Best Cued Poems
You hit when I was low
The pain you caused, you know
Threw dust on glitter glow
Made weeds of sorrow grow
Cued pent-up tears to flow
You hit when I was low
You hit when I was down
Made me a freak show clown
Took jewels from my crown
Gave not a smile but frown
Held me until I drown
You hit when I was down
You hit when I was sad
Made good turn sour, bad
Streaked pain into my glad
Bandied words like “mad”
Spilled ink on writing pad
You hit when I was sad
You hit when I was lost
Clueless to what it cost
Flowers: blighted in frost
My sentiments you tossed
My boundaries you crossed
You hit when I was lost
You looked down from on high
Not hearing heavy sigh
Not seeing tears I cry
Not caring if I die
And Still you don't know why…
To you I’ve said, “Goodbye”
Jade
A dead star that inspired this poem--the companion of the star 55 Cancri, in the constellation of Cancer the Crab--has now shrunk to only about twice the size of earth yet is extraordinarily massive, leading astronomers to conclude that its surface and outer crust consist entirely of diamond.
In slumber now and thence to dream
of space-time’s stirred and curving sweep,
where stellar furies set agleam
the velvet thrall of endless deep.
Here among a billion suns,
solo Klieg cued nascent spark.
Ensuing life o'er an eon runs
ere treading path of torpid dark.
Adorned in crystal, its bequest—
fusion’s fire did else abate—
bejeweled then, this orb compressed,
now fields of diamonds lie and wait.
Yet perish need to search the endless skies—
diamonds sparkle here in lovely eyes.
Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.
"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms,
"Someday soon you will understand."
And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.
But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.
So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.
NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.
Under her guidance, we stood at attention
Like a row of young soldiers, reciting the anthem
"Oh Say, Can You See?".. was a warbled contusion,
that could shatter your glasses, disturb other classes
out of tune, out of rhythm, but with avid enthusiasm
it could rattle the rafters of our little school
And with childish delusions, we thought we were cool!
As we stood in the room
she would move down the line
with a frown in the depth
of her leathery brow. She would bow
till her ear matched our voice
and her hand would be poised
with two fingers that cued,
keeping time with the tune.
She would grit all her teeth
bite the inside of cheeks
Such a serious task!
it was all that she asked
that we please.."DO YOUR BEST!"
When we mastered, at last
She would gasp, then exclaim
as we sang each refrain,
mixed with tears, she would clap
I remember it now...
Here I stand in this row
with my hand on my heart
as the first strain imparts
Yes, I know those old words...
they'll remain part of me
'til the day that I die
"O Say, Can You See?"...still familiar to me
But no..............I can't see....
with fresh tears in my eyes...
_________________________________________________
Written: December 11, 2023
____________________________________________
While drudging impresses to cease,
Within the ethereal forbearance of night
And the cosmic vast space is stormless,
From the hour of darkness until daylight,
And anxiousness is ultimately formless
Imbrication is referred to as "Peace."
Imbroglio, languor, and hidden disarray
This parade of nimble cued is wordless
This will never genuinely be worthless,
This is increasing beyond nerveless
This spinning wheel is reverseless,
The periphery of the panacea display.
4 days wondered
and wondered,
wondered why
for days wandering,
left far behind
in that desolate place
the staff shepherding
the long Lazarus queue
black sheep
woolen hearts
woven together
like tight poems huddled
all together, knitting
all the lost together
the rod cued
hits the ground
like a lightening strike
lightworlds away
lightworlds arrive
risen again
running with words in vein
vanity words
the Lazarus Q'd
now running in veins
it’s like you never had wings
now you feel so alive
unfurling
like Lazarus
risen
again
Candide Diderot. ‘24
deftones,
change.
At the local bar one friday night, we were shootin' pool and getting tight,
Just havin' fun in the neon light, yea, everything was cool, out a sight!
Now I've played pool for years on end, my stick play is cool, sometimes I win,
With 2 balls down, I still played the same, I'd bought the last round and hadn't won a game,
Yea, this luck of mine sure seemed strange, Ol' Biggin' shot fine, as the eight ball remained,
As he walked to the table to shoot the eight ball, his win was probable, as he made his call:
"Eight ball in the side chump!!"...Ol' Biggin' did say,
While my throat became a lump, as he cued his play,
Then the shot went to pocket the eight, and I couldn't believe what I saw,
Ol' Biggin' blocked his scratch on the eight, yea, didn't let the cue ball fall,
So I told him: "That sure is Jive!" as he stood and stared at me,
His eyes looked like he was fried, and Ol' Biggin' stood 6 foot 3,
Then he called me a geek! so I called him a goon! and so to speak......a Big baboon!
When he called me a fool! I called him a twerp! and that snatched his cool! so he snatched
my shirt,
What happened next was my surprise! Ole Biggin' landed left, right between my eyes!
And I hit the floor so hard, no slack! Yea! Biggin' tore the shirt right off my back!
And I felt the swellin' layin' on the floor, with Ol' Biggin' yellin' and wantin' more!
So as I was getting up and could hardly see! I swung an upper cut, you know where that
might be?
Uh! Huh! you're right...but is it cruel? when he turned out my light and snatched my cool,
So should the moral of the story go like this?: "Don't play pool if it' pool like his" Or:
"If you play pool....It's just another game of: Don't snatch that, cool!"
My son is getting older, and he just went back to College, the other day.
But he had enjoyed the summer, by adding a new game to his daily play.
He called it Troll Tipping as daily he targeted another, and wore him out.
By dinner, the Troll would fall asleep, as my son claimed his dessert, so devout.
But wearing out a Troll, is not such an easy thing, so many a night, a Troll got his.
What a shame! But as a resourceful college man, at devising plans he was a whiz.
He offered them a Fun Filled Tip, yes, a way to get others, to do their daily chores.
The cost to each individual Troll, was their sweet dessert, that night, nothing more.
He was doing great, as he ran thru many a Troll, but then our suspicions did unfold.
You see, this bred unrest, as a number of fights started, amongst our beloved Trolls.
Scheming isn’t sharing, so Grandpa Troll had a TALK, life changing, or so it’s told.
But Boys are boys, and desserts were to be had, so he made a new plan, quite bold.
You might say he invented Granny Tipping, yes, now it was MY dessert, on the line.
Now this would be quite simple, for at my age, I can easily, become tiredly inclined.
But the one thing he’d forgot: is how crafty age had made this old one, in her efforts.
As dinner wound down, I cued Grandpa Troll, to help deliver, those delicious desserts.
I told my son, that they were made to be his favorite, simply in honor, of his behalf.
Then I pretended to fall asleep, and he quickly took my dessert, with a joyous laugh.
Then suddenly his eyes grew big! And I awoke, looking him quite clearly, in the eye.
I lied that, I added laxatives and terrible cod liver oil, to my dessert nightly, yes, so sly.
Making them easier to swallow, but if he wanted more dessert, he only had to ASK.
He quickly sped away, to wash that terrible taste, out of his mouth, a daunting task!
And we all had our chance to laugh at him… as the joke was finally on him, at last.
I call this, Bad Behavior Tipping, and from that day to this, he asks for more, at last!
The game seemed to lose its luster that day, yes, manners did a BIG, comeback.
The moral is to politely ask… Playing clever little games… is NEVER for the best!
"Toe Valley Tom will be right back!"
Cued the Mule Skinner Blues, as I finally took a break from my Bluegrass Show on WTOE, the radio station you could hear across the street--if you were lucky!
Its a very long story how I took a job as a DJ at a country station. Though, I will mercifully shorten this episode in my life!
drive through boulders
onto the slippery main road
spin out to station
I was recently married and had taken on the editorship of a small weekly newspaper. Well, it folded after a few months and desperate for a job, any work that I could find in the tiny mountain village near the Estatoe River to support wife and myself! (the county and namesake river were shortened to "Toe"--hence the name given to me)
WTOE hired me as a morning DJ and reporter after a short audition--also I was the only announcer who could read the news and be understood.
You would probably be shocked to learn how I detested country music! Sheer torture for yours personally who only liked classical and a little jazz! But, I could tolerate bluegrass, which was the only saving grace!
mournful music
caught myself singing along
immediately quit
Electrons fulfill their wave equations
Bonding polarities shift their vectors
Giving way for kinase phosphorations
On a channel near neural connectors
Anions build within the cell's walls
So Potassium plays with its mates
Sheltered from large sodium rainfalls
By fat magnesium blocking the gates
A signal could pass and make it rain
From many parts throughout the brain
But most frequencies are duly spurned
Unless its what these neighbors learned
The right signal comes, but it's passed on stronger
For the potassium flees the rain a little longer
They push against the kinase's phosphate
To make their departure a tad more late
The vesicles blow from the rain saying go
Making sure the next neuron hears clear
Pushing hard to keep that thought's flow
So even the inhibited get their ass in gear
The kinase made the switch, because it wanted change
Cued by serotonin to increase the shout range
And why then did it decide to override inhibition?
The sight of new light gave the brain a mission
It's sad serotonin is so sparse in society
Because our missions get no cheer to be clear
The neurons just stay safe without variety
And duty always seems eclipsed by fear
cue words:
motions
to ebony tuned
rhythms
slicing stolen space
with sable
circuitous undulations
to lexical intoxications
of syllabic tones
hip cupping
silent scribed screams
of euphoric meters—
hearts jazz bopping
hip hopping
on tranquil winds
of peace and love:
words cued…
Prologue
Abandoned and in disrepair the mansion
Is dark now; a story behind every stanchion.
An unwitting monument to a way of life,
Since foreclosed through bloody civil strife.
Antebellum
The hush of summer evenings cued the trilling
(Fiddled on hind legs accompanied by warty pouches)
Chorus; pierced only by the discordant creaking
Of unseen stairs rising to the house slave's quarters
Portending the disquiet of antebellum martyrs.
Wittiness trees attest in angles and chains
To the master's grid and shade the lanes
For the surrey whose wheels rutted the gateway
(Become artifacts) en route to soirées of gaiety.
The prairie land, violated by steel and condescension
To the roots of its towering grasses and purple gentian,
Forced to nourish seeds of an alien flora for hempen
Riches, patiently awaits its day of redemption.
Bricks of fertile earth fired over an Osage hearth,
By chattel hands, in mortise and tenons, gave birth
To a mansion at the prelude of a moral sea-change
That would divide the nation and break its chains.
Current Era
Their lives deprived of enslaved labor, the once-lived
Voices ebbed a little as each generation removed.
Shrouded in leaves of time they are a mute bequeath
Indelibly recorded upon the stories that lie beneath.
Dreamer boy speak for them now. Sing for bluestem that switched
Against the sky nourishing the thundering herds that provisioned
Native tribes. Rage for those hobbled to sow but never to reap,
Weep for a Nation gone mad and seeds planted too deep.
Reflections after touring an abandoned antebellum mansion.
Copyright Paul M Thomson September 2011.
Fairy Trees
in my wood
there are lithesome
trees of delicate winter hue
a grove brings love
and sisterhood into the
the darker few.
they dance wild, among storms
cued across the mountains,
touching one another
with thrashing limbs
holding fast their roots
deep within the soil.
summer breezes
bring lacy crowns
of palest tender green
they bow and bend
with courtly pomp
toward each sister tree.
then fall, again,
steals green away
replacing it with gold
but still they stay
steadfast and true
to promises of old.
she leaves her sonsy
at home
stripping mind down
to bare essentials:
dangling dendrites
ice breaks pure
untainted by carnal warming;
it’s a gray revolution and
telekinetic foreplay’s the rage
our tongues untie
in didactic spurts;
lips engage,
words fly like scarlet tanagers
cued to celestial magnets
she leads,
I follow;
together we migrate
to higher ground
beyond the snare
of flesh-baited tackles
dulcet is love
consummated in the cerebral zone...
~ P
words hardly do actions justice
and in the means of what you believe is right
true
accurate,
you'll be surprised to find
that every
precise word
spilled into the air
is in actuality
a lie.
Spewed upon the imperfect page,
burn holes swallowing every letter
as if it's the first time.
First time they've been said
first time you've spoken those words.
You have to forgive before you can move on
but what if you hide it
underestimated satisfaction in the guilt,
the guilt you lost long ago
you only puncture the paper twice,
before ripping it to shreds
before you realize you don't want this
you never did.
Instead you steal those words,
throw the paper in flames
waiting patiently for the next one-
same as all the rest-
who swarm in and deliver the same lines,
over
and
over again.
As if it's a cued movie.
You're repetitive lines don't seem to phase me anymore
they lost their meaning long ago
and still,
to this day,
though I picked up each flamed scrap-
and glued them each together-
I don't believe it-
I won't.
Though I wish I could