Best Dispensed Poems
If my mind were a war torn map and anxiety an invading force
A thorough search of my cerebrum would avail no remorse
Is there a hoard of grotesque assailants standing at the border
Or do I suffer from tensions dispensed by some mental disorder
None the less I attack first with nothing but the element of surprise
No weapon, no armor, no countrymen, just a crumbling enterprise
I swing my sword in the direction of the pale ghost filling the night
Cutting to ribbons the notion that I released a lost dog in the fight
Misfortune is mine as the battle rages in the back of my optical lobe
Fixated on the fact that there is a fixed fight at the end of the road
Without negligence I execute the figure who seems to be orchestrating
The darkened world in which I have been unsuccessful in navigating
With a cough of blood his mouth released a final exasperating word
A man cannot win when he cannot escape falling on his own sword
It took years of tears, torture, trials and tribulations for me to see
Thine own enemy I could not circumvent was me and my “anxiety”
The last Night of October
It's that time, again, the last night of October,
the last glow of twilight nearly gone.
Children race out and about,
winding through the streets and alleys.
Brightly colored costumes,
mom's old wig, dad's old sport coat.
All hoping to fill their bags with the prize:
Candy bars, bag of licorice, candy corn, pop corn balls,
apples, Bit-O-Honey, and Pez dispensed joy.
Some, their favorites, to greedily keep their own,
others to give to a poor sibling, who stayed home with the mumps.
With faces painted, steel themselves, for the gauntlet ahead,
the familiar street now somehow strange in the gloom,
to walk past hallowed ground,
All was quiet, save for the rustling of the leaves.
The daylight gone, now cloaked in Stygian darkness..,
ahead lie, the old grave yard.
Raucous laughter, which echoed only moments before,
trailed off into whispered murmurs.
All eyes from the once merry band looked now,
to their leader, albeit quickly chosen,
the tallest, and oldest, and bravest.
He too, resolve waning, felt the grip of those things unknown,
in the shadowy mist,
heart now beating faster, he chides the little ones,
for being such silly ninnies.
Just now, what was that! What was that sound?!?
Was that an owl? Or, maybe Old Man Godfrey, come back from his
now disturbed rest!
Young sister's hands clasped brother's, tightly,
and brother's, impishly taking the clammy worts,
decidedly grew, just a bit older, wiser,
and braver in kind.
Now turning the corner at Elm street, they walked at even pace.
With heads bowed low, mid-block, each chanced a glance, only to look away,
from the wrought iron gate.
Young heads, did now envision mystic spectres, ghouls and fantastic phantoms, with jaws agape, smiling in toothy cheer, bony fingered hands reaching through the heavy bars.
Swallowing dryly, daring just one quick glance back,
at the narrow lane winding, into the stone covered grounds,
dotted with ivy covered trees of willow and oak.
Back into the world of the living, back to
All Hallow's Eve.
-Happy Halloween
I still savor the thought of the zest that I caught
When you joined us that night after school.
Tara figured out why, since she’s so sage and sly;
She left early to show it was cool.
With her sis Tara-gon, Ginger sighed with a yawn,
“My, it’s late!” to clue in that nut-Meg.
“Would you look at the thyme!” came the reechoed chime,
With a wink from Corey-ander pal Peg.
Well, I felt like a god, though it seemed somewhat odd
That they all should jus’ curry, but hey,
When you gave me a smile as we two walked a while,
It dissolved my perplexed caraway.
In this teenagey bliss, I leaned in for a kiss,
Little knowing what I was against:
You demurred in a trice, “Though hot pepper is nice,
I insist that it’s parsley dispensed.”
With a panicky cast, I apologized fast
In my chili confusion and dread,
But I saw your eyes light, and we had a nice night
Holding hands at the cinnamon stead.
---
Credit where credit is due: I got the idea for this from Michael Wise's very original poem "A Spicy Story," posted here:
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_spicy_story_1100057
With all the grace her age permits, she walks with head held high,
her stoic resolution still a marvel to our eyes.
Her ready ear, her helping hand, her never ending care
Dispensed with love and steady hand, in equal measured share.
The love bestowed and freely poured with liberality,
Humbles warms and comforts us, with peace through surety.
A Mothers love cannot be weighed, nor paid with weight of gold,
the silver hair is scant reward, for achievement of her goal.
With every passing moment and every fleeting day,
I visit happy memories that her presence passed my way,
One vital gift, one priceless gem, of love she shared in life
Her Joy of Motherhood still prime, from a Mother, Daughter, Wife.
My Mom, my friend, my confidante, my anchor through the years
I Thank my God that he chose me, to share life with you here.
They wiped my thoughts
with antiseptic hands,
wrung my mind through linen logic
and hung me between breakfast
and scheduled silence.
Every hour—accounted for.
Every spark—neutralised.
Brainwashed.
Hope came in timed doses—
measured in milligrams
and dispensed with a paper cup
and plastic smile.
I swallowed the sun in tablet form
until it glowed from the inside
like a malfunctioning lamp.
Brainwashed.
I used to speak in fractured gold,
each sentence a riddle
spun from starlight and defiance.
They taught me to speak correctly—
which meant quietly,
which meant not at all.
Brainwashed.
They dressed me in fabric
the colour of pause,
stitched my name
into the hem of conformity,
taught me not to wander
outside the red line
of permissible imagination.
Brainwashed.
They made me fill in boxes:
Do you still hear them?
Do you still dream strange?
Do you still think
you are more than
this?
I circled no, and smiled.
Brainwashed.
My mirror stopped recognising me.
It showed a still ocean
where once there were storms.
I waved—but my reflection
had better things to do
than remember who I was
before routine became religion.
Brainwashed.
But some nights—
when the world forgets to monitor me,
and the ceiling isn’t watching—
I find poems hidden
under my tongue,
fierce and unprescribed.
I whisper them backwards
to keep them safe.
Still writing.
Or so they think.
Because inside the silence,
beneath the disinfected compliance,
something unwashed pulses—
raw, brilliant,
and unfinished.
I remember.
The sledding and the skating in ‘63;
the sugar cookies frosted green and red;
the stringing popcorn with my family
and going anxiously that Eve to bed.
The gift exchange when relatives would meet.
Some traveled far to Grandma's little town.
The feast and seeing cousins, such a treat!
We stayed and played until the sun went down.
The program at our church where all took part.
Our flock was small but talent did not lack.
The joyous songs; before we would depart;
the glorious sweets dispensed from Santa's sack!
No holiday to come could be as dear
as when I was a child in my eighth year!
PEDDLING HOPE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a small pill, solace in a blister pack
legally dispensed by a white coat
promises relief, a cure, a return to normalcy,
a life unburdened from pain and disease.
the ache returns, however, louder and more insistent
another pill, then two
the dosage creeping like a vine.
a pressed white powder, a crystal shard
illegally peddled in a dark alley
promises escape, temporary reprieve, abnormality,
a life numbed from pain.
the craving returns, however, the gnawing need
the body screams,
desperately clawing for the next fix.
addiction cares not about legality~
the hungry monster gnaws the same
whether fed by doctor’s script or dealer’s promise.
Big Pharma, a sanitized name
cartels in suits and white lab coats
pushing their product with glossy ads.
the cartel’s hand, a brutal fist
deals death blows and ruin,
pushing their product in seedy places and backstreet alleys.
one wears a suit, funds politicians,
smiles on commercials, promises relief from disease.
the other whispers in shadows
creates transactions based on desperation and fear.
Big Pharma’s towers gleam, untouchable
built on prescriptions, on the fine print no one reads.
cartels hide, their dens and caves obscured
built on blood, dead bodies, and broken dreams.
how many lives line the pockets of pharmaceutical giants,
legal drug pushers in suits peddling hope in blister packs?
how many lives line the pockets of backstreet cartels,
illegal drug pushers in hoodies peddling hope in powder?
Wait! don’t tell me about regulations, about quality control
when the end result is the same:
bodies chained; minds enslaved
lives bartered for fleeting highs and ephemeral repose.
The old rocker reposed by the hearth longer than I can remember.
'Twas Grandma's favorite chair, she cherished it as a family member!
From it she dispensed abounding love, wisdom and wit,
Rhythmically rocking, never minding the squeaks it would emit!
What a special privilege it was to recline at her feet,
Enthralled by tales of her past, of which her repertoire was replete!
As she grew older, tho' her gnarled fingers were not as nimble,
She'd still relax in the rocker with needle, thread and thimble!
In the eventide, she'd read her Bible, glasses perched upon her nose,
Then afterwards with Tabby in her lap, take her usual doze.
Later, the family would gather around her and the chair,
To reminisce, sing, then kneel for evening prayer.
The cat invariably got his tail crushed as Grandma rocked the chair,
Creating a fit of yowling, hissing and an inscrutable glare!
But the wily old dog learned from the first day of his birth,
To give Grandma and her rocker a very cautious berth!
Tho' Grandma and her rocking chair are no longer around,
Precious memories of her holding sway in that old rocker abound.
I suspect that on the other side of that far and mysterious veil,
She presides in a rocker, as saints gather to hear her regale!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
They call you corporate?
Well then so am I
You’re that same guy I saw pass by
And cut your eyes in my direction
Like I was some kind of menace
But we’re both lawless
I run my world from where you wouldn’t dare
You run yours from that big corner office
Same hustle
Different size slice cut from the same seedy pie
The only real difference?
You run your sins from a hundred floors high
But you hustle just like me
Mr. White Collar critic
I may openly live it
But just like me
You push your product towards the weak and impulsive
So like it or not you’ve been right in it
Just like me
Supply and demand
Different trade, same plan
We target the same clientele
That same vulnerable man
Cause’ once that money changes hands
We both have no shame
All green money spends the same
You got your stocks, insider trade
I got my rocks
We’re both self made
You got your inside sources turned state’s witness
I employ the young and ambitious
Sometimes they slip up
And they too become snitches
So the flavor in your greed taste just like mine
Two people who at the end of the day
Pull up their britches in the same way
One crooked leg at a time
So you see
You hustle just like me
You got your “just in case” insurance
Stashed off shore, to be dispensed upon request
You launder
I make threats
Eventually,
What both of us want both of us gets
You keep a tight circle
I keep one too
But mine’s called a crew
In any case it keeps us less nervous
But they serve the same damn purpose
They help us sleep while our money stays in service
What I sell makes people believe they can fly
So yes,
My trade is predicated on a lie
But I guess
Your trade is just as cleverly disguised
It’s just that your lies are forgiven by less judgmental eyes
But both our business models have destroyed innocent lives
So in essence
When you stare at me
It’s like a mirrored view into your own scandal clad eyes
You know why?
Cause’ you hustle
Just like me
Copyright © 2014 by Daryl R. Gaines. All rights reserved
The sledding and the skating in ‘63;
the sugar cookies frosted green and red;
the stringing popcorn with my family
and going anxiously that Eve to bed.
The gift exchange when relatives would meet.
Some traveled far to Grandma's little town.
The feast and seeing cousins such a treat!
We stayed and played until the sun went down.
The program at our church where all took part.
Our flock was small but talent did not lack.
The joyous songs; before we would depart ;
the glorious sweets dispensed from Santa's sack!
No holiday to come could be as dear
as when I was a child in my eighth year!
For the "Christmas Past, Present or Future" Poetry contest of Kelly Deschler
(This was also the year my mother met my stepdad and we became a family of 9 instead of 5. A standout year, but also reminiscent of many of my childhood years at Christmas time in Iowa. With so many dear relatives now passed on, the past would be my time I would choose to revisit.)
In the thickets of the forests and grooves
On the paths through the deserts and the wild
Walked in the robe of nobility
The one who defied the wind and tidal wave
Who throned on a mighty white horse
Decked in regalia of a consummate conqueror
A blue-blooded woman that ascended a throne
In the reign of men, under a the glare of a proud race
Her power and dominion beyond the great Elizabeth
Her rule grim and firm than Margaret Thatcher’s
The wind and wave did her bidding at battlefronts
She was ruthless and wise in governance
Her sword thrusted to the sand blood and hearts of men at war
Bent on conquest she knew no defeat
Bu spoils, plunders of warriors, kings and horses
She held court over men of wisdom and age
She dispensed justice with dispassion
She rode home in triumphant sound of trumpets
To the waiting arms of loyal subjects and servants
In the days when women stood in full heights.
A twelve year old boy, village-bred and very shy
Having but token familiarity with buses, routes and places
Escorts his mom’s mom, very sick and about to die
To the town forty kms and four hours away those days
Involving three buses, two junctions needing directions
And a km on foot, where her other two daughters lived.
She sat on the road and vomited, so bad was her condition,
The boy waited without a thought till she once again moved.
Finally on reaching the house wanted, everyone there was aghast
On how we two made it and critical of my mother’s foolishness
In entrusting a boy who knew next to nothing with such a task.
(But mom with none to help did what she thought right in all seriousness)
Grand ma gets promptly admitted in a hospital nearby.
Along with others, the boy goes to see her daily. On the third
She pleads with him to stay back with her that night
But, no, he runs away because he wanted to play with the other kids.
He never knew she was going to die that night till he was woken up
To board the ambulance which was taking her dead
Back to her native village, and the boy who sat with her was I.
My dad’s dad was dead before I was born
But about him I used to hear a lot all through my life
Because he was a big landlord who owned a village
Of twelve hundred acres, as the head of a joint family
He was a monarch of sorts, albeit, without a sceptre and crown.
Trained in herbal medicines, which he dispensed for free,
And a scholar in astrology and all those esoteric things
And a man of great virtues, he was much sought after.
Then suddenly the rules changed and the system
Of joint families went and after partitioning his estates
Among his kinsfolk , without taking an inch of land for himself,
He shifted to his wife’s place where too they fed a hundred daily
But they fell on hard times with the litigations that followed
The new laws which ruined families and my grandpa died poorer .
