Best Charles Poems
A dusk, a glazed verandah, it's just rained,
a smell of lilac, earthworms and wet earth,
an awkward silence - the confusion chained
my tongue: “What if she’ll laugh at? Is it worth?”
A glass of wine casts the vermilion shade
over a tablecloth, a rocking chair
sways quietly, its oscillations fade
as far as you immerse into the rare
edition of “Les Fleurs du mal”* I brought
for you, a curious nocturnal moth
time and again sits on your polka dot
chintz dress, it’s getting late, a creamy froth
of lilac trees spills out of the garden
through open windows. I lament, I bide
my time. Oh, how the words of love are hard in
such an inclement May…
In June you died.
So many years have passed since then, my love.
Wine’s drunk, lilac is gone, the moth in vain
knocks on the screen, only the shadow of
your chair still sways in my delirious brain.
*(fr.) “The Flowers of Evil” by Charles Baudelaire
12.10.2019
Give Me Your Best New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
New never is...
(Charles Wood)
We are but voyeurs,
peering through the iris
of the painter’s eye’s recording
details of a scene
not meant for sharing,
when wealth and power
are kith and kin
of the common man,
and rank hath neither
meaning nor memory
or power over
the passions,
the needs of youth,
the sway of love,
the slip of flesh on flesh,
the scent of earth,
the consequence.
Do you not feel the crackle of
fear and violence,
smell as I do
shame and desperation,
comprehend the role of
each of the players
by the masks they wear?
Imagine if you will
the hours sure to follow:
the actions dictated by convention;
the disregarded pleas;
the assignment of blame;
the mean whispers;
the banishment;
the unchangeable fortunes.
If only it were true
that love will triumph
instead of being mere
frayed threads of duty.
At last the artist looks away
from the unfortunate scene,
quelling memories
far too close for comfort.
For Isaiah Zerbst’s contest.
A humble man is what I am before you.
You see, I am not worthy to say…
“Sir, may I have your daughter’s hand,
But please yield to your wife’s pleas:
Calm down a while as I explain what’s deep in my heart.
Why deprive your daughter of a possible life of pure bliss..?
Because sir, understand that love’s triumph seldom fails.
You see sir, “a humble man standing before you is what I am.
The love and protection you have for your daughter I understand.
But you see “simple is what raised me,
A simple man, with simple needs.
A simple man who is able to love deeply and fairly.
Yes I have made my fair share of mistakes.
Might have scarred an angel or two,
But who was ever born with a heart of gold..?
A humble man is what I am before you.
You see sir; the heart is simply out of our control.
How can one ignore a beautiful feeling?
A feeling that pulls hard at every fore of your soul.
How at some point we all wish we could roll over and forget its undying existence.
But sir, who was ever given a constraint heart..?
Yes, a humble man is what I am.
You see, I work sir, to earn a living
You may as you have, call it slave work,
Unworthy to have your daughter as my own.
But you see, these hands are built,
Built to struggle and earn a better life,
No man was ever born fulfilled sir,
And no man ever chooses to be born poor.
A humble man is what I was brought up to be,
But you see sir; it hurts me to see your daughter turn her face away
Turn away, to hide soft tears, which ooze dejectedly from her pure eyes.
What crime have I committed not to be regarded worthy..?
Because you see sir, at the end of the day love’s triumph seldom fails.
A humble man, with a heart that will strive,
Simple ways that will overcome all tribulations,
A heart that has been pulled from its place of sheer hopelessness
Hands that will slave for a better life and future for your daughter.
An upbringing that will sweep her off her feet every chance there is;
Is what I am sir.
So you see sir, please listen and understand that love’s triumph seldom fails
When two hearts are willing.
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
He started with her head
Fiddled with her like finger food
Putty in his hands
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
Slapped her hard upside the face
Now she likes it dirty
So this poets been replaced
I'd like to say so long Charlie
As far as I'm concerned
You can hit the literary highway
Never to return
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
And showed her a good time
As I'm watching from the shallow end
Of my kiddie pool of simple rhyme
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
Chewed her up then spit her out
Now that good for nothing Charlie
Is all she talks about
Charles, Prince of Wales
Subject of many tall tales
Married a Lady of nobility
But their union had instability
Lady Diana Spencer
Was a kindness dispenser
Questions arose about how she died
Was there something the royal family tried to hide?
The curse, the lethargy,
conceived out of wedlock Dawn and Day,
the mother-in-law of the race of the Ogres,
the tub filled with toads, vipers and snakes,
the cohabitant who always stays out -
here's a partial list of the problems
that await the true princesses,
whereas a dreamless sleep is a soteriological ideal of any Buddhist.
