Best By The Hour Poems
At center of soul,
Lien my wealth of gold,
In the bible,
You’re very well liable,
To see gold,
In centerfold,
Of soul,
Not in centerfold ,
Of playboy, so bold,
Not in scorn of ****, magazine,
The mind thinks so keen,
Not in your house of ill repute,
Like a flute’s toot,
But in your center,
Is Godly splendor,
She is the real contender,
For men’s souls,
She holds the gold, of souls,
She is your centerfold,
She is your well, and you can tell,
When she begins to swell,
Infinity’s well,
She begins to spin,
And begins to gin,
The gold of soul’s,
Centerfold,
A vortex of power,
Men will declare,
How can this be,
Mein eyes can’t see,
This within me,
So they return to be,
Of mind’s vanity,
As death’s reverse swirl,
Returns them to the world,
Like a natural woman in earth,
Her wealth is her girth,
Not of this earth,
A birth from above,
She is love,
Receive,
Believe,
Within your relieve,
She is your power,
By which you build your tower,
By the hour,
In earth,
Love is her girth,
Not of this earth,
So let her love give birth,
In earth,
Particles of pure light,
Your lady is a holy sight,
Not a cat's fight,
In repute’s night,
She is your mold,
For your life’s unfold,
Unfold, your gold,
Let the outer unfold,
Be the center mold,
Of the Godly Gold!!
7-17-09 [email protected]
Polly Wally waddles all day
She's running for office in LA
She wastes time doodling
Enjoys a daily noodling
But she never earns her pay
Polly Wally was once quite a looker
before politics she worked as a hooker
now she dresses with power
doesn't get paid by the hour
now she's aging no man would book her
‘Hey stomach,’ says anus,
‘Would you cut the crap.’
“It’s not me,’ stomach says;
‘I won’t take the wrap.
It’s what they’re eating,
So blame teeth and mouth.
I’m innocent,’ says stomach,
‘For that filth down south.’
Brain has a good laugh
At organ expenses,
By prodding infighting
Over false offenses.
‘Are you kidding me,
You two dumb kidneys.
Always a teamed pair
For a fight that’s not fair!’
Roared livid liver
Who was hardly pleased,
That they blamed him
For the smelly feces.
‘Oh stop it now, liver
Just sit there and filter.
We said no such thing;
Don’t get out of kilter.’
‘Tee-he-he,’ laughs brain.
My plan’s working well,
To keep each organ
At odds over a smell,
That they have no power
To change or repair,
And since they can’t think
They’ll stay unaware.’
Hands and mouth kept
Eating junk by the hour.
Having been brainwashed,
They blindly devour.
Long ago brain trained eyes
To focus on the news,
Now it was time for all
Parts, to pay ‘their’ dues.
Bones pipe up, and say,
‘Something doesn’t feel right,
Hey muscles loosen up;
Why do you squeeze so tight?’
Muscles answer and say,
‘Colon and intestines
Are the guilty squeezers,
Causing congestion.
I’m just doing my part
At the request of the brain.’
‘But muscles,’ says bones,
‘It’s causing me pain.’
And after a while
Brain has all body parts,
At odds with themselves;
Over endless bad farts.
Organs, blood, and guts
Could not get along;
They once did their jobs
Keeping the body strong.
But brain has the answer,
‘Let’s vote on what to do.
Either I run the show,
Or you deal with bad poo!’
Yes, brain got them quibbling
And each held a grudge.
All based on false info
That made brain, ‘King Judge’.
So each part gave in
To that sneaky design,
And waited for orders
From brain to assign.
But brain was a liar
And steered organs wrong.
The body collapsed;
It didn’t take long.
Just like brain, most statesmen,
Fool us like we’re tarts.
Let’s not die for their lies,
But stay whole, not apart.
Blacked Heart
Within the blackness blissed lies the love that has been missed
For within the miasma mist a darkish deprived heart does resist
Of the silenced sounds heard escapes a lonely wounded word
Of the slumbered souls spurred amidst the dormant eyes blurred
Amongst the burials buried blind my lamenting love is left behind
In a clustered cave confined echoes of a manqué mind maligned
For in a cathedral chastised chant my thoughts in a ravaging rant
In a primal punitive pant bled emotions erected in a penile implant
Where my apocalyptic asylum stands ruling tyrant of sin commands
And demons dream of wastelands I parochially pray with idle hands
My heart a deeper dark by the hour is left in a storm a fragile flower
Upon this shattering shower ardently abandoned with a dying dour.
