Best Approximate Poems
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
stupendous silhouette of castle
piercing through hazy fog
reminds me of your shadow
as you come to meet me at twilight
mixed hues of spectral sky
reflected in dreamy water
in furrowed thick impasto
of amber and sandstone
are glowing ember
of your undying love.
Notes: Claude Monet painted a series of impressionist oil paintings of the Palace of Westminster, home of the British Parliament, in the autumn of 1899 and the early months of 1900 and 1901 during stays in London. All of the series' paintings share the same viewpoint from Monet's window or a terrace at St Thomas' Hospital overlooking the Thames and the approximate canvas size of 81 cm × 92 cm (32 in × 36 3/8 in).They were, however, painted during different times of the day and weather conditions. This one was during sunset. ( Photo and reference credits to Wikipedia).
20 May 2021
For "All Yours ( May 20) Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Nautilus, chambered.
Mathematics? Not really.
By nature only.
Smells more like…
Ah…normal distribution
(Of golden spirals).
You could look it up.
FIBONACCI? Not really.
Logarithmic coil?
Not exactly. Else
One or the other would fit.
Only nature fits.
At an approximate distance of 2 benches, you stood there, every day explaining how two negatives makes a positive. I remember, that day, ages ago, when you told me that I was special, and I knew you meant it. I know you'll mean it even now because I believe in you. That very same day, my best friend and I sat on the extreme left row and waited for you to enter. I remember the look on your face when you saw that in a class of 60 students, there were only 2. I remember the anger, the agony and peace. I see your face in my dreams sometimes and when I do, I see peace. Peace in your eyes, smile on your face and words, so many words. I remember how you waited outside our exam hall to wish us good luck and I know you don't know this, but I really needed that. I've never told you this, but the majority of my life seems wasted, but that one moment is what covers up for it.
I don't want to tell you what all you taught that have made a huge difference in my life, but I really want you to know that what I've achieved, yet, is less of me and more of you. You were supposed to teach us a language, correct our grammar, give us essays and yet you taught us virtue, morals, taking responsibility and I owe all of my ideals to you. While we were being taught about calculus and accounts, you were teaching us how to be a human being. I've never had an epiphany like this before, but today that I'm standing between what is right and what is correct has made me realize what you meant when you said “we make our choices based on what standards we set for ourselves.”
This one time, the last time that we met, you looked at me while crossing the road and smiled. At that moment I realized that I didn't need anything from you, just the fact that you recognized me was enough affirmation and I shall cherish it all my life. I don't think I'll ever have the courage to send this to you, but I really hope that you change the life of many vagrants as you once did mine.
Love,
M
Two scales must always be within an approximate range
for an accurate weight, and the close relationship
between the Humankind and God must withstand any change.
Solutions must be found before catastrophe approaches,
and if we were caught by surprise, we would regret the outcome;
less trees should be cut down to make room for buildings.
Thieves, murderers and rapists should be held in contempt
and thrown into dungeons...instead of giving them cosy cells,
the Law admits that's just to punish, but inhumane to torment.
Nightly streets have been taken over by muggers, drug dealers
and prostitutes, now called escorts, haven't changed their lewd attitude;
even madams of the brothels open doors for the well-dressed sirs.
Society has gone mad, and it has condoned both sexes of equal desires;
never was Sodom and Gomorrah as iniquitous and lustful as this one;
God forbid...I entered this city and be found guilty of their perversions!
While on the outskirts, in run-down homes poverty duplicates its horrible woes,
politicians' corrupt hands are not seen...pocketing money that Congress approved;
and the suffering of the poor is plagued by famines that turn into deadly diseases.
Crooked judges are manipulated by criminal defense lawyers who have handfuls of cash;
justice can never be served when criminals are given their parole, and the innocent,
humble men are detained and put behind bars, because of their limited wealth.
Proud hearts see neither simplicity nor beauty in anything that evolves into splendid light;
self-praise, greed, bluntness and invulnerability are the rules they live and swear by;
humbleness is unacceptable and insignificant...it's a virtue which diminishes their pride.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
UNDER THE RED UMBRELLA
Under the red umbrella, sheltered in our rainy day nest,
my coal black heel lifts — our oneness beats in my chest.
Handsome in his dark suit, like an iron I press close —
my full-bodied lips a crimson shade, now our his, I suppose.
He calls me his wild Paris rose on these streets of shimmering gold.
The blush rushes to my cheeks and eyes — to him I’m sold.
Between the french kisses...ooh la la...we make lover’s jokes.
The circus tent of our wide-brimmed umbrella drips and soaks.
His fingers, like rain, touch my face, lift my chin, make me see him.
In turn my eyes dive into his, our green and blues take a swim,
turning teal as we ponder marriage with a family, life and love.
Vulnerable, I feel my nakedness as I remove my black silk gloves.
Under this unforgettable crimson cloud, we no longer hide,
except from the prying eyes of Paris la ville des lumières pride
My red dress clings, its waist slim, its curves vivacious — not shy.
Together two orphans stay dry — our passionate fire will not die.
11/3/2018
The Red Umbrella Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Eve Roper
Paris la ville des lumières - Pa ree la veel day loo me air - Paris the city of lights
(Approximate pronunciation, apologies to the French)
We push to imitate nature's
flavors, both sour and sweet;
compare the taste of lemons
to that of a lush, ripe peach,
or the nectar of pure honey
to the tang of a dill pickle.
