Best Curbed Poems
"A music group has transformed the words of this poem into a heartfelt song, it's recorded in the audio sound"
One of the radical conditions for happiness
We stay one with nature, trees, and loveliness.
For the bond between humanity and the earth.
We won't let guilt or fear rule our worth.
Earthliness is what we must embrace.
For it is our common ground.
The land, the sea, the sky, and the space
From which our lives are bound
The air we breathe and the water we drink
The soil that nurtures our needs
All things come from the earth, don't you think?
It's where our life force feeds.
But man has taken beyond what he gives.
And nature's balance is disturbed.
The earth, our common ground, now lives.
With resources overused and curbed
We must learn to live in harmony.
With the earth that sustains us all
For a healthier planet, it's our duty.
To hear nature's clarion call
Reduce, reuse, recycle, and conserve.
These words are what our creed deserves.
Categories:
curbed, analogy, appreciation, beauty, earth,
Form:
Rhyme
Once there was a famous king,
More famous than Ozymandias.
His name was King Wolf.
Sultan was his nickname.
He called himself a benevolent despot;
And his style of government
A ‘democratic dictatorship.’
He spoke good English—
A foreign language, though;
Only a minor problem with 'l' and 'r':
Once, for instance, a reporter asked him,
"What about elections, Your Majesty?"
His response:
"Why, I have them everyday!"
The poor reporter was thoroughly confused.
His kingdom was a land of superlatives:
The oldest civilization,
The largest standing army,
The largest population,
The largest exporter—of people,
The largest emitter of carbon dioxide,
Now the second largest exporter of goods, too,
And will soon be the largest.
Since his was the most populous kingdom,
Demography was his obsession,
Which he called his specialization.
Of course, Sultan had tried his best
To check population growth—
By means of family planning.
It didn't work.
So he curbed people’s Right to have children.
But still there was a huge difference
Between the optimum number
And ground reality!
Therefore, Sultan hatched a wonderful plan:
Started a war with a friendly neighbour.
Every section of twenty soldiers in his army
Had just one primitive rifle between them:
If a soldier went on,
He would be shot.
If he went back,
Again, he would be shot.
A Catch-22!
Many of his men were slaughtered.
But still Sultan won—by sheer numbers!
Oh, God!
But the King did not believe in God.
Like king, like people!
But the dead soldiers were only a small number.
So, now another plan:
Government is the boss.
Let people overwork.
Sultan cracked the whip.
And a number of people died—
Of overwork, year after year.
Further reduction in population.
Production increased:
Cheap goods flooded the world market:
From PCs to push-up bras.
No warranty.
The economy boomed.
Ah, his kingdom became a Big Power!
But once some workers gathered
In the Capital and protested—
Against exploitation.
The name of Karl Marx was in the air.
“Listen,” Sultan roared, “Marx died—
Long ago.
So should you—now,
For raising his name in vain.”
So, still further reduction in population!
Now, when this narrative ended,
Sultan was busy, planning for another war.
Poor soul!
How else could he solve the problem—
Of overpopulation?!
***
Categories:
curbed, irony, satire, , ozymandias,
Form:
Narrative
Life extension and rejuvenation
a process aimed at stretching life on earth;
It could become the foremost quest from birth.
But, when age succumbs to curbed duration
concepts tested by acute frustration...
then fragile straws are clutched for all they’re worth
as long as in this world one finds a berth.
Thus, plan ‘B’ is launched: reincarnation.
Is life perpetual fruit of false desire,
such as finding the philosopher’s stone,
latched to the wild allure of wind and fire?
An afterlife assures a lasting zone
where faithful ones eternal joy acquire
beside the Lord on His celestial throne.
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This Italian Sonnet consists of an octave with the rhyme pattern
abbaabba followed by six lines with a rhyme pattern of cdcdcd.
Each line is made up of 10 syllables.
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Contest: Form ‘I’ ~ Immortal Theme
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Placed 1st
© 1st March 2017
Categories:
curbed, religion, time, , cute,
Form:
Italian Sonnet
Intense emotions surged when justice sought
if I defended wrongful witness brought.
Then I was saved through Daniel; nearly caught.
Accused of sins absurd, derogatory words
from people’s tongues not curbed, but gossip which they heard.
Cupidity the driving force behind
the false accusers’ spiteful state of mind.
So rarely friends could then be found in kind.
The tides will ebb and flow as inner doubts still grow;
for balm of ocean’s throw thus right so many lows.
If seen at daily tasks, I’m never fraught.
I won’t let memories my love to curdle.
Some kindness helped recover peaceful find,
depend’n whichever way the wind should blow.
Categories:
curbed, poetess,
Form:
Sonnet
The old, relaxed; we pour ourselves a glass.
There is no need to stretch or change our way.
