Best Asides Poems
'Tis well known that mules are a very stubborn breed,
So 'tis well to keep that point in mind ere you proceed!
They've been known to bite and they have a mighty hefty kick.
(So, how to harness a mule? Very carefully and you must be quick!)
First, you should tie the mule to a sturdy post in an open area.
This will provide you room to move about and lessen his hysteria!
Grab the collar and slide the wider open end over the mule's ears.
(While doin' this, whisper sweet nothin's to him to calm his fears!)
Fasten the hames to the collar and drape the traces over his back.
Tuck the crupper under his tail makin' sure it is somewhat slack.
Tighten the girth ensurin' it's tight, then, fasten the bellyband.
(Take a break to bind the wound where he nipped you on the hand!)
The reins are carefully threaded through the saddle and collar guides.
(You're forgiven when he steps on your foot and you holler naughty asides!)
Now, slip the halter and bridle over his ears and place the bit in his mouth.
Walla! You're ready to hitch him to the plow to turn those forty acres south!
Well, so what you may ask? Why all this fuss about harnessin' a mule?
Because you may be required to harness one someday and not look the fool!
Furthermore, with the price of gasoline risin' at the pump nowadays,
You may need to get a mule and buggy and change your gas-guzzlin' ways!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A little less laughter in the world,
A little more reminiscing;
For that will be the way it goes
With Robin Williams missing.
A lot more tributes yet to come,
A lot of clips to show;
For folks just can't believe
That it was Robin's time to go.
A little less laughter in the world,
A lot more snide asides;
Alas, beneath the comic's mask,
Depression often hides.
TREASURES
mesmerising
asides
reside
to
display
the
extraordinary
&
delicate
blooms
a choice
narrative
survives
gently
resides
in
patterned
fragments
swirling
in the
spectacular
detail
so
apposite
&
contemporary
a foraged
signifiance
monumental
precious
of
intention
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
There is a gigantic magnet
somewhere far out in deepest space
that holds the planets in their place
sun and moon too, do rise and set.
All controlled by this magnet
that makes the moon govern the tides
whilst stars do whisper in asides
of this and that caught in its jet.
Yet who controls it, this magnet?
for that one must read the book
and not just skimp but really look
read every word and heaven get.
Our life of free will is governed
by vast things beyond our knowledge
all courses pre-set by a hedge
that path of god to us is wed.
Here, I wrote a bridal guide,
A rule book for future brides,
No matter if you're fair, fat and wide,
Or not, here's some dependable asides,
First, keep degrees and jobs up to date,
With some mates you can't relate,
You never know when the rats will turn,
To being a doormat, is what to spurn,
Keep some getaway money set aside,
This is important in a bridal guide,
Always update your roadside assist,
Without that, car bingles can get you miffed,
Ditto home and car insurance too,
Note these well, I say to brides like you,
Never take drugs if to Bali you roam,
Then you definitely won't be coming home,
Herein, I wrote a bridal guide,
My rule book for brides like you.......
If You Think...
If you think a love like a mother will exist, there and then
You must have been building castles in the air and thus
Need a medic or an injection to kill that feeling of an outcast-
A shadow of falsehood you’ve been chasing.
Friends like mothers will exist no doubt about that
I'm but particular about if boldly will exist in instant world, where
Sailing through has no backfire or low indignation, where
Right to freedom and possession would not be denied, where
Behind your backs, you would have all sides’ safety
Like the baby in the mother's womb, or the sun in the sky.
A bounty ground, a must be aftermath of the journey on free
Bridge on the cross roads, and lanes, and water, and bushes
Over the mountain; the rock, the valley and the hill, and on the
Troubled memory of liquors, women, demigods and kings of miseries?
Water full of love is only a reservoir for the Creator asides mothers.
I may be viewed as uncivilized or sound barbaric by this logic, but reasons
Will proclaim reality in my tone, stand and modest mood.
“Ease! Be at ease!!” The breeze from the mothers’ bosom’s recollections sway, that
Your mind would seek forgiveness and refuge from her, then the All Forgiver. Then true
Mind will redeem and have the lasting rest of his life, yield to and fulfill mother’s wish.
A.O
19/2/2014
________________________________________
Note: Mothers addressed here may not necessarily be ones biological mother. It could be he or she who is never sick or tired of listening to you, hearing your plights or problems and helping you proffer solutions to them. He or she never discourages, never over-pampers and pray for your success at all times...
