Best Complained Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Believing that marriage was ordained of God;
that, like a seed, it needed constant nurturing,
she sowed her deep devotion with a hope
that stretched beyond an ordinary scope.
That hope scanned schisms that had left her desolate-
until it reached the heavens with her prayers.
Time and time again, her spouse complained or failed to do small things
essential to cementing the marriage bond.
With unusual restraint, she held her tongue, forgave. . . and listened.
If matrimony were the fire in a hearth, she supplied the kindling and the logs;
then lauded him for twigs that on occasion he tossed in.
Some nights she’d lay a weary head upon the chest
of the one she called her husband (when he was fast asleep and didn’t know).
In those moments, she felt the beat of that heart he never showed to her.
With humbleness she supplicated God
that she might find connection with her mate.
She wondered and she wondered why. . .if thoughts, invisible,
which were transmitted to the Lord, were able to be recieved by Him,
why could not her words, directly spoken to the one on earth she loved, be heard?
Daily on her knees, she telegraphed celestially with a faith most extraordinary. . .
and wisdom came. Her love would not be broken, and she grew.
The seed she’d planted took root too and grew until there came a time. . .
she laid a graying head upon the chest
of one that was her husband (not just in word only);
a someone who now watched HER as she drifted off to sleep.
With his heartbeat strong in her ear,
she heard him whisper softly, “I love you” as he kissed her cheek goodnight.
For Audrey Carey's "To Err Is Human to Forgive Divine"
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Warts and all
She made a mistake
when she kissed a toad
No castle or carriage
She chose a rough road
He had a few warts
he wasn't debonair or cool
Others scoffed and they laughed
But our toad wasn't a fool
For love was a potion
He knew she believed
He tried so very hard
With his heart he achieved
For she was so lovely
So caring and serene
concerned only with his heart
Not the places he'd been
It wasn't very easy
it was in fact it was tough
to be in love with a princess
and have less than enough
But she never complained
Not a whimper or cry
She said he was amazing
He was her special guy
So he worked night and day
from the inside he grew
he became all he could be
the Prince that she knew
Yes they found their happy
Him kind and never a jerk
Love indeed conquers all
with a smidgen of hard work
Together they built castles
chariots and other things
Traveled on positive thoughts
and the gifts that love brings
So if you see a toad smiling
know that that toad is just me
a kiss from my princess
thankfully set me free
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
"I LIKE NONSENSE, IT WAKES UP THE BRAIN CELLS!"
a quote from dear Dr. Suess......
Dr. Suess and his Shoe Store
LISTEN, LISTEN! I have BIG NEWS
Dr. Suess has a store just full of SHOES..
A GAZILLION shoes I'm sure there must be
Line them all up, bet they'd stretch to the sea!
Small shoes and tall shoes and some with spots
He even has one covered with pink polka dots..
...... Lots of Dots....
Round shoes and square shoes and OH MY
Even lots of cool shoes you don't have to tie!
A snake came in cause he was going to school
And wearing shoes at school is a VERY strict rule..
Now where could a snake wear a shoe you ask?
Well he wore the darn thing like a Halloween mask..
You can buy just one pair if your feeling thrifty
But poor old centipede - he had to buy fifty
He first bought 25 pair, all were bright yellow
Then 25 orange...now he's quite a colorful fellow!
A kangaroo complained that his feet were sore
So extremely sore he could not hop any more
They fixed him up with a spring loaded pair
Now he can happily hop from here to there!
So if a GRANDUFULOUS sight your longing to see
Dr. Suess is waiting at the corner of 7th and G
With shoes for the young and shoes for the old
HURRY! HURRY! before the purple ones get sold!
This is an old poem of mine that I reworked a bit....
I was blessed to know a woman in my life
Who faced hard times, struggle, and strife.
A Chinese immigrant, she came from a poor town
Lost her husband, was kept from her daughter, but not kept down.
She had three other children who were born here
Getting them a better life was her biggest fear.
She had to fend for herself and them alone you see,
Speaking little of the language in this foreign country.
But, she had always lived a determined life
So she fought back...with a fork and a knife.
She opened a restaurant in a small community
Where her gracious manner made her friends instantly.
Her children would grow up in town with new friends
The restaurant she opened was the mean to her ends.
She worked very hard...sometimes eighteen hours a day
She never complained because that was her way.
