Best Correspondent Poems
Marquees are bright with neon lights, where crowds line up for movie night
Holding hands, we're in 'The Strand'. The velvet carpet guides us in
Popcorn smokes, .. we're drinking cokes,... and cracking jokes with Bing and Hope
Lamour's along with more sarongs,... , her luscious lips, and cigarettes,
She fills ashtrays with smoking tips, and tosses guys like poker chips
'Movietone' intrudes with news, and soon we're in somber mood
Third-Reich goosesteps march again, ... an evil presence in the wind...
Cary Grant , (a news reporter), loves his girl, and his typewriter
"His Girl Friday", plot is witty, sometimes crazy. But Cary loves this ditzy lady....
William Powell and Mryna Loy..., Asta barks, and finds a toy, ...a ploy? a clue?,....
...an earring gold. The mystery is clearly solved.-- A crimson sun, is rising cold!
Movietone in black and white,... graphic scenes, where soldiers die
Another night, suspense on chart. 'Correspondent' , Joel McCrea.
Saves Lorraine, and claims the Day. BUY WAR BONDs !! They'll pave the way
Bogart, Bergman bring to light, a valiant flght , within their grasp
Airline ticket, in her hand, they must part, and do what's right, no questions asked
----
It's movie night, but you aren't here, a troopship took you far from here
Allied troops are moving tanks. I wait for you..God give me strength
I'm in the Strand, within the dark, there's no one here to hold my hand
I'm all alone...........I heard the news....................You left it all in Anzio
_____________________________________
For Contest Chopped III Sponsored by Craig Cornish
11/23/14
Thousands living in fear
For they knew Hitler was growing near
In Poland her career would soon to be
As she helped scared persecuted to flee
Gas chambers were yet to come
For not all heeded the warnings of this young one
Compassion and determination
Made her the first in reporting the War of all Nations
A thousand horses and a thousand horsemen
A thousand tanks, her story found both ink and pen
Hollering of the invasion to be
Her worth all would soon well see
As German troops invaded Poland
Her report the first of World War number 2
The first female War correspondent so new
Setting the stage for all the brave lasses who followed through
Days long ago when a woman’s job just wasn’t so
She led the way, helping thousands begin a new pathway
She was the model for those who came after
She never quit, until death's battle
Her beauty had faded at the age of one hundred and five
Her moxy and determination they stayed vibrant and alive
She sipped champagne to the very end, one oh five
A tear for the lady, whose bravery defeated an evil campaign
Clare au Lune
For all tiss worth
You were and angel
Brave on the front lines of truth
Rest in peace, divine, for all time
Faith is a cat, treading softly,
with delicacy, with hesitation,
unlike the dog-like dogma
(so aptly named) which seeks
to hold fast a believer in its
proud, fierce and steel-like jaws.
Yes, faith is beyond reason--
how could it not be when the
mystery is more than any mind
can seize and hold and eat....
And faith is a tease, a hope not
fully formed but heavy, unlike
its correspondent, the soul, so
light no scale can weigh it, no
meter can measure--but faith
sweats and breathes and lives
in fear of its own death like the
fragile body and life it inhabits.
Faith can be mocked so easily
by those resolute like stone
whose hearts are sealed and
walled against wonder, magic--
the magic of the world, of air
and sun and moonlight grace.
The deep, deep magic of two
who meet as strangers, then
meld into friends, then bind in
a power greater than death,
a power cloaked in mystery:
'Why do I love him?' and
'Why do I so long for her?'
This power, this mystery will
never be contained, either by
time or place or memories--
it will transcend even eternity.
Thus faith is the child of love,
real love, love unbounded,
fierce, heedless, far beyond
its greeting card counterfeit.
Faith is found in the cracks,
when reason is overwhelmed
and hope seems near death--
then faith, never easy, never,
never truly simple-- then faith
will be tossed and turned and
sometimes die, but more often
thrive as it makes the soul one.
At the start of the next war,
While the headlines scream "war, war, war",
Go fit a lens to your gun's barrel
And a reel of film in its magazine.
It would be a better war—don't you agree?—
If all the innocents soon to face your gun
Froze in a pose
Anticipating the shots to come:
Shots of them, I mean,
Not shots at them!
When the order comes to open fire
That'll be the time to peer through your gun sight
Ready to take to the field of battle
And go clicking away
At the follies of men in war,
The corporate vultures circling above,
And all the lies, lies, lies about the war.
For where blood spills,
There truth must spill too;
But oft in war, it's the pills we get
To cloud our eyes and dim our minds.
Then, perhaps, we'll someday learn
Why our boys and girls who march forth to war
Never do really as of old return.
The heroes of a thousand battles
Retreat to a thousand bottles
At the doctor's and the barman's.
