Best Bic Poems
The truth can’t be seen through blinders.
Eyes and ears covered with hatred.
The tongue’s ready-lash sidewinders,
twisting and spinning what’s sacred.
The truth, the fact, reality
masked - the masses bobble their heads.
The illusion of blasphemy
here, when the scripture’s left unread.
No need for truth, when it’s made up.
“What is truth,” plank’s in Pilate’s eye.
Pilate knows - the charges trumped-up.
Wolfish masses prefer a lie.
How often the accusation,
front page news, folks - everyone’s riled.
The leak, having no foundation,
reneged where no one looks - exiled.
But still the crowd cheers old nick.
The stage decked out in crimson fire.
A civil war waged with a Bic.
No matter the damage - it’s dire!
The law, “Love others as yourself,”
truculent in divisive ways -
‘stead hate and pride speech off-the-shelf.
Lollygagging verses… no one prays…
Spend time in the prayer closet.
It’s worth every cent! Spare time!
Hear God - work up the composite.
Don’t listen to the world. PEACE TIME!
9/3/2022
Rio de Janeiro, a city by the shore:
Home to Ipanema, Carnival and dance folklore.
As a child, of you I read, from books that showed your Christ.
Arms outstretched, He guards your days and lights your sky by night.
And now I’ve stood beneath His feet and breathed the air you breathe.
I’ve viewed the famous Sugar Loaf, seen monkeys play in trees,
visited your fruit stands and drunk from a coconut shell.
I’ve searched for creatures hewn in stone that midnight vendors sell,
and on your soft and clinging sand, I thrust my toes deep in
and glistened under winter sun, brown sugar on my skin.
Along Copacabana, I jumped waves, enjoyed a beach
which, when they cross an avenue, all visitors can reach.
On weekends and on holidays, your several sea fronts teem
with hundreds, no with multitudes, of people who all seem
content to chat beneath umbrellas, lounging in the sun,
while on a road closed to all traffic, others like to run.
And on that winding promenade are folks, most clad in shorts,
thong-bikinied women, sundry shapes and shades all sorts!
Kids whiz by on roller blades; old or young may ride a bike.
Many simply merrily stroll, though dressed as for a hike.
And in your city’s whole, the countless cars and bodies stream;
pedestrians and door-less shops, props in your waking dream.
with taxis veering left and right and people catching buses;
Cacophony of life your subways and your streets encompass.
Children on their mother’s hands; boys in soccer shirts.
Men sip beers at sidewalk bars; girls scurry in their tight skirts.
Portuguese artisans laid the paths your people walk.
What tales immersed in history if cobblestones could talk!
More than a metropolis, you are yourself, unique!
And I have had the pleasure to have sampled your mystique.
For Bic Gi-Sa's Landscape and Towns Contest
Shaken, angry and scared is the family that was once three
Each parent accusing the other of murder in the second degree
But just who would set the fire while their only child was inside
Their faces register horror, realizing someone could have died
Watching them from the observation room I'm increasingly intrigued
The yelling finally ceasing as they become understandably fatigued
A troubled marriage led them to live in separate houses for almost a year
The husband citing lack of 'love' and wife stating he drank too much beer
Fire broke out in the mother's house after dad left after visiting son
Family room in flames, out the door mom and boy had to quickly run
Fire department said fire was set deliberately with a bic lighter
Luckily no one was hurt and fire quickly extinguished by a fire fighter
Their son sits alone across the room, withdrawn and very stressed
Each time his parents bicker, he becomes a little more distressed
Drawing pictures on paper of his family smiling in happier times
Of them in house on a hill, hanging from the porch, musical chimes
The house he draws is where he lived up until almost a year ago
His mother moved out the family home with her 8 year old son in tow
It becomes obvious to me that it's the boy who has set the fire
So his family can live in one house, to rewind time is his desire
I enter the interrogation room and say to the boy, "I understand"
"Sometimes things don't always work out the way we have planned"
He whispers, " I'm sorry", as guilty tears of relief roll down his face
The sergeant states, 'case closed', as mom and dad their son embrace
Sponsor ~ Vicky Tsiluma
Contest Name ~ Profiling 101
My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to sleep nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.
My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.
WHAT IT ISN’T
It isn’t waiting for the downtown trolley
Hearing the ding of its bell
Isn’t knowledge of threat
Walking around Municipal Square
In rain, snow or fair
Chin up
Eyes staring off
Biting the bic
What is it that isn’t?
When that trolley dings
What sound rushes from mind to ears?
What really is it one hears?
It isn’t the doomsday bell
Isn’t the whoosh of Detroit steel
From all points urging acts
Of large corporate zeal
It isn’t what shouldn’t
It isn’t sadness or happiness
Doesn’t herald up golden times
Isn’t a struck life force, eternity’s chimes
What then is it?
Whatever
It isn’t waiting for the downtown trolley
Old Dave Austin
GRAVE RECYCLING
Installed in cargo pockets,
A vivid-glass, a little green bag,
A pod, silverplatted case,
Which Guca-hides, Pallmalls, and a bic.
You're barfoot in tombstones.
You're father, son vulture slumped,
You befor etched letters on rock.
"Him", a glutton of Karma,
Rein ended, your fourteenth year,
Now, belly-heavy, smoking his brand.
On a Drive-by, visit home.
You're showing Gene shooter,
You're an arsenic lane of skin,
You tremble-digits, in belt loops.
A trailer in time,
Secluded woods, with pine scent,
Anger stranded from earshot,
Hand-fead, his hate's red attic.
Father giant, yelling lasting filth,
Son flesh impersonal,
Dark-spotted, and tie-dyed,
From Basketball champ fists.
You retreated-rightly to martyr mirth,
You still look for his bold heading,
Still Questing for embrace.
Pulling tube and ziplock from Cargo,
Following in bone-bared footsteps,
You spark, away walking,
Keeping his Armageddon.
Some say don't fear while others fret
On all of the happenings
We've struck a match to our past
"Now the house we've built is burning"
Our forefathers built with blood, sweat, and tears
The foundation we have here
Well into two hundred years
"What lessons are we learning"
The contract in which they wrote down
Constitutes sacred ground
Flick the Bic and burn it down
"Not worried over who we're hurting"
Generations yet to come
What will we be teaching them
That hard work makes great kindling
"Does anyone else find that disturbing"
Overtime it was bound to run its course
Now we know why Miss Liberty carries a torch
We tossed a molotov cocktail onto our own front porch
"Now the house we've built is burning
Today I mourn the loss
Of a good and trusted friend
Who shared with me the company
Thru hard times thick and thin
I held him close unto my heart
This companion, confidante and brother
Who became my means
To put thoughts and dreams
To paper as could no other
But the lifeblood of all of us
Is finite in the end
So…with a void in my heart
And a tear in my eye
To my faithful friend
Until the very end
Goodbye ol’ Bic
…Goodbye…
Thailand,
Or Kensington?
Tinfoil from a Kit-Kat,
Tells you that there’s no difference,
Outside,
Cocaine,
Ammonia,
Old Martell miniature,
A Bic lighter; a mound of ash,
Bangkok?
Fly south
Like Garuda,
Drift off to Koh Samui,
A Beach house, Or Council estate?
Who cares?
Wake up,
Burnt down candles,
Landlord on the doorstep
‘Last weeks rent?’ ‘Giro on Thursday…
…Get lost…’
The calla lily ladies pay a dainty little toll
to shade their face from beauty which will purify their soul.
(all protestant their daughters - ambiguity is plain -
unscented shapeless bodies with no luster to their mane)
Belief is not conceit received within a holy name
but licks with tricks to finger flick a bic to bigger flame
which decimates the future of a church so prone to pride
in search of resurrection since the congregation died.
All present indiscretions and confessions labled sin
will find in time backslidin' minds are slippin in again.
Too late for fate to find a place where faith and hope await
but somethin' in the wind again will land upon my plate.
But old remorse can set a course as games are played too straight
where beauty brought was never bought to be the brand new bait.
So wait for fate to find a face to place inside the race
for there is where the lion's share of mischief found disgrace.
He's got a reptilian body and wings,
and breathe so hot he can singe anything,
he's very popular especially in summer,
if people barbecue's wind up a blunder,
He'll help them out if they need some heat,
that way he can also get a little barbecue treat,
my dragon will even eat some corn on the cob,
he loves his meat but is no vegetable snob,
We take him camping which is great,
he's more than a guard dog whose got what it takes,
flying around the campsite keeping a look out,
like a guardian angel with a dragon snout,
And in the winter if we lose our electricity,
he provides heat out of necessity,
never having a need for matches or a bic lighter,
my pet dragon is a great fireplace provider,
He helps me out with the yard keeping it clean,
raking leaves up with his capable wings,
and then carefully singeing it with his breathe,
the leaves all go up in smoke and theres no mess,
But he's most popular at the Renaissance Fair,
when we dress up in our costumes and volunteer,
bringing our pet dragon along where he too performs,
dancing a little jig while we sing our medieval songs.
4-10-17
Here lies my old pal Michael,
His spirit set free by wind,
because the storm which kicked his bucket,
trapped the poor old git within,
A Scotsman by his name,
and a carpenter by trade,
should of built yourself s door mate,
to stop the barn which caved you in.
I love you Bic.
con't ---->
You... and me were just a tease
Feel like I'm playing a putter from the black tees,
It used to be easy, like hitting off a tee...
Lust not love, we were deceived
That & my middle name is dishonesty
Truth, name a price, I'll pay any fee
Priceless, should've taken responsibility
Oh well... This pen is free therapy
A Bic scalpel, this is consciousness surgery...
An impatient patient seeking liberation...
No cerebral vacations, never ending self-examination
Do I give to give or with expectation of reciprocation?
Do I learn to understand or to show my education?
Do I talk with intent or in hope of validation?
Do I like what I like or do I seek confirmation?
Am I in it for immediate gratification or the duration?
Do I listen to hear or just idle til my turn in the conversation?
My life's 100% improvisation
Z.D.A, that's my abbreviation,
Study these lines, take notations,
I'm not real, just a hallucination...
*****************************
What if reality was a dream? And dreams were reality?
It ain't as strange as it seems...
A single consciousness stream...
I was blind but now I still can't see...
Yeah... I was blind but now I still can't see...
........... Will I ever be able to see?
Memorable Vacations
Queensland was a dream come true,
Along forest lake walks under the blue,
Summers of December 2010 on my sis' invite,
Excited we were for the double delight,
Long travel concluded into a toast,
Beaches and sea, Byron bay and Gold Coast,
Gold of sand slipped under our feet,
Glittered in sun the irresistible greet,
Waves that thrashed on us with every tide,
Engulfed us after a roller coaster ride,
Kangaroos that into every street hopped,
To give them way every now and then we stopped,
People were humble and kind,
Serpentine roads turning blind,
Sunny day we visited famous sea world,
Dolphins with music in unison twirled,
Kids together on giant wheel screamed,
Watched favourite movies and gleamed,
Train travel and beauty of countryside,
River Brisbane traversed with ferry ride,
Sydney opera house, bridge and harbour,
New year eve with fireworks and great fervor,
Days of goodbye when approached near,
Subtle emotions flowed and rolled the tears,
As we close our eyes and reminisce,
Days spent together were such a bliss !
Written May 7th , 2015
For Shadow Hamilton's contest
First place win
Now entered for contest "Any old poem#5 " by SKAT A
Entered for "Landscape and towns" contest by Bic Gi-Sa
Times Have Changed
By Franklin Price
4/21/2017
Times have changed, not for best
Consequences are confusing
Computers have replaced the rest
One has made what you're perusing
Internet replaced the letter
Wired phone and telegraph
Don't know how it gets much better
Makes us grimace, makes us laugh
Key strokes made this not a Bic
Sent out at the the speed of light,
For you to read, that's really quick
Instant info wrong or right
No further need for traveling
Computers keep us in the race
We can Face Time that's our thing
From right at home or any place
Fully clothed and at our leisure
In a suit or in the nude
Whether business or pleasure
Civilized or crass and crude
We receive both truth and lies
It's hard to tell just which is which
We must come to realize
These changing times are just a *****
These times have driven us to Snopes
Must question all we see and read
To find out if we're fools or dopes
Marks, to swindle, yes indeed
Consider this a warning call
Do not believe a thing you get
Question Snopes as you should all
It's not a source you should not vet