Best Anecdotes Poems
If I cry
It must be the memory
Of a skirt unlifted by a gust
To still a boy's misery
And wipe my eyes dry
Of tears
For the way time sears
Us like flowers
And reaped my mother
Before I was ready to let her go.
If I cry
I cry for days she sheltered me
From a child's web of fallacy
And put her spittle on my knee
Where bruised flesh
Was a boy's view of tragedy.
I would press my face
Against her dress
And feared no goliath
Or loneliness.
If I cry
I cry for evenings on the porch
When she gathered us
Our feet white with blowing dust
And hunger like a miner
Drilling us
We had so little to eat some days
But she with prayers picked fruits
Of heaven's mercy
And we thankful ate together
And heard her ancient anecdotes
Of ancestors' exploits that floats
Still upon a manhood sky.
If I cry
I cry that mothers' days are meaningless
When the sight of flowers
Are frail veils upon a grave
And the customized Christmas cards
Will not sparkle her eyes
Just before the kiss upon my cheek
Honoring me for faithfulness
And knowing her love measures more
More than a day
More than the years that sums earth's decay.
If I cry
I cry for the love of my mother
For the woman and life giver
For God to bring
Order to this unruly thing
That spoons our purpose to a cup
Swallow us
Before the dusk with each sup
Of time, diminishing us
I cry for faith to hold my trust
Against the agony of loss
Death is a demonic disgust
That makes me long
To substitute all tears for angels song.
If I cry
Preserved my hope with brine of eye
To live again
Without death or pain
And run with my mother
Through the clapping ovation of summer rain.
Birth begins the tragedy in us. Life's
First sound is a blank scream
Against sorrow's hidden portends of strifes
All we know are mirages and dream.
Mother took the news staring at the sky
She must have cried inside
For I have no evidence else. There's no why
For it ... how my rage defied
Her callous front ... he was her first boy
The only hero she spoke well
Of, his name was the formula for joy
In our house: anecdotes tell
Of his escapades ... youth defying fate
He had a cat's tenacity for life
And from evil wills found a golden gate
Of scholarship and exotic wife.
I remember when the years pulled him back
All he came with was a bag
Of books, and a couple suits in novel sack
His eyes time warped, a lag
Of missing years and loneliness enfolding him
But he was handsome still
And my soul cartwheeled at joy's fresh brim
Those moments that he filled
When eyes first contact spelled pride to claim
This aristocrat like a medal
I could wear. So young he was, her true flame
The son of love's sweet recital!
And many days sitting in his shadow, I heard
Him dream big things like stars
Far away, warm things like a fluttering bird
Things made bright to cover scars
In the sore of memory. His mind was his cliff
A risky place in the high winds
And closer to the edge for the Grail he'd drift
O how the giddy world spins!
He died in Kingston: William came and went
And my mother looked at the sky
But until she died, about his memory was silent
And I forever wonder why.
I loved him, you know, he was the first best thing
A poor child had to claim or show
The world ... with him I was no more common. A king
He made me in his gold of glow
Something that I looked forward to meet in me. I,
Like mother, been silence since
But sometimes my heart just heave and would cry
For time this love cannot rinse
And I that moment cannot comprehend, that death
Gave no notice to his lauded day
And like common dust on a wild wind's balmy breath
My brother was swiftly swept away.
Poet's minds have abstract thoughts
emerging in waves from their hearts.
Words are unraveled and untangled,
where once their meaning was mangled.
All too often, as many readers would,
they're found baffling; misunderstood.
But oh how genuinely lucid and austere
when read aloud, to the discerning ear,
are the sentiments written by a poet's pen,
distinctly implicit enough to comprehend.
Perhaps, based on his/her life's anecdotes,
but with imagery a poet sows wild oats.
My sweetest memories flow from my pen -
romance living on from remembering when.
Dreams I'm still living and dreams I've seen flee -
These are a part of poetry and me.
I sing praising God through words that I write
of earth and sky and my spirit's delight
in all lovely things I feel, hear and see.
These are a part of poetry and me.
Tall tales I invent, yet some events true
captured in verse are of things I lived through -
some being anecdotes of family.
These are a part of poetry and me.
