Best Crisis Poems
'Twas the twilight of the year
a twinkling tiara.
December 31st, digits dancing dunes
in the Sahara.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
it's a prance.
A numerical Irish step dance
given a whimsical chance.
In the calendar's corners,
a magical mystery unfurls.
As the date spins and swirls
like a jester's jingling twirls.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
in a line.
A date so divine,
it deserves its own shrine
so fine!
But wait, what's this? A satirical twist!
The date's just a number
it doesn't exist!
One, two, three, one, two, three,
what's the fuss?
Wait… all dates are human-
created
YES, by us!
The numbers are shocked
feeling quite superfluous.
In the grand scheme of things
oh so ridiculous!
So here's to the New Year
let's raise a toast.
To the date that we've come
to boast the most.
With champagne that sparkles
and tastes like the sun.
2023 is yet undone
run from the old
to the new one,
run, run, run!
In the canon of the digits
a lesson we see.
Time is a construct
as fluid as the sea.
So let's celebrate the moments
both big and small.
For, in the end
they're the most
precious of all.
Un-nerved by formal sentencing assemblies,
Marks and Words, bound by conjunctive amenity.
The tried beliefs that short cuts speed words into action.
Made stuffy Old School feel out of fashion.
Punctuation board-slams her silver gavel;
“A shortened distance, yet far to travel.”
Marks are pushed into line to enter their plea.
Dash Dash Dash has trailing thoughts…
Comment remarks that it thinks too much.
Question Mark, curiously rotund and stout,
asks “What’s this meeting all about?”.
Proud Period, acquainted with the strident rituals of formality,
Quickly departs, leaving a daunting spot of terse finality.
Comma’s game of pause and snag,
grammatically adheres to one of tag.
Overwrought Exclamation Mark, nervously blurts:
“Unruly disorder can make matters worse!”.
Semi colon maintaining proper pauses,
Stays anchored between compelling clauses.
Colon fearful of growling barks,
snuggles closer to Quotation Marks.
Apostrophe’s like for word possession,
worries over changing word obsession
Oh, Oh! Oh? Oh…
These are shameful attempts to monopolize,
Even with trite words, of unassuming size.
.
Punctuation thinks her identity’s impaired
Might she be confused with the shrew, Grammar?
She calls to order a capitol thought.
sliding up to Exclamation Mark, shouts “’STOP!’
The object of this meeting,
Is not subject to self- beating.
No presence is here to criticize, or chastises,
nor harmonize.
If getting through is what stays true.
Will be understood by some , but always to you.”.
It's complicated
The way she looks at him
Not the way it used to be
When he had held her gaze
She had expected to love him all of her days
Had walked around in that lover's daze
Not aware of his cheating ways
His hiding and deception
An unskilled master of self protection
She discovered the reason for the alienation of his affection
All the small clues that led to his detection
Making her doubt herself
Not wanting to believe his indescretion
It was easier imagining relational perfection
Without him she thinks she has no life
Her identity tied to being his wife
Yet now she wishes
imagines
Gutting him with a knife
much better being a widow
Than a cheaters wife
So she looks at him with piercing eyes
Imagines the other woman's thighs
And the part of him she use to make rise
In this moment she begins to realize
He's not much of a prize
Still deep down
she hopes the bastard dies!
He says he saw "(this nation's)
Identity sold and robbed by immigration..."
And I remember
My first day teaching at the border school
First one there that August morning
Cows were grazing on the lawn
I walked into the office to report them
and the secretary laughed, "They're Hector's.
They sneak over the border sometimes.
He's on his way to get them."
The crossing was two blocks away
There was a hole in the fence
Where all the kids from Mexico
Who attended school in America, crossed
Customs and border patrol agents knew them
AND watched them come and go
Safely
It really was an open border then
And no one felt their identity was threatened
America was built on the backs of immigrants
And those who came in chains
They worked for pennies and nothing at all
While white culture treated them as inferiors
Are we losing our identity as white supremacists
Because people of nonwhite culture refuse to be our inferiors
GOOD
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
Declaration of Independence (if you read)
People coming to America to live free and pursue their happiness
Robs our identity
Really?
