Best Dramas Poems
"A Silent Song"
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Blessed or cursed
Morning shave
Coffee please
Write a verse
Remembers last night’s dream
Grabs a napkin, spills his spleen
Shoves it in his pocket
Walks to work
Sits at his desk
Carries on as usual
Chats on with the new study,
he’s on a roll, softly flirts
Quietly, silently, it always works
Groundhog Day that’s the worst,
Where’s the breaker to dive under it all
Every now and then a Tempest is called for
A heavenly thunderous squall
Just to shake it up
Move through the strung out long day pall
Cover his mirror with her fog and all
All the while
He’s talking it up, little work day dramas
Meetings minute cutlass pen thrust
Business as usual, balls to bust
Still underneath it all he’s thinking the stories frame by frame
She whispers out of nowhere ethereal in his brain,
“The best story is yet to arrive, it’s only the middle of the day…
maybe some gold glitter, a Llama and a Toucan that sashays?”
Empath on his knees by midnight
He’s writing melancholic love songs
The words are tight, verses short
Not long, he’s thinking Turtle Doves and short skirts
That won’t work…
scrawls it out, writing’s gone with the wind,
The best words for the story don’t take too long
He listens to some music, thinks of her and sings a new song.
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Dreams flourish dripping words
black on white her familiar screen
pounding faster like raging horses hooves and heart beats
bleed vibrant colors mystic legions of wars and lovers
a foreign sovereignty her mind and wily covers her pageantry
Her eyes the windows of her world
Wings beating flying free
Cages broken, horses hooves hearts racing
She follows him on another shore a dream by sea
Praying prophecies
Empath on her knees
Two very different minds
Free to be
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
Music/ Paolo Conte, "Sparring Partner"
https://youtu.be/tzjdY5rmpCA
(Written to the rhythm of "The Things that I Love", if you want to sing along!)
Eating black licorice and cake with thick frosting!
Not doing so many things too exhausting.
Trying out ice creams in flavors galore!
I’m always doing the things I adore.
Viewing good dramas that make my heart flutter.
Watching those movies with popcorn and butter.
Finding myself in a huge discount store!
I’m always doing the things I adore.
When it’s Christmas or my birthday,
That’s the best of all!
I always feel happy and now you know why:
Because I think life’s a ball!
Petting a kitty, curled up warm and cozy.
Doing my e-mails or writing a poesy.
Wave-running, sunbathing, down by a shore.
I’m always doing the things I adore.
Seeing God’s wonders - like sunsets and flowers.
Looking at paintings or reading for hours.
Dancing and laughing, and oh, so much more. . .
I’m always doing the things I adore!
When it’s Christmas or my birthday,
That’s the best of all.
I always feel happy and now you know why:
Because I think life’s a ball. Yes, life is just a ball!
For the Happy Days Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Seek Life after life
Illusive task to obtain
Beyond doubts and fall
Start and end dramas
Decipher complexities
Find partial answers
Paradigm issues
Confusion overrate quest
Esteem falters wit
Stand mindful actions
Stuck within clearer pathways
A stretch still needed
Persistent conscience
Always crave enlightenment
Recall life purpose.
Patradoot or The Messenger29 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
These young boys and girls, were brought up,
By their parents, with great love and affection,
Now they are mad, in love for their motherland,
To show the splendors of their youthful energy.
They are ready even to sacrifice their heads,
What to say of body pains and tortures inflicted on them,
By seeing such fearlessness and energy of their youth,
Even the enemy gets ashamed of, dear letter.
Triloki was one of these young boys,
Who happily took bullets on his chest, dear letter,
And kept on moving ahead without withdrawing,
Keeping the dignity of our nation and Satyagraha.
DESCRIPTION OF MY CITY ALLAHABAD
You will find my beautiful city Allahabad,*
In an ecstasy and full of rapture, flowing in it’s air,
When you will move on its roads and streets,
Along with the Postman, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 12th August 2010 to continue in 30
Clarifications:
* Allahabad Also know as Prayag or Triveni is the most ancient city
of India, where river Ganga and Yamuna now meets at
the holy place called Sangam.