Hundreds and hundreds of themes I explore -
mostly in rhymed forms; sometimes with humor.
And if it strikes me, I write in verse free!
These are a part of poetry and me.
Feb. 23, 2019 for Silent One's "Poetry and Me" Contest
I like it when she talks
I like the way her hands fly through the air, animating, orchestrating a ballad of colourful characters, each word coupled with a swoop or sway or swing or charade.
I like the way her face vivifies as she speaks;
I like the way her eyes ignite, wild flares of delight, a world brimming with bliss behind each hazel iris.
I could gaze into the welcoming warmth of her eyes for an eternity - I would if I could.
I love her voice, but as I listen it soon fades into a sweet symphony of soft nothings, and before long I'm lost, lost in the dreamy embrace of her face and her eyes, and space and time is frozen in place, sublime,
and I like it.
She pauses, and I'm found again.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
Then her dimples appear, summoning a chorus of giggles, and my skin wriggles and tickles with pins and needles. My stomach knots, brimming with butterflies, and as they flutter and fly my mind whirs in stuttered surprise, my heart pounding, my lips dry.
Because her laugh makes my mind fuzz, and her touch makes my skin buzz, and when her cheeks blush I get goosebumps, and if I speak there's a chance I'll mess this up.
So I say nothing.
I answer with a smile, and she replies with her own, and continues her tall tales and anecdotes.
Her hands resume their dance, and I'm lost in my trance of euphoric romance,
Her eyes revitalize, back alive, enlightened, a gateway to hazy horizons and shining diamonds.
And she talks.
And I listen.
And I like it.
Form:
Normally, I'd not "Dare" choose just one poet
to honor. This time I have, hoping I don't blow it.
I've chosen to break my "Silence" in "Gratitude"
for "Captain Tom," a man who has a great attitude.
He posts "Footle x 20" and genius "Covid Limericks."
Ribald anecdotes that make us smile, just for kicks.
I pay "A Tribute" to his cleverness and amusing wit.
He could stand at "Hells Gates" with "True Grit."
We've all enjoyed his "Lockdown Humour" on site.
He's not afraid of "Confrontation," and will fight
with "A Rattling Rhyme" written with "Sharp Sword."
Tom's historical epic writes never leave me bored.
He shines like "Northern Lights" in "The Night Sky."
Believes in God, if you read his Etheree, "The Magi."
Tom Cunningham offers "Wise Words to Ponder"
from many years of traveling, hither and yonder.
He's usually the first to announce poem of the day.
Poetry Soup is like "The Zoo" with lots of wordplay.
It's been a "Ghost Town" when "True Angels" left
leaving Tom feeling very sad and terribly bereft.
He wrote "If I Ruled The World" I'd have a goal...
There'd be no bullies or "Gremlins in My Soup Bowl!"
Then post "A Few Limericks to Lighten Your Mood."
Mark my words; Captain Tom can be mighty shrewd.
At "Daybreak" he might be hard to find, out of reach.
Likely, he's taking "An Early Morning Walk on the Beach."
A little "Red Wine" and he gets into "Mischief," and yet,
I doubt Tom often walked on "The Highway of Regret."
He's a man of morals, so "Don't Criticize" my choice.
"In Times Like These" I appreciate his fine poetic voice.
Tom is a loyal friend; who genuinely seems to care.
On "Life's Journey," he's not ready for "The Rocking Chair."
June 3, 2021
Title Wave Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Rick Lamoureux
In tribute to Tom Cunningham ~ gentleman and poet
Fingers intertwined in
wondrous oneness
together foreverness
breathtaking bliss
Eye to eye in
lyrical longing
melodic memories
soul symmetry
Backs turned to
bygone brokenness
solitary sanctums
heartbroken hibernation
Face to face in
aromatic anecdotes
possibility potpourri
enmeshed essences
Voices join in
rondos of rendezvous
chorales of compatibility
madrigals of mutuality
Heart to heart in
a fulcrum of fulfillment
a seesaw of serendipities
a trapeze of timelessness
Lips engaged in
passion's pendulum
voluptuous vocabularies
intoxicating innuendoes
She is lyrics and I am music
~ harmonizing a hypnotizing love song ~
a dizzying duet of delight
outside, it was raining
as it was inside
drinks spilling onto the floor
from incessantly topped-up glasses held by
forgetting, gesticulating hands
spittle flying from mouths attached to people
in love with their own voices
their little huddled audiences salivating
over every word or the prospect
of taking their turn as court-holder
the room drooling with
go-to anecdotes and jokes
rehearsed at a hundred parties like this one
disgorged from speech bubbles like fat storm clouds
filling dead air with stories on life support
sudden thunderclaps of laughter
precipitating further precipitation
the floor must have been wet but thankfully
not gleaming like the pavement twelve floors down
the rain let up outside
I slipped out onto the balcony
and between sips of my stale beer
gulped the laundered air
tales told in the wind
anecdotes of seashell bliss-
echoes of blue in the sky
fictional sailing
fleeing beyond eventide-
ivory silk shades parchment
I chose picture #2
Fives and Sevens Poetry Contest
Joseph May
July 14, 2019
out of everything that i’ve ever been told in my life
out of all the things that have been said to me that render me
obligated to shove a coy smile and an aloof
“thank you”
into the hands of whoever was speaking,
the heartfelt anecdotes
that have stuck with me the most
are the ones to have been branded and signed by you
the way you worded them
made me sound so much more valuable
than anything i’ve ever heard before
the focal point being
“you’re the kind of person someone leaves their entire life behind for”
and what bloomed
from the seeds
you planted in my garden
is something i thought i’d never lose
something i’d tried to protect so heavily
perhaps too heavily
but now i must ask, are you as comfortable with her in your arms are you claimed to be in mine?
do you miss her warmth on nights you’re alone in your own bed?
or is it mine that you sought after at 5am?
have you said things to her that even remotely resemble the things you’ve said to me?
or did you just copy and paste?
do you still expect me to believe that i meant anything different
to anything you’ve felt with her,
when your claim to be too busy in your head
actually meant too busy in her bed?
did you think i was being playful
when i told you that
i’m always aware
of when i am being deceived.
had you taken me seriously the first time
perhaps i wouldn’t be straining myself
trying not to completely push you away.
under any other circumstances
i would’ve had to remind you
that no matter what you do
and no matter what i say,
you will always be weak for me
but you already know that
and that is going to be the
end of us both.
~ r.a
In a space that should hum with focus,
Where thoughts flow like ink on paper,
I walk the halls, and what do I hear?
The clatter of egos—loud, brash,
A symphony of insecurity,
Each voice a drum pounding louder,
Drowning out the quiet rhythm of real productivity.
Oh, the harshness of noise!
Your chatter like chainsaws,
Hacking away the sweet silence,
The sanctuary where ideas bloom.
Conversations compete like wild animals,
Roaring for attention,
But who’s listening?
Who's doing it?
I can’t hear my thoughts,
Lost beneath the weight of your bravado,
Your anecdotes, your grand proclamations,
About deadlines, met and spreadsheets conquered,
But all I see is the façade,
The show of work,
Not the act of working.
It’s an orchestra of distraction,
A cacophony of competition,
Where silence is a crime,
And whispers are for the weak.
But listen!
True strength speaks softly,
In the space between breaths,
In the echo of contemplation.
But here you are,
Standing tall, voice raised,
As if volume equates to value
As if the loudest in the room
It is the most productive.
It’s a mask you wear,
But I see behind it—
Just shadows, just noise,
Just the harshness of insecurities masked as power.
We chase the clock,
Tapping away, thinking,
We’re winning some races,
But it's not a marathon,
It’s a serenade,
A melody of purpose,
And you’re just playing the wrong tune.
So, let’s pause.
Lower the volume,
Tune down the tumult,
And Let the silence reign
In this kingdom of commerce.
Let whispers be the wings of ideas,
Let the quiet be our battle cry,
For in the stillness, we create,
In the calm, we conquer—
Let’s reclaim the space
From the harshness of noise.
Let’s work with purpose,
Let’s make a change—
Because the loudest voice
It doesn't always win,
Sometimes it’s the softest,
The most profound,
That ignites the fire
Of true creation.
Inside the room in the administrative offices floor
of a plush hotel, an unmarried middle aged lady executive,
showing a lottery ticket, told her secretary
that she won five hundred dollars. She wasn’t happy.
Inside the cold storage of the same establishment,
a male storekeeper, a daily wage earner and father of three,
was all smiles as he showed a ticket and promised to treat
his mate to a beer. He won the same amount.
Now these two anecdotes happened within the same week.
What struck me was the stark difference in their reactions
upon winning the same amount. The executive said,
“I don’t need the five hundred, I want the one million”.
The storekeeper said “Thank God, this is heaven-sent!”
Looking back, there was only one thing I thought that minute:
It takes more for those who have more in life to be thankful,
and it only takes little for those who have less to be grateful.
Who between the two has learned the secret to being happy?
15 October 2015
Giving Thanks Contest
Sponsor: Ed Ebbs
CULLERCOATS *
Warm brown sandstone cottage walls
Doors and windows very old
Shelter face from sea-wind squalls:
Inside, tales of sea are told
Toy shops there with spinning windmills
Fisher - women selling show me
Big-clawed crabs and periwinkles:
Willicks and pin hinny? *
Twisting road clings on with ease
To the cliff edge way up high
Salty seaweed on the breeze :
Speaks of rocks and sand and sky
And though just a tiny cove
It has a brand-new shining lifeboat
For those who go to sea to rove:
It tells of men that cannot float
The fish, the salt, the boat, the rock
The storms and wrecks and tiny boats
I love to hear the fish-folk talk :
Their touching magic anecdotes
Notes *
Willicks : Geordie argot for periwinkles.
The pin was needed to pry out the tiny fish from its shell.
Cullercoats is a small fishing village on the east coast of England, near Newcastle.
My grandfather was the wisest man
That I had ever known.
I did not know how wise he was
‘Til I was wise and grown.
He told his story through his words,
So grand you can’t defile it;
He told us of his stories as
An Army Air Corps pilot.
My grandfather was precious to me,
A dear and treasured friend.
But just like all great friendships,
This one had to end.
But after dying, I guess that
Our bond won’t cease to grow,
For while he was alive
I didn’t know the things I know.
I heard his stories from his friends,
And all of them were rife
With anecdotes that showed him as
A hero in real life.
Though all heroes come and go,
When the day is done,
My dear, amazing grandfather,
You’re the greatest one.
K’ung Fu Tzu or Confucius his English name,
for centuries, brought China much dignity and fame.
Born in the state of Lu, now Province of Shantung,
a scholar of Asia, Chinese his native born tongue.
As a child, he held a make-believe temple ritual,
as an adult, love and learning became habitual.
Confucius was made a magistrate by Duke Zhao of Lu,
under his administration, the small city flourished and grew.
Bordering countries worried, Lu would get too strong,
Confucius resigned, so that the countries would get along.
Royal courts shunned Confucius, plotted to kill him,
He was arrested and jailed, his future looked very grim.
He sent word to a kindhearted king, in nearby homeland,
to rescue Confucius, a solution the king had planned.
Confucius shared ideas and teachings with royal notabilities,
who learned eventually of his distinguished abilities.
Only after his death did Confucianism commence,
everything he taught completely made sense.
Confucius bequeathed no writings or historical list,
but it is known that the “Record of Rites” exist.
“Record of Rites” contains anecdotes about his teachings,
a complete collection of his students’ preachings.
There are three dimensions of human condition,
that totally make up the Chinese tradition.
Self, community, and tradition are Confucian spirituality,
and endless teachings of human morality.
Father and son were held in high admiration,
since man was the family’s root foundation.
Ruler and minister maintained social order,
developed guidelines of human social border.
Husbands controlled the family and his wife,
she had no opinion in her family or her life.
Elders were held in higher regard than the child,
since great wisdom held their social order more mild.
The last of the social order was the true friend,
from which the human could fully depend.
These five bonds were developed for flourishing souls,
and the boundaries that were set for Confucian goals.
Confucius says; never give a sword to a man that can’t dance,
and real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s ignorance.
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Fifth Place Winner ~ "Broad Horizons” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Deborah Guzzi
June 30, 2010
My suject is "The Five Bonds of Confucianism"