Best Documentation Poems
The clearest blue became mottled with age,
and I only recently began to notice.
Time-soaked eyes, foggy mirror to my own,
reflecting a frail wire, just out of reach.
Leading to a skull-shaped cellar,
therein lay the contents, shadows,
wavering in small glimmers of truth.
Reserved but yearning, they call to me.
Whispers carress my lobes;
they are phantoms you have carried.
They ride on waves of joy and anguish,
snapshots of my tiny feet trodding down halls,
chasing cats with remote-control race cars.
Then I tumbled over a carpeted ledge
and bent your office-drawer key.
Maybe you'd suspected those young paws
were much stronger than they looked.
As time sped all around me, your atmosphere grew thin,
and labored breathing stole the spark from your limbs.
When cells began to replicate like narcissists in the West,
your hovel became a war zone, and I, a refugee.
You never caught your breath in the wreckage,
and when a second bout of war came, your lungs gave out.
I watched it happen, at a loss.
I remember your mouth agape, eyes glazed, wide,
as, in your final breath, you ran towards something I could not see.
Now, the battleground you once crawled through
has been cleared of every trace, every tuft of dog hair,
and all the shining documentation to prove you were an artist.
And how you were an artist, having sculpted so much of my
lanky willow limbs, my dense, ferocious heart.
I have a case of survivor's guilt.
I am writing every day a mystery, wading through
my own metaphysical mess, only faintly aware of yours,
the stuff that lingers like shadow people,
darting in and out of my peripheral vision.
I only wish they'd speak to me and
divulge what last you saw, or that I could
re-activate your smart phone and read
the very last text message you sent.
PASS THE TRASH
Poem sure to sound familiar,
Catholic church scandal recall.
Pedophiles bounced just everywhere,
predator list … kept growing tall.
Clergy, priest but now teachers, are
problematic in school classes!
“Passing the Trash” school’s call this, some
schools blind … wear rose colored glasses?
“Pass Trash” numbers are sicking,
News mentioning five principals,
three assistants, two hundred and
ninety teachers … unthinkable!
Abusers hide in school systems,
best you check, your community.
Parents advised to document,
what child tells you … or what you see.
Documentation need, check see
something matches accusations.
Be diligent, keep abusers
away from our daughters … and sons.
July 25, 2023 copyright
Contest:1232
Sponsor: Brian Strand
courtesy of management in general
and particularly Jackie Geiger
assistant property agent.
One benefit living social
at Highland Manor Apartments
until decrepit and bent...
constitutes qualifying for reimbursement
direct deposited into checking
as chump change event,
hence one generic grateful gent
feels self satisfied as Clark Kent.
After broken wing and prayer
granted courtesy The Flying Tigers
at long last located valuable information
issued December of each year
surprisingly enough exactly where
social security (2021) 1099 form
remained untouched, I swear,
yet earlier yesterday April 5th, 2022
at 1500 hours though very near,
and finally located necessary documentation
(think rental rebate) here
with unexpected discovery
birthed following poem aware
many if not all avid readers
will not care, nor give rat's a$$
regarding humdrum minor dilemma
involving one bonafide
*****sapiens merely
bruising himself – common Joe
garden variety generic biomass,
nonetheless, he fetes, lauds, tauts...
rental rebate tantamount
approximating financial reimbursement
without being unduly crass.
Thus reasonable rhyme
yours truly doth aire
without stut... stut...
stuttering, yet no guarantee
wordsworth their weight
in gold will ring clear
more likely receive
frosty reception everywhere
across world wide web,
perhaps with unwelcome glare,
yet profuse apology
if man with wit - me,
(i.e. Whitman) didst unwittingly interfere
with unwanted distraction
courtesy bobbing square
pants donned sponge
soaking up precious time (yours)
foolish longfellow rushing in where
one capricorn long since wed
not nsync, but alone,
cuz angels fear to tread
"quod erat demonstrandum"
forgotten Latin accessed
at least once year
when yours truly crafts poetry
more familiarly recognized as Q.E.D.
(shares close pronunciation
with ska quid word)
ditch costs extra nay saying
horse sense according to Ned,
whoop sorry, I meant mister Ed.
When you compare the facts with the tales of his legend,
you'll find that most stories of his life are pure fabrication.
He is known worldwide for his killer marksmanship with a gun,
but few know his reputation for helping the elderly, the poor and the young.
