Best Deal Out Poems
Poetry on trial?
I’m going to indict poetry, for infecting my soul
Does it serve any purpose, or has it lost control
This may seem quiet strange, perhaps unorthodox
Peruse this if you will, whilst it’s head layeth on the block
No need for a foundation, build it in the clouds
But it does require structure, interwoven by shrouds
Mocks me with Humpty Dumpty, as my life falls to bits
Sends me down a path, of bifurcation and twists.
Yes poetry is stealthy, it attacks from every side
Attempting to outflank you, then pounces in surprise
Soon levity returns, it wants to chill you out
Where did this come from, shaketh your head in doubt.
Bow before it in deference, or leap into the sky
Cut to pieces on razor wire, see the birds that flyeth by
Pit Romeo and Lothario, in a competition of charms
Find a new born baby, dead in its mother’s arms.
Send shivers down ones spine, Hairs stand on your neck
Deal out a winning hand, then rearrange the deck
Be a photon of light, amongst trillions on our sun,
Reminisce ole times, when life beheld such fun.
Be scarred by it’s violence, Drawn into the mystique,
Blown away by the punchline, The havoc it can wreak
Drown in melancholy, or bathe in its delight
Overcome tragic heartbreak, awestruck by it’s might.
Empathize with the poor, in their cornucopia of dirt,
Curse the wealthy no better, in their hubris of self-worth,
Surrounded by loved ones, on your terminal breath,
Then Cryo-frozen in a machine, trying to forgo death.
So yes I’ve tried poetry, it was given a fair trial
Now to pass sentence, and do so, with some style
I condemn it to life, with no chance of parole
Simultaneously I grant pardon, for it’s me who lost control.
By
David Kavanagh
I went to get ready, for our very last date.
She'd kill me for sure, if I showed up late.
I polished my shoes, put on a clean shirt.
Then bought her some roses. What could it hurt?
I thought to myself, as I knocked on her door.
I was ready to end this, I couldn't take anymore.
The day I first met her, she had ribbons in her hair.
Every time she spoke my name, my heart would float on air.
When we first started dating, it didn't take long.
For me to realize, that this was all wrong.
She made a big deal, out of every little thing.
She was not for me, that's how it seemed.
It had to end quick, I had made up my mind.
I had to act now, or I would run out of time.
She thanked me for the roses, then gave me a kiss.
That was one thing for sure, I would really miss.
We went out to eat, and then went to our spot.
I really think, she enjoyed it a lot.
Our spot was a cliff, looking over a lake.
By the time we got there, it was already late.
I put on some slow music, and we danced all night.
She had a sweet smile, and her eyes shined bright.
When we got back to the car, I kissed her goodbye.
I felt kind of sad, and I can't explain why.
I walked to my side, and pushed the pedal to the floor.
She tried to escape, but her dress was caught in the door.
As she flew off the edge, screaming in fear.
I only shed, one lonely tear.
The car hit the water, and ended its flight.
I felt a sense of relief, as I left the crash site.
Time is the healer that carries us over the line,
when we are saddened with someone we’re leaving behind,
as we become holders of hearts that are broken apart,
but memories and time are menders of a broken heart.
You can talk to the heavens and plead with your God up above,
and pray that it’s wrong, for you still want to deal out your love,
but life after death is something that’s out of our hand,
when memories and time are healers to help understand.
Memories are stored where the tears are not too far away,
and time draws a line attempting to widen each day,
but you still see the reason that makes you cross over the line,
where memories and time are meant to wipe out that sign.
Life is so precious that we cannot know when we die,
we don’t feel the heartache and we don’t hear anyone cry.
Our legacy’s strong the day that the church bells will chime,
and our soul is judged by the strength of memories and time.
Others have fallen,
publicly shame slain by the Me Too sword
Men of high society pedigree,
reduced to outcast leprosy members only
And the rave wave rage of women’s anger rises
against heifer treatment by male baboons,
perpetrated on them since the beginning of time
Now is a dangerous time for
testosterone predation
But, low priests of the phallic order
bless the foul practitioners of
lewd, misogynist behavior disorder
They serpent sway in hypnotic bliss
to the charmer’s sound ...
erogenous vibrations
sensually stimulate their injustice scales
They follow the Pied Piper blindly,
lemmings going over the cliff
But the cult idol is unmoved by their dying worship
The high priest of chaos theology
remains untouchable
His hands violate feminine flesh
with no repercussions
His hurtful words are
loathsome macho rat bait for feline debate —
that which he violates is that which he hates
Giving erect denials,
though taped confessions are heard,
he smiles with disdain ...
