Best Astronomically Poems
Men cannot be trusted
emotionless and hardened,
They tend to be aggressive
Then thoughtlessly are pardoned.
Promiscuously driven
With ego swelling large,
They're loud, endowed and over proud
And in your life they'll barge!
They see vastly different
They see a girl- a prize,
Their honesty is always great
Until they just tell lies.
They'll blame you for everything
They'll treat you as a game,
They're really not so interesting
Predictable and lame.
Hence before you run away
To whatever you have lusted,
Take heed of what I say...
For men should not be trusted.
Now, I could back this poem up
With proof of evidence,
As damages that most men do
Is astronomically immense.
Though I’m sure when they do read this
They’ll hate and much resent
The honesty and forthrightness
From a poetess unbent.
Yes we need to put them in their place
Before problems rise again
Wars and violence amongst our silence
All due to stupid men.
Though I wonder Joe and all that know
Andy and Big Randy
So I’ll admit just a bit
Men can be soooo handy !
And I’m fortunate to know
Good mans’ integrity
The ones who care a very rare
And voice this literally.
Though I’ve generalised and chastised
The ones not up to speed
I’ll be fair and I’ll share
Men…I know we need.
They’re great when they are good
Respectable and kind
They can be the bestest friends
And ease our worried mind.
Baby boys so wonderful
And innocence impart
Uplifting me, will always be
Forever in my heart.
The he whose not corrupted
It’s him I do commend
And loyal I will always be
To a good true friend.
How brothers I have missed you
Through the push and shove
And I am grateful never hateful
For platonic love…
Here here I’m not so sexist
Indifferent, a goner,
As I think of he who strengthens me
'tis he, I love and honour.
incessant talkers bother me.
I leave the room upon their arrival,
not caring if I hurt their feelings, for I know they
do not notice, it always being about them, they
do not see others.
I do not enter the room if they are pre-there.
no sense in it, as whatever you say they can top,
and will. It happened to them sixteen times
more often, and harder, they were pulled out
of their car by two jaws of life.
it is irritating to me when I am almost finished
with a story, and one plunks down, interrupting
the punchline, with a banality that exasperates.
maybe worse, it annoys me that no one asks
me what the punchline was, so it is not like
anyone else cared any way.
I love the ones who share their money woes,
and their family woes, and their woe-woe-woes.
teaching us not to share any information with
them, possibly this is why the room clams
shut upon their arrival.
the last one never has rent money, or groceries.
always begging for money or a check, perpetually
pleading with anyone on social media to bring her
something. she always carries in a sixteen dollar
lunch from Uber, there is a five dollar upcharge.
i wish I was talking weekly.
I am talking daily.
I wonder if her grandmother who is still working at age 71,
and sending her check has any idea about these
astronomically expensive lunches?
Funny Man!
By Linda Hays-Gibbs
Oh funny man you touch the hardest heart
With messages to crumble and start
A snickering or flickering to spark
A laugh a full belly rumbler
A genius of illogical and logical matter
Without him the whole world is astronomically sadder
Oh let our grief someday subside
That we in heaven will find
A bench upfront to see his latest comedic job ( I pray)
The jester (Robin Williams) at heaven's court for God
Finished vines
waving limply in the wind,
tangled streaks across the hillside.
The Autumn Earth
conceals eternal motion
under a carpet of many colors;
a fluid carpet that flutters and shifts
beneath my feet;
a noisy carpet telling the story
of my presence.
Frost-bitten flowers
broken by my passing touch
salt their pollen on the wind;
a gooseberry shrivels
against the bark of a naked bush.
The black bear and the coons steal
each other's dens,
and bees, lethargic,
cuddle on the combs.
But why?
I know why---
scientifically, astronomically--
the earth and sun fly elliptically
and space dilutes the energy.
But still i cling
to the burnt orange leaves,
savor the last unsquashed berry,
dreading the day
when my worn winter jacket is not warm enough
and my breath freezes
and my legs hurt where my boots rub.
The frozen rain clings in crystals
to tired trees; snow glitters like shattered glass
and cold sunlight assaults my eyes.
I close my eyes against the glare
and listen to the moaning wind,
and dream of a world
where Autumn gives birth
to Spring.
Degree work again! With Aberdeen University,
Long distance, so not in strange surroundings,
This time in the subject of my choice and tenacity,
For posterity, so as to keep above the drownings.
It’s Christian Studies, or I say theology or religion,
And psychosomatic is the word to deflect and bat,
Which loudly venerates in the divinity selection,
Where divinity scholars attempt that requested slat.