Who we call survivors
And whom we call casualties
Their fates ultimately come equal:
One falls in the battlefield,
The other in the bottle-field—
But fall they all do, they all do, O lord!
Life is a combination of different strata and classes
with the upper classes feeding on the states of the lower
which is the usual, displayed in most societies and cultures
and such a web between nations even more complex and sticky.
The developed massively profits on the developing
sustaining such a system for the affluent to stay powerful.
Pressing situations persist within their borders
but that of other nations becomes a meat and potatoe issue
while their greed stays a correspondent
to growing territories without a good sight.
They are obese hypocrites seeking for malnourished sycophants
promoting democracy but stabbing its legs in struggling communities
if propagation of governance isn’t favourable to their selfishness.
Merchandise and production from below becomes contraband
to tense such economies and make them perspire
even if a little consideration is reluctantly offered,
the controlled global markets will still sustain the toppers
feeding the climbers with crumbs to soften their bones.
Heavy makeup is the painting on their wealthy faces
to attract the scanty seedlings of the insufficient future cultivation of others
putting growth under a miasma of depression
to militate against economic and political independence.
Nevertheless, a stranger can only manipulate a home
if foolishly allowed to exhibit some level of command.
A major fertilizer to this trending cause
is laxity and mediocrity on the part of the sufferer
which has got so matronly to need meals on wheels
I travel in my imagination to talk to the sky about the sound from crying
Mum, the coastal area erosion my interest to take the risk to talk the
night gown glowing beneath the wind from the vile of verbose. The night
sombre to talk to me in lusty thy heart call to convey the conversation to
the contraction of my imagination pole to polemic night.
The cart of load middle of office article of etiquette acquiring the anchor
of life floating on the top of leafs to the drop of a pen that sound
inculcate Carbon Monoxide in my lungs, the bugs ramming the trim chopped to
the shape of my poetry garage, where lullaby play violin appeasing the
heart to function for the follow six years to come in the future to the
Futuristic that I have to feature all the songs sang by the birth to take
to me to my birthplace over second of ponder to pedal the hurdles to better
future star.
The shape of a room isn't my stop where building of atomic infractions dust
the dock to the documents of love, salad of emotions building in to into-to
Ruin not thy heart it sound correct to the correspondent reticent, the
Wagging of tail enjoins the brown color to the skyscraper in the heart of
the city sun. The ink of hate won't drop to the sound of pebble and the map
Of courage cool down the ridges moan of baby.
The high thinking keep on colonizing my entire colorless breathe that
wanted to shake to the voice of the night, the taste of understanding swirl
meek hard and aim of okra is too slippery the road to sound of success is
second hand to those placed theirs, the might blame the corrosive
Situation pink of flowers impact changes to the scent of cigar.
(Reviewed by a snooty correspondent)
November dons her coats of warm terries,
tans, a few ochres, but surely not bright.
(Except for sneaky, red-coated berries,
peeking from bushes, agrin with delight.)
November's dress: pretty dull, never shines.
We prefer October's boisterous charm.
Branches bare, it's said limbs often recline;
sunbathe to keep their tans, and also warm.
Fashion designers often grow somber
and turn November into works of art.
Choosing russet offset by burnt umber
we find those dull colors lacking in heart.
Whispers of Summer heard in fashion parks.
Soon we'll write of a new bridal-white show.
Days ending sooner, dusk now wearing darks;
Winter waits coyly; looks lovely in Snow.
November 10, 2021
November or December Quatrain Contest
sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
Once for whom the bell tolls did exist
the playwright and the war journalist.
Wilde had an ego that’s true
but Hemingway always knew
the importance of being Ernest!
~~~
Both men had huge egos. Ernest Hemingway
was a war correspondent and novelist who
wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls. Oscar Wilde
was an Irish playwright and poet who wrote
The Importance of Being Earnest.
Exploring manifold layers of skin
Wondering what region he was in
Spectacular this romp through her dunes
Exciting, the lure of her moons
Sailing swiftly from port to port
The time flying, ever too short
Soon winging its way via top-secret report
~ Startling news: Heaven's such a willing consort
I took my mum to slimming world
On every Tuesday night
She’d get her finest glad rags on
And beam with sheer delight
Not much of an adventure,
On the way she’d barely speak.
But she’d set her sights on glory
As the slimmer of the week.
With eager expectation
We queued up by the scales
Catching surreptitious glances
“Has she come off the rails ? “
“Shoes off please and on the scales”
Then handing in your book,
You felt your pulse start racing
When you dared to take a look
“Just a half pound gain this week”
“But don’t get too despondent “
The lady scribbled in mum’s book,
Like a weight gain correspondent.
“Have you checked the scales” said Mum
“They simply can’t be right ?”
“I think they need to be reset
Because I didn’t weigh that last night ?”
“Are you staying for the chat ?”
