Best Chides Poems
In the rundown little house where her family currently lives,
the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy,
nodding her head in quiet compliance
to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening.
Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath,
and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid.
Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve,
feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts:
bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . .
With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval
as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him.
In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in.
His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear.
Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace.
And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her.
“Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door
as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey.
Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers,
“And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.”
The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door
when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then
Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked.
He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house -
the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back -
the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter
await him.
“How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes
as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit.
“Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips,
leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter
comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning.
“Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!”
She twirls with adolescent glee.
The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter
up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.”
“Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait
at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."
The last Night of October
It's that time, again, the last night of October,
the last glow of twilight nearly gone.
Children race out and about,
winding through the streets and alleys.
Brightly colored costumes,
mom's old wig, dad's old sport coat.
All hoping to fill their bags with the prize:
Candy bars, bag of licorice, candy corn, pop corn balls,
apples, Bit-O-Honey, and Pez dispensed joy.
Some, their favorites, to greedily keep their own,
others to give to a poor sibling, who stayed home with the mumps.
With faces painted, steel themselves, for the gauntlet ahead,
the familiar street now somehow strange in the gloom,
to walk past hallowed ground,
All was quiet, save for the rustling of the leaves.
The daylight gone, now cloaked in Stygian darkness..,
ahead lie, the old grave yard.
Raucous laughter, which echoed only moments before,
trailed off into whispered murmurs.
All eyes from the once merry band looked now,
to their leader, albeit quickly chosen,
the tallest, and oldest, and bravest.
He too, resolve waning, felt the grip of those things unknown,
in the shadowy mist,
heart now beating faster, he chides the little ones,
for being such silly ninnies.
Just now, what was that! What was that sound?!?
Was that an owl? Or, maybe Old Man Godfrey, come back from his
now disturbed rest!
Young sister's hands clasped brother's, tightly,
and brother's, impishly taking the clammy worts,
decidedly grew, just a bit older, wiser,
and braver in kind.
Now turning the corner at Elm street, they walked at even pace.
With heads bowed low, mid-block, each chanced a glance, only to look away,
from the wrought iron gate.
Young heads, did now envision mystic spectres, ghouls and fantastic phantoms, with jaws agape, smiling in toothy cheer, bony fingered hands reaching through the heavy bars.
Swallowing dryly, daring just one quick glance back,
at the narrow lane winding, into the stone covered grounds,
dotted with ivy covered trees of willow and oak.
Back into the world of the living, back to
All Hallow's Eve.
-Happy Halloween
Line of inquiry:
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
There are times I'm torn between feeling and thought,
consciously aware of a dispute between mind and heart.
I become anxious when I realize there's a power struggle
and my doleful soul seeks a tranquil place to snuggle.
Somewhere deep inside of me where it's more docile
until my heart and mind call for a truce and reconcile.
Unfortunately, that's short-lived... a temporary thing.
Until again, they'll fight like pugilists in a boxing ring.
Rodin didn't sculpt The Thinker inside each human mind
but the psyche often chides the heart, "Love really is blind."
Divine, are those gifts God has so generously given to us
but they don't always come to terms, and it creates a fuss.
The heart yearns for love, the mind searches for a reason.
Scripture says the heart is treacherous and commits treason.
My mind stands guard, to prevent my heart from breaking
but despite the risk, my heart finds it worth the undertaking.
A logical mind weighs pros and cons, thinking pragmatically
Bah, cries a heart, "Life should be lived more romantically."
They grind on each other as if one a mortar, the other a pestle
And so, the mind and heart will continue to quibble and wrestle.
The soul always reappears when a modicum of peace holds fast
but the truce between heart and mind is destined never to last.
Although instrumental to a soul's well-being, they will disagree.
Mind rules a heart, or vice versa. Que sera sera. What will be will be.
Where yet refrain spider hides, fairy chides
Shall dare tease and tiptoe on spiders webs
Silvery string hang and swing amides guides
Slack-lining steps along until it ebbs
Shall dare tease and tiptoe on spiders webs
From fairest creatures' spirit free clamor
Slack-lining steps along until it ebbs
Tear drops of lilies stoke scent enamor
From fairest creatures' spirit free clamor
Mouse perch playing the cello, a few squeals
Tear drops of lilies stoke scent enamor
Butterflies wings flitting springtime wind reels
Mouse perch playing the cello, a few squeals
Sunlight shining hedgerows rainbow shades
Butterflies wings flitting springtime wind reels
Dragonfly's gossamer wings weave and fades
Sunlight shining hedgerows rainbow shades
Enclosed by spring courtyard emerald grass
Dragonfly's gossamer wings weave and fades
Fairy Queen's daisies blend when beetles pass
Enclosed by spring courtyard emerald grass
Bloom clusters flourish, tremble in the breeze
Fairy Queen's daisies blend when beetles pass
Bluebell, buttercup bring bees to their knees
Bloom clusters flourish tremble in the breeze
Far-off silent buzzes and drowsy hums
Bluebell, buttercup bring bees to their knees
Disappearing when early darkness comes
Far-off silent buzzes and drowsy hums
Human like creature's spirit weave cobwebs
Disappearing when early darkness comes
Fluttering wings hover on silver webs
Human like creature's spirit weave cobwebs
Silvery string hang and swing amides guides
Fluttering wings hover on silver webs
Where yet refrain spider hides, fairy chides
1/27/2021
Proud Pantoum Poetry Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Twists and turns plunge her in the stately beat,
Elbows on hips she taunts her body in heat,
Drooping curls cascade to her swirling session,
Tenderly she dances with stars in passion.
Purged moon reflects her magical elegance,
Low light plays with her smile in the naked romance,
Shoulder taut chides musical perfection,
Body language flaunting total seduction.
Incredulous vibes of virtue in locked eyes;
She jingles pleasures my heart and I sigh.
To put an end to the myth that Santa lives in Lapland
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
People just say he's from Lapland, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whiskey, washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody in Yorkshire knows that
You say the Lapland Santa, glows warm and are red, and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor barh t at.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swap gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Yorkshire folk are know for being down to earth and saying what they see, ie a spade is a spade and not an earth moving device.
Ilky Moor Bar tat a famous Yorkshire Folk song where lovers meet and she chides him for not wearing a hat. The winds of the moor causing death and he will be eaten by worms and so on (google it)
Repost fromLast year.
~GG~ 2011 ©
“Milk of Roses”
Milk of Roses
was her scent
and great bouquets
of baby's breath
moving messages
that blew across hearts
underneath the bones and skin of breast
baby's breath that bristled like clouds
moved by hidden white doves
who cut the air like a butter knife
for other imaginings crossing scarlet tears in skies
and whispering trances through doors
of wanton scattered minds, "do enter", she chides,
"what jewel lies open in cavernous chest?"
when she left the room
traces of her remained
hints of a haunting
The Tea service was distraught
table tipping had commenced
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“the skin she wears
may be made of calm,
but her bones
are made of chaos”
tears. verb.
/pull (something) apart or to pieces with force
/move very quickly in a reckless or excited manner
/make a hole or split in (something) by pulling it or piercing it with a sharp implement
/a brief spell of erratic or unrestrained behaviour; a binge or spree
/a spell of great success or excellence in performance.
tears.noun
/a drop of clear salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when they cry (or the eye is irritated).
"Skin of the Night"
Like a moth she moves to the red light
Her blood warms and boils there
She skims the sweat like a new milk
And pops the buttons off her wet blouse
Oh Queen of the Night
Well she is deep inside
She is haunting me
(All of her soft parts call to me
She could be mine)
She digs her nails into her naked chest
Miles of veins fan out like a road map
She pulls back the skin to show her ribs
That twinkle like shooting stars
M83 (music, and lyrics)
Another dead statistic dawns today,
Contempt dissolved foundations love astray.
Malicious memories of miscarried mirth,
Repetitious resolving rends rebirth.
Too far, too strange, oh we have now become.
Decisions bleeding passions cold and numb.
My frozen frigid feelings fade to black
Behold the barracuda's bitter back.
Oblique sidewalks a house no longer home.
Neglect’s hand opened doors for needs to roam.
Bent and broken, beautiful bygone heart
Past promises play the party-line part.
Divided assets fighting custodies
New boxes cardboard tombs of memories.
Separations and somber songs subside
Choice-less children and contemptible chides.
Petitioned courts and mediation pleas
Sustaining into absolute decrees.
Formerly favored family so forlorn.
Forever festers feeble foolishness.
----------------------------------------------------
A collaboration with Catie Lindsey.
Iambic Pentameter & Alliteration.
Where yet forbear spider hides, fairy chides
Shall dare taunt and tiptoe on spider's web
Silvery string hang and swing amides guides
Slack-lining steps along until the ebb
From fairest creatures’ spirit free clamor
Mice perch on grass blades cheer excited squeals
Tear drops of lilies stoke scent enamor
Butterflies wings flitting springtime wind reels
Sunlight shining hedgerows rainbow shades
Contained by spring blooming emerald grass,
Dragonfly's gossamer wings weave and fades
Fairy Queen’s daisies blend when beetles pass
Bloom clusters flourish tremble in the breeze
Of amber, wild cherry, wine, daylilies
Bluebell, buttercup bring bees to their knees
Far-off silent buzzes and hums sillies
Where yet forbear spider hides, fairy chides
From fairest creature’s spirit weave cobweb
Sunlight shining hedgerows rainbow shades
Fluttering wings hover on silver web
9/19/2016
Poetry Contest: Strand Select 5 Any Form,Any Theme
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Life means I can talk to my friends and others,
When the untravelled sea fills with brothers,
Pleasure rushes the uninhabited areas we just don't sail,
And when we semiotically emit our meaning, we will prevail;
Freedom rings with resonance resounding and pervasive,
No need for more traditional others to be abrasive,
No bears or wolves, no chides, jibes, and no probes obtrusive,
Your identity is your construct, your speech is conclusive.
And my books! Alas my books. They proffer so such contentment,
A breadth of knowledge with no suggestions delinquent,
Nor are there any accusers to accost,
My mind and spirit which upon some can be lost,
Possibilities endless, bringing depth of character,
They glint and glide, swimming in grammar;
Multiple amounts of information councel my hesitation,
Brimming particulars restrain inhibition.
But oh my computer: How elegant is she!
Believing in my easy registrations as well as my errors to be;
Such possibilities, moulded so neatly into my space,
Without the communal glare of uniformity’s trace;
Personalised desktop, memory and input method,
It accepts me unquestioned with no staff or flogging rod;
I program to set the user interface alight,
With the functionality and procedures of the user’s plight.
However, I can also give myself my own system,
Personal software from my own inclination;
Knowing some designers do not have in hand,
The shortcuts that only I seem to understand;
A software engineer’s god complex should not surface,
The digital space is a privilege to influence, place;
I love determining the screen and its sounds,
Where freedom of knowledge and data abound.
But the gift of poetry delights and ignites,
Hurtful regressions lull in its sight;
Its credibility only ever stoops to concede,
That only your introversion may expression impede;
Language caressed, dignity nursed,
You never need to be at all reimbursed;
Its haters are silent for fear of rebuke,
As truth, imagination and love are its hook.
Just Because I Said I Do
Oh this war tween man and fem
Makes so many lift the sword
Turn it into poison pen
Telling all is their reward
He done me wrong
She will say
He wasn’t strong
He had to stray
She left me for another man
I was good, I wasn’t rough
I try to do the best I can
But in the end not good enough
Is always out with his mate
Leaving me at home alone
Coming in, drunk and late
Telling me, not to moan
Always late with my meals
Oh was she a big mistake
Never puts out what appeals
I live on cereal and cake
I wish him, I’d never chose
Is plain for anyone to see
Chides coz I don’t iron his clothes
And loves the dog more than me
All she thinks is, self, self self
While I’m working really hard
Forgets I took her off the shelf
She won’t get no Christmas card
He thinks that I can’t drive a car
Always saying what to do
Someday he’ll take it way to far
I’ll look at him and say, “Screw you”
It started off in wedded bliss
Now it seems there’s no discourse
How could it have come to this?
See you in court, for the divorce.
I’m having the dog.. No you’re not .
Yes I am. No. Yes. No. Yes. No…………
This is purely fictitious and I have
never said she can’t drive a car, at
least not while moving in a
forward direction … hahaha
Luck In My Steps, Dollars In My Shoe
When very young I dreamt of a pot of gold,
and the sweet things that money could buy.
Now time tells me, you are just too old,
with wings ripped, never again shall you fly!
