Best Allocated Poems
The promiscuous length of daylight
in the month of June,
spawned from a sunrise that
allocated a childish franchise.
The moorland breeze; that, to
rely upon when indulgence in dewy
pastures, leaves one reminiscencing
in how once the silvery moon shone.
Gildersber wrapped in winters
relentless white blanket, a pledge of
sledge irons to polish in youthful
exuberance, before life to
cherish in tracks of sheer delight,
when profound in greyness
the sky gave one a reason
for happiness.
This simple memory of one’s
sentimentality, somewhat indistinct
yet a zest of devotion in life
across the deep ocean.
Although elsewhere in this a
time warp of evanescent
I only have to dream
to be with you again!
© Harry J Horsman 2008
A Letter to Myself
Should I give up writing
Seems all this bleating and wailing
Bemoaning this lot of love
I am allocated to feel
But never touch
Should I stop showing the world
Such a pitiful and pathetic face
As it twists and grapples
Dug in my heart
With its suffocating blade
Of aloneness
Where I am lost
When are the fluorescing lines
Of my gratitude
What are my words praises to love
With this eternal gift
Floating me in the fires
Of hot air balloons
But still gut wrenches out my soul
In this separation
“Come on,” I tell myself
What wrapped delight have I known more
I should be proud of my hunger
Feed it with all the imagined embraces
Just for her
More a rock I should
Than this wet dripping weak kneed flannel be
More colourful and joyous
In my need
In deliverance believes
Faith it should be
For the ever bonded
To such a fate
Allows my love to consume me
Her heart so tender
Must needs better of me
Than this whimpering sop
Who’s begging and pleading
Has no real foundation in my bones
More eloquent is she
More rapturous
Than the blazing anthologies of Isis
The hymn and rhythm of her
Calls to me
Shout of exultant
Piercing forever’s follicle
Permeable
She saturates
More a kin to glory I should be
More humbled
And less bent to paupers knee
To lift her ankle
And kiss her feet
Rather I should not
Die so
But
Live
I, I don’t understand the book known as bible
The book that is mostly common to many doors
But the book that is not known and read by many souls
The book that is carried by many
But mostly it is not read and liked by any
The book that is only seen once a week
And when it is seen, it is only few pages and it’s also quick
I don’t understand this book known as bible
I don’t understand this book that has many sizes
The book that has been translated into all different world languages
But yet not be lead and understood by multitude from different families
The book that has different versions
but only one edition
the book that is wise because it was written by people with visions
I, I don’t understand this book known as bible
This is the only book that has all university course and lectures
The book that starts with the lecturer of art, where all things were designed and created
And then lectures of Agricultures have been explained as GOD Identifies the texture of soil as from it a man was created
Anatomy and physiology was firstly discussed in this book where by the position of Adam’s ribs was allocated
This was done before the first surgery class was explained as Adam’s chest was operated
This is the same book that have many lectures of history,
The book that’s explains the pharmacology, the philosophy, and the prophecy
I don’t understand this book that has everything, the book that is known as BIBLE
I don’t understand this book when it tries to explain the course of music
more especially the pharmacodynamics of the violin as it healed soul
but I get more puzzled when it comes to the 10 commandments as it was the first class of Law
but who wrote this book? Why is it that every question in this book can be answered?
And why is it that all world affairs in this book are tampered?
Why is this book regarded as the best?
This is why am in the maze of thoughts…thoughts that can’t give me rest.
I don’t understand this book known as bible
An awesome allures dances amid your words.
Bearing thoughts at daybreak until hope stays life.
Carmel candy lips wait for your cupid’s arrow.
Daisy chains you saved for happily-ever-after.
Eloquent egression when depression arrives.
Fields of fresh flowers float to your creative mind.
Generously given fruit from your poet’s grapevine.
Honorable choices carry life enchantment.
If imperfection ignites, God’s forgiveness arrives.
Judgment left daily in your Savior’s strong hands.
