Best Alloyed Poems
SWAP MEETS PEACE--
Now reciprocal, is just the thing;
Separation divides it just bring;
War mixed with peace hysterical
Is just the thing now reciprocal?
War in peace makes peace brittle;
The social control that's really little;
How does the noise become fleece;
Makes peace brittle war in peace;
Often to keep peace dishonest ones greased palm;
Down, down, down into the darkness of the calm;
Gently goes the dreamy the muted they now cease;
Dishonest ones greased palm often to keep peace;
I’ve seen mutual happiness generation destroyed;
Feuding alloyed annoyed men now war employed;
In peace hunger for the cow and pig liver so usual;
Happiness generation destroyed I’ve seen mutual;
3/21/19
Swap Meet Poetry Contest
Quatrain poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Carol Connell
I bring to you no fragrant roses red
For they in little time will wilt and fade
Nor chocolate bonbons wrapped in velvet bed
Their flavour soon will wane the taste buds jade
No painted card with sentimental verse
Have I transmitted to delight your eyes
Such symbols trite cannot true thoughts rehearse
And may the real emotions trivialise
So here my love I stand with hands devoid
Of gift in substance that may please but pass
And yet my feelings cannot be alloyed
They shall not crack nor break a heart of glass
Love brought by hand can fade and wither dry
Love nurtured in the heart will never die
We are all born
To a world seemingly full of interesting diversity
But why do we slam each other
Instead of accepting and living together
Do we not need each other’s support, sometime?
When we slam others we forget
We slowly shut the door on ourselves
And stop growing except bloating in size
And wasting precious resources
Which are meant to be shared amongst all humanity.
Each one must grow to mature somehow
And learn to endure the adverse
And the idiosyncrasies of things around
That change constantly on ground
In a collective effort to blend human needs with nature.
Is anything permanent except history?
So why not make it memorable
For us and future generations to cherish it
And build newer avenues and rising ever higher
Through cooperation and mutual respect.
We need to knit a grand slam team
Of entire humanity
To go onwards and upwards
Like steel alloyed and put to steam
Whose frames do not corrode easily through time.
Alone we sure fall downwards
And perpetuate the differences
Those obliterate our collective achievements
For creation is difficult to achieve
But easy to fritter away on triviality.
Slam kills the feelings of care and love
Spreads hatred and scares the dove
Warmth of fellow beings brings succour
Allowing unimaginable feats to occur
So let us slam the slam, shall we?
Phase:1
I found myself in a market..,
Market of human cattles.,
Trying to get through the situation.,
My wrists were tied with metals..
It was half past seven.,
Neglecting all my requests and prayers.,
Weighing my proper count.,
I was announced for a demon.,
I screamed 'No'..,
And kicked hard over ground.,
But only an injection.,
And my sleep was sound..,
Phase:2
A big giant face against mine.,
I got the intension..,
Yelled 'No., please don't...'
But no mercy or its sign..,
I lost all my rhymes of life .,
Colors were smashed that night.,
Scratches yielded screams.,
Force gave me fatality.,
Bites turned to bellows..
And his pleasure putted sobs..,
Voice was choked and..
My tears were alloyed with sweat.,
The delicate places I reserved for someone special..,
All were now messed and unset..,
My tall neck I dreamt
to be loved by my future husband.
Was now scratched savagely.,
By his rough rigid and ruthless hand.,
Each time I afforded some courage..,
But hands were caught and mouth tied with bandage.,
Lost all my senses.,
But felt each jerk..,
He was pride at..,
each stain he created dark..
Phase:3
My service was over..,
No scream,nomore shriek,or shout..,
Jammed muscles were relaxed now.,
I was plugged out..,
All my world..,
World full of dreams.,
I embroided earlier with my own gilt.,
Was now transformed to this.,
Dirty, filthy and quilty quilt.,
Tears were dried., breath was back.,almost correct now..,but I know ...,
I was turned from a girl to a women in a single go..,
Never I will eye myself again..,
Never will be able to.,
Never I will return to my family..,
Neve will be able to.,
Never I will find that someone special..,
Never will be able to.,
Never I will get healed.,
Never will be able to.,
Never I will dream at night .,
Never will be able to.,
This nightmare digged deep in me.,
And a lifelong terror created by that unknown he.