It's been said that he killed a man for every year of his life.
That would bring his total to about twenty one,
but nine would be a more accurate number according to historical documentation.
Although he killed, he was not at all a wanton killer outlaw.
If given a choice not to kill, that would have been his choice for sure.
He killed in self defense, he killed in an act of war,
he killed in the line of duty and then he killed once more.
He killed to escape his execution.
In all honesty,
I would have killed just like he
had I been placed in the same situations.
Billy Bonney was not at all your classic killer outlaw.
A poor victim of circumstance would accuratly describe his life more.
He experienced more violence in his short lifetime than today's war veterans.
He suffered personal loss that any one of us would find most horrifying,
yet he never lost his friendly, helpful and charming disposition.
In short, if you weren't his enemy, you couldn't help but love him.
His tragic, short and violent life had come to an end
when he was killed by the hand of a Judas who was once his friend.
He was shot in the dark without warning, he was unarmed.
An all night long candle lit vigil followed as everyone mourned.
He was already a legend back when the old west was still untamed and wild,
but legend doesn't portray the brutal harshness of the true life he had lived.
His was the tragedy of a promising young boy,
forced to become a man while still a child
and all would one day know him as Billy, the Kid.
*
Duerme Bien Querido Guillermo
*
In this Rhyme I will give a translation of the formation of a nation. Remember this is not a dictation it's just a narration of the creation of a civilization. AMERICA is not only our classification but also our identification. The Country has a place with a registration, through which you will find liberation of information, because the Country holds all of the documentation that will give you an elaboration of your expectation. So go to AMERICA for a precise interpretation. To join you must have a certain qualification of sophistication, individuation, determination and no limitation of dedication. In this Country we are a family of inspiration. We all may work and live in different locations, but together we give this WORLD a certain rotation. See with admiration, consideration, explanation we have cultivation. With taxation and donation of money and gold we give the World hydration. Our secret tech, you could say is the medication for confrontation.
So now I hope we all have an inclination that together we form a population, that is dedicated to all forms of exploration . We are a Generation that if placed in the stars would form the greatest constellation. We are AMERICA under God and that's our proclamation. David Lee Waldrop.
I haven't written anything down because I have been too busy feeling it.
The love you planted so softly on me like a nice pair of lips.
I stopped writing because I didn't want to miss a second of the main event.
The event of love is a special occasion that shouldn't be missed.
I bought my ticket and sat in the front row of your heart.
I can't believe through the highs and the lows of our love there is still a
flame to light up.
I could travel the globe but no one could ever encompass
the south, north, east or west of your spirit.
The jumping, stomping, dark haired goddess with the face of Pocahontas.
You are truly what my heart was missing.
I have not documented all of the ways you make me smile.
when your body is planted on mines how even
our sweat combines and makes the perfect perfume.
I haven't written in a long time simply because I have been
consumed with loving you.
My name is Sammy Kyle
And I’m a cute poet
I use strange inner drive,
like a girl in a “cool” skirt.
Thou am less concerned about myself
But caved in the ability to express
poetry is the breath and final spirit of all
knowledge .
A documentation of my soul, will never
forget.
I use my best words in their best order .
My emotions,body and soul together .
It is my expression of my personal and
universal truth.
Not like a referee on a pitch no boot.
My element is my imagery, rhythm and sound.<
Figures of speech, beauty, beats, repetition, I
have found.
Metres and foot in my poem like moon and
sun in the sky .
I guess by now you should know my poem
type.
Epic, ballad, elegy and ode are my type.
Just like sammy kyle hate a shy type.
Simile flowing words like water in the ash
pipe.
Now you know kyle is an amazing kind and
a fly guy.
written by Sammy Kyle
A Perfect Day Never Ends (or, If Chloe was a Poet)
The lazy breeze swoops in through the grassy lawn, tickles our necks,
barely a whisper; sitting back-to-back,
we exchange ideas for your next photo.
Chiaroscuro, maybe, of the canopy; an unbroken shadow.
I don't know. I dabble.
But I write great titles.
"A Perfect Day Never Ends."
Yours is the greatest of gifts; I only spin words.
But today we are not sparring with our chosen mediums
(An unflattering candid; a stinging poem!),
today we are looking for the feathers of bluebirds
for your scrapbook documentation of "The Birds of Oregon."
No wonder I write the titles.
We go back to the movie room, where you trade your skinny jeans for shorts
and we watch Donnie Darko in low light.
