Best Acutely Poems
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
The scorpions creeping out from words slowly, acutely framing
where judgement claims the higher position unconditionally
lone vulture hanging over its unsuspecting prey ready to pounce
once so blind ambitions reverberates back as unqualified honours least deserved
Pompous narcissistic elements with nonsensical fruitless talent
held within egotism where fools of choice becomes one’s ability
under total admiration publicly declared in lonely self-centeredness
becomes a sterile reflection back to oneself blinded by arrogance
As friends become nemesis’s unnamed obstacles of your vainglorious rise
Sounding echos reverberates a never ending recording of undeserving self-pride
knowing more than all of what is right claiming the false prize for me, me, me
It matters not that lonely superiority must accept the great divide
False praise their claims attention that inflames your senses unjustly wise
crying regrets a prize is a prize nothing to be gained under the sun or moon
striving after winds have blown a gale force within hidden torment
the wreckage that's left after such destruction can only be found wanting
a co written piece in unrhymed quatrains by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
three incisor teeth burst through fresh flesh...
opaque as pearls, strong as love, precious
beautiful baby babbles assertively
mesmerized by mishmash sounds
that her astounding mouth can make
prose poetry in its practice
as canines erupt, she moans from the ache
teeter-tottering restless to repress pain
speedily advancing in substantial strength
distracted by oblivious destructiveness
a significant stepping stone approaches
as a capable kindergarten adult
she wiggles loose her first baby tooth
receives a rich reward from a fantasy fairy
more teeth disappear like pressed piano keys
then return acutely out of tune
braces displace awkward half grins
an investment of finances and adolescence
unstoppable with seducing sweets
she sneaks cuddly candy under covers
falling asleep with sugar plum dreams
not counting a few costly cavities
free-spirited, experimental teen
meets Christina on the street
samples compelling quartz crystal
returns for seconds, as someone else disguised
mesmerized by mishmash sounds
that her astounding mouth can make
speedily advancing in substantial strength
she lucently levitates to a loftier place
a magnificent mind babbles assertively
sweeping the streets of pixie dust
no need to eat or sleep
like a firefly in heat, she dances frantically
teeter-tottering restless to repress pain
distracted by oblivious destructiveness
she visualizes voices that vivify the way
to the day's salacious survival guide
prismic vision's shimmers no longer satisfy
cotton candy granules' sweetness subsides
coming down from kaleidoscopic clouds
half-awake, she moans from the ache
shrill shrieks portray poetry's unspoken pain
death's drab projection is her heartless reflection
hocking heirlooms to trade for a transient thrill
a despondent inhabitant of tragedy
creepy crawlers invade every inch of skin
her thin figure balances a skull's shadow
irretrievable, ill-treated teeth crumble
like the city's plundered storefront windows
filthy, for granted, forlorn, fast-fading
...three feeble canine teeth remain
10-8-2023
It was getting dark
And they still hadn't reached
Then suddenly the brakes screeched
And on the side of the road they parked
They were acutely aware
That they were in the middle of nowhere
As they looked at the map
They found their mistake
instead of turning left a right they did make
So they doubled back to fill in the gap
Then just down the road
They saw an old house
It was shuttered and closed
And probably had its own ghost
But they were hungry and tired
And with nowhere else in sight
They decided to spend the night
As they entered the house, everything seemed alright
But that was the last time they'd ever be seen
The old hag that lived there was a killing machine
A graveyard of cars by an old rusty gate
Told the story of those who had met the same fate
They had made the mistake of entering an abode
That was in the middle of nowhere, and just down the road
The scorpions creeping out from words slowly, acutely framing
where judgement claims the higher position unconditionally
lone vulture hanging over its unsuspecting prey ready to pounce
once so blind ambitions reverberates back as unqualified honours least deserved
Pompous narcissistic elements with nonsensical fruitless talent
held within egotism where fools of choice becomes one’s ability
under total admiration publicly declared in lonely self-centeredness
becomes a sterile reflection back to oneself blinded by arrogance
As friends become nemesis’s unnamed obstacles of your vainglorious rise
Sounding echos reverberates a never ending recording of undeserving self-pride
knowing more than all of what is right claiming the false prize for me, me, me
It matters not that lonely superiority must accept the great divide
False praise their claims attention that inflames your senses unjustly wise
crying regrets a prize is a prize nothing to be gained under the sun or moon
striving after winds have blown a gale force within hidden torment
the wreckage that's left after such destruction can only be found wanting
a co written piece in unrhymed quatrains by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.
