Best Comers Poems
My Handicap Beach
As I lay here and look out the window from our hotel at the absolutely amazing view..
It makes me wonder how something so simple creates such beauty and always seems so new..
I feel sadness for those who pass by every day and don’t think another thought about..
The beauty that surrounds them from the beach and the water with the waves washing in and out..
The lighthouse that stands unintentionally stoic and tall and lights the way for those out at sea..
And the sand that finally runs across my toes which has been a dream for so long for me…
This was only possible with the help of a loving person who got me where I needed to go…
And to whom I really hope does realize how much they have helped me in many ways to grow..
And there are always a few people that have to make a spectacle of a girl in a wheelchair..
As they walk by me and say things in a whisper as if they think I can’t hear along with a stare here and there..
If they only knew that It was one of the best days of my life and that I am feeling so relaxed and at ease..
I will take all of their comments and let them go over my head along with the beautiful breeze..
Because this morning I may have been the disabled girl on the beach which was a wonderful thing to me..
And until you learn to see the view from down in a wheelchair every day I don’t care what you think you see...
Because today my view was from the warm sand on a beach towel that was laid down just for me and was the best..
Day I have had in so long because I was no longer that poor gilt in the wheelchair and felt almost like all of the rest..
Of beach goers and comers to the new jersey shore in Atlantic City and right on the pier that is very well known..
For gambling and partying but for me it was just to feel the sand on my toes and feel like I was not handicapped if even for a few moments alone..
Coming home with my stuff in disarray the way it always is along with a few souvenirs because they are from my very first trip away from home..
I loved it so much and want to thank those who took me long on a short but awesome vacation to start me going more which I really hope..
Because it’s nice sometimes to go to places that make you feel different than the usual girl in the wheelchair always needing help from what I call in my head my proverbial rope..
Buffy Sammons
Our fellow travelers,
What measure of trust for them?
The moment's imperfections are easily, even instinctively overlooked -
We risk for their benefit, sacrifice for their good.
Minutes stretched, the holy person spoke to all comers
As I heard love's woman,
Hanging on the pierced and tattooed man.
What did she see, he was fractional to me;
Her freely-given look demanded no return,
Love's area of the mind spreading over others.
Was it that he'd only hit her once?
The sightless mother's fingers over the face of her child
Tenderly traced that juncture of skin and hour,
Acquiring an instant in time.
We married, on your birthday!
In San Francisco City Hall.
There was no family present,
Just you and I~ that's all!
We were two very young, and
very much in love elopers.
Nothing stood in our way, we
were over-comers, not life-copers.
Who drove from frozen, blizzardly
Chicago to our foggy city by the bay.
We chose to live our lives in our own
unique artistic way.
There was no wedding reception,
no gifts, no band.
Just a couple divinely in love, and
Panagiota so proud to wear that gold
wedding band!
Death took you from this life,
when you were still very young.
But her love for you, remains a song,
that everyday is sung.
And this forever young bride cannot forget
that day.
The sun, the Cable Cars, the glorious fog,
as her tears now fall into San Francisco Bay!
Rest in peace, my love!
Panagiota
January 29,2022
For months I’ve partitioned – sectored my strife
Trying to determine – wrong from the right
Clinging to bits – healing the bytes
Moving and changing – formatting new life
My career crashed – with it my dreams
Memory erased – circuits burned clean
Connection to love – garbled and crossed
Power was fading – all color lost
A new system needed – more power and thrill
New creativity – speed and the skill
Designing new backup – restoring my line
Application of will – turn tables on time
Tap my known current – discarding old woes
Erase obsolete system – vanquish all foes
Move to the center – empower self trust
Stun all the comers – lightning fast thrust
No longer lie down – and wait for the call
Stand up and fight – pin them to the wall
Knowing I’m better – than any machine
Time to arise – from a protracted dream
And so I forgo – all advice of claimed best
Listen inside – put myself to the test
It’s hard but I’m winning – getting better by day
Pain is less troubling – I’ll continue this way
If you'd have lived and worked on Juno Ranch, you’d have come away better for it. It
may not have seemed like it at the time but Pancho (Uncle Frank) would put it to you, an’ it
was for you to decide to do it, what to do with it, or to fight. The motto was, “You either work
or fight, there ain’t no quittin’ on this-here ranch.”
Pancho cultivated a reputation as a living legend in his fifty-some years in the Devil’s
River country of the Texas frontier. He loved his life, family, work and felt plumb lucky to be
livin’ it. He believed there was art in every undertakin’ an’ practiced the highest standards in
dealin’ with any an’ all comers. He savvied horses, cattle an’ the land; and death was just the
gate that opened into higher pastures.
Ride 'em Pancho!
The cowboy wakes before each dawn
With blurry eyes n'a mournful yawn;
Gets breakfast down, just bacon'n eggs,
An' biscuits dunked in coffee dregs.
He feeds the stock some oats an' hay
In growin' light of break o' day.
