Best Downbeat Poems
CAR COURT
Enter, the older heavyweight steel giant,
The bailiff, a 1954 Hudson, reads unhesitant :
On the docket for this morning : guilty by implication - a Trabant,
In close custody with a Cutlass Supreme for supervision.
Next on the docket: a Pinto for likely gas-tank explosion.
Third on the docket: an English-made car (any marque) - body corrosion.
Lawyer for the prosecution, a pretentious character, a gas guzzler SUV
4x4 off-road with winch - for Saturday use on driveway only -
Hangs out with Vettes; and uses NO2 in fuel. Who?Drugs? Not me!
Downbeat guy as the defence counsel , a solid no nonsense Hummer,
A real enviro-bummer,
Klutzy ugly and personality like a mack truck in summer.
Trabant coughed its way to the stand.
Clerk of court Volkswagen, order in hand,
Read the indictment quietly, efficiently, bland.
Prosecution began with noisy opening musical-horn tunelets
The jury, all serious-minded stolid Volvos and Toyota Starlets
Were not impressed. Hummer clumsily interrupted with an objection, “Let’s
Stop, on the grounds of precedent,” but at this point Pinto reversed,
Crushed its trunk and its gas-tank exploded, and worst ,
Hit the the English car : and into flames they both burst.
Cutlass argued with the SUV, which was winched away pending sentence.
Case against the English car dismissed from lack of evidence.
Trabant was deported back to Germany: no import licence
Overseeing all these proceedings : the ever-reliable, I-won’t-budge,
The I-have-a-spotless-reputation, I-hold-no-grudge,
The mechanical virgin, the silent Rolls Royce as judge.
...........................................................................................................
the smooth jazz café
dark roast and espresso shot
three sugar one cream
served in a dark cup
coffee bean image table
background bach blues band
comfy chill out sounds
smooth relax bossa nova
viola snare drums
cello string upbeat
piano caffeine downbeat
calm sax easy street
stan sand
Mysterious brain jewel radiation chamber
Prismatic refraction blue sapphire ruby emerald amber
Electromagnetic spectrum distribution
Tubular nerve net staccato syncopation
Chameleon shape blender shifter
Kaleidoscopic genetic mutation sifter
Polychromatic vector generator
Infinite recombination stimulator
Reboot jack gray matter rejuvenation
Press automatic driver repeat backbeat
Feedback reverb downbeat slack beat
Routine maintenance check
Dream sleep mode
Shut down
Treading along the avenues of iniquity
The downbeat of mollifying choruses alleviate my ears
Ambivalent logic scours my cerebellum
A frown composed of disdain surfaces
Whilst I seek a hero amongst such strange clouds
I covet to taste of the superlative pleasures ‘tis Mother Earth
Though I am left to contemplate when next my happenings
Proud parents gathered for the fifth grade band presentation.
The kids labored long and hard to enhance their musical education.
'Twas the band's first concert since its recent organization.
The harried teacher approached it with a sense of trepidation!
Moms and dads endured the commotion at home for many weeks,
As their blossoming prodigies practiced and honed their techniques.
Suffering through the blare of trumpets, the bleat of saxaphones,
The wail of clarinets and oboes, the atonal pitch of trombones!
The girls were dressed in white blouses and black, slinky skirts.
Boys wore dark trousers, black bow ties and snow-white shirts.
Each of the girls had a pretty ribbon adorning her hair.
Boys had even combed their hair - which was very rare!
Teacher apprehensively grasped her baton and waved the downbeat.
The program began with a simple rendition of "Bonaparte's Retreat."
At the end of the concert a heartwarming thing occurred.
The audience rose exclaiming, "Twas the sweetest music ever heard!"
Though at times they were not in tune and the tempo somewhat slow,
They proudly gave it their best and put on a wonderful show!
Was a spark in a child's soul that night fanned into a flame,
Boosting his or her enthusiasm to strive for musical acclaim?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Once we were a matching pair, some days we’d get downbeat
as we both couldn't abide the stench of sweaty cheesy feet!
Our male owner would pop us in the washing machine
with warm soapy suds we’d soon smell fresh and clean
But now my ‘sole mate’ has gone missing and I am bereft
I was worn on the right foot, and he was worn on the left
Our owner removed the washing machine gasket
then checked the tumble drier and laundry basket
Alas my companion is still missing, life just isn’t fair
a single sock is useless, and I’m filled with despair
So my owner’s sock stock has now been depleted
and with my partner gone I’m feeling de-feeted!
What use is one sock, maybe one day I’ll be ‘heeled’
if the sock monster’s secret stash is suddenly revealed!
So for now I am consigned to the back of a drawer
with other odd socks and I'm sure there’ll be lots more!
I slip in unobtrusively
and take a seat in back,
the orchestra is tuning up,
I open up my pack
and take a rolled up magazine
with which to play along,
conducting is a passion
I have had since I was young.
The brass, the woodwinds and the strings,
the tympani and all,
play scattered notes and splattered tones
until the maestro's call.
The program is Stravinsky's 'Rite,'
an overture by Brahms,
and there am I gesticulating
wildly with my arms!
A cello player noticed me
and signalled to the Man,
"Come, make music! Step on down
and join this merry band!"
the maestro cried in strident tones,
then summoned me on stage,
with great excitement I obeyed,
as he turned back the page.
"From the beginning!" he enjoined,
and handed me the stick,
I tapped the podium and stared,
I started feeling sick!
But then the downbeat... hell broke loose!
the orchestra responded,
Damn! I guess I nailed the Brahms,
how glorious it sounded!
It was then that I awoke,
my closet was a tip,
I stood in my tuxedo
with a poker in my grip!
The famed Chicago Symphony
with Solti in the lead,
how graciously he'd chosen me,
what better dream indeed!
