Best Catalogue Poems
You can probably tell I've always been inspired by Slim Shady
By the way I rhyme words and the fact my pen's crazy
I'm the equivalent to Jason Voorhees listening to the Marshall Mathers LP with a pen in his hand instead of a Machete
This is a horror movie on paper and I don't think you're ready
You want to dress it up, well I'll jump out of your fashion catalogue
I'm happy to stand out, forget hiding I don't need camouflage
I got in my own way too many times before and I used to self sabotage
No more though, you may want to duck and hide when I let my pen's ammo discharge
I'm a one man army,bring your whole battle squad
You should know by the way I put words together that I'm a scrabble god
Should I rhyme simpler and dumb it down because these days the dumbest people and ideas get the biggest views
This generation need things simple, and handed to them, they don't want to look for hidden jewels
These days people get everything Misconstrued
Kids today seem to think the best rapper is the richest dude
I don't care about a Kardashian or an Amber Rose or who is kissing who
my dad left me with issues and fears of abandonment
I just want to wake up to my dream girl wearing my shirt and making me sandwiches
Have her look at me like I'm the first drop of rain after a drought
Forget the past and future, I'd rather just focus on the matters of now
tell Cupid if he shoots me again to make it Demi Lovato
I wouldn't say it to his face but Brock Lesnar looks like Johnny Bravo
People throw shots these days and they're barely Vodka
My pen is a magic wand that makes me poetry's Harry Potter
Some won't like that I'm bringing rap style punchlines to poetry
but even when I'm writing for fun and joking I still speak openly
Unsure if I had writers block or if I've been lazy
But I'm back now and my pen's crazy
You can all probably tell by the way I rhyme that I've been inspired by Slim Shady
### - ## - ####
There you go you have been identified
### - ## - ####
You have been marked
Branded, tracked, and electronically lo-jacked
Forever part of the system
### - ## - ####
Cataloged, tethered, and bound by a digital rope
0's and 1's
Forever lost digitally
And reasonably beyond hope
A sequence of numbers
To be put in a human catalogue
### - ## - ####
To be accessed, reviewed, and assessed
Through the cyber fog
You are a number, not a name
You are part of the inventory
Of the cold hearted insane
### - ## - ####
Welcome to the warehouse we call earth
We want your presence, we crave your birth
Another soul to feed the beast
Another set of digits to add to the feast
### - ## - ####
No need to worry because you are free
Just never be late when you pay me
### - ## - ####
9 little numbers to keep you straight
9 little ways to control your fate
Think of this when you obey
Live with this day by day
### - ## - ####
It is the freedom
For which you pay
Log in, sign on, and punch the clock
My obedient tax paying flock
For the masses and your little number
You have been introduced
To the greed driven financial slumber
Welcome !
### - ## - ####
Eric (and sometimes not)
Doth it not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
As though they were dried palm leaves
In Indian catalogue, your works
I would press so close
To my chest like man's third-leg
Snuggling to the thigh. I count
The beats straineously of the melody,
The vibrations of your works strike
Me to rhapsody. Who am I then?
A little child by the stream
Waiting for your sensual song, bird
To bide me somnolent
In a reveberating cacophony
Redolent of the train swiftly buzzing by,
The train that was you.
I would often sit at the threshold and wait
Till the moon grow to become sickle-thin
And the monstrouos night has sucked away
All the oil in my clay lamp. I still stay on
Like a good sentry, my eyes rummage hungrily
Through the pockets of a page,
Where the blood of your ink was shed-
For your sojourner I have become.
We will go together
In peregrination into the labyrinth
Of all those pages from the cream,
That was your brain.
I will be the mute acolyte,
Benignly I will wend,
Stepping into the trail you left like
Smoke unconcerned about direction,
Its flow turbulent, not the lamina vein
Of subtlety. Sometimes I feel cold,
My garb, goose bumps,
At the stark, sometimes shocking
Reality of your judgements.
You were and still is a victim of truth,
And I gloat at your judgements jealously,
Almost perfect. When not correct, you were
Honest, at least.
I would often dream
Of you smoking your pipe;
Your small, dainty frame silhouette nailed
To the wall by the pyrexed testis
Of electric bulb as Jesus to the cross.
Then your pipe bleed forth smoke
Like blood from fresh wound, seeping out
Ceaselessly, ideas sream forth from your brain
Like liquid from a boiling pot
Frothing over.
So I will proudly say I have
Some portion of your blood in me
To inspire my dazed memory
On those dark gloomy days.
for my uncle and late Nigerian Poet, Chris Okigbo.
(c) Onyebuchi, 2011.
REJUVANT RESTORATION
Windows of my life,through
which I see the world.Silhouettes
imaged moments transfigured
forever imprinted upon memory.
Windows of my life,paused moments
in which I live in the land of the living.
Precious gaps of reality,distractions
from the monotony of the repetitive
routine of the cycles of my rehabilitation
a rejuvant restoration on the road to good health.
