Best Arenas Poems
Well, I see that Congress is proposin' another trillion dollar spree!
Those inept buffoons must think money grows upon a tree!
The treasury is crankin' out bales of twenty-dollar bills,
Doin' their part to cure (and inflate) the nation's many ills!
Funds were 'loaned' to help carmakers, now they're hollerin' fer more!
A ton of dough was 'loaned' to banks, but ain't nobody keepin' score!
Millions was designated to help home foreclosures to abate.
Where has my money gone? I've seen minimal results to date!
Funds are proposed fer more sand fer the beaches of New Joisey,
And city officials want a water park out west in frigid Boise!
Frenzied lobbyists are scurryin' about fer a portion of the pork,
To build an emergency landin' strip on the Hudson in New York!
Money is probably well-spent fer roads, bridges and agin' sewers,
But spare me the cost of subsidizin' sports arenas and sozzled brewers.
Lack of foresight by the banks and politicians got us in this mess,
Now they cover their boondoggles with my money, nonetheless!
Hordes of politicians gleefully gather at the bottomless trough,
Elbowin' others fer largesse they claim will make us better off.
Is there no end to compensatory spendin' and open-ended lendin'?
Hey! That's my money you fellers are so very inept at spendin'!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Whenever there are cold cruel cries
Times of India appears in full-size
For help of common to criticize
All unjust, biased and unfair ties.
All articles or poems to visualize
Are supplied freely by the Wise.
We feel after reading it energize
Quench of knowledge here pacifies.
All sort of news or ads or pies
Are available in format revise.
I tell all my children to idolize
TOI as it never does pressurize
One to form opinion and actualize
Things and never does stupefies.
Gives articles to easily memorize
Or modern development supplies
On different arenas edgewise.
Has decency if wronged to apologize
And never we found it terrifies;
For Improvement TOI is a device
Never taught us to compromise.
Let mater be national or localize
Gets place in it to immortalize.
Hoping better future TOI allies
And for our metal exercise.
forgot what I had set out to remember
when my deconstructed self
discovered there was no authentic anything
saw through it all every granule
how we became the unwitting tools
of smarter people who really weren't smart enough
concluding if this is life
you can imagine what death is like
I can tell you this much
we are alone in this galactic theme park
alone as a lizard on a sunny rock
what percent of the totality
of all there is in all the universe
do we perceive
and what do you see with nothing absent
this question failed to sweep through
the bum fight arenas
where they need permission to think
no escaping that free means battle
which goddammit means not free
shouting to anyone my agent will sue
as the lines grew longer
and the bread grew shorter
the sly ones were trampled by their own venality
order was quickly restored destroyed restored etc.
the pace was feverish so were the faces
on State TV at 6 and 11
self denialists saw their heads roll down the lane
towards the ten pins at Bowl N' Boogie
in an educated kind of idiocy
for which there is no help
a scandal of poor illumination
you never know which is the foreground
and which is the background
discovering heaven is not overhead
OK I’d better let up on the enthusiasm
too many grimacing faces in the popcorn
too many bushwhacking gargoyles
plump like 3-D bratwurst
in this Biblical sauerkraut mamodrama
making the world lounge safe
for my blindfolded baptism
for both the seen and the unseen
beneath the scum covered water
on a need to know basis
I now reveal a deadly secret
there is direction there is magnitude
densities and rarities
we mime we imitate
we steal what we are
and are beaten with sticks
for having a mind and knowing it
I meme therefore I am
Defection Control had him by the throat
blow a kiss to the camera
it's all just a really big index
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Italian winds blow gently and smooth
Over hushed dusty remnants of lives past,
This once thriving city clueless of its fate
Lies frozen in time under hot blazing sun.
Chariots and horses stopped in their tracks,
Brothel patrons lie in silent passion
On lava beds of ashen cold comfort,
Slaves free of earthly bonds lie in timeless sleep,
Their masters’ tongues forever stilled from curse.
Nigh two thousand years of a forced respite
For countless lives ceased by nature’s great wrath,
Holy temples, theatres and great arenas
Forever preserved beneath a molten shroud.
Pompeian spectres roam their burial ground
Haunted by ancient Vesuvian eyes,
Watching and waiting until it’s time
To erupt her cruel rage once again.
NEANDERTHAL
In times gone by, now recondite,
Neanderthal, erect, upright,
spoke softly, tones so lily-white,
and tried to put the world aright.
He taught us how the flame ignites
that wearing furs will warm the nights,
just why the rolling wheel excites,
and how the beveled flint stone bites.
Before the days of dynamite
he fought his foes with spit and spite,
and swung big sticks with all his might,
and rendered death with stones in flight.
Engaged in never-ending fight
(arenas were a global sight)
he forced his forces to unite
to sate his oily appetite.
To quell rude thoughts that may incite
he ruled the realm with fly-by-nights
and culled the winds of words in flight,
and darkened minds to anthracite.
With fairy tales of evil sprites
and how the fist of freedom smites,
he washed the world with flames alight
to vanquish hoards of parasites.
Each dawn the damage brought delight,
the foe was bent, a bit contrite…
yet battled on with no respite
until the dusk and evening light.
Encamped beside the firelight
Neanderthal, that shiny Knight,
awaited morn while sitting tight
assured the end would be alright.
Yes, conquest seemed his sacred right…
Forevermore?… well, no, not quite…
Neanderthal's extinct tonight
and lies beside the Trilobite…
MORAL
The Oreo is round, not bright:
while rolling near the candlelight
at first the searing seemed so slight,
the molten cream an oversight…
NOTE:
This screed has nothing to do with the noble Neanderthal (whose brain size exceeded our own).
It has nothing to do with 'times gone by' (though who knows what future beings may see and think).
It has nothing to do with anything…
and even less to do with something…
unless of course, you think it does….
Echoes
By Chuck Keys
The park is empty,
Littered with broken bottles,
Unsightly weeds of irregular lengths,
Varying debris and memories of bygone days.
Void of voices from games past played
Of cheers, sneers, angers and joys
When children screamed, frolicked and stayed.
The wind and silence scream a loud.
Families, picnics and camp fires echo from the past.
Shared foods of gastrointestinal delight flowed freely.
Desserts of Smores, with chocolate bars, fired crispy marshmallows
Smushed inside graham crackers.... Mmm.
Where have yesterday's children gone to play?
To fields of varying sports,
Arenas for love, war, tranquility,
For sport, fame and fortune or death.
The journey begins and ends with each moment of life.
Roads traveled daily become the final journey,
Made up of echoes from past travels,
As life and death converge into an ongoing existence.
Never ending.
© Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved.
The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant,
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.
The old New Hampshire Red was up last night,
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops,
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.
Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria;
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore
before morning forage,
and gaiety commences.
Brown skinned pickneys,
like the color of the Balaclava clay,
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names.
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.
Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies,
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas;
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown,
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain.
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.
Religious conflict
Fighting in the name of God
An oxymoron
Dark, twisting desire for power and greed
sends the innocent ones to fall and bleed.
Powerful people hosting selfish purpose
seek every day men to fill their arenas.
Greed and power are too often sought
in the guise of something God has willed.
Killing and sorrow for those who fought
and witnessed God’s other children killed
could never see Our Father fulfilled.
I am the honey pot
Famous for the well brewed bittersweet content within my belly
Like molten chocolate sweet, only more sumptuous
Not that I’m a bragger –
But many have come to me for an ounce of my content
And I must say; it has them licking their fingers
They can’t seem to have enough of me
But before you judge me a drug – hard or soft; which I’m none
It’s gospel my attraction is just as strong if not more
Having colleagues at all ranks, my fan base is overwhelmingly high -
Dozen power suits have shaken hands with me
Lucrative business deals sealed in my presence
Services are efficient under my order
Law lenient at the mention of my name
Findings less unraveling with me at the middle
Lands change titles under my brokerage
A few helping hands more willing at the sight of me
Small favours too at this age seek me first
My tentacles truly reach far and wide
And lest you call me a blackmailer or worse a prey –
I seek not, but sought after
Hooked as a bait on my colleagues’ preying poles
And cast into the stream of the less fortunate
To the oceans of abundance
Where their ever hungry greed is never filled
They care less of my side effects
That range from a sour reputation
Law catching up if I don’t buy a way out for them
To the recycled injustices from the days of their fathers
Injustices that to date rock the social, political, economic arenas
Bitter side aside–
I still remain an allure
To them it is survival of the fittest
©GraceM Composition
I know you have seen her walkin',
heard her talkin',
strollin out there on the avenues.
All the while,
fellas seem to stop and stare,
admirin'
thinking SISTA GURL, how can I get with you????!!!!!!
You seem like you can stop the world.
With a snap of your fingers,
clap of your hands.
Gon' SISTA GURL,
keep on!!!!
do your thing!!!!!!!!
I have seen her rollin'
sometimes even strollin'
out there,
on the boulevards.
LOOKIN'
Like the star you are!!!
Dressed up,
from head to toe,
letting the whole world know,
fo' sho'
you got it goin' on!!!
I seen you on the TV set,
in the board room, too
in the arenas,
all throughout the world,
all I can say,
SISTA GURL,
keep doin'
THAT THANG, THAT YOU DO !!!!!!
All avenues are amphibious arenas
Bubbles belch-burst, bitter Bacchanalian bombs
Clouds' cast-iron crescendo creates cold cantankerous caricatures
Drenched - darkness descending, daylight dying, disappearing duskwards
Every eye echoing every eye, emotional evidence enveloped
Fake furs, fashionable fools, firm friends fleeing flowing firmament
Garrulous girls giggle, grizzled gangsters get going, gravity gyroscopes - ginormous gloomy grey gusts!
Hapless Harry's hairpiece hovers, hesitates, hovers higher, hurriedly he hopes he has his hat,
Intimate iciness infiltrates irrepressibly inside,
Jaunty Jack's japery, just jaded January jokes - jigsaw justice
Kilted killers, kleptomaniac kangaroos...
Lame laughs, low lamplight, laser liquid lines lash lustfully
Mercurial miasma mercilessly merging, mournful men mutter miserably
Nobody needs niceties, navigating newspapers, nothing new now
Ordered out over oof owed, obstinately offering old objections
Pavement pool-puddles pose problems, precautions probable, prayers perhaps...
Quintessential questing queens querulously quarrel,
Rain rushes relentlessly, rudely, rapaciously
Sizzling, steaming, slip-sliding silhouettes, soaked saturnine suits seething
Terry the tiger-tamer, tastefully tattooed, taking time talking tactfully to trembling tramps
Undernourished underpass underclass, underwhelmed under useless ubiquitous umbrellas
Vulgar victors, vim-vigour-verve, voraciously vanquished, vanity virulently violated,
Waistless waifs, wasted wastrels, wrestle with wicked westerly winds
X-rayed, X-rated
Yesterday's youngsters yellowing, yawning, yearning
Zero zest. Zilch.
Earth, water, fire, air
solitary elements to exist;
while alpha powers from
celestial arenas persist at creation
in it's rawest form
Nothingness,
A blank canvas
Empty;
full of substance and potential
Awaiting a transformation that will be
a perfect reflection of beauty
pictures on a mantle
Earth, Water, Fire, Air
Strong, gladiator,
Thine blade is sharp also swift.
Thou fight for honor, glory.
For thine, love of heart.
Back and forth thee thrusts are keen.
Ye stand so bravely with brass.
Await opponents.
Scarcely; they approach, knowing,
Their fate of death from thine sword,
Though they know, quickly,
Thy; shall place your victory.
Among the past forces, well,
Their souls shall raise high,
By next arenas battle,
Another blazes thine sword.
written for
Sponsor Amy Green
Contest Name Choka for a Chokehold
Limerick : Once a Toro loved by a Matador
Once a Toro* loved by a Matador*
Maimed between shoulders by Picador*
Matador garrocha*
Picador muchacha*
Picador cornudo* Matador.
*Toro : bull raised for fighting in arenas (rings)
*Matador : « matador de toros », bullfighter ; usually
the head « torero », title obtained after the
« alternativa », ceremony honoring the torero
or « novillero », the apprentice bullfighter
*Picador : the well-protected assistant to the matador
on horseback who wounds the toro between
the shoulders in order to cause the bull to hang
its head
*garrocha/garrochar : (to use) the long lance with a metallic
harpoon-like head , wielded by the Picador
*muchacha : Spanish for girl or « daughter » as in this case
*cornudo : cuckolded (husband gored)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
His first poems
Were carved with a knife
On the tree trunks in the countryside
He wrote in prison
He wrote high up in the trees
In Havana`s parks where
He hid from the Cuban police
In his new island-jail
In his shabby apartment
Illuminated by Manhattan lights
Very tired, very ill
In a sea of paper
He wanted to die by the sea
And when the night fell
The death crawled
Together with pills and alcohol
His sadness as deep as the sea
Was burnt and ashes scattered at the sea