Best Expound Poems
“Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.”
— Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
Close, but close to what, he asks himself
to God, or to the end of things?
the question looms, an icy wind that stings
western sun belies the deathly chill within his bones
summit slain, an unread book upon the shelf
there is this urge that drives a man,
is hard to grasp and harder to expound -
the constant forward press that leaves each
dried, unquenched, though verdant green surrounds,
and yet, to feel within one’s core, the source just out of reach
frozen by fear of somehow missing out, his
carcass now grows cold, a mind adrift, in search
of times of youth and days of old -
a man possessed will rid these thoughts no sooner than a
leopard sheds his spots
No real concern is given to the
one who comes behind, who likewise seeks -
has he a thought of how his end will be
explained? to whom? they either understand or know not
what lies just ahead beyond this snowy peak
the sadness of the unattended field such sown - the
leopard lives and dies alone, but for the joys of spring
was this Creator’s plan for us? i don’t think so -
seeking, He’s found in places pressed and low,
at heights, without, does but exhaustion bring
that one might scale the highs, seek out, explore -
altitude, we find, a perfect metaphor
What is a Poet?
A singer of songs, a caller of warnings;
A crier of tears, a laugher, a weeper.
Lover of life; of nature, of God;
One set apart; scoffed at and shunned.
Sufferer of numberless maladies.
A poet spreads his soul;
Rampant over white paper;
To be wondered at and mocked.
To incite passion, tears, and smiles.
To expound truth and create beauty.
I’m a secret watcher of Dr. Who, but now you know, and his tardis is bigger on the inside as the cult following knows. So much philosophy, such as we look much smaller on the outside. It is as if “The Doctor” lives inside his brain as do us poets always imagining something greater...something bigger. And yet we can also reduce something to its smallest component and expound it. We look at a seed, climb inside its shell and see the universe. We keep walking in and out of our world, amazed at its nonconformity to our idea of reality. We see a box, color it blue...just blue the teacher says as she points with a ruler and slams down hard on your knuckles. Persnickety self says “black and blue.” The teacher points “out” and you gladly climb back into your roomy cocoon. A butterfly emerges with Queen Alexandra wings that land on the teachers hair, taunting her, beating her at her game of “inside the lines.”
11/5/2018
We live in a world where sickness abounds,
Sometimes stumping the best of providers.
Symptoms and tests almost always expound,
While the emotional costs grow wider.
The travel and care and expenses we bare,
In dollars and tears for a healing.
Pale when compared, with the voluminous prayers,
Our reverence and humility kneeling.
Seeing through to the end, great strength we must take,
And the position that attitude matters.
A stiff upper lip and a smile sometimes fake,
Anything less, and fragile hope easily shatters.
Yet until we’re called home, to streets paved with gold,
Or abodes filled with love and affection,
Widely known in the hearts, of the young and the old,
Laughter remains, life's greatest healing medication!
**“Those that respect the law and love sausage should watch neither being made.” –
American Humorist/Author Mark Twain (real name Samuel Clemens)
Prestigious lawmaking bodies are comprised of solons*
Some find it hard to refrain from comparing them to cons
Few legislators know the ramifications of bills
And the way they’re rushed to passage can give the public chills
We don’t know what’s in bills or how they strip away our rights
And if we ask our lawmakers, they provide few insights
Piles of amendments are thrust hastily in political machines
Objections are made; no one successfully intervenes
“What’s that?” we ask later when we realize what has been done
(In Kennesaw, Georgia, all citizens MUST purchase guns)
Try to blend the conservative and liberal viewpoints
You’ll find the machine sputters with fat spewing from its joints
It’s like taking hunks of pork and grinding them into links
The process is messy and the outcome usually stinks
No matter! We are supposed to smile and just eat it up
Then we wash it all down with a sip from the lager cup
Pork barrel projects like Alaska’s “Bridge to Nowhere” confound
As on nebulous values of bills lawmakers expound
So beware if for common sense in these bills you forage
And remember old Mark Twain’s analogy to sausage
*Solons are members of any legislative or lawmaking body.
Hark! The mighty sage’s quill,
Leaves remnants of genius, still.
Reminding me of richer days,
Where wines could really come to age;
And gods among the people dwelled,
In works of master poet’s felled.
Where aerie tales and thoughts of fancy,
Awaken something everlasting.
The faded thoughts of vestments tore,
Through mournful tales of days of yore.
I bore inquisitive insight,
To mouth a masterpiece delight;
Reciting thoughts from Edgar Poe,
In poetry and foul-like prose.
And as I muttered, “Nevermore”,
I pondered on his lost Lenore;
A femme who captivated thought,
His inspiration to the plot.
And in his wording wizardry,
So haunted by his imagery,
Moves me to expound wanton lyrics
To every soul who dares to hear it.
And with immense humility --
No pen shall cite as good as he.
THE WAITING GAME
I'm playing the waiting game,
not futilely nor waiting in vain.
My delivery, my parcel my expectation;
forces me to ambulation.
I want it now,
my elixir my kisser;
sit and lull for the lister;
who swore to me a delivery vow.
For what do I wait,
as the hours grow late?
And why won't it come now!
Anticipation sloths, it insists I allow,
as time cannot expedite it's rate,
Heavens! give it to me now!
When the bloody hell will it be,
is some great force slowing delivery?
I must have it.
I cannot wait one bit.
Wait! I make no demand; we did agree.
My tactic is only made idly,
and can wait out eternity.
Ooohhhhh when I have it in hand!
Patience called into my spirit land.
I am closer, I count clock's tick's;
Calm. Tools down.
For it will come around,
as it was assured by honor bound.
Can you relate to this, my expound?
Then I can be more comfortably sound.
The duration of stagnation calls for liberation
with such I am spared ruination
I've gone through elation and vexation and frustration,
Yet yes, I will have my placation.
This trial and tribulation is vocation of sedation and stagnation.
An empty marathon that knows not capitulation.
I will have my unification.
My determination matches my frustration across the duration.
In the end I sidestep ruination and have my elation.
I closed my mouth and I spoke to you in a hundred different ways.
You will hear my voice
In the air you breathe,
In the birds singing their hearts out
Heralding the spring.
In the beauty of the Rose
It's enclosing petals
Hiding my love for you
Waiting to show you ...expound my words
In the stream
That meanders past
Gathering speed and strength
To flow into the sea,..... run fast.
That's how I speak to you
In all you say and do
All you visualise, listen please
I am saying,......I am here
Open your ears
Open your eyes
Look and listen
My words are everywhere
My lips are closed
I am showing you through life
That I am here
Living within you.
Visual 2
Penned 2 May. 2015
Since joining just yesterday,
I have not had much to say,
As I sit here idle,
Waiting for a title,
I watch as you pass my way,
I am honored to be here,
While a select few may jeer,
Mostly I can see hope,
From the end of my rope,
Bringing about a joyous tear,
For all poets who have been called,
Disenchanted or enthralled,
Our mission always true,
We inform and move you,
To make you act or make you halt,
To rise above and expound the truth,
Or to lose ourselves in a groove,
Whether blatent or far out,
We live to learn - live to shout,
About love, laughter or the blues,
For although I may be new,
To this small poetic group,
I see what you've built,
With talent and skill,
Namely this Poetry Soup,
On Reading a Poem That I Don’t Understand
By Elton Camp
Those lines that an author has penned
I would like very much to commend
I read it carefully twice more,
But remain confused as before
The words chosen are those I’ve seen
But the sentences, what do they mean?
Maybe the poem is just too profound
For a simple man like me to expound
Does the poet speak of himself or another man?
In his writing of it, just what may be his plan?
I can’t see coherent thought
To me, it expresses naught
That doesn’t mean the poem is no good
Only that by me it isn’t being understood
Comments that others post
Say that it is just “the most”
I am sure that true that must be
It’s just too hard for one like me
I have to seek an easier verse
With its author I may converse
Blind...with the beauty and symmetry of nature
Can't espy the astonishing and sedate scenes of ardor
Just living with the greatest and blindest darkness
Imageless and almost senseless...
Deaf...with the mellifluous and profound music of amity
Can't harken the serene and blithe tune of natural creativity
Just living with my own nothingness
Dumb and almost senseless...
Mute...can't explode feelings and heartstrings through words and expositions
Can't speak and expound my real emotions
Can't shout out loud,just living with silence - soundless
Dumb and almost senseless...
Paralyzed...can't accomplish what was desired to achieve
Can't act,can't execute,can't move - there's no relieve
Just living with myself,occupied by loneliness
Cripple and now USELESS
Balked,feeble,depraved,weak - a YOUNG LOOSER
But will never SURRENDER
Still BREATHING
BELIEVING...
KNEELING...
PRAYING...
***coz' GOD knows...
In four and sixty syllables
He strains to squeeze some thoughts profound
Into unyielding manacles
Of 8x8 form, tightly-bound.
He seeks to hand-pick words that sound
Unforced by metric obstacles
That sing and sensibly expound -
In short, do verbal miracles!
Imagine that there is something beyond imagination
an oxymoron of course but a real task nevertheless
There may be no God not even spirituality suffices
but the whole is much greater than the sum of all parts
The Universe grants freedom from self-righteousness
offers me to let go off megalomanic delusions of grandeur
makes my light shine in illumination and its shadows
paints a picture with no centre other than kindness and love
Unorthodox and conforming to nothing but compassion
the tiny wee little Me takes its right place in the crowd
at liberty to breathe feel think and reason for meaning
to resonate reflect condense for a moment in infinite time
Like a novel it reaches out from beginning to the end
states a point here and there and connects small dots
that swell into an epic and ephemeral narration to tell
soon forgotten but a blob on the pages as good as it can
Another book will take its place on the library shelf
liberated from its companions to start a new venture
to reconstruct and make its mark on literal essence
Fly free my soul and expound my purpose for free
20th February 2021
Hold up the sky little bird
Have you not heard
Our world is falling down
The forests are gone
The weather is wrong
The oceans have all but drowned
Hold up the sky little bird
At least till you've heard
The last earthbound poet expound
3/11/19
Pick A Title, Vol.2 - Rhyme - Poetry Contest
Title Chosen: Hold Up The Sky
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
The Power of the Tron
Said the Big Computer to the Human Computee:
“Without me, sir, you must concur,
Wherever would you be?
I tally all your numbers, and I even give advice,
Unlike you, I’m objective and predictably precise.
‘Way down my epicenter, I’ve a calculating brain
That can compile, compute, compound, expound, explore, explain.
Oh, don’t you wish you had my wits, if only an iota,
For I’ve more news than I can use -
I'm programmed to my quota.”
And on and on it carried on, continuing to scoff,
Until the Human Computee reached down and turned it OFF.
And now The Big Computer sits there idle all the day,
Without a boasting, bragging, calculating thing to say,
While on the chair, beside it there, the Human Factor lingers,
Computing trig and calculus by counting on its fingers,
And when its used its fingers up, it can simply transpose
And still deduce, deduct, add up, by counting on its toes!
Take heed, you Mighty IBMs, and other pedigrees,
Before you get too taken with your capabilities –
You may have stores of knowledge;
You may be an Alpha Tron,
But it’s the Human Digit
Ultimately
Turns
You
ON.