfect soulmate.
Be she a fiddler, a thief, or kind —
Dorothea has saved girls’ lives.
5/19/2020
NUN POETRY CONTEST
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Our snowmen, they're not made of white.
They're tumbleweeds, rolled up tight.
No top hat upon his head,
a cowboy hat sits there instead.
His face and buttons, tree ornaments,
boots and lariat, his accoutrements.
Saguaro cacti with lights wrapped 'round,
illuminate the landscaped grounds.
Old horse drawn wagons get a festive touch,
with lighted garland, packages and such.
Porch rails glow with colored lights,
Christmas trees in windows, warm the nights.
Our little town gets all decked out,
then we gather along the parade route.
Folks on horseback with ribbons and bells,
the horses know that old route well.
Marching school band play Christmas songs,
trucks and tractors carry carolers along.
Floats abound from businesses and groups,
braving the cold, the Christmas cowboys troop.
We all stand up to clap and cheer,
as Santa, as usual, brings up the rear.
Waving his red cowboy hat, in a horse drawn sleigh,
Welcoming Christmas, The Wickenburg way.
The eyes fit into little holes;
The nose, ears, mouth do, too.
Of course, you have some choices
But not more than just a few.
The parts are made of plastic
Though way back in my own youth,
The body was a real potato -
That's the doggone truth.
The toy came with accoutrements -
Each pointed, like a stud,
Which you stuck with wild abandon
Into any uncooked spud.
I told this to my grandkids' mom
Who, when her own mom spoke
Of using a potato, she
Assumed it was a joke.
But creativity was once
So simple, we've forgotten.
The only drawback was
Our masterpiece, at times, went rotten.
Die Lorelei by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)- Translated by T. Wignesan
For Regina von Degenfeld at Waibstadt
-in respect and unending sufferance-
(Heine, a German Jewish lyrical and satiric poet, journalist and critic,
settled in Paris from 1831 where he married Eugénie Mirat, an unsophisticated shop-assistant which earned him ostracism and dispossession from his family and fellows, but he made her his only heir on the condition that she re-married so that at least one person would regret his passing. In 1858, he was hobbled for life by spinal paralysis.)
Ich weiss nicht , was soll es bedeuten,
Nonplussed am I, what could it signify
Dass ich so traurig bin;
Plunged as I am in such a dejected mood
Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,
A fairy tale from times gone by,
Dass kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
In thraldom wrapped forever to brood
Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,
Soft the cool wind buffets as the day beds down
Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein;
And ripple free courses the Rhein
Der Gïpfel des Berges funkelt
Mountain summit lights scintillate crown
Im Abendsonnenschein.
Divine in sunset shine
Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Exquisite maiden perched is she
Dort oben wunderbar,
On high there resplendent
Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,
Her golden accoutrements sparkle free
Sie kämmt ihr goldnes Haar.
As golden tresses combs she concupiscente
Sie kämmt es mit goldnem Kamme,
Flaxen tresses combs she with a golden comb
Und singt ein Lied dabei;
While luring strains her lips release in lyrical glee
Das hat eine wundersame,
Tinged in a soothing tuneful hum
Gewaltige Melodie.
Mighty stirring melody
Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe
The rower in his narrow boat
Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Seized is he with bewildering pain
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,
Oblivious is he of the Rock’s craggy grotte
Erschaut nur hinauf in die Höh’.
His eyes remain fixed high above the narrow main
Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen
I believe the waves did submerge
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;
In the end both boatman and rowing boat
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen
And the deed did with her singing merge
Die Lorelei getan.
That Lorelei had wrought.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, January 23, 2021
An Ode to the Necessity of Seduction
She had been primping, preparing,
for these moments of beguilement.
Groomed, long before she began to
blossom, reach her time of coming out.
Always possessing the accoutrements
of beauty yet unable to truly fulfill them,
growing into the subtleties, the nuances,
of her awakening without understanding.
So it was she changed from tantalizer,
to temptress, to seductress. Drew to
her that which she desired, took what
she craved to satisfy her needs, to
further the continuation of her beauty,
to intermingle her unique scent
into the legends of seductions lore.
Drawn to her as if in trance-like dance
they came. Each seeking her approval,
her acceptance, the opening of her
ever ripening petals, her willingness
to continue her seduction.
