Best Conversant Poems
Grateful am I to God for America’s great legacy
wholeheartedly enjoyed with freedom-bliss
in my country, regarded as the “Pearl of the Orient Seas.”
Joyful am I for America’s great contributions to my personhood:
my being conversant with the international language
first passed on by the Thomasite teachers to our educators;
then, having heard the scriptural Gospel* for eternal redemption
steadfastly preached by American missionaries
nurturing my faith to reach-out to others, sharing blest peace.
Now, I entrust America to the Lord, with earnest prayer
envisioning her to prevail upon truth-propped liberty
along stalwart biblical constitution exercise
midst sterling dignity as “land of the free”
marked by her “In God we trust” seal.
Romans 1:16 For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.
November 14, 2020
8th place, "2021 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VISIONARY" Premier Contest
Sponsored by L MILTON HANKINS; judged on 11/24/2020.
Some sacrificial fonts are filled
with sanctified water
others overflow with blood and bile
all but for the rose petals camouflage
dare we know the difference
A holy child who in devoice distilled
lest in innocence mayhap confront such sanctimonious alter
collectively strangled by guile
for say not to us such criminal reportage
but prefer to consecrate our ignorance
In dissonance are we worse revealed
and laid sightless to truths encounter
be us then the factious rank and file
conversant only to a fools salted mirage
a dummies page of prophetic words rallying our compliance
A poem is like a candle
that brings human feelings to light:
moving like a stubbled shadow
across the face of tomorrow.
And its rhythm should be inviting:
soliciting raw emotions
from within the depths of your soul;
where both Angels and Demons dwell.
Its language should be conversant:
conveying the poet's message
in a relatable fashion;
emotional and personal.
And it should be free of the lies
that ignorance perpetuates:
exposing feelings, wizened words
oft cut deeper than any blade.
Wrinkled, but beautiful still
Even in decrepit apparel and uncombed;
Jagged skin and sensual fragrance lost
But still spongy her touch is and the smell
Only thing I’d miss the most in the universe.
Toiled through hardship and still indebted,
Altruistic she- uncared and unattended her own needs,
But protected her offspring despite dearth
From cold and famine, the fatal scourge,
And well-groomed into esteemed mortals.
In spite piercing pang and pain within
Beautiful soul, still smile on the parched lips,
For bold but tender my darling is,
So kind at heart and divinely soft in speech,
She is, perhaps the surrogate of Goddess.
Aged and hoary now appears my hero,
But conversant, cultured and well-versed,
The fount of worldly wisdom she is
Who speaks of art of living and greatness-
The lessons from myriad mistakes of her past.
Dearest and my favorite, still the one I so adore,
And now Silver Jubilee of our intimacy,
Fonder my heart becomes of her, my love,
Indubitably the most desired and undeniable,
Only is she the joy and ecstasy of my life.
Best friend she is to me since infancy
With whom I played and quarreled often,
And my sweetheart, indeed my first love,
With whom I had my first kiss and shared a quilt-
My beloved mother- the creator of this poet.
I love you, mom.
Feed your goldfish before you leave
Love them as you love yourself
The bible tells us all fish are created equal
Some people prefer baby guppies
Because their mouths move slow and oval
They are smaller and talk in pantomime
Can breath underwater
And even look like one another all the time
Never throw small things in the toilet
Bony creatures can get stuck when flushing
Fish go better in a soup
Don't tell them that
Or add too much seasoning without a reason
Be truthful to your fish
Be faithful as you wish them to be
They swim about for a living
The Iliad and Odyssey are recommended reading
For people, not aquatic types
Anything other than Greek might suffice
Goldfish don't speak Greek
Don't know about the Trojans either
Luwian is foreign and hard to pronounce
Too many vowels and consonants
Along with cuneiform and hieroglyphic characters
Goldfish are not conversant in such languages
We recommend leaving them in a bowl
Preferably filled with water
That way they can grow old
Don't confuse them with gray guppies
Goldfish are gold
Some say orange or red
Love your fishes any way
Like the good book says
….or was it the cook book?
Put your finger down
If you believed
That Maandamano (Protests) would change the country
Put your finger down
If you were caught in the feeling
That the revolution has been televised
Put your finger down
If you believed
His excellency was shaken to humanity
Put your finger down
If you believed that the death of the bill
Was the death of the business of deals
Put your finger down
If you thought the heroes
Shot in the demonstration
Would be matyrs of a new nation
Put your finger down
If you thought the spectacle of the king
To the anger of the peasants
Was a victory to the masses
Put a finger down
If you don't know where to fight anymore
Because you were given the carrot in words
And a stick in action
Watching the same bourgeois class
Conversant in the language of the system
Back to steer ing the system to their pockets
Put your finger down
If you think parliament should be dissolved
the president should step down
Put your finger down
If you think we need better leaders,
And with the remaining finger
If you are pointing at a better leader,
You don't get it
It is the system that rewards
Those who understand
How your country works
Those fluent in the language of success
Fluent in bull***ing the masses
And leaves on the way side the rest of us
The masses lying in the blood of country men
Who died for a week of hope and excitement?