People coming to America to live free and pursue their dreams
IS our identity
not January 6 insurrectionists
not election deniers
not voting rights suppressors
NOT white supremacists
who are destructive to others' lives, liberty, and their happiness
My duty as a TRUE American Patriot is to call you out
You threaten the very principles upon which this nation stands
And like it or not, we will confront you, and block your way
This great country is made of great people,
not narrow minded _____
(Whatever fits)
I'm out
Identical twins, me and my brother
Got the same birthday, got the same mother
Don’t know if I’m he
Don’t know if he’s me
But I do know I’m one or the other
This happened to me twenty-two years ago. I thank God I am still alive.
I feel the ripple in my life's cycle,
impending risk that could rape my soul.
I look in the mirror, but no tears flow.
A virus cramps my shallow feelings,
an ominous glare that obscures.
The pungent smell of disinfectant
the impersonal looks of nursing aides,
the indifference of certain medics,
the fearful looks of other patients,
the smell of living death.
The surgeon comes,
examines,
prods,
feels
listens.
Like an auctioneer's hammer,
going, going, gone.
The verdict is announced,
a triple by-pass,
serious but operable.
"Don't worry, man!"
I look up at the wall
that surrounds my cell,
and see Him hung
on old worn wood.
Is it so difficult, Lord, to die?
Am I on my own in here?
Will I survive?
A tear trickles slowly down my cheek,
but now my inner self is lit.
I wake up from my stupor.
Life is a pattern,
mapped 'til our death,
but no man walks alone.
I smile,
I receive faith.
A glow illuminates my soul.
Tomorrow I may be dead,
but I am sure, Sweet Jesus,
I will survive, for meekly
I accept Your will.
There comes a time
Looking back on this life of mine
They say it’s a mid life crisis
It’s more like times oasis
In the mist of memory’s
Some clear some faint
Looks like I’ve not been a complete saint
The ladder of time reaches high
memories locked in the minds eye
Step by step we see the past
Each run the ladder so vast
One or two we need to forget
But often they slip through the net
Keep all memories good and bad
Be Happy not sad
Memory is a snapshot of time
No one can take them
They are all mine.
I'm a pearl in a seashell, but for the world, nothing
Just like those stars, which at a full-moon night, are nothing.
As wind deceives a little leaf, it falls down dancing
on the mud, others play clarion, it gets nothing
Heard that the shine of your Gazelle eyes embarrassed the
Moon last night, for in front of you her light was nothing
I dream to walk on sand hand in hand beneath the stars
Watch the dawn at shore, but my dreams to you are nothing
Your love for me should've been enough for me O’ Lord
But my cravings for more always lead me to nothing
In desert I walk, follow a track apart from all
But instead of Oasis, it takes me to Nothing
Death could be our mother to the other world, but we
can't be gods there either______all this Labor for nothing
Now you stand here Paghunda, confuse, melancholic
In the middle of Abyss, in center of nothing
___________________________
On my way to work today,
It struck me out of the blue,
There’re lots of things I haven’t done,
There’re things I need to do,
I need to bungee jump from off a bridge,
And leap right out of a plane,
I need to speed around in a sportsman’s car,
Then cover myself in Champagne,
And I really need to get a tattoo,
And go to the gym to get strong,
And cut away all these little grey strands,
To help me feel I belong,
Then moisturize my cheeks and nose,
Remove the wrinkles around my eye,
As I drive right through my midlife crisis,
Now my life has just gone by.
Written: February 26, 2025, for Antony Biaanco Contest
*************************
City hum drifts through spurious ways,
teeming in a wild, woody ward.
The jasmine vine twists down to
a jagged sill for a moment before
sinking into a cool, katabatic pit.
Early rush-hour sounds—farts and snorts—
cram the air, moments blending
into the drive-by without a stroll,
as rain-soaked, worn stone slabs
Mark the corner store—
where you used to grab milk,
soap, or other staples.
The chill of an icy night—
gives way to a sun-kissed morning glow.
Sitting at my desk, chatting on the phone,
canceling appointments for the boss.
He’s staying a little longer in Honolulu,
musing over which states—
the neighbors moved to.
Do they remember how
crabgrass took over?
