Best Enrolled Poems
I was born, Bronx, New York, in the year 'Thirty-Nine',
the first child with a brother who followed in time.
Ten years later, moved North, Hudson Valley, same State
where I've settled, lived on with my loved ones to date.
But when young, in my school, two fine talents emerged,
and my teachers spared hours to encourage my urge.
I enjoyed my young years while I painted and penned;
lots of canvas and paper used up without end.
At eighteen, I then married the love of my life
and enjoyed my new path of becoming a wife
to my US Marine, very handsome and true;
Parris Island, our home for a year, almost two.
By the age twenty-five- was a mother of three;
a fine son, two sweet girls, a complete family.
We worked hard every day and our life was so good.
I wrote poems and painted whenever I could.
Later, painting with oils was the pastime for me-
while I studied for years at an art gallery.
Varied art shows, displays, and a job filled my time.
Soon I sold many pieces and life was sublime.
Yet, the years went by fast and at age thirty-nine,
I enrolled in a college to study part-time.
Six years later, I earned my prized English degree-
a BA—and a Minor in Business for me.
Then my pictures with words replaced those done with art,
and I soon published poems of life and of heart.
Yet along in this time of my great writing spree
I worked hard every day as our business VP.
For a full twenty years, we worked hard faithfully
after hubby retired as the Chief of FD,
selling our fire equipment, all types, big and small
to FDs, factories, district schools, and the malls.
Our dear children all married, with families too,
are involved happily in whatever they do.
Happy grandma of five- twenty-five to eighteen-
and one granddaughter married two thousand thirteen.
We retired, sold our business thirteen years ago,
still so busy with life, with its ebb and its flow.
We are proud and so blessed and thank God up above,
for our days and our life of good times filled with love.
April 11, 2015
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Where Are You From
Sponsor: Joseph Soper
Judged: 08/01/2017
~2nd Place~
Contest: Bio of a Poet
Sponsor: Tammy Reams
Judged: 04/18/2015
Form: Anapestic Tetrameter (12 syllables, 4 feet per line)
Unfortunate circumstances made me a weekend father
Two parents separated by a marred history,
now had to care for a child ...
an innocent victim who received emotional shrapnel
as collateral damage from our argumentative battles
Our destructive habits fell onto her,
but children are very resilient, thank God
I loved being a weekend father
There was no bitterness about allotted time of custody,
none of that foolishness
My wife and I settled our divorce amicably ... no courts involved,
except for the legal formality of having a divorce decree issued
by the state
We worked things out between us much better being apart than when we
were married
It's funny how that works
So I got my daughter on the weekends, but over time I had her
more than the weekends
We bonded pretty good
And anyone with kids will tell you, that four-year-olds are a quirky bunch
They're old enough to do enough things for themselves,
but they still want you to do a lot of things for them ...
y'know, they still want the baby treatment
My daughter, she really only demanded two things of me when I first
started having her every weekend:
she wanted us to watch movies together, movies like "Lion King,"
or play video games together, video games like "Lion King"
And she didn't like the part of the movie where Simba's dad, Mustafa died
She always cried, and told me to skip that part ...
that always touched my heart
Because it told me, in unspoken words, that she loved me and didn't
want anything bad to happen to me
When she turned five, I enrolled her at my alma mater college,
in an art program for kids
My sister and father told me that my daughter had artistic ability
So every Saturday, we spent half the day at the college,
because after she got out of class, we would get something to eat,
then go to the main library on campus and get on the computers
To make a long story shorter ... she received an art degree
when she became grown
Becoming an illustrator and computer graphic artist
That's what being a weekend father means to me
An old gal applied to join Mensa
Gee she couldn’t be any denser
She went in the wrong door
On the thirty third floor
And there she enrolled as a fencer
When attending her first fencing class
A man scored a hit on her huge ass
She screamed out so loud
It drew quite a crowd
She cannot abide failure – its crass!
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
She hollered and screamed for a medic
I swear it was worse than a dead duck
one without any wings
oh the horror she sings
she's much more than dense she's pathetic
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
She swore that she really could spell
And in math she did surely excel
But once she felt pain
All she did was complain
And whined as her sore butt did swell.
