Best Adjunct Poems
The flying sent projections free to see,
from adjunct Astrals singing bold decree.
Perched on Pisces’s cusp, forsaking Plato’s cave,
Puppets casting shadows, chancing me a slave.
They hang from dreams of higher forms, allures
Contempt in self when loving carnal cores.
Haunted by women’s passions kept in Spirits,
Dawns my sleeping stages now inherits
Marionettes aloft eternal twists
of spinning truths with lies recalling trysts.
Killing prone volitions, changing essence.
Chosen starlight’s beings guiding presence.
Upon a love in purest form demands,
Forgotten suicides of ego strands.
Risking Pirsig’s fate in Zen and journey,
Waging sanity, a bounty worthy.
The stringing of my soul and bracing seeks,
A pulling truth beyond this death it speaks.
------------------------------------------------------------
Alternating stanzas of iambic and trochaic pentameter
let today be the present tense.
yesterday be the past tense.
tomorrow be the future tense.
let we be the parts of speech.
you are the noun there,
i am your verb,
you can make the pronoun to talk about the noun,
adverb can't stand without verb,
let adjective be verb which qualifies the noun,
noun you can have the company of preposition,
conjunction shouldn't come between us,
by seeing you i became interjection.
let your surroundings be the sentence.
you be the subject.
make your life verb.
make use of object,
you and you only be the complement.
don't adjust and go and become adjunct.
don't listen the idioms of some idiots.
we don't want to be homophones.
you are the main clause.
i'm your subordinate clause.
without main subordinate cant.,
this is life. enjoy it in grammar's way.....
I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap
A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong,
My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop,
Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong,
The silence echoed round the wheel fop.
I screamed with tears which said the news,
When sirenes had been screened for writ,
Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews,
That cared enough to dare read the fit.
Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here,
Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped,
Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear,
When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped.
Critical realism still made no ontological sense,
My metaphysical slippers knew no god,
Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense,
When constructivism departed from my odd.
I could not write to epistemology for methodology,
‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive.
Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy,
Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff.
Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair,
No predicates set my entities alight to condition,
The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer,
I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition.
This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation
FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal,
Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation,
Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal.
Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical,
Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact,
Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal,
The dame. The lame as mentioning the act.
Structural.
Rhoda Monihan
Joy, gaiety and jubilation,
Party, merrymaking and celebration.
It was a remarkable day of Reena’s life;
Within hours she would be her lover’s wife.
Dressed in exquisite Indian wedding outfit,
With complimenting gold jewelry
An adjunct to her beauty.
She felt like royalty,
Adorned with lavish embroidery.
Preparing herself to embark on the start of a new life,
Just when she realized that life is a boon;
Hit by a catastrophic tragedy,
Inundated darkness at noon.
The bright light and lark,
Turned into pitch dark.
Dismay and despair,
Her fiancé is no more.
Showers of tears,
Silence deafening to ears,
Over the years,
Only murkiness and gloom,
No flowers to bloom.
This is the truth of life,
It does shows its true color,
Once in a blue moon,
And brings darkness at noon.
I didn't find PSoup,
no, PSoup found me
I was a poet from my birth,
just not the poet I could be
Before coming to PSoup,
I was a message poet with my own style;
the words I delivered
could make you sad, could make you smile
I could make you sit down,
I could make you dance
I could make you want to throw hands,
I could make you want to catch romance
I knew how to mix my words,
I knew how to adjunct nouns, adjectives and verbs
And heaven help the poor soul that got on my nerve
All that being said from the son of a poet king,
a true poet knows that he doesn't know everything
Before coming to PSoup,
in terms of poetic forms, I didn't have a clue,
I didn't have an inkling
Terza rima, what??!!
Sapphic stanza, who??!!
After coming to PSoup,
I found out there were so many
poetic forms I never knew
But this is the best tasting part of my unlearned fondue,
I got to sample some mighty fine poetry
from the minds and hearts of all of you
So many styles and variety:
haiku and senryu, sonnet and ballad,
choka and jeuju, villanelle and etheree
I truly thank PSoup,
It has broadened the stroke of my pen
I can now put my message
in whatever size bottle that words can get stuffed in
**Anonymous Letter**
That's your lady playboy
left alone for a man like me.
Your failures create an opening
and your just to blind to see.
Penitentiary prone,
institutionalized!
your woman needs companionship,
and she found a sensitive kinda guy!