I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.
Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.
Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.
Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?
I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.
It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.
But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.
Little Johnny came home from school with a bellyache
Naturally Mom feared the most recent local outbreak
Johnnie thankfully had no fever, she suspected it might be a fake
But strange and most bizarre Johnnie had no appetite for steak
Or even for his ultimate favourite strawberry shortcake
The next morning Johnnie barely could awake
Didn’t want to go to school because of a backache
Mom thought the cure might just be a nice big pancake
Or maybe the warm chocolate muffins that she’d bake
But Johnnie just wanted to curl up with his pet rattlesnake
In the afternoon, when Little Johnny mentioned a toothache
Mom reached for the thermometer in case the first time was a mistake
She sent Johnnie for a nap and sat pensive as she took her coffee break
Out the window she saw askew the mounds of leaves to rake
She got up and tiptoed up the stairs to see what was at stake
She found Johnny pouting wide-eyed and awake
As she extended to him a warm loving handshake
In her heart she felt a sudden jolt of earthquake
Poor Little Johnny was growing up at double take
And suffering acutely from his very first heartbreak
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 22, 2018
I think, and you speak my thoughts completely.
Wherein lies truth, if when I die, I lose myself.
My thought and deed lying fallow in decaying tissue.
So I write to save me.
You are in every thought, every deed,
every movement that I make.
You complete me.
When I awake, the first breath that
I take is to exhale a sigh of relief.
You are still by my side.
My soul belongs to God, but my essence
lies in the intangible.
In a form acutely digestible----
to be cussed and discussed.
In discourse, to be thoroughly scrutinized,
labeled and passed on.
The song is rewrit time and time again
and the note of passion sounds
as now within me seething----flowing over.
It dances on the grass
as nymphs in springtime forests.
I close one eye and look at truth
as the side of a coin standing mute.
I look at life spinning, good—bad—good.
But who decides bad- - - good?
The spinning coin has a solid center
which we perceive as real.
The spinning word has the same illusion- - -
we have but to interpret as we see.
Life goes on, after the thrill is gone, but
the thrill goes on as long as we are not alone.
Riding alone along a path
that runs parallel, north and south
Alongside the Lehigh River
I became acutely aware
of the beautiful surroundings
As they sped pass me on both sides.
As I pedaled along, the ghosts
of yesteryears took possession
of my mind and began to speak
in unspoken telepathy.
“you picked wildflowers on this path;
remember the white campions
you picked for your girlfriend Alice?
And coming up on your right, there!
that very large sycamore tree
where you once climbed it, showing off
for Alice, fell and broke your arm.
Remember? Sure you do, Albee.
And there! Coming up on your left
that special place near that cove,
remember what took place in there?
You both lost your virginity.
Remember the disappointment
the two of you felt afterwards?”
Near the completion of the ride
the phantoms relinquished my thoughts
and all those recent memories
vanished until some later day.
There was an ardent cowboy named Redd
Who wed a city girl beyond his spread.
They were a good match ’twas believed
Except she was acutely aggrieved
To discover that Redd wore spurs to bed.
I wonder if I’m the only one
who smells the fetidness
of dead daylilies,
carrion that lies concealed
off the beaten path.
Could it be my preoccupation with death lately?
Reviewing my will, perusing my prepaid
funeral expenses and life insurance,
that have acutely enhanced
my sense of smell for the morbidities
of death.
It’s not a pleasant state of mind
to live with and act unconcerned
concerning the inevitable conqueror worm.
~*~
earnestly sitting with the crowd
cogitating acutely for the uncharted answers
delineating each word issued and registered from my brain neurons
leave no spaces and blanks
analyzed and canvased every facet and item I wrote
stood up with ample confidence with myself
walked along the path between files of people
passed my paper
expecting to get the perfect and highest score
then,kabloooom! an "egg" for the nth time
directions not followed
but then,answers were all correct
=====================================================
A Day with My Barber
First he overcharged me the cut ‘fare’
As a fine for shaving my greying hair
Then I learned his screwball motive;
“Growin’ more grey I’d like you to fear
“Appreciate me for bein’ proactive!”