Maybe we should have put our feet down
And demanded different incentives for leadership
Less salaries
More service
Less power
More community
Less brains
More heart
Less legacy
More change
Less economy
More society
as we are
The country is a hydra
The same head always grows back
The day after the revolution
Everything is normal
Snow Flake And Mountain
A snow flake came down, in turns, in twists, in blizzard company
Never lands, captured in an updraft, lifts up with other plans
A mountain positioned for a collision with the flake
Seemed tall enough to follow the movement of the thing
Aging in good time, conversant in snow and what it takes
Also knowledgeable in smaller matters, practicing due diligence
Waited, as mountains are apt to do, in these conditions
To receive the snow form with all its molecules
Take it to a final resting place along the lower face
Crystal flake continued though, on a sojourn to the sun
Still clinging to the upward draft
Not knowing what the sun might do to it
The snow floated, transforming into water
It drew closer to the warmth, to the point of vapor
But in a miracle of ice and cold, it fell or floated down
It drifted back to earth and hugged the mountain
Thanked it for a friendly wind and place to get some shade
Snow flake gathered whiteness on this little break
Came back to proper form
From the crystal core
And went on floating ever down for ever more
It would never reach the bottom
The mountain saw to that
It kept the snow flake by its side above the tundra line
Near a full grown pine tree whistling through the needles
Singing sweet lullabies of winter and storms gone by
Snow crystal glides in cozy circles about the pine
she got on about three stops after I did
I was sure she was conversant in ballet
by the way she danced up the steps
and delicately deposited her passage
into the device next to the driver
her fingers were disproportionately
long and far too elegant for
such tiny hands
her nails were ornately painted
with purple flowers on a white back lay
she must have been very ambidextrous as
each tiny fingernail looked exactly alike
it was winter and there was about
18 inches of snow in the lanes
she wore white rubber boots
the bus wore its annual tire chains.
I was dressed in my traditional white tennis shoes,
weathered blue jeans a white Eddie Bauer T
and my socks were soaking wet
from trying to dodge the slush
near the bus stops
she was enveloped in a long
camel-hair pea coat
and, crazy as it sounds
a feather hat much like
Robin Hood used to wear
I thought I would depart before her
as she asked for a transfer
like a novice-carom-billiard player
I almost fell flat on my backside
when the bus shot off
before I could grab the overhead rail
as I lent her my seat
the bus was lousy
with swing shift laborers
headed to the fish packing plants
I one of them
pangs of passion
swelled deep in my heart
and seeped through every pore
I wanted to hold her in my arms
and love her, nothing more.
then she left, brushed close by me
and the driver sweetly shut the door
pain exhaled softly
silencing a lion's roar
with mangled mane (and vanquished pride)
I knew not what to infer
through toothless jaws silently cried
my heart alone for her
the seat where she once sat
remained unoccupied
save for her plumed hat
that I stared at
'til the end of my ride
"Thy wit is quick and capable thy rhyme
Conversant with my heart art thou and sly
Thou giveth words where I have never spoken
I swear against the truth so foul a lie
For pride and reputation hath thou token
My beauty's pattern idly sold to men
My Spirit, qui'tly dreaming, now awoken
Cries: 'Draw no lines there, with thy antique pen
Sir, I forbid thee this most heinous crime!
Though people see thee fair and thought thee bright
Thy art is black as hell, as dark as night!"
William Shakespeare (by ouija-board), commenting upon the work of 18 year old William Ireland who, in 1794, forged a great number of Shakepeare parafernalia, including a complete play; 'Vortigern and Rowena'.
This elegant form, called 'eleven', or 'onzine' was developed by the Dutch light verse poet 'Drs. P' (real name Heinz Polzer, born in 1919 and still going strong).
Rhyme scheme: abc bcd cda ee. The lines are usually in iambic pentameters.
a and b end with a stressed syllable, c with an unstressed one.
I am well conversant with the the art of war
how can i not?
Other than the fact that each day is a survival on this planet
My father was a freedom fighter
See!
Sovereignty runs through my veins.
Am fortified.
Beauty and personality are my bow and arrows;
Charisma has been known to bring down Berlin walls.
I polish my brains and character daily
Being Smart is something my father would recommend.
Bible and faith are my defender
after all,every physical,emotional,psychological battle in this life can only be won spiritually.
Am fortified.
You standing by my side,and i have never been more stronger.
I am no longer me',its We.
In my inadequacies,you refill my cup
When my maths don't add up,your intelligence save the day.
My missions are no longer 'stand alone',I have a co-pilot.
Am fortified.
I always knew i was born to reign
now with your love as my guide and guard
my walls will never taste defeat
My kingdom shall never fall
Am fortified.
There is no part of life mine alone,
If regarding my whole existence.
What belongs to me is only flesh and bone,
Therefrom this life has subsistence.
Down on the farm I was buying time,
The universe I studied for reason.