WRITTEN BY CHRIS GREEN
That old gal then became a method actor
but one thing soon became a huge factor
she forgot all her lines
her mentality declines
now she sputters like a John Deere tractor
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Her butt was so sore she bought leeches
Gently placing them in her breeches
To suck out the bruise
We could hear her oooh's
I felt sorry for the poor creatures
Her butt was so big like a whale
all that was missing was it's tail
so they stuck a flag up her ****
called it the new Khyber pass
she went a whiter shade of pale.
WRITTEN BY SEREN ROBERTS
"Am I smart?" is what she kept asking
In glory she hoped to be basking.
Suddenly she farted.
The whole room departed.
Now finding fresh air is their tasking.
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
She sat for the test with all smiles
Filled out the forms and the files
But she spelled her name wrong
Became twisted of tongue
And was thrown to the crocodiles.
WRITTEN BY RICHARD D SEAL
07-17-17
Seems the old gal was a talented tart
Clearing the room with but one single fart
Wiping their eyes
All those wise guys
Soundly applauded her flatulent art
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
07-18-17
I once had a goat who loved to swim
I enrolled him at our local gym
I know, I know, it was just a whim!
Do tell!
He did rather well in beginners’ match
Girl swimmers thought him quite a catch
But he failed to get his lifesaver’s patch.
Oh, hell!
He punched a hole in the kiddie pool
So, I enrolled him in the ballet school
He butted heads with Master Abdul.
Oh, swell!
This kid simply couldn’t measure up
Until, finally, he won the Cannabis Cup
And with the money he bought a pup.
Oh, well!
SIXTH PLACE WINNER
written April 6, 2022
for "Tail-Rhymed" poetry contest
sponsored by Jeff Kyser
Miz Liberty welcomed Luigi to America's shores to begin a brand new life.
He arrived at Ellis Isle with piles of baggage, three kids and his addled wife.
He knew not a word of English but there's one thing he understood;
He must soon learn the baffling lingo so as not to be misunderstood!
Luigi enrolled in an English class and was bewildered from the start,
Trying to absorb the meaning of various words the teacher did impart!
There were so many words that sounded alike that he could not construe,
And how to fit them in a sentence or a conversation, he had not a clue!
"For example" he asked, "How and when do I use-a you, yew and ewe?
Please-a told me once-a more when it's-a proper to use-a do, dew and due!
When I visit da zoo, is da beast in da cage called a new, knew or gnu?
Can you tell-a me if da tree colors in fall are called hue, hew or Hugh?"
"How can I know if I use-a these-a words correctly, too, to and two,
Or if I get-a sick which of these-a words do I use-a, flew, flu or flue?
I'm-a having all kinds of troubles with these-a words, heir, hair and hare!
In da market I can't figure if I should ask da man for a pare, pair or pear!"
He strove to comprehend the perplexing language and all its doublespeak.
His kids could speak like natives but for him things were looking bleak!
But over time he learned to parse and spell and the jargon he did subdue!
Last I heard of Luigi he was a tenured English professor at Columbia Yew!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
"I'm hearing images, I'm seeing songs no poet has ever painted
Voices call out to me, straight to my heart"
Cold, emotionless, and her nature, defiant
Hard to connect with as well as unreliant
A boarding school for outcasts such as Wednesday
Revenge for brother, brings on her sinister way
Dysfunctional families—ivory towers make wagers
Enrolled are lost souls and morbid teenagers
Like Arkham Asylum, a long and brutal history
Medieval mayhem come to life again in her story
Nevermore Island, Romania’s Nevermore Academy
Unconventional practices become their enemy
Designed for students with extreme personalities
Who don’t think their practices convey abnormalities
Is an all American coming-of-age supernatural
Tangled in spider silk or it’s web, which is factual?
And there it is the unscrupulous psycho-therapist
A principal’s shapeshifter and her sorceress rapist
Forcing thoughts back into some semblance of order
Werewolves, vampires, gorgons, and sirens who boarder
Are the architectural texts with applications ubiquitous
And the requisite archaic desperate mass exodus
Dark long tresses, paints it black in gothic dresses
Many who are romantic interests she addresses
Rises to an ovation with a most clever shadow dance
Sanity, reason, balance, rationality, and much arrogance
Behind the smiling facade of normality where lie derelicts
There lurks a psychopathic serial killer, and other convicts
Beyond their control, declined their world of decadence
Insanity, lunacy, madness, the outcasts show no evidence
Highly severe psychological and physical illnesses?