Untouchable is his favorite word
FBI ... fuggit ‘bout it
He wickedly wonders why everybody
is making a big deal out of it
Thinking of women as mere cattle,
who were made to sacrifice their bodies
for his ravenous carnal desires
A sperm wolf moving among the ova herd,
he howls with tweet glee ...
Untouchable is his favorite word
He boastfully mocks the fallen,
calling them men of weak pedigree
Mongrels of male impotency
Untouchable ... impervious to all
his mortal enemies
He believes his dog treatment of women,
gave him the canine path to a teflon presidency
- I take a step back to reflect. Fecal matter storms a reality check in to the mental hotel of chaos. In utter disorder; rationality eludes us. Cluelessly, we are insane—on a temporary leave of absence. Senselessly numb; simply, simple... Obsolete and discreet, keeping eyes down low. Hidden from the world; we stick out like sore thumbs. An overwhelming sense of paranoia takes wheel; who's driving? Slippery when wet; we slide. Uncontrollably... Unmistakeable, but make no mistake. Masks that we wear are transparent; fooling only some. High strung like the strings of an old banjo, our dirty laundry is airing out. The presence of stains shout out secrecy in whispers, silently broken. We enable auto pilot and go through the motions; subtly coded from paranoia. This ride becomes turbulent. Lightning strikes and in a flash, real gets real. Feelings of panic offset stabity. Balance forced to recollect. Frantically scrambling to find our lost librium. Playing cards that we repeatedly deal out ourselves, it's time to go manual. Reality delivers a stunning right hook; drawing first blood. Dazed and confused, fight or flight mode sets in. Voices of criticism echo in our heads. Self doubt secures confidence with an iron fist. Insanity begins it's never ending rant, as we argue amongst ourselves. Our worst nightmares become reality. At this moment it becomes impossible to deny. We are who they thought we were.
If I were a tree, I would be an oak. A laughing oak with dazzling shiny hair.
My leaves would twinkle and spin and prance happily in the summer.
I would watch over the squirrels with their chattering ways, and smile.
Loving the way they flip upside down and backwards to steal bird seed.
Robins, cardinals, wrens and meadow larks would alight on me.
Claws so gentle, I would barely feel them, but I would know they were there.
I'd not have to be the largest, but it would be nice to be one of the tallest.
Lovely to be one of the top three in a forest of oaks, surrounding a meadow.
In autumn I would let my leaves turn the happiest reds, oranges and yellows.
Always competitive, I would want them to turn before the other trees’ leaves.
I'd hold on to them the longest though, so leaf watchers could gaze in awe.
Cars would travel far into the country to see my beauty, and take photos.
In the winter I would be a tall foreboding soldier. Black brown against nature.
The ants, beetles, gnats and spiders would be hidden deep into my knothole.
I would shelter them from the elements and stand my ground, a guardian.
I would not make a big deal out of it, but I would be like a savior.
Along comes spring, my happiest time. I would sing a melody so sweet,
It would shame the birds. They would stop tweeting, to listen in awe.
It would outshine rainbows and buttercups. I would do this silently, on the sly.
When people wake for the day, I would be silent. Meeting their small expectations.
It I were a Tree
Written 2-3-2021
Contest Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Whenever I feel discouraged,
Or am just too blind to see,
What purpose there is for my life on earth,
This thought is what comforts me.
I think about a Man Whose Name
Means, oh, so much to me,
You see, He wore a crown of thorns,
That He might set me free.
He wore a crown of thorns for me,
And bore so patiently,
All that the soldiers of Rome did think,
Would destroy His dignity.
He wore a crown of thorns for me,
And put up with all the shame,
The soldiers could deal out to Him,
For our sins He took the blame.
He wore a crown of thorns for me,
And I could never pay,
Him back for all that He endured,
And suffered there that day.