Why not we all protest?...and get a full stop ...why?. Always LET IT BE.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXIV
For Mickey COTO and his PTS-ed cohorts
IF you pull a long patriotic face
" My Country My God boundup in one alloyed essay
The blood I spill for either in one compounded commonplace
For Mother and Father begot me Soul and Body I let slay "
If you pull a long cramped face
In galactic worlds speeding pell-mell trillion light years away
The Glory of the Nation ancient History pure Superior conquering Race
Will Voyager II blot out from the Carter message the stain in our DNA
If you pull a long arrogant face
Vying with one another your Party's Will to impose in mellée
Loud yet dumb those who'll vain political power embrace
Won't names on plaques and stiff statues with time decay
If you pull a long populist face
Confound callow youths' psychés through geo-political play
The Enemy's the one with the ethnic-God's alien grimace
Won't " Demo-Cracy " make " People-Crazy " Passionarias pray
If you must pull a long pro-patria-mori face
Then breed the orphaned cloned-robot grandes armées
Mediativize the great onslaughts from Sun Tzu & Cong strategies
Won't the Populace then exult betting on their revered contrées
© T. Wignesan, Paris, February 16, 2019
Walk side with me to a valley,
And we shall be yonder pleasures of heavens light,
Of whose firmament, hills, groves, shining woods presume wonder.
And we will weight off our feet upon the hills,
Seeing swains tends to their torn flocks,
Quails harping to harmonic tunes,
And we shall made mat of Ambrosia,
With fragrant from Acacia, Aster, Azalea and Arum,
A hat of Begonia and a Larkspur crème,
Cross-stich with the bark of yellow birch.
Which through our intimate loving lay rest,
A metal slipper for the snows,
With buckle fashioned from alloyed silver,
An apple from Janna,
If suited thee
Walk side with me to a valley.
The tunes of heaven shall we dance,
A coffee for your morning
If such picture delights thy heart, move
Walk with me to the valley, and be my Joy.
Where can I find Africa alive?
Africans, a very sick population
language, diluted, truncated, lost
education, bedeviled, colored
economy, bed-ridden, in drips
democracy, without soul, spirit
industries, baseline and debased
agriculture, genetically modified
youth, foreign caricature beings
patriots, hidden agents of powers
mass media, devil’s delight
African essence, assimilated
Where can I find Africa alive?
all I see including me, I guess
is a bundle of alloyed humans
that lives in Africa but breathes
and lives in the West or the East
body in Africa, heart across seas
body in sick bay, mind kidnapped
that is social is not African
that is political is not African
that is economic is not African
that is cultural is not African
Remove all that is not African
and remain with naked Africa,
that is Africa, half alive, half dead!
My Will Rogers Poem
Now figure out why I named it that.
Have heard there can be certain degrees
Of what some people may call to appease
And things like paths of least resistance
Coffee and cream combined at a constant consistence.
Substances not pure are considered an alloyed
With an idea while inebriated have often toyed
What would you think should be some sequel
To going on diet after eating many beaks full.
As on you spurred realizing it had occurred
Instead of fine food ended up finding a word
And before word was eaten up and all gone
It for a while you had decided to chew on.
If you tried hard and elected to be energetic
Coming to conclusion poem was pathetic
After shooting and spreading around the dung
Inserted sharp dagger to replace your tongue.
Now out in the meadow when you hear larks
Sounding like they are making cutting remarks
And probably, hopefully with Republican consent
They can allow complainer to run for President.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
You need a category called sarcastic.
Hard-chromed and brutally alloyed
he fed the scrapyard hurricane.
Melting the metal, his brawn enjoyed
the splash of sweat cooling the pain.
The weight of the world discarded
at the foot of his furnace lit,
he struggled to make soon parted
its history, hard and fast writ …
… in twisted iron and mangled steel.
Stoking the fire, hellishly hot,
a cauldron of memories once real,
he freed the souls of things forgot.
Unthicked by his lethean flame,
smelted loose of its heavy years,
the once gritty metal flowed tame,
shiny new without smiles or tears.
Curves
Slow, cradled walk towards the goad,
Skin pink naked to the crowded few,
Light beckons the inner property pack,
Until the red is aphoristically bright said.
One body, one noon to habituate around,
One lapidary to bleed for tight inners,
One clavicle osmosis to two muscles,
Two refutals needed for the fame slat.
If society had a heart it would tick,
Anything for all people this or that,
Inside the other it would say alloyed,
Legal means not legal forgot to writ.
Rhoda Monihan
Seven hundred and fifty millimeters between worlds-
Confined on one side,
the enormity of the ocean,
a contradiction to the sand on which it sits;
artificiality’s extravagance encompassed
in a delicate
bubble.
Just as its maker,
Under azure of neon and amongst
the life in its technicolor,
diverse, rare, immigrated;
Its foundation’s fluid is
submerged and alloyed into into the ground
that by itself is too loose for roots of its own.
We don’t look in;
We are.
And in that
what one tends to miss
in the mesmerism of the bubbles’s iridescent surface
is the reflection of an absence of light-
and jagged maw that lurks int it.
This premises is under surveillance.
The sharks muse at the spectacle too.
Glassy stares of dilated slits follow the prospect of prey;
Ignorant onlookers included.
There is no reason to actually follow through with function-
Like everything else in the sphere,
The belly of the beast is too full
to ever consider capability in the drift of their daydreams-
the thought,
in itself,
is empowering enough.
What is an aquarium after all,
But a simulated entrapment
of an interpreted reality?
I bet the sharks don’t have any questions regarding who feeds them.
On a muddy moonless avenue
his drooped silhouette tugs
while the hollow niche of despair growls--
permeating a former soldier's anthem.
All dawn moaning, all night lamenting
with lost faith buried under clay--
robed in a cloth of delirium from a warfare furious,
blistered hands marking a smoked-alloyed existence.
Quarreling with ghosts, his eyes quiver
as black powder of bullets explodes
unto pools of flushed hallucinations...
unresolved wounds leading him into oblivion.
For Anthony Slausen: Black Powder Contest
11/13/2018
.
Just me and mine shadow doth blog
passivity, the path of least resistance oh my dog,
an emphatic YES,
a legitimately valid reason and rhyme to flog
yours truly (figurative emasculation),
thee catchword to hog
immediate attention,
see above named poem title
the best idea to expound upon,
while attempting creative juices to jog
all mein kampf, I felt like a bump on a log
please... don't be hesitant
to identify me as a nog
one aging long haired pencil neck geek
never reached maturity forever a pollywog.
More clearly, plainly and succinctly
one sniveling poor excuse for masculinity,
I continually experience
unrepentant (unforgivable) humility,
hence lame justification
Matthew Scott sought adultery,
which unwise choice attempted
(pun intended) to fill a void
sexual propensity linkedin with precepts
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
though skepticism skirts
barenaked lady hardcore psychoanalysis
downplayed or Oedipus complex
shrugged off (heavier imposition
versus Atlas) fails to bridge any mettle alloyed
within me psyche.
Absent healthy teenage
dating experiences, think tryst
I yearned, trended then
regretted handy dandy wrist
took rat tick antics subsequently,
and compromised spawning prurient dalliances,
hence understandably missed
(until death do me part)
doting upon then young daughters,
rightfully thee eldest one
(born 12/22/1996) still pissed
at primal, gonadal, and brutal predilections
now... finding very little reason to exist
matter of fact I dreamt
(earlier today June twenty seventh
two thousand and twenty), the gist
regarding harming self
A silver spider spied a golden fly,
and to it most amorously did sigh:
"O most glorious of flies!
What fine wings you have, what eyes!
No earthly thing shows beauty more.
I shall weave in silver thread
a garb for you, a vestment fair,
that we be forever wed,
a common destiny to share.
I in you, and you in me,
O how happy we shall be.
You shall be my metaphor.
To you I'll pose reality."
"I'm sure what moves you is benign,"
the fly replied in dulcet tone.
"Yet I regretfully decline
your offer of a common home.
My gold is - like your silver - pure,
and may such purity endure,
for purity, if once alloyed,
as sure as fate must be destroyed.
To sun and moon it was decreed
not fusion but duality
should constitute reality.
Cohabitation I debar!
I shall admire you - from afar!"
EXORCISING THE ANGELS
Armed with lethal joy, hard chromed, and brutally alloyed,
with warmth and good cheer, I blaze the deep dark depths.
Down into the hole, laughter in the wind,
the water is cold as we ride the winter stream.
It's pirate time as the clouds steal the sky.
The heavens are gone, but I wouldn't know.
Perhaps the spirit fades in the daily haze,
clouds so low, fog so thick.
So what? It's to the frozen ground I stick.
In the freeze the flesh turns white,
later to shatter into the shards of black so final.
But the heart still beats, and the eyes still see deep
into the hole where the spirit dares not go.
So give up that ghost yearning for the heavens never more.
Who needs heights to soar when armed with lethal joy?
Broken-legged I march, new home sweet home,
with my bag of dead cats' bones:
Treasure trove for pirates sublime.