You may hear me recite this and most of my PS catalogue on Youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro.
Our God be praised for crunchy things, He weaves
Benediction to our senses - bounteous gift
The crunch of acorns, crackle of the leaves
Neath frosted cautious foot steps given lift
No more soft salad days in sunlit field
Now taste buds come alive and cue desire
For fare more robust challenge as we yield
Our choice, alimentation to the fire
Then what the oven! what the grill! the heat!
To metamorphose dull food catalogue
To scrumptious toothsome sustenance replete
With crackling why not go the wholesome hog
Transformed by sensual pleasure as we munch
We’re moved to a higher being with the crunch
Maurice the frog was q###r; of this he had no doubt and all the lady frogs just made him yawn.
He sat all day on his lily pad, flicking his tongue at passing flies, with never a thought of ever wanting to spawn.
At night the pond was redolent with the sound of humping frogs, the 'revitting' would turn a young frog mad.
But, alas, poor Maurice's only joy was a male frog's fashion catalogue, bequeathed to him by his late, lamented dad.
And so he spent his idle hours with nary a care or frown, plodding along his solitary road.
Until the day in early spring his life turned upside down, on discovering he was, in fact, a toad.
This news, to him was quite a shock from a passing dragonfly, which alighted on a nearby flower frond.
‘You want to cross the road’, it said, ‘there's loads of toads like you having toady fun in their own toady pond’.
And from under his wing he produced a book, ‘Toads Only’, it said on the cover, Maurice turned to its centre pages eyes agog.
And there in Technicolor for all the world to see was a lady toad, spread-eagled on a log.
He was well and truly smitten as on her picture he did gaze, her bulging eyes as black as Yorkshire coal.
He thought about eating the dragonfly but quickly went off this, who needs fly when you can have toad in the hole.
So Maurice set off straight away, though the going was quite tough, the first leg almost gave him a heart attack.
But on the crest of the rise he could see the road and the toady pond beyond and was greeted by a passing Natterjack.
The uphill struggle behind him now his back legs found new spring, the going was much easier on the flat.
He thought of all the lady toads and the tadpoles they would have, another hop, another leap then - SPLAT!
The moral of this sorry tale is simple, short and sweet; the fairer sex will only make you cry.
Be happy in your own back yard, forget the frog and toad and next time - eat the dragonfly!
Daffodil catalogue
Dropped in my mailbox~yeah!
Dandy dancers in breeze
Dainty cups on display
Daydreamers can stash some
Dreams of fields bright yellow.
Decide use in winter
Now and then, quietly without notice,
Time adjusts its spectacles—
Peers through a fogged pane of recall
Where particulars, once urgent, dissolve.
If now and then you find rain in your heart,
be assured it is scheduled—
a punctual drizzle of consequence,
not passion, but the persistence of memory
in its bureaucratic overcoat.
It’s all because of you,
the file states plainly:
signed in duplicate, sealed in dust.
No redress required—
only the courteous nod to causality.
The aged—those quaint accumulations—
become, in the end, detours.
Not disliked, precisely,
but excessive to the route:
a bench beneath ivy, seldom occupied.
So live out your days with decorum.
Attend the rituals of silence.
Polish your small routines.
Let time, that sly curator,
catalogue your exit in amber.
Basketball stands for war or battle.
That's why I think about the players'
personalities, in my foxhole or squad.
Danny and Ben are fast and smart. Dan
especially can pass making him master
and commander. To defeat them as we did
is very satisfying. Ben's five year old son
is intelligent but distant. Disdains to answer
my question Why are you you?
But I'm not here
to catalogue the men's personalities.
I like them. But each of us has moved on
many times, when _______ suddenly died
the games went on with hardly a mention
and his name has since been forgotten.
But even this, absolute mortality
of not just our bodies but our names
and souls is not what I came
to talk about. Yesterday, between games,
I asked Joe how Molly his daughter likes
the high school. He mounted an impassioned
defense of reading as the indispensable skill
when I suggested math, the scientific method
and history are essential too.
Also between games
Bob diffidently asked why my kids are bald.
I was moved by the care he took to satisfy
his curiosity, concerned the subject might be
difficult. He's a political science teacher so
I took the opportunity to ask What ails
the republic? Of course I answered myself
wanting mostly to hear myself talk about Iraq
and how empire is self-correcting. For once I was amusing
I thought, treating the subject with a light touch
heretofore lacking.
But none of this is what I came to say.
A new guy, very big and strong, a
bulldozer under the boards with a good
outside shot if needed got into a dispute
with the other Bob who likes to tell people
what to do sometimes, about an offensive
foul Bob called which we almost never do.
The new guy said If you can't take it don't
play under the boards which is what I say
when I'm pissed and don't give a ****.
Bob said You've been pushing and shoving me
all day. I said He doesn't want to be
pushed and shoved which got a wry
smile out of Danny as I put the ball in play.