I'm adjunct in your absence
and put my bid in for tenure!
she's never had a man like me
who's stable and can treat her better!
That's your beautiful brown petite
being seduced by a man like me!
She is fed up, lonely
and tired of all your grief!
Jared Pickett
8/9/2014
Asavvy1
The rented hall ways so surreal.
Cheerful alumnus ranting sex appeal.
Forgive my dropping a time bomb.
Taking Mother to the prom.
Our student body didn't shake.
All others escorted steady dates.
A proclivity prom, above all others.
Our band encrypted, "The Righteous Brothers".
Bobby Hatfield's introverted eyes, somehow.
Deeply scanned the milk punch bowl.
Imposter bandits, smuggled from Jersey.
Spiked the punch bowl, with laced heresy.
Setting alumnus minds; off and reeling.
We never, "Lost that Loving Feeling".
Alas, by now you must have guessed.
A convert Baptist to Catholic to Buddhist.
Thanked and Blessed.
Times worn quickly it seems.
I betrothed the crowned prom queen.
If begets lead to further begetting.
Trumpet in the table setting.
Now, before I forget to mention.
I'm Chief Commander of the United Nations.
The priestly Buddhist Monk is my adjunct.
No!!, pundits from paltry pulpits Shout.
No needed pouting, I'll get put out.
Covetous opponents horns, a' Blow-in.
I hold cards, but none are show-in.
That female candidate, can she insist.
A real, lopsided bubble purist.
Piling coals upon my trouble list.
She never, "Closes Her Eyes Anymore when Her Lips are Kissed".
Dear Jesus, may I adorn my Bobby Hatfield headphones.
Appreciating a, past on, baritones gigs.
Someone strummed an evil trick.
Thank You, for Your promised Rainbow.
One end of the spectrum, birth and mirth.
The other end death, it seems much worse.
"It Makes Me Just Feel Like Crying".
"You are My Soul and Highest My Highest Inspiration".
Pressure doesn't bother me at all.
What casts my craw into the fiery jowl.
How all my works got twisted.
As tho, I took your Mom to the prom.
Hoped betterment of bastion dorms.
Face radiance of holistic norms.
Is "Something Beautiful Dying".
I try to make myself very scarce midst the teeming flock,
To reduce the risk of finding my neck on the chopping block!
Why do you put me through this annual frightful scare?
I pray that I won't become your Thanksgiving fare!
May I propose for your very careful consideration,
An assortment of options for your holiday celebration.
Have you considered a delicious rack of lamb,
Or a scrumptious glazed and juicy spiral ham!
You could save my friends and me so much grief,
If only you'd serve a luscious roast of beef!
As you thank the good Lord for your many blessings,
Wouldn't you prefer a goose stuffed with dressings!
An adjunct to your cranberry sauce and pecan pie,
Could be a savory duck - why not give that a try?
Another suggestion that would please your friends,
Would be to prepare a platter of Rock Cornish hens!
There are many creatures that swim, run or fly,
That could complement your taters and punkin pie!
Better yet, why not concoct a vegetarian meal,
Then, I could forego my urgent annual appeal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in PD'S "Gobble, Gobble, Gobble" Contest - November 2011
ADELAIDE REQUIRED AID
Adelaide adored me
Ingrid ignored me
Adelaide and I made quite an odd pair
Yet Ingrid had silver silken threads instead of hair
Looking up to a cloud laden sky I prayed to heaven for Ingrid’s heavenly pleasure
Looking up to a syrupy and sunny sky I begged God that I might discover Ingrid’s buried treasure
A female fortune sealed in a locker by two silent lips and secreted between two sultry hips
But in the material that makes up time some fabric often frays while a seam sometimes rips
And even an expensive faucet drips
With assurance I assign Ingrid as an extravagant and excellent source of radiance to beheld by me
And oh to be held by her
To meld with her
As my desire swelled and I swooned to a lady attuned to and beholden to beauty
But as for Adelaide I found her ignorant and distasteful for ignoring and boring me
Whatever she chose to discuss would disgust me with distinguishable diatribes
before I forbade Adelaide from approaching me or broaching another subsequent, sequential and inconsequential subject
Adelaide adjudicated me well adjusted with an adjunct to adulation
While I grew agitated by her aggravation
Until I made Adelaide fade
And found further feminine flair in a woman with silver silken threads as her hair
© 2012 copyright© …..PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Read My Poems Will Not Wait
Put poems in church newsletter, I certainly do dare
All poets say mine have become beyond compare
Can constantly forever hold you in suspense
Give in by reading poems and be one that relents.