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Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
The kind of film most women love to see
is all about romance, thus women pick
a type of show that paints the fantasy
of love sublime, so it’s dubbed a chick flick.
I like the fun ones and the sad ones too,
but there’s another genre I like more!
Though dramas with great plot will always do,
there is one type of drama I adore!
There’s nothing like good horror and suspense.
Inside the theater there is a hush
as tension builds, and feelings grow intense,
for your adrenaline will get a rush!
The films like Hitchcock made I never missed.
I love a scary movie with a twist!
July 19, 2017 for the S Form contest of Broken Wings:
Sonnet form. Chosen word: Scary
Said the Chipmunk to the Hawk
Said scared, little, tail-striped chipmunk to red-tailed hawk,
“I am hidden over there where you will not find me.”
Said hawk in a swoop to another branch, “Jiggle that
tail again, so I’ll dive and sweep you off to heaven!”
Crouching as flat to the earth as she could be, chip-
munk said, “But I am already there where all points
of heaven reveal bliss...” which did perplex red-tail hawk,
who gawked up, then scanned all around for
some clue of heaven in this forest he knew he knew,
as she provoked, “You see?” But with his instincts
darting everywhere, hawk replied, “You lie! You
make riddles of my threat!” To which she flashed to
the opening of her tunnel, quick as light, calling,
“Heaven does contrive for good in life!” Hawk
affirmed a new place of some prey and turned.
Was he not made to hunt? Not for dramas like this?
Hawk bent over his feet, lifted his wings into flight
aimed at rustling leaves not far away. Hawk, while in
his flash, asked his forest, “Heaven, does it spread
as far as over there where I go?” Forest said, “No know,
no.” Hawk did not understand...In her tunnel, chip-
munk dropped two acorns from her cheeks to eat.
————————————————————————————————————
(c) sally Young eslinger 2/2021
The stage of life is crowded,
With a dark and sullen cast.
And though it seems those fading dreams,
Are just figments of the past.
Your manner is straight forward,
You're neither actor or a clown.
You fight the fight with all your might,
But still they put you down.
With clenched teeth and furrowed brow,
You walk bravely straight ahead.
Through stifled air, you won't despair,
Over all the roads you've bled.
You're standing firm and resolute,
Cause your spirit is intact.
Will time abate or will you wait,
To play out the final act.
It's hard to pick your poison,
When the dramas always change.
It's never clear, the more you fear,
Your dreams are out of range.
When at last the curtain falls,
On your temperance or your rage.
With peace of mind, in time you'll find,
That all the world's a stage.
'Round about eight o'clock each evening the massive iron gates are closed.
The moon's mellow glow shines upon spectral scenes that are now exposed!
Phantoms that by day lie peacefully in their graves now freely roam,
Reliving mortal dramas when the earthly stage was their home!
I've never witnessed such things but I've heard from reliable sources,
That nigh midnight a spectral hearse travels about drawn by ebon horses!
Six ghostly pallbearers march behind the hearse chanting a mournful dirge,
As they escort the macabre procession and at a gloomy crpyt converge!
A specter desperado is seen dodging 'mongst the moss-covered stones,
Chased by a sheriff, his moldy funereal shroud flapping about his bones!
"Crazy Bob" Womack who discovered gold up around Cripple Creek,
Sits on his stone guzzling booze and gazing wistfully t'ward Pikes Peak!
Pat Brady, Roy Rogers' old sidekick, races about in his jeep, "Nellybelle!"
Rebel soldiers scramble from their graves and loose a fearsome Rebel Yell!
A gorgeous young wraith clad in white wafts to and fro seeking her lover,
Adding to this eerie scene, perched in ancient oaks, owls hoot and hover!
Ghostly apparitions peer from windows of the haunted chapel on the grounds.
Grinning skeletons rise from musty tombs rattling about making their rounds!
Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Romana" resides here in her special nook.
She leans against her stone observing all, perhaps researching another book!
