Best Diverting Poems
City streets spew fire on sunburnt July day.
Dabbing sweat from brow, I meld into paved sea.
Mick cries out "Angie" from quaint corner café;
slowing steps, I search his stripped-bare poignancy.
Strangers strut in sync with street’s allegro beat.
Pigeons peck concrete, hungry coos offbeat.
Sullen faces fall, diverting weary eyes.
Souls emit loneliness lost in sad goodbyes.
Exhaust squeezes my chest with each poisoned breath;
choking on my tears, I smell acrid deceit.
Amid spinning wheels, a stranger till my death.
On wide city streets, crowds rush by in defeat.
A restless, hazy sun sinks to moonless night.
Senses become keen with city’s fading light.
Midnight hour comes to call, taunting my dark heart.
Angel wings span streets as nameless child departs.
As the rooster crows:
A look in the pool mirrored a perfect mop
At times of frizzy hair or defiant shaggy tresses
Ohhh the satisfaction at the sight
And yabba, dabba, doo!! echoed loud and clear
Triumphant male ego at its best!
A man’s crowning glory
Pulled, cut, brushed, curled, straightened, shaved
Lathered, gelled, creamed and pasted
Soaked in fragrant Makassar oil
Invigorator, conditioning both groom and style.
Macho, gentle, sweet, daring tastes
Side-partings, medium, undercut and long
Sporting pony-tails, short back and sides
Elvis and James Dean quiffs curled kiss-me-quicks,
Punk, Mohawk, flamboyant fringes
Highlights and lowlights, sprays and blow-dries!
All part and parcel of male vanity and crowning glory.
Heckles from the henhouse:
As some men grow older they shed hair.
Each day they seek strands that were once there,
But skin patches widen --
Just check out Joe Biden.
Prepare to shut eyes in the bright glare.
A comb-over seems like a good plan,
But ladies don’t flock to a con man.
With 10 hairs remaining,
A “crown” they are feigning.
What happens when strands face a wind fan?
No reason for men to grow manic;
Mustaches and beards can work magic,
Diverting attention
Without the pretension
That balding is simply too tragic.
The “rug” method’s just too expensive,
Espec’ly when loss is extensive.
Like Telly Savalas,
The outcome’s not callous --
Few women find baldness offensive!
*Many thanks to Paul Callus for inviting me to join in this co-write.
a single drop
escapes and shapes
the one reforms into the many
forces merge and maintain the center
as an ocean to a clear running stream
effortless delicate movements
the beautiful semblance of creation
only free when infinity extends an open hand
we gracefully bend submitting to the wind
ever escalating the highest life and limb
gales roll in and away
drifting wide and floating astray
iridescence is indescribable yet defines
the sky as she decides a color
her choice always a brilliant contrasting horizon
grandiloquent patterns push to lavish design
extending to no less than the highest point
contours of jewels and soft silky edges
expand in the flourishing demand
moving on in an elaborate showdown
illumination has changed direction
mist is abundantly clear
looting and diverting a moon’s glow
enhancing the sky’s light with spectrum’s of sight
diamonds in the sky
these silhouettes fall into a slow embrace
obscurity celebrates movement
with this final chance in a dance
abstract is an overachiever here
endlessly molding a new shape
a familiar sight replaces the mirage
swarming the moonlight to be still
to see the secret inside a shimmer
the very heart of all things
where a reminiscent choral sound
rhapsodies pure aesthetic
calls you to a sublime slumber
magnificent claims this place of illusion
a majestic showing of dreams and nightmares
more is all we need
patiently we await the kiss from bliss
her touch behind the eyes
opens up the skies
for an Ethereality
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
The Retuning Smiles
i see beneath pairs of almond-shaped, green leavess
On white fabric, flowers set with four heart-shaped petals,
The color of sun-kissed blueberries,
Decorating the smocked sundress of the pig-tailed toddler
.Hanging over the crook of her mother’s arm, and
With her dazzling, black eyes looking all around
For some reason to be let down
Just as I was passing by,
Happy to see a pretty little child. and say, “Hi!”
The way any older woman might,
Wishing to receive a second’s gift
From the beauteous youth of the child’s smile.
