Best Debated Poems
**"And his name was Jack"**
No one perceives what abides above the clouds.
A giant, a harp, maybe golden eggs.
I demand to see and feel before I believe.
A castle, a dream…. I want the magic beans!!!
~~~
I'm the daughter of a farmer.
I have a donkey to ride, a story to tell.
“Jack and the Beanstalk” my favorite tale.
Once upon a morbid dawn.
I inhale a tiny simple yawn
Like the morning sun levitating over the farm,
I rise towards the village square to sell my ass
Along the open path, my ass and I desired a drink.
Near the rustic river,
I'd seen an old Englishman, sitting on a log.
It looked as if time was approaching his brink.
In his hand, he had a sack.
A bag, a bag, embroil of ivory and black.
His eyes were not from this ground.
His body fragile - it uttered a moaning sound.
He was of dirt.
I was pure.
He pledged his life to me.
I debated .... with many thoughts,
Although his eyes...
My eyes... Will never meet again.
"I want what's in the bag!"
In a gasp, he whispers,
"I'll give you anything for that ass.
my legs and bones can’t hold up on their own!”
I knelt down to where he sat
Smelling his essence of rot
I reached forward and grabbed his baggage
He griped, "This bag is all I got!"
I answered, "And this sir is a fine ASS!"
He replied, "I have no cash."
Scowling at him, “NO I want your demon seeds!"
My blood grew thin...
Inhaling and exhaling - his sin
The old man all shriveled and timeworn,
Proposed the birthright of the seeds.
"Yes, plant them! Plant them!"
I cried excitedly!
He pats the field.
Said "there I am done,
now clock as it expands"
To breed this story short...
He dispenses his seeds.
AND, I GAVE HIM MY ASS.
BY;PD
I have never seen a flower blush when I took it's hue
and held it there a prisoner captive to my view.
I have always heard the song that's in the autumn breeze
playing taps in harmony with the forest leaves.
I love the smell of rain that brings the springtime into bud
and swells my love of nature into a teeming flood.
I celebrate the cycle of the daytime into night
and find an equal blessing in the shadow and the light.
I've always felt affinity for all created things
and surrender to the pleasure that their beauty brings.
And though I could spent a lifetime sailing drops of dew
I've never seen a universe as beautiful as you.
I've often sat myself by gentle mountain streams
and overflowed the dams that were holding back my dreams.
I've breathed the scented forest on the mountainside
and washed away my sorrows in an evening ocean tide.
I've laid down in a meadow and debated with the moon
and spent some quiet moments on the surface of Neptune.
I got married to a zodiac with one of Saturn's rings
then spied a super nova and went on a cosmic fling.
I've run away to nebulae in galaxy brochures
and bathed in scenes of wonders on distant planet shores.
Every cosmos in creation could parade before my view
but I've never seen a universe as beautiful as you.
I've never seen a tree once withdraw it's shade
and deny a creature the comfort of its aid.
I've never seen any anger in the sun at noon
when it burns relentlessly on the desert dune.
At sunrise I take an oath to live with all my might
and reinforce my gratitude each and every night.
I could spend some hours riding on a crystal flake
drifting wildly in a gale mindless of my fate.
Many times I've been through trials of wind and rain and snow
then sentenced to the splendors that the seasons show.
And though I've searched throughout creation, I must say this is true
I've never seen a universe as beautiful as you.
Obsessed with the thought of you
wondering if it's only me or
if you sometimes remember the sweet things you've said
and if you meant them how I took them
or if I'm just obsessed with what's in your head
Obsessed with your very sentences
Every response I take personal
I know it's selfishness
Have you not noticed my eyes?
They hold secrets that only you can unlock
if you'd just take time to fill the thick juices of my pride
It's just boiling with lust, passion, trust and distrust
and other things I obsess over so much
I find myself writing to free myself from this prison I've created
where only you and I reside
I become confused about what I'm really feeling inside and I
try to rid the thoughts that are highly debated as false and I
begin to cry and
think of casting love spells so that the universe can deliver this affair
I know it's unfair
but I don't care
I'm obsessed with what hasn't happened between us
I'm obsessed with your heart and that the fact that
I don't think you've even noticed my selfish innuendos
and secret undertones that blatantly express my lust
Or maybe you have and you calmly remain in resistance of distrust
If you could only read my mind by simply touching my fingertips,
I'm sure I'd catch you out the corner of my eye biting your bottom lip
I'm obsessed with the passion and thoughts I think you have
Obsessing over an experience that I may never have....
their park, their bench
was serenely quiet
leaves playfully danced
as pigeons quickly took flight.
he caressed the colourful scarf
she had knitted with love and care
he wept tears of remembrance;
her smile, her joy, the scent of her hair.
a chilly breeze made him shiver
he held tightly his scarf,
wrapped it around his lips
he inhaled deeply; breathing her in.
with steaming cups of coffee
a paper bag of gooey cinnamon buns
they had laid out the sunday crosswords
debated and laughed; they were truly one.
tummies full, cheeks a rosy glow
she lay her head on his lap
gazed into his clear blue eyes,
he kissed her forehead, held softly her hand.
this was their time, their park, their bench
he beamed recalling, the day she chose him.
she raced him uphill to the gorgeous oak tree,
they rolled down the hill; laughing aloud.
he rose from their bench,
lured by the gorgeous oak tree
fought back tears, as he slid down the trunk,
knees to his chest; fingers wrapped in his scarf.
he read what they etched only a few days ago,
hers read "you are my oak, forever you are my love"
his read "my scarf is your heart; you are my soul"
he kissed the etchings; cheeks streaming tears.
glancing down at their bench he froze, watching;
a young couple with steaming cups of coffee
gooey cinnamon buns peeking through a paper bag,
he rolled down the hill; his scarf,her spirt,in hand.
pulling carefully a piece of fringe from his scarf
he carefully placed it in the young man's hand
smiling, he watched them hold one another close;
in their park, on their bench,now; a new love bloomed
she forever lives in him, their park, their bench
the etchings, her laughter, the love in her eyes.
his scarf, her soul; eternally they are entwined.
And I know you didn't plan it
it's so hard for us to understand it
I love you, I hate you - I just don't understand it
One moment we're feeling bliss- like we're on another planet
you love me, you hate me...the story goes...we took our love for granted
caught up in memories, now everything's pixelated
everything spoken is debated
everything valued has been faded
what was token...has been broken
you used to leave my heart smokin'
- she flipped the tarot cards -
now I'm hoping...
instead of dealing with it...I'm coping
you promised me everything would be copacetic
...but everything's gotten quite hectic
we lost our way- I can admit...I detected it
nevertheless...I didn't expect it
the process...I can't respect it
love...how you do love like that?
from dormant to torment
it didn't rain...it stormed
"and don't you tell me days like this is the "norm"
I used to think you were the bomb
I used to think you were the title to my poem
now I'm sitting here with my hands in my palms
thinking you could care less
cause everything you've done was careless
I digress...
I gave you your best
can't believe my reward is this mess
...it was never a contest...
but I thought we were each other's trophy
...and I know you didn't plan it
it's so hard for us to understand it
I love you, I hate you...I just don't understand it
There once was a farmer called Mr Brown
Who with his duck in tow went off to town
The duck panicked and quacked all the way
The farmer had his fill and left the duck in the dray
Then disappeared into the Rose & Crown
There once was a duck left in the dray
Who settled down nicely in the hay
Then farmer Brown he did returned
To the noisy duck he had spurned
The duck had three golden eggs lay
The now inebriated farmer Brown was elated
On his newly found wealth he then debated
The duck was relieved in more ways than one
Otherwise off to the market she was gone
Thinking of her fate had he not waited
There once was a farmer Brown and his duck
Who both could not believe their newfound luck
Farmer Brown on himself a new tractor did spend
And the amazing duck got herself a brand new pen
Not strung up with her feathers ready to pluck
From glaucoma to chemotherapy
Medical marijuana has its place
But you won’t find any prescribed
In the conservative Sunshine State
Chris couldn’t eat while under treatment
Watched him lose one-hundred pounds
He had no access to an appetite stimulant
His weight was 85 when laid in the ground
Hefty Jen had lived a life of kindness
Taught spiritually uplifting courses
She suffered when chemo raced through her system
Until people said, “How beautifully slim her corpse is.”
When Dad’s glaucoma grew severe
He relied only on eye drops that made him tear
His gift of sight was taken slowly
Though THC might have helped his eyes clear
And when I first wrestled with ulcerative colitis
A college friend brought me a joint, said, “Try it”
Less than an hour later I was eating without pain
But laws are clear, Florida doctors can’t prescribe it
Research has proved there are benefits
Only medical marijuana use can provide
But those who worry about drug abuse
Say those who could benefit should be denied
Each day in the headlines we read of drunk drivers
Mostly teens who seek access through friends
And if they want marijuana, they find a way to get it
But for those who abide by laws, agony never ends
If smoking pot or ingesting a tablet of THC
Can help a person who is suffering great pain
Don’t you think the time has come
To ask prohibitionists to explain
Why people who are hurting needlessly
Cannot have access to any remedy
That soothes their aches, improves their last days
Diminishing the symptoms of their tragedy
There was an elusive little guy often espied during World War Two,
And who he was and whence he came no one ever really knew!
He was a bald headed little feller with a very prominent nose,
And he always left the message "Kilroy Was Here" in very stilted prose!
You seldom saw his eyes and his hands were clinging to a wall.
Many G.I.s saw him in latrine stalls and in their greasy dining hall!
His origin and parting message are debated to this very day,
And no one has ever nabbed the graffiti artists who always slunk away!
He was portrayed in cruisers, battleships and even on submarines!
Kilroy's portrait was tattooed on the chests of a few diehard Marines!
'Tis said Hitler saw "Kilroy Was Here" and wondered what it meant,
Thinking it a secret code when found on American accouterment!
Kilroy became as famous as the mysterious smile on the Mona Lisa.
(I even saw his mug when I climbed to the top of the Tower of Pisa!)
Rosie the Riveter may have been guilty, if the truth were told,
Of tracing Kilroy's image on bombers, including the bomb bay hold!
Well, 'tis for sure we couldn't have won the war without the little guy!
Kilroy's antics lifted morale at home and overseas, that you can't deny!
But you haven't seen the last of him, for he is forever etched in history,
On the World War Two Monument in DC - how he got there is a mystery!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
For those a tad younger who may have never heard of Kilroy, go to your search
and type in "Kilroy Was Here" and click the Wikipedia notation and you will learn
more than you ever wanted to know about him!
"Spiritual Narrative"
After life began, appeared “Evil Twin” mind’s obvious sin
‘Evil’ naught of nothing, using the power of love’s “something”
Giving rise to evil self, far to left, image of self
Love created, but mind deviated, it’s love abated
Love’s logic created Soul, but I am so bold, left heart’s gold
Lost in a wilderness mind, became the Soul of evil twin
Lost in it’s philosophies, mind’s logic of complexities
Has philosophically debated, Love that created
Saying, ‘how can this Love be the reality of me
I shall exalt above, this creation of heaven’s Love’
But crucifixion of mind regains Love’s self in time
As the mind is refined, Soul is re-aligned, with Love’s vine
Man’s discoveries, pieces of the recoveries, of true self
As pieces of the mind crucified, must learn to abide
From Love light’s truth cannot hide, reality has not lied
Being one with reality, God true technicality
Evil self is naught, except, in a mind of worldly thoughts
Live of your mind if your will, create life’s bitter pill
Your bitter pill will not spill, into Sacred Heart’s will
This proverb is proverbial, `Tis non swerve able
Within one’s love, one must abide, for on death’s cross it was tried
Also mind must abide, for on the cross was proven it lied
Death and life was set before, human mind to explore
To show evil twin, death’s sin, just no way for death to win
Make a tree good or make a tree evil, for is by man’s choice
Lie on God if your will, lie `Tis your own bitter pill’
`Tis by your own choice, by your own voice, `Good or Evil’
Death failed, life’s tree stands still, on yonder hill, alive and well
12-25-09 johnmosesfreeman@yahoo.com
Topics of conversation seem to change as we approach maturity.
As kids we talked of love - now it's lumbago and social security!
It once was enlightening to simply discuss the weather,
But now it's a litany of their ills when oldsters get together!
When a teen we bragged about that first voluptuous kiss.
Now all we can do is talk about such and lamentably reminisce!
Girls whispered amongst themselves and cast a furtive glance,
At the high school "hunk" pining for a torrid romance!
In our courting days, sweet talk we'd whisper in the other's ear.
Now it seems we must yell to be heard unlike in yesteryear!
As married folks we debated about money, bills and kids,
Exasperating table-pounding sessions where we'd flip our lids!
Seems that no matter where senior brethren congregate,
With each other their aches and pains they must enunciate,
Discussing the woes of arthritis, phlebitis and laryngitis,
Bronchitis, bursitis, gingivitis, dermatitis and gastritis!
I reckon I could simply say, "Gee, you're looking swell!"
Then perhaps upon these gloomy topics they might not dwell.
I enjoy repartee with folks about religion, politics and sports,
But talk of doom and gloom leaves me sorta outta sorts!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Deceptive Griselda is not so fair
She conceals her real age, will not declare
On the Net she croons love’s tunes
To make all the young men swoon
A fantasyland like hers is so rare
The secrets that she always locks within
Mysterious as the Shroud of Turin
‘Twould be easier to gauge
The much-debated shroud’s age
Than guess the date of photos she's seen in
Wherever she goes, she carries laptops
Sexy blog posts from nursing home rooftops
Delusional minds deceive
Some catch on, some still believe
But at 87; her figure’s flopped
Entry for Tracie's contest
Before the blast in April's darkened sky. . .
before the electrifying surge of insurgency -
when trucks and tanks were used to block the roads, and
when men and even boys were sought to aid in one malicious purpose. . .
before the rampant slaughter -
the raining of machetes down on flesh and bones
and the cornucopia of corpses left like butchered carcasses
on highways, nearby houses and in churches. . .
before the plundering, the rapes and mutilations
and the exodus of thousands to death-infested camps,
there were whisperings -
insidious and portentous to the ears of the wisely suspicious -
and a voice on the airwaves spewing hate.
Before it all,
there was a brewing of resentment
of a people with a history of poverty and
of transitory freedom and capricious politics.
And through it all, with such grave consternation,
governments debated. . . waited. . . . . . . and waited,
playing with semantics
while thousands dead became the hundred thousand,
and three long months - unrivaled for its number of atrocities -
came to its completion.
Seemingly, peace has been restored
and punishment stingily doled out.
Time moves on . . .
except for half a million
for whom compassion by the world
was spared.
An old lady sat near a window, near a window looking out.
With her radio going she sat there sewing, with an occasional look about.
On her thumb she wore a thimble, as she pulled the thread so nimble, enjoying the
light,
While the weatherman’s voice was blaring, declaring a storm in sight.
She began to hurry, and to worry about her Sam.
Had he heard the early morning warning from the weatherman?
While she sat there stewing, the storm greater brewing, she thought about her
man.
“He could work much longer, if only he was stronger— he does the best he can.”
The skies grew darker and her thoughts grew starker in the afternoon.
“Upper air disturbance; expecting turbulence with night coming soon.”
While she debated, the storm accelerated from the north.
With clouds unloading her thoughts grew foreboding, as she paced back and forth,
Qualms of duress she expressed about her Sam.
“Was he wet and freezing? Was he cold and sneezing? Poor old Sam!”
The northern air was gusting as she began thrusting shut the door,
From freezing rain fast falling, while for Sam she was calling as she paced the floor.
Back at the weather station a strange situation was spreading forth.
Not so far away an arctic foray pushed from the north.
It hardly took a wizard to see the shaping blizzard hiding every star,
A whirling cloud formation showed its concentration on the isobar.
Suddenly she started walking, while talking to her Sam.
Once she stopped to listen, ignoring the snow that glistened— then she ran.
She must’ve been unsightly as the lights shown on her brightly from a car,
Driven by her daughter, doing things she taught her, searching near and far.
“Mother! It’s me, Mabel. You know you’re not able to be out in the cold!
Look how hard it’s snowing with the wind so cold and blowing. Forgive me if I scold.
Finding you not there, I looked everywhere up and down the street.
You’ve come too far, so get in the car and dry your feet.”
“Mabel . . . Pa went out this morning . . . but he had no warning the weather would
be severe.”
“Oh, my mother dear, please come here, come here. Dad’s been gone a year!”
Suddenly the old lady was weary, her eyes old and bleary, her body weak and cold.
She had no coat nor jacket, but in her hand a packet—Sam’s picture she did hold.
My boyfriend was agitated
Because I was constipated
We'd be late for the game
Of course I was to blame
My butt hole's not dialated
On and on he whined and waited
Use of laxatives, debated
In my gut it was stuck
I could smell it... oh yuck
Boyfriend getting more frustrated
I could hear the game on the phone
I said, "Go. Just leave me alone!"
But he didn't hear me
His team was up by three
Stomach hurt, I let out a moan
Half hour later, he was snoring
I guess the game must be boring
I still sat on the can
Cursing my boyfriend, Dan
Who was no longer adoring.
After being lubricated
I sighed at being elated
Although my butt was sore
I had to poop no more
My bowels had been vacated
I found Dan's note and shook my head
"I had to poop, so went home instead
of waiting for you, Sue.
After this, we are through!"
That's exactly what his note said.
I felt relief, more ways than one
Happy that Dan and I were done
Now I can be alone
When sitting on my throne
No one shouting, "Hurry up, Hun!!"
Six days of work for the Master Artist,
creating a universe, bestowing life.
After looking back on His outline,
God colored emotions for Adam and his wife.
Between His sketches of sea and sky,
Blue hues He chose, endowing serenity.
He awakened nature’s forests with strokes of green,
employing earth tones to convey humility.
Red and yellow flowers He painted to bring joy;
white clouds in the heavens added purity.
Rainbow tints filled God’s world with emotions,
leaving no colors in obscurity.
Before one final act, He debated “free will,”
so desirous that each human life form
be welcome in His eternal kingdom.
But no one, He decided, should be forced to conform.
Material things God created en masse
were mere outlines with possibilities.
To make life worth living, He continued day seven,
giving man love, joy and merciful abilities.
*October 24, 2018
For Curtis Moorman’s contest: “What Did God Do on the Seventh Day?”