Her life's expectations knew more successes sublime
The restaurant grew...one egg roll at a time.
She once told me of the anxiety she felt at the money she'd spent...
Laughing said, "My uncle said sell 2 qts of Chop Suey/Day...you've got the rent."
She was a woman who chose kindness as she felt had to her been shown
To people far and near her generosity was known.
She was thankful that she had the opportunity
To give back with love rather than animosity.
I first met her over some 30 years back
She struck me from the that moment as a person who had the knack
To make others feel at home though strangers they be
She certainly did, because she did it to me.
I still remember her caring for me...it was shown
Once caught in a blizzard, she opened her home.
So often was there a path to this woman's door
Though she stood, less than 5 foot 4.
Her heart was as big and wonderful as one would want
An earthly angel, she was heaven sent.
Though her health began to wane later in life
She never gave in to that world of strife.
Her eyesight began to fail and it was difficult for her to see
But that didn't stop her or her generosity.
She loved people and filled everyone with cheer
Ever thankful that she had had a life here.
Though she is gone I'll never forget her face
Or her love of life, devotion to family, and unstoppable pace.
To me I'll ever be thankful to have had the joy
Of calling her "Ma" ... ONE IN A MILLION~was Connie Moy!
1st Place Winner - "One in a Million" Poetry Contest
1.
Why do we persecute this Jesus?
this Palestinian Jew, with claim
to one almighty God?
Ahh! let me home, it’s all too
much, and no avail.
so I Longinus, leader of Pilate’s guard,
which nailed him up, (he never complained)
gave him up, his broken body to his
mother and the crowd; Oh! pitiful
crying and moaning, gnashing of teeth
in their pious, bloody grief
yet….he spoke to me, this Arab, this Jew,
with his eyes, he looked resolute and calm:
and a smile (aghast!) he had for me.
and the earth trembled and shook;
afraid;
they loved him the many, I could see,
and I spoke out loud the words that I
believed, that he was real, and one with
he above!
and they looked at me, my men, and scowled,
ahh!...who are they to know?
and time and days passed. And I deserted:
2.
and I took on the garb of wanderer, so as to
be free, and sensed a great commotion;
“he’s back!. He’s never dead!”
and I was led by disciples’ horny hands, for they
knew me now, to a tomb, gaping hole and door-stone
rolled aside.
and they shouted “where is he? where’s the master?”
and a passing storm became a torrent and the rivers
swelled and the winds blew their strong wind,
and took away the grave’s harsh stink: then as
quickly as it had begun, a sound like the rumble
of a quake, split the sky and sunlight, warmed
and dried the earth around.
and there the master in shining white,
fresh with neat trimmed beard, as if out
for a walk with kith and kin, came.
and up on a mountain we followed to the
top, and he spoke; but because of the great
clamor all about him, I could only catch a
few words,
“make new disciples,” “ teach” and something
about him always being with us.
and then (I tell no lie)…his body took up to the
warm sky, with flowing robes and a choir of heavenly
verse, the likes of which I had never heard.
and he was gone.
3.
and I taught his words, for some time after; and each
time I spoke I felt grown; and so, I lived my life:
but not for long; and soon I took his place and bid
the sorry world, this place, a painful goodbye.
and when next I saw his smile, his tearful foreign
eye; I swelled; and went to his side:
and he placed his hand in mine.
In a moment of understandable frustration with me,
My wife demanded to know what I really believed in.
I thought for a minute, tear glands filling,
"The essential goodness of my parents."
My mother was a child of the great city of Philadelphia,
In hard times in a hard family, soon to fracture,
She withdrew from the days when her father would leave his little girls
In the car all afternoon in back alleys near the taverns,
From which he would emerge, full of volume and vomit.
She grew through school, emerging herself to be a wonderful mom,
To kindle her children's interest in the physical world,
Geology, astronomy, physics, and the patterned realms
Of painting, music, and poetry.
She showed me that she loved me.
She showed me that parents were people.
She showed me that parents were fallible,
That not everything could be controlled,
And that that was okay too.
My father was a child of the land,
Of farming in the age of innocence,
Long ago down in the southern part of the state of Indiana.
He knew of seeds, of frost, of the earth and time,
Of rock and root, of wind and drought and rain.
He never complained about rain - we kids didn't like the muddy yard
That was supposed to be a football field - he'd say,
"Tell you what - I'll take the rain. I've seen the other."
