Best Ad Hoc Poems
Line of inquiry:
"discarding narrow thought flow crutch
we learn directly by soft touch
and what we garner we relay
to the vast void in childlike play
entwined thus with the universe
we dance without need to rehearse"
In an erratic existence
this ad hoc state of mind,
treads upon random paths,
to reach the doorsteps of my fate.
Those who find structure in scriptures,
let them be guided towards their remedy.
I hope they find what they seek,
but my spirit keeps spinning
like a whimsical roulette,
relying upon the universe
to weave rhythms of cosmic threads,
nourishing my soul in ethereal elixir.
I have read so many scripts of stone,
but my quill writes in impulsive ink,
rebelling against confined expression,
composing an unrehearsed sinfonia,
in an attempt to create and connect.
Unlike the moon,
we appear and disappear
like impromptu stars.
Burning into life, but blameless,
full of innocence, purifying eyes,
briefly guiding those who choose to gaze.
There is an art to being human.
Interpretation is an abstract perception.
Our hearts portray kaleidoscopic emotions,
so in my palette of unscripted intuition,
I shed the chains of conscience doubt.
In the essence of every brushstroke,
I breathe life to improvised affections.
Leonard Nimoy (Mr Spock),
His music career quite ad hoc,
Sang of Bilbo in sixty eight,
With his fringe still Vulcan straight.
The pieces of peace were handpicked
Picked in the heart of the night
Shredded for an aspiration
To clutch the lone torch contained by the dark
A glimpse for some unusual rank
Then comes the arrival of time
With the angst that grow by day
Comes the fast ticking of time
Hastening all; unnerved in the bay
At this moment
Love was censure by lust
In the euphoria of the game
Featured by despair and shame
The eventful spar between the dogs and the baboons
And then comes the contest of blood
The Spartans, the spectators all flood
Melancholy yet to befall
Then it begins
Passing through the span of day
Scotching rage of the sun
Little rain, little dry, little sounds of gun
But the dogs and the baboons
Tailback in fear; scowl
And little by little
Comes casting and counting
And after a little while
Anger was unshackled
Accompanied by lament
Yet, not enough raison d'être to toss away the tot and the bathing water
Then comes the voice of command
We were deprived!
It is our time!
Kill them anywhere you find them!
Rigging, rigging, rigging!
Peace was shattered
Broken into pieces
Like a bowl that fail out of safe
And pandemonium overtook all
After a little calm
Scores of guiltless essences met their Waterloo
Mostly in the cities they ad-hoc
Like those trapped for a catch
And their figures continue counting
Some unassumingly lost to the swampy woods
Searched by trained dogs and their masters
Into the depth of the swampy woods
Bled; death; covered in mud.
It happened back in time, quite a long way,
Back in the day, as they today like to say:
An era when most donations to yeshivas** **Rabbinical academies, often
Didn't require much of a man's pay-- with a preparatory high school
$18, $36, $54 at the most--
If you gave $100, you could really boast...
Annual banquets were different, however,
Promotions for them being quite clever,
Promising 'Full-Page Ads,' 'Silver-Page' and even 'Gold,"
All for a relative pittance, truth be told:
For a $180, $250 or $360 fee
Your good name would be trumpeted constantly,
With great pomp, dignity and high pedigree.
As 'a mere teacher in a yeshiva,' my own ads
Were quite modest: $50 for a quarter-page,
To pen something brief, but sage
About the yeshiva I toiled for out of love, not a wage.
So one year, quite way back in the day,
Imagine my surprise, my happiness, my elation,
Then my CONCERN and my SHOCK!...
...When browsing the banquet adbook journal ad hoc,
Just to see if anyone had penned a kind word about me,
I came upon THREE ADS, "Thanking Mr. Wolf," all paid for in Gold,
For over a thousand dollars! they had been ANONYMOUSLY sold.
The blood drained from my face; I felt faint and quite dizzy.
The room swam in circles, my nerves on edge, in a tizzy.
I looked around in amazement; who might have done it?
I spotted the adbook's creater, the man who had run it.
"Far be it from me to reveal the secret," he intoned.
'I don't deserve such a great honor,' I felt in my bones.
In the days to come, I asked everyone in town,
Yet no one would admit that he had plunked down
$1,080 to sing my praises to the world of the yeshiva,
To pay tribute to me like some big star or great diva.
So I had to give up my crusade as 'Super-Sleuth,'
Had to graciously acknowledge what seemed to be the truth,
That the anonymous parents of one of my students
Had been sincerely thankful that I was teaching their youth.
The crescent moon and sunlight consumed by the moon’s fullness.
The violin violates the quiet and quaint acquaintance of an eyeful.
The cow, with its rudimentary cuds, could only curse the night.
The bull will not croon its lullaby; he & his Bessy will not take flight.
It’s a circus, peculiar, not meant for sleeping babes in arms.
Infants blink black and white; Chagall’s kaleidoscope alarms.
The angels halt their silent night chorus to weigh in on Bach.
The strum of strings stuck to the ooey-gooey moon ad hoc.
A strange night, indeed, with flying fish - I thrice had that dream.
Marc and Bella sail over the circus-clouds with weathered extreme.
I shall fix upon a romance, most of us stay grounded, perhaps
One leg lifts the skirt, and perhaps the armored chap in lapse
Of selfishness, shows his shining sword, promises to protect
His girlfriend, his bride forevermore with a diamond affect.
Marc and Bella don’t look down to see who’s looking up.
While couples fight for a win, they won’t give up their loving cup.
Exploration of intensity and quadrants, amused in edenic perennial.
Chagall’s, are the canvases I would inhabit. It’ll take a millennial.
The plumbers name was stop cock jock
Whose eyes were firmly on the clock
Put his wrench in his belt
What a shock when he knelt
Cos the grippers caught in his ad hoc
With tears flowing like a river
He tried to stand and deliver
His bits changed to blue
Mates said what a to-do
Stop cock jock was all of a quiver
Penned January 3 2019
Mom and dad you are the best
you are the key for any lock
i can bet and cop any test
i was wet or sad and broke
you got me rid of yet modest
eye see me far ear my knock
toy pen tie bat and all rest
my kid-ask was not ad-hoc
you buy me all may not afford
you are my god you are my lord
for any foe big dam and sword
i beg to god not big mart
it is an apt and bit smart
i opt to hid you in my heart
Date 04/13/2016
Entered Contest : A poem you are proud of
Sponsored by: SKAT A
Tick...Tock...Tick...Tock...
(Aye apologize for straying way
outside thee usual canon -
a poetic souffle,
boot desperation
finds me cent less,
Thus i pray
for divine intercession, this may
day call sent out, far
chump change moo nay
(near zero dollars
in checking account)
this near crack 'o dawn
to rescue me - okay?
----------------------------------
aye yie yie,
aye ham awake
at two o'cock
in the morning
ye yie yie,
aye ham awake
at three o'cock
in the morning
ye yie yie,
aye ham awake
at four o'cock
in the morning
keenly aware of major
appliances conversing ad-hoc
no doubt conspiring to sock
this dirt poor dada
directly in ma keister,
where i take flight
amidst a flock
of seagulls honking
at my unintentional
"FAKE" chutzpah to block
their instinctual migratory path
from swift tailored kick
in the buttock
as iterated above
from energy guzzling
electricity trapping shock
king lee vengeful
Peco powered accouterments,
whence this air
born papa chock
full of anxiety, asper
no where to
turn and jock
key for getting,
perhaps stealing myself
as a stowaway aboard
an unattended ship at dock
or as a las resort resort
to a life of crime
with deliberate intent,
where "the fuzz"
take me to lock
up, no way most certainly
not a place
to sing sing about,
and most likely end up
a scape goat kid
ding lee bullied a knock
on me noggin will
find me seeing mock
believe stars, which warrants
emergency medical
treatment by "Spock"
of star trek fame, whose
Vulcan antidotes wok
like a charm and find me
well on the Scottish peck
road less traveled,
which sends me Bach
to the future,
where i encounter
my pluperfect self
(barely recognizable
richly adorned other self),
with many a golden lock
compared to mine limp hair
resembling plastered schlock.
There was a butcher from Elmsgate
Who drank every day to celebrate.
One tipsy day at the chopping block
He swung his cleaver ad hoc.
Now he knows just how to amputate.
Strolling thro' the zoo today, gazing at the various creatures,
I marveled at their shapes, colors and other distinctive features.
Some were graceful and sweet, others were cute and cuddly;
Others were grumpy and clumsy - some were downright ugly!
The ungainly giraffe, for instance, altho' much maligned,
Is one of the most graceful beasts that God designed.
But I saw no glamour in Godzilla the nine-hundred pound gorilla,
Scowling and holding the hand of his homely mate, Drusilla!
What splendid lions, tigers and other cats pacing to and fro!
And is there a more elegant animal than a fleet-footed doe?
The camels, elephants, kangaroos and yaks look mighty weird.
The buffalo isn't all that handsome with its shaggy beard!
Tho' 'tis risky with sneaky snakes, 'gators and crocs to coexist,
Even they are beautiful, according to the adoring herpetologist!
I suppose only its mother could love the lumbering rhinoceros.
For what purpose did God create the sinister hippopotamus?
Some seem to have been desisgned by an ad hoc senatorial committee,
And, alas, the results did not turn out to be all that pretty!
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder to savor and enthrall;
For each to treasure all of God's creatures, be they great or small!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
“Hello, my name is Lewis, can I order a coke,
Garlic bread with two large pizzas to go.
Extra mozzarella cheese, a few basil leaves
On the finest hand- kneaded pure dough.”
I love the garlic, the beautiful mushrooms,
Oregano, anchovies, and tomato.
Spread ad hoc all over the thin crust,
An edible Starry Nights by Van Gough.
Margherita pizzas made with fresh, non- processed things,
With love and a heart that’s so real.
Make me blissful and satisfied, and healthy and content,
A happy kind of feeling of surreal.
All the delivery options: Supreme, Meat lovers,
Mexican, Pepperoni, and a Veggie Sensation.
I love each one, could eat each all day long,
Completely nourishing my thoughts of starvation.
So a big “thank you”, to the people from Italy,
For inventing such a huge meal with those flavors.
A super, mega, healthy dish, so colorful and vibrant,
Your chefs are our global culinary saviours.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Thirty
While the Mullah versed in the Hadith and fiqh harangued his flock
All over the milling crowds outside plastic cups did hands lock
By four even before the dazzling Cyclop-eye pierced the gloom
The mosque’s Administrator convened a crisis meeting ad hoc:
“Be it known from this hour forth no more couscous nor green tea
Will be served for our stocks – thanks to chefs – stand consumed empty
The hallal shelves at malls’ “Square-Oven” and “Prix-de-Chef” stores
Stand undermined transparent since noon this Faithfuls jamboree!”
The King of Morocco promised his palace tea consignments
The Begum Ali her weight in gold for present requirements
Local residents boiled water to brew other sachet scents
A steady stench rose like humus vapours for lack of toilet vents
Rowdy commotions outside drowned the holy deliberations
To bring the harrowed Mullah out on the Faithfuls’ positions:
Braying half-Turk clad in jellaba borne over heads by hands
Wan Quixotic head with beard wobbling through elucubrations:
“Set not this Tent-Maker Miscreant on consecrated land
Let drop this putrid loin of meat on tarmac or public sand!”
“Sire!” quoth the Administrator, “This be no Tent-Maker’s son!
Forsooth, he’s of no other than the Tent-Vendor’s vagrant band!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
...In my country children die...
not of war...for soiling, their pants
...here, they're beaten, until
they stop breathing...
...spiritual distance...
...the forgotten on a file...
the authorities in denial...
...under the rug, is full...
no one can save the tiny
mites...
...not a shiny knight...
not a parent, a friend...
a neighbour no one here to defend,
domestic war zone, family violence
the authorities document report,
file it under abuse statistic...
...too hard basket, cycle of abuse
runs wildly rampant...
...with little recognition of their
trauma entrapment...
...the screams, the cries, no more
mum! ...please no more dad!
...the welts, go away, the feeling,
the damage always stays...
...cries fallen on deaf ears,
...many don't care.
Teletext Page 128 03 August 06
...the UN reports, NZ child abuse
slammed, our child agency under
resourced, ad hoc small scale...
...our childs lives, reveal an ugly
tale...
UNICEF report claim domestic
violence is common in NZ...
...most people know a child who
is witnessing violence in thier
own home...
the dark secret, of a family...with
violent undertones...
be aware, some one out there...
take charge, if you suspect report
don't neglect...
don't turn your back, you could
save a childs' life that's a fact...
2 Terms Of Political Office
A political leader of a country successfully managed to extend his term of office...
Brings up the question of the wisdom of the previous curb imposed to 2 terms in office....
Bolehland has on record the incredible long tenure of 22 years by Premier Dr Mahathir...
And plans are afoot to restrict succeeding premiers to only 2 terms is service....
2 term may be too short for long term overall development.....
Besides the problem from the surplus of such pensioners ...
And atypical of Bolehland mentality, ad hoc programs will proliferate...
A merry go round of contractors, hangers on for part of the economic pie....
Hohoho...
Too frequent a changing of the guard....
Brings on too many a zealous new broom to sweep the room clean....
Hohoho....
On the other hand, a misguided head at the top....
Even a single term can have dire consequences....
Democratically there should be preventive measures...
To checkmate the slide into mediocrity...
Dr M helmed Bolehland for 22years....
Despite the many shortcomings, those were exemplary years....
Of prosperity, stability and high paced development....
Though with the benefit of hindsight...
Bolehland was tethering towards a gaping abyss...
Created by many policies and practices that have outgrown their noble objectives..
What was once a visionary and innovative initiative to correct a shortcoming....
Becomes a yoke of suffering and abuse once it's objectives are achieved....
Question of the day is when to review and to improve an initiative....
Before misrepresentations and abuses set in to abuse the system....
Then the need for change has to happen, a step back in order to move forwards 2 steps...
The Europeans were pioneers in coming up with parliamentary checks and balances...
But history too bears witness to the many atrocities and disasters they created...
The world wars, the religious crusades, the bullying politics of apartheid and slavery...
All faulted and wreaked by the overwhelming influence of supremacy of race and religion ...
What Bolehland is undergoing, it is nothing new nor revolutionary...
The only positive, we could be on the path to maturity...
All the existing abuses and clamour for better governance....
Could just be manifestations of growing pains of a young democracy...
Can You Please Wait A Second...?
In steed of ye
mounting your stock
key high horse,
perhaps named Rock
Key, and head off...lock
stock and barrel,
who knows where,
now lemme seat chew wait
ma self, and quickly knock
out quick mention about
hour (meaning everybody
within the wide world),
and their webbed
warp and woof weave
courtesy of Father Time
analogously to a jock
key hunkering down
aiming tubby first
crossing finish line
at races, afterwards celebrate
with social feted outing, while
scheduling proctologist appointment,
et cetera, sans squeezing
late radio talk ad hoc
meeting, an
extemporaneous yet timely
lesson indirectly related
to bird dogging, i.e. migrating
fast as Glock
pistol can shoot, essentially
sound (garden) resembling
joyus honking flock
of seagulls heading
Southside Johnny
and Asbury Jukes,
and on Tortoise -
to sea dock
side of the moon
Pink Floyd attired as Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtle,
whose schedule Nsync
with YES men hosting
showtime merely minutes away...
remember ring that char existence
enslaved to thee a bomb
been nibble atomic clock,
which device uses an electron
transition frequency went
sallying forth in
the microwave tent,
experiencing optical radiation pent
up ether, or ultra
violet region meant
for electromagnetic fervent
active spectrum, or Palestra event
of atoms comprising
Adam and the Ants
(as well all other matter)
linkedin to frequency standard for
timekeeping Strunk and White
element of style.