Best Erroneously Poems
Spelling, syllable count, vanity, too simple, Simon! Be prolific, cruel, smart, up to par, above the bar, fit for the stage. Tap, tap, tap…
—by poet
The Prismatic Self
See the wooden stage, markers for my feet, bright lights, great expectations, critical analysis. Curtains will open any minute as my words make an entrance. Will my opening lyrics draw a crowd? Who will be in attendance? The theater’s not likely sold out.
Backstage, the sponsors, who are they? ATTENTION! As if a teacher wields a pointer, tapping at my feet. Will the audience throw erasers?
On the palm of my hand, the rules - perhaps strict, but I’m not in fear of a stickler. Trained by the nuns in love and hate knuckles.*
Lots of rules, I might have to practice the act for quite a bit longer. I practice in my dressing room, trying on outfit after outfit - those flouncy forms or something simple and succinct.
Am I a people pleaser? Do I perform at the pleasure of the King or Queen? Or am I my own worst critic?
Yes! Yes! Yes! No!
I desire to be seen but I will yield. There is something more important than being the lead. Still, I must confess, I must run back to my little box, mime my tears, dread my limitations, take a breath and when I am ready - take a bow.
At the onset, I must build my own backdrop, backstory, be vague and understood. I run my lines quickly, slowly, go over them again and again, even as I recite them freely, as a monoku or Shakespearian sonnet; or get even more elaborate.
I labor over each word, its placement, its meaning. I don’t care! I do care! I must feel it practically perfect; though I will let it go. Eventually, it will be a comedy of errors, erroneously erupting past the stage, in the rubber hands of cause and effect. The sponsor’s Marlboro ashes fall on it, without understanding my heartfelt meaning; my wings clipped as I await the list…the dreaded and dreadful list. Most surprised when I am the cream, alone - floating at the top.
**Fastbreast, blushing, aghast, euphoric. That sponsor is exact. I do not grow prideful. I do glow. The tip of the iceberg shows, all other words sunken, below. In leotards, the ships pass by, having a look - one clips itself.
*conceit
**Fastbreast - heart beating rapidly (Neologism)
I searched many years, high and low
Looking every place I could go
Yet nowhere could I find
the sublime.
The keys eluded me
How could I ever be free
should I falter and err erroneously.
I looked into the eyes of Buddha and
no key did I find.
I looked, I looked blind.
Looking at Shinto the shrine seemed dead
Not full of life
where one expects to be led
and just last night I lay in bed
and the answer came to me.
Not I to it instead.
The blood stained cross was plain to see
and beyond it a vast eternity
of love, joy, peace serenity
beyond belief - - -lay for me :
a life to forever be
opened by the key
of faith.
Dedicated to the non believer- Think Twice
© Charles Henderson
Nov. 11, 2016
The tormented cries of a heart confined
Barely ever met a gratifying end
The meager state is but a trick of your mind
For the course of destiny lies in your own hand
Forsaken love, a conceivable excuse
For a shattered being, to give up life
It is but a presumption, erroneously abstruse
For success greets those who dare to survive
No past, no fate, that He Cannot Mend
Or an ill-fated tale to have ever spawned
Never lose hope, however evident the end
For night is the darkest just before dawn
By M. Hussain Effendi
(In reply to the poem "Estranged Love" posted by M. Taha Effendi)
Did your mother ever tell you,
Did you know?
(Some of us have a penchant for the inscrutable)
Did, your mother ever tell you
(These bonds are primordial and immutable)
In one of those intimate conversations
Between mother and child
(Mostly wasted on superficiality of dopamine significance)
About your origin and your age?
(Neither carbon-14 nor red shift light can date us)
I supposed
With your superior knowledge written on official paper
That provide the data of your birth
You think it not worth the bother
To have such small talk about origin.
Mothers knew the world before the big banging bang
Or you measure your life with time like baking flour.
Trivial, trivial, three scores and ten is distorted denial.
Did your mother ever tell you
About her memory of tomorrow?