The streets are empty except—
for a fridge that somehow
made it to the avenue,
lingering there,
its story is low and uncertain.
Does this questionable life count?
We can’t amend it,
it won’t yield precious plums,
only a mournful structure,
shadows lurking,
and worn trousers that tell tales.
The horizon lies obscured—
by haphazard highways,
stretching into stark,
barren spaces,
where even the flowers have wilted.
Countless scorched dreams,
strained savings,
and buried letters—
linger in forgotten corners.
The fire hydrant no longer
cries out for the world.
"Honky Chateau" continues to compel—
as it meanders the sporadic streets,
streets cloaked in anonymity—
and emptied of life.
The dwindling dirge of
a forsaken place hangs heavily,
with dreams dangling—
in line for food stamps
and community cheese.
Buildings shatter, splinter, and crumble—
crashing, crushing, collapsing
submerged with rivers of fire within.
Crisis tamed,
calamity curtailed,
the police stroll in pairs,
collecting discarded shopping carts.
Dust gently falls—
as yesterday's laments hush
the pigeons to sleep,
mold mingling with the memory—
of barbecued ribs,
those hardened bones
left since last year.
The corona virus has crippled the
Economy and the nation
It seems to be on a death trip
Killing everyone it comes
In contact with
With several businesses having to
Closed their doors temporarily
Creates several problems
Like a recession
Businesses can’t pay the workers
If they’re not at work
How will people pay their bills
And have a roof over their heads
It’ll cause people to be homeless
It’s already taken away our social life
Causing people to feel like
Tuna in a can
It’s becoming worse and wide spread
That the shelves in stores are empty
With the items we need the most
Wipes and hand sanitizer
With a deadly virus upon us
Plus the start of a recession and
Hurricane season coming up
What’s to become of us now
Pray and pray hard
Even though it looks bad
Don't lose your faith
Stepped right through
That hole in the wall
To find myself
In her front hall
Hello is that you she said
And I thought what the heck
And checked down my body
From my ankles to my neck
From the neck up I already
Knew it was me
I’d looked in a mirror
Just before tea
But as for the rest
You just never know
Somebody else’s bits
Might be on show
There’s just a chance
One of the undead
Had sneaked up on me
And borrowed my head
Or maybe it was just a dream
And I wasn’t really me
And I had eaten
Another man’s tea
Come to think of it
I never knew
That I liked
Irish stew
Can’t
Recall
Ever eating it
Before at all
So I shouted back
It’s not me at all
And slipped back out
Through the hole in the wall
I’m not going back there again
I can’t stand the shame
Of another man’s body
Maybe using my name
The trouble is
I’ve found to my cost
If I aren’t me
Then I must be lost
On the other hand
It’s the chance of a life
To have some fun
With another bloke’s wife
Earth's fever rising,
Melting ice, a silent tear,
Future starts to drown.
©bfa042325
Underage Immigrant Crisis Part 1
We are having a big problem here in Texas, by the border.
It is turning into a dilemma. A lot of underage children are
coming into the United states, from El Salvador, Honduras
and Guatemala.
These immigrants are only kids. They are running away from
poverty, gangs and their lives being threaten. They come here
to reunite with parents, or relatives that already live here.
At one time President Obama said that any child that reached
American soil, would not be sent back to their native Country.
I think that people confused his words. He never said for them
to send them by the thousands.
Now it seems that their own families are sending them, or
paying the coyotes big money to bring them here. Last year
24.000 children cross over. This year they expect 90.000.
What can we do? This is a big problem.
In their journey to get here - these children encounter a lot
of dangers. Some get raped, some get killed and some are
taken by the Cartels and forced to work for them. Still some
get here, but without an ear, or some fingers missing. They
do that so their relatives can pay more money to save their
lives.
These kids come to the Texas Valley, than they bring them
to Houston. From here they take them to California, where
they are not wanted. I think we should be more human with
them, by that I mean - maybe we should let them stay with their
families that are here already and help the ones that have no one.
What do you think?
To be continued:
07/11/2014
By Lucilla M. Carrillo
now years later,
walking down those rubble and dirt,
which creak in agony,
i am reminded of that innocent face,
which once washed cold ashore,
on a bloody dreadful day,
when the world stood still.
Form: