Best Besought Poems
I will tell a funny story of a bear that's hunkydory
How 'e lives a life of comfort in a pickle on a tree
When the summer comes 'e fishes, an' 'e eats 'em off o' dishes
Till the day 'e ran in 'orror from 'is shadow on the sea
So 'e trundled of gallumphing, till 'e couldn't run for 'uffing
And 'e settled down in Puddington where honeyed puddings grow
There 'e lived a life so royal, till his dream began to spoil
For 'e longed to have a mamma bear with cubby bears in tow
'E trotted to the pickle-tree, that shady spot beside the sea
An' asked about if any knew his fav'rite childhood chum
'Is special bear at last 'e found, and knelt upon the berry-ground
An' there besought if she would be a wifey bear and mum
A mummey bear she'd gladly be, she'd mend 'is clothes and make 'is tea
And have as many fuzzy bairns as God saw fit to bless
So off they went to Pudding Town, the bear and wife, now Mrs. Brown
Which place they 'ad their little bairns, and lived in 'appiness
First place in Nursery Rhyme contest.
Maidens, bloody maidens, I had me six of ‘em wenches, ye knowest
Fullsome Catherine of Aragon wrought havoc ‘tween me and the Pope
Besought a divorce, split from the church whilst Anne Boleyn caught mine eye
'Twas beheaded whenst in ‘er capacity to produce a male heir I lost hope
Mine affection waxed for Jane Seymour; I beseeched ‘er t’ marry me
Anne’s body not yet cold in the ground whenst Jane became mine queen
But after giving me a son, Jane withered, twas gone in two weeks
For ‘er I mourned two years, afore proposing to Anne of Cleves
Ye knowest this “Flanders Mare” twas not suited for mine royal court
Nay, ‘er domestic skills tweren’t becoming of a stately king’s wife
At mine auld age of 49, I grew enamored of young Kathryn Howard
She but 19 when I divorced Anne and beseeched ‘er t’ share mine life
But Kathryn had eyes for other blokes, made me look like a pompous joke
"Thou dost not deserve thine title," I declared, had ‘er executed
Twice widowed at the age of 31, Katherine Parr I settled for
This wench cared for me as I grew ill, thus is undisputed
Prithee t’ see after six attempts, I finally met mine match
Katherine inherited mine throne once mine body twas laid t’ rest
From heaven I look back fondly at mine spirited days of yore
Knowing that in a regal sense mine first wife twas truly mine best
* For Lisa Cooper’s “I Want Some Old English Scandal” contest
*Image of Julius Caesar by QDT.
The Ides of March
Spun spells pummel our Earth ... as a Sun scanned absence swallow,
vacuumed blues taxes light once deemed eternal ... plus righteousness,
escapism from existence ... edges evacuation,
Birth ere the latter days ... ventured the laurels that were Rome,
the incarnation of iniquity ... masquerade innocence,
like clovers and thistles ... lure eyes above the common grass,
Furtherance besought ... midst tossed bone for multi contentment,
parades that paralyze souls ... usurp minds to sweeping abandon,
celebratory hails the seasoned ... emblem of power,
The gods and goddesses' palms of warring pulse ... 'tis peacetime,
nonetheless ... tributes adorn the temples of Mars in abundance,
'tis time of awash hands of mere grimes ... toxic suffers freely,
Citizens housed upon Palatine ... the triumphant hill,
felicitations honorable legions ... protectors of Rome,
promissory constants ... declared Remus per Romulus,
Roman Senate played a chess game ... Caesar kept them in check,
every move was scrutinized ... made vulnerable and powerless,
autocracy trumps democracy ... seeds gangocracy,
Plans are planted within plans ... schemes are shrouded inside schemes,
the beast entrails read ominously ... Spurina forewarns the marked,
timely debts to be paid in full ... matters to be settled,
At the Courts of Pompey ... the assembly awaits for him,
armorless donning senatorial garb ... metals pierce a man,
till mute ... last recalls *haruspex, "Beware the Ides of March".
*Haruspex; reading of omens from the entrails of sacrificed animals. The subject of Shakespeare's title play came from his thorough accounting of Plutarch's writings.
2022 March 30
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 11
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 April 22
*HMS; 14,16,14 syllables per x 8 stanzas
Autumn's arrival, ushering once more a door His harvest moon ? Dressed of pure..