So I must love my fellow man,
The way He wants me to,
And that is how I'll know the peace,
He gives to those who do.
(copyright 10/30/15)
three issues are at stake in poetry writing at present: first, whether or not we can write an emotionally charged (subjective) material/topic such as love (loving, not loving, not being loved), freedom, and justice effectively with artistic objectivity. This is more complicated by the notions of choices (and voices,) individual self-determinism, self-sufficiency, and individual sanctity over collectivism.
Voices say this: Humankind have Choices, Choices have Consequences, Consequences have Risk or Reward! It is those Voices (heard or unheard) and Choices (risk or reward) that make lines or volumes and make us who we are as Poets--living and dying with our Choices!*
Second, we poets are of a tender-heart, vulnerable, and victims to violent shifts of response and emotions that relationships bring to us. We are sensitive, however, so being, we are beneficiary of human benign neglect and gross oblivion around. We do a great deal out of something ignored as trivia!
Third, whether we poets are misfit in a misshapen society or we are misshapen at a misfit time, really I am not quite sure myself! But one thing I am certain about is this: the poet struggles with SOMETHING more than his/her own myth: to be able to see the relations of the unrelated, to curve out a creative originality, and to muse about if pleasurable pain (painful joy) is bearable and if living and loving truly is ever possible of to date! For no wrong life can be lived rightly!
Poet,
Less than that, what good is Poetry for?
*Listen to the Poet and Folksinger Leonard Cohen's "Choices"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBDKKFJuXos
Form:
Punxsutawney Phil thats what the humans call me but all the hedge hogs call me Harry I wish the humans would have call me something simple.
The humans make a big deal out of one day a year my only day of work for the year.
I have to hurry up hurry up Harry you have to get up! Well I am push out of the box
and in thru tunnel to run a if I stop well I hear all the humans yell Punxsutawney Phil
where are you until I have to come out and if I see my shadow well we all know what
that means. The humans will be disappointed for a few more weeks but if I don't the cheer so my job is done either way.
I am a gentle man, and I try with all my heart to love my fellow man and do all that I
can, to help out and get along. However, there are some men that no matter what
you do will try to hurt and take advantage of you.
I am very patient, I give them every chance, I try to endure and show them love. I
try to check my anger, turn the other cheek strive to be humble and meek.
There comes a time when all efforts have failed, when I've been pushed far too long
and too hard. They think they can keep pushinig and never let up.
The time comes when I've seen the light I put on my war face and prepare for the
fight. I give them fair warning they can clealy see the war paint on my face.
I may not win the battle this might surely be, but I will stand my ground, take their
best and give back what they deal out twice. I may not win today or the next, but
eventually I will win the war.
Listen to me brother and keep it in your mind, if you keep pushing people it could
turn out to be your end.
Monopoly is like life.
There are the leaders,
Who made all the right choices.
There are those who are bankrupt,
Who made all the wrong ones.
There are the lucky ones,
Who land on Free Parking.
There are those with a little less luck,
Who land in Jail.
There are the ones that are doomed from the start,
Who Go Directly To Jail.
There are the bankers,
Who control the money.
There are the realtors,
Who deal out the houses and hotels.
There are the ones that win,
Who don’t just enjoy the game.
There are the ones that lose,
Who love every minute of it.
So as I said before,
Monopoly is like life.
Form:
A Little Phone Call Malcolm and Donald
by Bob Moore
Hello Donald
That Afro-American President, lived there just before you
agreed to take these Middle Eastern fellers from Naru
they are a bloody handful, getting worser every day
when you gonna send a boat, and take them all away
A deals a deal out here in Oz, even if its dumb
hope you will not renege, we’re still your bestest chum
here in the Southern Hemisphere, and maybe in the world
we help to fight in all your wars, so don’t act like a girl
--
Hello Malcom
I heard about that stupid deal, you did before he left
a swap for some Columbians, you both must be bereft
not sure which of them is worse, but one thing that I know
there’ll be some heavy vetting, before you let them go
Out here we have our own problems, don’t know if you’ve heard
eight years of Pres, Obama, but now the people stirred
they want to make America, the way it used to be
no matter where you come from, settle in, and you’ll be free
So nobody can tell me, what is best for me to do
friendship, begging, threatening, its not all about you
I have a land of willing soles, and if they work with me
we will make America, great again, you’ll see.
