Best Distributing Poems
Sophie Scholl was raised a Christian in a Lutheran family
Born in the town of Forchtenberg in south west Germany
For standing defiant against evil with her young life she'd pay
In a country that was in deep turmoil and had lost its way.
She was a young teenager in nineteen thirty three
When a new leader offering hope, emerged in Germany
Adolf Hitler was an Austrian, who came to power
And for many it was the start of their darkest hour.
To unite the German people the Nazis held rallies
In some of the larger towns and all the big cities
But something dark and sinister was taking place
The evil Nazis were plotting to create a master race.
All the youth were encouraged to join an organisation
Hitler youth they were known all over the nation
Sophie and her brother together, with some of their friends
Turned their backs on the movement and vowed to make amends.
Word was getting around about death camps and persecution
Together they decided to form, a small non violent organisation
Known as the 'White Rose' who urged the people to renounce Hitler
They handed out leaflets telling the truth, about the Nazis slaughter.
One day at Munich University where Sophie studied as a student
She was seen distributing leaflets on what Nazi ideology meant
A janitor intervened and confronted her, and wouldn't let her go
She was arrested and then handed over to the notorious Gestapo.
They interrogated her to find out, who her accomplices were
But she wouldn't give them their names, as they tortured her
They charged her with high treason and sentenced her to death
To die by the guillotine and the date of execution was set.
They executed twenty one year old Sophie for making a stand
And they had accused her of being a traitor, to the fatherland
They eventually captured the others, five of them in all
And they too walked to their deaths standing proud and tall.
It’s people like Sophie who want to make the world a better place
And not supporting some twisted ideology like a master race
The Nazis were eventually defeated and their leaders tried
But not before Sophie and millions of other innocents had died.
Written 15th May 2021.
The family was poor
and on Christmas Eve
he went to bed still hungry
after his meagre evening meal.
He slept fitfully and dreamt
he had to work on Christmas Day,
distributing flyers to the people in town.
Hear, hear, read the news,
Today a Holy Child is born.
He ran from church to church,
from avenue to avenue,
from restaurant to restaurant,
spreading the good and holy news.
”Baby Jesus is born, Jesus is born!”
Soon he was tired for lack of food.
But though the job was badly paid,
he persisted for he believed
one day Jesus would bless him too.
So he went on, giving his flyers
proclaiming the holy news
until a strange light attracted him.
Slowly he approached and saw
a small Child in a manger
smiling softly at him.
“Come near my friend, come hear.
Look there are better flyers
beneath my cosy manger.
Go and distribute these.”
The newspaper boy obeyed.
He read the flyer and jumped with joy.
Quickly he returned to the centre
and with renewed energy he shouted:
“Hear, hear, read the news,
Heaven is full of repentant sinners,
come one, come all,
Heaven is there for you,
that's why He was born this day,
come hear the good news.
It is for you.
Merry Christmas.”
DURING MY WORLDLY TRAVELS, I MET ARTHUR ITIS.
TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH HE WASN'T THE BRIGHTEST.
HIS GOAL IN LIFE IS DISTRIBUTING PAIN.
HE LOVES TO ACT UP DURING WINTER AND RAIN,
I WAS ONCE AT A PARTY, HOSTED BY MR. GRIM REAPER.
I WAS BOUNCING AROUND WHEN I SPOTTED A KEEPER.
FASCINATINGLY ATTRACTIVE, WITH A SCIENTIFIC TYPE NAME.
SHE SIMPLY PREFERRED, BEING CALLED MARY JANE.
HER PURPOSE IN LIFE IS TO DRIVE AWAY PAIN,
FROM THOSE PLAGUED WITH ARTHRITIS EVEN MENTALLY INSANE.
HER WORK IS AMAZING, ESPECIALLY HER JELLS.
QUITE THE RELIEF FOR THOSE LIVING IN HELL.
SHE'S THE LIFE OF THE PARTY, WITH A BAD REPUTATION.
IN THE MEDICAL WORLD, SHE'S KNOW ACROSS NATIONS.
SO HERE WE STAND BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG.
AND ALL WE WANT IS ARTHRITIS BE GONE.
'Twas the night before Christmas and I was awed by this pleasant sight:
JOY blurted mirth of blissful delight
Cheering HOPE to spread good wishes’ light
While FAITH props merriment upon truth-insight
Inviting PEACE to march with them upward victory-height!
‘Twas the night before Christmas and there was I beholding in amazement:
Values like GOODNESS and KINDNESS sharing their glad engagement
In distributing goodies with GRACE of helpfulness’ involvement
Along PATIENCE extending persistent endearment
Midst MEEKNESS in showing long suffering’s investment!
‘Twas the night before Christmas and I was exposed to the venue’s elegance:
Where I spotted LOVE wrapping presents with great abundance
Assisting was GENEROSITY whistling sweetly, devoid of arrogance
With them were GRATEFULNESS and PRAISE in their jovial extravagance
Being instructed by PRUDENCE and WISDOM thru their principles’ radiance!
‘Twas the night before Christmas and I couldn’t wait to see grand festivity
Which the Christmas Author would reveal to me with faith’s certainty
In His compassion, He packed all those VIRTUES inside His SON’s humanity
Born* as the SAVIOUR with GOD’s gift of life everlasting and triumph’s surety
Assured to all for owning and sharing toward eternity!
*Luke 2:11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
November 23, 2018
7th place, "The Night Before..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May; judged on 12/8/2018.
Affection appears in many different ways..
A caress..
A warm embrace...
A kiss..
Holding hands..
Arms wrapped around one's shoulder..
Loving warm smile..
Distributing unconditional love..
Starved for affection I am..
Child I was..
Abundance of food existed..
Lack of affection existed..
As I hungered for affection..
Unwanted I felt..
Lost in my own reality..
Feeling unloved..
A caress
Warm embraces..
Kisses..
Holding hands..
Was indeed many of my fantasies..
Day dreams often flowed..
From childhood..
To adulthood..
Starvation of affection it was..
Wholeness I only imagined..
Since lack of wholeness there was..
It was a lovely hot summer's day..
Scorching hot sun..
With a gentle breeze..
I was walking on the beach..
The hot sand covering my toes..
Feeling the grittiness of the sand..
Upon both my feet..
A man..
Handsome ..
Accompanied by an amazing, loving, warm, genuine, smile..
Approaches me..
The rest is history..
Starved for affection ..
No more..
As I have found the love of my life..
A lifetime of embraces we will have..
Now I have a beautiful child..
My child..
Shall always receive an abundance of affection..
No limitations apply ..
Crime is a real problem in Jamaica
Hundreds are dead, there's no solution to the problem
Even the police are giving up ...the police commissioner has resigned ...sir trust me, no one man can solve this problem...you did your best
In the meantime, we are still counting bodies
We hear the cries but ...no solutions
We only can call on God now
The problem started long before our time, when garrison politics was the order of the day
Few are educated
No real opportunities
The big man distributing guns in the inner city
Young men smoking weed on the corner
Pregnant teenagers
Women selling themselves for a few dollars
No father in the house and our men still believe they should have" gal in a bungle "
Where is the church in all of this? busy talking about the cover of a phone book and nothing on crime ...seriously
We can't win the war on crime until we win the war in the family, we need real role models, we need real men …yes MEN
The truth is until we start teaching our men to be responsible we will never win the war on crime
until it's at our front door before we get serious
When our women stop washing bloody clothing for their gun men son and mate
Yes, we all need to stop accepting bull **** before all this will end
Until then we will continue to count bodies, when will it end, when the society start taking responsibility
What idiots we are, thinking a hard
day’s work will suffice; the hurt that
is measured in years, unconsciously digs
deeper with every sunrise. “I taught these
guys everything they know.” A voluntary
brain drain, tapped to exhaustion, each
one passing out to a brighter world, only
soon to forget. Basic humanity being squeezed
out, thus giving room only to their unmoralistic
company charter!