The wolf is the ancestor of domesticated dog.
(Did you think we found our pets in prehistoric catalogue?)
That fact should be enough to make us tolerate the wolf
And to forgive his killing everything with a horn or hoof.
They keep eco-system in check by taking share of the big game.
But ranchers hate the wolves for sometimes taking prey that's tame.
They communicate with each other with howls and growls and barks and whines.
They kill and eat and then when saturated, another creature dines.
A wolf is not a grain eater, a wolf must have his meat.
If he is not allowed to kill, he and his family do not eat.
They have been exterminated from the most of this USA.
There are still some in Canada, Alaska, and parts of Northwest today.
Wolves live in large areas a contiguous habitat.
We're trying to reintroduce them and some folks do not like that.
Wolves keep big herds thinned and they take the old and lame.
Man shoots prize animals for the fun of it and calls his victims game.
Written 4/2/15
In the catalogue picture I saw
Such a gemstone that filled me with awe.
Oh, but I should have known
That ring’s smaller than shown -
At least SEVEN times tinier. BAH!
Written April 17, 2016 for Contest that closed 4/28
Nww used for the Second Chance #3 Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
It's pretty much all I have to enter this time!
Ted hunted high and low when trying to find the perfect wife
She must be subservient and fit in with his mundane life
The Internet looked promising to find a mail order bride,
and soon a special lady could be standing by Ted’s side
The catalogue was full, brides came in all shapes and sizes,
such a variety of colours, each page was filled with huge surprises
Ted’s eyes widened when he saw Svetlana’s pretty face
She had a gorgeous body and her bits were all in the right place
With her long blonde hair and sapphire eyes
Ted could be the envy of many other guys
Svetlana’s resume said she wanted to marry a foreign man
She was determined to escape from her life in Azerbaijan
Ted contacted a website and said he’d a pay a hefty fee
He wanted to wed Svetlana and he hoped that she’d agree
Ted said he’d pay for Svetlana to visit him in the USA
And if she was suitable they could choose a wedding day
The flight was booked and Ted was getting really excited
He spoke to Svetlana on the phone and hoped they’d be united
At last the big day came and he went to the arrivals hall
Svetlana wasn’t on the flight, oh how Ted’ s face did fall
Suddenly Ted heard someone calling out his name
It couldn’t be Svetlana as her pic was not the same
This lady was enormous and looked like the back end of a cow
Poor Ted was in a quandary… just what should he do now
Ted went over to her and said there must be some mistake
She said no I am Svetlana, sorry that picture was a fake.
Ted felt so sorry for her and took her to his home
He didn’t want to leave her in the airport on her own
They spent some time together and they got on really well
She was a fabulous cook and Ted’s waistline soon did swell
Svetlana stayed with Ted and eventually they wed
Ted is really happy now Svetlana shares his bed!
17th February 2017
"A Cook" has a family to feed now
And food in the "Refrigerated" space is low
"Empty' is the panty but garden endows
So she visits "The Garden" lain in rows
Outside the garden gate she takes "A Pause"
Just a moment in time to God says "Thanks"
Before "The Morning Chore" gives Sonrise applause
She begins work "Transformed" beside potato banks
"Georgia Peaches" she peels; sings "The Same Song"
Today there won't be a changed "Epilogue"
"Recipe For Change" comes further along
Later complaints "Just For You" she'll catalogue
"Succulent Georgia Peach Pie" she'll serve up
The gentle cook will fill your empty cup.....
Sponsor: Adam Hapworth
Contest: Its All In The Title
10 to 15 lines/any form theme
Written August 20,2013
I am no longer able to garden
I do miss those fresh vegetables..
The ungentle wind
breezes in through the window,
cooling an afternoon lust
that was widely soaked
in a summer haze, blending
with the sweet aroma of
a great Africa,
whose erotic craving was
painted in her big, round eyes;
only unearthed by
the master’s naked body
through her hot, darken coffee
--
The Master’s Piece, inspired by B.S. Picture Poems Contest
and it was based on Paul Cézanne’s «L'Après-midi à Naples» .
http://www.nga.gov.au/International/Catalogue/Detail.cfm?
IRN=98698&ViewID=2&GalID=ALL&MnuID=1
Waiting for the Postman
Florrie stands at the garden gate,
How much longer must she wait?
The Postman was due ages ago
What will he bring today for Flo
Junk mail or a pile of bills
Or a letter from her daughter Jill
Maybe a seed catalogue
Or a letter requesting she sponsor a dog
An offer of a new bank card
Or book-club offers of works by the Bard
Or a parcel from her sister Sally
Now living in the Rhonda Valley
A letter about changing her energy supplier
They promise her a cheaper deal
Then the bills are higher
A spring catalogue from Ann Summers
Or a free sheet advertising plumbers
Oh postman, what is keeping you?
Florrie has better things to do
Than wait and wait and wait and wait
Shivering at the garden gate