Did you know
That every child comes mass produced from heaven
The female foetus has 7 million oocytes to begin
The tomb stalks us from the womb because of sin
Death comes early to siblings we forget tomorrow
When the memory of the future fades
She is born with only one million eggs later on
O that I could tell the brothers or sisters in one year we lost
That by puberty only 400, 000 eggs are not gone.
Was that random love
Or the beginning of my purpose driven life,
O mother, will you remember now?
Did you hear
The whispering of my siblings telling me "go first!"
I was Jacob, coming last despite my bossy siblings
Who 7 million with me were only potential until my birth;
This perhaps, the Electra complexity eluding Freud
Matters not, mother knew
I never took orders very well
That is why on the Wanderer I was not in the hold
But many many died in the wretched womb of our beginning
When slaves grow green and slavers search for gold.
I came long after laughing
And could not believe what birth certificates taught in writing
Did they not know the entire universe is one age
That God rested from all his work and his creation that he made from then
That time sequenced us like products on an assembly line
That all eggs existed simultaneously
So that I age vicariously and erroneously
Mother said nothing to me
So I beg you, talk to your mother again.
Defining a Man ( A Letter to my Daughter )
What is a man in these modern day attitudes and parlances of our times
harder now, I think to define a man than maybe it was
but then maybe not, considering how much we all have learned
Rather it should be easier for a man to define himself, as a man, in these days, than it
was in the past, but this seems not to be the case.
Ever it seems, men, cling to the ideas of “The Macho Man” ( which if you think about it is
so Gay.. trying to prove to everyone that you are not Gay, by being a “Man”….. how gay is
that ? )
Any “Man” that conforms to a stereotype, or the stereotypically accepted view of what a
man is “Is not” a man
But a mere shadow of one
Who by acceptance has agreed in his own conscience “not” to think past or beyond
a cultural definition of what he is
And therefore has not explored to any depth the idea of maleness and all its qualities of
personality
They have, to say, accepted a definition of themselves which is a blanket and an easy
excuse to explain what they are and how they behave.
I can count the number of men I have met in my life on the fingers of two hands
but I have encountered an innumerable group of brainless masculine gender defined people
in their thousands….
Firstly a man is or has the courage, “not” to define himself by stereotype
he becomes a wolf instead of a sheep and so to some degree an outcast. ( and so many sheep
call themselves wolves that it is laughable considering their obeisance to acceptance )
A man, does not use self-centred egoism as an excuse for truth or a replacement for truth
He will contend with any rationale that challenges his idea or view of his life or world
until it can or has proved itself to be better than his own
In which case it becomes his own rationale.
A man does not, by the use of any force, verbal, physical, emotional or mental, make any
person submit to his will, in order to prove that he is right. ( erroneously or not )
A man will use his physical strength to defend, not attack.
Once,
About ten minutes ago in the year
2006 or
2549, depending upon which avatar or
Messiah is consulted, I
Tumbled out of my bed to the
Untranslatable
Predawn
Cackle of
Frantic voices
Descending.
So, with urgency
Rarely experienced since the
Evacuation of my spirit
From the Land of
Possession Addiction, I was called to summon previously
Unknown prowess
Chancing traffic choked streets
Of Nakhorn (used to mean “New City” 700 years ago but not sure now)
Chiang Mai.
So there I was
Aboard my mostly pint-sized for a European descendent Kawasaki 112,
Red-blooded American head
Protruding
turret-like out of an
Undersized helmet that,
If nothing else,
Officially pronounced me foreign
Blazing a jutted path around
Decrepit trishaws,
Ubiquitously red baht busses and,
Not the least, a motorcycle with a sidecar bandaged to its
Aching side just in time to witness a
Spit-shined just out of the wrapper BMW
Brusque aside a
Sardine packed dump truck
Loaded,
Not with dirt, but five dollar a day
Laborers.
All this and more
Just moments before
Mounting the silted Ping and
Stampeding city gates, I glimpsed
Censored Snippets of TV reports blurting something unintelligible like
“Bangkok coup”,
“Corruption”,
“A King”
And
Somewhere,
Quite uncensored, of a not so pleased
Laozi,
Lotus splayed in
Meditation
Kneading the Eastern soil one
Daoist grain at a time,
Before ancient city walls
Rose up,
Monolithic in my path.
And then the recall that
Centuries before,
Burmese raiders
Resplendent in warrior garb
Plundered the palace and soul
Of the kingdom Thai before stealthily
Creeping back to their lairs,
Buddha-fat with riches.
That leaves the Siamese of 1935
And me, to wonder
Where is freedom
When we travel so far
Pell mell and
Peril, only to discover
In a fleeting brief moment the road to
Iniquity marked, rather
Erroneously, with the signpost to
Promises?
Standing up tall holding my own leaning hard headlong into the wind yes I believe I have heard felt seen it all it seams.
Been down on the row held my hand up high up on the bush - but yes time tells me to not worry - Lord has been carrying me for some time now.
If I could write you a sonnet I would, but; I haven't the clue of that form.
Yeah all that I know, is to write in Joy and embrace the wind time and the realities as they are; and come.
Though broken, I feel it can bring one to be enlightened through time, if a prayer is given for this and the heart to remain open with no strings attached and so yes if this is achieved, the Sun so to say is sure to rise again in the morning, and the World will march on together in Peace and so this Hope will remain, "Love Mercy and Forgiveness - selflessness - will always be the keys to winning with God and one another - and the time it takes to share a kind word with the one who is down - well brilliant; it will always be a greater life - and in general the days will not be as tough as it is to live in a place Hell bent my friend depending solely on-Hate erroneously alluding to and believing that that alone will make all the difference ... and keep one safe.
"Yeah ha ha, I Laugh!"
Yes and having relied on Hate as a fix all answer all before myself well from bitter experience; I tell you it never did help - yeah and I tell you one more thing friend I know now Hate in all of its selfishness intended and ultimate suffering; it-never will ... . No no it never-will.
As the wind blew over the smoking embers,
The smells moved into homes-
Houses that stood by the ancient crematorium.
It's always crowded, so many people die these days-
We've even seen half burnt bodies,
There's no time to reduce you to ashes.
But we can purge you in other ways-
You can flow, (dead and burnt) through Ganges.
Or shall we top-up your fellow-being's grave
With your body, and let you disintegrate,
Together with another man's bones?
We can also, in full faith and silence,
Submit you to the priest
Who sets up a luncheon of you, for scavengers.
Gone are the days, when we loved you enough
To preserve you.
Now we're uncaring bastards
Who were erroneously granted existence.
Birth without love, in death no solace...
[I work at an office,
with a fixed salary
to feed a family:
without a denial to hardwork
I work tediously
my little ones attend school routinely,
We solely wish necessities
neither comforts nor luxuries].
Dear me! I desire if it was true
but fellow humankind treat us erroneously.
It's arctic outside.
we wander the streets in austerity,
in rags; all cold and hungry
I implore the privileged for aid
but all futile,
The men of wealth treat us indifferently.
Now my words of present describe my past,
no more cold or hungry we are;
hostility of mankind is yet more painful
than slow death to starvation,
My family and I are long gone by
Oh mankind! a little help would have sufficed.
Love this World by showing care
Treat all the souls with affection
In case they erroneously blunder
Rescue them by kindly forgiving
All may not be great experts
As they may possess defects
See the brighter side to love
This opens gates of peace
Converse with a kind heart
Stress the best benefits
That may arise by an act
Do your portion of assisting
If souls listen not to you now
Never make your heart brood
Be prepared to give freedom
Time will prove your nobility
Life is to help each other kindly
No question of creating hatred
Enmity paves a way for calamity
Love and affection finely enchant.
mvvenkataraman
We all incessantly search for joys
Joys of life in whatever we pursue
The quest for joys though genuine
Is, always misplaced unfortunately
But true, nevertheless, undoubtedly.
Joys, we seek erroneously, in things
And objects that are away from us
Hence the chase of a mirage, unreal,
Lead to loud despair, and trepidation
And heart burning, that is not worthy.
The joys we seek are not outside sure
They are perennially within, bubbling
It calls for an abiding mind unpolluted
The joys of life are discovered within
In a quiet mind that transcends fretting.
IDEALLY, THE WORLD WOULD UNDERSTAND WOLVES.
Rarely do they kill just to kill…but for survival.
Even when wild dogs kill sheep, wolves get the blame.
Mysterious, aloof, confident, proud and beautiful
Every action a wolf takes is for the good of the pack.
Many people fear Canis lupis and kill them randomly.
Believing that the death of a wolf helps profits,
Erroneously they are killed when flocks are attacked.
Ranchers round up and set out to eradicate…the wolf.
Killing creatures like my murdered friend, a hybrid wolf (83%), hurts.
Adventures in our family, he was part of our pack.
Vacations, fun, and visits to parks ended; a needless killing.
I could not believe my yearling wolf was dead; poisoned.
Kavik, I still miss you, my playful, loyal friend.
Copyright 3/18/2015
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
When I think of wolves or see a movie about them, I always miss Kavik’s love and kisses.
Men are now women and women are now men?
People have no more sense, than a rooster or a hen.
People blowing up fatter like parade balloons?
Then, we can float in trash dumps that once
were beautiful lagoons?
We no longer believe in God or His resurrection.
Just destroying the Constitution and condoning violent insurrections?
Dead bodies no longer bother us at all.
We hearken only to Fauci’s syringe shooting calls.
We were lied to, and told us the vaccine boosters work.
My friends who got them, got ill, some died, no
thanks to Fauci, that infamous jerk!
Of course, many are those with no vaccine who stayed well.
And baby embryos used in my blood are akin to my
burning in hell.
Suddenly, there’s polio! Please give me a break!
Stop~I have more brains than either a hen or a snake!
Monkeypox is a now a new STD, a must for pharmaceutical millions?
Don’t you clearly, obviously see, you are not a papillon!
The zany addicted mask freaks are out to scare us all!
They carry the clarion call to join their ghoulish ball.
I cannot bring back my loved ones from the dead.
They believed the lies the WHO and the CDC erroneously said.
And what’s with the spreading just plain fear in comments “Are you alright?”
As if the newest Covid monster were about to kill and alight?
This is Poetry Soup, not Fear Soup, or am I wrong?
“Isn’t life great”, is a happier comment than joining the fear throng.
Joy, love, family and honoring God,
Will give us courage to live, not shuddering,to be buried, beneath the sod.
We will be told to stay away from the elderly, too?
I took one picture of my grandson through the window, and I knew that was nonsense, I would never, never do!
I only state the things I see going on here.
The claws of madness, by a disease called FEAR!
7/28/2022
~2~
A poem about two cities, 12000 miles apart,
but when it comes to politics, the same!
Bradford in England, Manukau in New Zealand.
We all know
there is an authentic world
being endured,
in the inner city.
Rampant “Bradford” In the north,
“Manukau” In the south,
all insidious pavements
lead only to concepts of
harmonious bickering,
acrid tasting pollution
bound by the “Red Ribbon”
of municipal crap!
True blue generations reared
in socialistic ideals,
surrounded by slabs of concrete
to demean a catabolism
of one’s comfort zone,
a system nurtured
in closed minds, torn souls!
Yet today many voices
constantly cry out,
from behind the barriers
that society constructed erroneously;
voices that ripple
the airwaves, before being
immersed in an ocean of
radical subversion.
“If only to keep them bastards down.”
“Manningham lane”
“Preston road”
Teeming with cultivated
inclinations, fenced in like cattle
where the “Acropolis” Meets
the “Ghetto” That invisible
boundary of frailty, whether physical
or in one’s self righteous mind!
© Harry J Horsman 1997
To he who dreams without remorse,
Who stays a frothy foolish course,
Who erroneously does believe
In an imaginary force.
Dreamer, maim the mind with passion
As to dream with feckless fashion,
I advise with utmost care that
All your thoughts you try and ration.
To you, the dreamer, yours will burn.
Inspiring carbon concern,
Your breathless mind will wither slow,
For purpose it will gasp and yearn.
Dreamer, how you waste the darkness!
Thankless t’wards the twilight blackness!
Dreaming of the light at night will
Leave your body motionless.
To dream and sleep? I can but frown.
When flying aimlessly you’ll drown.
And if you still desire dreams,
Then gravity will bring you down.
Then Gravity will bring you down.