Best Doled Poems
Hidden beauty I know can dwell
within a body worn and frail.
I think of one who had been doled
great miseries, so once grown old,
his body seemed a dismal shell. .
Although he’d lived on earth his hell,
grown nearly crippled and unwell,
his inner fortitude was gold -
Hidden beauty!
Life’s many hardships could not quell
his positivity, nor fell
that strength - his fire against the cold -
a virtue that should be extolled!
In knowing him, I well could tell
hidden beauty.
For Skat's the Premiere Contest number 14 Poetry Contest
Twenty Pints of Sunshine
David J Walker
It seemed to be the only thing
In abundance on the farm
The light and heat
The shine so bright
Long days
short nights
And work doled out in the mornings
Today we will bottle in bell jars
20 pints of sunshine
And call it canning
A summer seasons planning
Saved for the
Short days
The long nights
Of freezing winter weather
To be opened
It says
When sleet falls in December
When the woods are wet and dreary
When the farm is fallow
When sunshine can only be found
In pint-sized
Bell Jar bottles
It was on a Christmas Eve
early in the morn
into a world so often cold
a little girl was born.
Her parents, they did love her,
the way that it should be
but her father, who's a good man,
had been raised with cruelty.
When he doled out punishment
for all her childish ways
the lessons that he taught her
would stay with her all her days.
Growing up was never easy
and she grew up so confused.
Other kids did more than tease her
and at home she was abused.
But she grew up all the same
then came to that time of life
when she thought she was ready
became a mother and a wife.
They faced a lot of hardships
but tried to love anyway
and her husband, who does love her,
has been so mean along the way.
Yes, life is hard for everyone
this woman surely knows.
Hate and misunderstanding
seems to follow where she goes
with so many quick to tell her
that she is always wrong
so many times she has been shown
that she just don't belong.
She tries so hard to understand
the reasons for her tears
and is punished for her feelings
as she has been all her years.
She knows that there is more to life
than what always seems to be.
All she wants is to be loved
without the cruelty.
Note: My dear friends, this is not an easy write for me but a necessary one. I was at a very
low point in my life and I prayed for God for direction or to let it end. I wrote the poem I Am
then joined PoetrySoup. I know God led me to this wonderful site for a reason. I may still
have a long way to go but I am starting to move forward. I want to thank you all for your
encouragement and kindness. Being able to write again is helping me and as fellow writers,
I know you understand. Thank you for sharing with me and teaching to become a better
writer. God bless you all and Happy Holidays! Love, Robin.
I was reminiscin' the other day about times that were more sublime,
And got to thinkin' about those old stores called Kresge's Five and Dime.
I recall browsin' through Kresge's Stores as a lad with Mom and Dad.
There ain't no more Kresge's Stores as far as I know and that is very sad.
There was a Kresge's in every sleepy town along Main Street.
Sittin' on a stool at the lunch counter was always a special treat.
Munchin' on a hotdog and tater chips and then a slab of cherry pie,
Or maybe a sundae concocted by the soda jerk would lighten up my eye!
Notions galore were displayed on tables, bins, racks and shelves.
Friendly clerks stood by to help but folks generally helped themselves.
The cashier put yer money in a tube that sailed off into space,
And in a trice returned yer change from some mysterious place!
I recall the squeaky wooden floors and visitin' the store at Christmas time,
When Santa Claus doled out bags of candy to kids at each Five and Dime.
Alas, those neighborhood stores have been replaced by huge national chains,
And only pleasant memories of Kresge's Five and Dime Stores remains.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Peace and war
Often lived here over the years
Even though initiated by the few
Tears were created between many
Relaxation and growth was the PS purpose
Yet they in themselves had to be fought for
Still, with time, peace would prevail
Offences are still doled and taken
Until all are free of mistakes so it will be
Perfection is not what brought us here, poetry is
PSing since '06 ;)
Those who saw prairies bloom
Remember well the dams he built
Filling their abundant reservoirs
Growing harvests they cherished
Being the only bridge they had
Standing over turbulent streams.
When the nights reign moonless
And clouds churn mighty storms
Most people still remember him
As ray of light when they were lost
For he was their only lighthouse.
His words enlightened their hearts,
His actions charted pristine paths,
Defying fiercely allure of wrongs
Sacred was the sermon he doled out,
Illustrious was he~ held in regard.
Though he’s gone, he left his mark,
Some have heard his clarion call,
Inspired to follow in his footsteps,
Planting the seeds of his message,
Carrying his torch~ seeds to harvest.
Esteemed is their beneficent voice
Tolling of selflessness and sacrifice,
Dedicating to others purpose of life
Alleviating sufferings of human plight;
Keeping the flame of goodwill alive
Trekking through rains and clouds
Leading the way, guiding how to find
The rainbow on other side of sky.
March 17, 2022
Placed 1st: A Brian Strand 1092
Placed 2nd: Being A Light To Others Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Before the blast in April's darkened sky. . .
before the electrifying surge of insurgency -
when trucks and tanks were used to block the roads, and
when men and even boys were sought to aid in one malicious purpose. . .
before the rampant slaughter -
the raining of machetes down on flesh and bones
and the cornucopia of corpses left like butchered carcasses
on highways, nearby houses and in churches. . .
before the plundering, the rapes and mutilations
and the exodus of thousands to death-infested camps,
there were whisperings -
insidious and portentous to the ears of the wisely suspicious -
and a voice on the airwaves spewing hate.
Before it all,
there was a brewing of resentment
of a people with a history of poverty and
of transitory freedom and capricious politics.
And through it all, with such grave consternation,
governments debated. . . waited. . . . . . . and waited,
playing with semantics
while thousands dead became the hundred thousand,
and three long months - unrivaled for its number of atrocities -
came to its completion.
Seemingly, peace has been restored
and punishment stingily doled out.
Time moves on . . .
except for half a million
for whom compassion by the world
was spared.
Life, a fleeting dream, warbling on meadows:
A season of spring and season of snows;
Sometimes in sunshine, sometimes in shadows,
Joy of autumns and woes of wintry throes.
And it journeys on, vying gleam of dawn
Only to confront grief of fate forlorn:
Of conquests lost, trepidations bygone,
Of nightmares roiling reveries of morn;
Lamenting goodwill that yesterdays tossed
And despairs of hardships hurdles doled out
Until bridge of life triumphant steps crossed,
Where blossoms of success its prairies sprout.
Where fruits of life on trees of acclaim grow
Claiming winsome now, defeating sorrow,
Lauding bliss sublime, free of grieving throe,
Cherishing today and dreams of morrow.
July 16, 2022
Placed 1st: It’s All About Three Q’s Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Life
Rhymes: abab, cdcd, efef, ghgh
(Rhymezone)
Syllables: 10 per line (HMS.com)
A sage with wisdom so erudite
Muse filtering hope, shedding light
Mentor whose keen insight doth shape, mold
Dr Ram's words are better than gold
Twining cultures with his harmonious pen
Idioms, aphorisms from his native kin
With adopted truisms, symbols doth fold
Dr Ram's words are better than gold
Verses sculpted with cunning concision
Accents, rhymes spliced with stunning precision
Crafty metaphors, metonymies freely doled
Dr Ram's words are better than gold
Amazingly, Alice assaulted an antelope
Because Bobby’s beavers became bold,
Considering cantilevered canines
Deliberately devastating donor’s doled.
Evelyn entirely excited electric eels
Failing forlornly from forward fencing,
Gaining ground gathering genuine gold
Her happiness heralded high financing.
I indicated initially incapable innocents
Justifying joyous juxtaposition jousting
Keeping kind Kenneth’s kindreds knit
Losing language like legally lost lusting.
Maybe minding manners means more
Neither newness nor novel necessary,
Occasionally opening old occlusions
Promises perfectly positioned pituitary.
Quite questionable quicky quirks
Rage rampantly removing regulations,
Summarily startling some supervisors
Touching their tempermental trepidations.
Until unusual undertakings understood
Veritable vigilantes visited volunteers,
Wildly waiting where we wandered
X-citedly X-iting X-istential X-ospheres
Yonder youthful yaks yielded...yikes!
Zebras zigzagged zestfully ziggurat-likes.
I was an inscrutable, capricious mystery writer, like a pure mystery of days;
And I had composed best selling novels, like westering sun's scarlet phase.
An unparalleled passion for writing, had for quite long been the motivation,
Behind novels which captured hearts, like pink clouds, drifting in formation.
My office desk faced the picture window, near the border of riotous blooms;
And sunny views enriched often eager eyes, owing to birds of many plumes.
Friends were a forever force in my life, like the natural floods of floundering,
Or as sun and moon meet in an eclipse, darkening heyday, with no warning.
Fairy-like forests, and fields of colored flowers, flamed with furious abandon,
Frequently, as fulgent family found one, to dazzle brighter than amber sun!
I lived in the house of mist mysteries, in haze shrouded, mighty mountains;
And each cherry dawn doled surprises, like roving redbirds in the thousands.
So sleepy in sun-drenched summer, my silent street was stained with hues,
In new modern, stylish, songbird days, like a gold treasure you cannot lose.