Keeping calamities of your life in his care.
Laughter allocated when love’s timing is right.
Nice actions for others that make your soul swell.
Messages and miracles are recognizable unto you.
Omnipotent Father loves you and oversees life.
Passion of Christ helps you overcomes imperfections
Questions of self worth must bounce far away.
Remember the joys that you had some other day?
Stay strong in your hope and forgive other’s words.
Today, this poem is all about you, and your heart.
Uniquely understanding, you are a child of God.
Vicious ramblings through the mind are hurtful to you.
Words, if forgiven might alleviate bad memories.
Xanadu can be found in life’s folds and your focus.
You have much good within you, Catie, this and more.
Zealously zip past the lows in your life; happiness follows.
November 9, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: It's All About Me
Sponsor Catie Lindsey
I was born a female
You were born a male
None of us had a say in the matter of our birth
Neither did we chose from what part of this earth
For in His own image we were created
From the day of our birth
Our differences were laid bare
From the onset, our paths were set
Same community, same culture
Just because of a different genetic makeup
My chores were many even from that early age
From sunrise to sunset
Do this, do that
Duties allocated differently
Yet very unpropotionate
Like a flower I grew
Well watered and aired
Closely monitored and censored
Under the watchful eyes of the female folk I grew
Until my world came crashing down
My identity was not my own
My success measured by another
My dreams given a barely there nod
Then dismissed altogether
Seen as not important
I was viewed as property
A measure of wealth
An item to be passed on from one to another
A vessel for the pleasure of others
Like goods in a marketplace I was traded
Just before I blossomed
The bud that was me
Was forcefully opened
My petals recklessly plucked away
Just before I was to share my beauty with the world
My colour and fragrance was vanquished
What wrong did i do?
That I am treated differently
That my dreams and purpose in life
To you does not matter
An item of trade to you I am.
I scream and cry in silence
In constant pain my days pass by
With scars that have not healed
Despite the physical pain years ago
What wrong did I do?
I will stay silent no more
With a loud voice I will say no more
In my actions the practice will be no more
From harmful cultural practices
Join me in saying 'No more!'
The autumn sky attunes itself to hearts,
a sour grey murky wash where lost eyes tire.
with insubstantial dust it affects so,
that vision blurs and minds retreat to when
those aged weary organs last supped hope;
and still they seek to quaff before it fades.
Mere dregs they hunger as the last joy fades
to quench beyond their volume broken hearts
and rehydrate that desiccated hope,
rejuvenate the goals before lives tire,
that minds may ponder not upon the “When?”
but concentrate on “What next?” and “How so?”
To take uncertain step, and take it so
as not to fear the fall if stair it fades,
would stir adrenalin so’s not to tire
the fragile confidence of tender hearts,
that they might respond quickly, those doves, when
presented opportunity to hope.
This then the grace of God, the wisp that’s hope,
which we in arrogance might dismiss so
upon our slightest whim and if and when:
an employee who on our command fades.
this grace exists beyond the grasp, the hearts:
phenomenon which will not doze nor tire.
See now how eyes do genuinely tire
as surcease emanates from new-found hope,
providing respite for those weary hearts:
hammock of restful sleep delivered so
the love embattled souls may rally when
their combined lumen some dark agent fades.
Thus through harsh winter flare as daylight fades
with fuel of ‘the multiverse’ entire,
the essence of which Lazarus lit when
his sisters had begged balm of Only Hope.
Such embers must be stoked to fierce blaze so
The Darkness may not touch creations’ hearts.
Faith should not tire when allocated hope.
Our God heeds not the ‘when’ of our say-so,
but stokes each heart with love that never fades.
Sometimes the corners of life become a wonderment
When an Angel allocated, to you Father God has sent
Sometimes the corners of life indeed are wonderment
For hopefully all'll be blessed, Father Gods Angels sent
Over the years tears fell like rain,
drowning any hope in my heart.
And fragile dreams immersed in pain,
slowly began to fall apart.
Shunning rules of propriety,
you placed yourself first and me last.
And fueled by anxiety,
love's allocated to the past.
I remember the tender hugs
that once made me feel ten feet tall.
And your funny, innocent shrugs,
I recall the charm of it all.
When you ran off, I changed the locks,
now all that's left is bitter tears.
For, despite my pleas and long talks,
your cheating grew over the years.
You went where I couldn't follow,
and yet, you beg forgiveness still.
But your empty words ring hollow,
you don't love me and never will.
Life was perfect, without a flaw,
till I became yesterday's toy.
And you loaded that final straw
that broke my heart and stole my joy.
(Quatrain)
12/29/2015
Across the sea of words
Bestowing your pleonastic sword
Cutting through ones own demons
Designing thoughtful imaginary treasons
Escaping time formality
Freeing your minds rationality
Growing inner character
Harlequin narrator
Inconsistent artisan
Jacinths beyond the mine among porceline
Kirigami folds of unique trade
Lauwine of emotion invade
Miraculous ideology allocated
Never quite overrated
Open minds put on overdrive
Poetry often collides
Queen of hearts in a kingdom of romance
Raconteur of resistance
Survival of the fittest
Talented interest
Unsatisfied likeness
Vigor of belief
Wanting relief
Xenolith of the brain
Yttrium configuration of pain
Zelkova's bibliotheca incurred.
political position penetrates purity
anger and aggression accommodate mirroring
of awful austerity allocated each time
we fall victim helpless to our weak mind
the peoples pressure piles upward
racing towards restoration as the dusk burns
aggravating what was once blue and serene
live this fight in life view the feud in a dream
function funding fatalities the newest regime
are sly scoundrels salivating so few in between
that save a soul sacrificing personal gain
pedantic petty priorities just turn into pain
A glass cup with a partially yellow-viscous liquid
filled just a little above half way
reflecting through a sharp angle, the rising sun
towards the thick and white woolly coverings
while sharing lips having the taste
of a throat rinsing chilled red wine.
Simultaneously eating warm confectioneries
from meaty tables of attractive bodies
picking each piece of popcorn
from allocated settlement of personal body portions.
Intentionally spilling chilled milk
on sacred anatomical planes
to mop it all out
with the ever longing wet tongue
all leading to a stage without a grand finale
just to make the road wet
for a sweet shower and a wonderful good morning.
Thanksgiving Day
~ pretty weird that it is necessary to have one day allocated during the year to give
thanks to the harvest or anything else we might and should be grateful for during
the year and I do not suppose that turkeys approve of this pagan feast when we
stuff ourselves with bird flesh digestives condiments from the gravy train of riches
Hallelujah for burgers wine and soft drinks Coca Cola Mc Donald’s Gallo’s Alamos
on consumption’s battle fields entrenched in modern living praised be the Harvest
Queen the God of Wall Street the Guns and Drones that feed our seeming needs
the wants of affluence and exploitation the fig leafs of sweet environmental humility
You sow the wind and reap the storm and flatulence and bloated waistlines waste
lines of reason’s indigestion shed fatty malnourished winds of tempest’s thunder
Armaggedon in the waking waiting helplessly for paradise at least in our neck of
the woods the Global North’s power broking houses of doom injustice domination
Far from honouring the beauty the Dominatrix yes mother Gaia is female and
should protect ancestral love and kindness from the milk and honey breast of
feeding body mind and soul and spirit communal comprehension ancient modern or
just timeless cycles of sustainable responsibility we pilfer rape and pillage desecrate
One day of feasting praising what we otherwise forget lest we remember leaves
three-hundred and sixty-four periods of moon and sunlight spinning out of all
control and we’re oblivious to the warning signs of plenty erase the gift we should
pass on to our children lineage progeny now left with massive mess and no Messiah
Were we more honest we would solemnly acknowledge that what we’re praising
in hypocrisy and neglected conscience is human depravation the demise of dignity
loosing the plot the fields and garden from where our harvest needs to prosper
would in frank and serious good faith admit that what we garner and amass is
Genocide…
05th November 2016
The woodland's sights and scents add a piquancy to the affair
By the moonlight's inky, starry gaze, so fleeting to retain
To dawn's fragile light shadows benignly filtering through
The damp, earthy undergrowth a mossy bed convenient
An ample, rough bark, redwood tree and gnarled, dry spreading roots.
A humble haven for primal, abandoned, wanton display
The foliage green canopy conceals a multitude of sins
Anton, my lover, you are the saviour of my heart and soul
Truly I love to breathe your masculine scent and hair
Struggling to restrain my appetites when you are nearby
Alone I desperately yearn for you, it's my private fear
But today I am ecstatic , for you have proposed to me
To imagine having you all to myself in body and soul.
Anton, I shall prove my love for you is of the constant kind
All those sacrifices we have made could surely only bind
Let the headiness I feel pirouette me into your arms
To feel your consuming ardency continue on and on
I love our bit of heaven we experience when alone
Continually let us revive that special passionate spark
Passions do fade allocated to dusty memory banks
But my love so rejuvenates me as we meet every day
My dear Anton I am afraid to live this life without you
I want you to reiterate that you feel the same for me
Totally enveloped in your entire world implicitly
Once an old fortune teller asked me to cross her hand with gold
As she had a precious gem of knowledge to impart to me
Her vivid, streaked, carmine red mouth grinned amiably
As she tightly held my hand and peered at my outstretched palm
Perusing it lengthily said advantages there would be
"Look into my eyes, oh yes I see a grand passion madam"
Seeing my doubtful gaze, she said "it is all here in your hand"
"You must tell me when shall it be" I vocally did demand
"Patience, soon, very soon, the man is quite a suitable match"
Excitedly I jumped for joy "in life you mean", I questioned
"No, never that, it shows an equally passionate pair".
This epidemic re: murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling and providing terrifying
trappings, whence Pandora out the lid
anger loosed by gun toting recorded by hid
dee us aide de camp per grim reaper
milling crowd, each bewildered person stunned viz satanic grid
loosed bullets ensnare coterie upping ante bid
daring pernicious fare thee well odiously off loaded
per incendiary fiery maelstrom to mega death count added.
Suicide bombardier slakes thirst aims at billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray painting human innards
congregated engaged groupon people), with egregious pay
ment for exaggerated slight mowing down, a slew - nay
soon to be lifeless victims unaware - delivering may
hem to anonymous hunter a cannibal as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows, which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.
Death be not proud, nor ought airtime be allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring family affair sport doth please
manifesting prize pride killing machine owners
posed as stonewall Jackson frieze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses incite epidemic violence as disease.
Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie or goo
goo dolls in tandem with foo
fighting beastie boys pay homilies whence homage grew
to grateful dead nobody knew
fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and mew
sic cull doobie brothers of their simian species with no sorrow to rue.
By day he pretends
To be a janitor
Spending his time
Sitting on the corner hydrant
Enjoying nature's comforts
Fresh air
And the Sun
Watching and
Seeing everything.
The locals come to him for advice
Or to converse
In the privacy of the
Cement square
Allocated to a corner.
If a stranger asks questions
He shakes his head
Signifying he knows nothing
Just sitting there
A Gypsy
Feeling life's rhythm
Pass like a gentle upward breeze
As mothers and children
Rush by
Old men walk slowly
Women carry groceries
Delivery men stop
And nod his way.
Newspaper folded under
An iron throne
His face curls up in an evil yawn
When the street entertainment bores him
Other times he carefully peels a fruit and eats it slowly
Enjoying all its juices
Secretly relishing his role
As a troubadour
In an indifferent city.
He knows the comings and goings
Of all the tenants
Mostly young and naïve
Paying outrageous rents
For closet size apartments
And he treats them
According to his mood
For he is the King of the Fire Hydrant.