Best Coordinated Poems
Most people were born with love and concern
~ the real world is more like a nightmare ~
Listening To My Monday Blues
~
we need to turn adversity into opportunity
CHANGE
~ before the sun goes down ~
~ * * * * * * ~
Some have tattoos, others have scars
Everyone has the memories
Five years after several coordinated
terrorist acts shaken Norway on 22 July 2011
The bereaved and survivors still have horrific memories
and miss their loved ones who lost their lives
... One human
...
... The air vibrated
25.07.2016
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.
The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.
Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.
Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.
Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.
Life's margins are too narrow for proofreading: a poor catch of extra commas, profiles of girls and monograms of insomnia. For literature, an earthly life is just a couple of words in a not too coordinated sentence, let alone the poetry: here the author's headache determines the character's lifetime, here the area of a paper sheet limits his rectangular space of life… At this moment the protagonist is wondering why his black coat, which he puts on only once a year on Christmas Eve when visiting his wife in Woodlawn Cemetery, is worn through and why a lonely old poet is so cold in December in New-York?
should author tell him
I don't think so life's margins
are too narrow for
19.12.2019
The Darker Side Of Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
Said the said poems
We are a coordinated effort of Al juman
over 800 proud, profound and strong.
We are one of a kind,
spontaneous, different and entertaining.
We are the Said poems,
anyone else is just a fake, false wanna be.
So said you pen pusher,
go find your own way.
Any poem starting with said
belongs to Al Juman.
© Al Juman The "said" Poet 4/4/1999
God isn't neat
He hasn't got it all sewn up
Tidy
Complete
He doesn't have a perfect plan
Preprepared
A place for everything
Colour coordinated
Sussed out, exclusively available
To the spiritual elite.
He doesn't have a bag of surprises
Distributed on a whim
Leukaemia for you
Long life for her
Alzheimer's or dementia or a road traffic accident for him.
He doesn't mete out chance events
Based on our choices
The sound of our voices
The town of our birth
Our place on the earth
The state of our hearts
Our love of the Arts
Our reliance on science
Our sin.
He never has promised that life will be fair
Or tragedies rare
Simply he tells us
Because of his son
All that he is
All he has done
In the light and the dark
In joy and in pain
Perceived or
Ignored
Trusted or
Doubted
He will be there
So shocking was that news from France,
we stared at TVs in a trance;
no way to understand.
Those young and old without a chance
were taken down in wide expanse.
Such horror had been planned.
Who could have then foreseen the fate
upon them cast by those who hate?
Just gathered there for fun,
not knowing that their deaths await
while music played and people ate,
their lives were over, done.
Who could have thought ahead that they -
that enemy that wants its way
to change our form of life,
would sacrifice their own to say
that their belief we must obey?
Misguided thoughts run rife.
That Paris scene that fretful night
prepares us now to face the fight.
Define this threat once more
that could erupt within our sight.
Entire world must join the fight
to face this crusade war.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Rime Couee - Tail-Rhymed Verse - For France
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 01/03/2016
~2nd Place~
Contest: Best Sad Poem EVER
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 08/29/2016
=============================================
Rime Couee
I went with this pattern for Rime Couee as shown on "The Poet's Garret" website
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x b
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x b
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The November 2015 Paris attacks (sometimes referred to as 11/13) were a series of coordinated terrorist attacks that occurred on Friday 13 November 2015 in Paris, France, and the city's northern suburb, Saint-Denis. Beginning at 21:16 CET, three suicide bombers struck outside the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, during a football match. This was followed by several mass shootings, and a suicide bombing, at cafés and restaurants. Gunmen carried out another mass shooting and took hostages at a concert in the Bataclan theatre, leading to a stand-off with police. The attackers were shot or blew themselves up when police raided the theatre.
The attackers killed 130 people, including 89 at the Bataclan theatre. Another 368 people were injured, 80–99 seriously. Seven of the attackers also died, while the authorities continued to search for accomplices. The attacks were the deadliest on France since World War II." Wikipedia
Bang spectrum of Confetti start the celebration!
Rosy majorettes clad in brick red whistle thrice,
Golden tassel batons toss and fly, greets sky!
Her comrade increase the feat heat synchronization,
Thunder cheers flood alongside adding spice.
Beginning their flamboyant rhythm and blues sound
Are black and white drum and bugle epic vibrations.
Come in well coordinated act: all nice
Loud gigantic flowered covered floats in slow motion
Meatball, the big brown bear, pop and arise,
''Catching the Big one'', orange fish rolls down,
Sweet fragrance of roses afloat around.
Yellow haired boy from ''Sea of Surprises'', drown the frown.