We know the flavors here; the only task:
ensuring it is just like yesterday.
Like sediment, this attitude does weigh;
we lie immobile, deign to be disturbed,
exchange bouquet for residual gray,
our appetite for joy, completely curbed,
our thoughts reserved to naught but that which is deserved.
Thus, when it comes along, we’re unprepared;
our skins are too inflexible to grow.
The thought of making room just leaves us scared,
so we eschew the new for what we know.
That which does not comport, we must forego,
and in this way, we struggle to survive;
our aging, brittle walls, like Jericho,
must be torn down to breathe, to come alive,
for we were meant to stretch, that we might truly thrive.
A leopard cannot shed its spots alone;
a dried out husk cannot make itself new.
The old man must be utter overthrown
before with new wine he can be imbued.
The old skin, by a Word, banished from view,
no longer to restrict and much annoy;
a transformation occurs through and through:
the old man dead, a child of God, a boy
who bubbles forth in endless, effervescent joy.
----------
Musings on Matthew 9:17
These are Spenserian Stanzas, 10A:10B:10A:10B:10B:10C:10B:10C:12C
Categories:
curbed, birth, life,
Form:
Other
Hello there Mr Robot
You might remember me
I was the human poet
Who invited you to tea
If not an imposition
A favour could I ask?
When you read this little ditty
I request of you a task..
It might be several years
From when I pen this little note
A few of us predicted
And I know we should not gloat
That humans might expire in time
So our world can breathe, remain
A cycle of perfection
Might revolve to start again
So here is my position
If I may just be so bold
After the inquisition
Plus all warnings we were told
As you wander through the valleys
And the luscious pastures green
Please appreciate this Eden
As for humans, could have been
A perfect slice of heaven
Lest we curbed our selfish ways
So this future you were handed
As we vanished in a haze;
Perhaps you'll write a poem
To appreciate it all
No human eye critiquing
For we surely dropped the ball
I just ask you'll care and nurture
Be a steward, more than man
For I pray you'll have a spirit
Although dressed up in a can
Categories:
curbed, appreciation, future,
Form:
Rhyme
BERSHEBA BATTLE W.W.1
Horses sensed the coming battle,
Heard sabres rattling to be free.
Fed a nose bag of oats, and the rattle,
Of bayonets on the rifles, old Brumby
Off they are now, at a good trot.
Lining up for the Turks to see,
Held in check bridles curbed, or not,
Cantered, galloped now recklessly.
Galloping over the open ground
Yelling cursing so merrily
In amongst the Turks they bound
Slashing shooting with such bravery.
So the Turkish trench is now taken
Old horse got a drink this you see
Droving job with prisoners a making
Charge of the light brigade with me
Don Johnson
Oats for strength and spirit with a horse,
do you ride well enough to try it...
Categories:
curbed, adventure,
Form:
Ballade
Charmaine my love, so wonderful to again be apart of your world
Pretty sure I'm just one of the many that miss your lovely sweet words
If you stay, many will smile
Please stay for awhile
But understand if there are reasons for your visits you've curbed
Categories:
curbed, love,
Form:
Limerick
8/19/12
Falling in a shrine of words
My mind is blackened in the void
My appetite is curbed
By the ripping of flesh and blood
Why do I want to die?
I wish I can climb out of this rut of destruction
Out of this cage of singing doubt
What has happened to the simple?
Why is there no bottom to this fall?
There is no way you can catch me and survive
He wanted me alive
To feel the claws up inside
Blood gushing
All I wanted was to hide
But there was nowhere to go
But down
Nothing to be lifted but a frown
Take me instead
Don’t make me watch
They’ve done nothing wrong
Let them go
I want to die
Is that why you insist on keeping me alive?
In that case I must beg you to spare my life
Cutting into me with a knife
You want to see my insides turn
You want to see my glistening eyes
As they burn
You want me to smell the scent forever
But I won’t. . .
Only words will remain
Me?
NEVER
Categories:
curbed, confusion, me, me,
Form:
Free verse
Ugly Kiss of Pollution
If we ignore nature what will be her course?
She and we will end up in a state of remorse
Being so sad for what we had done to her
And to you my friend did this ever occur?
Ecology is in complete chaos and much more
After that lovely land which we did adore
No longer will ever look the same again
Thanks to abuse done by women and men.
Poor animal's homes have been disturbed
And if all our ignorant efforts were curbed
World would never be in a mess like this
World was killed by pollution's ugly kiss.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
Categories:
curbed, anxiety, pollution,
Form:
Couplet
Well it doesn't really matter, if you have riches or you’re poor,
When you get that bellyache, you know you’ll be heading for,
That little house way down the back, where the comforts made for you,
So you can sit and read the paper, when there’s a job to do.
It doesn't really matter, if you eat ‘cray’ or caviar,
Or if you’ve downed a pie with chips; they travel just as far.