Psycho-so-matic, or “the mind” “by” “motor action”:
“the mentality” “using” “cognitive brain structures”;
“the mental” “through” “neurological muscular motion”,
The psyche so as to do with events, people and cultures.
But why don't theologians see psychosomatic analysis,
As astronomically colliding with that transcendental verb,
In which god apologises for that divine interference,
When anytime, god changes your clarity into a muddy blurb.
As a disabled child in physio, for sure I truly understood,
The word “psychosomatic”, ‘cos my bible-loving dad,
Thought the word was academic trash, not white nude,
Because it validates contextual sociology as the comrade.
So did my arm and legs movements all depend on god?
Or on psychosomatics - if my parents had sent me out full?
On happiness, psychology, mood, highers and fine kin squad,
On settings, sociology and environment, and not on bull.
Surely the discussion in theology class should entertain,
Really straight, whether the bible fits into the normal tap,
Where you march, join, journey boldly through the terrain,
Of a richly humanly authored character splayed literary trap.
Jung coined the term ‘synchronicity’,
Never really thought it applied to me.
Somebody crazy, maybe? Not me!
Coincidence they’ll have you believe.
Each segment is a memory
Brought through the veil by synchronicity.
Disparate pieces woven in this tapestry
To summon forth my destiny.
There was this time I spent in the navy
When an old mariner with hands like bark
Took me to the planks of the Victory.
While the blue moon watched, Horatio talked
And we sang with the angels to be free.
How did I remember? How could I have known?
Two fore-guns brought the flagship down.
The sniper flash, the Admiral’s gone!
Wrapped in secret song,
The synchronicity song.
Cosby and a cosmic message, 200 miles per hour,
Over carpet under couch vinyl would appear,
Proof of my predictive powers
In the story told just minutes before
And we sang astronomically!
The number two revealed the past,
Natal chart already cast,
A voyageur to life, at last,
I sang a French River song,
The synchronicity song.
Eighteenth century New France,
Two young lovers in the throes of romance
Separated by the Montreal fire
Never consummated their burning desire.
Three hundred years later, two souls found,
Lives all twisted, love turned around,
Four people caught by destiny
The signs were all clear in astrology
All hearts witness tragedy
To sing the saddest songs,
This synchronicity song.
The Ten Million Dollar Chinese Bowl
By Elton Camp
Asian art collectors were extraordinary excited
A rare Chinese imperial ceramic bowl ignited
Asia's fine art market has exploded last decade
It was expected for the bowl millions to be paid
From the Northern Song Dynasty it's pale green
And is the only one of its type that's ever seen
Museums & individuals are thrilled over the piece
So astronomically the price is likely to increase
Buyer will be one who about money doesn't care
Perhaps a mainland Chinese or western billionaire
The auctioneer held the bowl up and asked for cash
Out of his hand it plunged with a sickening crash
Tiny fragments were scattered all over the floor
And it was worth ten million bucks no more
I think of you now and again
Out half a world away
On the other side of the globe
Here it’s midnight and for you midday
Somewhere on a Himalayan mountain
How can I possibly relate to your reality
Far from anything resembling a city
With no infrastructure of any kind
No cars no shopping centers
No electricity no electronics
None of the luxuries I take for granted
How can I relate to your reality
Your wealth is a goat some seeds and hope
A little schoolhouse relatively close
As your best prayer for a better future
The gap between the haves and the have-nots
Is nothing less than astronomically absurd
And there’s no trusting the middlemen
Greed keeps robbing those who have less than nothing
Seems there’s fewer godfearing people left on earth
Not many believing in justice and universal equity
I can’t relate to corruption
Concepts of karma swirl through my head
Death remains the greatest equalizer
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Posted on February 11, 2019
Barack Hussein Obama
first learned from his mamma;
it's good economically
to spend astronomically.
* This poem does not
purport to
advocate policy or
a political view.
Malfeasant, mangled, memories
ruthless, regretful, remedies.
Vanishing, victoriously in vain,
Whispering, wandering wane.
Brazenly, broken, betrayal.
Pompous, patriotic portrayal.
Diminishing, disabled I dive,
Astronomically, ailing alive.
Teetering, tenaciously taunt,
hallucinations, honorably haunt.
Painfully, preserving, its past,
Callously, crafting the cast.
Traumatically, teasing truths,
Yearning, yesterday’s youths.
Selfishly, stealing, thy soul,
Craving, courageous control.
Immobile, insufferably idle,
Suffering senses, suicidal.
Admiring, ancestors adore.
whispering rumors of war.
Beaten, blackishly, bound,
flustered faces I’ve found.
Fearlessly, frozen fabled,
defeating dose, disabled.
Call me crazy I dare you,
This is madness at a new level.
Our president has lost his mind,
It’s appalling just read the signs.
The numbers rise astronomically,
Don’t tell me Trump is the Calvary.
I believe Biden will help stabilize,
A nation that’s politically spiraling.
If you can’t bear my words,
Then move on from my work.
I’m not here to please you,
I’m here to speak the truth.
Chaos and turbulence are ambient,
In a chaotic pandemic environment.
The lack of seriousness and leadership,
Is appalling and unfathomable to believe.
Refusal to accept and concede,
Eradicating the purpose of democracy.
It’s sad to see America in disarray,
When faith and change are in dire need.
When the State said she needed a home
and would I help her out with her meds
I said yes
though I had some grave doubts
and they never mentioned a life sentence.
When the doctor said she had fetal alcohol
our life was paused to grow grim.
I said wait,
need to check with spouse
and three boys we already claimed to love and protect,
so they never mentioned a life sentence.
When I told the State they should find a better home
that would grow with her aggressive game coming up
they said wait,
we’ll start her again
in another place not prepared for defiance,
for food thrown down,
for breaking hard glass hearts
worn out like empty fragile chairs,
still they never mentioned a life sentence.
So we eventually said yes
and her courage to test that yes
grows astronomically oppressive
while the State closes homes
and residential options
for families like ours
who never signed on for a 24/7/52 week
perennial life sentence.
Now State says no,
no other place for her to go,
so sorry you’re sore and tired and old,
too bad she has no one to talk to all day and night
now that we can hear what she means
to deliver when you signed up for hell
in your mutually dysfunctional life sentence.
So we sure try,
except for her,
who had no choice
about those exotic substances
welcoming her still warm enwombed
with empty therapeutic promises
throwing a love defiant trauma
drama party life sentence.
So I still cry,
but not only for her
who had no choice
confined to age in this echoing silo
dancing with demons
signing her up for my unenlightened
disempowering trauma sentence
after sentence
after ruminating sentence...
Like trying to live peacefully
and mindfully
with an under-medicated RightWing narcissist
searching for weapons
in my Other unfree bedroom.
Son of the devil I am
Am I, I a psychologically
Misunderstood individuality
Emitting my soul in the caress of hypochondriasis
Believing in the many illness of fame
Belligerently dumfounded to using a needle point frame
On the oasis of my flesh
To depict-ate past failures, un-relieved stress and to provoke
An aggressiveness determination
Not blinded by greed, and to be astronomically true to me
Me the son of a devil
My life is filled with Leos;
Astronomically, that sign
Is described, if you believe it,
As compatible with mine.
Several people quite beloved
Have their birthdays in that range
Which, although I am a skeptic,
Doesn't really seem too strange.
So this Aries sends out wishes
To the Leos who await
Late July and most of August
For their chance to celebrate.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXII
for Carlos Bousoño, the eminent Spanish critic, poet and professor
who maintained that if you don't like the "humorist",
you're not likely to find much to laugh at in/with his (sense of) "humour"
IF ever I had a country, a country where every TOM-Cat, Dirty-DICK and Royal HARRY wrote what his fellows called POESY
And if ever I were the only SON of a GUNny Sack-Bag incapable of pouting lines to an astronomically non-sensical degree
And as punishment thereof - sans appeal - if I were to be appointed by the Supreme Inter-Galactico-Cosmo-IL-logical Council of the Arbiters of Tyrannic Taste the one and only ARBITER and JURY
And should my fellow-poets ever so much as utter or let escape a squeak on, relating to or about what they cook-up as stew or porridge of
un-hermeneutical ETERNAL VERITIES which they print publish post (ne’er you mind: plagiarize) and/or pander to their pridefully painted images potpourri
I would first and foremost issue an EDICT - nay, even a DECREE - to CONFINE each and every one of my bumble-bee constantly buzzing comrade BARDS, purveyors and promotors of mutually unintelligible verse within their own ivory PENTHOUSES of phantasmagorical (a)musings
under pain of summary banishment - should they ever so much as "peine in poiein » - to the GREAT ATTRACTOR WALL of GALAXIES and so be it, I pray thee
And this, even if I were to be confined to my very own solitary dungeon and be condemned to listen to - against my will, day and night, for ever and ever - the ethereally soul-uplifting poutings of the Poetasters of Isphahan in their wordy giddy swirls of SUFI
And even if I never ever had no country where POETRY had need of mutually EGO-BOOSTING commentary
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 5, 2020