Best Chauffeured Poems
In the landscape
of melancholy,
where arctic
heartbeats linger,
I long for withered
willows to blossom
like speckled
diamond petals,
while your crystalline
silhouette strolls
through tangled tunnels
of my weathered mind.
And I question
the highest choir
orchestrating
ethereal anthems:
What if there’s no right key
to harmonize this
undying yearning?
What if love had a voice?
Would it be an
echo of melting snow—
thawing glacier hearts
to stream upon
silver lakes,
mirroring drifting
clouds of memories
that drizzle
rose-tinted flakes?
There, the crisp
air whispers
magical tales
chauffeured in
cashmere cadence.
But, like the golden
tendrils of
winter jasmine,
my fingers
stretch beyond
fogs of frozen rainbows,
sketching
sweet-scented dreams
across skies
in porcelain pigments,
as your voice
glimmers and
glows amidst
poetic pearls
resting on
your lyrical lips,
shifting through
colors of the
seasonal breeze,
serenading
symphonies
for soulmates.
So let me
undress the
wintry wisps of vanilla,
cloaking the
citrine threads
of sunrise in your eyes,
listening to
the song of the
wind that shrouds
our unsung sonatas
when we were undone.
For you and I,
we are like
jewels in the azure,
ruminating in rhymes,
quilted in a
secluded igloo,
as chickadees
of the night
chirp in sync
with the moon,
mimicking hymns
from the
hypnotic lyre of Orpheus,
to which Eurydice waltzed,
even the waning stars
would unravel
a sequined staircase
to the gardens
above the highest spheres.
For I would die
a million
deaths to
rewind and replay
the dulcet chorus
of this
immortal romance.
I got to wonderin' the other day
who was the greatest poet ever?
Was it a guy named Willie Shakespeare
or someone much more clever?
I thought it over for quite a while
just who this guy might be.
Then suddenly a light went on!
By God, it could be me!
So I'm gonna write a Masterpiece.
Just you wait and see.
It'll be the best poem ever wrote
and the author will be me!
Everyone from near and far
will know my famous name.
The poem I write will be so great
it will bring me worldwide fame!
I'll be chauffeured 'round in limousines
and flown in private jets.
Everyone will call me "sir"
and I'll have no regrets.
I'll be treated just like Royalty,
No matter where I go.
I'll be waited on hand and foot,
just to let you know.
So when you're in my presence
don't you forget to bow,
cause I'll be the greatest poet ever,
I'm tellin' you right now!
That's it - My mind's made up
and since I'm gonna be so great,
I decided I won't write it now,
you're just gonna have to wait!
Ralph Taylor
11/8/15
where *Sharia reigns
women are precious jewels
hide them from the world
let no other man behold
the diamond that you possess
guard that precious gem
her ovaries will get hurt
if she drives a car
yet Sharia will permit
your woman to be chauffeured
letting jewels drive
could lead to prostitution
yet young gems are mined
and driven to Syria
Al-Queda’s ruby pleasures
dancing in the rain
two Pakistani sisters
shame their family
honor killings rained bullets
on pearls that smile on YouTube
where education
is horribly unbalanced
Jihad goes crazy
a gem shot by fanatics
receives the Nobel Peace Prize
For Richard Lamoureux's Let's Talk About It Poetry Contest
*Sharia (Islam) the body of canonical law based on the Koran that lays down certain duties and penalties for Muslims
a five- tanka series done in traditional syllable count. (Well, I hope at least a few of them are decent tanka!)
Inspired by and Written 7/17/2015 for the Patriarchy Contest of Thomas Martin
To see the short dance of the Pakistani girls killed to save family "honor", please click on my link at the top.
Puttin on the Ritz - Just for You
Remember when I used to be dead broke,
and everyone laughed cause my dreams were a big joke?
Well I married a rich fellow and I’m rolling in dough.
Now I’m puttin on the ritz – it’s time for my show.
Visiting the old neighborhood, I’m sure feeling grand,
showing off my chauffeured Rolls Royce just because I can.
Watch me strut ‘cause I’ve been blessed by Lady Luck;
while you’re still frying chicken for a measly buck.
Oh, forgive me for I don’t always like to gloat;
but do check out my genuine animal print fur coat.
