Best Arguably Poems
It took me awhile to comprehend
the true significance of "be patient."
We've heard it all before,
but it's funny how we often fail
to cogitate over this phrase
and feel it's ponderous weight.
One who says it to you means well,
not playing the pontificating fool,
but hanging a priceless jewel
over your head so you wear
the advice like a necklace.
So please listen to whomever
advises you to "be patient."
It's arguably the two most
important words you could ever hear.
It'd take me a mighty long day
to list all that I've learned
from this simple phrase.
It's common sense, stripped naked,
made to dance in a cold rain.
Yes, my friend, be patient,
when wading back into
the murky creek of love and romance.
Be patient as you chase
your rainbow. Don't move too fast!
You'll get to that pot of gold.
Do not be discouraged.
Be patient when on life's highway
lest you crash! Good things
come to those who wait.
Date written: 01/17/2021
You’ve got a hold on me
And won’t let me forget
My need for you, arguably
Is as severe as needs get
I can’t see beyond
A me without you
Without my dear wand
What, ever, would I do
Would I succumb to death
Departing by choice
Or find something left
Without your voice
I have framed my life around
My days spent with you
I’d fall to the ground
If I weren’t subdued
Conflicts have raged upon the disputed soils of earth since before men began to record them. But there have been other conflicts less recorded, less lauded, but more redoubtable, oh, so much more. These were no less bloody than those who drained the life from promising generations, but they were more certain in their calculated rage, and arguably precipitated those lesser skirmishes. For they did not inhabit those regions of memorialized ground, but were carried within by those who fell there, and were carried away by those who lived to tell. For these were those conflicts within men of which none other could compare. In ferocity they were rivaled by none, and of that blood which flowed, unnumbered hearts proved an endless wellspring to slake the thirst of a thousand earths. And so, from the lacerated soul pours a bitter bile, a perpetual disquiet. This is the madness within every walking corpse, the insanity shadowing every potential good. Such is a sadness beyond all tears ever shed. It is the mutant upheaval within every son of man. Bowels of a deep and groaning lament, seething within and without; the fetid breath of a million rages. It is the conflict within... G.R.L.
The correlation between the bull and its southern identity,
most likely gives significance to its “calf land” description.
The labour room where renaissance was born
and historically grown through Michelangelo, Donatello, Da Vinci and others.
Finds great contentment in the treasury of the family.
Its empire once hitting heights way beyond the white mountains,
from Portugal to Syria and from Britain to the North African deserts;
while in possession of a language with more Latin words than any other.
It is a bird in constant carriage of two small chicks
while one is distant in the oldest continuous constitution,
the other stands apart in locking its city Gates at night.
The contributions of two major pillars out of so many
in the awesome support of the eighteenth century enlightenment
arguably equates the international influence of its “Three fountains”.
It has great command in the language of music
as the first global operas were composed in its sitting room.
From the Sardinian islands to the spectacle of the leaning tower of prisa,
this world nation with a significant portion
of its economic power rested on the dealings of mafias
is home to ‘A’ grade designers and highly rated sport automobiles.
The birth place of Galileo Galilei and Carlo Collodi,
engaging in unsaid romance with its own wolf;
making leisure a charismatic ritual through the evening stroll
and enjoying the biggest holiday in Christmas to Epiphany
is this land with more masterpieces than any other in the planet
and having the largest tertiary institution in its continent.