Goodbye
Pure filth in the sick terrain of disease
amoeba,bacteria gnawing on carrion putrid
smelling awful the fetid wafts captured noses
puissance in resistance aided by gear little
toll was heavy like a hammer of God.
Sins overgrew like wild moss the citylines
many had looted gravely many others of toe to hairs
yet others had ditched several in rat holes of despair
raped with fierceness so brute that victim felt killed for years
purloined so skillfully, that heist remained unknown to official years
killed and tilled the intestines of many
they were lying in river bed fanny
earning dough was a zero sum game
they erased yours and put their name
living on the margin like a zombie dead
did you have the courage left that you always had.
Cycle had moved a round and done turnabout
earth shook and took all it could get
nature was shaking the societal glass
where scum had gathered thick at bottom
as it threatened to have the pure also pretty rotten
quaking in anger and seeth the plates moved and moved
the evil empires were down and razed, seeking insurance claims
they had to build again the regimes ,ugly and bad
good guys got a deal out of destruction and death
as they went about collecting the carcasses of all
You heard them mumble in bated breath toll:
Pure filth in the sick terrain of disease
amoeba,bacteria gnawing on carrion putrid
smelling awful the fetid wafts captured noses
puissance in resistance aided by gear little
toll was heavy like a hammer of God.
TV channel shutter bags clicked mad......the quake tragedy ..nobody bothered to check the
social and criminal background of those dead....vis a vis their real activities-which were
largely unknown ,anyways!
You wanted me to be a hero and go off and fight the war.
You wanted me to be a hero, but you didn't know what for.
So I became a hero and now I'm rolling through the door,
'cause this hero's got no arms or legs no more.
You wanted me to be a hero and do what heroes do.
You wanted me to stand up for the old Red, White and Blue.
Well now I'll do no standing, and my mind is wasted, too,
and with the drugs I'm taking I can't think of you.
You planned on all the money that I'd get from Uncle Sam.
That we'd get a set of wheels to let folks know that I'm the man.
Well I got some wheels and I'm motorized, almost like I planned,
but I steer my wheelchair with my chin 'cause I haven't any hands.
Though I smell of medication, and I'm living in a chair,
and I'm crippled in my body, and way beyond repair,
I'm trying to be a decent man, though I don't believe you care,
and you're half the reason of why I'm even there.
I know that I sound bitter, and I feel I've got that right,
'cause the truth is not that simple, and there is no guiding light.
So just let chance deal out the hand that takes me in the night,
and I'll no longer put up any fight.
Elden Hewett smiled at the sight
of Gretta Coburn moving his way,
she had worked here at his saloon,
ever since that dark, tragic day.
He pinched her as she walked by,
said,”Now I think it’s time you see,
you got no husband left to help you,
you’re gonna need to make real money.
“Let me make you one of my girls,
you’ll have your own room upstairs,
you will make more coin than waitressing,
and you’ll have money for all your cares.”
Gretta pulled herself away and said:
“I have told you this all before,
I got no interest in being your ‘girl,’
I’m not working as some damnable whore!”
Elden shot up quickly to his feet,
said,”I’m right tired of this here game.
If you want to keep on working here,
you’re going to do what I say!”
Just then the front doors broke open,
and a male figure paced on in.
The whole room gasped as Red entered
with two guns and a chilling grin.
Gretta stammered,’R-Red, h-how?
How can what I see be true?”
Elden’s blood ran quickly cold,
“Y-you’re dead…I-I saw to you!”
Red just grinned, and said,”Am I?”
Then strode over to them rather bold.
Elden said,”Yes! I know that you’re dead,
I saw your god damned funeral!”
Elden’s grin faded, hand moved to his gun,
saying,”I know your people bushwacked me.
You’ve been eyeing my wife for a long time,
I should just put a bullet in thee…
“But I’ve never been a violent man,
murdering you is a step to far.
So you and I will both settle this,
sit on down, and deal out the cards.
“We’ll play one hand, the winner takes all,
if I lose I’ll go far from this place.
But if I win you’ll pay a great price
for trying to bring my wife to disgrace...”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.