Best Bullion Poems
Written: November 06, 2023
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A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
In The Repetition Of A Kiss
When I leave the house to follow traffic patterns
Tie and suitcase in my hand
Running through the door to find rush hour
I buy and sell gold bullion for a living
On the grand piano, the one my wife and I can’t play
I leave a hurried message
“My dear, I’ll be back soon.” “I love you so.”
“Please have the help clean the piano.”
“The one that you and I can’t play.”
“But if I make it rich, you and I can get some lessons.”
“We’ll play an Oratorio. Opera or an Anthem
Or perhaps a symphony or two one day.”
In between each number we will practice kissing
In the end, if we learn nothing, on this instrument
Our hearts and lips will follow every note in memory
In the repetition of a kiss
I leave you a kiss.
As always, I will miss you
In the repetition of a kiss
Created 9/08/14 by: Earl Schumacker - Theme- “Leave You A Kiss” The Poet II – Poetry Contest
some people leave riches to their heirs
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
everyone privileged to read his work
unlocks his treasure trove
written words worth their weight in bullion
fame stems from his mighty quill
insightful behavioral revelations
laced with myths from many lands
astonishing analogies
superlative metaphoric value
boundless wisdom unfolds
priceless is his legacy
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
Written for Joe Maverick’s Better than Gold contest and dedicated to Dr. Ram Mehta.
Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
THE DEEP OCEAN OF THE MIND
The warm pebbles touch my foot, my sole,
In the turbulent shallows of tide and wave.
My waking self feels the moon and sun pull.
And hidden in shells are beauteous oyster pearls
Of a magical lustre seen in watery dreams:
Galleon bullion from a billion seagirls.
But in murky muddy layers, the hates and loves
Of embedded past events undisturbed
Cloy the skeletons in cupboards of past lives.
Pressing my sleeping soul on the seabed dark:
Beyond the headland and my protective shell,
Cold-blooded reptilian monsters lurk.
In this unmanned land far from the help of mermaiden,
Tentacles grope up from the bed trying to reach the surface:
Threatening to expose what’s hidden.
Grand dreams are ground down, drowned, and end as sands
In a dark land oft-sifted by watery muses,
Where new events sink to be added as new oozes to old beds.
In these sands of time of the weighty deep sunless,
The tide of current events has no pull.
Only memories exist : the fossil remains of my history timeless.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Form of this poem is tercet with slant rhyme)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Nature’s bullion vault
Explosive golden grandeur
Heaven-sent halo
*For Mac's Description Made Easy photo interpretation
Love is not known and
can never be known, for
love cannot be weighed
like bullion or flour,
love cannot be roped:
a wild mustang running
free, never tethered,
never corralled, freer
than the North Wind....
Love has its own mind:
it comes when it comes,
will not hear entreaties,
will not beg its bread...
for love rules all worlds
and love soaks all life.
Love is a gangster,
obeying no laws,
taking what it wants.
And love is a priest,
making holy life's dirt,
redeeming then the
wreckage of hope by
pouring its holy water,
quenching all longing.
Love is a magician,
appearing in two hearts
at once, transforming
the beast into a man,
a girl into a woman:
an alchemist always
changing lead into gold....
And love can never die.
When the heart it holds
beats its last beat, then
love will soar with soul
to the next world...
for love is the only key
that can pry open
heaven's heavy door.
Love is not known and
can never be known,
for love is God,
and God is Love:
love without end....
[rec'd N/A in Brian Strand's 'All Yours' contest, 4/23]
Untimed
Untamed
In the face of a thousand horsepower
Up rises the man of the hour
His passion peaked
His focus tweaked
Raw
Pure
He spins and loops
Whirlpools each lap
Egos over rev
An enchanted V-twelve
The archangel
Fallen to enthral
Thrusts his sword through my wall poster
In a chariot mounted a motor
The Red Baron
Supercharged to slay the dragon
A German craftsman
Piloting the air bending chicane
Driven around his own soundtrack
Blazing the chequered flag
Atop the podium
A mesmerised coliseum
A roar like an earthquake
A Danke!
A gold medallion to his bullion
Akin to Hamilton
A well formulated campaign
In a splash of champagne
A force of nature in his prime
Inspired in me
A shockwave like a tsunami
You beat the clock Schumi
NEUTRAL COLOURS
Special species in speeches,
Thronging the long lawn.
