Best Doling Poems
List form also in rhyming couplets:
Love is patience one has with a difficult child.
Love is a man supporting his wife in her trials.
Love is a wife who remains “for better or worse.”
Love’s not just doling dollars out from your purse.
Love is giving aid and time for someone that’s in need.
Love is not words alone; it’s doing a good deed.
Love is a hug for someone crabby or sad.
Love is holding your tongue when someone treats you bad.
Love is not for just your own sister and brother.
Love is for all. God says, “Love one another.”
Love is showing kindness everywhere you can.
Love is forgiveness – even of a really bad man!
Love is not easy when others do you wrong.
Love is showing compassion all day long.
Love is not saying, “I’d do it if I could.”
Love is in saying, “I’ll do it, and I’ll do it good.”
Love is not just for the one whom you adore.
Love is for everyone and so much more.
Love is what would change wrong things to right.
Love is what would change our darkness into light.
August 21, 2022 for the Meaning of Love Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I do not flatter egos
With glitz and glamor of words while the obscene
Condition of people's lives tell
In front of our eyes there is an invisible hell
I want this poem to be a soldier then
Searching and killing in human hearts
The terrorist poverty that cankers men
I want this poem to be a social worker
Bringing the homeless into the shelter
Of the love of men, I want this poem
To be like Jesus doling bread famished mouths
I want this poem to be a healer mending
The broken health of citizens
Forgotten by a narrow minded wealth
Of technology in earth's richest country
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
My language is not a party
For intellectuals looking for new leaves
Meaning, this is not a ball
Of words for socialites and celebrities
And I do not want to read again
Poets lost in private pain
Unless their pain connect as a metaphors
For the suffering of the world
If poems do not have compassion
They should cause compassion
And then as one army
Let us march to right history
And voice the cause of the downtrodden
The oppressed, depress
The wretched of the earth, distress
The lonely, broken, forgotten
I am not who you call me if that's what you mean
I am poet of the people, the people's poet
A poet's words are bombs, missiles, bayonets
Do not read these poem
Holding my words too close to your eyes
I want to share a bit of info I think everyone should know.
It may make life a little easier as through life you go.
People come equipped with a number of traits, good and bad;
With some that will delight you and some will make you mad.
The two traits here I mention are unpleasant to come across
And they can leave you frustrated, your temper up for toss.
But if you'll just step back and breathe a minute, maybe two,
Your composure you will gain back by following this clue.
Other people are never jealous of your negativity;
They are only jealous of you for your 'quality'!
Others do not envy what 'you' have 'not';
They envy what you 'have' that 'they' haven't got!
Jealousy and envy are nothing more than 'inverted' admiration;
Do yourself a favour, turn 'em around, and feel the liberation!
Accept these traits as compliments, for in essence it is true,
And by graciously accepting, they'll have more to envy you!
If you always keep this in mind, yourself, you will spare
Any grief or anguish you may feel when either's in the air.
Though jealousy and envy are projected with much ill intent,
If you receive them as blessings, you'll wisely circumvent.
But if you're on the other side and you're the one doling out
This jealousy and envy, remember to what you're giving clout.
If you're envious and jealous, you're harbouring admiration,
Like the negative of a picture, undeveloped captivation.
Oftentimes in life it's easier if we cultivate an objective
To seek a different, better way and change our perspective.
Whenever we can change the negative, give it a positive spin,
We reap the benefits of and the reward is then, a win.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2017-05-08 14:27:00 (EST)
All rights reserved.
Reprobate silver
shall men call them,
because the LORD
have rejected them
Jer. 6:30
You never liked anything that was good
and wholesome
Clean conversation was something you never cared for
Filthy speaking was what you liked to hear;
the more nasty it was, the better it sounded to your ear
You rejected holy teaching when you was a boy,
killing small animals was your secret joy
Doing wicked things,
then having someone else get blamed
gave you a thrill
That rock hidden in your hand behind your back,
always got thrown when no one was looking
Shattering windows and lives
When it came to doing evil, you never compromised
You were just plain reprobate,
had much love for doling out the hate
Hated the holy things of God
Hated the reproof you received from the rod
of correction,
that your parents gave you when you were a boy
But now you’re a grown man
You love being incorrect:
lying and cheating is what you love best
You’re totally reprobate,
you love singing the praises of hate
Unclean is your hands,
your bloody prints mar the inside
of so many coffins
Silver tongue devil you are,
dross are the impurities of your soul
Reprobate silver rejected by God,
your unloving heart ... so stony and cold
Got lying lips and the evil eye,
you laugh at seeing others cry
King corruptor of souls,
the innocent you love to taint
Maker of grieving widows,
self-ordained killer of the saints
Silver tongue devil you are,
reprobate silver rejected by God,
Spring tea,I'm invited
you are too ,'cause she's decided
underneath the willow tree
served a little after three
baby bear and kitty cat
sit right where they've always sat
but now she's put us on the right
beside the zebra black and white
they're already stuffed you see
from eating cookies at spring tea
she has pots and pans to clean
from all her baking in between
doling out the china berries
"Don't eat them ,they aren't
really cherries".
