Best Behooved Poems
For you, I carry heavy issues difficult to bear;
varied themes with bleary depths as carved by you.
You want me to dismiss all darkness you name light,
to secure your pride’s weight in my ocean of shame
and declare aloud your behooved truths are priceless.
There are no limits to all that you diminish
in me when holding me immobile for your use,
to move me around as your desires so choose.
You know I struggle to be free from your rules,
you have read my clues but are completely immune.
Floating as tossed in your issues, I feel ropes securing
agitation upon all my twisted, pushed and pulled guilt.
You intend to keep me crippled in this fashion.
I often tread in my dream threads wishing to swim
far away from the darkness you always fasten.
Someday, I will lose you as a nightmare captain.
Yes, I will disengage, I will make that truth happen.
You will sink or swim in seas you cannot harm or please,
that roll aloof despite your achieved skills to control
and I will thrive living a sanity scrolled, honest life.
Just what can astrology gain us?
The confusion surely must pain us.
Just how are you behooved--
Not to mention improved--
By knowing the moon's in Ur-anus?
It was a nice romance, she loved to dance
to the music's beat, but I had two left feet
The circumstance made us take a chance
And we enrolled for ballroom lessons.. (sweet)
I gave it a try and by and by
I began gliding across the floor
My confidence was high
I learnt tango, cha-cha, and many more
We practiced still when we were home
The Christmas Ball was near
These steps we honed for the ballrooms dome
To prepare for this elegant affair
In tux and gown we left the house
To the Ballroom we did go
Where others gathered with their spouse's
To glide to rhythms flow
The Ballroom grandeur was something to behold
With lofty ceilings, and decorations ornate
Perhaps to match the dancing that would unfold
My nervous feet couldn't wait
In rhythmic grooves we made the moves
In motions to and fro
To cha- cha steps, latin flavors flowed
The rumba wooed, as rhapsody behooved
We slid with grace to tangos pace
As I held her close to me
Our hearts raced, our souls embraced
As we became one with the melody
The Ballroom dance was such delight
As we dipped and twirled in movements quick
To trip the light fantastic
A waltz came on, we danced it slow
But it was late and we had to go
But we could have danced all night
Our first computer was set and ready to go.
How to use it only the children did know.
“Wheel of Fortune” became our regular game.
We would gather to play; it earned family fame.
Taking turns guessing letters: R-S-T-L-N-E.
Every one was a clue to the phrase mystery.
Each night was the same for the kids and myself.
Until we were visited by the "Technology Elf!"
We had guessed many letters without success.
Then, just as our thinking began to regress,
The answering machine conveyed the next letter.
Wide-eyed and doubting, we had nothing better.
So we typed in the letter; oh, my, the surprise,
The solution was clear; our eyebrows did rise.
With hair on my neck standing straight and tall,
The children asked me to explain it all.
We all heard the clue whispered from the phone.
It must have been technology gnome!
Or was it a ghost that caused this mystery?
You can bet that our game soon became history.
But that was back then, before systems improved.
Now we all are addicted as technology behooved.
There are so many fun games and friends on the web.
No ghost, gnome or elf could make surfing ebb.
© July 22, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Talkin' Technology
Sponsored by: Natalie Fllikkema
To all of common ancestry
All cousins to be sought
Who bear the line within my vein
Legitimate or not
Akin to or by marriage
Even once or twice behooved
Descendants and dependents
Even forcibly removed
The fondest of all memories
Of days gone by alas
I won the free kin lottery
You can all go kiss my yass
You scoundrels and you liars
Always said I was a fake
That i laid down with my cousin
And the cow at cavan lake
I'm gonna take my scratch and win
Down to the five and dime
When I get back you best be packing
Much more stuff this time
Should I pack for nasty weather
Are we leaving very soon
I care less what you take with you
Just so you're gone by noon
Thank you for the lovely gift
You spent your last two bucks
So where you land upon your rass
I couldn't give two trucks
But if I croak along the way
Or drop upon return
You all can have my fortune
Dizzy trucks you'll get your turn
I suppose some readers might not get the joke. But it's been going around the internet now for many years. In most novelty stores, joke shops and gift shops, you can buy a phony winning scratch ticket. Has it ever happened to you? Get one for a friend. I highly recommend it.
"The Parnassian Hand" - A Poem by David Hart
Five fingers hover over black print
Apposed on a white sheet.
Tan flesh, short cropped nails and
Overlapping cuticles--an old hand--
A buxom hand--a hand delighted to treat.
Words, numerously luxuriate on holey
Crimpled sheets.
Words astonishing and boon
Words effulgent and true
To arrange? No. Avast!
Now pondering in this hushed room
Gazing athwart still and attent.
Ahoy to the words!
An august phrase for rent.
Words awhirl or bedizended
Words behooved and apt
Words echt and moiling
Aye, perhaps diamonds of fact.
Five fingers hover over print in black
Print regaled and caressed by an
Amorous attack
The wish that you wished
for upon a bright star
Same wish that would stay
Locked inside a glass jar.
Carrying around and peering
right through it
Dying to capture that wish
you were'nt born with.
Behooved you no longer
grasp onto that wish
For you now see in Life
it's your source of anguish.
Committing yourself
Lends beginnings anew
Releasing dead wishes
you know can't come true.
Your future's the wish
now for dreaming on stars
So set out n' find those
old Locked up glass jars.
One fell swoop will destroy
each and every scar
Can't Let who we were
become who we are.
Few are those who'll grasp
wishes fewer still will prevail
Be not Like them find your star
in your heart you'll not fail.
Take that jar from the shelf
dusted polihed now fill it
With so many wishes
never'll be reason to spill it...
If dedication ever was
A flood goes out your way
If time could stop just because
I'd wish the while to stay
More grand than any setting sun
Surpassing any sight
More dear to me than anyone
A circle of delight
Of mothers and of sisters
Of daughters and of theirs
Of cousins, aunts and nieces
The mother of my heirs
And those of you who volunteered
By marriage or divorce
A special dedication
Goes out to you, of course
Legitimate or otherwise
Once or twice removed
Abandoned or misguided
Or otherwise behooved
If someone else decided
To turn you into kin
You might as well face it
You're in the game to win
http://mike-martin.net/The Girls
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_girls_696236
For President Run
Better things will be
And go down in history
In home of the free.
Things will have improved
A great message have behooved
We like to have viewed.
Greatest when charming
And never will be harming
Or also alarming.
For President run
When over and after done
Surely will have one.
James Stricter Predictor Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Things sacredly sworn should last forever.
Wedding rings aren't meant to be removed
but love doesn't always end like a fairytale.
This is a rendering of what was forsaken,
in a painstaking tale that wounded my heart
but all's well that ends well... after a sale.
Vile words spewed from inebriated lips...
daggers drenched with the stench of liquor.
Upon my left hand, I'd worn a wedding band.
For a year after leaving, it encircled my finger until
it behooved me to take it off.
There's no sense holding on to what is over.
Marriage isn't always as palatable as waffles
covered with honeyed clover syrup.
Removing that ring was easier than I thought,
but getting rid of it was something I fought to do.
I almost tossed it out, but put it in a box,
still feeling tethered though I'd weathered
the storm of sorrow. Courage to do that
came the day divorce papers arrived with a
"Please sign." I did and never felt more alive.
I smiled knowing he had to pay court fees.
I looked at the ring later that day,
knowing what I needed to do with the thing.
The one that once meant everything to me,
but now it was an agitator, an aggravator.
It dawned on me that I should pawn it.
So, to a hole-in-the-wall place called Fast Cash,
I drove without giving thought that my heart
would make me turn around.
NO! Not this time. I was going to win this round!
It may have been a rash decision,
but I took what I was offered because
divorce papers don't come with a provision
that states, "Rings given must be returned."
