Best Eschewing Poems
That childhood faith, vehemently spirited,
Difficult to bend, impossible to tame.
That still-cradled heart, curiously open,
Eschewing fear, shunning struggle,
Accepting of each coming day.
The journey so hazardous.
Now a cold-forged and unyielding heart
Beats out each agonizing minute.
Jared by indolence and disappointment,
Vision unrecognizably scarred.
The journey so quickly done.
Needing to chance upon that child again
To lightly touch the angel's brow.
Hard edged (unreality) you face away from my immediacy (candour eschewing) inimically you parody, offering as nice the complexity of ''vice''exploiting even nature
(as voyeur and narrator) your intention anethema to the nations,
as you coerce ''your creation'' encouraging over consumption,
with a hard nosed gumption, yet my God who is greater
is no longer willing to be a waiter!sickle in hand he is walking his land,
with the sun as his shadow is this (One)
to be Hallowed..!
SNAKE OIL SUNRISE
coiled lies an oily snake
circling the rim of the cup
eschewing the softness of milk
the sweetness of sugar.
A black hole – waiting – beckoning
the bleary-eyed robot
leaving a scent trail
harsh, uncivilized,
unadulterated,
psyche popping
caffeine.
11/30/2016
submitted to WAKE UP WITH COFFEE OR TEA CONTEST – Poetry Contest
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
A storm is brewing, danger ensuing
Alarms are sounding in town
Gale winds are blowing, rain ongoing
Streak lightning straight up and straight down
Mother and father, sons and daughters
Quickly make way for protection
The sky was on fire, storm fed desire
As it mounted it's insurrection
They make it to cover, hug each other
Mother nature releases ferocity
Timely eschewing, the storm that was brewing
They listen with curiosity
Inside was quiet, outside a riot
While they patiently waited it out
Rehearsed and prepared, no one was scared
Then that was the end of the drought
an original poem by Daniel Turner
A cart selling hot dogs and such
Was suddenly sharp to the touch
Because thousands of bees,
Eschewing Chinese,
Thought a frank they would like very much.
They swarmed to the top of the stand
So a cop, likely one in command,
Ordered all off the street
So the bees could retreat
But that’s not what the stingers had planned.
Thus an officer, bee-suit attired,
Soon appeared with the tool he required
And his vacuum did suck
All the bees it could pluck
With finesse that onlookers admired.
New Yorkers find stuff like this funny
And likely would bet even money
That soon that same cart,
If its owner is smart,
Would be selling you hot dogs with honey!
My Favorite Things comes to mind...
a random assortment, a jumble of words
a quotient of portions, quotidian served
quixotic strivings of the great deca-dense
obscured in meaning, eschewing all sense
visions and nightmares and hallucinations
erudite arguments, odd fascinations
old geezers fondling memories of things
most folk would not to mixed company bring
inchoate ramblings of damaged young minds
bubbled through water and cardboard box wine
audible groans from the web server host
these are the ones make me giggle the most
shouting in vacuums, a riotous void
pontificating, or mildly annoyed
grieving, believing, or weaving a string
virtuous outburst that don’t do a thing
rants about orange man and all his mean tweets
and, yes, “Let’s go, Brandon” to make things complete
guns, poo, abortion, yes, all are discussed
sometimes the thin-skinned bail out in disgust
side by side, posting, the sage and the fool
the wise in their youth and those starting to drool
bleeping our excrement down on the page
somehow it all seems to soften the rage
when the bard shouts
when the muse screams
‘bout covid or Vlad
we’re at a computer
with just poo to fling
and that makes me laugh a tad
Whom Do We Trust
Written: by Miracle Man
7/21/2019
Every now and then, we all lose our bearing,
Facing days that become gloomy, often despairing.
We only check our compass for direction of travel,
When it appears that life is just about to unravel.
We oft seek out others, and with blame anoint,
But no man is a judge nor will God ever appoint.
He said, Cast your burdens upon me, for I care,*
Yet we oft live our lives hamstrung by despair.
We should never treat others as perhaps we’ve been treated,
Because with whatever we mete, we’ll also be meted.**
When we fail in casting burdens upon HIM for He cares,*
We’re eschewing the wheat while gorging on tares.
*1 Peter 5:7
Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.
**Matthew 7:2
King James Version (KJV)
“For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”
THE PASSIVE VOICE (Grammar series)
In Italy a glorious Voice
Was employed by Pavarotti
In England of voice we’ve a choice
Which sounds a little dotty
When we sing our verbs of action
The way we do, it sounds as if
We’re committing a verbal infraction
For these words can be voiced in the PASSIVE
Just consider: if someone is active
There is something that someone is doing
And you'd think that being passive
Means that doing they are eschewing
But we need not be hopeless or cynical
Say it' s British illogic - insanity
We'll be annoyingly rational and clinical
Causing foreigners to express profanity
However you parse it or say it
While in both voices something is done
In the ACTIVE we say who did it
But in PASSIVE might not say which one
So in solving a murder for the fun of it
And answering: "Who fired the gun?"
We need not claim the butler 'dun of it'
But inscrutably say: "It was done"
Thus the PASSIVE is my voice of choice
For my deeds despicable or infractive
But for actions worth merit, that I rejoice
I will happily indulge in the ACTIVE.
One whisper...
The forest floor trembles
A path of literal
mayhem
Untethered to mankind
Strangely eschewing
Frogs, snakes and lizards
"Long Live The Queen"
Their
Only
Anthem!
Eternity
Their
Reward
I
Fall
In
10/01/13
Even precious jewels cannot approach their value,
For the women of merit are priced beyond them.