She makes cookies out of sand
a little water and they're grand
she will scold you if you're late
she meets you at the garden gate
escorts you to your special place
she has icing on her face
from the cupcakes Mommy brings
to mix them in with all those things
the leaves and acorns on our tray
Spring Tea gets better every day
When you're almost,nearly four
you learn to serve,you learn to pour
just think how boring life would be
If not invited to SpringTea.
Tomorrow is Ours.
Suffocating beneath the weight of historical fear,
asphyxiated by the legacy of traumatised yesteryear,
the festering wounds of enslavement still remain,
juggling euphemisms in a crisp sound-bitten refrain,
spewing out neo-liberal economic charades,
doling out charity in strips of plastic band-aids,
but,
tomorrow shall be ours,
casting away subservient mind-sets that shackle,
no longer the weakened prey of the insatiable jackal,
tomorrow shall be ours,
we shall reclaim our plundered mindspaces,
we shall shed our chains, leaving behind the traces,
of past injustice, of the hurt and pain of our ancestors' sorrows,
we are here, now, alive with hope,
we shall rightfully claim our own tomorrows.
Om Shanti Shanti Shanti:
A faith-lit path in forlorn lands
Hold no wrath, it's ever at hand
You didn’t know it a bit, did you?
Doling out truth in terms of myth
Not far away to be one with
And meld with the chant 'Om Shanti '
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
There need not be any hurry
Though caught in unusual worry
Stealing the light from stars were you
Striving for success through dare-do’s
Reuse the old ruse through and through
Gave once the heave-ho, Om Shanti.
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
And from the dark the blue bird sang
One viewed its shades as out it rang
It did't declaim in haste like you
Shifting the fake to the forefront
Gifting hate to the mate upfront
Time to go back to Om Shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
The voice that makes everyone halt
The choice they make without a fault
In the detours taken by you
With a lease that too soon ran out
Before one was up and about
The help sought after, 'Om Shanti'
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Whose was the idea of a truce
The false promise that would seduce
Without omission all but you
Nowhere was it an entity
Wherever searched for purity
To fall back, spent, on Om Shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shivering on cold river sands
Sharing our paltry minds and hands
Basics are wearing thin for you
Suffering to arrive at last
Ashore and safe so very fast
Drowning only in Om Shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
Shanti shanti.....Shanti shanti
29th Jan 2013
S.Jagathsimhan Nair
An imperfect imitation of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”, submitted for FRANK H’s contest
Entry for pd's second chance poems on 21 feb 13
I should have ignored the golden deacon
Promising smiles and freedom from hunger
Said ‘No’ to egg sandwiches and bacon
Delicious smell on fingers does linger
The perfect salty, crispy golden fries
With preservatives, chemicals galore
Cannot cook like them in a million tries
Kids don’t like home cooked flavor anymore.
Charming kids with boxes of happy meals
Filing tummies with empty calories
Doling out food that tricks, harms and congeals
I have no words for their wicked glory
“Should’ve said no”, I reflect with sadness
As kids drag me under hills of madness.
Written 05/18/2016
A poem about our addiction to McDonalds and other fast food restaurants
Even when our fathers were not there
They penned the edicts on their behalf
And decreed how the people should live
So, like sheep we followed their lead
Hoping for fields of lush pasture
Full of dreams where honey drips
Noble lies told on the eve of liberation
From the strangers’ imperialism did not last
We, the people, were unprepared for
The freedom obtained without sword
Though children waved flags with smiles
And the bards sang songs of redemption
Deep within, we were not prepared
Unlike the neighbours whose blood was shed
In the quest to fend off manacles
We scrambled for the remnants
Left behind by the sojourners
And never learnt how to cook the broth
The statute was blemished from the beginning
Doling out unequal laws to the people
Ascribing to each tribe its own destiny
Though we never cease to journey
Ours has been that of cyclical progress
From where the stranger left us
Because we were unprepared
Though ingredients rut in the storehouse
Weary hearts roam the streets united in hunger
But their anger is not fiery enough to melt
The adhesive that binds together
Inheritors of the power
We are tired of the untruths that themselves
Have reached the age of retirement
But we are unprepared to chart that path
Pallbearers filled the bus
Off to funerals in an angry rush
It’s the wicked; they say who have no peace
That’s why the Pallbearers get their release
They chose to capture all these kind
Stifling fear often & following blind
Praising their maker for the coffee they get
For it keeps them alive and physically fit
Gravestones etched and set aside
For those of them who fought and died
I suggest we find away
To corral the ones who have been led astray
Our focal point has been defaced
By all the ones who claimed disgrace
Let’s satisfy their wants and greed
By doling out just what they need
When tyrannical freedom tries earning its place
It’s the Pallbearers who will be leading the chase
So, lock them again in their pristine sleeping cells
Then pray they don’t remember their path out of hell
Scuddle Butt and Martzy Putt, those two nonsense senior rhymers,
Drank. Yes, drank too much beer anticipating Christmas cheer.