She would, in time, reach fullness,
and succumb, willingly embracing
the gentle touch, the erotic intrusion,
the fulfillment of her season. She
would be no less beautiful only more
complete, knowing that the lovers drawn
to her iridescent center had been seduced
so that seduction’s beauty might endure.
submitted for The Heart of Seduction – poetry Contest
10/2/2014
Mom gave me it.
A last moment thing,
as if I gave a flit
about silly customs.
Yet, for my daughter
it's preserved... ****!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nancy Jones
POEM OF COMPRESSION
9/23/13
Hospital times commonsense
Commonsense comes of age during hospital times
To trip on innocuous looking lapses and come up with questions
Road signs stand for visitors, locals have no need of them
So the ambulance man notices one to seek directions from
Not to have noticed it so far was not my fault
Not to have divined as much was not his, no doubt.
But not to have properly known my neighbour was mine
For he works and matters in the hospital I am in
Parking lots cheat , vacant spaces you eye from a distance
Transforms into three cars in as many seconds
Short of cash, this old woman is asking for a loan
I remember, the one I see on my morning walks alone
Another mother in the ICU has no use for frills
Her two sons squabbling on the question of sharing bills
Take her home to die is the younger one’s demand
The scrooge is drunk beyond stupid is what you slowly find
Cost of tests and tablets are just fringe accoutrements
The bill for their groundswell of goodwill is what in the end counts.
By S.Jagathsimhan Nair
For Giorio's 'Impress me-4'
Motif: Philosophical.
Say a kind word to your husband
That's what he wants most of all
Not a gaggle of gifts for his birthday
You don't have to buy out the mall
Compliment him on his appearance
Or say that you appreciate his perseverance
Tell him it makes you happy he's so tidy and neat
That in the house he puts slippers on his feet
Let him know that he's magic for your son
That he's turned him into a real gentleman
Point out just how much his daughter loves him
That she tells you only God is above him
So forget all the knick-knacks and accoutrements
Hubby thrives on kind words and encouragement
The Accoutrements of Knowledge
The accoutrements of knowledge
had crept into his life, overtaking it.
No more did he sit and think,
idly allowing nuance to shade gray
the black and white of learning’s
playful inconsistencies. Old books,
manuals, manuscripts, texts,
subscribed to journals, cluttered
his encroaching space. Old thoughts,
ideas, dreams, brainstorms and brain-farts,
waited – holding numbers – lost in
the labyrinth of slumbering genius.
The need to learn, the drive to succeed,
had seduced him, lured him into the
netherworld of concrete minds,
set in their ways, confident of
their credos. This hell of blindly
accepted dictates emanating from
a “think” tank, this babbling of banal
benediction, this forced worship
of the mindless by the thoughtless
had dimmed the beauty of the sunrise,
muted the music of the spheres,
closed the eyes of the seekers,
pulling the wool of doubt over them.
So he left the trappings of the pedagogues,
fled the archways of academia,
sought a clear and simple thought -
An endeavor not unlike the search
for an honest man. His goal was not
to think but to experience thought,
not to memorize the dance steps
but to experience dancing.
They said that he had “burnt out”,
lost his focus, succumbed to the stress.
Now free of the encumbrance of the
accoutrements of knowledge, he was
free again to seek, to follow, to be
conscious of the sound of his heartbeat,
the rhythmic surge of his pulse,
the shimmering glow of a dappled sunrise.
He would learn from all about him,
study the art of the mud daubers,
the construction of the beavers,
listen to the songs of the lark and sparrow,
answer the call of the coyotes,
taste the bliss of the bee hive honey.
He learned – no books can teach you
the scent of dew damp grass at dawn,
nor recreate the harrumphing solo
of the lead bullfrog. Nor could they
explain how the dragonflies dance
varies from the butterflies ballet.
And so he thought. How and why
had he constructed a barrier of
knowledge that frustrated his
search for anything else?
1/24/2015
submitted to – Any Poem Written in the Year 2015
sponsor – Laura Loo
Inspired by Syed Wakil Ahmed
by Michaelw1two
Blissful peace; verses instability, violence, and disorder,
harmonious relations intervene, wicked minded interloper;
world's jactation spreads, amidst deflexion by war's aper,
segmentation of life hosts, exemplifies mind's distemper.
Grant control, rein heart's pride, control vice's constraints,
seek to follow mystery clear, don accoutrements of saints;
grope no words in death's fervor, thirst of living queint,
drink deep of past relations, in minds of men reacquaint.
Feed fulfillments probable, dream vivid vision's expectation,
shout in soul the glorious tune, salvation, life’s elation;
emulate will of peace, reach higher for mental causation,
trust in seed that breeds deeds, rekindle love's foundations.
Sense in conduct moral thought, alter minds of wicked men,
guide wayward souls to bold goals, as now a change begins;
speech enthralls troubled hearts, ear words heard so bends,
gatherings wide end madness' strife; pure light now descends.
Aware in individual power, changes grant being's eternity,
fully fight, in battles smite, modern fascist's amorality;
peace is earned in generous sums, defeat for wars duopoly,
relationship of mind and soul, bests corporate monopoly.
January 2010
Nestled deep in the tawny, drab woodland
Sedate cottage neither haughty nor grand
Sparse hovel of unassuming, itinerant brigand
Martial decor of detached highwayman starkly bland
The etched path sculpted by intemperate hand
No manicured garden on the scrubby strand
Briers and brambles errant straggler must withstand
Thatched clapboards stable his stallion firebrand
Unruly swine garnish acorns from scraggly wasteland
Buried deep in his cellar pilfered contraband
Per chance drifter did the terrain assay
And chose that toilsome, forsaken way
A spartan welcome hauteur did convey
No lodgings, accoutrements could sway
If for grace, mercy they did pray
Only a cold shoulder he did relay
If they tested his temperance and sued for trite parley
He reconnoitered their belongings through wordplay
If no net value they were beguiled to betray
Their worthless lives he did indignantly slay
His day began with "Reveille" blaring from within the bowels of the ship.
Sergeants yelled, "Up and at 'em lads! We're takin' a little trip!"
He wearily arose from his bunk to don the accoutrements of war.
He'd survived Guadalcanal, now he faced Iwo Jima's fearsome shore.
They fed him steak and eggs - rookies joked that it may be their final meal.
But the battle-weary Marine was very grim - to him it seemed so surreal.
The chaplain gathered them around and offered a fervent prayer,
Pleading for God's protection and committing them to His care.
The grizzled old "Gunny" yelled, "First platoon over the side!"
"Down those lovely cargo nets, boys! Semper Fi!" he cried!
Bobbing Higgins boats waited below to take him to that perilous strand.
The engines roared as the boat wallowed and rolled t'ward that ebon sand!
He hunkered down with the others, his helmet beating upon his nose.
Others used their helmets to receive bits of breakfast as the boat sank and rose!
Adding to the din of battle so familiar to his ears were shells flying overhead.
As his boat with its precious cargo neared the beach it was hit by zinging lead!
The boat struck a coral reef so they had to wade in water up to their hips.
He struggled with his heavy pack and rifle with a prayer upon his lips.
Brave men fell under withering fire that day as they tried to force a breach.
Brave men forever lost their innocence that day on that hallowed beach!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I am in all a moderate man, a noted country gentleman'
with all the accoutrements, a house, a farm and gout.
My politics are not extreme, I'm reasonably devout.
I have my peccadillos but they barely warrant mention.
To hide my light beneath a bushel I've never felt an urge.
In one particular virtue I feel a measure of pride.
Judge after I have put my case if I'm not justified.
Temperance is my virtue. I draw back from the verge.
Excess I shun as ‘twere the pox. Revels I'll have none,
for eating much and drinking much are folly's requisite.
At the vicarage and the manor I am noted for my wit.
No local scandals I invite. London's there for fun.
Here on my farm, my little world, there reigns a blissful peace.
Bumpkins and commoners alike still hail me as the Squire.
Come end of day, I'll sip my port, roast chestnuts by the fire.
Was that the braying of an ass or the cackle of my geese?
When Walpole steered the ship of state how happily we plied!
No foreign broils or riotous mobs then then sapped the nation's wealth.
Complacent Whigs and good King George sustained our common heath,
but now dark clouds have gathered and adverse is the tide.
I thank my Maker day by day for being richly blessed,
yet feel no little pang and twinge when I think upon the poor.
Much more could be done for them, of that I am quite sure.
To help me get to sleep at night a jug of stout is best.
In days done by I did aspire to turn men's hearts to good.
So great the world and I so small, unequal to the task.
Should risking all have aught effect? respectfully I ask
and thereby serve the greater world ? I don't see how it could.