The most honest man I know, the most honest person that could ever be,
He watched the night sky with me when I said, "Moon and tar."
He took me to a hardware store on a stormy summer Saturday,
Dark clouds coming close, in a car with the thicker sheet metal of the old days.
Just as we parked, the first raindrops, that irregular rhythm, compelling,
"Hey Doug! Would you listen to that rain?! Let's just sit here for a while."
We sat with the rain on the roof as it began in earnest,
That rain of a thousand thousand hits,
A million baby birds doing their firecracker tap dance above us,
That rain that has lasted me the rest of my life.
December 31, 2016.
For Brenda Chiri-Carroll's contest - 'Who has inspired you most in your life.'
Your words lance through to bone, acid sizzling into every hole
I haven't filled in, yet I dig, and ponder, and dig, filling in.
I still rock where the echoes of door slammed shut, bounce around
like a crazed nut of truth, crazed distorted view, walls where none existed.
The lifeline of my life was a frail strand on the morning breeze
I could pull into view, ride like a youth jumping the ocean waves
that you sucked into the cold vacuum of your jealous ways
and not ending there, you stole the skate board, stole the waves
locked me into a endless stuffed food binge where doubt could be sweetened
but locked me further into a closed room, like a finished book
that no one wanted to read the first time or the last or ever
because it answered no questions, kissed no lips, hungered for nothing
gave nothing back to the children of the wave, children of the clouds
and then squished all the children into little mushed piles you ate
and then complained they had no blood left. I dig, with this trowel
wanting a mirror of burial, where the skies can rain down upon the muck
and quiet your words, quiet your harping, quiet your blows upon pride
and leave me a trowel upon which I can live out or die, piling scar tissue
over endless lies, over the cries of hungry children, over the cries
of forgotten waves and restore someday the laughter and surprise of life.
Two hearts became one
Now they follow different paths –
Divorce with remorse
He complained constantly of my cooking
Café reservations always booking
Said I drove him insane
But boy did he complain
When I left for someone better looking
The complaining has stopped, but the house is so quiet
So I pick up the phone, invite him for a riot
Haiku, limerick and couplet for the Divorce Club contest
I didn’t appreciate you enough; I'm sorry, I didn’t know
Difficult times, raising us was so tough; I’m sorry I didn’t know
Little money, food in limited supply, yet you never complained
I didn’t notice your hands were so rough; I’m sorry, I didn’t know
While working two jobs as well as keeping us all safe, fed and happy
You always seemed calm , never harsh rebuffs; I’m sorry, I didn’t know
I don’t think you ever had more than one dress or a new winter coat
We had more love than material stuff; I’m sorry I didn’t know
Jeanie now a mom herself and understands what it must have been like
When I speak of mother my voice gets gruff; I’m sorry, I didn’t know….
In spring he complained
It was always way to wet
The sound of chirping birds
Would make him get upset
He thought summer is drier
But when summer came it was hot
It was a far far worse season
At least that's what he thought
Perhaps he'd prefer the autumn
Cooler air and shorter days
Still the problem with autumn
Is that autumn rarely stays
Soon winter was upon him
He could feel it within his bones
Buried deep beneath the ground
They covered his grave with stones
For him the seasons were a problem
He wasted away all his days
What was gifted was extraordinary
Yet it never met with any praise!
Written April 7th 2016
For Shadow's Seasons Contest.
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Today I saw a daughter laid to rest.
A mother tries to heed her own advice.
Holding it in surely put her to the test.
She failed more than once or twice.
Her failing was no artificial device.
She tried, Lord how hard she tried.
She simply could not pay the price.
She cried, oh how the mother cried.
She was a fifth grade teacher, the best.
The kids all sought her out for advice.
Fifty Eight, so young but so blessed,
too young, to pay this enormous price,
too old to fashion protective gneiss.
Her mother knew of this fierce pride.
Yet, she couldn’t save her baby’s life.
She cried, oh how the mother cried.
The building now full, still they pressed,
her former students, learning pain of life.
From one loved, who had faced the test,
and had not complained about sacrifice.
While a mother mortally wounded twice
who faced this when her husband died
hopes to God she will not see this thrice.
She cried, oh how the mother cried
The mother, paying the mother’s price,
before her eyes could have fully dried.
With more than enough love to suffice,
she cried, and oh how the mother cried.
For Catie's ballade contest
Feb 22, 2011