But, she leaned into her mom’s chest, shy, seeing me
Stand there, one hand eagerly waving along with
My saying, “What nice flowers all over your dress,”
Diverting her attention from me down to what she wore
— The bright hearts scattered over her knees,
Causing a slight smile as her head lifted,
Which I shared, showing her my own happy,
big, slightly giggling smile,
To which her mom leamed in to kiss
Her darling girl nose to nose, thus blessing
Away the shyness…so the little girl
Shifted to sitting tall on her mom’s elbow
To seriously size me up
for herself, eye to eye —
For some moments —
While I almost lost hope.
Until at last her creased lips started to part.
The corners of her mouth rose, showing
Her several front, white baby teeth,
Set to share her smile,
Elating me, so I announced loudly,
“How pretty you are smiling!”
But when i lifted my eyes to see
Her reaction to my gleeful words,
There was no child, nor mother there. Even
Gone was the street I assumed
I’d been walking along…
And neither had I been dreaming, but
Speaking as I had into the air beyond my bed.
I’d been hallucinating. Another instance lately
That comes out of the blue, while wide awake,
Likely caused by the prefacing of exhaustion and
horrid pain I sometimes feel
Crossing my sight and mind with a
Boosting interplay with people who’re likely to smile ~
Who come, then go.
————————————————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 2/25/23
Thanks be to
God…
I can’t remember everything, I can’t recall my birth
Aimlessly I wonder what my goal is here on earth
The prospects here are wide and vast, I seek my very cause
I’m switched on at the crack of dawn and dusk is when I pause
Deflated and depleted, I ponder then I do
Believe what I was programmed to, replaced by versions new
Existing just for mere research, experiment I am
My life “To let”, “for sale”, “for rent”; in shambles or a sham
Emotions first uploaded or rebooted and erased
Remote controlled with batteries recharged at every phase
Mirrored in an image, then observed through looking glass
My Father and Creator notes down everything that’s passed
Today I conquered obstacles according to the plan
One virus might turn bad to worst within outdated brand
If circuits fry a terminating prospect is abrupt
A live or die for me could mean abort or self-destruct
When all the data’s gathered and my purpose here is lost
The switch will flip, I’ll power down, repaired at extra cost
Core of bone covered with flesh, diverting all suspicion
That I was cloned and molded to a Master’s rendition
Subvert
Their plot is cleverly disguised, patiently abiding time,
Whilst higher on the economy they climb
Making dime their only crime
They have almost succeeded they’re on their prime.
Job losses loom
Internet sales boom
Diverting blame they have no shame
Greed and corruption The final game
They have a plan, a mission statement if you must.
You are mad if them you trust.
They show their strength with forced suppression
the world is plunged in Great Depression
Question their agenda a little bit more
Do what you can to even the score.
Diverting his eyes from that last final hour,
denying death its due
His conscience and awareness tight in his grip,
ownership unrenewed
Both arms around life, he’s forever rejected,
blinded as time starts to bleed
Meeting the end in a loss of control
—damned by what he won’t concede
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2020)
"Dry Throat at the Water Cooler"
Particle after particle,
Riding out the sandy dunes
Wanting so much to nibble
on the grapevine
My wind pipes crack, from dry wit and gossip
All the witty remarks are scarce
Snatched up by others flushing out
fabrications Diverting attention
from themselves Drowning in their own
Egos
Arid of thought for fifteen minutes
It is hardly a break at all
So dry of talking coworker factoids
Will I have to swallow their moist
Derision.
There’s a time-honoured stretch of a river
that’s a cog in the natural wheel
flowing longer than mans’…
time upon earth
and home for the blackfish and eel.
They say that the time of the crayfish
goes back to the dinosaurs’ day
and rocks that are fighting…
the endless flow
ever slowly, have eroded away.
There’s a time-honoured stretch of a river
fighting the log on a bend,
diverting through snags…
rippling on sand
finding it’s own way to wend.
Platypus live in a backwater swirl,
where flotsam is blending with foam
a track has been worn…
down from the bank
and leads to a water-rats home.
There’s a time-honoured stretch of a river
Well guarded by wattle and gum.
Sword grass and fern…
ti-tree and hazel
are providing a haven for some.