My great poems have often been read out loud
Other poets with ability know that I am endowed
Even if going gets tough my poems must read
To fulfill numerous desires along with each need.
By God have been blessed with an extraordinary ability
To write verse well invariably in form of a soliloquy
When rationally trying to find rhyme and reason
They are both in my poems during any season.
God immediately helps me and He will not wait
And my moving reflux reaction is to regurgitate
Words up that at a time or two I was dreaming
More smoothly flowing while they were streaming.
Some say you like literally being a literary scholar
Maybe what you should do is to give Horn a holler
In church newsletter begin and start to advertise
Horn's poems which would be word to the wise.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran and Poet
And Adjunct to the St. James Episcopal junk
Along with cleaning up tarnished landscape
Which to some is a sour grape.
Karl Marx thought that religion
Was the opiate of the masses,
Which is true as far as it goes.
In his times and in the circumstances,
He could not have thought better or worse—
Not, for instance, of the boomerang, that is,
The dialectic of Base and Superstructure,
Which could engender a hybrid like hegemony,
Which, in turn, enables ruling by consensus;
Not to speak of adjunct opiates
Like Freudian drives, drink,
Vulgar materialism and what not,
Which, in the past, have driven
Empires to break and kingdoms to crack
And, of late, in many ‘Democracies’ and ‘Republics’
Caused women, men, and parties to rise to power,
Caused (Swiss) Bank balances and vote banks to overflow!
— Ram, R. V.
Like speck of dust from celestial ceilings, I cling
To evaporated water molecules rising, singing into the sky, vacuous regions
Netherworlds have seen me clawing my way OUT
But still I remain invisible to your naked eye
Naked and seen through like space that was meant to be filled but
Remains, EMPTY.
I do not mean to scream, but I can not be heard either, sometimes
The feelings don't get to me and I wonder to myself if I am here at all?
The time knowing that if I paint pictures no one will gogh for it
It isn't visible, it isn't something they can strike DOWN
As long as they remain adjunct to it, in their dimension
AND they forgive me for hiding alongside it.
Invisible
New semester.
Did my courses run?
Oh yeah, but too many.
Work on my syllabi.
I promise I won’t cry.
The night before class.
I pace the kitchen.
Sending prayers up.
Are you listening;
Please make my students be nice.
Calling my friends for advice.
First day of class.
Please impress them.
Some activity.
Get to know them.
At night memorize their names.
Two students named the same. (Always)
Long semesters.
Trudge across campuses.
In the rain and snow.
Am I at the right school-do you know?
My Google Assistant gave up long ago.
End of semester.
All my students cry.
I break my promise.
I let them see me cry.
We will be friends for a long time.
New semester.
Did my courses run? …
Black storm clouds sweep across the sky
No where does one see a ray of light
Lost are all hopes all dreams
Pain no time can ever erase
Loneliness like a festering sore
A crying out for life, a need for love
A need to be held as never before
To be wanted and cherished
To be all to someone, not an adjunct
To have four walls that are one’s own
Familiar objects place and space
Not a puppet controlled by strings
Not an island one one’s own
Tired of oneself scared to start again
Madness within breaking through the flesh
A need for passion to inter-connect
Come cherish the rose in bloom
Before it withers and dies
Like a book unread and a song unsung
Useless waste swept away by time
(Poem written a long time ago).
In the space adjunct to a corner room; I left the light on and walked to the dark end of the hallway that was quiet. Peace intruded upon the chaos that crept up on me loudly down there and swirling into mist I saw a figure. A figure that once knew me, and I he, hurriedly I ran from the dark corner and leaped into the air, out the window, spiraling below. Could I have been any more right, or was I dead?
Never knew it, just walked on the spirits train and kept rolling up this funny white hill till we reached a large station in starry skies. Much to my surprise those around me (yes they were here now) did not seem alarmed at the nature of it all. Van Gogh himself had seemingly cut this little doorway into it and now we were there. Accepting did not come easy for me, I stepped off the train and stared inwards to only get a view from the outside. You see, the spectral ether that had become me was not yet cognizant and was unaware of my presence.
Ethereal scents and visions obscured everything and nothing came to me readily. I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, this place was pansophy. No one else seemed to know anything either though, so I just left and went back to the room with the light on, that lonely adjunct space to a corner room.