Said the slimming world consultant
“We’ve got some bars for you to try”
And mum looked quite exultant
“Would you like a raffle ticket ?”
I can still picture the scene,
When they drew your numbers out
And you won an aubergine.
“So how’s your week been Linda ?
Did you keep track of your syns ? “
“I just had lots of chicken breasts
But I didn’t eat the skins “
“Mark - our slimmer of the week !
Share your story with the group”
“I just ate Quorn and Quark all week
And pints of lentil soup”
Mum kept smiling all the time
While others told their tales of woe,
A Chinese meal that took its toll
Or a Hot Dog at the show
Brenda stormed out of the room
Just looking for attention.
“ I’ve not put on 3 pounds” she screamed
It’s just water retention
“See you all next week” said Sue
The hall’s needed by the Vicar
Mark, smiling smugly, swaggered out
Showing off his latest sticker.
On the way back in the car
Mum was smiling, full of glee
I said “what are you so pleased about? “
She said “ They’re all bigger than me”
The Friend's Tale
His groin was mutilated - did you know?
Please, try these pastries. Do. I love them so!
And how is London? It's my favorite city.
Are all the English journalists so pretty?
I'm sorry - correspondent to the court
here in Vienna. You will have your sport.
Be patient, dear. You say I know your father?
First Secretary of State? I need him. Rather,
his daughter is the one who needs me, now.
You'll have the where and when, the why and how.
The Hope of Austria dies with his bawd.
You watch - our talent will all flee abroad.
Of course, the Court will meet the blows and parry them -
The Habsburgs never fight their foes. They marry them.
The situation's grave, not serious, we say,
But this is lethal. This is End of Days.
She lashed out, is my theory, when he said
she was no longer welcome in his bed.
He fell asleep, she took his razor blade
and hacked about his privates. He, dismayed,
enraged, in pain, took up his gun and fired.
And in the watches of the night, alone,
he knew he'd lost his manhood - and his throne.
Your town house, did you say, is Berkeley Square?
Could you present me to your father there?
quintain
From my wheel chair facing their veranda
I could not distinguish the girl next door.
She looked somewhat like my niece, Miranda,
except for her hair halfway to the floor.
(Miranda always kept her hair shorter.)
I turned the music down so I could hear
the conversation that was taking place.
Although I consider myself a seer
who reads expressions on a person’s face,
I discerned the voice of a reporter -
well-known correspondent on radio.
She posed some questions, most of which I missed.
Once she turned her head towards me, just so
and I caught one, clearly getting her gist.
“Is your neighbor watching us from her deck?”
Taking the hint, I retreated inside,
unaware of how obvious I’d been.
It was then I saw what she had descried.
Eavesdropping had not caused her chagrin,
‘twas the field glasses hanging ‘round my neck.
on Friday
one pm
reporter
for the
standard-examiner
at s8
interview me
puffy puffery
it is the day before Saturday
one post meridiem (1 p.m.) demolishment
set in time
correspondent of journalist
falls quickly ephemeral, quick
standard and examiner
frolicking on Sections of eight
with a simple dialogue
of puffy puffery
safety unknown
As is said, we are He, who we seek
Today, let’s find out together
Love beckons, we try to take a sneak peek
But fears and desires tether
Veiled remains The Divine Mother
Knowing not the way, we stop flow of thought
Resting in pristine stillness
Joy currents within rise, both cold and hot
Heightening our awareness
Kundalini consciousness
Sublime serpent at root begins to stir
Divine feminine awake
Energy centers in subtle body whir
Our spine does the shake-shake-shake
Trust us; our sanity’s at stake
Pathways three; Sushumna, Ida and Pingala
Snake divine makes up its mind
Upon path of least resistance, has a gala
Unless ego borne fears bind
Charmed by our heart, it’s touch is kind
Oh worthy lama, go beyond all opposites
Serpent’s Holy Spirit in disguise
Be bemused not by myriad composites
Now, ceasing to weigh and size
Allow divinity to rise
02-January-2022
The Snake Charmer Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Notes: A short overview of our energy (pranic) life force field
Kundalini is Shakti - the divine feminine, coiled like a serpent at the base of our spine. It is the kinetic aspect of God’s energy. The potential aspect is Shiva, at the crown chakra, correspondent to our fontanel on the top of head. Shakti yearns to reunite with Shiva and so rises at the optimal time, when mind-body vessel is purified. The energisation is felt as living magnetism within.
Ida is the cool channel, correspondent to left nostril. Pingala is the hot channel, related to our right nostril. Both these paths are serpentine, intersecting at the sacral, navel, heart, throat and third eye (between eyebrows), merging there to connect to the crown.
Sushumna is a three layered cylindrical conduit in the geometric centre of our body, joining the root chakra to the crown chakra. It is referred to as the energy expressway, rod of initiation or staff of power in different scriptures.