Best Conspired Poems
American Indian, Nightshades, Moonshadows And Howling Wolf
Thirsty for red moon, its sacred beams and eternal pull
howling-out to speak to this dark and blind world, without fear;
Your echoes enter, soulful bones of insightful red man
birthing growing urges to return and run truly free,
falling upon ancient trails, foraging for lean red meat
race with red-heart's deepest desires into widest abyss,
embrace our mother earth, unified into one body.
Where ancient trails once well-known, rests under dust long fallin'.
Moon's golden realms hear both man and wolf, faithful loud callin'.
Standing proud, atop very high and lonesome mountain crag
winds caressing one of Nature's most beautiful creatures;
Notes calling loud, that give night's resplendent moon pregnant pause
in that silent and golden moment, where man so trembles,
for it is then knowledge comes, therein sings of true freedom
having no need for dreams of blind men or dark worldly lusts,
speaking to pack below, mirroring its deep felt tones.
Where ancient trails once well-known, rests under dust long fallin'.
Moon's golden realms hear both man and wolf, faithful loud callin'.
Alas! Fate and Fury- rage combine and oft delivers
soul-crushing, black-handed cuts from darkened realms far below;
Wherein has justice overcame Fate's most savage attacks
when hatred and greed both conspired to not be defeated,
in infliction of war's sorrows and deadly destruction
while parading under banner of Light and compassion,
tales of malevolent beasts, benevolently destroyed!
Where ancient trails once well-known, rests under dust long fallin'.
Moon's golden realms hear both man and wolf, faithful loud callin'.
R. J. Lindley,
Feb 2nd, 1973
Poetry-- Subject Nature, Wolf, Amerian Indian And Injustice...
Old note: My mother's father was Native American. I gained
great insight into the life of Native Americans from words
he spoke to me. Since his death, I have read many books that
gave even more historical knowledge on the subject. Finding
the ones that did not deliberately cover up the savage acts
carried out by "whites" against Native Americans.
His day had come, and so He went and prayed.
The woes of all mankind upon him weighed.
His brethren slept; He knew what would befall.
His enemies conspired and did not stall.
A midnight kiss, and He would stand betrayed.
First seized, reviled, then stripped and flayed;
A scarlet robe on broken flesh then laid,
He bore the brutal cross and drank the gall.
His day had come.
A final breath. . . . the sacrifice was made.
The land then quaked. God’s sorrow was displayed.
The Son in linen. . . . on the earth a pall.
But in the sepulcher, His final call –
To conquer death! Man need not be afraid.
His day had come!
Submitted 3/12/23
for the Easter Poetry Contest of Regina McIntosh
The White House harbors an orange traitor
Benedict Donald, science-hater
He never met a fact
He didn't try to whack
This prick puts the 'dick' in Dictator!
The obtuse ogre of petty poses
Has imposed on the City of Roses
His troops of lackeys
In unmarked khakis
Masking free speech with tear gas and hoses
Anyone who does not tongue-kiss his shoes
Is fired, or conspired to be 'Fake News'
He has little use
For reason, or truth
Come November, this deadbeat pays his dues!
7/22/20
(the 'City of Roses' refers to Portland, OR, where I live)
Before the beginning of time when Chaos ruled Hell and Night
Into the depths of this Cosmos, a Paradise, perfectly placed.
Above this darkness, a heaven drawn forth in a burst of light
Before the beginning of time
From the Garden of Eden, henceforth, Adam and Eve were disgraced
Lo! A fallen angel changed himself to a serpent in Eve’s sight
Banished, they fled before God to a wilderness, forever displaced.
Forbidden fruit had shown them the difference of wrong from right.
In Pandemonia, Demons conspired, sin and death be interlaced.
God sacrificed his Son to save them - from Hell's eternal plight.
Before the beginning of time
Suzanne Delaney
For Suzette Crous
Roundel Competition
Remembering the days of yesteryear
when family ties were held most dear,
gas lamps flickered in the back street
while most of us danced a different beat.
Tragic alleyways of smog and smut
“Live over the brush”* branded a sl*t,
silhouettes infringe the darkest night
gullible back shift broke the morning light.
Adventurous nights at “Townhead Mill”
eight pints of beer the back porch thrill,
when no meant yes in rapturous skill
to fumigated music from “Nashville.”
Obnoxious libertine this bread man
bay curtain drawn delivery van,
the situation conspired indiscretion
clinical the world’s oldest profession.
Sporting gentlemen in summer bliss
caught first ball costly night on the piss,
pavilion home to moorside drover
many a chaste maiden bowled over.
Partial pilgrimage down “Bolton Road”
black and amber heroes round ball code,
liniment buoyant throughout the room
manly skills embroider the village groom.
Cardinal days steeped in “Rock ‘n’ Roll”
sire in fear of them out of control,
a colossal wedge between cultures
in shadows of decency vile vultures.
Repetitious days of school yard might
the bullies reduced one’s life to plight,
parents queried yet misunderstood
reasons for mayhem in the neighbourhood.
