Best Barb Poems | Poetry

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New Barb Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Barb poems are below this new poems list.

Barb wire fence by Sands, Heidi
The Barb of the Bette - What's in a name Contest by Cami, Margo
Hidden Barb by Manassian, Eileen
Poisonous Barb by Yeates, Owen
The Lost Rose and the Barb by Fraser, James
Barb Wire by Nunn, Danny
Rouge barb / Spring Sours by Guzzi, Debbie
Burlap & Barb Wire by Devine, Catherine

View all new Barb Poems

The Best Barb Poems

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Jazz Man

JAZZ MAN

Lips of sweat,
Igniting catalyst tune as they burn, 
Crossed eyes, attention spreads
feeling the whiteness in the pure magic
Each memo confronts the other, 
Soul cord of depth, 
and for one short-lived moment.
Losing sight of reality in a stasis of oasis.
The passionate barb sticks note directly into the atmosphere
Each message is a flood of scheme, 
singing the blues, this smooth criminal
angel of birth, in your hands
luring you to a road in heaven.
The lights are all you feel; 
you can see the forgotten masterpiece.
Bathing in it, as the drums go on, 
the mob gathers, to feel the whiteness of the trumpet.
He is rotating his saxophone, 
making love to the crowd.
His horn comes with words that deepen the soul,
the crowd is mesmerized.
He extends his hands,
A standing ovation,
Slamming and whistling,
Louder than thunder,
Mr. Jazz man is done
With no condom at all……………………….

by;


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012


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Maybe The Last Letter To My Beloved

My heart?
You have always owned that,
I'm surprised you didn't know.

Its flow?
How do I explain without being unkind,
simply, its flow is mine.

There's the barb, my vision puts me on a different flight
I own a non redeemable ticket...a ticket I clutch.

Love and age walk hand in hand.
I've had my sunrise...walking with resolve to my sunset.
I spent too much of my time trying to reach the horizon 
now, happy to enjoy the sky's perfect joint with its mate.

Searching for that pot of gold? Some do...but not me.
That sort live with regret. They chased the lie, missed the rainbow.
Not I...I am happy to enjoy the breeze...cool and invigorating.

My heart? You own that. You always will.

At the fork...recently, I chose a different path.
I've looked behind me, I've looked ahead...I'm sorry, my love,
I just don't see you there.



09/19/2014


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


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Beatle Mania

Beatlemania (The Fab Four As Lovers) Once a choir boy, John turned to romance, Fell for Yoko almost at first glance. In full public view In bed with her too - Showed the world how to “give peace a chance.” Quiet George played much more than guitar. Lost his wife to another rock star. Layla left him because Of how hung up he was On the music he made with his sitar! Ringo acted in “Caveman” and met His wife Barb (once a Bond girl) on set. Though the film of this drummer Was dumber than dumber, Wise in love, he’s not left his Barb yet! A heart breaker, Paul left Wife "One" For Linda, and made her a vegan! On their farm smoking pot, They made money (a LOT)! He’s a genius whose life sure seems fun! written Oct. 13, 2013 for the BeatleMania Contest of Rhonda Johnson-Saunders


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013


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The Fisherwoman - For Contest

A desperate spinster, Jane took strong measures the day she would cook fresh trout. Her date bit the barb left in it! He truly was caught on her hook! 4/26/2015


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015


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the truth about masterpieces

drifting beyond the lightest cloud
(pastel clowns in post mortem rain parade)
cascading in the cold moon dust
to shed this latest mascarade

wounded memories hang from the mind
(autumn berries quivering three quarters past prime)
when did "mediocre" pock the virgin tree,
when devils told us," painting by numbers
was just mindless barb and babble"
not a feathered masterpiece?

your very first epiphany,
an evening frost pon tender leaf
even that...nothing really unique...
they should have stated the slate cold truth
as soon as we could breathe.






Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2012


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Blood Masks the Lea

Blood masks the lea, the blasted loam
upon whose breasts soldiers came home.
The earth, herself, held each to chest
the mist of sky killed with each breath
as ruined green became their tomb.
 
Men strafed by shells and gassed by fume:
cast akimbo, blown to their doom
entrenched, barb fenced; death coalesced;
blood masks the lea.
 
Eight million French, their valor shown;
most shy twenty lay beneath stone:
Russians, Brits, Italians, Yanks, rest
thirty seven million, our best
slaughtered and listed in old tomes; 
blood masks the lea.
 