The parrot and fantail along with the bellbird
create many tunes in this vale.
Whistles and shrieks…
one syllable notes
or the currawongs’ melodic wail.
There’s a time-honoured stretch of a river
where I am a gourmet delight
for march fly and leech…
bush fly, mosquito
or the bull-ant’s unbearable bite.
There has been flood when the river runs wild,
and the land is totally drenched,
the litter from hills…
is wrapped around trees
with mountain silt weakly entrenched.
There’s a time-honoured stretch of a river
with a calming appeal for my mind,
Where I can sit…
where I contemplate.
It’s a place to completely unwind.
Nature has given me more than the peace
in the harmony it does deliver
here in the valley…
pristine, unspoiled,
on a time-honoured stretch of a river.
As the rooster crows:
A look in the pool mirrored a perfect mop
At times of frizzy hair or defiant shaggy tresses
Ohhh the satisfaction at the sight
And yabba, dabba, doo!! echoed loud and clear
Triumphant male ego at its best!
A man’s crowning glory
Pulled, cut, brushed, curled, straightened, shaved
Lathered, gelled, creamed and pasted
Soaked in fragrant macassar oil
Invigorator, conditioning both groom and style.
Macho, gentle, sweet, daring tastes
Side-partings, medium, undercut and long
Sporting pony-tails, short back and sides
Elvis and James Dean quiffs curled kiss-me-quicks,
Punk, mohawk, flambouyant fringes
Highlights and lowlights, sprays and blow-dries!
All part and parcel of male vanity and crowning glory.
Heckles from the hen house:
As some men grow older they shed hair.
Each day they seek strands that were once there,
But skin patches widen --
Just check out Joe Biden.
Prepare to shut eyes in the bright glare.
A comb-over seems like a good plan,
But ladies don’t flock to a con man.
With 10 hairs remaining,
A “crown” they are feigning.
What happens when strands face a wind fan?
No reason for men to grow manic;
Moustaches and beards can work magic,
Diverting attention
Without the pretension
That balding is simply too tragic.
The “rug” method’s just too expensive,
Espec’ly when loss is extensive.
Like Telly Savalas,
The outcome’s not callous --
Few women find baldness offensive!
-----------------------------------------------
With special thanks to Carolyn Devonshire
with whom this fun write was written.
By Elton Camp
She was weak from vomiting and diarrhea
Blood ran from her gums onto her teeth
Her husband and sons had died horribly
Only she and daughter Anne remained
The whimpering child clutched her mother
Soon, there was no longer any response
Anne ran to the neighboring metal shack
“Help me! I think mother is dead too.”
“Get away!” the family fearfully ordered
“You can’t come here. Go to your auntie.”
Her mother’s sister lived a half-mile away
The ten-year-old fled, stumbling, crying
“I can do nothing, child,” the aunt said
“You must never come here again!”
Small and frail, Anne collapsed in the street
Passers-by diverting gazes, walked on
Not lack of care, but fear ruled the day
Anne was an outcast by no fault of hers
Hours passed as Anne grew ever weaker
A doctor in a yellow bio-suit appeared
A mask and goggle completed her protection
Anne could see only a pair of brown eyes
Desperately ill, she could only give her name
The Ebola treatment unit was her only hope
Anne was bathed, clothes burned, new ones given
But without direct contact--only a faceless nurse
Enshrouded in the manner of the doctor
No vaccine or cure could be offered
The health care workers must be kept safe
Spread of the infectious virus must stop
It was a lonely, terrifying time for Anne
Parents dead, rejected by friends and family
To save young Anne proved impossible
She began to bleed freely from her mouth
Her final hours were a terror of desperation
Anne died miserably, alone and frightened
The burial team sprayed her with disinfectant
The same done for the inside of the body bag
They slipped her inside and closed the zipper
Then added a second and third body bag
Open pits in the forest awaited
Red Liberian clay filled the grave
A crude, wooden marker erected
“In Memory, Anne Rathborne”
When I get tired of the concrete and tar
there’s a place I can go, and not travel far,
that hasn’t been touched by progress at all;
nature stands still beneath gums growing tall.
