Best Cartridges Poems
Partial Paper - A Poet Heart-
When ink carries its final tune
Moonshine-like liquid sweeps the mind
Bottles of ink will fill the pen
Composing a symphony on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails
This part of you
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The toughest skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger shattered walls "GIVE ME MORE!"
inclined with a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet: "Ink Never Lies."
Pretty pink acrostic ink when nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sang under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Odes of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propaganda's
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
Only this, and nothing more
Writing is like giving birth to the moon
Categories:
cartridges, allusion, art, beauty, feelings,
Form:
Free verse
Under Moldy Soil, Red Moon Overhead
Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
lay millions of corpses, wars wasted dead
No bands playing, no sweet angels singing
only ghostly echoes, slowly ringing.
Cools winds blowing across such resting grounds
on dark nights, ghost-whispers its only sounds
Low moans, raging regrets of battle cries
rebukes of those that sold such deadly lies.
Sixth of June, sands give up soft wailing pleas
from beach desert devoid of any trees
Earth laced with spent cartridges , red blood and lead
painful memories, of that war's lost dead.
Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
how we may wish that peace had ruled instead.
R.J. Lindley
June 7th, 1976
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 102
Old Note- War is a necessary evil because mankind needs blood letting to soothe its savage soul.
And thus, is far too often a necessary reaction that insures the survival for the party that is first attacked.
New Notes-
1. SLIGHTLY EDITED TODAY TO MEET TEN SYLLABLE COUNT ONLY.
2. Mankind can not give up making war until it can purge ALL evil from its mortal soul!
Only one way to do that exists..
3. I want to thank the poet that suggested that I go ahead and share this poem from my private writes.
As it deserves to be read, I now agree with you my good friend..
Categories:
cartridges, art, conflict, dark, death,
Form:
Sonnet
For who is this poetry destroyer
A cop, but who else would employ her?
As she spies no end
No poet, she pretends
Vanilla ice in leopard skin fur.
You ask If I want mommies hug
wouldn’t that be nice, lovely and snug
You just want to hold me
Under that great oak tree
And kiss me on your picnic rug
You want the vultures to enjoy
My sweet flesh, is that your ploy?
Wanting to be them
Eyeing up my sweet gem
Tell the truth, you just want a toy boy
Well our future together would be bright
Injets, pens and cartridges in sight
You’d color me in
Goodness what a sin
As I would always do the best write
Hang up your gloves as your are weak
You are also classed as an antique
A low blow I know
Don’t cry, don’t go
You can come back with a new technique.
If I don’t hear from the poetry cop
I will know I have come out on top
Good bye little girl
Give us one more twirl
Now, this should be the final full stop (.)!
P.D, this is the first one ive done. Took me a while. Very good fun though. I kind of limit’s
the write.
Categories:
cartridges, art, funny, love, motherme,
Form:
Limerick
I live in a family
who can't keep an umbrella
a flashlight
flour
superglue
post its
ink cartridges
ice cubes
ice cream cones
who can't find
checkbooks
gift cards
phone cords
appt reminders
who never has
extra cash
maps
penny rolls
the doctors number
the date of surgery
a camera
so we're always
wet
hungry
cold
late
early
lost
behind
thirsty
Categories:
cartridges,
Form:
"Walking on Water in the Between Worlds Place"
when darkness came
the remaining,
those beautiful
transingularity
neo-automatons,
imbued with dark matters
running through the wired
dendrites of their splintered brain,
where implanted, the voices
of the neo-god speaks
instructing those
voluptuous and fresh
criminal bodies
calling the hungry
and wanton in, like magnets -
the soft sell was easy.
all hard served, fast and slick.
at first visceral, then,
it was deemed
the intellect wasn’t
necessary -
the new sensual feeling,
bodies and mind
caressed by a
small Neuralink RFID.
like snow white
encased in silicate glass,
for a while asleep, when
turned on, very much
awake.
some called it,
the great gambling chip;
flashing light signals
heavy free energy sitting
on malleable shoulders
that danced wars robotic,
puppets chained and pulled
like walking torture chambers,
loaded cartridges spinning
metal hearts cloned to ignite
like atomic bombs kissing
seconds to midnight.
clockwork armies
were laid bare
by the fire behind
eyes alone, sharp knives
like lasers eviscerate
those transfixed to
a new state of -
"Behold
I am come
Home";
they all eventually
implode to the
nowhere place.
only Love injected
into what exists soulless
half djinn in that desolate
between worlds place,
with a kiss, passed on the
voiceless tongue,
the tablets, wafer thin,
now like Moses speak -
a new ecstasy
melting the monochrome
back to barely human
on their pronoun knees.