Their beauty is found in the works of love they do,
And in their smile facing the future that is never dim.
Most arise at dawn when it is still like the night
And wrap round them bands of strength like corsets.
Going out like the cargo ships before daylight,
They conduct their business for handsome profits.
Their beauty is matched by their hearts filled with virtue,
For there is rich wisdom and mercy on her tongue.
Their clothing soft fair linen of purple and blue,
And open are their hands to needy they live among.
Men give them praise and children give them honor,
Since her public reputation is all to her credit.
Eschewing evil for the good at every corner,
They ply their gifts toward works of merit.
Oh to be her partner in labor and pleasure,
For her fire will not go out for the night.
Her company for sure has profit in full measure,
And lifts high the muse of good cheer’s delight.
Faith is her deserved and hard-earned reward,
For her strength and self-respect passes the test.
About her worth there is candid accord,
Among women her title is the very best.
Life’s subjects, the human beings having fallen…
into their own bottom wisdom of passing from being…
now seeking a solution within the crime of themselves.
Seeking high IQ’s found within their own natural corruptions…
great serpent spew. Woe unto the world of death’s back swirl…
to no avail of the greed of the parasitic seed. Death’s highest IQs'…
now spray the bitterness of serpent spews.
Woe unto death’s high IQ when comes into view Love’s divine IQ…
as Life’s high IQ transitions into view the principle of life anew,
Eschewing human concepts biding them adieu.
Lifting up the trumpet of the Zion of old... of olden scroll…
IQs fading from view of serpent spew…true coming into view…
biding death adieu, divinity’s lively IQ…. My happiness complete…
being in the lifting up of the Master’s lovely feet…
Selah
Sponsor: Carol Brown
Contest Name: BEING HAPPY
What was sadder - my missing his passing,
Or my eschewing his saintly advice?
A precocious young man in his prime, with
A score of years on humanity's edge,
I was resolute to travel beyond.
My fate was sealed by Priority Mail -
No one could deter me, let alone the...
Old priest who had seen something good in me.
My life beckoned like chum in a dead sea;
I was torn tween' my mentor and hunger.
Lusting for an untold reality
I left never shedding a tear that night.
I was showered with material wealth;
Yet something was missing, I knew not what.
In a dream a vision beckoned to me;
It showed me the folly of my new ways.
Two days more in an ominous letter
I learned my best friend would pass very soon.
I knew what I must do and do it now;
I knew in my heart where I had to be.
As I thought hard over what I would say -
Time I got to town destiny had changed.
And my sage mentor I would never see.
Now they call me Father, we are as one.
June 14, 2017
La Isla del Encanto
(El Poema del Linda)
There was no Elizabethan
Changing of eyes
On the Isle of Enchantment;
No sudden moment of charm or bewilderment.
Rather, came a delicate awakening
Like soft dawn rising over groves
Redolent of plantain and nectar.
The Linden tree calls her
Soft and tender
So too a neo-Latin name for
Beauty
As she was
Ever
Native to islands
Born from sea spray
A soft mystery to be read,
Explored, and never concluded...
And now I see it
So absolutely like
The shawl settled
Across her shoulders
Lifting in the breeze
Ushered in by grace.
As such,
She wandered to my bed where
Passion can burn in one candescent night.
But where love
Is a different calendar.
Not precise and never numbered...
Indeed, ahead unfold
A concatenation of days
Accruing as a mausoleum of memory
Where gentle spirits lay forever
Eschewing sleep in favor
Of allowing auras to seep into
And inform
The ever-expanding present,
Of an interlocking reverie.
Slow growth,
delicate and steady...
Becoming more entwined
The moment fingers locked
And we ascend towards bloom.
A lattice made from mutual mistakes
Holds up, defiant ---
Lends skeletal strength
While mapping the body of
One ardent dream.
And what soft lumen roused me
From my torpid slumber
Waking me to lilt of sea-song?
Aurora's nascent dactyls
Inched up horizon line
Ascending like aspiring wisps of hope
Spreading warmth unnoticed
Until, by zenith
All shall be bright and clear
Where we share a common tongue
But speak a deeper language
Not private, but privileged.
Granted only those who move
Beyond number and word
To caress contradiction
Embrace the ineffable
Partake of the fabulous Dane's
Mystic leap of faith.
If this be the reward to come
In learning from the past
Then let me, please
Mistake no more...
When Bobby was just nine years old,
folks loved his winning ways.
He was a little gentleman
deserving of their praise.
His helpful nature and big smile
were natural, they knew.
His family was proud of him.
Life bore a rosy hue.
At school and on the baseball field,
on Boy Scout projects too,
though Bobby was a shining star,
his ego never grew.
Then Bobby changed dramatically
when he became a teen.
Out came a taunting arrogance
no one had ever seen.
The center of attention still--
at his insistence then--
he bragged on his accomplishments,
how great he'd always been.
He ridiculed some other teens,
"The losers," in his words,
"the clumsy oafs who stink at sports,
the dummies, and the nerds."
He soon was sharing center stage
with others who, like him,
enjoyed attention--good or bad--
and acting out on whim.
Then one day his comeuppance came
when his school's team had won
the championship and he was high
on praise and having fun.
He took the credit--no surprise!
But soon the tongues would wag.
He meant to say, "No brag; just fact!"
He said, "No fact; just brag"!
The "oafs" and "nerds" laughed in his face.
The "dummies" yelled, "That's right!"
His dumbstruck fans just stared at him,
now a pathetic sight!
*******************
May centers of attention learn
that positive is best--
which honest, humble people earn,
eschewing all the rest.
July 6, 2017