'Marriage adjourned' the document stated.
Give back the ring? I'm not addlepated.
I was better off without a wedding band,
no longer on the third finger of my left hand.
I sold it for less than the measure of its worth,
but felt like I'd given birth to a new me.
Free from the emotional chain around my neck.
Heck, selling it gave me more pleasure
than I would have known had I tossed it out.
Stalking him,
Always now,
In the daylight, or down city street, no matter.
Sleek- a panther, its coat cast obsidian under a moon in anarchy.
Behind him, or in front,
Clutching deeply until each appendage of self falls victim;
The brain, the belly
And the heart unwittingly surrenders.
And the heart.
For although it assuages his fear
It absorbs the essence of the spirit.
It has given inexplicable sorrow a name.
And although the symptoms are in juxtaposition
Nonetheless it defines the nature of his disease;
In this he has found the substance for his epitaph.
And you, who are behooved by deadly youth's penchant for morbidity,
Seize now, his eyes, glance for glance,
And answer this question which binds his life to a name.
Who can be so blind as to assume
That one is amongst the living because you see him walking?
B ecause his lungs expand and so much toxic air is absobed
And expelled?
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth", I question.
Research on this ancient proverb, of course
finally brought me to this aged suggestion:
"the longer its teeth, the older the horse."
Remembering a blue-chip London bus trip
we took a journey to T-Square perforce.
There upon the fourth plinth, we dared not to skip
the stellar sculpture called Hans Haacke's "Gift Horse."
Borrowing from equine pictures drawn by George Stubbs,
Fulfillment for posterity, Hans' ace of clubs.
Readily, H. Haacke now spins a skeleton
which features a ribbon of ticker tape
from the London's Stock Exchange's latest run.
Money and power set in a new shape.
But recently, fate has behooved to remove
this sculpture to Chicago's latitutde.
Proverb's warning: Looking at its teeth for proof,
you slay a gift horse with ingratitude.
August 19, 2019
https://www.artic.edu/exhibitions/8944/hans-haacke-gift-horse
Sponsor Robert James Liguori
Contest Name A Notable Horse
DRIVE
A day to drive,
Coolant sunned,
Last leaves scattered,
On a pedal-fly,
Ignition lust,
On mother-piston,
Pointed beams like bone fingers,
I sit upright alone,
Dark storm racing,
Lightening spoken to.
Weary of the voric-tendonces,
The telly I left,
From Demille's close-ups,
Of Towers steel rain,
Hand holding Jumpers,
The day of the terrorist tools,
At home I got car sick,
When I was a replay witness,
And our behooved king cow poke,
Started his info-spin,
Telling a child his dad would be ok,
It's a noise vio-licked.
Beget, to begot,
A day to drive,
Needing true air,radio off,
For the ones gone
To Heaven We Have to Go
or Hi Ho Where is the Dairy Oh
Loved him with all of his ambience
Which often had wished I could absconce
Wh happened to be handsome to the hilt
Like a frustrated flower, could make me wilt.
Was becoming with smile which was contagious
Almost as broad as from here to Uranus
Style was firm and for nothing ever did waiver
And I forever wanted to be in his favor.
God who often harbors self in heaven above
Who we willfully worship and always love
He has developed a fallacy while growing older
Likes going around wearing a chip on his shoulder.
About problem, I warned him and also behooved
Once everything to heaven, you have moved
I had hoped that you would not ever mind
Leaving all that I own of mine behind.
In last days, he became meaner and meaner
While ending up taking us both to the cleaners
And when he finally in heaven had arrived
From our diligent divorce nothing had survived.
So when I said that you had become a mystic
You went to heaven and was totally ballistic
Now why would you want to go up there
Where no one smokes and they never swear.
Can you imagine some people having to go there.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
"Go see the pastor! "
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! Domination!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Keywords/Tags: God, religion, Christ, Christian, Christianity, lust, sex, sexy, passion, desire, purgatory, hell, damnation, puberty