Sweetest wine carried me through my prime,
It numbed my pain in every season.
There arrived torturous days galling,
Mainly dispiriting to my mentality.
Yet I operated above whatever was appalling,
I just dared not easily show my fragility.
All this and more, it kept me sane,
Scarcely a day I had without sin.
There was the neglect, and profanity arcane,
Its blasphemous speech was akin.
On a dry creek bed I oft-times laid,
Looking up at the sky in a daze.
Habitually I went there and quietly played,
Literally it was a place I could laze.
Sometimes I caught fresh tadpoles,
Then cooked them in a tin pot.
These larvae's I collected from tiny water holes,
An acquired taste they were hot.
But only to the conversant hillbilly,
I rather was such in an awful rut.
It wasn't something I could flee quite freely,
So in my misery I feasted on smut.
Actually I tried to glance elsewhere,
But I felt like a slave to this stain.
They looked so pretty in their neckwear,
Several were butt naked in the rain.
Across the flat fields cattle grazed,
Completely ignoring the crows.
A vineyard nigh I watched over unfazed,
Lady of plight too would impose.
The grapes of despair I grew there,
Relying on ***** men in chains.
They worked all day till dusk without fanfare,
And none of them had notable names.
It was a harsh country for the folk,
Ye all marked fateful on a tether.
Unfortunates who had no rights to provoke,
Things there were cruel altogether.
The slave tarts I occasionally took,
Most offered no fiery resistance.
But when one did I quickly gave her the hook,
It meant she'd hang in an instance.
Until the grapes of despair expire,
I shall continue my trade of sin.
Down on the farm I expect this life to backfire,
Postulating fears to my hell therein.
It is always darkest before the light, they say
And for some of us that is most assuredly true
I almost never see the dawn at the break of day.
I am among those who sleep the dawn through
I sleep away the morning hours 'til nearly noon
And for some of us that is most assuredly true.
Some friends tell me seeing the sunrise is a boon
I treasure my deepest sleep during mid-morning
I sleep away the morning hours 'til nearly noon.
Please do not visit me before noon, I’m warning
For I will be half-asleep and scarcely conversant
I treasure my deepest sleep during mid-morning.
A lifelong practice, I would say it is permanent
Seeing that I am essentially brain dead so early
For I will be half-asleep and scarcely conversant.
Frankly, if awakened before noon, I can be surly
It is always darkest before the light, they say
Seeing that I am essentially brain dead so early
I almost never see the dawn at the break of day.
Written April 22, 2022
A Conversant has little to say.
Not quite, what I would acknowledge as true,
Some of us have little to do.
Being conversant is to offer knowledge.
Being conversant is to share.
I have nothing more to say.
Sans Whole Body Out Of Country Transplant
hmm...methinks mebbe aye
can empty the ocean
one teaspoon at time bine bye
and after about
a bajillion years cry
tears of joy, when mine
petrified organs of sight decry
solid sea floor to mud dill
across to Iceland eye
would readily forsake
United States citizenship,
and buzzfeed akin to a human fly
hooping genuine emotional
physical, or spiritual
philanthropic gratuity
could be accepted
'pon being bequeathed
from this guy
'course after friendly
bantering initiated with "hi"
and once settling upon lingua franca
as modus operandi
this wholesome casual
conversant chap would appeal
himself as (non GMO gluten, and
monosodium glutamate free) bonemeal
suitable *****sapien reserved
quite pleasingly congenial
to shake hands after
mutual agreement reached,
whereby roundly accepted
apprenticeship contractual stipulations
understood asper "Art of the deal,"
an awesomely empyreal
corroborate burning man
Matthew Scott Harris
in effigy "FAKE"
immolation funereal
faux "cremation ashes"
topped with goldenseal
thee initial process
to detox and psychologically heal
from Trump Bite US strain A
(or alternate spelling
D. trump pen lumpen throat
or a similar
facsimile concocted "FAKE"
illness thereof - NOT IDEAL
for man, woman, or child,
who quickly become fodder material
(a bio-hazard devastating
entire folks future generations genetics)
symptoms easily mis
taken for nasopharyngeal
infection, where optimal
cure comprises bland oatmeal
with jelly beans, thus I app peal
to provide sanctuary else this real
threat to life and limb
will find me to suffer fools
unless via quaffing hemlock
rigor mortis from grim reaper ICE steal!
Check Mate
By Rick Rucker
Were it not for the most curious turn of Fate,
I would never have met The One, that will be my mate!
The chances were, actually, two hundred to one!
Sorting through them, I had but begun,
When seeing her, I merely froze,
She thrilled me to my toes!
Beauty, brains, and a practical sense,
The perfect foil for a man so awfully dense!
Also, she was born in Europe,
With which, I am as conversant as a Western stirrup!
If you tried to find a less likely pair,
You could not find one anywhere!
Which, of course, goes to show,
That you really never know,
Like chess pieces, moved from Above,
We were intended to fall in Love!
As the hour is quite late,
Forgive me, I am going to go check my Mate!