Music by Enigma - 'Amen'
June.26.2018
Abandon 2
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
Your beauty is a most precious flower
Which signifies our love by the hour;
Your eyes twinkle most bright like stars high in the night;
Your touch is gentle, exciting, and feels so right;
Your scent is enchanting and your skin is so soft;
All of these make me think of you darling—so oft!
You are my beauty and my only true love in this life!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(October 11, 2014) (Rhyme Septet poetic format)
It started growing in a field
Billy Stover watched it grow
Because the corn was tall
Because Billy Stover was small
No one knew
Now one saw
No one saw how the tiny boy watched by the hour in summer's heat
Even from the top of high elm trees by the road
who could have detected that small lad stretched out
on his stomach leaning on his elbows watching
On stormy days Billy watched from the closest window
elbows propped up on the sill
He knew it was growing though he couldn't see it
He'd be down in the field now in the mud watching
but his mother forbade it
"What do you do out there Billy all by yourself?
What is it you do out there instead of playing?"
On certain days when the wind swayed the green stalks
and nipped Billy's cheeks his eyes would light up
He fought back a burning desire to run into the white kitchen
to tug at his mother's apron to bring her out
and show her his one spot
He jumped up once when the flames leaped high
started running for the house
"Mother! Mother!" he silently shouted
Every part of his small body shook with joy but
The bleak white walls of the kitchen
his mother her hands dipped in bread dough....................................
It started growing in the field in the dirt in the mind of Billy Stover
And no one could have kept a secret better than Billy
The snow so deep… That it was over our heads… Was a melting by the hour!
Give it a day, or two at most… and with this heat… it would all be gone, forever!
But in the meantime, we were sadly stuck, in mud, deep, within our own backyard!
The water couldn't run off fast enough; our backyard had become a swamp, marred!
Just then, low and behold my old Volkswagen bubbled up, thru the mud it came!
You know, the one, surely you do! Last year it had floated down the storm drain!
Now, low and behold something got out! OH WHAT I’ll never, ever, really know!
Said he was the REAL Swamp Thing, and tired of spring-cleaning his house, so…
He chained the car to a tree, as he hopped out. Said his name was “Gone Fishing”.
Said his Mama read it on a sign, and used it to name her sweet, baby, Swamp Thing!
But then, he saw our back yard, he shouted in delight and decided to visit for a spell!
After all, it’s turned into a real swamp! And he’s the real Swamp Thing! So, Do Tell!
Dragon, the penguins, and all else, followed him straight, to the swamp so profound..
The penguins slid down the muddy slope, and followed the Swamp Thing all around.
But when Dragon tried, his weight got him stuck! We had to wench him, to the shore.
Mud became the name of the day, with mud and snowball fights going on, in galore!
Everyone was in seventh heaven, ‘Gone Fishing’ the same, as they slide, all about!
Fun ensued! For how often can he vacation about? Only once a year! No doubt!
After 2 days of fun, the snow was almost gone, so we cleaned them, as they played.
Yes, the fire hydrant was turned on! Dragon threw his Penguins, happily, into the spray!
That shot them almost to the moon above! The closest to flying they would ever be!
They soared then slide down the street. Even Dragon did play this time! How sweet!
But ‘Gone Fishing’ knew his vacation was up. So he waved a hearty good bye…
As he jumped into the Volkswagen again, and let it fly, and man, could that baby, fly!
It flew down the street, and back down the drain! Before our very own eyes!
That was the last time we saw the Swamp Thing, as we waved, a sad goodbye!
But next time it snows to mile high deep… as it melts, we’ll be looking for our friend.
Here lies our story of ‘Gone Fishing”. It’s real! Honest! To you, I’d never lie! I defend!
And I expect, where ever he really is now… He’s ‘Gone Fishing’…THE END
We were more popular
When you felt lazy,
More important when
We cooked you potatoes and gravy...
To please our boys and men
We would go to any length,
Even begged for mercy
Were pillars of strength...
We are the glue to glass houses
Being abused by the hour by the day,
Even ignored or unheard of by many
But we will continue to love come what may...
Negatively spoken of around the world
And frequently pacified by our nation,
But the torch GOD placed in our hearts
Is not a symbol of accusation more of edification...
Tear us down kick us to the ground
But we will always strive for equality,
We are free women accepting nothing less
Our guardian angels fill us with spirituality...
We are women born to cease dissention
We are women not women of extinction
Then I Opened That Door…
To The Question: “How was your Day?” came this response…
The other day I arrived at work and found my chair was gone. Oh the Horrors!
No way to rest at my desk. I looked and scurried all about for it.
Someone said to just grab another one. “Grab another one?” I queried?
I told them that this is no ordinary chair. It was special.
It was the legendary Chair that lays the Golden Eggs. And I did not stop there.
I had back and leg pain and someone named Billy Beanstalk found this chair for me.
He had gone thru his network of vines… I mean friends.
He talked to Penny Patty (middle name CowPie, but I digress).
And when she heard about my missing chair she had a cow.
No, really. She owned a real cow with farmland to spare.
Anyway, Billie had the beans to spread the word far and wide.
It caught the attention of Penny and the cow. The cow wasn’t talking. He was mooody.
Penny mentioned the penchant of Ogres with flagons from wagons,
Who lived in caves by the waves. (I am not making this up!)
They loved chairs by the pairs and tables with strange labels.
This story should not be confused with dragons with issues.
As I was saying, Billy and I were able to sneak into the Ogres Lair.
And inside I found my chair. How did I know it was my chair, you ask?
I didn’t put the label on the table; it was on the chair with the hair,
On the flagons were dragons, where the brew was true.
Billy and I will have to tell Penny and the cow about this. The cow still isn’t talking.
We proceeded to sneak the chair by the Ogres who slept by the hour.
It wouldn’t be nice to bring the Ogres awake by the lake,
That’s why there were waves by the caves.
So that is how we were able to retrieve my Chair that lays the Golden Eggs,
And I can finally rest my back and legs.
Really now, I did not make this up. It really happened.
About the cow, I think the Ogres had one too,
After they found they didn’t have an even pair of chairs.
Written by Hubby at the encouragement of Dragon and Wuffie Poo
Written 6-25-2015
Love’s a mystical force, that’s laden with nectar and emotion,
That many people sacrifice so much so often for in this life.
Love has the properties of an all-powerful alchemic potion,
Which is said can better help those in such a forlorn strife!
This famous four-letter word has such a unique persuasion,
And has made those lost in it so hopeless to understand it.
Love’s been known to make people quite crazy on occasion,
Which makes it most alluring and for some—a proverbial hit!
Love does make one very crazy at times because of its sheer power,
And its ever-emotive force affects surely the body, mind, and soul.
Love’s all-pervasiveness puts it in demand daily and by the hour,
And its deep influence is felt so special within one’s mind and soul!
Love’s that special emotion that many never really get enough of,
And as the language of Cupid, it sends signals not always clear to see.
This fuels a person’s fury when he or she only desires to be loved,
And will sacrifice all so greatly while crying even on a bended knee!
Love’s the soul’s fire and it makes one’s life whole and worth living,
And it’s the balm which calms frayed emotions—a surcease of sorrow.
Love’s an enchanted state of being, that when shared keeps on giving,
And with its angelic qualities helps all of us find that better tomorrow!
Love’s the soul’s fire, influenced by Cupid’s most wonderful intent;
And Love, worth its weight in gold is most worth having in our life,
As one seeks its solace and divine rapture on that final angelic ascent,
When God calls one’s soul to Heaven love abounding, free from strife!