Underneath a gorgeous forenoon sky,
In a lush and cool garden of delight,
The green pheasant lifts his exploring eye,
Calling his all wise sage beyond his sight.
His melodious song praises the divine One,
Whose luminance descends in a beam,
Touching within the shrine bright as the sun,
Turning every thing gold as in a dream.
The Lord rests now upon His noble throne,
Calling all to climb up the stairs of stone.
There my reverie of Jesus commenced--
The glory of His office deified,
His knowledge of man’s history there dispensed,
His science of the present thither described.
Wisdom of the future was His display,
Myself humbled to receive His cachet.
Five years of learning was spent at this shrine--
Proving command of as many disciplines--
Crossing the bridge from human to Divine,
His acute knowledge of miracles begins.
Then writing for His testimonial,
Also history that brightens the wise,
With focus on the rites ceremonial,
And how theocracy does authorize.
Divine authority added to His reign,
With the King’s seal He departs the domain.
31 "You looked, O king, and there before you stood a large statue—an enormous, dazzling statue, awesome in appearance. 32 The head of the statue was made of pure gold, its chest and arms of silver, its belly and thighs of bronze, 33 its legs of iron, its feet partly of iron and partly of baked clay. Dan 2:31-32 NIV
Daniel was the interpreter
of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream.
The King had forgotten it—
his troubled sleep so extreme.
God told Daniel what the king had dreamt;
even what his dream did mean.
Nebuchadnezzar was so delighted
that with Daniel he did convene.
Daniel told the king, “You dreamed of
a brilliant statue — Babylon’s the man’s head.
You are the king of this kingdom
that the Medes and Persians will soon shred.
For they are the chest and arms of silver;
the second kingdom yet to come.
Then there’s the belly and thighs—
the third kingdom of the foursome.
The belly made of brass
is much less superior to gold;
this kingdom’s called, Greece,
but even it will fold.”
“So what kingdom will follow
for that’s the very last?”
“It’s a kingdom of iron,” said Daniel;
Rome had to be the caste.
This kingdom of iron
forms the legs down to the feet;
the toes of iron, mixed with clay;
this kingdom, the four complete.
The brilliant statue then is struck
as if with superhuman hands,
with a rock of destruction,
dispensed at God’s commands.
This kingdom of iron
forms the legs down to the feet.
the toes of iron, mixed with clay;
this kingdom, the four complete.
The brilliant statue then is struck—
as if with superhuman hands,
with a rock of destruction,
dispensed at God’s commands.
There’ll be no more earthly kingdoms
beyond the fourth, for sure;
God has predicted it—
no more kingdoms will endure.
Although Napoleon has tried it
and Adolf Hitler too,
Europe will not long be united,
but no-one’s told the Parliament of EU.
God has set up all the kingdoms
and deposed them all as well.
So what hope has man to dictate—
his pack of cards all fell?
God told us there’d be one last kingdom,
but that’s on the earth made new.
So when someone tells you differently,
He’s not read Daniel 2.
Featured in my book No. 3, "Poetry To Touch the Heart & Soul"
Copyright Maureen LeFanue 2009-2011
King 'Enry of The 'Ouse of Tudor ruled merrie olde England, the mighty and the meek.
'E was quite obese in 'is elder years and threw 'is weight around - so to speak!
'E governed from 1509 'til 1549 when 'e expired and began 'is eternal bourne.
Though 'e slept around a lot, nary a male heir for 'is regal throne was born!
With virgin maidens and other guy's wives, 'twas a promiscuous life 'e led,
Though 'e eventually wooed a strange assortment of royal wives to 'is bed!
'E 'ad six of 'em, which would've left even the most virile of men in a daze!
'E soon tired of each and 'e dispensed with them in various and sundry ways!
Both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were destined to lose their 'eads!
Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Parr died of mysterious causes in their beds.
Jane Seymour and Anne of Cleves died from natural causes it is said as well.
'Twas rumored that 'Enry played golf as bells tolled each of their deathly knell!
'Enry got in a spat with the Pope of Rome which resulted in 'is excommunication.
This involved among other things 'is cavalier attitude in matters of domestication!
'E got in a towering snit and formed the Church of England as it is known today.
This 'ad all of not so merrie olde England in an uproar but 'Enry 'ad 'is way!
'Enry ruled with a fist of iron - serfs and gentry as well learned to toe the line!
'E died due to an old jousting wound and 'is fondness for food and wine!
'E was only fifty-five when in Windsor Castle 'e was laid out in repose.
'E was sent on 'is way with great pomp and ceremony as the olde saying goes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 15 in Deborah Guzzi's "Sista's Bloody Sista's" Contest - October 2010