Best Crowd Poems
The grass
alas
is shorn
like corn
the dew
eschews
forlorn
this morn
the crowd
avowed
the ball
and all
then groans
and moans
clubs thrown
are known.
Embued
and hued
the words
like swords
wrong swing
the sting
bad lie
too high
the squeeze
on knees
in pleas?
to seize
the gold
and hold
glory
story
though droll
their goal
control
cajole
that ball
to fall
or roll
in hole
August 22,2022
For Brian Strand's Premiere Choice Contest
FIRST PLACE TROPhy!
POEM OF THE WEEK!
amid scurrying feet,
in the whirling humanity,
with divided aims,
and sizzling brains,
she paused with singularity of purpose.
never in a hurry, more at peace,
on a park bench, alone,
bent and weird, she sat.
when she moved,
her bones creaked,
on rusty hinges!
ragged in dress, torn in body,
face scourged by Time,
its contours deep like ravines.
her withered breasts,
hanging like nests of tailor birds.
hair lying disheveled,
with eyes shrouded in mist,
she looked out into the sinking sun,
never dreading the darkness that falls.
the park bench was her temporary halt.
she sat there every evening
determined to live on,
with the coins habitually dropped,
into her outstretched hands,
by those sailing past her,
unobtrusive self.
like a monument of patience
she sat.
sat, so alone!
~ First Place Trophy Win~
Dec.16.2022
Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest. No.55
Now, the time has come for bawdy things
from no other than our queen of queens.
As she takes the throne,
the crowd emits a groan.
This, the reign of the Queen of Obscenes.
I sit here, watching the faces walk past,
Some of them I recognise,
But so many I don't,
I imagine if I were one of them,
Walking past me,
Seeing me, like I see them.
I wonder some times if these simple passers by judge me,
If they ponder about me as I do about them,
The details of their lives,
Their families and friends,
And if they feel as lonely as I do,
Just another person,
Lost in the crowd.
I have plucked the glory of the brightest star
and came close enough to touch its fingers,
searched the realms that inhabit its womb
or even felt that wildly young adult passion,
that I was inconquerable at 21,,, 30
maverick and a trail-blazer, yet present life
leaves me smaller options in this new generation...
a personal résumé now gauged by the sum
of all my human inadequacies and lost challenges
against mythical idols, godly super-heroes of a work-force,
of a pop culture that in a quest like a holy grail,
I strive to find myself in this new decade, writhing inside
my very core; hiding as a porcelain doll,
face unmoved---just following the crowd:
Fuelled by relentless doubt, I have no name
which can define my worth as a mature woman--
a mediocre artist, a reluctant lover needing to taste
the fire of life after being swallowed by cliché- roles.
Moths nibble my pores, staining my 90s graduation dress...
while the luminous star of individuation passes me by
in a flash as if to leave me naked again,
infertile among dry weeds.
Contest for Silent One
'That was Then This is Now 1/24/2019
living life day by day
unheard, unseen, and invisible
no one knows who you are
they all say she's nobody, she's not special
yearning to be known and respected
you can't change yourself to be who you're not
people will never respect you that way
you have to treat yourself special before anyone else can
among a crowd alone and denied
denied the right to be somebody
and confined to just a face in the crowd
She Dances in Her Blue Dress
She stands beneath shimmering clear soft lights
in subtle beauteous of elegance.
A faint glimmer sparks in her eyes ignites
an idyllic aura anxious to dance.
She wears a flattering blue amorous
of the shoulder, flounce sleeves, body-con dress.
Adorned honey ankle strap, glamorous
rhinestone high heels; to show off and impress.
With the sway of her sexy hips moving
She shimmies to the drum beat and fast rhythm
leaving behind Chanel glance enthralling
fragrant in the crowded room dazzling them.
As she turns, walks away in her blue dress
Her honey skin purrs with weather's caress.
12/28/2019
Poetry Contest: Blue Dress
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausin
Tailed kite
Drifting higher
Grand sight
Thrill crowd
Gather around
Peals loud
Wind blew
Tug, pull, line breaks
Shed tear
4/15/2020
Around him is a multitude
of people who appear to be
with partners, friends or family.
Excited smiles display their mood.
He drifts along, solitary.
Among that throng, a ghost is he
whose dead wife’s face he can’t unsee.
Forlornness he cannot bury.
I stumbled straight down by surprise,
To laughter and widening eyes-
But I jumped to my feet,
Made the misstep a beat
and waltzed as the crowd cheered my rise.
June night, two points shine
claws skitter down waving tail
ratcheting sounds of possums.'
All alone, I stand in the crowd.
All aground, I travel the oceans.
All adrift, I'm stuck in the bog.
All afresh, I'm back in the stale memories of a wasted past.
All aflame, I freeze in the cold recesses of my soul.
All afloat, I founder in the green depths of the still lake.
All accursed, I stand blessed in the temple within.
All asunder, I huddle deep into myself.
All asleep, I wake to legions of false shadows.
All aglow, I blunder amongst the empty darkness.
All aflight, I crash into the dense undergrowth of the deep woods beneath.
All across, I turn back and see myself back where I began.
Who am I today?
Husband, Father, Son or Brother
A noble thought that gives itself away,
Or some distant, self-obsessed Other?
What shape I don tomorrow
Who can say
If I shall move across my stage
Enacting joy or sorrow?
What tides shall bear me
To what familiar or what stranger port
Whose ears shall hear, whose eyes shall see
Old things or new, of unfamiliar sort
Come crowding 'round my senses,
Who may know
What meanings they may bring,
Or how assault
My incomplete defenses?
For I am, at base, like every man
A shambling, shapeless Legion
Who strives for sense as best he can
Within the compass of his crowded reason,
Bounded fore and aft by birth and death,
Seeking for some middle way
Amidst the crowd he is;
To speak some sense with his last breath.
The crowd is untrue,
Thus the need to stand aloof,
...Honestly be friends
With an honest few, is right.
Aye, the key to the victory.
Cower not under
The impulse of consumerism,
Since you aren't a beast.
Thus, to set things as always,
Means giving the best in you.
Whatever thing it is you lack
Is in the cupboard at the back.
You didn't know you'd one of those
And that is why the door won't close.
You've searched for that thing everywhere
And now you find it hidden there,
Because it's borrowed a disguise
From things you just don't recognize.
Perhaps you never wanted these,
Perhaps the fairies like to tease
You into thinking that you bought
So many things without a thought,
So many things you'll never use,
So many things you'd never choose.
Not to worry, here's how to win:
Just throw them all into the bin.