Then Pancho comes an' rigs a hoss,
An' chews his butt, 'cause he's the boss.
“The sun is up, you little bride!
We're loosin' light! We gotta ride!”
So they ride out to make their rounds
In echoed clops of hoof-beat sounds.
The sun is high 'bout half-passed noon,
An' dinnertime is none too soon.
He eats his beans an' taters fast,
Then rolls a smoke an' rests at last.
He dreams of how he'll spend his pay
When he's in town on Saturday,
An' where he'll go to have some fun
With gals who'll laugh and call him, "Hun..."
He gets his hat an' pulls it down,
Forgets the dream of gals in town,
Cause if he ain't just damn near dead,
The work comes first on Pancho's spread.
Jan Allison
Jumping, Jupiter!! Jan is the best!!
Always upbeat, helping with heartfelt at best,
Nominating her! Queen of the Day.
And fond memories down our Soup's Memory Lane!
Letting poets and people into her happy domain,
Loving each day with laughter in her heart
Inviting new-comers with sweet comments at hand,
She may be related to cyber buddy Jack Ellison by demand
Of her great laughter for funnies to all read and see
Nominating her the queen in Poetry Soup by command.
Written: Oct. 21, 2015
Theresa
Heedless of rejection
standard smile ever so sweet,
childhood void of substance
youth lost in everlasting grief.
It is not from choice to serve
the world’s ancient art,
although somewhat obliging
never, with an amorous heart.
Learning curves to encounter
street wise evolves the trick,
cloned to procure all-comers
remembered the wall, to build of solid brick.
Within the glow of hopeful themes
upon the road side where they reside,
some locked in obscure dreams
under a solitary lamp light.
Whilst amidst the affluent of their craft
a class of high distinction,
content to work the street of pure gold
ne’er cast an eye on those that bear
the bar-code of extinction.
So soon a whiter shade of pale
for alas a fallen Angel,
forgotten now her love was her fame
for society is unforgiving, spreads the word
across the social media of shame.
© Harry J Horsman 2017
"shhhhh.....shissssssh"
"be quiet"...whispered
"Can you hear that?"
.
.
"What is that sound?"
Is it far...a faraway
train whistle lonesome
from song of mainline?
Is it the soft ting
of the tea kettle
cooling on the stove,
bending it's metal?
"What is that sound?"
It is the slow creak
of old wooden chairs
as mortise and tenon
slowly adjust, torqued
to a shifting weight.
Could be a mantle
clock tiptoe ticking
away Sunday afternoon.
Why don't they make
digital clocks tick?
Is it that catlike scratch
of the Autumn branch
gently scraping the window?
"What is that sound?"
It is the hushed hum
of computer fan lulling
a digital brain.
The Venetian blinds
rhythmically tap half-open
double-hung windows.
The vibrating whir
of some electric motor
compressing or orbiting
the periodic table.
Mountains of Quaking Aspen
leaves relaxing the winds.
When is alone welcome
and when is it forlorn?
The weight of near silence,
light as the dust that
floats the sunlit room,
or heavy as a cardiac
anvil under ancient
spreading Chestnut tree.
Did the bell toll at
the village church,
ringing all comers
to awake momentarily, or
was that just tinnitus?
Unable to open eyes,
sounds belie surroundings
and alone might be
fallacy or welcome.
Deceptive senses afoot
in the stirrup, and hammer
tapping anvil might only
be a mindful dream.
© Goode Guy 2011-06-13
Mission, Texas ( where I am From )
M...My home town is Mission, My state is Texas.
I...It is by the Southern part of Texas, by the Mexican border.
S...Some good Tex Mex. food can be found there.
S...Some winter Texans have adopted this place.
I...It is known for it's hot climate.
O...Over the years it has grown, but not much.
N...New comers are always welcome.
T...Texas is known for it's Cowboys. Rodeos and Southern hospitality.
E...Everything in Texas is big, even our Texas jokes.
X...Xoom into Texas and you shall see- just how we can be.
A...Always a big smile to welcome you, just come on over and see what's new.
S...Seeing is believing, so they say, so how about it - are you game?
04/06/2014
Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
For contest - Where I am From
Is Jesus in a box, hmmm…, let’s see,
Jesus in a six sided container? That’s hard to visualize for me.
Who’d put him in? Better yet, who’d take him out?
Is he really in there? That could cast some serious doubt.
What a tidy package is your Jesus in a box.
Would you have your Jesus dressed, or only in socks?
If “Jack” looked ridiculous in his spring loaded box,
would that mean Jesus should wear similar frocks?
How would we get him to far flung destinations?
Would UPS carry him without preparations?
Would he be bathed before he was laid inside?
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” Recall the aside?
If you brought some vocal atheists to this table,
surely they’d sponsor legislation for a Biohazardous label?
Would Jesus still be relevant in Antarctica or the Sahara?
Remember they were late comers to a Christian era.
So I’m thinking, Jesus is not in a box, as far as I can tell.