Chameleon:echelon of neutrality.
Pavillion:bullion of activities.
Springtime:symbol of productivities.
Humans abound around,
The globe for abode.
Different but not,
Inference for lot.
Global creed of love,
Total rid of war.
Loot the line-cross,
Pool the fire-molt.
ADEOLA YUSUF AMUNI
FabelFortyFive
FabelFortyFive
CharlaXFabels
This Limmerick
There was an Old Lady she hailed from Nantucket
She carried her fish in a red paisley bucket
She wore her hair up in a honeybun
She thought it made her quite the looking young
The Pelican came with a busted wing
The Old Lady was trying to catch it
She chased and she chased and she chased it
She carried a stick made of glass
She has lippstick it is gloss
She applies it to snakes and scorpions
The glass stick not the lipp gloss
She makes a poor lump of it
The lipp gloss is read like two lips
Tulips is many and varied in hue
She walks in the way of the shrew
She carries her stick to save birds
The bird not the woman in the shoe
That was Old Mother Hubbard
She has tea in her cupboard
The Nantucket not Hubbard
She makes it in gold bullion cubes
The tea not the shoes
Millions of bags are hidden away
Shoe bags not tea bags
she has shoes for her children
Yes Hubbard
In the Cubbard
The teas are all black and some green
The shoes are all pink
Her children are blue
The Lady from Nan not the Shoe lady too
The dog eats better than the yew
A bone from the woman
Hubbard not Joan
There was an old woman from Nantucket
Joan Hubbard was from Shoe Rhode Island
She kept teas in the millions
The Nantucket lady not Hubbard
Power points of dimensional spinning graphs are largely placed in cement viewfinders in aerated office space with dome foam chairs. Dome foam chairs are the salt of seats and seating is considered important for lengthy discussion tables whose droning voices appear to form no conclusion yet get salaried by the milliseconds. Thousands and thousands of bold shining gold bullion bars mean thousands of printed bull speeches. But leeches sit on beaches and sip nectar out if the environment they consider their haven. It is never really demystified, added up, or fractioned the carious deeds instead they are multiplications that divide and fracture causing much disharmony in a mustard coloured cereal bowl with many crunching sounds. Cresphontes calls crethus and cynortas then danaus appears in a silvery crown on a semi misted horse. For to be a simpleton at that time was to sport a dimple on ones forehead and bow easterly but only when a westerly breeze was chatting to northern flames. The burst of southerly inclines meant the little trotting army could approach from every angle and therefore a fisherman or shepherd could be made very alarmed and run around flailing arms in the air shouting aloooooo alllooooo alllooooo but no apologies were made to these innocent harmonic workers of the lands. Blup blup fishermen and Barr baaa basalt shepherds left their careers and began work on the structures that would stand to signal power. Processing plants of today are akin to planktonic paintings upon the grounds and are an eyesore to behold. Many an eyesore is many an era in waste. Napoleonic Neptune numbers nurturing ninety nice nimble nymphs nautically. Beam then. Go on beam. Great big grin. Split level chin wobble. Fantastic isn't it? Z autobiographical Z at seven jumping tennis balls in a stew pan to thirteen moons on motorbikes. Z xxxx z
Inferiority Complex As A Kid And Adult!
I recall father, (now behold
at near ninety years old - maintains stronghold
on life, cuz born of sturdy mettle -
rumor claims bullion – ne'er did buckle nar fold
meaning bull + lion rolled
together and processed
April 9th, nineteen twenty nine),
fortune teller foretold
envious longevity, perhaps
just shy of eternity
older than anyone polled
occasionally got a bit
short tempered as patriarch
( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime)
over any five members of Harris household
with me, and timid, meek,
and fawning did scold,
and mother, (who passed away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told,
sans November 13th, nineteen thirty five),
no matter both parents (more mom)
did abhor applying stronghold
tactics vis a vis corporal punishment,
though the late Harriet Harris, not so gold
din as totally carefree disciplinarian
confessed many moons ex post facto lost hold
of her appreciable tolerance,
than quickly crumbled like broken scaffold
after she spanked this monkey upon bony posterior
(an endearment, but NOT spanking
ever since mama did withhold
though kept pet name, which
ideally suited me as a little boy),
both her hands went limp and cold
apology immediately iterated,
cuz she felt mortified, and sold
reparation with self restraint
against further instances tubby brazenly bold
possibly contributed,
fostered, and inculcated mold
ding mine shy characteristic.
Me, this twangy nasal kid
(courtesy of split uvula we did
discover rather a speech pathologist
six grade minor congenital defect
i.e., submucous cleft palate), aforesaid
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
this vulnerability compounded amid
my undersized and socially withdrawn demeanor
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid!
In a house of butter, sleep, solaced by an arcane gold
Lined with velvet carpets coy in lavish modesty.
Dulcet tones elapsing past the sundry finished chambers
Forever home though you know not, in all its bogus truth.
Sine qua non until by storm one’s armor will be melted
A bullion sham of hope and loss that weeps through losing eyes.
Open doors and draining light—then death!—but life as well—
Rebuild with oozing bricks will you, or venture, start anew.
The sun will set, the moon will rise, by pale light you must march
Trekking through the vast unknown, too cold, lost, unaided
Stumbling over roots and stones, desperate, but for what? For what?
As endless space goes stretching on, and you, along with it.
By night rain falls and dark turns black and hunters feed on light
By day you skip and smile through a sea of watching eyes.
Drink your fill from dried up ponds that give you no reflection
Find your way by shards of stars that grant no light, you think.
Labored steps, a fall—no rise; on tip-toes you must bound
As string unravels endlessly and lives go flying by.
Groping through the boundless night for what you can’t obtain
Dragged across a rough terrain, keen prisoner of faith.
But the human eye will change, and adapt to the dark
So the rain need fall no more and rise the sun need not.
Yet you still fight, endure the pain for what you call your good
Filing through with head held high, gold glowing at your feet.
But after war the proudest soldiers turn to rubble dust
And under whited sheets you lie, bile victim of the grippe.
But by the sheets by death you live to see another light
And rest on haunches weary feet to look up at the skies:
I think I saw my revelation dancing in the stars.
Defenders Endangered
Citizens unite spirits; choose the better part!
Life, God given, stolen by greed’s black-heart.
Industry progressed far beyond the pushcart.
Thus, setting some selves apart as better…smart.
The endangered protecting the endangered –
Compassion fettered by solutions gartered
The courageous, methodically hindered,
Lacquered lives, wildlife “murdered”, man endangered.
Watch helplessly, complaining; or take action!
Bail out nature ravaged; write a new caption.
“Defenders of Wildlife go for Gold Bullion.”
Shield dying manatees, turtles, and sturgeon.
Animals flailing, ruling leaders failing,
Minds disarrayed, inside folks are crying.
Did we get to this place wanting and buying?
Priorities, pocketbooks…are folks lying?
Take it to court to find solutions in short.
Killing is no game…business…or sport.
Drilling in the gulf BP must abort.
Then pay to all people for life they did thwart.
Struggles in nature hurt in various ways.
The chow chain is altered…less food at buffets.
The airways go stinking as wildlife decays.
Meanwhile the culprits squander words on sashays.
What will it take to make clean up occur?
Will a boycott of products stop endless banter?
Cook by the campfire; let adventure flicker.
Keep sights on God; infrastructure may fracture.
Lust not for things, but make God man’s desire.
Cut back on comforts; let creativity inspire.
Love one another; make family your empire.
Or face the last days and the cleansing with fire.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
May 29, 2010
Poetic Form: Rhyme (A series of four line monorhymes.)
As Swedish lightning enters
Renders day from deepest night
And (soulful) wishers beg
Mortgaging their tearful fortunes
For an ounce of pure spiritual bullion
With happy veins glistening
Truth, honor, sufficient respect
Among the smelted ore
Ready for mold and use
Pass me down
The spirit roars
Throw me selflessly into the frenzy
That needs the slightest taste
Where spirit climbs
Wind lifting it above the caroling
Desperate chorus
They sing to place the blame
Affix the blame
Plainly on shoulders
Foreign yet known
Sturdy, meaty
Built by strength
Gained, endured
Through the repetition
Yet believe, they will
Chant its gross tales of hope
Until the sun can rise
On its own
Two feet.
(8/14/04)