Best Disputes Poems
Fear not death
when it comes for you...
Death is not a monster,
not even a master, but
a servant--
having no more choice
in the taking of you than
you have in the going....
And if you are defiant,
telling lonely Death,
"By my hand, not yours,
I will set my own fate!"
Death will smirk, laugh,
and say without rancor:
"Take my job, please!
It has never given me
a moment's pleasure.
To be forever feared,
hated, despised--
when all I have ever done
was to open a door....
But know, proud human,
(the only animal who
disputes my work),
when YOU turn the knob,
yes, to eternity's door...
it may not lead you
to the same place
as when I open it."
I knew his meaning,
responded contritely:
"Fear not, Death--
I will not resist
your silent coming.
I know Who issues
your deadly orders.
Forgive us humans
for our denial:
we keep forgetting
we exist always, and
this life is but
a scratch in time."
Our giggles lilt, whirling on paths divine
Inventing new summer tricks, how bubbly
That every joy ride is a drink so fine
From which we both sip, late nights of coffee.
Secrets we keep under river's deep floor
Like mirrored glass where we color the dew,
An only sis, eldest bloom I adore
When pained tears cascade; she’s my first rescue.
Though disputes flare, ardor bestows rebirth
With shared compass guiding a walk called life;
Exploring beyond dreams, fonder this earth,
As she cradles my hope, now a blest wife.
The music still dances within our eyes
One treasure of love bonding as allies.
When Older Siblings or Younger Step In...
Eve Roper’s Contest
1/2/2015
I tread between green mounds of decay,
seeking a particular headstone.
Lost in thought, I lose track of the day,
for I've seldom felt so all alone.
Where the dead rest under monoliths,
a feeling of fear clings to the shade.
But despite supernatural myths,
I begin to wander unafraid.
A dying sun highlights every grave:
gilding inscribed epitaphs of old.
And reading words the grieving engrave:
I seek warmth within a love gone cold.
My heart disputes the pains of my youth,
still in denial, despite years of ache.
And failing to disregard the truth,
tears dissipate like drops in a lake.
I stand still before the place I seek:
where lies a military hero.
And a single tear runs down my cheek
for my father, a man called Leo.
My heart was born a sonnet full of rhyme,
but the poet in me preferred free verse,
as syllable forms became a bore with time.
My heart was born a sonnet full of rhyme,
but the pen felt matching words was a crime,
as ink disputes led to writer's block curse.
My heart was born a sonnet full of rhyme,
but the poet in me preferred free verse.
All the little bunnies were lined up for a race. Why, you may ask?
Because the dear old Leader Bunny was stepping down with grace.
He had led the others for years without disgrace, in all pursuits.
He was their advisor, friend, and confidant... solver of disputes.
Such a lofty position was dearly sought by all…from all around.
But he could pick only one to wear that lofty, wonderful crown.
So a race was determined to quickly resolve, the question therein.
And a lovely little laurel crown was offered, to the one who did win.
Now many strategies to win emerged from within the race.
The most common was the notion to set the fastest pace…
A few would use tricks that might hurt, in order to slow others down.
A few were mean, for they wanted the power that comes with the crown.
Two were clever and would catapult each other at the very end.
A few just practiced running to gain the added stamina needed to win.
Only one little rabbit found shoes for the poor, for it was a rocky trail.
And when the race began he helped those hurt in the prevail.
Now the dear old leader had never actually worn a laurel crown.
His had been symbolic; his works had brought him his renown.
When the Leader Bunny gave the laurel crown to he who won the race…
Only a few were surprised, when the little helper won the Leader’s grace…
Though some would go on to complain because he had come in last…
It truly takes someone who knows how to serve, to lead and guide the rest.
But my moral to this story is that…. Regardless what some may think…
It takes compassion to correctly lead…and sometimes the last can be the best…
...adapted from the novel 'Mr Pye' by Mervyn Peake
Balding and sprightly, he's filled with bold dreams
to make us all happy and free.
He selects as his target a small Channel Island,
a sampling of people just like you and me.
All he wants is that folks get along
without all their disputes and fights.
He tries to bring peace to this sheltered enclave,
just by doing good deeds he can sleep nights.
He practises witchcraft to bring them together,
'if it works' are his words for the day.
A sense of humour is paramount these days
to keep those nay-sayers at bay.
In the midst of these noble endeavours
he feels discomfort that turns out
to be wings that are sprouting quite clearly,
a cause for concern there's no doubt.
It seems that his kindness has made him an angel,
the more good deeds, the bigger they grow
'til they're actually poking right out of his shirt,
my goodness, they're starting to show!
So he counters with bad deeds in hopes that they'll shrink,
indiscretions and plain bald-faced lies.
Sure enough they diminish, in fact they're all gone,
he need not prepare a disguise.
But this scheme that he's started gets odder,
there's a growth on his temples, two horns;
he's been so busy negating the good that he's done
he's turned Devil, good heavens! he's torn
between Good and Evil, just what should he do?
he's conflicted, and lies in disgrace;
he sits down to ponder which way he should turn,
it's as clear as the nose on his face!
On the horns of a moral dilemma,
he simply gives in to pure Good;
he embraces his folk, he just loves them to death,
'til his wings are full-sprouted he'll
take to the air and keep flying
as far as infinity goes,
so he bids his people a tearful farewell,
next stop for our Spirit, who knows?
...comes the force of awakening
like tenderness and fire
an intimacy that stands at the edge of new
time works differently
reshuffles life
in heart hammering excitement
invested with hope
to push aside the boundaries of impossible
two people shaped by each other's needs
drawn together in physical ease
when words shake down reserve
when touch morphs into love
sometimes tangled and knotty
like heartbreak in country music
if we just climb high enough
if we have the courage to carry on
if forgiveness transforms silence
disputes fall by the wayside
we change through loving eyes
vows that summon us forward
that never numb with age
Does the world know what it ought to cherish?
to woo a full humanity
to mend the battle scars of war
when we know a visionary change
that lives on
in the love we leave behind
“Ole Brownie”
The meanest and the best,
Proven among the rest,
My dog in Arkansas, pope county,
I present, ole Brownie,
With first cold front,
Arkansans begin the hunt,
Razorback hogs,
with their dogs,
Now my dog Brownie,
Meanest hog dog in pope county,
A sight to see,
Even growls at me,
A heinz fifty seven,
Comes number seven of the eleven,
Impossible to see,
His pedigree,
Though no pedigree,
Visibly plain to see,
He was the dog for me,
By my shout of glee,
When he was given to me,
He was a handsome dog,
Though he loved to hog,
Part red bone hound,
Mixed with feist clown,
Would fight anything around,
Twas very plain he wasn’t a coward,
With teeth bared,
Who’s hoss or boss,
At any cost,
Often declared,
When disputes were aired,
Ain’t no fibbing,
Ears torn to ribbons,
His ears` he had sacrifices,
To his scrapping vice,
Anyhow, to finish my story,
Bout my dog of glory, ©.( “Razorback Hog Hunt”)
9-27-09 [email protected]
Farewell, au revoir, goodbye, convivial summer.
The day is late now, and the breeze is warmer.
A vacant ocean-side barricaded motel.
Wild geese are soon flying in lines as well.
Vacation homes drop their literate barricades.
This rich sweeping green tone will soon fade.
In this season, buds and fruits are abundant.
Melons and garden load are ardent.
Tanned skin, sailboats, and folded linen suits.
When the world is more positive than disputes,
Pollen irritates the sinuses of sensitive patients.
Now they've fled to the farm, the coast nascent.
Stop their passing endeavor at escape.
The Ferris wheel in LEGOLAND is agape.
The Cape no longer trades in quirkiness.
A glum family descends from the murkiness.
To welcome their offspring back from camp.
Mature year, scarlet maple boughs, raised scamp.
Sunburned shoulders disappear at summer's end.
Goodbye to the peasant's headband.
Goodbye storms and dirty white shoes.
Goodbye summer friends, pants, shorts, and cruse.
Farewell, tennis peculiar desire to be difficult.
Farewell picnics, ice tea, and plane trips, munificent.
Written: August 19, 2022
If I were you
And you were me
i knew your sorrows
And you felt pains of me.
All roots of misunderstanding
Live in the heart of unknowns
We don't know well about each other
So misconceptions lead the differences.
If elders were youngsters
And youngsters were elders
They knew each other's needs
Thus disputes never sprout their seeds.
All you wanted to know about me
Same i wanted to know about you
if you want war and disputes should dwell in hell
then we shouldn't afraid to make World well.
If some day a miracle happens
All men and women change their gender
They can feel needs of each other
Thus Respect and dignity hurt never.
If humans were Nature
And nature were humans
Think what we get from Nature
And what we return holy Nature
What is the worst in the world?
Consider ownself merely right in the World.
If all persons are right
Then how deadly weapons get birth to fight.