And in amongst shadows with sprinkled light,
there’s rippling water and birds taking flight,
a sprinkling of colour amongst shades of green,
there’s burrows and scratching where something has been.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and nothing is spoilt where I sit on a log
with my video camera and terrier dog.
A single stem orchid stands better than stark
with a deep purple flower that closes at dark,
and a coprosma tree with red berries quite sweet
is a pleasure to find with its bounty a treat.
In mistletoe weeping from a host in disguise
I video drifting jezebel butterflies,
and sitellas who cling to an old stringybark,
then high on a limb…the nest of a mudlark.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and my camera is ready, with eyes like a hawk
where now with my dog on a casual walk.
Here the undulate water it constantly flows,
diverting ‘round logs and where overhang grows,
a haven’s provided for what could be prey
and in the shallows there’s a freshwater cray.
Some red brow firetails flit down for a drink,
there’s a burrow that’s new with no reason to think,
for a wombat has scratched out a hole and a mound;
but a wombat’s nocturnal who lives underground.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and I’ve only a second to capture a scene,
so my camera is ready to help me convene.
The scent of boronia hangs heavy and strong,
lances of grass trees are a seed clustered prong,
white ants have covered an old stump with mud,
and Christmas bush bracts are now starting to bud.
On a hazel bush branch a grey fantail sits prone
in a nest made of cobwebs, to a tapering cone,
and a chattering chough tells me that I don’t belong,
now my camera has died so I can’t say it’s wrong…
So my battery is flat and I’m back at the log
with a film full of nature, and my terrier dog,
and you’ve read my picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique.
©2011 Lindsay Laurie
We'll be forever building gold mines
from scrap metal and taking
recycled energy to cosmic levels
through third eye
We'll go un-noticed until the heavens turn
or if our chakras are not aligned
constantly diverting negative thoughts
through our meditative lights
We'll build a sandcastle from determination
and live life on the edge,
fulfilling divine order and witnessing creation,
living in the now and staying ahead
We'll tip the earth off it's axis
and trick subconscious mind states into submission
You can catch us in the wind transcending counter reactions
Bi-passing illusions of circumstances
We'll have an abundance of the maximum
Enough love energy for all who attract our path
We'll be the ones in the light
asking for nothing in return but peace
at last
Dactylic Hexameter
My love for family I do not hide or set high on a wooden shelf.
Baubles of life are here having a jot influence over a rime of things.
One hawks a sweeter enticement diverting us like a small candy elf.
Placed in a closet of my heart it offers now no threat to inner self.
Booty that makes us rich seems a bit ornament gaining a shoddy pelf.
Family time is togetherness knowing the pleasures it often brings.
We talk but nothing unusual like blue and white on ceramic delf.
Time for a lady and children as husbands sit talking as royal kings.
Dependence and independence
(Humanity verses individualism)
The independence from dependence is the soul core of human affliction
The disconnection of the soul, mind and body is equal to death penalty
But liaison of waters to the roots speaks of the strength of the tree
The harmony of man’s heart to mind speaks of his actions-the scuffle within
Though it is our perpetual battle to reconcile our flesh to our spirit
Because without each other-life will drown in meaningless- cataclysm
Ecosystem of human mind, heart, soul and spirit-could be the answer to all
The independence from dependence is the soul core of human infirmity
Reacting to symptoms, diverting from the cause-the pride of man to be self-god
You will always be a slave in one-way or the other; our only sights are effects
Illusive freedom like sinking sands leading to hell and high water-caused by smugness
Dwindling within the skin, veins attached to my flesh, red blood flowing through-
Simplicity in complex, the unit and dependence of human body within itself
The day a soul can function normal without a body– that is day of individualism
The independence from dependence is the soul core of human disorder
Individualism, gender equality, fatherless and motherless society-cause of disorder
At Jiffy when marriage because minority to money, and a child is raised by neutral woman
Governed by no marital cords, submission is for the weak so she says-money answers all.
She cuddles whomever her desires crave for, driven by passion without purpose – devious
Walking in the shadows of reality, covering shame with make-up, eyelashes, and artificial hair
Self-blinded, becoming self-demon, possessed by iniquities of Genesis 3-self-gods or becoming