An Ekphrastic done as a French Rondeau 
after:Flanders Fields by John McCrae


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2016


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BROWNED-CENTS

Listen to poem:
BROWNED-CENTS

One of the true ways 
to remain in captivity is to keep silent to avoid your captor’s 
hostility and confusion

A penny for my 
thoughts has provided me with the ammunition 
To fight for what I believe in, though anything I say can and will be held against me
I choose to make freedom of speech 
my solution

I was once told 
my opinion isn’t worth One Red Cent
is why I choose to Put Two In

Browned-Sense

Less we all start standing together 
we will continue to stand on fake pedestals 
waiting to loosely dangle from transparent barb wired nooses 
perpetuated to slowly drain our 
blackened melaninated 
Neck-tars

The electrical current 
drained from our nodes as black chains keep us from binding 
grounding us separately to current-seas 
keeping us 
blindly taking a part in the regression of our own race 
while watching the progression of another 
from virtual black bars

We are 
a new age of vanguard 
yet still the last of a quickly dying breed of signal switches 
tuned in to emit static on frequent-seas 
vibrating universal tones of data as 
broken receivers



A network of broken satellites 
disconnected and separated by false beliefs 
the mystery of our history and the constant backbitten cackling static 
of the dream killers and 
non-believers

Browned-Cents

We are misled misleaders 
who have grown to fall for everything 
yet only stand for ourselves

Browned-Cents

We are the 
least expensive as items on the worldwide market
 with the most expensive dreams 
easily bought
 yet we and everything we’ve once owned almost 
impossible to be reclaimed because of the lack of value we have for our fellow man 
so we decrease the longevity of our lives on 
worldwide shelves

Browned-Cents

Are we 
the only included, exclusion, 
captivated by an enemy intrusion, 
that uses their captors, social, economic and political pollution 
as a means to overcome the fear of our 
negativity ignorance and 
confusion,
doing the enemies work for them 
by loudly promoting putting each other down and killing each other 
as a solution to captivity and applauding our 
House slave efforts 
as well doing?




Only the 
mislead would keep perusing
this ill-gotten plague of self-genocide that leads to the doors
of the broken scales of justice and 
unavailing her prostitution 

With the 
faces of paper presidents who weigh more than those with
Browned-Sense 
leaving the words of truth 
to be pounded into worthless coins 
and gathered together to make political bills that lead to our 
persecution, imprisonment, and 
execution

Where is the proof of this 
confusion?

The fact that
we even have to say Black Lives Matter 
is the chocolate pudding this 
proofs in

I was once told 
my opinion isn’t worth one red cent 
is why I choose to put 
two in

Browned-cents


Copyright © AC Benford | Year Posted 2016


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I am a Red Red Rose

I am a Red Red Rose
I am a red red rose
A beauty to behold
My texture captivates
My scent invigorates
Petals, a velvet red
Coverings for your bed
Leaves an emerald garb
That hide the hidden barb
Though thorns be on my stem
Touch me, ignoring them
Please, handle me with care
Dethorned, my beauty bare
I am a red red rose
Your passion for me grows
Rose water from me drips *
And wets your precious lips
I beautify your soul
My presence makes you whole
I am a red red rose

For Mystic Rose's Rose Contest
Reposted on December 17, 2014
Not entered before in a contest

PS...A different take on Robert Burns famous Poem, A Red Red Rose.

*By the way, rose water is used in many desserts in Lebanon. One of my favorites, Mouhalabieh, a white custard that is topped with syrup and pistachios, contains rose water. Yummy....Let your mind run riot with that one! :)


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014


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Brave new world

(based on Aldous Huxley's book "Brave New World")

Human hatchery

Clink clink clink clink...
Test tubes prattling past
along the chrome plated production line.
Glistening under fake fluorescence
humming in harmony
with the magnetic motors
of conveyors, centrifuges and camshafts.
Biological blobs of gamete goo,
vials of vile biology,
a tempest of sperm and ova,
neatly confined to a pyrex womb.
Organised, sanitised, harmonised.
Fordist fertilisation.
All equal under Ford.

Or at least until your fate and fortune 
are forced and fixed at forty metres.
Not nature (abhorrent), 
not nurture (disgusting),
not what you know,
not who you know,
but the viability of your cell.
Destiny by DNA.
What will you be?
An Alpha Aryan?
A Gamma gopher?
A mass produced Epsilon?
Will you be genetically enhanced?
Or poisoned and asphyxiated?