The fruit-flavored snack-pack
spilled into my hand,
perceived imitations of the real deal:
One shaped blackberry (hardly)
Two round orange slices (scored)
One green apple (Granny Smith?)
A bunch of cherries (close)
Two raspberries (not)
I popped rubbery orbs into my mouth,
closed my eyes and chewed slowly,
seeking the flavor of raspberries
like those growing on vines
just beyond the entrance to Castlewood State Park.
The cherry almost succeeded
in replicating the original;
all others were blatant counterfeits.
I once met a Flavor Chemist.
How many blackberries must he consume
before he can approximate the taste?
He answered my question
with a smile, and a bottle
of imitation vanilla flavoring.
When it comes Springtime lambing on the farm
The bleating sheep send out distress alarm
For the black ravens and carrion crow
Locate their prey and glide in on the flow
Ebony ravens with diamond shaped tails
Are now in flight over West Riding dales
Seeing as their wide spreading wings unfolds
their acrobatic chases, dives and rolls
In mating rituals that they display
Ever watchful in likely passing prey
From Arctic to Mediterranean
Ravens favour suitable carrion
In coastal regions they perch to survey
the nests for speckled eggs the seagulls lay
Highly intelligent amongst their peers
Approximate life span of thirteen years
It certainly isn't beyond the realm of possibility
That one day we'll become robots, it's more a probability
We'll have an on/off switch
And a program which
Will provide us with our happy zone's approximate vicinity
© Jack Ellison 2016
quaffing caustic acidic ale, a prankster did stage
analogous to raging figurative fire of rage
within my belly – riven asper spinal binding
ripped from every book marked page
caw zing quite an ache – fiercely teas sing
curative panaceas sans
almond sunset, chamomile, osage
tea, yukon try grabbing with all your might,
even enlisting Strain gauge
in tandem
with a bunch of bootlegged banshees
freed from their cage
as last resort drafting electric eels,
shocking quite astute
accompanied by
jack and the Giant beanstalk golems to boot
or tiger (perhaps named Tony,
mean to the bone, but...oh so cute
who dwells in a tony neighborhood),
swishing tail (Nike like),
and held up ala playing the flute
an unseen hellacious, ferocious, or egregious beast,
who expells offal asphyixiating
from a moon unit sized Glute
yea, I could also allude to some flying dragon,
who gives nada ha hoot,
somehow remotely controlling to ram into ewe,
these high speed U-Haul trucks
combine all the above scenario,
aye know really sucks
which gagging induces
the worst instance of reflux
the sum total would,
only feebly meet Karma credit rating as de luxe
approximate the onset
of red hot enflamed ducks
(my apologies to PETA, Paul, Luke...),
they madly flap wings, yawping beaks,
vis a vis on par withque clucks
clan – Whew...only then
(after paying yee a million bucks
please keep on the que tee i.e. hush)
regarding this soupy poetic fabrication
bravely bursting buttucks amucks.
Waking up, I'm shaken by an awful thought:
it's not a sunny February morning,
but heartwarming wishes on Facebook
alleviate the anxiety of a gloomy feeling
to enliven the mood and be immensely grateful
to God and do what is worth living for, but
is the state of being old that word so painful?
Should aging looks be an embarrassment...
comparing me to a frail Captain Hook
who sailed in rough seas without fright!
People I run into stare at me strangely and guess
my approximate age by the fine line and wrinkles,
but they don't see how young and virile I am inside;
if perfection and handsomeness are the advantages
of the younger men to pursue women and attract,
what are the disadvantages of the older ones?
Is the perception of an enfeebled body a horror to hide,
or an accomplished milestone to make an impact?
She sleeps under her perennial sheets
Her mattress is six feet deep
The head and footrest approximate her size
Her hand holds a single red rose that cries
Years ago, her bed was scented
With crushed petals of a dozen roses
The happiness of her wedding day
Good intentions to which she’d pay
This pretty girl in perennials lives
In an affluent neighborhood that thrives
With rolling green hills and quiet trees
She paid the ultimate price of a rich man’s bride
Can you elaborate?
When I insinuate,
Or elucidate,
The postulate,
Of the populate ,
To the proclamate,
And indicate,
An approximate,
When to inaugurate,
The officiate,
To delegate,
Or orchestrate,
Us to celebrate
Sometimes I notice
the approximate time that
she walks in the door.
Looking into a crystal clear river, itching to bathe my feet
Water’s look shallow, I’m buried in thought gone obsolete
The trickling liquid beckons me over, promising of a cure
My reality is a long time stolen, faltering into life obscure
Torn between instinct and choice, ambivalence devouring
I make a compromise to dip one toe, not too overpowering
Testing water proves difficult, distracted by gaps and voids
Cursing and blabbering alone, answering myself annoyed
Anticipation is conflagration, expectation being unknown
Dementia doesn’t have a reservation, comes with life alone
One thing leads to another, I’ve wandered out of their cage
This river’s measured now, my toe the approximate gauge
Looking again find I’m knee deep, as memory starts to fade
Pushing out further still, forgotten is the compromise made
Keep wading outward, I have no comprehension of bounds
River is unable to claim me, my mind was long ago drowned
Your Favorite Rhyme Poem in August 2021 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
10/08/2021