Then came a fellow with a shiny bald
Barber’s humour was impiously bold
“I’ll fine ya for blindin’ ma stare!”
When he implored “discount my mould
“Here abounds a shiny desert bare.”
A pin-ball head in he happily strolled
With ‘blob’ acutely small for a man old.
A fat discount I hoped for the wretch.
As usual, Barber was loud and bold:
“Double for time wasted in search!”
Big knob with the shape of a lollipop
Poised on a thin neck like it will drop.
He scanned the “hydrocephalus” chap.
I guessed his mammon would flop.
“Ma blades. More fro’ ya I must reap!”
Boy so young cheerfully came to sight
Sable, shiny hair waved with delight:
“Much you’ll pay, extra care me to take
“By safety not to pollute hair so bright
“With this gaffer’s grey by mistake!”
Came a gorgeous girl for a stylish singe
With overt desire he began to cringe:
“Ten times th’ charges I’ll declare
“For sufferin’ the hot flashes’ binge
“Or electrocution through yor hair!”
“Clean shave. Am expectin’ a damsel.”
He: “This is sculpture, I need a chisel
“Shall I waste ma blades Brother..?
“OK. Hope yor an enduring wastrel
“Pay thrice, that’s not e’en a bother!!”
Then came Jack, beard to his chest:
“Here comes th’ weaver bird’s nest!!”
Jack who was in no business to shave
His wise eye trailed where I did rest
“There’s more to life than to shave!”
***
No more will I curve chin or top Ball
Jack- not Jack Sparrow- has said it all:
I better lean on this pen, my Sabre
Than revisit my rapacious Barber!
**Holy Moses, Jack Ellison will whip me to eternity!
JM
25th Oct’ 2013
A deep, dark kindred spider looms to proffer the sentiment,
That abuse just objectifies the long persistent winter:
Scouring around playfully, but embedded in the night -
Two way of seeing it but only one plight.
That black body, its piercing eyes drive acutely,
In the lengthy web that’s receptive but selfish with quirk,
With thin, spindly legs which effect to mobilise,
The creature only some befriend to glamourise.
We hold to the summer, autumn and spring as the norm,
Not winter’s harrowing chill which makes us so often ill;
The act of telling someone you've been raped, abused,
Should not be a sick kick or a jester’s a thrill.
If you don't give us our minds, stance and chirps,
You'll just be cushioning that admiring psychologist,
Who asks us about physical abuse, sexual, and rape,
But who we hate to have as we’ve no trait.
Give us our spirits, intellect and powers:
Don't glare, glance and glower at our ordinary activities;
Equality only exists when you feel it and can tower,
In the informal social networks of civil conviviality.
And of course, nasty small talk itself causes rape,
Violence and abuse which derides and can shape,
The heart that reaches out to befriend and welcome,
The fence-sitter, the open mind who quietly relates.
But if you say physical abuse just objectifies other lesser evils,
Like criticising needlessly, cutting us off, and gloating,
Then your sick in the head and unforgivable,
Because all discrimination is unnecessary and avoidable.
ARE THERE CARIBOU IN MALIBU?
The frail I fail to reach
The elderly with so much to teach
Those older whose shoulder brushes mine
And yet each and every eye still to shine
Those tangled up by values and vine
The ones who feed squirrels in some secluded square
Those with remembrances to relate with reverence, relevance and a touch of flair
The old and the better ones
The cold and bitter ones
Those who fear to do what they could never dare
Those who dare not do that which they fear
That elder on a bench was once a tailor in a shop on Main Street in Malibu
The one over there used to do conservation work for the caribou
Because every elder once was………….
Everyone once was something
Something of worth with value assessed
Everyone has been caressed
With lamentable last times and blessed by first times
Bed times, bad times and the worst times
Rain shower times and feathery flower times
Times of weakness and power times
Repressing and depressing times
Most had lovers to whom they were inclined
Sorrowfully one fell well behind
Still others had delight definitively defined
Some of them, on occasion, rose to the occasion
And most once had a viable vocation
Everyone did something kind
Everyone had vengeance weighing on their mind
Everyone tried to kindle a spark
And some were left deeply in the dark
Yet sadly only a sacred few will die and acutely, with acumen, leave their memorable mark
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