targets sometimes
could be saved
before the strangest
Winter arrived
in the underworld,
its new revolution -
revelations raging
in the time of the
chromatic wasting,
chronicles of the unsaved
walking on water
in the between worlds place
the children of Lot
lost in the grips
of the new world
that dreadful
dimensionless
judgement domain
forever in
episcop-alien
glitch
on repeat
repeat
repeat
repeat
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"We live dangerous lives
We have the power of will
We turn logic around
We feed the engine of change"
Categories:
cartridges, future, religion, science fiction,
Form:
Narrative
we come in peace
we are rent to pieces
pieces of beads we offer
pieces of soul we barter
barter is fine with us
barter your beads for our gold
gold is our guide
gold is your god
god we bring to you
god was always there
there is a distant king
there is our king
kings are not for you
you lie and you cheat
you must serve our lord
lord be praised
lord will save you pagans
pagans converted
pagans are our burden
burden to whip
burden and dogs
dogs and Indians not allowed
dogs and pigs
pig's fat in cartridges
pigs are eaten as pork
pork is anathema
pork grease smoothens bullets
bullets will be fired now
bullets fired in revolt
revolt for freedom
revolt against company
company go home
company of east india
india wants freedom
india our crown jewel
jewel you stole
jewel of the east
east rose the sun
east was the strife
strife till 1947
strife suppressed
suppressed no longer now
suppressed struggled for freedom
freedom under gandhi
gandhi and ahimsa
gandhi the mahatma
mahatma and freedom
mahatma and india
india
freedom
Categories:
cartridges, abuse, betrayal, discrimination, slavery,
Form:
Blitz
PANAGIOTA CHRISTOPOULOU-ZALONI
Poetess, novelist, essayist, painter,
Editor of literary magazine KELAINO
e-mail: tzina@otenet.gr
Address: Zaloggou 16, 13231 Petroupoli-Athens-Greece
Haiku in English
of Mrs Panagiota Christopoulou-Zaloni
=======================
Poem and love
With scented thoughts
Holy Communion
*
Lyres are starting
Divinely are chanting
I feel so happy.
*
Pain and sorrow
Filled is the heart
Sigh of blood.
*
My white roses
Same with my sorrow
They are so faded.
*
The snow of your Soul
A shroud to your dignity
Was a destiny?
*
White violets
For Christ’s Resurrection
I bind with poetry.
*
In my happiness
The clouds falling piously
Became vowels
*
Nostalgia’s music
On the leaves of time
It is twisting.
*
Crumbs from your kisses
Mixed up with memories
I am gathering.
*
For the resurrection
Of the “substance”
Crash yours “ego”.
*
Fragrance of memories
In the leaves of your mind
Icons hand painted.
*
The train of your life
The road carved by love
Has passed away
*
Was demolished
The castle of my dreams
Without any reason
*
Stars of diamonds
In your apron tonight
Feel sentimental
*
The white pigeon
On the great horizon
Writes “Freedom”
*
The cruel masters,
Which are hard dominators,
We deny them all.
*
Pale from sorrow
Looks upon to my memories
The moon of my mind
*
They are planted
In children’s smiles now
Cartridges of machine – gun
*
Night of January
Behind the barbwire
I saw light of hope
*
Lights on the waters
The kisses are gleaming
The shore shines.
*
The wind and the mind
Sure for eternity
They are running
*
Fear at wide plains
Love’s nets were ruined
The birds homeless
*
Mine sacred cup
I feel with light from the moon
And burn incense
*
Ungratefulness
You wore me the sorrows
Stuck on my body
*
I think of writing
Thoughts and words
With another ink
*
Will search and find
A perfectly smiling ink
And a pen of joy
*
Every morning
At everlasting time
YOU, ME and LOVE
*
I fix the poem
Cream rose coloured
I offer it to you.
Categories:
cartridges,
Form:
Haiku
Every autumn in the Chaos Mountains
the wind blows through the tall grass
& the rain stalls, fitful in its sublimity.
It is not a season for speaking. Only for listening.
Out there, somewhere beyond the horizon
a silence that is not silence, calls,
& men enter the duck blind, and wait,
huddled with their cartridges & ambiguities,
disguised to themselves as hunters,
re-inventing themselves with rifle eyes
fixed on some vanishing point beyond the language
of rivers & trees, turned away from
the here & now - a tempting non-existence
accompanied by hope, which may be nothing more
than the promise of a big dinner with
lots of stuffing and gravy and no questions.