If anything, please know I tried
I tripped, slipped and fell behind
I came up short, with empty hands
With two left feet, I tried to dance
I never fit inside the lines
The artist had a structured mind
Inside my head, the music played
The world around, I would evade
I imagined that, it went away
To my own beat, my body swayed
But there you stood, a tiny spot
An itty bitty, perfect dot
You longed for that which can't be bought
But mama failed, she forgot
Though it is a selfish thought
Please don't hate me for what I'm not
Each day, I plan
To begin again
A fresh new hand
I dare not bend
A blank page with no scribbles
And hand full of sharpened pencils
As soon as the led on the first pencil snaps
My fingers slip and lose grasp
A perfect package of expectations
Opened a moment too soon
I lose count of my loose ends
My day, now out of tune
I've come to terms with lack of luck
Deciding things just won't look up
I try so hard but for what
Now stubborn and bruised my ego is stuck
I imagine myself going with the flow
Despite my duck's unsightly row
And the fickle nature of that we know
No worries, my darling, mom will show
But now, my love, I finally see
That what I'm striving so hard to be
Is not your mother. It isn't me
It might be the lady down the street
With red lipstick and polished feet
A fictional character, possibly
Someone better, arguably
But perhaps I fulfill a different need
So I'll pass self love down the family tree
It is self tormenting
and arguably a case of poetic voyeurism
I do not like muses
I like them closer than that
no definition, just being there
the style, the perfume
and art of a persona
sitting next to me, talking
while I, for a brief span of a second
close my eyes and reopen
in an intellectual daze
When I look at a tree
enchanted I am by
grand height and width,
luxurious foliage, plush branches
on display – somewhat jealous
of apparent supportive appeal,
birds that sing and play in the sway,
such vibrant array; their home,
a natural sanctuary, perhaps
an outdoor cathedral where they also
pray?
I recall a Psych-professor, making
fun of me to the class, for the paper
I wrote (suggesting that my dog was
capable of love) – He, the professor, a man
schooled entirely in animal instincts,
proclaimed my pet's affection was not to be,
in fact, the professor's own seldom example
of compassion
was my generous “C”
back to my fascination with this tree: what
lies beneath (a few above ground, but most
of them unable to see) is a large community of roots:
downward growth for firmness, nourishment
and steadfast footing – a
way to maintain lofty strength, entwined
with earth, quite solidly, inseparably gnarled
(seeming quite painfully bent)
reminded I am of God, His arguably less
than perfect, struggling man; thinking there must
a system better, some more lenient, alternative, less
punitive plan --
strict obedience to the bible
for most human tastes appearing
far too liable....
Move on, my friend
Raise your right hand
To move on, to concede
Wasting your time will lead
To nothing, nichts, niente, nada
Do it for the soul of America.
Stop wasting your energy
Stop the lies and the anomaly
A real man accepts defeat
Hey dude, you got beat
You lost, you’re defeated
Stop being too conceited.
Hit the road Jack. Move on
The world wants a confession
Dude, you’re losing power daily
Like a cheap antiquated battery
Hit the road. Quit being a nag
It’s time to raise the white flag.
Don’t try a stupid coup d’état
Because you’ll fail like a lama
Let America be proud again
This is a new era, a new season
It’s time to quit. Hit the road Jack
Move on. Please don’t comeback.
Subpoena are coming
Convictions are forthcoming
Shame is arguably disgusting
Real people are singing and laughing
This is another day in America
This is shocking blah, blag, blah!
P.S. Political satire.
Copyright © November 2020, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books.
The Walrus, he is an ugly brute,
Made entirely out of rubber,
Lounging on the shore all day,
Like discarded old whale blubber.
Sea Lion on the other hand,
Is arguably, I think quite cute,
Gliding along the beach at play,
In his slick grey leather suit.
There is freedom in her beauty. A confidence that comforts me deep in my soul. I am in awe. Purely. She may as well be flying, I cannot take my eyes from her wings that spread wide as the sky. Her song is deep and disciplined; at her command. The places in my gut that ache she shares and makes words where there were none. It's as if we've known each other before. Pieces of our souls belong to one another. So extraordinary but reachable through the humanity in her eyes. A sadness a deepness that resonates with me. It is within me. Sadness within the womb of woman, scars on the heart always leave behind more than ruined tissue. She gets that. She gets me. A superstar, the world cannot take their eyes off her. She is a flame, the view of the ground from the roof. In-arguably gorgeous, striking whether in her bare feet or the latest fashion. Her sexy is audacious, admirably we watch, when it's over we are inspired to be sexier. With a flip of big hair she becomes demure without parting with her sexiness. She is what woman is. So feminine while so in charge. The stage rumbles underneath her feet. She smiles into the crowd. A smile that the millions of dollars of lights behind her cannot compete with.
A smile that speaks
Saying... there is no place she would rather be.
Her love of melody of sing of the release that comes with belting out your feelings becomes my love. We are strangers but in a heavenly moment we become one.
Sisters of the soul. Girlfriends. Her greatest gift to me is her strength.
Privately educated, privileged backgrounds .……no problem per se …….…but ......we're led by these plum in mouth toffs by the troughful.…... their snouts in the pockets of the electorate, creaming the real workers of cash for taxes .…....so long as they're okay with backhanded deals and offshore accounts, their empathy remains as real as a cuboid moon.
Distrustful dinosaurs with prehistoric rhetoric....... and arrogance beyond belief .......they give the people grief. Arguably their role is to be unpopular..... no reflection of the real people, no microcosm, no cross section, no true representation of us compounds their ability to irritate.
This is politics in full swing, full of stuck up d*cks and silly twerps in tailored shirts telling us how to vote. When can this change to a real democracy? ........Real parties talking real issues with real solutions with real taxes spent on real things. The equilibrium is unbalanced, the donkey jacket came and went ......now we're left with just the donkeys, more mules to carry the weight of their own egos.
We have the right to vote.....we pride ourselves on this democratic right...but this is looking through the rose tints.….I only have the ability to vote for different shades of beige....unless I want to become a part of an extremist, sensationalist mob.….I don't.... I just want a real choice of real people..….so for now my ballot card will remain a useful piece of cardboard.... to fold and prop up the wonky leg on my dining room table.
Question: Why do we write?
Answer: Why not?
"This art form is arguably the greatest gift that anyone can have. It allows us to create ourselves new worlds in which our dreams can become a reality and where we find that there are no limits to what we can achieve in this confusing life."
Question: Again, why do we write?
Answer: Because we have to.
"Without this escape from reality, we stop ourselves from doing great things that we only dream of. Without this, our lives are nothing more than pages filled with unfinished aspirations and incomplete sentences."
Question: For the last time, why do we write?
Answer: Simple.
"BECAUSE WE CAN"
Mother’s Love
Without a Mother’s love,
no house becomes a home.
Without a Mother’s love,
in the streets, the children roam.
Without a Mother’s loving hands
that create and soothe and mend;
the hearts of many grow cold;
in prisons of anger, their lives spend.
Mother’s play the leading role
in every so-called family.
Mother’s love is the cement
that bind her loved ones happily.
It takes a Mother’s loving smile,
gentle touch or prayer
to give encouragement where needed,
when trials are too hard to bear.
Mother’s love is precious
and should be treated so,
‘cause Mothers don’t last forever;
finally to death’s sleep must go.
So while your Mother’s love is with you,
treasure it each day.
Many never have the privilege—
their Mother’s love to relay.
Mother’s love is a taste of heaven,
where love and forgiveness is free.
Even if you don’t see eye to eye,
she’ll not arguably disagree.
For a Mother’s love gives comfort
to a lost or needy soul.
She’s a gift from the Father’s heart;
the hurting one to console.
Mother’s love is patient;
shows wisdom and thoughtfulness;
a daily deep devotion
in a world of selfishness.
Mother’s love is enduring—
endurance that defies explanation.
Of all the love God gave us,
Mother’s love is His crowning creation.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2010-2012
www.maureenlefanue.com
This poem is featured in Maureen’s Book, Poetry To Touch Your Heart & Soul [Book 1]
Photography by Maureen LeFanue
I am broken
comprised of raw experience
a love for you
that forces my hand
and makes me vulnerable, too
subdued
saturated
fatigued
and infatuated
by a love for you
my brokenness
the broken bones
and this broken being
and if my broken body
does not suffice
then - complete me
solve the mystery
that is me
fill her
make her whole
fill her again, and again
again, and again
she's desperate
arguably senseless
yet -
withholding
nothing
Pockets of small militant groups are threatening
While unrest swirls around us in the streets
Election season … or, facing a second Civil War?
Americans find the possibilities ever frightening.
Social and political polarization has created
Unbridgeable gaps between friends and neighbors
And promoted severe rifts within families
Social and fraternal groups are among the hated.
The authority of the church is compromised
Our educational systems are arguably failing
While systemic racism throughout our culture
Loses sight of ultimate diversification so prized.
What happens if violence becomes the daily lead
If wild and reckless militia groups roam the land
Seizing control wherever they can overpower
A stable, democratic leader we desperately need.
FEATURED POETRY SOUP POEM
December 19, 2021