These non-productive morons, that holds all
power, hardly able to keep a straight face,
when insincerely apologizing for distributing
that dreaded piece of white paper!
© Harry J Horsman 1989
Limerick: Once a Great Leader with empty pockets
Once Great Leader with empty pockets
Strode our World distributing nuggets
Nuggets Made in China
Slick smooth like Godiva
Now makes Godiva China rockets.
© T. Wignesan – Partis, 2013
Made In India
To live and die in a world of a teacher
And the taught was his solitary wish.
Plundered every treasury in all his books
Lavishly enriching his soul forever thirsty.
An aeronautical engineer
Lost being a pilot
Voted as President
To rule over every pilot.
Son of a boatman distributing newspapers
Simple living with half a dozen clothing
In the looming closets
Of his erstwhile Presidential chair.
Sleep slept over to follow his dream
To make India a super world power
The Missile Man shot far above the clouds
The world saluted Kalam who was Made In India.
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Contest: Storm On The Spanish Main
She sits among the flowers on the ground.
A young flower amid a bed of thorns.
Genteel on this conspicuous platform,
with flowers gathered closely all around.
She baptizes with water from her hand,
then prunes the withered from this flower stand.
Unity is there among the weeds,
that strengthens fading petals on their stems.
Cultivating roots, distributing seeds,
elegant blossoms for her diadems,
with sweet nectar for all the birds and bees,
luring repasts from ancient recipes.
WINDOW SEAT
Sitting beside him in the window seat as they
taxied for take-off at the end of the day, she was
nubile and pretty, as young as his daughter, nearly
perfect in the way of a late-autumn sunset distributing
itself over olive-brown skin, coffee-colored eyes, an
unmistakable aura of the concept of duende that interpreted
the mysteries of twilight and flight and the challenges of
life through the lyrical cadences of Andalucia,
Castilla-La Mancha, and Castilla-Leon
He remembered the first time that his
beautiful wife, the renegade rose in a botanical garden,
kept company with him on a visit to Spain:
She was apprehensive on the plane, excited in Madrid,
underneath him in Sevilla; she misbehaved in Barcelona,
and was full of questions in Granada that he answered in
Toledo while she replaced her scarlet lipstick standing
naked in the mirror
Philadelphia to Madrid takes six-and-a-half hours
at six-hundred miles per hour, the big Airbus jetliner navigating
the darkness beneath the fingernail crescent of a waxing
harvest moon, yet its running lights flashing and its reassuring
roar, were simply dissipating signatures like the fragrances and
curves of the sleeping girl beside him, swallowed along the
route by altitude and distance, by the perpetual fluctuations
of the unruly sea below, by the unexpected pleasures
of a marriage that really matters – like with that red rose
renegade who’s often naked in the mirror, always present
in their bed, and every day a guiding essence for
his aging, restless soul!
Duende (Spanish): (1) in flamenco - a spiritual or emotional
bond between performer and audience created by the performer’s
intense concentration and passion; (2) in general – authenticity of
emotion and expression – soul!
A quivering shadow shrouding a clouded pane
Shared pain scribbled in the doleful rain
Hollow words that broker heartache and disdain
A sorrowful whistle emanating from a distant train
Poorly trained recruits struggling above the furor to remain
Stridently striving nation's honor to uphold; but only vitriol,
criticism obtain
Sacrificial fodder sheared of its free-flowing mane
Pared of hope; left only with the incalculable strain
Stationed in a humid hovel that every ounce of stamina doth drain
Surrounded by enemies who fealty and allegiance feign
Fighting to defend a people tethered to a weak, tenuous chain
Serving under commanders who constantly seek fallow grounds to
regain
Sacrificial lambs whose blood the unforgiving terrain doth stain
Seeking a wily, amorphous foe in a borderless territory to contain
Reconnoitering through boundless jungles that equally beauty and
poison contain
Searching for 'guerillas in the mist', but only marauders and
malcontents detain
Scouring villages for contraband; arbitrary jury distributing pain
Showered with toxic chemicals that clear our paths but our lungs
restrain
Conditioned to violence as barbaric, torture devices many
comrades have slain
Transporting the liberal vices of burgeoning social revolution to a
frugaler domain
Satiating the lonely days; secluded nights with: booze, barbiturates
and cocaine
Surviving a hostile conflict where sanity seemed to constantly ebb
then wane
Trite conscripts whose epitaph will read, 'Every battle objective
gained, but the national will could not retain'.