Categories:
cartridges, autumn, bird, earth, fear,
Form:
Free verse
I was cleaning my room tonight
and came across a guitar pick,
one of your used.
A further search
among broken staple cartridges,
multi-colored plastic coated
and classic metal paperclips and
pennies, produced
five other picks,
worn down from their
original rounded triangles
to somewhat odd circles.
I laid the picks out in a circle
like flat quartz rocks against
the sand-colored formica of my desk.
Two sky blues, one pink
and two tortoise shells.
I close my eyes and hear your blues,
and mine surge like a wave
until I gasp for air.
I treasured away your discarded picks
in a heart-shaped ceramic dish
that got broken somehow
in the move at the separation.
There should be more than this,
but I became unsupportive, you said,
when I tired of the smoky bars,
and then I wanted a degree,
which absorbed any extra energy,
so you no longer pitched me your picks
or thought I cared.
Maybe someone new gets your leftovers,
But I'm better off not knowing,
just in case there is a limit past
the pain of which I couldn't take.
But I'll keep living anyway,
As long as there is a sun in the morning
and the moon at night,
I'll live for the rises and sets
if that's all I get.
Categories:
cartridges, introspection, loss, lost love,
Form:
Narrative
*Image of Tony Dow by News.
AUDIO
VIDEO of 500 Miles by Peter, Paul & Mary
Take Care Wally Cleaver
Wally: Watch the hair!
My faculties are under arrest!
I have been subpoenaed by a Board of Inquiry!
Namely, Mr. & Mrs. Parents of OMgoodness Boy!
Begins the questioning! (blah, blah, blah)
Ward: WHY!
Retorts!
Wally: But dad (blah, blah, blah)
Empathetic.
June: Well, why not?
In-kind.
Wally: Well, mom (blah, blah, blah)
Backroom deliberations begin!
Ward: Ohh! Don't give me that look!
June: But my dear he's just a kid?
Ward: I'll even accept the concept of a Billy the outlaw
as there is some hopeful measure of action,
good or bad, but that's not the conclusion you're
drawing is it, sweetheart?
June: I know I've been turning my back on this, and
once I've turned around, there you are, not a
happy camper, our families, friends, and
neighbors, are all staring back at me, so I've
decided to let you deal with him and I'll stand
by whatever the ruling you decide to enact.
Ward: Well, Mr. OMgoodness, we hereby sentence you
to collect all of your electronic devices and game
cartridges and put them in a large box, then
you're going to clean your room, the garage,
and the yard, then mow the lawn, rake the yard,
then water the plants, after you're done, take a
shower and come down for dinner.
Wally: Wow, that's what an execution feels like.
Ward: No, think of it as a life sentence.
Wally: (sigh!)
June: We love you, honey.
Wally: I know that mom.
Ward: Oh, and by the way, I want to see your computer
keyboard in that box and I'll come around when
you're showering to lock it up in the attic.
(Later that night)
Ward: Good night son.
Wally: Good night dad.
June: Good night honey.
Wally: Good night mom.
(Bedroom doors close, and a computer light comes
on as a young MIT wannabe, clicks on settings and
presses "Online Keyboard")
Whatta day! Brutal, just ... brutal!
It'll be a long night ...
Good night Beav!
2022 July 27
Categories:
cartridges, appreciation, character, childhood, film,
Form:
Metrical Tale
Dots From A Box
Black dots reside inside a black box on table top
Blue dots are housed in pens as ink, in old cartridges or wells
At the end of sentences they come out to punctuate
To stop a stream of thought on page
Otherwise they would escape with no ideas
Words would never end
Properly placed with surgeon like precision
The pen comes down on pure white paper
A laser pin point tip releases liquid
Forms into a period
Melds on the surface at that concluding spot
On the two dimensional world becoming one
An indelible dot at the end of words and phrases
If left to their own devices, periods would go on parade
Lined up in rows to march like this . . . . . . . . . . .
Categories:
cartridges, celebration, identity, image, judgement,
Form:
Free verse
It is a nice sunny day
in the eastern Riverina
It is a perfect day to go for a ride
on my klr 650
might go for a ride to
circumnavigate Hume weir
yep
sounds like a plan
so I am thinking about
dropping in a Bunnings
to get some nails
to finish lining that shed
hm, then I could go to bcf
to get some gas cartridges
for the camp stove
yeah, no worries
that will all fit in my backpack
so, done all that
riding along the winding road
and see that the town of Tallangatta
has the big garage sale
I pull up at a few sites and
stumble upon this quaint
old wind up alarm clock
I wind it up a little, it works
ticking away nicely
it goes in the backpack
It is a beautiful day
and I enjoy my ride on the klr 650
as I get back to Holbrook
I get a snack at the bakery
and am about to head home
but the highway patrol decides to
do a random breath test on me
which returns zero
Strangely enough, between the noise
of the traffic and a few local swearing about
the lack of rain
the police officer hears a ticking noise
in my backpack
he seems concerned about that
and immediately gets his partner
to pin me down
and calls for backup
They have this scanner
which detects bomb making material
in my pack, and a ticking sound
so I am in trouble now
the backup units turn up
the area gets locked down
I am thrown into an armored vehicle
handcuffed etc.