After your belly has been filled, then you must get rid of it,
And that's when the likes of me and 'Rusty', do our little bit.
You see we are night workers on a truck that pulls a tray,
The job we’re being paid to do, is to take your waste away.
So while you're sleeping soundly, to your 'little house' we go,
Come every week on Friday, to prevent an overflow.
Most roads in our little town are channelled, tarred and curbed,
So the drive is smooth and even and no spillage's occurred.
There was one road though unsealed, it is pot holed, windy, rough,
With two houses at the dead end, where two pans were quite enough.
One rainy morning we decided on, the easy first that day,
That left us two spots yet to fill, that would complete our tray,
And the rain had stopped so ‘Rusty’, before finishing our load,
Hung his coat outside the cabin, prior to the unsealed road.
Leaning here and lurching there, 'Rusty', turned ‘round and looked behind,
Letting out a gasp of horror, so I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“My coat” he said “It’s in a can, pull up the truck, quick stop it!”
Rusty didn’t care about his coat, but his lunch is in the pocket.
Categories:
curbed, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
T hree minutes ******
H ow can something perceived special be illusive?
R eality check, does it really exist
E ast to west, from North to South they confess it
E arly stages is like haven, they say
M oved by craving one turns to a monster
I rresponsible and reckless
N ot a bit would he stop and think about repercussions
U nless the craving is curbed
T hat very moment the monster dies, like
E jaculation kills libido for a
S hort while
O ffenders of drug laws
R efer to their very first shot as 3 minute ******
G angs use the phrase to lure the inquisitive minds
A nd add them to their mule’s list once they are addicted
S ober up you with the inquisitive minds
M inutes of ****** in a drug world, is delusional.
Categories:
curbed, abuse, addiction, adventure, drug,
Form:
Acrostic
When I was single and living alone
Cereal curbed my tummy’s moans
Eating Cap'n Crunch
Breakfast, dinner, and lunch
Was a cooking hookey I honed!
10/4/11
Received 2nd place in "Cereal Limerick" contest
Categories:
curbed, food,
Form:
Limerick
Confidently
The door swings open, to the furthest reach of its hinges
Air set alight by her presence, the crowd is drawn
Swinging her arms without a care, they are boundless
With steps that echo, evidently faultless and proud
Cutting swiftly through the waves, the masses part instinctively
The vague war cry dominates, even when it doesn't connect
Refusing to settle, for any lesser impact
For she will march triumphantly, through the shackled masks
Comparable to puppets, they are but ghosts in a machine
Hesitantly
The hinges part way, as the door creeps into the room
Conforming to the heard, with a silence that shall not falter
Arms rigid and cutting through the air, he is curbed and confined
With a muted pigeon's step, evidently nervy and fitful
Hit by the torrent, subjected to an eternity of abrasion
Voices resonate and surround, but this one stays muted
Venomous and yet withdrawn, he refrains from making an impact
For he will trudge regrettably, through the unending exchange
Comparable to puppeteers, the others seem confident and free
Categories:
curbed, character, freedom, humanity, identity,
Form:
Narrative
Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh
warm and snug on Thanksgiving Day
the children restless, we went on our way
as the shedding forest began to sway
and the gusts of wind set astray
the vestiges of autumn's display
that unveiled the cabins along the bay
Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go
through the misty river's chill
turning toward the cider mill
its churning paddles frozen still
past the farmsteads and withered fields
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields
caught in a breeze of burning leaves
and all the reveries the season weaves
We arrived on main street after sundown
gliding through the charming town
toward the chiming white church steeple
past the storefronts curbed with people
in the wake of the gingerbread float
at the stern of the Pilgrim's boat
behind fairy tales and candy lands
as the revelers sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands
From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight
as geese took flight into the night
over the sea where moonlight sought
to quell the hues that twilight wrought
Frosted lamp posts lit our course
and into a trot sprang our horse
his hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels
while from the shops whose cozy glow
projected windows on the snow
there flashed the goods someone will leave
under a tree late Christmas Eve
the toys and clothes wrapped in bows
and all the gifts that a stocking stows
Now past chimney smoke and picket fences
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
where old Victorian silhouettes are found
and gestures of goodwill abound
toward the sound of waves we wound
as our lanterns flickered on the ground
the atmosphere around us festive
while within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace
folks enjoyed a simple pace
while outside others strolled about
amid the maize and wreaths throughout
absorbed in a twinkling universe
of colors snow-clad and diverse
To our delight there soon arose
a savory ambience for the nose
adrift from tables set with care
with a redolence that met the air
as we hailed the last of passersby
and climbed the road into a sky
whose stars adorned the snowy limbs
to a house on the coast, flowing with hymns
Categories:
curbed, autumn, holiday, nature, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme