Best Belt Out Poems
Like a bridegroom crowned in crimson,
He rises out of his chamber,
Scarlet circlets round his person,
Bedecked in tangerine amber;
With tears of joy* shed on the grass,
The world rejoices when he comes,
His smile's reflected on the glass
Of each river, as daylife* thrums;
An incarnadine cirque, he glows
From one end of heaven's doorway,
In merry-go-round, he follows
His circuit till the end of day;
The birds belt out ballads divine
When he stirs them with soft caress;
But, he's barely a ball of shine
Before the Sun of Righteousness*.
-------------18.11.16-------------
( *Tears of joy - dew;
*Daylife - opposite of nightlife
*Sun of Righteousness - Lord Jesus Christ )
Encouraged by the masses
is mediocrity,
like when someone at a bar
sings bad karaoke.
As they belt out notes off key,
we might give guffaws.
Drunken with good will, though,
we offer up applause.
Written Feb. 14, 2016 for the Grook Contest of Silent One
.
I thought of the pass of I
flooding
your eyes
your strong arms lowering
mine casket
I thought of the daze
days
you would sigh
Of the prose and rhymes of
the me
you would cast
Yet here
now
are my prayers to
Jehovah God Almighty
In Jesus Christ name
to
relieve the burn
in mine eyne
*Nathaniel my dear nephew...
sleep peacefully ;
*ya know, when Nathaniel wuz the young soul,
he would belt out(what iz known now'uhdaze
az "Rap")wordz which housed from hiz dreamz,
unto; the future, for what man he understood
wuz sowing...though i'm not the fan uv the style,
i listened intently to hiz werdz<-he know'd it ;)
Man-made drugs
Induce an altered state
A psychedelic paradise
Of euphoria
A burst of colors
Impaired reality of dreams
A fix of blissful forgetfulness
Married to ecstasy
What need have I of these?
When I have you
My drug of choice
I will not touch any of the others
But you, I long to touch…
To feel you under my fingertips
To caress before I ingest
And let you posses...
Every way I can have you is good…
I inject
Inhale
Take you in orally
Taste you laced with everything
Under my tongue...
There…ah….there….it begins
I start getting high….
Climbing and climbing
My roller coaster rocketing high
On your words
On the scent of your emotions
On the presence of you in my mind
Who could ever find
A more wholesome or better stimulant...
Yes, you stimulate every part of me
You excite me
Make me delirious
Bring fire to my veins
Drive me insane
Make me oblivious to the pain
Leave me wanting more than the time before
Wanting a larger dose of you
More dangerous
More hallucinogenic
Unaware of my surroundings
I climax on this induced trip
You….my drug of choice
The drug from which
There is not even an iota
Of hope for rehabilitation….EVER...
Every cell to my very core is under your control
I want you coursing in my blood
Flooding my brain
FIX AFTER FIX AFTER FIX
More often…more intense…longer…stronger…
What drug can compare to you?
My ever present addiction…
Opiate of my obsession
Drug of my choice….
YOU!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Was struck by a bolt of inspiration on this one! :)
Belt it out with Amy Winehouse…..”They wanted to take me to rehab, but I said ‘NO, NO, NO’.” ;) When I teach my students a rule or so in grammar, I say, for example, "Can you use a comma to join two independent clauses? Is it enough punctuation?" Then, in answer, I belt out with Amy..."NO, NO, NO!" They laugh!
A Hard Beginning
The cough continues.
My head... aches,
but there are needles in my eyes,
that will not stop poking my lids.
Everything hurts today,
that did not hurt yesterday.
Today all things that hurt
yesterday, have found new
purpose in their vendetta
against me.
It is hard to be sick,
especially when there are things to do.
I want to go and dance and play.
I want to sing, where no one can hear me,
so I can be loud and strong,
about my emotions.
That, without hurting the feelings of others,
I could belt out my favorite tune.
Yet, here I am coughing into my elbow,
wishing that my rib cage would quit,
rattling.
It is just a cold, but it has traveled badly,
down into my chest, far and deep.
I wish that I had listened,
about wearing my coat,
to the New Years Ice Skating Contest,
at the North Pole.
The place was so pretty,
and the magic all real,
that I could not face the idea,
of covering up,
instead...
I swam with the penguins,
visiting from the south.
I talked to the mammoth bear,
from Alaska, and arm wrestled for an hour.
I swam in the punch,
lifted the whole reindeer gang,
up on the end of a candy cane,
spinning in the storm,
of snowflakes...
started by the windmill,
made from holly and grape vines of candy.
I will never forget
and neither will they.
We flew two states over in a jet,
skied from Mt Hood past the fence,
where they keep the ashes.
Gray still from a long time ago.
My cough did not gain
a grip on me, until the helicopter landed.
Then it was too late,
to put on my coat,
do the right thing
and go home early.
The best New Year,
sometimes starts with a rough patch,
but the rest is all garden parties and
politics from here.
Prayers
for
your
day,
the first day,
of the new year,
the last chance to say goodbye,
and try to be okay with tomorrow.
Is a penny for your thoughts
Money well spent
Or is stating your opinion
A boring non -event
When its time for action
Do you procastinate
Is it always strike three
When you step up to the plate
Do you feel alone in a crowd
Do you ever fit in
And the game of life
Your finding hard to win
But you were created on purpose
Your not a mistake
From the day you were born
God held your fate
So dont let them tell you
That you dont belong
Hold your head high
And belt out your song.