The bomb squad turn up
they don't like the gas cylinders mix
with the nails and the ticking noise
Funny enough, they don't believe my story
why I bought those items......
It was a good day to go
for a ride on my klr 650.
Categories:
cartridges, analogy, angst, dark,
Form:
Free verse
Snowflakes Escape
At the crack of dawn shots rang out
Ducks scattered at the sound
Obscenities quacked back from every beak
Hunters were not there for them
They came to capture fox
Snow fell with cartridges as hunters froze in thought
In perfect orchestration with the day and perfect aim
Focused on the games in nature
Bringing down their prey with rifles
Setting traps along the way
Men bundled in pillow white disguise
Running with their dogs and guns through narrow paths
Towering trees held green along the way
Held their ground below the mountain
Hunters settled
Looking for some warmth after the captures
Campfires blazed
Storms rolled in on bitter winds
Enter the calm
Large swirling flakes continued on the quiet
Each one avoiding warmth to hold their form
Away from creatures clad in natures white, like fox
Away from bundled men disguised in white
Snowflakes made their escape into the silence
Categories:
cartridges, adventure, animal, conflict, imagery,
Form:
Quatrain
Vigilante
He walked in the door
a little John Wayne
a little Jesus Christ
six foot tall
giant guns on his hips
so emaciated you can count all his ribs.
twelve bullets flew and
twelve persons fell
reload
repeat
the deafening clash never ended
until all you could count was the dead.
He stood among patrons
of the local pub
and made a decision
like he always does
that he would never do this again,
never again
see the blood on their faces
and blood on the floor
but forever carry
their blood on his hands.
He sighed,
sheathed his hard steel
turned on his heel
and walked right back out that door.
That wasn’t the first time
and wasn’t the last
that he shot the hot lead
and dropped steaming brass
leaving no trace
but the spent cartridges strewn about.
He knocked the dust off his boots
and kept walking on
humming a tune
couldn’t remember the song
unsheathed his steel
and just let them play on
that deafening clash never ended.
Categories:
cartridges, angst, death, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Paradise, the only word that can encapsulate the emotion felt while looking into her eyes.
Her soft, gentle hands intertwined with mine; truly the epitome of glorious bliss.
Her angelic poise beckons my awe, proving, she once resided in the heavenly skies.
Our souls have surely found their long awaited mates, for our love cannot be dismissed.
But the thief name life seems to want her for himself; conjuring war for my service implore.
Grief impales our joyous moments, spewing horrid thought of our hands unclasp.
But refuse I cannot; for if I am not a patriot I shall be called a traitor.
My heart aches as from paradise I am torn; forced to answer the call of the draft.
Weeks pass like months as the days seem to linger; leaving only the night stars to ponder.
Wondering if she too is looking up at the sky; with a smile on her face, and her beautiful eyes.
Holding on to the love we once felt; awaiting the day of my gaze again capture.
Drifting off to sleep where she meets my minds eye; for dreams is where my hope resides.
But sleep is one thing that I have a short supply of; for war does not wait on dreamers.
Shipped off to the battle with only a rifle, a pack, and cartridges with bullets intact.
Fear weighs like blazing hot coals searing my mind and soul with its glowing red embers.
As my boots touch the vile, blood stained land, bullets zip by my ears hoping my head to impact.
Rushing through the blanket of bodies covering the sand; finding a rock for the bullets deflect.
The ricocheting projectile's vibration can be felt through the rock; shaking my inner courage.
Grasping my rifle, I take aim at a man I will never know; for it's his life I must collect.
The bullet cuts through the dense air; piercing skin, breaking bone, and his soul ravage.
But, no celebration will be had, for my side felt the cold burn of metal piercing skin.
Falling to the sand with my hand holding the wound; I cry out for help but no aid comes through.
My vision darkens as the battle rages; senses fading into the quiet calm abyss within.
And the last thing I see; a star, taking me back to the paradise my soul once succumb to.
Categories:
cartridges, angel, lost love, love,
Form:
Rhyme