It’s no secret that Neiman Marcus is my main go-to store,
providing me with designer hats, purses, shoes, and more.
As for my fabulous make-up, make-over, and hairdo,
well they cost much more than you earn in a month or even two.
I see you’re ogling my sparkling jewelry and accessories,
Dahling, they were purchased exclusively from Tiffany’s.
Like leading ladies, Lombard, Rogers, Garbo, and Garland,
I ball room dance and jive to Callaway, Ellington, and Armstrong.
My oh my, indeed this lifestyle can make one become so giddy,
while gliding and sliding to these tunes can be quite heady.
I know jealousy is considered really uncouth and uncool,
but in your case, Sweetie, go ahead, it’s actually okay to drool.
Oh please note, my dear, I’m only passing through,
from Lenox Avenue back home to hoity-toity Park Avenue.
So for now, I'm here puttin on the ritz - just for you!
08-25-2015
Contest: Puttin on The Ritz
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Placement: 1st
They have told us the consequences of our actions,
We have been told about the trailing reactions,
We turned deaf ears,
Our insatiable desires have ruled us,
Our voracious longings have
chauffeured us to plunder her home,
We take more than she can give,
We take and leave little,
We rely on the law of replenishment,
Inadvertently bringing to bear our punishment,
We decimate her home,
Leaving her frail and bare,
She cries out for help,
She tells us to read the writings on the wall,
She tells us to ponder on the meaning of the words,
She tells us to consider the impending troubles,
That gloom will bring,
We say we don’t mind taking the fall,
For there'll be a season of rejuvenation,
Her hands will bear us before we stumble,
Oblivious to the fact that we have weakened her hands,
We stand at the edge of the cliff.
February 14, 2023.
I stood in the field of the lost,
Called from my slumber,
I found myself in this forever field,
They walked in silence and serenity,
The wounded, the wearied and the troubled.
Snatched by the hands of time and clime,
They were taken out of sight by the night,
They had walked the last mile of their sojourn,
The midnight train had chauffeured them to the beyond,
To a sanctuary of solace and solitude.
I wondered why they had come to this field,
Did they come to seek the unwritten?
Did they come to find answers to their troubled existence?
Have they come to fellowship?
The field looked fallow and faceless.
A wind blew and I was taken away,
It was a vivid vision,
One of the deepest I had seen,
One that left me amazed and awed,
Life has segments where nothing sounds when it falls.
April 17, 2024.
Bubble gum? Nay, methinks a box of dark chocolates, 'tis best,
A daisy? Nay, methinks a bouquet of velvet red roses, 'tis best,
Pants outfit? Nay, methinks a full-length strapless white silk dress, 'tis best,
Brown coat? Nay, methinks a Chinchilla fur coat, 'tis best,
Taxi? Nay, methinks a chauffeured limousine, 'tis best,
Queens? Nay, methinks an Ace, 'tis best,
Twelve? Nay, methinks a seven, 'tis best,
Craps Table? Nay, methinks a Baccarat Table, 'tis best,
Restaurant? Nay, methinks a Fine Dining Cuisine, 'tis best,
Fish? Nay, methinks a lobster, 'tis best,
White wine? Nay, methinks a Magnum of Champagne, 'tis best,
After dinner mints? Nay, methinks a bit more, 'tis best,
I still have some gum?
{KISS}
05/27/2019
In her estate in the hills lives prim Madame Chic
Who’s chauffeured way down into town every week
She tells the homeless to wash
Oh, you’ll never be posh!
You should bathe everyday like my poodle Monique!
5/9/23
Madras
Hotel lobbies, hotel bars
Hotel rooms, air conditioned cars
City sights and sounds and smells
A smile, a frown, a shout impels
The thoughts within to exude
And express themselves without interlude
Here no blossoms, no sweet fresh air
Save the scented jasmine in the women's hair
And the two don't mix, as we all know
Like the fires of hell and virgin snow
Flowing bright and silken dress
Saris adorn the putrid mess
Hems lifted gently to protect them
From certain ruin in the amalgam
Of open sewers - each gutter one
Of refuse tips - the pavements on
Rotten, decaying, organic matter
Dried up dung and vomit spatter
From the mouths of the unlucky
Poor and destitute - never plucky
"They are content with their lot"
(Steeped in drink, their guts they rot)
Laying near the dirty door
Their filthy rags bright no more
In the street or on a stair
Ignored by all without a care
And yet...and yet, life goes on
Each to their own - their God isn't one
Some are born to thrive and prosper
Others to poverty and despair
And here we are, visitors just
Though we discreetly watch - as we must!