Or real paranormal abominations and alien devises
Guiding her are messages from the beyond with passion
Her lecture combined intellectual lucidity and compassion
Dear Diary
My dog died yesterday. We were playing frisbee in the back yard and it was really hot. I'm not allowed to run so he did the running for both of us and I guess it just wore him out because he fell on his side and breathed really hard and then just stopped. Dad said it might have been heartworms. We buried him under the big ugly oak tree out back and mommy put a sign on his grave that reads: Here lies Rainbow - The best dog in the whole wide world. He was only seven.
I got accepted into Julliard. This Fall I will become the youngest student ever enrolled, beating out the late, great Hazel Scott by one year. Ever since I can remember, musical compositions have come easy to me. Beethoven, Chopin, Rachmaninov, it doesn't matter. Once I hear it played it becomes burned into my memory. And when I perform, I don't miss a note.
My birthday is next Sunday. Dad promised me a My Really Real Puppy. I was going to get a Lego Science Station set but we changed it because... well you know. Today my head hurts super bad. The doctor told us to expect it. I threw up three times last night.
The stars are out now and I can see the moon too. I wonder if anyone lives up there. Mommy says God does but I've never seen him. She told me I can talk to him anytime I want and he would listen, even to a sick little six-year-old boy. I think I'll try it tonight. I've been feeling down lately.
glioblastoma
prayers float to the heavens
grant him one more year
Seems I've never done a 'back-to-school' poem
Why should I have? I never left ...
At eleven years old, by my Dad I was told
that I'd soon be enrolled, in a special Hebrew program
Try it for a year, my son, my dear
Do not fear: It'll be over before you know it
Hebrew you'll learn; for Torah you'll yearn
To God you will turn. You'll thank me for this in the long run
Well, my Dad was plain wrong. That year felt so long
It dragged and dragged along. Then, voila! It just ended
My Bar Mitzvah was good. I did my job like I should
Ate as much food as I could. And told my father I was quitting
My Dad was so sad. He felt I'd gone bad
Didn't care I was glad. Told me I'd made a mistake...
Years and years passed. My resolve didn't last
Just as my Dad had forecast. He'd been right all along
To God I had turned. For Torah I yearned
Hebrew I burned to relearn. But now I was sad
For Dad had passed away. His kindness unrepaid
At his gravesite I pray ~ that he accept my gratitude undying
September 01, 2020
Attitude of Gratitude Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
It was a nice romance, she loved to dance
to the music's beat, but I had two left feet
The circumstance made us take a chance
And we enrolled for ballroom lessons.. (sweet)
I gave it a try and by and by
I began gliding across the floor
My confidence was high
I learnt tango, cha-cha, and many more
We practiced still when we were home
The Christmas Ball was near
These steps we honed for the ballrooms dome
To prepare for this elegant affair
In tux and gown we left the house
To the Ballroom we did go
Where others gathered with their spouse's
To glide to rhythms flow
The Ballroom grandeur was something to behold
With lofty ceilings, and decorations ornate
Perhaps to match the dancing that would unfold
My nervous feet couldn't wait
In rhythmic grooves we made the moves
In motions to and fro
To cha- cha steps, latin flavors flowed
The rumba wooed, as rhapsody behooved
We slid with grace to tangos pace
As I held her close to me
Our hearts raced, our souls embraced
As we became one with the melody
The Ballroom dance was such delight
As we dipped and twirled in movements quick
To trip the light fantastic
A waltz came on, we danced it slow
But it was late and we had to go
But we could have danced all night
This thing we call life has had a toll on me,
I see all I love living in captivity.
A slave to the money,
A slave to the fame,
They don’t even realize their enrolled in the game.
The things that once mattered are chained to the floor,,
I can’t even recognize myself anymore.
Waves of deception
are Distorting all I have seen,
I feel like my life is a batch of bad dreams.
The puppet master is at it again,
This time its innocence that has been stolen.
While all are intertwined in this competition to nowhere
She quietly retreats and her branches grow bare.
The sorry is stifled by the screams in this place,
The images are engrafted, they cannot be erased.
And the years keep on going
And the times they are showing.
While they burry their heads in the sand
God continues to stretch out his hand.
By: Sabina Nicole
Did you hear about Don? What a guy!
On the pretty gals he had his eye.
But he had zero chance
with them all. At romance
he kept messing up, for he was shy.
In a language school Don then enrolled
where he learned words of love, I am told.
Of cute *senoritas
he’d ask for *besitas.
His tongue was becoming quite bold!
The language of his newest dear
he’d be whispering into her ear:
With “Jet’aime,” “Querido,”
“Kuss mich” or “Ti amo” -
Through all Europe he roamed without fear.
With his sweet words, he’d go on and on
till he tired of a girl and be gone.
And that’s how a guy
named Don, once so shy,
is now known as a famous *Don Juan.
*senoritas = young ladies (in Spanish)
*besitas = little kisses (in Spanish)
*Jet'aime = I love you (in French)
*Querido = My dear (in Spanish)
*Kuss mich = Kiss me (in German)
*Ti amo = "I love you (in Italian)
*Don Juan= name for a womanizer (Spanish/English)
For Debbie Guzzi's Bi-Lingual Poetry Contest
As an evanescent quietness falls into my room
While a stream of breeze air invades the living room,
A new, unborn poem waves in my blurred thought,
Endeavoring to keep me from being distraught.
I’m desperate; I deserve even a better cabin.
Thus, my mind is abiding a religious doctrine
In the purpose of enriching my knowledge
By meeting standards to get enrolled in college.
Inspiration is sometimes a key to survive.
Joel Osteen, you keep my lost dream alive.
But, the cryptic concept of life is the absurd.
Will my celestial request remain unanswered?
To avoid failure and exhibit one’s braveness,
To gain success and the pursuit of happiness,
Virtuosity must be laid open rather than latent
For a high-achieving, first-generation student.
She was a drug addict,
Had many flings with men,
And as they do predict,
She fell time and again;
She found herself with child,
Was advised against drugs,
Who cared? She got more wild,
When stopped, she simply shrugs;
(Think of the little life
Growing within her womb,
Who has no say - such strife!
She builds her baby's tomb...)
Somehow, the foetus grew,
Abused before 'twas born,
Oh! If only she knew,
That it might see no morn;
A friend saw her (dismayed),
Six months pregnant and high,
She took her home and prayed,
In her bed, made her lie;
Soon enrolled her in a
De-addiction centre,
Cared for her during the
Shakes ~ was dubbed 'tormentor';
Still, she did not back down,
Won her trust, helped her fight,
She who was 'bout to drown
Has since found the "True Light";
Three months fled by, pains came,
She gave birth to a girl,
Beautiful, though born lame,
Survivor of drug-whirl,
Forgiving self is tough,
When she sees her child strive,
But God's grace is enough,
She's glad she is alive;
Her friend has helped her win,
Go back to drugs? Never!
She's been transformed within,
Indebted forever!
1st May, 2022
{This is a work of fiction, written solely for Anthony Biaanco's "U Choose" contest - Theme chosen: 7) Abuse of the unborn}
(There are many other problems such women may face apart from self-guilt... For example: The child, when grown-up, may question the mother on the reason for her disability...)
Recently I spoke to a young man.
Let’s say his name was John.
He told me all about his life,
And the things that he had done.
Coming from a broken home
and abused by someone close
he said he fell behind in reading and sums
receiving lower grades than most.
He left school aged just sixteen
Joined the army, felt there was nothing else.
He was taught how to march, to obey,
and how to kill. In self defence
He was told when to sleep.
When to wake, when to eat.
He was feeling content,
felt his life was complete.
He then was sent to the Afgan war,
returned with anxiety and stress.
The army he loved he had to leave,
His nerves were in a mess.
He moved into a bedsitter flat,
with the remains of his army pay.
Soon fell behind with the rent,
Was told ‘Get out right-away!’
Not knowing where to go,
he walked the streets by day.
At night sleeping on cardboard.
In a secluded shop doorway.
Passer-by’s ignored his begging pleas,
muttering ‘He is on the dole,
will spend money on drink and drugs.’
His medal proudly worn, some said he stole.
Then one night someone did stop,
helped him to his feet.
Took him to a sheltered home,
gave him something to eat.
He was taught how to read,
enrolled on an IT course.
He was shown where to seek help,
and said he was able to find some work.
Now he is a leader at the home,
helps others change their lives.
For those like he once was,
I asked if he had advice.
He said, ‘My friend, believe in yourself,
never have self doubt,
say to yourself each and every day,
I may be down, but not out.’