Tempted eyes, ears, nose and feet in joyous heights!
(c)Olive Eloisa
11:45pm
June 26, 2014
Originally entitled: COLOURS for the contest Colours of Shadow Hamilton placed 4th.. :)
Note: Inspired by "Tournament of Roses Parade". During New Year's Time, me and my mom views this telecasted tournament.. :) I love the creativity and the great imagination of the rose float creators..:D!!! This is held annually in California, USA sponsored by Honda. How wonderful it is if this seen live.. :)! On my readings, each year there is a theme to inspire the creators. The first ever theme was about Patriotism, this year: "Dreams come True" and next year: "Inspiring Stories".
The policy of hate and date,
You may not like but it’s the truth,
The bitter truth mate!
Was it a lone wolf terror or was it a coordinated fight?
Who cares since it targeted souls
Despised by night.
But you are no God to legislate and
Decide on fate
An act that made an end,
To the destiny of a foe and a friend...
With no reason,
In a season of hate and revenge?
In Orlando like in Kabul,
A score of lives fell like flies,
With no respect to the being and soul,
Not to dare to compare the two,
You lunatic! You fool!
In Orlando like in Kabul, human tokens
From all sort of life dropped and stopped
Thinking, stopped moving and stopped breathing,
For some sick and dick, this was cool????
For others, this was a life crime!
But the difference, is that in Orlando unlike in Kabul,
Media and support were promptly presented and shoulders were
Provided to lean and cry upon,
But in Kabul you are on your own but not alone,
Blood called blood and this is a twin evil
To face and confront,
I know that all of us are divided and different,
I know for sure that our shaky unity in diversity is now compromised,
But human life is worth than principles of freedom and democracy if any
For sure God created Adam and eve,
Nay Adam and Steve,
But who cares now in this mega mall of globalised world
And as the oriental dictum goes, each sheep is hanged by its leg
And on its own,
And now you have all your time to grief cry and moan,
With your clan and tribe and even on your own,
Your acts reflect your thought,
Or maybe your act translates you hate,
Reflects you vision, your own vision,
That is your mission,
Terror calls terror and an eye for an eye is still on,
Reflecting an old Judaeo-Christian, then a Muslim law,
To celebrate hate at dawn
It’s your shared [Onus!]
Your shared fault,
And now you are harvesting together,
It’s now you shared a bonus,
Some of you still on the divine ship
Some of you still worshiping in deep,
You name Torah, Psalms, Bible and the Quran,
But some of you are still faithful to the [Cronus!]
Silver nail tips nails painted black accentuated her skin.
Her pantsuit was coordinated with her accessories.
Her conversation was of political activism.
She was sharp as a tack and her mind was keen.
She was a trailblazer in her game.
Political office she would acclaim.
The members of her party gave her the highest praise.
Approbated in opinion she spoke.
She would win this campaign was everyone’s hope.
This is my time in space she stated.
As I stand amongst my people in this political forum, our way will form.
I am filled with esteem because you believe in me.
Our struggles will be over.
Strife is economical.
We are the obsolete proof in which we construct a new school of thought.
She was given an applause.
That is when she asked…
Please, may I have your attention?
{The Power House became quiet}.
We are old-fashioned people with modern ways.
We must base our advocacy on what is out-of-date.
I have unearth the treachery of immigration.
I have exhume the undisclosed knowledge of slavery.
Once in office, I will construct.
Unveil my administration to what our goals are.
This land is my land.
I am that strength and courage.
We will correct this nation’s antiquity defeating yesterday.
{The Power House stood in ovation}.
__________________________________|
Penned on May 11, 2014!
Lakota, Arapaho
Cheyenne, Oglala
Minneconjou
Where are they now?
Why is there so much dust
Over a fillet of memory?
The smoke fires are dead
And the discords of our life
We write as history.
It is significant still
The shallow content
In which we drown for glory
It is I
Remnant of a forgotten tear
That must tell
The similitude of a coordinated hell.
Despair is a state of mind
A featherlessness
Of warriors wings ... a moan
Leaking from a drum
On deserted prairie afternoon
I watched the ghost dancers
Cried with their feet,
And never saw a thing more desolate.
These men freed from the bondage of their souls
Came slow circle
Through the trance of disbelief
Lingered in the music of drums
Retired from the melody of their hearts
O how they danced
The ghost dancers deserted by their magic
They danced
For the return of the buffaloes
They danced
Invoking the prairie grass to gallop
From the horses feet
Bowing only to the mastery of the wind
Like fodder bows to fire and change
And the black cloud stood stagnant
Lethargic in the emptiness
For from the black breast came
No white milk to put out the fire of shame
Before the women and children vacant eyes
They danced for the land
That had aborted their dreams
And corralled them
In the tragedy at wounded knee
I don't care how we limp from it
Regrets are only the arthritis of desire
The buzzards roof the certainty of the eye
The heat is white here like a bone
Beneath the grinching grass
The hoof beat dies
And the ghost dancers caper
In an agony beyond reconciliation.
Should Be for Gun Control
Subjects were considered to be highly correlated
And they could also be easily coordinated
Not only that both of them were hale and hearty
Were members of a different political party.
Would they straight and narrow try to walk
While being able to talk the very same talk
Being so nice as can be as well as kind
Also always having all of the voters in mind.
We wanted someone who would be our savior
Not a political plumb who wants your favor
Willing to only think about each other's need
And with no one else have they ever agreed.
After all of the trials, tribulations and tedium
They still could not arrive at a happy medium
And then their faces were found looking pale
When we started to put both parties up for sale.
Not aware of knowing what a moral may be
Was perfectly clear we were starting to see
And according to political poll we all extol
Winning candidates must be for gun control.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
Will it all go?
Decades of sociability,
dancing to Glenn Miller's music,
the funhouse laugh,
You have your mother's smile?
Temporary lapses
Robbing all normal habits
of appropriate conversation,
of money matters,
answering machines,
televisions, and
stoves.
Depression:
Recollection of voids,
but hair in place,
clothes coordinated,
disposition- sweet,
charm intact.
Will it all go?
The charisma,
the humor,
the love?
Middle-aged hands
still grasping
you
to
stay?
Eloquent design turned sideways fast
On dark matters rise to the cosmic dawn lost
Leads to a plane point invisible along its orbit
A path shattered by a blast from futures light
Coplanar lines remain the same
With weight, particles escape, into oblivion beyond all doubt
Bubbled up from foreign origins, they explode into the calm
The ones left over from other universes emerge on altered states
Lift the ecliptic declining into nothing as circles die
Beyond that, by definition, light carries on with beams delightful
Changing properties by quark conversion
Along the vast divide celestial spheres appear
The basis for the ecliptic coordinated system
Planets move with indifference about the void
On other worlds time goes by then slides into the darkness
Not to be surprised at finding clues under the silent moon
Just setting with the cryptic sun below the downed horizon
I’m lost in the tingle of your hair
Overcome in a tangle of beauty
In its glow like a nebula cloud in the night sky
I’m taken back to the music
When you moved like a leaf on a ripple
And in your eyes, I witnessed the birth of a star
Your skin is a new sensation
But my hands are on thin restraint
Soft to the touch, colour coordinated to mystify
Let the sun set with all our wrongs
And the night be our crossover
With the sunrise write a new love song
‘cos I never want this lyric to be over
Your voice is a light feather
Played on heartbeat’s melody
Goosebumps cover my skin every time you speak
You need only say the word
For only you can give me that magic
And I would heal all the ills of the world, if I could
Take me back to the music
When I would rhyme your name
When your hair glow had me in love’s unbroken spell
Let the sun set with all our wrongs
And the night be our crossover
With the sunrise write a new love song
‘cos I never want this lyric to be over
I had your hair in a chokehold
And you...my skin under your nails
Under your breath, clutching onto love's musical intrument
You move like a leaf on water
You glide effortlessly into my heart
And your voice kills me softly, every time you call out my name
So as you move like the Maestro
I'll play every note to your baton
'cos I never want this lyric to end like the magic in your hands
Let the sun set with all our wrongs
And the night be our crossover
With the sunrise write a new love song
‘cos I never want this lyric to be over
07-30-2015
Thabang Jan Ngoma
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
Contest Name: Time to "B"
Prompt: BE QUIET
When she wrapped around the tinsel of gold,
The bare branches bowed around the Christmas tree,
And lo! It was a proud sight to behold
With coloured paperchains carefully rolled,
The honour was bequeathed at the age of three,
When she wrapped around the tinsel of gold
Small soft hands dipped in baubles new and old,
A jumbled wild glittered decorating spree,
And lo! It was a proud sight to behold
Each Christmas we watched adornment enfold,
Lifting our diligent little working bee,
When she wrapped around the tinsel of gold
Final touches, un-coordinated, yet bold
Animated eyes reflecting sparkle and glee,
And lo! It was a proud sight to behold
Now that our brightest star has left the fold,
Like each tree, we remember what used to be,
When she wrapped around the tinsel of gold,
And lo! It was a proud sight to behold
24/11/22
Sponsor: Constance La France
Write a Christmas poem contest