We’ve got to stop; we need to shop; we’re out of time, old-timer.
The children called; they gave their list; we are Santa’s helpers...never fear!
They left to shop, but made a stop at Flander Shop, their favorite baker.
And there they ate so much rum cake each one became a belly achier.
Never mind, said Martzy Putt, ‘Tis the season to be jolly.”
So they wandered down the shopping strip for mistletoe and holly.
We have to buy great toys for kids: like bikes with streamers streaming.
Video games from the electronic store, jewelry, new clothes, DVDs, and more.
Yikes! They started screaming; then, began some Christmas scheming.
They laughed all day at the thought of it, telling the children that Santa was dead.
About that time, the morning beer was still spinning around in their heads.
“Cheers, my dear friend, Martzy Putt,” and they joked about their plan.
All the while selecting gifts, doling out money…across Christmas land.
© November 17, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Pigeons Out Of Place
Pigeons, sit on cold bronze heads
Relieve themselves all day and night for spite
Fallen soldiers have no say, they are dead
Dirty birdies on branches don’t look right
They belong on buildings, rusted statues
Cold soldiers are toilets on scheduled flights
Among the people in their human view
Sitting on the park bench doling out bread
Man yawns, while birds bob heads when they are through
All of God’s good creatures need to be fed
Even filthy pigeons that tarnish things
When food is finished, parties head for bed
In the morning the birds of nature sing
Pigeons decorate bronze soldiers like kings
Created on 9/08/14 for Terza Rima (About anything you like) Poetry Contest
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)
Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition
generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid
for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets
to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to snatch
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,
Pleasantly radiant, tranquil weather
blue skies & gently benevolent wind
a shimmering gift from Mother Nature
(a smoldering summer lurking in the distance)
Compulsively tracking an unquantifiable self:
steps, exercise minutes, calories, symptoms, etc.
stoical statistics dutifully logged into tired devices
(a futile endeavor to control life)
Cacophonous news oozing from the Malverse
menacing memes ricochet around the planet
updates of a horrid war threatening to devour the world
(a looming nuclear apocalypse)
Occupying space in old unedifying edifices gathering dark energy
running out the accelerating clock as civilization nears its breaking point
desperately seeking diversion while doling out doggerel
(a quest to imbue a desolate existence with meaning)
How long before it all falls apart?
Twas the night before Christmas - came like a flash,
Mob of gingerbread reindeer prodding elves for cache.
The Clausman reigning, doling out orders this stint.
Lady of his, keeps his tongue supplied with peppermints.
The vainglorious list of children, like snow through the Pole,
Now hides in the cloud - smart tablet tabulates toys or coal.
Head of the snowmen, cold and wise, supply the twinkle
To Santa’s eyes. Green-elves polish his boots, unwrinkle
The fat man’s caboose, untangle the reins, ready the ride.
The lineup from A to Z better well shine or it’ll be their hide.
All is still as the stars light up the path until Santa hops
Down, creates sinkholes in the snow with flatulence, flops
Into the overstuffed sleigh, jolly and jingling, creating pain
For the svelte and prideful eight who sail gift cargo like a plane.
Twas Christmas Eve and children around the world wait,
For the jingle and jangle of the sleigh-bed to find out their fate.
Tired, the sharp-suited Santa, now enters by window or door,
A small finder’s fee for each elf who steals a key - keeps score.
This year dear Santa abhors the cookies, milk, and snores.
The liquor cabinet habit keeps him warm, loving kids to the core.
Even when both parents and all the kids deserve some coal,
He’ll ignore the rules, with a good whisky or rum (takes its toll)
The reindeer left the last house hastily, and onward they speed,
As lightning sears the sky but jolly old saint Nick is teed-
Off, for he was found sleeping on the floor, by a kid. Now he shops
For a good Santa Claus lawyer. Who doesn’t toy around? The cops.
On Christmas day he is one of many dressed in black and white.
All say they’re the real Santa. He snatches beards, ready to fight.
Mrs. Claus makes him retire after his cheerless reflection.
The head elf ready to update the store in a whole new direction.
She puts the sleigh to bed, the deer no longer on loan,
Fires up the internet, next year she will send out drones.
11/27/2019
The Night Before 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May