I Am A Book
By David J Walker
I am a book of Unread pages
I am a book
I am a book Written in stages in
A travel log On a road called Time
With the foreign stamps Of Passport Ministers
Checking my credentials along the way
I am a book
I am a book Of unread scripture
With the lectures on faith
In staggered chapters and the
Tattered chronicled collections of
Odd jobs We have asked of a Loving God
Written in a foreign language
I am A book
I am a book Of erotic poetry in
Pictograph albums Scrutinized and analyze
Then censored By holier than me censors
I am a book
I am a book With pages numbered
And then sealed Its secrets to be
Revealed in full on an unannounced
Judgment day with Disputes left in the hands of
A Divine Defender
I am a book
I am a book
To be colored Everyday
Where the lines do not matter
Only the hue and The view
In which you see me
I am a book
I am a book Not to be left On the dusty shelf of
A forgotten library Rarely opened in a
Distant history I am a book to be read
And even if misunderstood To be savored
I am a book
It was not the sound of babies crying
Or anger,
fear
Old folks dourly discussing
Nor disputes,
debates
Strident voices of cussing
It was not the sound of children weeping
Or taunts,
doubts
Young people rowdily ruminating
Nor oppression
craftiness,
Ungrateful tones of murmuring
It was not the sound of grown ups mourning
Or dementia
regrets,
Middle age crisis managing
Nor depression,
unforgiveness
Poisonous tongues of viper stings
The last sound heard was the sound of death dying
...adapted from 'Mr Pye' by Mervyn Peake
Balding and sprightly, he's filled with
bold dreams
to make us all happy and free.
He selects as his target a small
Channel Island,
a representative sampling of people
just like you and me.
All he wants is that folks get along
without all those disputes and fights.
He tries to bring peace to this
sheltered enclave,
just by doing good deeds he can
sleep nights.
He practises witchcraft to bring
them together,
'if it works...' are his words
for the day.
A sense of humour is paramount
these days
to keep all those evil-believers at bay.
In the midst of these noble endeavours
he feels discomfort that turns out
to be wings that are sprouting quite clearly,
a cause for concern there's no doubt.
It seems that his kindness has made him
an angel,
the more he does good deeds
the bigger they grow
till they're actually poking right out
of his shirt,
my goodness, they're starting to show!
So he counters with bad deeds
in hopes that they'll shrink,
indiscretions and plain bald-faced lies.
Sure enough they diminish, in fact
they're all gone,
he need not keep himself in disguise.
But this scheme that he's started
gets odder,
there's a growth on his temples, two horns;
he's been so busy negating the good
that he's done
he's turned Devil, good heavens!
he's torn
between Good and Evil, just what
should he do?
He's conflicted like never before.
He sits down to ponder which way
he should turn,
till it's clear, sitting right at his door.
On the horns of a moral dilemma
he simply gives in to pure Good.
He embraces his folk, he just loves them
to death,
till his wings are full-sprouted; he could
take to the air and keep flying
just as far as infinity goes,
so he bids his people a tearful farewell,
next stop the cosmos, who knows?
"Well, how ya doin?" he asked
placing his foot inside the door.
His face became a sneer
as he recognized her fear
that only strengthened his resolve.
"What are you doing here?" she said
leaning her body against her side of the door.
She couldn't smile, didn't want to frown
as terror coated her tongue.
"Well, I come to see you, dahlin." he cooed
leaning lazily against the outside jamb.
"Dontcha think we could talk awhile .... "
"No!" she screamed. "No, no go away." she sobbed
pushing at the door.
Suddenly, he moved. The door slammed shut.
Inside she stood trembling.
He shrugged, turned and walked away smiling
having accomplished his mission
in their escalating war.
Slowly he drove away to a liquor store
and after putting a bottle in his car,
walked leisurely down the street to a gun shop.
In his gait was a little hop.
~~
~~~
~~~ Dedicated to all the men, women and children
who have lost their lives in domestic disputes ~~~~~
IT REEKS ANEW
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
When a Cow Defecates Onto the Grazing Field
There Is a Stench, That All Miasmic Odors Yield
But Given Some Time the Weathering Will Seal
And the Original Discomfort Becomes a non Deal
However, If the Deposit Is Stirred, the Odors Return
Leaving Old Conflicts Alone, a Lesson to Learn
We Have Disputes, Arguments Causing Unrest
But If Finally Resolved, Passing Times Test
However, If the Event Is Later Resurrected
Resentments Return, Peace Becomes Unprotected
If You Find a Bear Sound Asleep and Undisturbed
Poke Him? Dead Events Should Remain Interred