Mostly I stand tall,
Strong enough to hold your weight
Distributing the pain
As if
It ails me not at all
But then you test my gravity, so carelessly
Without realizing you're heavy
I stoop
Beneath your ego
And you still don't feel my pain
My head bent low,
My tears hit the grass
Burdened
With your shame
My arms break from lifting you so high
Yet you insist you do nothing
You twist my wrists so
Many times
So I will fit your stories
So you can live your life of lies,
You spend your time
Quieting me
What you don't realize is
I'm weakening, from always keeping you
Afloat
One day I'll break and you will fall
Shunned by
Your weeping willow
Being a child yet,
A facet which I keep hidden
But, towards which tends my very soul
I chose to fly to the land of Santa Claus
Maybe, to help him with his chores of preparing gifts
Maybe, to share a coffee and chat with him
Or maybe, to share a smile and none else with him!
So, I waited, till
The night was deep and laden with shadows
I then went to my garden
And woke up Frosty the snowman, whom I've crafted
With mine own hands!
Ho, ho ho! said he, let's go for a ride to Santa's
I hugged him tight and felt the world move all around me
Soon, it stopped and when I opened my eyes
I saw him, surrounded by those jolly elves
All wanting to be ordered to get ready for Christmas
To wrap up all the toys
So as to make a special appearance at the
Winter Fairy Land
To help those children of the world
Those children born, like me,
Ignorant of their aims
Ignorant of what awaits them
Ignorant but surely exalted at the spirit of Christmas!
Upon seeing me and Frosty
Santa burst out in a jolly welcoming laugh
Together, we sang and danced to the chimes of the Jingle Bells song
How are you Santa, I asked
Not too tired with the preparations I hope?
Not really, said he, its usual routine stuff
Oh and this year, my beard's grown longer
It will need trimming, else, my feet will tangle in it
And I will make a mess of myself while distributing gifts!
We laughed some more,
Chatted some more,
Then, he gifted me with a sled,
On which was placed a dozen sled bells
And asked me to sit on it!
It's a magical sled, said he
It shall take you all over the world in just one night!
Go on, go on and enjoy Christmas all over the world
With Frosty!
His words I followed and oh what a magical night it was
We flew from Egypt to Japan!
Pray, seen from the skies, the world is indeed a magical place!
Ho, Ho, Ho!
May we all be immersed in the spirit of Christmas!
Writing fiction
Has no restriction
Unlike the journal writer on the list
Asking ‘what is this’
Raising their fist
Not allowing anything to be missed
Dependent on a quote from someone else
Driving them insane straight to mental health
After a reporter decides they have the space and time
A source says ‘I decline’
Only to call right before deadline
Stating they are sorry
Forcing a whole rewrite to an inch and half story
An author on the other side
Has full control in this information ride
As a writer
A powerful imagination fighter
Creating interpretive setting is the plan
When distributing thoughts the reader will understand
Relaxing and reflect
If the subject matter is interesting and connects
Only fantasy characters get hurt
When throwing the dirt
Story telling made up
While drinking from a legendary bar fly cup
A message is told
Opening communication peacefully soothing the bold
Characters may lie, die, or cry
While others try, sigh, and inquire ‘why?’
These ideas give an author entertainment in their mind
No need to drop a nickel or dime
Encouraging them
To pick up a pen
And weave the scripture twine
Playing God surgically working on Frankenstein
Writing fiction
There is no restriction
Getting one’s way
Despite no pay
Saying it is okay
When tightening the noose
On the artist’s targeted guilty muse