Yet dreams return every night as I sleep,
they dance and parade as if coming soon.
I hope so, for six feet is mighty deep,
and no man has ever jumped over the moon!
Now that moon chides me for being too slow,
stranger never looking for its soft gleams.
Yet where was it as I suffered hard blows,
my every step was against raging streams!
With luck in my steps, dollars in my shoe
my heart singing into that clear blue sky.
I eagerly raced into town looking for you,
and found a letter saying adios and goodbye!
When very young, I dreamt of a pot of gold,
and the sweet things that money could buy.
Now time tells me, you are just too old,
with wings ripped, never again shall you fly!
Robert J. Lindley
The lessons in nature
prove to be far wiser
than the intelligence of man.
Observing three kit squirrels
now, almost the size of the parents,
time has come for them to be on their own.
They nested early
as it was a March early spring
and now the nest deteriorates.
The parents,
perhaps ready and eager
for producing a second brood.
Stepping away from the nesting area
taking one kit at a time,
enticing and encouraging as it eagerly follows,
The kits are reluctant and unsteady,
stepping down the tree,
slipping on the pointed tips of the stocade fence.
Each time, the parent watches, waits,
returns and chides the kit
but still, it hangs back and hesitates.
Then with patience still,
the parent returns
with just a light nip on the rump
and they are gladly on their way.
I am MacDougal's parrot, he taught me how to speak,
Whenever i repeat an obscene word, he chides, excuse your beak.
It happens when folk ask him, if i'm his cockatoo,
I'll fly into an awful rage, that's when the air turns blue.
He also has a butler, his name is Mister Ree,
Where the only time MacDougal talks, is sitting on his knee.
We are now entertainers, with unscripted repartee,
Where all our jokes backfire, upon the stooge, that's me.
I say, he says, let's holiday, i think i'll fly by air,
Then proffers me a bag of nuts, then says i'll meet you there.
But offstage we're the best of friends, together every day,
And listen to the radio, on stations where they play
The music from our favourite shows, where MacDougal's passions ballet,
While i am quite the opposite, for i'm more Tin Pan Alley.
We read the morning papers, and discuss the daily news,
Where we both agree to differ, and air our different views.
But slowly my suspicions grow, is there something i have missed,
Could MacDougal be a dummy, and Mister Ree his ventriloquist.
I would be disappointed, if it's reality,
Where MacDougal only could exist, with Ree's ability.
9/ 3/ 2018.
Hear my plea… consider truth’s earnestness
Bringing to your ear this factual soundness:
I’m Hell --- a prison of endless darkness
Where misery’s gloom prevails in blackness
Due to sufferings, despair, hopelessness
Leaving the guilty in their sins’ fierceness.
Listen to my voice from this dark juncture
Echoing warning midst urgent posture:
I’m Hell --- a place of eternal torture
With restlessness’ angst and despair-puncture
Sealing the faithless in their doomed future
Midst cruel hatred’s defiant gesture.
Acknowledge my vocal predicament
Loudly clear despite painful sentiment:
I’m Hell --- a cell of everlasting torment
Expressing death's wailing every moment
As sorrows, anguish, woe wildly lament
With constant gnashing of teeth engagement.
Consider my call from this space, unlit
Since radiance of Scriptures does not quit:
I’m Hell --- a dungeon where there’s no exit
And each one slides toward bottomless pit
Struggling to reach foot stool summit
Yet never to taste freedom’s air a bit.
Neglect not my admonition’s love-guides
Which one in his self-righteousness derides:
I’m Hell --- lake of fire* where God’s wrath abides
Unreached by His mercy, while His grace hides
There, worms die not, with pleas’ screams at all sides
Along unheard prayers … deserving chides.
I welcome you in my darkest manner
When you flee from the perfect Pardoner:
I’m Hell ---waiting each one who’s pride-winner
Bearing “You’re forever condemned” banner
Verdict to the claim, “I’m not a sinner”
Rejecting grace midst selfishness’ dinner.
Decide now… from my drowning blackness, flee
Choose life; against darkness’ grip and be free:
I’m Hell *--- with my gruesomeness you can see
Trust Christ the Saviour and you can miss me
Have faith in Him Who died at Calvary
Resurrected to bring you Heaven’s glory.
*Revelation 20:14 And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.
January 24, 2022