We do not care for the time of night.
In the soft glow of Donnie's school scene,
I turn to you to expound my theory,
but you are already asleep.
The poet in me smiles.
What photography and poetry share
is the elusive moment we often only capture
in our memories, fragile as the wings of butterflies.
I can’t explain the emotions that gather.
Trapped in my very own current of thoughts that rushes me like a flood from a broken dam. Unable to slow down or control my emotional over flow. I’m the fisher man that hooks the smallest to the biggest catch of thoughts that at times are thrown back and later recaptured once matured. I’m lured to several thoughts and ideas that seem to fit my missing puzzle pieces; Though it’s my emotion that feeds my biggest need to write.
Call me emotionally attached not compared to being a serial stalker; my obsession isn’t love or to be loved; just to be connected somehow. Searching for someone to understand because love can be used in so many different forms and extorted by the way people think to benefit their needs.
Poetry
I rather write to help improve my soul because once before I was called cold and different. My indifference wasn’t understood like I thought it should be. At those moments I wasn’t who I should be. I’m not politically correct I’m just wanting to live life through my free verses and my personal lyrically thoughts. You can also call me an emotional volcano, a little unstable though my flow of thoughts floods my mind and creating the peace in me like islands formed from lava.
I’ve learned about change and how to deal with it. Could it have been my life styles that suddenly change? I went on and on without knowing that my expressions have an emotional hold on me, that I’m just trying to control through poetry. It started with the heavy use of profanity mixed with words in a rhyme scheme. A mad scientist with different experiments out of control; with the documentation of my own life. I fought it form years; and knew I need to be better continuing to learn and grow. Thankful…. I had to change so that I could maintain the flow of my thoughts.
Doc Holliday truly amazing
Sick to death and two six guns blazing
Though his blasting appeared not to be phasing
The calmness of his gelding equine’s grazing
This be the glory, how the west was won
By house of ill repute, and the six gun
Plenty of action, was never boring
Funeral parlors, were businesses soaring
Stank of many bodies in pine boxes
All human life was generalized poxy
In the west, principle way of the law
Generally how fast every man could draw
These early days were quite chaotic
Wyatt Earp’s moves were a bit methodic
The saloons were filled with poker tables
And many big bosoms of dance hall mabels
Indians drank of white man’s fire waters
Sheep herders were known as only free squatters
The winning of the west, was quite a quest
Reservations put Indians to the test
America has it’s many stories
How our west was won by many glories
So greatly was the west romanticized
We wonder how much was only lies
Well documentation of westward truths
Or documentation of many human spoofs
Maybe fraudulent claims, as was the hog leg’s aim
We accept no blame, but we’ll take the fame
Placed # 15
A wingding Aussie will be defined as any single person thru to a minority group determined to be making a complaint containing false information or complaints of no substance about businesses, governments, government employees, organizations or not for profit organizations and if approaching the government requiring changes made to any official documentation they shall be known as Dead Beats
If the changes or complaints are deemed to be unsuitable, not required, or of no substance, the person or each person in the group complaining or requesting the modifications/changes will be billed $150.00 a day per person involved in the investigation, from the initializing of an investigation to and including the day of finalization. Weekends and public holidays shall be included at normal overtime rates
Every member of the Dead Beat group shall be individually billed. The bill shall be known as the Dead Beat Bill (DBB)
If any member of the Dead Beat group is found to be in Australia on a visa of any sort and receive a DBB they shall also be required to hand in their visa and leave Australia
Examples of complaints:
A complaint about the noise from an airport, industrial area, recreational area or club that was established before the residence moved into or was born into the neighbour hood of complaint is a complaint of no substance unless unusual circumstances can be justified
Applications for a shopping center, house, building, park or religious area that require a town meeting shall be known as unsuitable complaints unless unusual circumstances can be justified
Dress or language complaints about Australian icons such as Bugs Bunny, Santa Claus, Easter Bunny and Humphrey B Bear and others shall be deemed not required groundless unless unusual circumstances can be justified
Adding amendments to a legal document that require changes to Australian beliefs, customs, traditions or icons shall be deemed unsuitable, not required and of no substance unless unusual circumstances can be justified