Lad and lasses lost in “Hide and seek”
games of “Stroke a back” every week,
by the old school grounds we all did laik**
now the street is naked for heaven sake.
Why on earth would a mind keep drifting back
this poetry constantly placing me on track,
when life was a role without fame or stars
only toil and trepidation and these scars?
© Harry J Horsman 2013
*Living in sin
** Play
Death
Words rip through the night sky
They conspire to tear a hole through reality
A reality created in your eyes
Taped tightly to your mouth is a bill of lies
That you have yet to unroll
And it's constricting your ability to breathe
Like a dying bumble bee, your stinger is useless
And as such your threats often fall flat
As flat as the heart buried deep in the ground
Your eyes cause lightning flashes in my mirror
And the sparks cause my hair to stand on end
It's time I took the scissors and shredded your beliefs
So many times I have been expected to bow to you
To take a bow has been the song of my entire life
Faltering to the commands of the many Gods and Goddesses
And now here I stand with a green belt of insanity
Ready to beat the lackluster starlight from your eyes
Ready to watch them flicker and then slowly die
Your words ripped through my night sky
They conspired to tear a hole through my reality
A reality I created in your eyes
I taped a bill of lies tightly to your mouth
One that I have yet to unroll
And it's constricting my ability to breathe
I justify the reasons for my unintended assassination
With the cookie crumbs that litter the far reaches of space
Filtered through memories of a lifetime of torment
It will not be long now before your statue explodes
Sending shards flying over the entirety of life's greatest gift
This gift is what you unwrapped- Death
And now with a stick of dynomite I give you one last smile
One last smile to fill the confines of your prison cell mind
Which has grown frail and decrepit
Tears filter through my emotional machine belt
And slowly fall into a wasteland where they cease to exist
I turn and the butterflies erupt from your heart
The explosion blinds my eyes briefly
And yet I feel more pure than I ever did before
Death is the gift I give to you
In China once
under a patched
sail canopy
at tables and stools
and later
alone
remembering days
when all
seemed all
important
the politics with friends
by day
and how the breeze
by night conspired
with
her golden hair.
Now I watch
the honey-draped fishing-dingies
return
like strays
of twilight
they glide in
sad-silence
finally to settle
in place
where they rock
gently
all night
under a surrender of stars.
Everything moving to its orbit
everything seperating in time
alone
all the mistakes
the misunderstandings
off on their own trajectories
fullfilling their own destinies
all but the waitress here
who moves still
like a silken dream
across the sea-dimmed floor
bringing pots of hot
chinese-tea
all night long
never saying a word
not a single word
just smiling
her knowing smile.
.
.
Sir Homophone came to meet the maid that somehow stayed so slim.
Her feat was to stay chaste to him and yet by his feet be chased by him.
She had recently lost some weight by refusing to partake in evening sup.
It seemed the more that she pared down the more likely to be paired up.
All night the weak maid prayed so meekly for the Knight that she sees.
But the Knight preyed to be made thrice weekly and she at night to seize.
She hoped he would meet and see her and then choose to wed,
But it was the supper meat that saw the sear that he chews instead.
She sewed her dress then pared the wood and the holy altar made,
He sowed distress when he prepared his wood to wholly alter the maid.
“Maid please tend to me now you’ve said you weekly have sordid sex.”
“Knight please you misunderstand I said I weakly have sorted sox.”
She begged, “Please be discreet with what it is that we’ve discussed.”
He shrugged, “You are awfully discrete in what it is that you disgust.”
But love conspired to steal, his heart soared and they were off to wed,
Then lust transpired to steel his hard sword and they were off to bed.
He was happy because of her sighs and she was happy because of his.
This concludes my good Knight tale and all of this good night tail biz.
You read it didn’t you? Shame on you, I had to read it because I wrote it
but you had a choice. Benny Hill would be so proud.
My vacant stare was sure to be
a giveaway to anyone that saw . . .
I was a Pilgrim there to the land of techno-jargon,
of icons, Help instructions meaning nothing,
and a world of young and savvy operators.
Our teacher wasn’t there.
Certain that the worksheet explaining all the basics
would be a breeze for us to carry out,
he’d arrogantly left the room
and left the lot of us to the mercy of
a keyboard and computer.
I looked up from his worksheet
to a screen that stared right back at me,
awaiting my commands.
I was on the starting path to what is often called
the Super Highway,
and my boarding pass, tuition to the class,
was non-refundable.
Overwhelmed, I started out. Then I hit a rut
and didn’t have a clue what next to do.
My learning peers already seemed to know
the route quite well.
Some, in fact, were calling it a day
while I stayed on, ashamed to bother
any of the others there for help.
I looked around the room, my tired brain
a hot plate in the midst of younger minds
with the speed of ovens made for microwave.
Perhaps they’d all conspired to put
the older lady at unease.
It seemed the more I tried to understand,
the more pathetically off course I’d go. . .
Till finally (longing for a time when
“cut and paste” implied the use of scissors),
I got up from my seat and left behind
the self-instructing worksheet which
that egghead teacher said would be “a cinch.”