"Who wrote dese legs?" Said Milligan in Puckoon *
As he surveyed his nether limbs with distaste and dismay
While Jessica Rabbit gave the protest of every 'toon' **
"I'm not really bad. It's just that I was drawn this way"
I share Milligan's discontent with legs and other appendages
As I guess do others, save those narcissistically vain
We seek to have some correction and make 'amendages'
Or at least find some creator whom we can blame
So God, while receiving His due credit when we pray
May be on the receiving end of much lamentation
"Oh why did you give me such faults? why make me this way?
If only you'd done better job in my creation"
Then since it's not our fault, but the way we were drawn
It's not fair! Therefore those better sketched must make reparation
Thus comes about entitlement; enforced welfare is born
Correcting errors? Or just causing more enervation
But in life's dramas do we not each play some role
Maybe having some choice of the part and in writing the script
With a character choosing a purpose, determining a goal
As we stumble through props and scenery and trap-doors tripped
Regardless of who was the author of our book
Whether our lives are our own or in hands of the fates to make hay
The role we have whether hero saint or crook
Determines right now the game that we have to play
Looking to the future if given that I have a voice
In my next life if not made from mud or other dregs
And I have the good fortune to make some personal choice
I will write myself a better pair of legs
When I was young, sometimes I’d get to go
to our town’s theater, where I would see
a curtain open up, then a long show
much better than the ones on my tv!
The seats inside this place were plush and red,
and there were lots of them row after row!
Small stars were on the ceiling overhead.
I felt enchanted by their magic glow.
With tales like “Sparticus,” so mesmerized
I’d sit and savor every movie plot.
Were movies a religion, I’d get baptized.
I love all types and I love them a lot!
I left for college. Foreign films I saw
with subtitles, and those I saw for free.
The themes were deep and filled my soul with awe.
The greatest film buff I had come to be.
Some forty years ago, I started to
see at least one movie every week
at a theater when they’re brand new.
And dramas most unusual I seek.
TGIF was on my license plate -
“Thank God It’s Friday” because I live for
my Friday matinees, and I can’t wait
to write reviews of movies I adore.
For years I have reviewed the films I’ve seen
on Facebook and at one time with my own
column in a poetry magazine!
And by the way, most shows I see alone.
My spouse hates going out and is not free
to go with me when I have days off, so
I’ll ask a movie buddy. Usually
she’s busy, but I’m fine just going solo!
I have other passions such as poetry,
e-mailing friends and striving for good health.
But once a week the “big screen” I must see.
Of movie plots, my brain contains a wealth!
Dec. 19, 2017 for the Meraki Contest of Silent One
Have situations ever got away from you
evade conclusions while dramas protrude
like a chain link fence no time to think
assess why you're tense or reflect to sync
up events with stress to pull the valve on pressure
just endeavour at pace absent of pleasure
naturally adapt to lessen the impact
while facts not exact and the lesson abstract
taking life in just not learnt
quaking within and mentally burnt
then one intense altercation the only
thing in focus expanding slowly
and nothing else gets noticed
optically trained within the scope
and the rest of the world you take no note
suddenly it's draining all your energy
and events around it just let them be
busy searching every angle like a clock hand
around the clock to brain tangling demand
lurking constant and you assert but weary
astounded half shocked continuously nearly
working it out but for doubt in a muddle
evermore dumb founded increasing struggle
shoulder shrugging as your wonder wanders
from blunder to blunder now going under
where there's no sun it's just dark and dreary
you're torn up inside and teary, now hear me,
HAVE A DAY OFF!!
In the shattered mirror of hollow empathy, I see fragments of myself drifting,
Like ash butterflies dancing in the cold wind of unspoken truth,
And their words—"I can't empathize"—are silver arrows piercing through
The illusory veil of superficial consolation, revealing the inner garden
Where I alone grow the cucumbers of wisdom, where I water the flowers of courage.
And I hear footsteps fading away down the corridor of memory, the steps of friends hurried
To their daily markets, to the Turkish dramas that swallow their evenings,
Leaving behind only the echo of a pat on the shoulder and a worn-out phrase
"Don't worry, it will all pass"—a devalued coin in the ATM of compassion,
While I remain here, in the fortress of self, counting my resources.
Ah, how strange this revelation—that in the absence of foreign comfort
I discover my own healing hands, my own wellspring of strength!