Gold honourable's daughter her queen from Ophir virgins these, companions; entering
The King's palace glorious ? Arrayed be beauty their children; ten billion stars as she sings
Rejoiced true hearts love's patriarch; timbrels and flutes a nomad whom knew ? In Winter's
Glittering lights an infant's eyes His harps her chorus; Angels ? Divine, besought time's rosy cheeks.
He built a hut
In a tract of a wild country
Not too far from my neighborhood
I visited him pretty often
To gather crumbs of his wisdom
He was my big pal
His name was Mr Green
A wise sage of stoic antiquity
One in a million
He called me son
I loved a girl in my hood
Her name was Daniella
But I was afraid of expression
Afraid of being rejected
And once a day I visited Mr Green
He told me a tale
About two clashing enemies
In the time of old
And all the pities their enmity distilled
He ended his tale with his favourite words
"The folly of love is better
Than the seeming wisdom of war"
I told him about Daniella
And the fear that lurked
He smiled and said to me
"Fear is not real
It is but a mere illusion
Commit totally therefore
Those illusions to the flames
Move yonder and advance
The younger flame that has been sparked"
I had never doubted Mr Green
The whole night kept me awake
As I besought the muse to sharpen my flow
On the morrow
I stormed upon Daniella
In the meadow
Enjoying the grandeur of nature
And I simply said to her
"There is harmony and musical solemnity
When musicians play their instruments
And each person follows the staff of the notes
Let our hearts therefore fall into tune
Just like the musical harmony"
She jumped and hugged me tight
In a complete delight
And I felt like flying with her
In the wings of the wind
Big thanks to Mr Green
Struggling over guilt-inflicted angst
persistent along spontaneous languishing
tangible through prevailing vexatious misery…
…my destitute soul, in carnality’s chain
succumbed to materialism’s glittering offer
defying fervent commitment
to patronize pursuits of eternal worth…
Bewildered midst lurking skepticism
upon doubts of intrigue lure…
my mind besought for marvelous revelation
from truth’s divine portal to grip my perspective
and navigate my heart earnestly
exposing its fixation to virtuous ascent
in the guise of sacrifice, yet when gauged
according to hallowed righteousness
was vainly ephemeral.
Woe was I… beguiled, wavering in my faith
bewitched by fleshly desires
bound to perilous defeat...
---yet God, graciously rich in compassion*
reached out to me along His wondrous pardon…
…Now, my spirit that ceaselessly yields to Him with earnest repentance
enjoys His serene revival, propelling triumphant grateful worship
enabled toward blissful stewardship service ---
--- languishing never!
*Psalm 145:8 The LORD is gracious, and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy.
January 30, 2020
2nd place, "Eight word challenge 1 2020" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton; judged on 1/31/2020.
I stand here, grateful to God for calling me to be a teacher
enabled to be a life-builder by His grace and love
blessed to help shape grand future with His might
privileged to lead toward enlightenment by His wisdom
upheld to meet educational needs thru His guidance!
I stand here, humbled upon receiving “Teachers’ Day” token
from pupils cheering in bliss
midst students with their satisfaction-approval
along learners showing thumbs-up signs
in a crowd of disciples clapping with jubilant mirth!
I stand here, triumphant while singing with my fellow instructors
co-labourers in the pursuit of assisting children
partners for bringing out the best from the youth
prayer-mates every time mercy is besought in nurturing minds and hearts
brethren offering support when wearied because of discipline-stress!
I stand here, appreciative as I commend my mentors
exemplars of genuine servant-leadership
role-models beyond reproach by their fervent faith and good testimony
paragons of excellence in terms of sacrifice and contentment
who walk their talk saying, “Follow me as I follow Christ*, the Master Teacher.”
*1Peter 2:21 For even hereunto were ye called: because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that ye should follow his steps.
October 12, 2018
Happy Teachers’ Day to all teachers!
What vile infusion calls me to the brink
Of ruthless fear and callous doubt sown deep
Within my heart, where tides of malice bring
To mind deep wells whence cheerlessness I seep?
I lie, forgotten by the vim of peace,
Beneath the elderberry tree, whose wine
And flowers make me dream of restless waves
Which crash upon the shores of fright. I pine
For nights when toil, distress and tears might cease
And I am spared the view of solitary graves.
