Best Detected Poems
When fleeting storm said goodbye
The darkened sky detected a lie
Besting clouds her thoughts host
Drenching doubts that block riposte.
As the cobalt sky and ocean meet
On the sapphire arc revelers greet
The changing season's vibrant theme
In golden attire of autumn's dream.
The sound of wind whirls in trees
Musical tones of rustling leaves
And the falling foliage flies with ease
Orange hues in autumn's breeze.
As the sepia tones enchant her eye
The gilded leaves of autumn sigh
On buoyant horizon drifting high
Where crimson vistas touch the sky.
Vivid vibes spell a brand new start
As blazing colors awaken her heart
And amber passions begin to reveal
Tinges of magenta in love's appeal.
September 2, 2018
Placed first in One in five (II) poetry contest by Joseph May
Placed first in contest #560 by Brian Strand
Stop being so downcast!
Stop feeling so blue!
And please, stop caring about how many here like you!
On this planet we have but a short time here.
Don't you understand this basic truth?
There is nothing to fear!
Don't come here to be a comment collector.
Reply to comments for heaven's sake!
Please don't be just a selfish taker!
Someone took time to not only read but comment!
You let them sit ice cold, so arrogantly bold.
Some will like you, some will not.
So, laugh, get a tall, cool glass of apricot nectar,
And let the arrogant rot!
If you ever get insulted, get a screenshot!
Big whoop if poets go in another direction!
Ta-ta, au-Revoir~you don't need to be, by them, to be
detected!
The arrogant here think they are by the very God selected?
They by pass your poetry as if it were garbage, freshly collected?
You can see it in their "perfect poetry"
Always a race to be at the top of the poetry tree.
Rarely, will they comment to thee.
You must first comment to them on humble,bended knee?
Looking in mirrors, it's only themselves they see!
Just, please pen some words from your very special heart!
Not Shakespearian wannabes, such pretentious smarts!
There are marvelous poets here, genuine people
I praise them from the highest steeple!
Put on the page, whatever you feel,.above all else, be
unflinchingly real.
And when you go to bed each night, oh my.
How happy and accomplished you will be!
That you are a genuine poet not a poet-groupie!
April 10, 2020
1am PST
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
It started growing in a field
Billy Stover watched it grow
Because the corn was tall
Because Billy Stover was small
No one knew
Now one saw
No one saw how the tiny boy watched by the hour in summer's heat
Even from the top of high elm trees by the road
who could have detected that small lad stretched out
on his stomach leaning on his elbows watching
On stormy days Billy watched from the closest window
elbows propped up on the sill
He knew it was growing though he couldn't see it
He'd be down in the field now in the mud watching
but his mother forbade it
"What do you do out there Billy all by yourself?
What is it you do out there instead of playing?"
On certain days when the wind swayed the green stalks
and nipped Billy's cheeks his eyes would light up
He fought back a burning desire to run into the white kitchen
to tug at his mother's apron to bring her out
and show her his one spot
He jumped up once when the flames leaped high
started running for the house
"Mother! Mother!" he silently shouted
Every part of his small body shook with joy but
The bleak white walls of the kitchen
his mother her hands dipped in bread dough....................................
It started growing in the field in the dirt in the mind of Billy Stover
And no one could have kept a secret better than Billy
Over the top of Tammy hill
came Tully’s motor car,
Tully never drove it very fast
nor ever very far.
In his youth he’d taught us all
How to pilot our ride,
It was a job he did very well
And in it found his pride.
But now Tully was an older gent
approaching eighty-three,
And he was a pretty good driver still
for a man who couldn’t see.
So when it became known to all
that Tully was on a drive,
It was best for them to stay inside
If they hoped to stay alive.
Whenever he detected movement
in his line of sight,
He’d steer his car right for it
and do so with delight.
He’d assume that he’d happened upon
some traffic on the lane,
It didn’t really matter to him at all
if it was an auto or a train.
All that ever mattered to Tully
was that he found his way to the pub,
And he was about to spend an evening
of Guinness and Irish grub.
Then one night I’d had enough
and was in fear of poor Tully’s life,
The thought of the blind old man
behind the wheel added to my strife.
So I lifted the bonnet on his ride
and removed the distributor cap,
When I was done I was greeted by
some locals as they began to clap.
When Tully finally stumbled out
he found that his ride was no longer game,
He took out a pistol and shot it dead
As if it a horse that had turned up lame.
Now Tully has moved to town
And can walk wherever he goes.
Off in the direction of the wind
And follows wherever it blows.
And when a car comes down the lane,
To the side he’ll frantically dive.
He’ll shake his fist and yell at them,
“Who was it that taught you to drive?”
There are certain people
who appear to be normal on the outside
like the have it all together.
To me, these people remind me of walking statues,
that walk around wearing these big genuine
ridiculous phony smiles.
Once you go beneath the surface,
its a whole different world,
where silence is mostly spoken.
And when you're in their presence
which,you'll never know when,
or,where that will be.
So you must always stay on guard
because,they're very observant,
and,very crafty in choosing their words wisely,
in order not to be detected.
And whatever you say,
or do,might come back
and haunt you.
But,this'll all depend
on how conduct yourself.
At the same time
while you're desperately walk on eggshells
trying not to slip up.
Insanity slowly begins its journey
into your mind,
torturing you with every passing second,
causing extreme sweating and
making your heart beat out of control.
And as long as you let them see your weakness,
they will continue to torture you with their fakness .
(This poem is political satire;
don't read if you think you may
be offended. No truth in any of it,
considered by many to be
tasteless -- Not meant to be taken
factually nor literally -- Sincerely, Joe)
New strain of Virus detected
just a minute ago! Predominately
in Democrat run cities and states:
Seems to be 3 trillion times more
infective. CDC is calling it the,
S.T.U.P.I.D. Variant. University Staffs
hard-hit! Early signs, loss of Sense-
of-Smell, Gullibility, and increased
fetish for Designer Masks. Best
detected by examination of Cancel
Cultures -- microscopes prohibited
per Fauci. The most vulnerable group
seems to be those who have already
had 4 doses and 2 boosters. To treat
Fauci recommends, 4 doses and 2 boosters
for everyone, preferably administered
as young as the womb to developing
fetuses by his personally trained
omnipotent physicians at Unplanning
Parenthood -- Biden and Pelosi
say, God Bless America!
Last thoughts come before our final breath unexpected
Expressions of regret, sometimes heartfelt goodbyes,
A sincere apology on the lips of the dying detected
More likely words uttered in pain, as horrifying cries.
Sudden thoughts upon which one has long reflected
Others, not giving a second thought, most intentional lies,
Truth be known, we cannot know another’s final thoughts--
The last hopefully sensible thing they say before one dies.
It certainly behooves us to watch every word we say
For the last thought we speak is sending us away.
Ranked #55 on Best New Poems on Poetry Soup
May 23, 2021
Written April 24, 2021
For "Our Last Thoughts" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
Storm of hearts
You can see in her eyes, there's a storm in her heart
Accusations boom in verbal sonic thunder
Rains flood her sullen cheeks, as her levees break apart
Harsh words cut deep, now her heart is sawed asunder
Lightning flashes strike at the heart of a matter
Polar winds collide, meeting the heated Gulf Stream
Violent winds, reveal truth, causing hearts to shatter
Twisting tornadoes churning nightmares from sweet dreams
Hurtful words sting her face, like an icy hailstorm
With deceitful lies, you camouflage your blunder
Betrayal detected as love's radar informs
Tsunami waves of guilt crash, and pull you under
Fits of jealousy raging like a hurricane
When trust is broken, life can never be the same
John Derek Hamilton
July 28,2017
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
"Love is the strongest force in the universe."
Can this statement be proven true?
If I were to begin a search
And write down a hypothesis
What parameters should I observe?
Can love be seen under a microscope?
Can its depths be plumbed by a rope?
Can its mass be balanced on a scale,
Or its weight detected by a spring?
If only I can find these numbers,
Will I finally understand…?
Why so many courtship end in disaster
Why friendship can fall apart
If love is so powerful
Then why does it seem so frail?
So much of the cosmos is cold and empty space
Like the void within our souls
That love can’t seem to fill
Still, my heart remains restless
Unwilling to make the conclusion
That love is but vain platitudes
That the universe is all there is…
So much of the cosmos is but cold and empty space
But gossamer threads hold the planets in their place
The radiant orbs move in harmony
To weave cosmic melodies
And though the song of the celestial spheres
Are oft too far to hear
A kindred anthem streams
Oft too close to see
So I listen to the quantum hymn
To study this elementary romance
The force so strong it could subdue
The natural repulsions within the heart of matter
And the bonds forged by the orbital motions
Which construct our terrestrial frames
I know now that even in my utmost lonesome
Atomic serenades reverberate deep within
Forever reaching out for a kin
Vast, cosmic energies is unleashed
When elements finally unite
And when I contemplate these forces sublime
They almost seem divine
"Love is the strongest force in the universe."
I think I am beginning to see
How that statement could be true
Love is the seam that binds all kinds of matter
And that love is three in one
It was only a few days
On their barren soil
Through a doorway he went
So many lives now spoiled
An explosive device
Plastic in design
Could never be detected
Now a life resigns
The regimental medic
Rushes to his aid
To stem his internal bleeding
Through his eyes he fades
His lifeless soul lies lonely
As he is gently stretchered away
Where he will be flown back home
To where the angels play
In honoured ceremony
As he is carried to his carriage
On the tarmac awaits
His fiance, without marriage
In the chapel of rest
She stands in a tear laden pose
Her tribute to her lost one
With him goes a Rose
For tomorrow she will awake
A new day in her life
As she remembers her love
Who would have made her his wife
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/loss-2.php
Day after day.
Time after time.
Everything has stayed the same.
The doubts in my mind.
The thoughts of the dead.
The ones that I loved most.
A distant dream.
One that only comes when I sleep.
I have wasted my life.
Dreaming my future away,
but no one sees it.
No one believes it.
They only care for themselves.
Alone.
It has been my life.
It will be to the end of time.
There are no tears shed.
No signs of sadness in my head.
Will I ever show my raw feeling
to the disaster of life?
A blank face.
No feelings to be detected.
No one asks if I'm ok.
It's not their business,
but there's no kindness
in a world full of hatred.
Pity.
I hate it,
but I still long for it.
That someone will come.
That I won't be alone.
That no one has left me in the past,
but it's all a dream in my head.
Dreams.
They never last.
They come back,
but so does reality.
So broken.
So unneeded.
So unfair,
but I still use it to help with my fears.
Fears.
They are my weaknesses,
but they are apart of me.
Sadly, they do
cause me to dream my life away.
Will I ever be pitied in the end?
The sky.
It comes at the right time.
It cries the tears I never shed.
Crying is a weakness,
but why does the sky,
who holds up my world outside,
still cries for me in the end?
No one cares.
No one is there.
No one knows me inside.
I least I have the sky
to help me through my hard times.
At least the sky cries my sadness inside.
She’s stuffed and she’s mounted;
She’s up on a board.
This week, she’s discounted;
We’ll throw in a cord.
Her joints all work;
She flexes and bends.
Pretend that she’s surfing;
The fun never ends!
She’s Wi-Fi-enabled
And password-protected.
Her system updates
Are auto-detected.
And upgrade to Pro
For 995;
She never talked more
When she was alive.
So don’t waste
your dough
On a mausoleum.
You spend all
That cash
And nobody sees ‘em.
Don’t sit there, man, move it!
Get up off your can
Our agents are waiting
Get your Instagran.
By invitation from a trusted friend,
a medium intervention took place and I went.
The building set in the thick forest by a shimmering lake,
some broken sheds looking sad and strange to take.
Weeded and worn the manor house thatch,
a frail welcome and the oil lamp in my face, opens the latch.
Guided into a stony room, a roaring fire giving light to others,
all wearing coats to darkness trance of matter.
Musky sandalwood and smoke heavy on the eye,
cold winds slapping windows nearby.
Tattered curtains reveal a stone cast from the wall,
a female priestess turns into a fragile light, while some stones just fall.
The purple silver dress enriching her timeless gestation,
taken centre stage and a bow of appreciation.
‘Weary dreary, the lot of You’,
the soft velvet voice seeking attention, of what to do.
“I roaming with a hungry heart,
and I invite you to my noble sphere”.
‘And all I see are empty cloaks everywhere’.
You charlatans and prosperous healer,
you happy clapper and commercial dealer.
‘When will you lot start to provide genuine visions,
which are not based on commissions’.
‘This labor by slow prudence not to fail,
needs the wind of compassion to sail.’
‘Some work of noble note is still to be done’,
Deep moans round with many voices,
some shriek from there own detected choices.
‘We need to be one equal temper with heroic hearts,
to strive, to seek, to find the virtue of healing art’.
The doctrine is simple, ancient and true,
Life’s trial that you only love what is worth your love,
has little consequence by the miracle above.
The fire crashes to a flicker and darkness takes the hand,
The faint voice of the priestess so clear, “Wake and understand”.
Feeling lost in the solemn and strange,
wondering about the elements it takes to change.