Like a tree finding water in its depths when the sky refuses to weep,
I learn to be self-sufficient, to measure my garden of limits with steady steps,
To cultivate my own remedies, to be my own sun and my own rain.
I no longer knock on foreign doors begging for understanding like a crust of bread,
But build from the bricks of imperfections a temple of maturity,
Where the echo of my steps resounds with fulfillment, not with a void to be filled,
Where each scar is a medal of self-sufficiency won in battle,
And where loneliness is no longer a fear, but a throne from which I contemplate my strength.
Suspense creeps in with tea and crumpets, dear,
And murder, mayhem, chaos, stirred right in
—Poet Stirring Up Suspense
IT IS TIME FOR TEA
It is time for tea, a giddyup I need.
Water is boiling in the glass pot.
Sublime scent and flavor guaranteed
and great to sip with a story plot.
The warmth of Earl and Lady Grey,
with bergamot or peel of orange-lemon.
So arousing - a nose and tongue touché
as well as the development of dilemma in
my cute mystery novel. The dust cover
shows a striped gray kitten and steaming
cup of peppermint tea. A Christmas lover,
I sup on crumpets and choice daydreaming.
Whether herbal hibiscus, cherry or chai
in this cockcrow explosion of birdsong,
I live for and long for the climatic high.
My brain fog’s lifted, character’s are strong.
It is an intoxicating concoction, time well spent
to awaken this poet’s muse, cozy in red pajamas.
It is time for tea, the steeping and bent
of a stupendous cup, steaming with sunrise dramas.
LIFE STORY
"Who wrote dese legs?" Said Milligan in Puckoon *
He surveyed his nether limbs with distaste and dismay
While Jessica Rabbit gave protest of every 'toon' **
"I'm not really bad. It's just that I was drawn this way"
I share Milligan's discontent with legs and parts that append
As I guess do others, save those narcissistically vain
We seek to have some correction and make amend
Or at least find some creator whom we can blame
But in life's dramas do we not each play some role
Maybe having some choice of the part and in writing the script
With a character choosing a purpose, determining a goal
As we stumble through props and scenery, trap-doors tripped
Regardless of who was the author of our book
Whether lives are our own or in hands of the fates to make hay
The role we have be it hero saint or crook
Determines right now the game that we have to play
Looking to the future if given that I have a voice
In my next life if not made from mud or dregs
And I have the good fortune to make some personal choice
I will write myself a better pair of legs
Friendship in a Covid world. (C) Arthur Abrahamson January 2021
My Facebook friends photo stares back at me from the blue tinted screen
A 13 -year-old photograph, the hint of a smile, looking cool looking mean
What do you look like now I wonder, older?wiser? angrier? calmer?
Prematurely aged perhaps by life’s little dramas.
“You can choose your friends but not your relations” an often repeated mantra from my father
who was as right as he was contrary.
Our real friendships oil the wheels of our lives with friends, lovers, husbands and wives,
they age with us and care about us as they would a sister or brother, we are their cherished sibling
unattached by blood.
My Facebook friends are regimented on my screen like dissolute soldiers in various stages
of readiness about to march onto some unknown battleground far away in the ether.
They have funny names Krafty Q,,Lucy Luck, Donald mouse and Mickey duck,
Send me a PM they say but I’m not Whats apping today, I won’t get back to you right away.
Face-to-face in real time I can see the glint in my friends eye, a sudden smile chased from their
face as the conversation moves on again,
Real friends can see my gain, my loss, my joy, my hurt my pain
They ring me at unexpected times, we chat, we sigh, we laugh and cry they’re familiar voices
provide a source of comfort to me like an old favourite jumper I’ve worn for years.
We chat about the highs and lows of our times together, telling each other cherished jokes and
stories that are the markers in our coveted relationship.
They are real, they are the people, although not always seen, who are there in spirit to turn to
when I’m emotionally bereft, or lose a loved one to a Covid death,
They, who I move towards when I need a cuddle when life at home becomes a muddle.
A wall of silent photos on my computer screen I have 396 Facebook friends,
I’ve only ever met 22 the rest are silent never ageing, still in particular poses
I much prefer my real friends who I can see to embrace and hold when this horror closes.