________________________________________
Please visit "About this poem"
With Crystal Ball I might have found
Some way to weave my way through time
Instead I played without the rules
Did it my way throughout the schools
Meandered free from guides or maps
Ate my meals from plates on laps
Camped and rambled, cycled too
My only aim - my love for you
Single till I sang your song
Wed while we were still so young
Cats and flats and tube train rides
Cinema trips and theatre asides
Walking miles down country lanes
Hobbling from the blisters pains
Now and then there'd be a tiff
Life's never perfect, oh what if
Pardon me while I reminisce
My poetic licence still exists
So work was just my hobby made
Into jobs for which I was paid
Until later I joined the retail trade
Years went by, I sold the shop
We bought a house with the cash I got
Acquired a dog who chased our cats
And still we ate from plates on laps
Houses changed, our lives did too
For a while you were lost to view
Back as one we multiplied
Two girls from us were derived
Another move nearer to school
A third child born who is no fool
Sadly you were soon unwell
At first the doctors couldn’t tell
Mighty was the blow that day
When they said no cure to allay
The failing heart within your breast
A transplant might be for the best
Some days after our son was two
While I was there, visiting you
The doctors said you had one last chance
And we took the news with a mutual glance
Harder still those several weeks
Intensive care, drug induced sleeps
Tubes, machines, alarms and more
Until you slipped through the final door
Goodbyes were hard for all who came
Many said it was a shame
But on with life we had to go
Three children had to deal with woe
Does time heal, or simply pass
Those old sayings might make you laugh
4000 days have been and gone
Will I join you before long?
©Rhumour
April 14th 2008
If I can just borrow one of your pens
So my own lines, would, at least, make some sense
To create rhythms that are clear, and not dense
Be able to inspire with no offense
I shall be proud when the pen's scrawling ends.
Write what brings peace to emotional tides
Words that the soul, to natures call abides
All of worldly worries, one set asides
Releasing the turmoil that one hides
As the reader through lines of a verse rides
A line in a poem to connect the minds
Though its words be fragile still hearts it binds
So as to heal the loneliness that grinds
Even far away, a soulmate one finds
With your pen I'll search for a word that winds
If you can just lend me one of your pens
So my lines would, to my friends, make some sense
And share my heart to them clear and intense
Without the mistake of making offense
I'll be fulfilled when the pen's scrawling ends.
Three lying deacons
swim in a handbag -
and a lone, celibate pastor
paces longingly bemused.
Michael, the Arc Angel,
poses silently,
in dusty Gabbana drag,
cursing the lipstick-painted laymen
writhing in rancid attar -
naked
and intentionally
unused.
Four wide-eyed boys
dance on a daydream –
kissing ripped posters
of a white collared rapist.
Saint Peter understands
the jovial jokesters -
the foolishness
when blackened specks darken the void;
the flurried flutter of his eyelids
casts a tainted shadow
upon a fractured sexual ballet.
They continue to kiss
below the waist.
Three lying deacons
and a pacing pastor resides –
five lip-smacking nurses
massaging your head.
Four wide-eyed boys
caress your knuckles
as the well-trimmed priest
pronounces
a poorly
scented infant:
"anally dead."
Seven cardinal sins
slip and divide
into 3 venial ratios.
"Hi, Sonny"...
Greed, lust and vanity
are mortal crimes;
Father Fragrantly Fresh...
quietly proclaims:
"snuggle a bit closer and
sniff a hint of Genesis."
Say I’m to blame
and cause-count the afflictions –
smaller undetected lumps
hump the jaded addictions
brain dead and haughty –
the zombies
circle and laugh!
I wasn't born in a dark discarded
Parisian tunnel but -
can you Roman Polanski me,
please?
Kill the poet...
and make him pay -
below the waist.
Crushed words embody
a forgotten loner’s
epitaph!
(force him to stutter stupidly)
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
GOD...
"the string-strangled
puppet
conventionally chokes -
and quietly succumbs
(to a textured landscape)
of a youthful
silenced dying...
...swaddled
and swallowed
in a heavenly -
haloed chosen
death..."
I am in pursuit, of a box
That I will find later or sooner
Based on the rumor of rumors
I follow the not so yellow brick road
To pursue this beautiful box that over flowed
With ever thing I needed to make a better life
But the location of my box is a mystery
And lost in the history,
I contemplated the the victory, I'll achieve with defeat
But losing is for quitters, and winners never cheat
So I search for self-innovation
In hopes this box just might find my dedication, appealing
I've walked the walk and fell the distance
Just looking for the proof of existence
I mask my emotion but over looked subsistence
Yet still I insist.... This box is real
I searched and I searched and there she was
The box I've longed for has finally become
As real as real and as real as love
But the matter of the fact was so I thought
Yet asides the fact I took a chance
Opened the box and upon first glance
Was an I.O.U. and a tear of a virgin
I closed my eyes to my world end
But then came the glow of the prize inside
A radiant beam that pleasures my eyes
A golden puzzle piece worthy of none
But he who's created it and he who's come.
Now with that, I hold this puzzle piece
Close to my heart, and felt complete
So long I've searched to feel what I feel
Now with a kiss I ask, Do you feel real.
Rumours spreading ink
Blots on a character,
Insidiously virus like,
Duplicating cells,
Touching and impregnating
Once lucid beliefs
With embryo taints and
Darker schema.
“So, that’s him, there he is
That’s what he did,
Let’s hear more;”
Truth warped out of shape,
A shifting balloon of
Malleable bad blood,
Twisted beyond all
Former recognition.
Poison pen Chinese whispers
Uttered, scratched,
Scrawled, trickled asides,
Poured and decanted
Into the ears of those dupes
Susceptible enough and lazy enough,
Evil enough
To propagate the lies.
If said enough times,
It becomes tangible, factual,
A construct of the real world.
Initially I trod
Upon an ant,
By Easter
I killed Jesus;
By Christmas, guess
I’ll hang for it…
If great minds are discovered
And stolen destinies recovered
If mysteries are uncovered
And shady deals neatly covered
Then, it must be in the night
Yes, in the night, when man sleeps
The enemy comes and peeps
He lays problems in heaps
And he gets some for keeps
Seeing they want quick leaps
Real trouble abounds in the night
When the robber puts men in fright
As he, from pursuers take flight
Struggling for the widow’s mite
He diverts the reader’s sight
Still, a time to keep watch
And receive cognitive touch
A time to pray so much
Asides the period in the church
Is in the hours of the night
In the dead of the night
Many activities abound
Conflict of interest is found
But enemies go underground
When believers stand their ground
In the middle of the night
Good men suddenly turn diabolic
Personalities hide in the night’s fabric
Some leave destiny to leak
Keeping watch with a wrong clique
Others remain glued to the bedding
Moving not from their cabin
They remain deaf to all living
Dead, to all forms of acting
Within that period in the night
In the dead of the night
It’s really a free world
Plays upon plays for the lord
And he will never be bored
Though some will bow to his sword
The threatening nature of
artificial objects,
not snow dropping from pines
nor windows shattered with frost
but the flight of keys and bells
and all that begs for
subtle asides,
all that is malevolent for this,
all that falls,
that disobeys my hands,
those white apes mapped
with the veins of the Via Dolorosa,
all things that make my dry box spin,
my body does not follow me,
I often seem to look
over my shoulder
at the dark detective of age.
Bill beat them to death. Verbose and belligerent, banal and brilliant, Hicks would beat
you with a joke until you weren’t sure it was funny any more. But you’d still laugh.
Advertising advocates he indicated, would be best dealt with through suicide. Like
lemmings, but really jumping.
Clearly he can’t have so concisely come down on those poor cretins alone. Blasting and
berating the bourgeoisie, leaving no stone unturned. Advocating erogenous interaction and
nature’s narcotics never felt so fresh.
He cut a legendary figure, shining in mono on the stage, an anti-hero in the spotlight,
questioning the questionable and querying great quandaries for our bite-sized attention
spans. All joking asides and jeering anecdotes. The great, the goat, Gods and grass
gripped us throughout.
In his own immortal words, life is just a ride. Rails and loops, dips and troughs. Thrills
and chills.
Bill’s the ticket inspector. Taking names and kicking ass.
Rabbit brags
crazily;
Tortoise plods
lazily.
Rabbit gets
sleepy, see.
Tortoise wins
Easily.
Work ethic
is lacking;
Rabbit gets
shellacking.
Relentless,
forward, there.
T’s out front
by a hare.
Nonfiction
or fable?
Decide if
you’re able.
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Using more dactyls seems a good match for the form...
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides