Best Behoove Poems
open a blind eye ~ and see you're being duped by those using AI
sniff out those taking credit for cheating ~ real poets they're defeating
a concept I can't accept ~ from people whose poetry is inept
sometimes it's really difficult to prove ~ but an issue to behoove
call them out if it matters ~ don't serve them trophies on silver platters
if you couldn't care less ~ it's no wonder poetry soup is a mess
disheartening to say the least ~ is it possible to slay the beast
it's happening, there's no doubt ~ they're being given far too much clout
this message may be falling on deaf ears ~ if so, then I give up... cheers!
Oh Goddess Moon, you induce painters to paint,
the crazed to rave and poets to praise your grace.
How many love affairs have you helped to consummate?
With a woman’s many wiles, you change your shape.
How you beguile, yet never do you vacillate.
You stay your course and never stray!
Like yin to yang, you are to sun a cool and pallid pool,
changing, yet constant in your rule
as you steadfastly move from New to Quarter To Gibbous to Full,
and then you wane . . .
till in Crescent Balsamic you reign -
there to shortly contemplate the wisdom you have gained.
Your fortnight ended, you journey back again.
We all beneath you are an ocean mystically pulled,
heirs to the gifts you weave at the time we are born.
Like our predecessors who learned to heed
your rhythmic sounds as they planted seed,
it would behoove us, with our vast technology,
to stop and study the sky, your teachings there to see!
He misconstrued my intention of friendship
Forver sealing our fate to be acquaintances
Married to others with a nagging sense of loss
Keeping our mates at bay away from true intimacy
Copy and paste can be detrimental if used in the wrong place
Such as posting and plagiarizing poems from another’s space
The time and energy it may take to search for poems to steal
It is a waste of time if you’re not going to be authentic and real
It’s also a crime to take credit for stolen art, poems or any other copied matter
And only a matter of time before a lawsuit may be served from a silver platter
It must be a type of severe mental illness or some type of character flaw
To want to claim poems as yours, that are not, is against the law
It would behoove you to think before you continue to copy and paste and post
We are on to your shenanigans and the deceitful liars are despised the most
Please remove your pathetic copied and pasted posts and leave our page
Because your reputation, integrity and legal recourse may be a lot to wage
Oh how you play me
Sway me
Love to slay me
You game of prey me
Oh how you entice me
Spice me
Naughty and nice me
Heart on ice me
Oh how you move me
Groove me
Smile of approve me
How you behoove me
Oh how you thrill me
Kill me
Fantasy quill me
How you love fill me
Oh how you tame me
Game me
Passion bright flame me
Oh how you blame me
Oh how you tease me
Pleases me
Love and release me
How you caprice me
Oh how you taste me
Lace me
You love to race me
How you unchaste me
Oh how you draw me
Thaw me
You love to awe me
Oh how you flaw me
Oh…oh how you play me!!!
Eileen Manassian
Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
______________________________________________________________
In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
Peach and mango, nature's sweet embrace,
In taste, they share a harmonious space,
Juicy, succulent, with flavors that chase,
A fruity symphony, a delightful grace.
In the orchard's shade, beneath the sun's warm kiss,
I savor ripe mangos, pure tropical bliss.
With skin so tender, hues of yellow and gold,
A story of summer, a tale to be told.
Alfonzo, the king of the lot,
With golden flesh, a taste so hot,
Juicy nectar, a fragrant pot,
In mango's realm, it hits the spot.
Kent, with its skin so green and smooth,
A tropical delight, a real behoove,
Sweet and luscious, it'll make you groove,
In mango feasts, it finds its groove.
The seed at the center, I won't cast away,
It's a part of this mango's story today.
With lips to the core, I suck on that stone,
Extracting every bit, not a morsel alone.
The seed, it holds memories too,
Of the mango's seedling journey, the rain and the dew.
I savor it all, from the flesh to the pit,
Each bite, each drop, in this moment, I commit.
In Praise of Polygamy
By Elton Camp
It’s not in the basic nature of a male
To limit himself to only one female
If, to be friendly, she doesn’t care
It’s a good idea if he has a spare
An idea that men like even more
Is if he has on hand three or four
One wife can be doing the cooking
While another is getting good looking
An outside job each wife can hold
Hand over her salary as she’s told
Multiple wives will do everything
To ensure hubby lives like a king
Built-in competition is really good
To make a wife do as she should
Polygamy can be a positive delight
So wrong for law to say it isn’t right
Since gay marriage states now approve
To legalize polygamy it would behoove
George Washington Cole
1827 – 1911
So here I sleep.
Buried in this dirt.
Covered in this earth.
Returning to the dust.
Finding heaven in the whispers of the wind.
And as for all my friends here,
All these stilled silent voices of Clark Cemetery,
We represent just a single sand pebble
Just a minute solitary dust particle
In an ever expanding infinite universe
Of shadows and scant tracings.
Travel to any city or town in the United States,
Or any sovereign country on Terra Firma,
And you will find the endless names of us,
The dead,
Who lived and died since the onset
Of the Gilded Age of Bessemer steel.
And those endless lists of the dead are nothing,
Nothing in comparison to the endless lists
Of the by-gone personages before us,
The past generations,
Who breathed and sighed and spasmed
Since the onset of Eden’s first heartbeat.
My friends, we are all so small,
And so minuscule.
Does it not behoove us to dance
Even while the music plays?
Does it not behoove us to be kind,
Even when the cruel day
Finally slaps us on the side of our faces?
So here I sleep.
Buried deep in this forgotten grave
Just a whispering shadow of a former man
Awaiting with baited breath
The blare of the last trumpet!
Each of us has one;
each alone may see it,
and none is ever touched these days.
Its content, though, is real enough.
There little blocks of memory
are carelessly assembled,
rudely left by time to gather dust
that filters in to gently cover them--
not quite enough to cause
an aging child to close the lid too soon.
Mayhap a friend who comes to play
will bring along his own to share,
though I would never trade with him.
My blocks are worn; the edges rounded,
and now my hands retrace
the tumbling journey of their history,
those moments of surprise
when blindfolds were removed,
and gushing bursts
of sorrow, sighs and ecstacy
came to me alone.
My toy box is a treasure I may never share.
Storage is no problem; it is always there.
I do not outgrow it, for it comes along with me
throughout this life--beyond I do not know.
The toys are magical, and never change.
And, you know...they are much more
than keepsakes; they are just like life.
In fact, it streams from them
and never mind their age,
it does behoove me now
to give them better care.
So please. I find
I rather love the toys within my box.
Dust or no, I mean to keep them all.
~
A Rare Rhinoceros
Nothing seems so rare as a robust rhinoceros
Trying to point long nose into business like us
And incredible case in point never could prove
Because with big mouth he wanted to behoove.
He was rhinoceros always being the rowdiest
With his nose's point many things had missed
Then ended up raising a really big fuss
From scratching poor skin all full of psoriasis.
They never would ever leave him alone
Until his level had been low on testosterone
And rumors started to run amok and amiss
Monstrous mate he might have forgotten to kiss.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
Hate to say this butttt
How about this one for
humorous Horn poem of the
day? Don't want to horn in
on anyone's business though.
Ho-ho-ho
Countless generations lapsed since height of Greco-Roman mythology conceived, birthed and populated vast canopy of sky and expanse of terrestrial firmament, whereat obeisant propinquity quintessentially remains stalwart this day and age as guise dolls dote demonstrably come Valentine’s Day, when Cupid plucked from the quiver, notched in bowstring and launched Eros tinged arrow induces love struck swain to swoon upon a lassie fair, whence fecund female feast proliferates progeny.
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bona fide hormonal hankering didst since Adam and Eve a wake
aromatic, balmy, and captivating as effect from drinking sassafras
kin powerful pulsations viz diving rod erect phallus
creating con fusion pro bono er to enter lips engorged mass
Pussy swathed qua tangle of coiled, kinked, and thatched course grass
Willy wonka with vestal virgin hair line gonadal zone **** embarrass
twig and berries rutting, rusticating, routing and romancing intent
to deflower re: piercing hymen
with nary immune to perdition or déclassé
hello kitty edenic tropic of cancer coital compass
emitting pheromones culling asper a bong
clapping banging brass
intractable supremacy reproductive sport
waging whore with contemporary take
verboten fruit sexual pang thrust forward
omnipotent magnetic thirst to slake
unstoppable passions flared unfazed as annals
depict how hot coals feet did rake
despite hollow religious strictures obloquy,
the serum filled genitals did quake
infiltrate historical manifestations, naked humans
prey zing clear or opaque
deities of yesteryear demonstrable
bas relief showers copulation doth make
primal urges imbued *****sapiens
e’er since first man saw lady of the lake
triggering libidinal longing inducing salivation sans love struck drake
multi-tiered mouth watering orgasmic gastronomic carnal cake
Aphrodite spellbinding storied sport thrives inducing heart break
imbuing human guys gals feverish enthralled dizzy catnip behoove ache.
Yes, the rhino is leather that rumbles
and deadly to a hunter who fumbles,
Now secure in the zoo,
Still, it might behoove you
not to show your backside if you stumble.
Silvered wisps,
diaphanous, floating 'neath
the ether, flying high like
prophesies from God.
Black forbidding masses
rumbling out their message,
jagged bolts of lightning
rend the air.
Innocuous or deadly,
oft they're in disguise;
it would behoove us all
to heed the skies.
{For Nelson and Winnie Mandela}
You, me said I to my honey bitter
When like the windy aether,
Blows us hither and thither
Bursting bubbles on elevating air,
I shall sleep dreaming with one eye open
Set you and I free on a chilly rest,
Virtually recalling the immure moments
I shall tell you of inborn pain.
Hence, that in these moments, hours
Days running in weeks, months into years
And coming to these moments,
It's love I suppose so
That I should be waiting, waiting and waiting
For you on this thing that like the windy aether,
Has blown away, blown away till this moments.
I shall sleep through to another day
Because of you, I and the offspring
And watch you through, though my heart is spilling
Could it be my strength has withered?
Or my agility has disappeared?
So when the night comes to eyes
And the silence deafened ears
In those moments, hours, days, weeks and months
And the years, O the years!
Which I have slept through just remembering you.
I have looked your face through,
When you are slumbering, thinking silently
Of your vanity, tells of enchantment saliently.
Let us lay on the lawn
And make sweater nothing of love,
Let us float upwelling in delight for the ocean,
And make sea-wine sip among arteries rejecting behoove.
It is love I suppose so
That I should be waiting,waiting and waiting,
For you on this thing that like the windy aether
Has blown away, blown away till these moments,
And you insinuate without times, whether
That ours prophesy shakable love lust,
It has not gone through the last
Of consent; well, it's all sentimental
Even though, I have gone and mount the pedestal
Like the Baboon drumming
Out his chest so loud;
My head had gone white shouting so loud
And the children care clamoured for
My greater loftier ladder,
Aged head has gone white like cloud.
You would say then, I have waited for ages,
I have trimmed the lamp for ages
I have fumbled with the candle for long;
But then flop;
Fell out of one uniting rope
I went so far flung,
Even though thinking of you then
As I now thinking of you so,
And you have on, on and on thinking then
I would wait for you so.