God’s message is simple—a special need of love in one’s life and soul,
And that’s why love’s the soul’s fire, which makes us human and whole!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, (January 4, 2015)
(Rhyme)
WITH WATER IN MY EYES
I moved to town, and the people came
And stole from me
They took the brightness from my life
And the colour from my skies
They stole the pity from my eyes
And the fur from off my cat
They killed my pride and crippled my beliefs
Then buried my love, and planted seeds of lust
They used my body to poison my mind
And then they took my soul
And slowly crushed it dry
Now my skin grows thicker by the hour
My heart lies coated with envy
And I have learnt the power of hate
Now they own my body and my mind
Yet I feel so very strange
For my hungry hollow shell
That wanders home at night
Sometimes sees the stars
And I must lean against the wall
For I do not see so very well
With water in my eyes
A political pundit with power
stuffed dollars in his purse by the hour.
When called to court,
he said “Why not, sport?”
My daughter’s in real need of a dower.
And, while running a nasty ad game
He cried out “Why I’m not to blame!”
He did it too,
So *crew to you!
And he rose up on a tide of acclaim?
Biding her time, stalking her prey;
Knowing that far he can not stray
The huntress has readied her bow
And just waits for his heart to show
She’s set a trap and, once again
The hunted bites finding naught within
But false hope and the fresh new pain
Of another dart’s bright red stain
Her aim is true, never missing mark
A shot through ear straight to the heart
Finding company amongst wounds
That haven’t killed but surely doomed
Satisfied hunt, the quarry alive
For pain is all the archer strives
The game stays up and keeps coming
The Huntress smiles and keeps gunning
Shot after shot from near and afar
Each creating a brand new scar
Save for the one that sailed over head
And only scrambled his brain instead
Battered and bruised, not giving ground
Wanting to scream, making no sound
The hunted feels warm but shivers
Waiting for an empty quiver
But more missiles fly, tearing flesh
Slowly putting out fire in chest
That once burned full of amour
Now growing colder by the hour
She could put end to agony
“But where’s the fun in that?” says she
So she fires on with bolts of guile
At helpless prey, sad, in denial
Feathered shafts always boring in
‘Til weathered soul was beaten thin
And arrows bounced and couldn’t mark
When,
Soft warm flesh became cold stone heart
Go ahead, try to separate the races.
You politicians have egg, on your malicious faces.
Not realizing in your frozen hearts.
You toss imperfect, very hopeless darts.
Neither money nor educatiion
Can separate friends of the American nation.
Equity for Blacks only, you shout from your parapets.
ThatWill never separate us, not one bit.
So you fund hate groups to form derision,
Amongst hearts who have made, no such decision.
You paint whites as Nazis, blacks as slaves?
You think we are animals or morons, you hopeless knaves!
We have friends of all colors and religions.
But you go on fake news, as dense as pigeons.
You do all in your power to make this beautiful world dour.
You shout, “The world is ending by the hour?”
Filling us with fear, like climate change,
The ozone layer went up one percent, but not to Al Gore and his gang.
Whites mucking about, pretending they are Black?
It sickens me, Caucasians,it’s a racial attack.
Equity, as if, this were even ever possible.
We of all colors, think you are miserable.
So twenty years ago, I found a Black sister online.
Living in the hood, with loving heart that really shines!
She’s problems with sleep, as bullets fly about all night.
Seven hundred and thirty five, died in that city alone last year, what a fright!
DC bigwigs avoid the Hood like the Plague.
Yet demand Democrats vote for Blacks alone, don’t dare turn the page.
They tell them freedom is food stamps and a free phone?
It is such a lie, it makes me gasp and groan.,
Keeping the Blacks forever, on othe Plantation Nation!
You, while they are killed in the Hood, fly to Davos on vacation.
Dedicated to my Sistah of another mother!
Like you, Blessed Rita , there is no other!
With love,
Sistah Pangie
1/23/2023
I know the land where the lemon trees flower
Where the sun paints a panorama by the hour
While its light caresses each curve of the land
Dispersing golden rays on sea and sand
I know the land with intoxicating blooms
Where love and romance forever looms
While breezes migrate perfumes and birds
Over miles of castles and luscious orchards
I know the land where sunsets glow
More spectacular than any rainbow
With colors only akin to the divine
Notorious to inebriate a lot like wine
I know the land when it rings midnight
The infinite sky fills with stars so bright
And the goddess moon makes her ascent
Blessing each and all under the firmament
Read on air by invitation ~ February 27, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on August 2, 2018 for contest EARLY AUGUST 2018 PREMIERE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 7TH