Perhaps you'll be discarded
as excess bio-matter
by the second trimester
at ninety metres?

Or survive to be hatched
at one fifty metres?
Neatly sown along furrows
of sterile steel cots.
Rows and columns,
ranks and files,
levels and floors
of battery babies.
Chemically conditioned,
weaned on sleep whispering,
embracing their place in a perfect society.
United by soma!
(a gram is better than a damn)
Disease designed away!
All praise Ford!
Everyone is happy!

But nothing is perfect.
Bernard is cursed.
Excess embryonic alcohol
injected at one twenty metres.
Someone wasn't paying attention.
Industrial accident.
Disruptive misfit.
Unhappiness.

Beta's hypnopedic haikus

Alphas lead the way
Grey matter, grey uniform
Alphas rule wisely

Betas work less hard
Mulberry clad skilled workers
Glad I'm a Beta

Gammas are stupid
Wearing green! Ugly as trees!
Ignore the Gammas

Deltas are dummies
Khaki clones, oxygen starved
Bokanovsky batch

Epsilon primates
Brutish, black robed underclass
Disposable drones

John's suicide soliloquy

To be or not to be?
I cannot be.
So I decide not to be.

How can I be noble and suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
when the arrows have been broken
and the slings put aside
by this ugly utopia?

Should I shuffle off this mortal coil
and enter the eternal sleep
perchance to dream without soma?
Will I enter paradise
paid for many fold
with barb wire and thorns,
with torments and trials,
with utter utter heartbreaking longing?
What sense does this make
when paradise lies at my feet
that I've not suffered enough to deserve?

How can I earn the love
of the woman I love
when she gives her love so freely
to myself and others who scantly earn
the meerest slither of her golden fruit?
Love so sweet to the lips
but diluted by banality and promiscuity
to the tasteless sterility of boiled water.
Yet I still yearn.

And when I attain my unimagined dream
I reject her with anger 
and sow the seeds of confusion
in her innocent eyes
and watch the weeds of fear
choke her very essence.
What demons have hatched from my soul?
What has this world manufactured in my heart?

And so I seek solace in solitude.
A lonely lighthouse keeper
in a stormless sea of soma civilisation.
Absolution with abject poverty,
the stings of self flagellation
barely noticed against my rented heart.
The madness of mixed up mantras.

Yet retribution comes from a hornet's nest
of helicopters carrying the inane.
Spectators of the spectacle.
Curious about the curiosity.
Fascination with the forbidden.
Cultures sparking across electrodes.
Moths drawn to taboo's acetylene flame.
I curse them! I curse them all!

I was born savage, then made savage.
Marooned on Prospero's isle
by insanity's tempest.
I can brew and boil 
and billow and burn
and cast down purifying bolts against the outside world.
One asylum to another.
Never knowing peace.
O brave new world, that has such people in it.
But this world is not for me.



Notes:

BNW society is divided into five major classes. From highest to lowest: alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon

Original BNW quote - sleep conditioning for Betas - "Alpha children wear grey. They work much harder than we do, because they're so frightfully clever. I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides they wear black, which is such a beastly colour. I'm so glad I'm a Beta."

Bokanovsky is a fictional process of human cloning - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bokanovsky%27s_Process

Hypnopedia is the process of sleep learning - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep-learning

Gametes are cells used in reproduction (sperm and ova) - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gamete

Soma is a drug mass produced by the BNW government - citizens are sleep conditioned to become addicted

"a gram is better than a damn" is a BNW mantra used by its citizens to encourage non-conformists (i.e. are unhappy) to take soma

John was a savage rescued from a reservation by Bernard Marx for his own political agenda. 

Bernard Marx was a physically and mentally imperfect Alpha misfit reportedly caused by excess alcohol injected into his embryo during his hatching.

John's soliloquy is a parody of Shakespeare's "to be or not to be" soliloquy from Hamlet. Since John learnt to read from an old copy of Shakespeare's works, this seemed appropriate.

In BNW, Henry Ford is revered as a god - the Christian cross is replaced with a T (as in the model T Ford, an early affordable mass produced car).



Written 10th April 2017
Entry to "brave new world" contest


Copyright © Mark Martin | Year Posted 2017


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lost herd

As the sun rises
a young pioneer saddles his ride.
Mounting his horse
his young bride
his love as he rides
Off to find his herd.
 His proud mare  
goes through the prairie
next to his barb wire.
He wonders in his mind
how far have they strayed.
How many day
must I ride. 
He sings aloud
a song his herd
has heard 
as he rode.
On yonder hill he sees
two cows grazing along
next to their side two young calves.
He hears their cries
as he tops the hillside. 
In the green valley below
he sees his lost herd.

By michael Byte 10-9-2013


Copyright © Michael Byte | Year Posted 2013


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Raymond Ngomane

R-enovated thoughts the mirror of my identification/
A-gain and again a day a poem i lip gloss humanity's forms/
Y-awning words sleepy brains require chilli baked words smelling crops/
M-utilated until abdomens owned by sinful gloomy idealistic sketches is served with full-
stops/
O-racles like me cross barb wired conversations served with no remorse/
N-oble propaganda is realistically born from proper ganja/
D-ecapitation of  head coaches will flood this corrupt nation/

N-o headmaster can master political blusters/
G-asoline them reptiles through those mythical township cultures/
O-nline poetry lined up to feed economic spheres with tearful voices growing spears/
M-arried to crisis obligated by exposed self-rebuked peers/ 
A-ntics attack political creatures who let loose baggy fears/
N-ostrils sniffing smelly secrets from a distance/
E-tolls for instance these poetry will grow intensively for all infants/      


Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013


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Villain Unmasked

Villain Unmasked


In odd places the Villain appears,
In the right places he disappears-
On merry moments then re-appears.

For, such is the habit of a Villain
Who enjoys to inflict carnal pain
Yet, scarce and elusive to be slain.

He contorts in a fearsome grimace
Ogling timid children on the face
Their infantile courage to displace.

Crawling like a famished beast,
Beating and flexing scaled breast;
He mulls on how to enjoy the 'feast'.

Where children are happy at play,
Ugly features at once are on display 
To throw everyone into disarray;

Face clad on an fearsome hood,
Picks and chases them in the wood
To eat the abandoned Picnic food.

He cast to innocent people a spell
By urinating in the clean water well
Sickness to ring the death knell.

No wonder, he flies on black garb
Wielding the sword or his barb-
Voice, tearing the air with rhubarb!

His throaty laugh is deep, not mild
He groans and growls loud and wild 
To shudder man, woman and child.

Between two lovers having sex
Suddenly, he re-appears to perplex
By disturbing, disrupting the reflex!

To the crafty potter kneading hard
He disrupts Industry and its reward
By breaking everything to shard.

Villain and his cruel art of stealth, 
Art of disrupting another's wealth
Peace, Happiness and his health;

Art of appearing in places so rare
Schism, fear and confusion to flare
Peace, harmony, stability to scare;

One day he will know that his art
And foible of scare is not so smart-
He will be impaled by a holy heart! 


Copyright © Joseph Matose | Year Posted 2013


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Barb's Delights

Let's go to Barb's Place
Have something to eat
Her perogies and cabbage rolls 
Are really hard to beat

If that's not enough
You should try out her ribs
Gooey and delicious
You better bring a bib

When it comes to cooking
Barb's food is like art
She prepares every morsel
With love from the start


Welcome to Poetry Soup Barb, what better person to contribute to the soup than a Chef Extrodinare. I am sure you will add your own special flavours.


Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2012


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Bittersweet Rose

Across the countryside and into the grassland pastures;
inhabits the battle fields that segregate a Peony Rose.
Such as the gentle beauty of the rose that threatens those,
who are drawn to the undisturbed meadows of the divine,
and become caught in the thorn barb and twisted twine.

Coveted by the splendor of our sight,
we horde the natural beauty as it is our given right.
The Peony Roses are captivated in our possessive might.
The beauty must defend or to shatter and remain in a vibrant tatter.

For each life is to begin in the epoch,
of uncertainty, fruitless, and in a perilous world of bitterness.
As for all the desires to be fulfilled in the end of the epoch;
seeking meaning and clarity as their souls,
reaching for sweet unity.  

In the courts,
man throws his mighty stick,
changing the rules, scheming a new trick.
See the weightless power of man
and the fear at hand that he brings.
In the churches,
the prayers of woman 
in a quiet peace,
for a faithful praying
as she sings.