Neighbors would navigate narcissistic night, bearing an apple pie, or a joke;
Sharing fun and noisy laughter, like a blue undersea volcano, magma awoke.
Birds swept peaks of sculpted, stunning mountains, in the hot, daisy season,
And sky and the earth merged twice a day, in affinity hues of love cohesion.
The naked man orchid shivered with breezes, like quivery trees of November,
And Johnny Jump Up puckered at lemon sun, like a sour taste remembered.
In a sapphire sea near the mountains, a friend and I set out sailing one day,
As a youth follows wildest, golden dreams. Yet, heavy fog descended to stay.
Were we heading for wide open water, or drifting to shores of purple flowers?
That danger held a lovely mystery, like adventure during the nighttime hours.
Hour after rosy hour, we were drifting blind. Our motor had long since died;
Like green butterflies, questing for hours, in a place pink daisies lately cried.
We were afraid of being lost forever, so Pearl and I joined hands and prayed,
Also praying for our downhearted families, if fate's hand would not be stayed.
After many anxious, vagrant moments, a foghorn sounded, loud and so near;
Our desperate prayers were answered, by the voice of our Savior, very dear!
Do the ashes rest on the frigid ground so cold?
As they are seeing the next steps of infinity,
Ask that question of yours to the reaper, be bold.
Dust whence we came, dust shall we leave old,
Laying down I pray for us all, a touch of divinity,
Do the ashes rest on the frigid ground so cold?
What heavens seen or hell's abhorred, no gold
To replace what you've lost, are you missing eternity?
Ask that question of yours to the reaper, be bold.
Deaths dark door opens wide, it's coming foretold
By understanding, God's grace fills now the vicinity yet
Do the ashes rest on the frigid ground so cold?
Give in and surrender sweet one, bells have tolled
For you this time, meet them and with holy trinity
Ask that question of yours to the reaper, be bold.
No explanation for his love so gracefully doled
Out just so, yet you ponder this beautiful affinity,
Do the ashes rest on the frigid ground so cold?
Ask that question of yours to the reaper, be bold.
Recall the straight and well-planned path of youth
mapped out so clear to lead us through life’s maze?
Though times I wandered off in prankish craze,
the road was there to find again in truth
when pangs of guilt nagged like an aching tooth.
I'd walk it once again, my heart ablaze,
spurred on by welcomed glory, love, and praise
doled out by elders from their judging booth.
How soon the road meandered here and there,
its outline—fuzzy, overgrown with weeds;
and when I think I've walked it at my best
those detour signs appear to bring despair.
Mature, I now must choose to suit my needs;
my only judge- a conscience well at rest.
April 25, 2015
Premiere Contest: Once More I Failed The Truth
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Form: Petrarchan Sonnet: a-b-b-a-a-b-b-a c-d-e-c d-e
It was the year of Nineteen Forty One
when I was a young, new bride,
there was a sneak attack upon our ships
and so many good men died.
Our president announced we were at war
and we knew lives would be changed.
How dare they attack the USA?
Are their leaders all deranged?
Eager to defend our loved homeland,
we volunteered our everything.
What we gave was all but necessities,
to no luxuries did we cling.
Every able man was declared ready
to go fight the enemy.
The women filled essential jobs
to protect our loved country.
We gave up our loved silk stockings
and went bare-legged without shame.
We inked seams up the back of legs
and just hoped pen had good aim.
Most items were carefully rationed,
sugar, coffee, meat and much more.
Groceries were doled out to us,
it mattered not were we rich or poor.
Gasoline enough get to work,
there was none for casual driving.
No new cars or toasters or non-war items
were in stores or show rooms arriving
We learned how to make old things last,
turned our yards into Victory Gardens
and raised our own food for those long years.
Laggards earned no grace or pardons.
Those who gave the most were soldiers,
who were happy to answer the call
and the families they left behind
were the ones who gave their all.
But we all gave for our country.
We united to win the war.
We each gave what we had to give
and would gladly have given more.
7/1/14
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The termite culture's rich and vast,
more so, sometimes, than humankind,
with martyrs and mujahideen,
and projects ponderous yet precise,
and back-up plans, a hundredfold.
How do they do it?
Society is based on caste,
with tasks and territory assigned
by social rank. Some watch, some wean,
some whittle, weave, ward off, entice,
while food for all is fairly doled.
How do they do it?
Their architecture's unsurpassed,
with geodesic shapes, designed
with opulence almost obscene,
and altruists. Self-sacrifice
is common. And they mine for gold!
How do they do it?
Hardly least and never last,
over her subjects (all of them blind)
there reigns a massive, fertile queen,
releasing pheromones (how nice!)
She lives to forty-five years old!
How do they do it?