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Oh, hear the rattle of the rolling train;
yhe clap…clap…clacking rhythm,
beating like a conga drum;
every trip it sings along,
with the tracks repeating song;
such simple, inexpensive music.
Listen to that music,
of the heart-beat, of the train.
Sing along, with its melodious song.
Come, join in the rhythm;
don’t you love, to sing along;
with the clack..clack…chugging, of that rolling drum.
Run and grab your bongo drums;
we’ll play a little music.
A grand neighborhood, sing-along,
to the rhythm of the train.
Oh, what a wondrous rhythm,
is the old, Iron Horse’s song.
In the heart’s, always a song;
the body’s beating drum.
It keeps on pounding out its rhythm;
the heart beats of its Chrystal music;
beats with tempo of the train’
just clap…clap…clacking, on along.
All the people sing along,
with the old Iron Horse’s thrilling songs.
If with instruments, you’re untrained;
perhaps you do not own a drum.
Still, you can join the music;
just clap your hands in rhythm.
Revel in that rhythm,
sing and play along.
Just be part of the music
and belt out your own song,
to your own heart’s rhythm
and that musical old train.
Lighten up that rhythm and revel in the music.
Have a glorious, sing-along, to the many beating drums.
There’s nothing quite as joyous, as the songs sung with the trains.
9-9-19
Your Choice Max 333 Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
A portly old man from Spain,
Let his belt out to relieve the strain,
But his pants button exploded
Like a missile unloaded
So far that it brought down rain.
Today, I'll do my best to teach you
the recipe to keep Christmas true.
You'll need to start with a loving heart,
or else your plans will all fall apart.
Decorating a tree sets the mood,
so smile and indulge in Christmas food.
Eggnog and ribbon candy are fine,
but do uncork a bottle of wine.
Belt out Christmas carols with gusto,
and hug your friends when it's time to go.
But don't forget to add just a pinch
of that Santa wannabe, the Grinch.
Attend church to give the Lord His due
and thank Him for all He's given you.
Bonding with the folks you love the most;
gather your friends and family close.
Wrap your gifts in bright ribbons and bows,
and wear traditional Christmas clothes.
Now, add a dash of wintertime fun,
and build a snowman before you're done.
Once knew a lad from the boonies
Could really belt out some sad tunies
Made Elly May cry
Big tears from her eyes
Could also fart in tune with big boomies
© Jack Ellison 2015
The Saints be preserved! Begorra! Today Saint Patrick reigns!
An excuse to get the Irish blood a-coursin' through yer veins!
A time for clans with even a tad of Irish in their genes,
To celebrate the holiday with the Wearin' O' The Greens!
O'Sullivans, O'Shaughnessys, O'Reillys and O'Neils,
Will be cavortin' and dancin' to snappy jigs and reels!
Anon, they'll savor corned beef, cabbage and Irish stew,
Toastin' the Auld Sod with hilarious hubbub and ado!
Happy harmonizers will sing "When Irish Eyes Are Smilin'",
Gazin' into the limpid eyes of Irish colleens so beguilin'!
Revelers will belt out "Biddy McGraw" and "McNamara's Band".
Goodwill and fellowship will prevail throughout the land!
Jaunty old-timers sport their shillelaghs in small-town parades.
Sprightly leprechauns and fairies leap about in masquerades.
Saint Patrick must look down upon his flock with some dismay.
What he hoped would be a holy day is now a rowdy holiday!
Hibernia, Eire, The Emerald Isle, Erin - call it what you may,
But ain't we thrilled that the Irish set aside this day?
At least once a year we can shed our usual dour mein,
And joyfully participate in the Wearin' O' The Green!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Blues
Blues in a sky of blue
billow from lonesome grooves
Brother your lone harp weeps
Bandage my wounds soul deep
Belt out that heartache please
Bring me down to my knees
beside these Christmas blues
written 11/19/15 for Kim's Pleiades, Please! Contest
Hearts tied together through his love.
Strangers become one.
Hear the voices ring loud.
As they belt out another song.
Hearts were healed
Some were torn.
Some were forgiven
And some were reborn.
With one thing in common they were dancing in a storm.
A storm of forgiveness,
A storm of hopes and dreams,
A storm of sadness and a storm of hurt.
They were looking for guidance
And they were searching for meaning and truth.
They were looking for the answers that god held in his hands.
They needed the comfort of his arms.
And some even needed to be carried for once.
As pain was shed and tears flowed down
A weight was lifted and an answer was found.
Turn your whole selves
over to the lord this time
For a savior was born Christmas night.
Happy Holidays everyone
(MaGowen’s Pizzaland Monroe, CT 2008)
The caterwaul of the jukebox blends seamlessly with the screech of infants,
and the fumes of garlic hanging heavily in the air.
The true mama’s and papa’s are here, here where the dough flies
the glasses clink; and the Beatles belt out
Strawberry Fields Forever ....
The roar of unruly children,
bashing video buttons to Roll Over Beethoven
pounds into the diners temples, dulled with Pinot noir, Chianti
and pitchers of golden ale.
Trays, tall, saucer-shaped sit beside cherry red baskets
of pristine white bread, as the fire engine red corvettes pull up outside.
The jet-black and chrome model T’s vie for spaces on the asphalt lot
outside the restaurants doors.
Sweet-hearts wait for the cracked, green-vinyl booths
like penitents at a Sunday mornings mass.
Pizza pies fly by on stainless saucer- shaped plates
landing on cluttered Formica tables
dressed with vinegars and shake cheese
Racecars zoom around the game track;
as kids run pell-mell down the aisles.
And, only Mary Lou knows
“Who’s on first?”