And absorb each heart rending sight
Forsaking those in their plight
But if we give - sometimes we do
There are no thanks, nor feelings due
Because are we helping them buy food
Or alcohol which kills? Then we brood
And the rich they come in chauffeured car
Or the latest model bought by Pa
In designer clothes, their scarves unfurled
The stench, the poor? Another world!
Lear's & Lemo's
Written: By Tom Wright
1/4/99
With what we have
seems we're never content,
We reach for plastic
when our money is spent.
With more month than money
we'll figure the float,
Then like Investment Bankers
sit back and gloat.
We dream of a Lear Jet
or a chauffeured Lemo,
For we're tired of traveling
by truck to and fro.
While appearing content
we're reaching for more,
And what we can't spend
we'll invest or store.
We borrow from Peter
so we can pay old Paul,
Inwardly denying we're broke
just badly bent, that's all.
Money is at the root of all evil
I've heard it said true enough,
That must be why we hurry
to get rid of the stuff.
We return from the mall
with scrapes that bleed,
Packing all of our booty
most of which we don't need.
After an hour of unloading
with each thing in It's place,
It's painfully obvious
we need more cabinet space.
But we feel good for our part
toward combating inflation,
For while buying things on "sale"
we've helped save our nation.
But come the first of the month
we're paying bills again,
Then heading to the mall,
for to save would be sin.
So cut up your plastic,
and continue driving your truck,
Buy only what you need,
try saving that other buck.
While we dream of chauffeured Limos
and of Lear Jets to fly,
Truth is, we're extremely lucky
if ends meet and we get by.
VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian rural slow lines suffered untimely wane
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and faces
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted chauffeured, in family car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
So are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.
What Kim can do in Katmandu,
Ken can do in Kankakee.
What Tim can do in Timbuktu,
Tess can do in Tennessee.
Scaling up Mt. Everest,
Or surfing in the Tasman Sea.
Wrestling with a wallaroo,
Or boxing with a wallaby.
Now, if your name is Anna,
And you live in San Jose,
Or if they call you Perry,
And you make your home in Paraguay,
It really doesn't matter
Who, or where, or what you are.
A Bedouin on a camel,
Or a fat cat, in a chauffeured car.
No matter where your home is,
Or what may be your name,
We are, everyone, quite different,
Yet, everyone, the same.
We're in this thing together,
From black to white, from he to she.
Rich, or poor, or in between,
I'm part of you, and you're part of me.
I think of life with an elegant man.
I see a man whose hands are silk to me.
He's stunning in a suit (well-groomed is he).
He loves to read and maybe plays Chopin.
He whisks me off to Paris or Milan.
His dwelling has divans and a nice settee.
We meet the afternoons for chat and tea,
then ride inside a chauffeured black sedan.
Such a man a mystery shall remain.
For me - champagne to my accustomed beer.
I steered toward one whose words and deeds are plain.
He has no care for things that I revere.
For art and culture my man has disdain.
He's strong and bronzed, though, and his heart's sincere.
July 31, 2021
For Chantelle Anne Cooke's Anything You Want - Must Be New Poem Contest
OLD TOWN ELEGY
The bridge still spans the road - with what design?
The rail that once crossed Ridgeway and vale to the sea
Erased and gone, with scarce residual sign
And barely more trace than near roads of Roman decree
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian slow lines were suddenly made to wain
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and complexions
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted, chauffeured, by car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
Are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.
By no mistake my name is Richard
And I am chauffeured in a rickshaw
A rickshaw that comes first in a row
With others that roll on shining rims
As I desire to get to the riches
My way to the riches is a riddle
But I will straighten up the rickets
And scoop the material that is raw
And then shake it until it is ripe
And then become that real rich Richard