If he was, it would likely be his permanent “death knell.”
For me, I like things the way they currently exist.
Jesus in a box, no, that’s just not something I’d like to mix.
For the Jesus in a box contest.
Uniwest
Perceived as crown from heavens, mini kingdom of isolated tribes. Its beauty is painted in the wall of beholders eyes. The story of ancient Biblical thoughts. Kingdom of named after stones. Mahikeng camp of jacks and jelly, chain of Gladiator, Bichua Italy land belong to Spartacus. Roman-jungle of miracle.
It’s Powerful and dictatorship is well known by its five kingdoms. Its status is spotted like United States Doll er-sin in every vision. Its mission is preaching keys that opens kingdom of paradise, Mount Kilimanjaro Glory of success.
Its five discipline disciple impregnate every prostitute found on its street, through martial arts. Exam constitute of justice and true. Power and selection of murder. Agle Janam Mohe king of kings’ shaka to Zulu. Well protected like language Setswana. Uniwest; its kingdom have eleven department of prison.
Start with James entertainment, gift given to Lional messie. Ikanlha, Dr Mandela residence to Hopewell till lost in city prison. Jail of education as a mother of children who need guidance. Laws of success, numbering and commence is their daily bread while agricultural science and technology glorify their success bone with china.
Mortal salute your beauty, oh uniwest coronet. Your kingdom is spread with Fresh active juveniles of Adam and Eve pitch. Crowded bash, event of the year. Sasko bread at its best political success. “Cheese to new comers” Enjoy Full years of searching for key to you Final year to success. Let’s see life to our last journey speed like “Benz” car of a dream: speech from the next president. African boy, Benz I will drive at graduation parliament of Uniwest.
I walk loose slow
slouched but straight
smooth
unknown
Arms swing
On comers avoid
eye contact but I smile
Hips swing
No need to keep my joy
contained locked away
I share
my sidewalk groove
Fingers snap offbeat
to a passing car’s rhythm
Who cares? Birds sing
I walk loose carefree
Butterflies flit wings
I'm not trying to be
anyone else not even me
No purpose in my stride
Not trying to hide
No particular place to be
right-left-right-left
tap-tap- of heels
Hair swings
I walk loose then pick up speed
finding my direction
regaining perspective
The source of
My joy
Source of
My swing
All
wait for me
The Bitter End of the Road
Travelers coalesce as if from as dense fog
about the grounds of the retreat.
The lodge shimmers silver-gray
amongst the changing autumn woods.
The gravel way diminishes in rearview mirrors
with the pinging sound of pebbles against
the metal horses of the day.
Civilization, ever trampling,
encroaches upon what ages ago
had been a pristine forest, now swarms
to the Lodge’s gates:
ants to the picnic
late comers in search of the scraps,
the leavings,
of much abused nature.
Slamming car doors, buzzing cell phones,
endless chatter accosts the forest’s skirt.
Beaten paths awaited those stalwart enough
to venture in, rushing ever forward
and upward
through the crunch of fallen leaves,
the snap of branch,
the distant warble of unseen birds.
Water, when near, adds
its own rush, and babble.
But, the smaller critters seem to have vanished
tracks and spoor, trampled
whether in reverence or disregard;
it matters not.
In our ever onward rush to enjoy,
the sounds of cricket,
cicada, the squirrels chitter,
the owls call;
we by our mere presence
destroy.
First Published by Poetry Quaterly
Last year I wrote of a Red Sox team
The fans did not exactly scream
They could not swing, field or hit
Last place was theirs, that was it.
But John Henry said ENOUGH of that
I will not let this team go splat
So he fired a guy named Bobby V
And From The Jays did Farrell bring.
He traded away the vaunted three guys
To Gonzo, Beckett and Crawford bye bye!
He said the losing days are through
Saved a quarter billion dollars too.
The off season came on us soon
He got Napoli, Dempster and Victorino too.
Though no one gave the team a chance
The season came and they took off fast.
They started winning many games
And found themselves in first place.
In the dust they left yanks, birds and jays.
Kept winning through the summer days.
Now the season is poised to end
The team is looking great again
From worst to first, oh what a season
Team spirit and drive is the reason.
The playoffs loom, the team looks ready
Hitting and pitching very steady.
Fresh off a recent Yankees sweep.
This team looks like it can't be beat
To Fenway do the playoffs come
They'll take on all comers, everyone
For when all the opponents have been beaten
We'll win the Series, Oh what a season!!
When fashions get their own displays
Arranged in a museum,
It’s guaranteed that I will be
One person who will see ‘em.
I study all the sketches and
The mannequins all dressed
In fancy outfits sure to leave
All comers quite impressed.
Today, at the Mizrahi show,
The staff did help contrive
To take the dresses, coats and gowns
And make them come alive.
For after gazing at the clothes
Most artfully on view,
There was a film where models
In those threads came strutting through.
As wonderful as garments look
When hanging there, inert,
It’s so much better when we see
The swaying of a skirt.