Bent over the beautiful princess,
I feel a pang of mercy,
and, rising from my knees, get out of here -
by little Mopsey, the Princess's spaniel, which is lying on the bed,
by the hypothetical fire upon the hearth,
by the doormen in whose cups wine turned into mold long ago
and beyond,
through the wayless wood of existence,
which is not a problem for my ladylove anymore.
As Charles Perrault rightly stated:
“Thorns part before a royal blood only”.
1St Corinthians 13:13 Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina Riddle
We are ashamed, sir dear
We are ashamed.
Neither the earth glistened
In the ray of good time,
Nor we are still
In the way of good time.
Pen is serving, not right
But the mighty lord,
Kneeling bowing bending,
Instead of superseding sword.
Nations still quarrel
To prove them stronger.
Men are being slaughtered
For the sake o f honour.
Men are being burned,
Terror rules the world,
Birth, not the worth
Still fools the world.
War, the monster of iniquity
Has worn different masks.
Somewhere proving pride
Somewhere deadly tasks.
We couldn't bring the good time
The good time once you dreamt.
‘'Let us aid what we can''
We have forgotten what you meant.
Yesterday I swear I saw Charles Dickens
His quaint style today would take a lickin' --
So he's changed up the Dodger
Now he's the 'Artful Todger' --
He whips it out ~ the plot really thickens
Listen up, folks, 'cause here's my confession,
I ain't one for modesty or discretion.
I'll tell you straight, without any delay,
What I truly adore, come what may.
It's hedonistic pleasure that I seek,
With every passion that I choose to peak.
I push the limits, go beyond the light,
And sometimes it scares the folks in sight.
But when the day is done and the night's begun,
I'll tell you, friend, it's all for fun.
The sun will rise and the world will shine,
And I'll be out there, living it up, feeling fine.
So don't you judge or try to reign me in,
'Cause this is who I am, and I always win.
My love for life is sweet and true,
And nothing, no one, can bring me down or subdue.
:: 03 26 2023 ::
(Charles II after the battle of Worcester, 1651)
They spur their horses from the bloody field,
the battle lost – a story old as time –
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate is sealed
in common soil. And still the church-bells chime.
They spur their horses from the bloody field,
with Roundheads hunting King for every crime
of office and religion. Must he yield
his head now, like his father, in his prime?
His followers will see he’s well concealed.
The battle lost (a story old as time),
the head of state about to be Bastilled –
but no. Just puzzle out this pantomime:
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate not sealed.
They make him peasant, royal face begrime
and so obscured, you see the crown revealed
in common soil. As all the church-bells chime,
they spur their horses from the bloody field,
the battle lost – a story old as time –
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate now sealed
in common soil. And still the church-bells chime.
the keys stick when I type,
the ink smudges on cheap paper,
there’s an old man in the corner
laughing through his dentures at my words.
he knows, I know—
it’s all garbage,
all of it.
writing the same worn-out lines,
spinning circles around rent checks
that will barely clear.
this morning, the phone rang,
and I thought it was hope—
turned out to be another
rejection letter in a different voice.
I’m smoking old cigars
that burn the fingers but not the mind,
drinking coffee cold as winter in a can,
wondering how I ended up here,
writing just to keep the lights on.
and that goldfish,
it’s still there—
belly-up in its bowl,
not even a bubble left
to prove it ever lived.
I haven’t flushed it.
I’ll keep it as a reminder,
that we all float for a while
before sinking.
the landlord knocks again,
the ashtray overflows.
they peel back my skin
like old wallpaper,
the stink rising
as the organs, bruised and bloated,
spill out like forgotten secrets.
the saw hums,
cutting through bone like butter,
the ribs cracking open
to a cold, fluorescent light
that never flinches.
the heart, heavy, useless now,
is weighed and tossed aside,
just another lump of meat
in a world that’s always hungry
for the next hollow thing.
looking down on what's left of me,
I turn in dicust
having to do this sll over again.
Here we have in this 119th Psalm
the psalmist speaks of avoiding sin
so that reality knows obedience fully
when the living word is meditated in
Be careful to avoid every sin filled trap
having reverence for God's holy word
achieves for believers a deep respect
any other view is totally absurd
If our works are not holy
our obedience can never be likewise
so meditate biblically and continually
to root out all sinful lies
So follow Mr Spurgeon's wisdom
avoid sin so to pefectly obey
as verse 101 would teach
and follow your God all the way
I hold back my feet from every evil way, in order to keep your word. Psalm 119
v. 101
Charles Darwin
was a margin
off his rocker when he, ashamedly,
got caught swinging from a tree.
Chuzzlewit Chuzzlewit
Nicolas Nickleby
Pickwick, Scrooge, Dombey
And more of their kind
Two hundred years, filled with
Dickensiania
Real, just like you:
It is all in the mind