A vicious world with beauty,
hiding as a flower.
Attraction to peril in fury,
as we deviate from a greater power.
Was it a Greater Being’s perfect mistake,
or a beautiful mistake by elements of chance?

In the birth of creativity,
allowing mistakes to creep in.
Seeking the perfect form in nature,
while there is no true formality.

Living with these two extremities,
of the hot desert summers days
and the cold arctic winter nights.
The Peony rose hiding away in the sun rays,
and sleeps under the distant star lights.

Vanity or our pride of youth,
we become prisoners of our own devise.
Dreaming of tomorrow as a given truth.
Selfish thoughts we never considered unwise,
we desire for the things we can never own.
We covet what we see
The beauty we can never be.
The danger of the rose.

The aggressions of a Man
and the tenderness of a Woman
can be read by the hardness of his hands
and the softness of her touch.
Is it the end of a gentle beauty of the rose,
To look at her pedals, smell her sent,
feel her touch,
and still be pained by his thorns in the stem?


Copyright © Mike Jessep | Year Posted 2006


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The Lighthouse

What breathes into the brain 
  and sustains from some secret place a sullied heart?

The pains of faces of others for the wicked barb
  and (un) done deed to garnish a little 'peace' ---
  but to gloat in cruel cosmos ---
  and sharpen thy sardonic horns,
  trust in the world and its soft whispers of death....
 
Little darkling upon thee ---
  who walks on crushed beds of glass,
  the sharp shards gather in baneful bits
  ....to each corner of thy heart and mind;

Thy soul is devoid of death and breathes infinite dreams,
  and rears from the razor-sharp, biting shards ---
  not a glass darkly,
  but the glints of glazed stars;

Dig a little deeper, through the sullied shadows dark,
  how slow, fat little imps swiftly depart,
  swifter thy beams of light than slow plodding dark,
  faceless night; 
  not moon, star or light ---
  deep...deep... so stark and shadowless,
  beyond all memory and thought

Not an image to paint for only formless black...
  (on thy pallet to have) ---
  only light in life;
  can bring you back what you can have,
  the stars and moons, and dreams you make....

How can you be lost,
  (when you are the light?)




***Written in 2015/For moments down in faith***







Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2018


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children play conkers


trees cast precious seed

                      nut brown in soft barb green case....

                                           children play conkers


Copyright © Eamon Duffin | Year Posted 2011


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The Harvest Of The Seed


  
  Each field is barren white with snow, 
around me blind, they know.
I see.
Darkness brings the haze of dawn, 
how many must it show.

While many miles of web it's barb, 
my flesh, 
it tastes and grows.

Bringing home the wheat, 
ground white, 
and powdered souls, 
spread open far and wide.

Touching only youth, 
not men, 
Each gem from stone, 
pours out and lost our seed it keeps.
No more.


j.McC. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009


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LA Sewers

When I was a child in the streets of Los Angeles you would sized up groups approaching by watching the movements they made.

I remember this group/gang of older kids approaching me, watching them carefully while looking down to see if they would follow me as I cross over the other side of the street. If they would cross over matching my movements, I'm in trouble. I still remember the feeling of their penetrating eyes as I glanced up; everything inside of me was screaming. With my mind racing I remembered the storm sewer at the street corner I just passed a few moments ago. Without hesitation I turned and ran for my life, sliding into the street corner between the sidewalk above and the street below…a few more pounds and I would have been stuck. 

This storm sewer basin I am in is a large concrete box with a large concrete pipe in the corner that goes somewhere. The gang members are all around now swinging their chains, and sticks with razor blades embedded in them. They are acting like a pack of dogs yelping and hollering that have their prey is trapped in a corner. They start to work on the manhole cover above with a crowbar of some sort, which would gain them access to me below. A chain graises my arm, the barb leaves a couple of cuts.  Dripping with blood, my body trembling, fear is now getting the best of me. I am trapped and no where to go other than down the drain pipe...there is no choice, there is no rescue above, so I quickly entered the large drain piped into a darken abyss. This drain pipe connects to a tunnel large enough for a car to pass through. 

I hear voices getting closer, so they must have gotten past that manhole. They seem to be following me so I run down the tunnel into the darkness so they would not see me. I stop to listen, I hear no footsteps, but I ran so far I cannot see a thing, there is no light, the darkness turned into nothingness. Reaching out with my hands I walk blindly and bump into a wall. I can’t go back the way I came because the fate that would await me going that direction, but there is nothingness is all around me so I am not sure what direction that would be. I remember running down the left side of the tunnel before stopping to listen. 

When I start to walk again and I run into a wall, so that must be the right side, I think? I decide to continue, and being right handed I'm more comfortable on the left side so I turn and walk towards the left side to have something to touch. It seems like an eternity until I finally reach a wall. This wall will become my security within this nothingness...I can’t see my hands or feet, or even hear a sound. There is no frame of reference, only the wall and the solid ground under my feet. Thank God this was a time before those graphic vampire movies or Freddy Krueger; I have only those Alfred Hichcook movies to pull fears from. 

Continuing through this nothingness a beam of light begins to appear from above. It’s amazing how much light comes through this little tiny whole from a manhole cover—it lights up the whole area. I stand there amazed and I take a deep breath in this light, it has been a long journey to this point.  Standing there I notice a ladder leading up to a possible escape. Listening carefully before pushing up on the cover, I push and push...I'm not strong enough. Many of the manhole covers are spot welded by the public works department to prevent opening manholes in the middle of a street. I climb down from the ladder and pause for a few moments in the light absorbing what I could before continuing on; this tunnel must lead somewhere, right? Another beam of light, another welded manhole cover. The fear of the gang has long past, my only thoughts now are those of being lost. 

The nothingness continues as I walk, and it has been a long time since the last little beam of light and I have found the meaning of hopelessness.  The floor below is beginning to get damp, ick, what am I walking in? I can’t see a thing and I'm too afraid to stop touching the wall to stoop down--the wall is my security.  My mind is pretty numb right now, my only thoughts are dragging my hand on the wall wall and walking. The dampness becomes wet, and from wet to splashing. Briefly a moment of fear, I pause to sense if the water is moving; am I going the wrong way and am I about to get swallowed up by a wall of water. The water seems to be static and the nothingness yields no sounds, so I continue. 

At last, I get a feeling of salvation from one of those little beams of light shining from above.  I look down at my feet and see little fish in the water below. I'm headed to the ocean, oh yeah!! The nothingness continues until again there is this little light at the end of the tunnel. The wall is no longer my security--I follow the light.  

Continuing, the water is at my knees as I walking towards the light. I can smell the ocean and feel a slight breeze. Feeling really happy inside I can see the ocean and the sand, and sigh, there is a bar screen blocking my exit.  Again I feel rather defeated with a slight sense of panic. I am thinking to myself that their is no way I can go back as I look closely at this bar screen blocking the way to freedom. I notice one corner has been pulled away; I can see through the sea water that it’s bent outward, and it's high tide. I cannot wait for the tide to change because it will be dark soon, so I take a deep breath and down I go. My shirt snags on something as I reach around to the other side and pull. I struggle as my shirt tears, but I am free...it feels wonderfull to be free.  Looking around at the beach, it’s rather windy and there are only a few people on the beach today. I look around to get my bearings before I start home again. I will never will tell mom about any of this.  Months later they are welding extra bars over these drain openings at the street corners.  I am heavier now and I would not fit anyway, but what others, what choices they will have to make for their escape?


Copyright © Edward Ebbs | Year Posted 2014


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Painted Lady

I smooth the spot 
where your  barb
used to be 
and touch you lightly 
with the steel
to keep your edge
I test your tension
squeezing your curves
as always you pass.

I tighten the vise
leaving your shank exposed
then start the silk winding
working quickly forward
ending just below the eye.

I caress your shank 
with fur
and tickle you 
with marabou feathers
then  daub you with varnish
and blow lightly across the back 
of your restrained form
casting you in my mind 
to your element
undulating and wet.

I leave you 
for an hour 
bound in your perfection
then release the vise
and place you in my box
between the Blue Charms
and Royal Coachmen.


Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2014


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Barbara Lee

Dear Barb, I remember the good times,

Working hard and calling it fun.

We toiled as a team making Christmas wreaths,

So proud of our efforts when done.



We each served as Garden Club President

And handled it all with finesse,

Took turns as District Director

And on to State Board, no less.



Together we managed the flower show

At county fair for eleven years,

And then we took classes together,

Learned to judge the works of our peers.



"I'll go if you'll go", was our motto.

We toured and we judged and we played.