Thick, lulling clouds obscure the sight of day
And sprinkle tears of time upon the ground,
Whose sturdy coat compels the grass to pay
A debt of dew in silence free of bound.
As elms and birches grow, so does concern
On shoulders bent by old, abandoned dreams,
Or heavy over eye lids—closed by fright—
Which never ‘gain shall see the merry leams
Bestowed by joy on man. Indeed, more stern
Than thirst or death can be a spirit’s blight!
Unknown to day, besought in vain by night,
The ecstasy of flight in heaven’s music shines,
Though light and voices tremble to the sight
Of sorrow’s dawn, when star-ward hope declines.
How fresh and candid is the charming dance
Of graceful cranes, whose wings spread out to seek
The land of palm trees, where Euterpe’s spell
Bewitched the clever lyre bird’s will, whose beak
Sings royal chants and thrills, as in a trance,
The deafest ear, its woe and thirst to quell!
Farewell to gloom and sadness, then! I see
How love of youth and bliss, unchecked by time,
Inspire the soul—as in a gleeful spree—
To burn, and then from ashes soar and shine.
From this night forth, resented as it should,
Let dull regret and fear suspire and die
A hasty death, unheeded and alone,
For peace and hopefulness! May not a sigh
Be heard when cruel dejection dares to brood,
Nor good hearts bleed on graveyard slabs of stone!
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Ours is not a friendship sired by accident.
and though the misplaced days
I enumerated as grains of sand,
Apart, we both were as sonar blips without detection,
But then from a heart's depth,
A letter, a call, an e-mail, a visit;
we were no longer as candles, detached, in low flame,
Time and circumstance had been abridged.
Our friendship, once again, has become a game
having no rules and without rhyme or reason;
Because a time of absent desire had turned to willingness,
A misplaced friendship was granted new life;
and because one besought,
Through God's Grace the love that exists between two families
was born.
We Love you S & R
Upon the jagged rock,
Where cloven hooves did trot.
A maiden clothed in dock,
Thought life was meant for naught.
Adorned in nature's frock,
Awaiting wind's onslaught.
Ticktock, ticktock, the clock
She dreamed of love a lot.
From China to Bangkok,
Wind brought the storms mascot.
He wished, that young warlock.
The devil's charms besought.
Two footprints stomped bedrock
Where, dreams remained bethought.
Beneath the black nighthawk,
The maiden heard gunshot.
The hunter drank cognac.
He passed through a sandlot.
Then, met that old warlock.
Good luck was all he sought.
The devil owned the rock.
The maiden's hope was naught.
The hunter could not talk.
The wind's good luck was wrought.
Within the storms airlock,
Those two with Satan fought.
The hawk began to squawk.
The hunter luck was bought.
Then came the storms windsock.
To waft the dreams besought.
Where love, its coursers walk.
Her wish was finally wrought.
© May 29, 2011
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Jack OUT of the Box
Sponsored by: Debbie Guzzy
Argh resolution between
self and eldest
dear daughter more remote,
now then locating
a left handed monkey wrench,
cuz she feels this papa
did deliberate smote
her upside the head, knocking
Eden Liat stone cold
in an abysmal trench
thus, this dada doth fear a mill
stone shaped albatross
around thy neck aye will tote,
where rotting bird
doth emit fetid oppressive stench
gloomily decry death asper,
paternal progeny blighted love
epitaph finis fate wrote.
Methinks (nee knows) marital infidelity
steep dividend warrant wrought
chances greater finding needle in haystack
versus pointless thought
exercise regarding deus ex machina sought
forgiveness ex post facto, rethought,
yet miracle needed, viz
twill require against overwrought
progeny's psyche mor'n
solo requiem Te Deum never sung,
hence no guarantee
father as overthought
against embarkation entailing,
nor divine chorus baptizing can nought
assuage besotted dada's flesh, handwrought
hence fiery eternal damnation
no gunsmoke match e'en gunfought
by Jesse James, no penitence
bequeathed only dreadnought
visa vis admitting how affair
kneaded joyus kindling brought
philandering husband discovered
emotional refuge (against spousal
epithet strewn expletive language,
whence mistress besought
similar sexual satisfaction,
and subsequent fallout an afterthought.
retrospective reflection stills nothing
more serious then slap on the wrist
while engaged (~ January 2010) with
nothing sinful 'bout peccadillo tryst
understandable wife got sorely pissed
on the sly behaviour the missus
blindsided, hence over
looked and missed
and figurative wedge
cleft asunder nearly kissed
our marriage goodbye
extra-marital romp illicit,
though we nearly came to fist
sta cuffs, where salty crude name calling
in conjunction with execrable
derogatory cussing contribution complicit.
This poem still mine
Heavy as lead they say
For me alone too weighty
You too have to share it
So take and keep
The piece of your choice.
It is the birth of my baby:
Labour pain in deserted oasis.
I scamper and caper on the hot sand
Chanting my memories of real poetry.
I was betrothed to this harsh reality
And besought to feel no pleasure.
I they forbid to feel it either
Lines of creative literature
In this world so impure
Where you stumble and fall
In attempt to wobble.
They scorn me poet who wrote this
With treason they sew up my lips.
Recording memories of slavery
And the complete drama of trickery.
I know I now need to marry,
I know you wish to marry me
And if thy Lord will it
Mine Lord too will.
I need a rebirth of self esteem
I wish God would give me a child
A wonderful baby to call mine
One for me to rock gently to sleep
A pretty baby for whom to sing a lullaby
Chanting in a quotidian rhythm of pain
To create literary territories of liberty
Jammed with lines of poetry.
This poem the lines
Let chime and rhyme
Like toll bells in your mind
Only there will I write it
In unguarded secrecy.
Only there write it
My books are filled
With such lines of poetry
My feather-pen is weather-dry
The bottle has got not in it any ink
As the flooded fountain continues to drink
The irony of literary poetry.
This poem ever
All my poems ever
Not simple poem never.
My big brother will kill me
And fund the cost of my lavish funeral
If ever he reads this poem
So just open your mind
And there let me write it.
Father whisper to son,
Mother sing to daughter
My quotidian chant.
There once was a man who lived in the graves,
for many demons had made him their slaves.
But when Jesus he met
he would never forget
this complete stranger, willing to make waves.
When no longer the demons could torment
to a swine herd, they besought to be sent.
Jesus met their request;
human herd coalesced
all supplying their advice and dissent.
To steer clear of more demon disaster,
the man pleaded to make Jesus, Master.
"Go home," Jesus commends,
"with your neighbors be friends -
what I need now is a good newscaster."
"Lord, grant Your divine healing..."
This is my spirit's plea
Now that I'm confronted with my Dad's groaning angst
While he writhes in pain, struggling to express himself
Here in the Intensive Care Unit which is his haven this Christmas season.
"Lord, your miraculous healing is needed..."
This is my soul's whining
Whenever I see my Dad's agonizing response
Toward seemingly endless needle pricks, catheter changes, suction insertions
As he strives, yet suffering, to seek relief.
"Lord, pour out your healing that's merciful..."
This is my constant prayer
Since my Dad's afflicting blood sugar count
Along unstable blood pressure rise
Oppresses him grievously midst laboured breathing.
"Lord, Your gracious healing* is besought..."
This is my humble cry
With faith in His power for my Dad's health-restoration
So as to recuperate from his stroke
Toward praise-filled thanksgiving and joyous homecoming.
*Luke 9:11 ... He (Jesus Christ) received them, and spake unto them of the kingdom of God, and healed them that had need of healing.
December 24, 2018
7th place, "LET 'ER RIP #2" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John lawless; judged on 12/29/2018.
Scott has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy,
And plays boccia on a wooden floor gleaming,
Where he rolls the leather ball accurately,
Down a ramp to hit the jack, and he’s beaming.
His father quietly assists him to position his balls,
Whilst his mother assists his brother Jamie,
Upon whom Duchenne MD also falls and calls,
Such that sport is enjoyed by the whole family.
Scott has a BA with honours from Uni of Sterling,
In psychology and sports studies all inclusive,
Because he loves football which is encapsulating,
American footy, golf, darts and snooker pensive.
He started playing boccia way back in 2007,
And represented GB at the Europeans in 2009,
So in 2013 at the Europeans in Portugal, levin,
He won the bronze in the BC3 pairs for his line.
Then in 2014 at the World Champs. in Beijing,
He again won as a pair the besought silver medal:
“In every tournament I take part in, [when I fling],
I want to win and this is no different [for me at all].”