Any Australian government employee that fits these requirements shall also resign from their position unless unusual circumstances can be justified
showman is marksmanship
showman is a higher mark of a marksmanship
a higher mark is a higher marksmanship
a higher mark is a higher showman
showmanship is marksmanship
science is a marksmanship
science is a showman
science is a documentation
documentation is science showmanship
the universe is a documentation of a showmanship
the universe is a documentation of science
the universe is a higher mark of a documentation
the universe is a higher mark of a showman
science is a showmanship of a documentation
showmanship is showmanship of science
showmanship is showmanship of a documentation
the universe is a universe showmanship
a showman is a showmanship of a marksmanship
a showman is a showman of science
a showman is a showman of a universe
a showman is a higher mark of a showman
Malignant gangrenous political cancer
corrupts, festers, and poisons United States,
thus opposition cannot wait,
especially since Gospel in accordance
with feeble minded Donald Trump
implemented wrought ugly trait,
particularly obliteration, sans progressive
human rights legislation
more or less pronounced positive
in every L ionized Nittany or cotton bowl state
and ratiocination inherent within
mine Democrat oriented mind doth rate
this forty fifth president (defect)
with sawdust packing
his noodle oven egotistical pate
trophy wife (spouse number three),
a Slovenia mate
donning "I don't care anymore"
t-shirt rousing media firestorm of late
essentially silently corroborating,
fostering, and illuminating hate
mutely bolstering the Trump anthem,
viz make America great
again, which pathless,
pithless, and pointless aim
roars like an earsplitting runaway freight
train oblivious of wailing soul asylum,
that no era meets said criteria
backtracking time machine before
rightful indigenous occupants of this land
got decimated as one after another
exploiter did inundate
(comprising a multitude
of indigenous variety of village people
indignantly subjected to Genocide,
when first "discoverer"
of new land didst promulgate
activation wrought deliberate sealed fate
vis a vis capitulation, demolition,
and extirpation, cuz
a scathing rebuke aye attest,
those murderers didst equate
worthlessness of
so called "Indians" on 1492 date,
and still remnants of storied tribes,
now attempt to create
historical documentation operate
ting with limited resources to adjudicate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Food methinks doth buzzfeed drumbeat agog
at pyrotechnics July 4th, 2018 shared as blog
posts, a falsehood prevails which dog
gone “FAKE” brewed watered down grog
posits that the majority of Colonialists stay hog
tied to strict task masters, and mainly the scant
upperclass experienced autonomy,
no matter the under class didst futilely rant
and rave with the occasional
uprisings over time did grant
minimal appeasement to stifle violent kant!
Gatekeeper to the compost pile
the boatman for the river Styx
I'm trying to cross the last mile
adventure's done, I'm calling it quits
Shadowed Charon silhouettes the dark
lowly murmurs, "You got I.D.?
a passport, something of that sort,
something with a picture to see?"
I gaze at the black outline above
evaluating this unexpected request
Is terminus admission really that tough?
Do I need to comply to this behest?
"Sorry", I say, "I left my pockets in life
I assumed you'd have records here."
"We do", he replied, "our info is rife,
but identities we need to insure."
"Birth certificate, and two credit cards,
or driver's license and utility bill,
cancelled check, something of that regard
some documentation, you know the drill."
"But I'm dead" I stammered, "What does this mean?"
"Am I not permitted time to decompose?"
"This transition from betwixt and between
to eternity seems like I'm - indisposed"
"You, good boatman, may think it fine, but,
to carry proof of identity, I must disagree"
"Sir, you must stand aside of the line.
Go back to purgatory and get some I.D.!"
© Goode Guy 2014-02-13
There is a network of very powerful entities.
All worship satan very seriously.
Their network ranges internationally,
engaging in a great variety of the most depraved criminality.
Their satanic ideology,
is to bring about the end of the world eventually,
so that a new world can begin,
ruled by them and satan.
They range from street people to businessmen,
and have a great influence in many departments of law enforcement,
to the high ranks of very powerful international politicians.
They are involved in the drug trade and the trafficking of children,
to feed the depraved appetites of rich, powerful, deviant men and women,
then this demonic network moves on to blackmailing them,
providing in great part this network's financing.
Many sensationalized crimes that were broadcast to everyone,
has a direct connection to this network that worships satan,
who believe that random acts of violence, chaos and terrorism,
will bring about their deity's foreseen armageddon.
where they will all forever rule under their master satan.
As fantastic as this sounds, it is really happening.
There is a great deal of cooperated documentation.
They are completely off the grid with no fixed location,
but beware, The Process Church of the Final Judgement.