The rain appeared, arctic
Spattered the duck board
As angry pellets flinched
And recoiled
Boathouse dank, bleak
Galley proofing transpire
Moist and humid
With sense of Frangelico
And bitter almonds
The sord chattered
With new fervor
And feeders sojourned
Past darkled dawn
Composition turned to
Decomposition
Place in basket
Not to collate
Wits and writer’s block
Onset of migraine
Twinge
With visual disturbance
And sorrow
Write of grief
She is not coming back
Time heals
Do not die
Spring frontward
Go home
Sun is aching to flicker
Drop downbeat design
Bloom buds of dreams
Sunshine undulates across verdant plain
casting dark shadows ushering twilight zone
ringing athwart tree trunks
invigorating, joyously kickstarting,
and plenti revitalizing
bountiful nature buzzfeeding
vim, vinegar and *****
caressing, massaging, and palpating with
soundlessness inducing bub bully giddy,
and sudsy spongy schmaltzy
harmonic livingsocial kerplunk
also intoxicating this perk o' late
ting teetotaler, no longer ginger
who doth oft times ale
with melancholic funk,
whereat imbibing nectar
of the Gods with fulfillment
temporarily quicken ends euphoric,
albeit 'pon firm meant soberly drunk.
Ah...nothing more uplifting
than (Anita Bryant raisin eyebrows)
plugging sunkist orange treat,
this sensate being privy,
sans front row seat
agog at orchestral, festival, viz
choral paean courtesy sweet
flora and fauna feat
bequeathed to Mother Earth,
a requiem pulsating with heartbeat
pitch perfect exultation
glorifying spring days soon obsolete
ethereal, ideal, and
sensational tonic to gin
prestidigitation, qua
natural psychological helpmeet
pleasant distraction with intent to read
temporarily placating, needling craving
for Pete sakes daily
fix this news junkie,
trembling when complete
awareness he doth accrete,
where quite glum, how
civilization didst mistreat
planet, hence feeling downbeat,
especially haunting ghosts of
Native Americans drumbeat
signal harbinger debacle
i.e. environmental doomsday
soon fated extinction
sealed and complete
inexorably inching closer to reality
necessitating superman to defeat
global warming rendering vast swaths
uninhabitable as Gaia global
temperature packs tremendous heat!
my anonymity is stalking the streets
like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep
into august daylight, filling beat boroughs.
passing the time: digging fake burrows:
motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets:
boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets.
dark corners; alleys; clean and replete.
rowers; faces; kept random, entreat
to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted:
E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted.
marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night
like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight
watching the downpour:
downbeat and worn
like tire-worm whitewalls:
peeling and torn.
the blanched, arched faces
(trampled like elephant’s acacia)
are garnets staring blankly at me
between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece
a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece.
running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps
berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap
from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps.
It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt;
silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.
In my city, downtown are many homeless,
wandering the busy streets so aimless;
one day, I saw my own brother begging,
my brother's face held such a bleakness.
I crossed the street my mind so confused,
my brother homeless- oh my mind refused;
but my reality was in an outstretched hand,
I wept- how can I help my brother, I mused.
I had to find him help- get him off the street,
a place to live and good food each day to eat;
that started me on a twisting journey,
with help my brother is no longer downbeat.
Since then, this girl has been on a mission,
I talk to the homeless and hope a day brighten;
with a partner, we pass out coffee and blankets,
we give sandwiches and quickly they are eaten.
Two days a month I help at a food bank- local,
and often at a clothing depot I help when able;
I always keep some change in my pocket,
some days at the animal shelter- cats I cuddle.
I suppose you could call me a good samaritan,
but guess what- helping people is a lot of fun;
every homeless person is some mother's baby,
it seems that helping is a path I have chosen.
__________________________
November 25, 2017
Poetry/Rubaiyat/A Path Chosen
Copyright Protected, ID 17 9660-73-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym
Written for the contest, The Good Samaritan
sponsor, Craig Hawkins
Fourth Place
Fiasco
Burnt down, fatigued, no feelings left,
So devastated, world means no heft
I am not a phoenix to rise from ashes
Soul does not let receive new lashes.
I am plagued with tortures of ill fate
Downbeat and broken, it is time to rate
My noble deeds and even wicked
My Lord, I beg, don’t be too strict!
Would love to live a century more,
But locked for me the main door
I knocked at it ten thousand times
Then I came back with all that grime.
The August's heat wave made streets sizzle,
in the fifties there was no air conditioning;
can we imagine the frustrutating feeling
that made bodies and minds very feeble?
Summer was fun on that noisy Mulberry Street,
no traffic went through it: such a sad downbeat;
how happy were the kids that couldn't help screaming,
getting wet in a large pool of water that was refreshing.
Blame that rascal kid that opened the firehydrant,
nobody went to school and mothers seemed moody;
some vendors were mad, but watching was so groovy...
they weren't nagging and enjoyed the scene with interest.
My books lay on the stoop, splashing water made them slide
nom brought them in giving me a naughty and disapproving look...
even she realized that's another silly excuse for me not to hide,
dipping bread into her delicious gravy while dad sliced the snook.
Copyright ( c ) 20017 by Andrew Crisci
A funny thing, perception
Up the hill towards twenty-one
The dawdling clock seems never to run
Only its movement belies deception
After twenty-five, an odd exchange
No pace of a sluggish plodder
The downbeat of the tread is hotter
Daunting milestones within range
Now, the fleeting measure races
Seasons trade with reckless flurry
The ticking gallop leaves me blurry
To arrest this sprint, my mind chases
code name for hustler
sordid, downbeat, serious—
Joe Buck and Rico