Two big words were scrawled across the top
of its first page, two big words in red,
written with the one tool I could trust:
SCREW IT.
For Natalie Whitlock's
"Talkin' Technology" Contest
We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.
Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.
We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.
Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.
Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.” An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms. The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers. I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.
Song is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y
*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.
“The sounds of Earth is the music of my soul”
I remember the valley rolled with thunder
A section of tenors echoed from above
The sky was shredded, by forked lightning
Somehow that moment transcended love
Static electric rose up through the cloisters
The organist played like a demon inspired
Rooftop gargoyles overflowed with water
And eyes welled up, as if nature conspired
Rivers were swollen, the lake was heavy
A boy soprano, almost pierced the dome
Landslides rumbled away in the distance
High on ambivalence, I thought about Rome
The conductor was whipped into a frenzy
Fitfully pointing his wand in the air
As the tempest outside reached crescendo
Defiant altos, sang a hymnal prayer
Beyond the west window, storms fell silent
Shafts of light, shone through from space
Together the choir reached out in emotion
As they swayed stoically, to Amazing Grace
Originally penned 08/10/22
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
09/13/22
She could be ----
whatever she wanted to be.....
Cause the seas mighty with storm
to scorn the shores of whorish men,
and descend them to depths forlorn,
or lift their wee-dignity, conspired aloft
blue-sky-spires;
Spiraling to the bosom of some fresh heaven ----
they shall see their folly
for the loveliness in her eyes,
and await her kiss a thousand years;
Reflect soft scented meadows,
and a heart from which flows the waterfall ----
roaring in glory of darling truth,
and steadfast honesty,
The wickedness of men.....
cannot endure a glimpse,
a mere peek upon her gaze.....
The desert winds whirl the dune seas,
of Octavian mischief;
And whip they throughout the ages,
beyond time,
Octavian crushed neath her timeless
allure....
He always the 'great' villain,
and she the beauteous Queen
Are good men and 'great' men of the same kind?
seldom are 'great' men good,
and good men 'great'
Christ was born in a lowly manger ----
the King of kings,
and too many a 'king' born in plush luxury,
But Cleopatra took her life for love,
though born of unsurpassed beauty,
she was not tainted with the thirst of power,
or hungry like a selfish dog ----
to appease a frail appetite,
But supreme as a thorn-bird's undying love;
many a wold (rolling plains),
dipped in honeyed ease,
the glory of gold, and likeness of her
Essence(d) in the weave of high-romance,
Cleopatra....
Whom the masses of men lay mystified
in her elegant recollection,
majestic, for her affections ----
The Valley of the Kings
kneel in her shadow....
she is beautiful,
for her love.....
Whom she may be called
(both good and great)
She could be,
whatever she wanted to be.....
Searching your voice amid dissonant vibes
I followed your shadow into shiny meadows
Till mild breeze conspired with gusty winds
Turning sunshine into gushing rain showers.
Lost in the rainstorm was my clueless heart
Oblivious of directions to romantic path
Aimlessly zigzagging deserted barren land
When bountiful fields were always at hand.
Glimpsing sunshine that's no longer mine
Peeking from vestiges of rain drifting by
Painting lonely sky with panoramic scene
I reminisce how lovely life might've been.
Had I protected our nest from nasty winds
Hearing silence when music stopped playing,
Birds of our morning would still be singing
Praises of sunrise glistening misty prairies.
Showers left gifting spectrum of your sun
Uplifting my vision to sanguine horizon.
Hearing your beat I intimate your arrival
Taking my cue from our blooming garden.
February 19, 2018
Placed 8th:Sunshine and showers contest by Robert Haigh
His day had come, and so He went and prayed.
The woes of all mankind upon him weighed.
His brethren slept; He knew what would befall.
His enemies conspired and did not stall.
A midnight kiss, and He would stand betrayed.
First seized, reviled, then stripped and flayed;
A scarlet robe on broken flesh then laid,
He bore the brutal cross and drank the gall.
His day had come.
A final breath. . . . the sacrifice was made.
The land then quaked. God’s sorrow was displayed.
The Son in linen. . . . on the earth a pall.
But in the sepulcher, His final call –
To conquer death! Man need not be afraid.
His day had come!
G rowth requires the reins of pain, the curing singe of fire
I nside we shrink, we quiver, quake but we rise inspired
V ictory through vice, challenge hardens resolve, lifts higher
I nnocence belayed, tried, can raise us whole, entire.
N ever damn the pain, decline the fight, rise, with life conspire
G od knows what's best this I believe what comes must transpire.
T he faint of heart, will never know the crucible, the pyre
H aving never risked the plunge, never left the flowery briar
A nd angrily bemoaned the dark, the pain, the fret conspired
N ever giving thanks for the test, the trials which seem most dire
K iss the ring, the ground, blow kisses skyward to the Holy Crier
S uch gifts as these diverse and free, all necessary and desired.
Contest Count Your Blessings
Date: 11/14/12