We laughed and we partied together

And there were the times that we prayed.



We shared some of life's saddest moments.

And we shared the happy times too.

I count you as one of God's blessings,

With my final goodbye to you.


Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2014


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Poisonous Barb

A poisonous barb did depart
From her venomous mouth like a dart
Said with disdain
Caused much grief and pain
And embedded itself in his heart


Copyright © Owen Yeates | Year Posted 2013


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If I could change the world



Sometimes I don't switch on TV, the radio stays dumb
and finishing a newspaper can leave me feeling numb.
What is it with this world of ours, where did it all go wrong?
How could the higher-ups elect leave it like this so long?
Should in the future by strange quirk just one man gets a voice
and leader of the world is picked at random, not by choice
and through my letterbox a card that says it will be me
then here's my manifesto telling how my world will be........

From infant school to college , five to eighteen and above
a daily lesson will be taught on what it means to love.
Care, compassion, sympathy,  respect,  be generous
be acted out  from dawn to dusk, not just sit and discuss.
The value of all earthy life, no man to lay a hand on
and we put an end to children, horses, dogs and cats abandoned.
Hoodies will be outlawed, no reason to hide one's face
and gangstas from da hood will wear a onesie in it's place
(the ones that look like Pandas or a Pokemon or cat)
so no more threatening gestures, there, I've taken care of that.

All military vehicles no longer will be green
but paler shades of Lavender and pink so they'll be seen.
The nuclear warheads from the planet's face I would expunge
conventional weapons would now be tipped with pointy sponge.
Barb wire fence and barricades would all be knocked down flat
and entering each country would be on a welcome mat.
The list of National Anthems under me would not last long
I'd swop them all for 'Happy', that nice Pharrell Williams song.

Monday as start of working week, I refuse to defend
so I'd bolt it onto Sunday just to make a long weekend.
To replenish the rainforests we all must plant a tree
and litter pick the garbage from the vast Sargasso sea.
Rewards for all these changes that I make around the world?
Free beer to all the fellahs and Prosecco for the girls.
The kids get sweets and chocolate but they must understand
they're still in bed by seven, and they've got to wash their hands.

For contest 'If I could change the world', sponsor Becca Teagan


Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2016


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I am a Red Red Rose

I am a red red rose
A beauty to behold
My texture captivates
My scent invigorates
Petals, a velvet red
Coverings for your bed
Leaves an emerald garb
That hide the hidden barb
Though thorns be on my stem
Touch me, ignoring them
Please, handle me with care
Dethorned, my beauty bare
I am a red red rose
Your passion for me grows
Rose water from me drips *
And wets your precious lips
I beautify your soul
My presence makes you whole
I am a red red rose

Eileen Manassian Ghali

PS...A different take on Robert Burns famous Poem, A Red Red Rose.

*By the way, rose water is used in many desserts in Lebanon. One of my favorites, Mouhalabieh, a white custard that is topped with syrup and pistachios, contains rose water. Yummy....Let your mind run riot with that one! :)


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013


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A Story Too Rich

        
If I were rIch I’d live just here, and 
enjoy the bliss of  “no bills to fear “
we’d toast our crumpets by the fire 
and watch the rooks play on the 
distant church spire: and ajacent…
I’d build a trust house for the poor 
and broke, placing signs in the garden 
saying…

 “PLEASE DON’T SMOKE! 

Around the perimeter… a barb wire fence, to keep 
out preachers and those who are tense…and in 
the middle, a barbecue for Kobi steaks, and a garden
for poets who write about “Missouri Breaks”

If your'e with me there's no need to move, honey-baby
sugar, we're in the groove!

What a house! What a lawn! and Everest out the 
window…. seen at dawn!

3/11/15


Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015


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Puberty Blues

Beyond the barb wired walls and sentry gates
  down on Sparkin Hill sped a Marina;
close behind, shitfaced teenage reprobates
  gave chase in a Zephyr and Cortina!
Up the back roads around a hairpin pass -
  so grew we fast upon the youthful vine,
and drank we in matchplay a matchstick glass
  till I could no more speak or feel my spine!
Turgid joysticks bare-arsed in the haystack
  spread like the clap village rumour and yarn,
when young bucks circled she-wolves from the pack
  among the sweaty bales of Percy's barn.
Where I in my DTs and detox lay
on altar of the blind and bed of hay.



                  April 2000


Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014