Best Flog Poems
Written: October 28, 2023, For Unseeking Seeker Contest
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Amid the distress and pressure of life,
A salient soul suspires to scamper strife.
Despite bodily weakness and a lingering graze,
Unwavering strength and vitality inside amaze
Breath may be beleaguered, even as the body ails.
Flog to fatten, follow, even if fiefdom fails.
It rises beyond tough times with its optimism.
In desultory days, grasp toward agnosticism.
Nature's gentle whistle splendors serenity.
In the shades of a sunset and bird melody.
The body fails, but the spirit stays hopeful.
It speaks for drive and the resolve to be careful.
It glides amid a storm fearlessly, paving the way.
Amid agony, the soul rises, grows, and stays.
Each rebirth lends the soul wings and a slope.
Despite the gloom, there's still a glint of hope.
Allow the body to suffer and the soul to soar.
Yet it is the spirit that prevails over deplore.
Rejuvenation is the answer to physical illness.
A soaring persona that can bear on grimness
Embrace depth inside; the spirit ablaze is untamed.
Let ailments prevail; rousing spirits set us unblamed.
Despite all odds, the spirit shines brightly amid sorrow.
It climbs above, decries its path, and is never hollow.
Renewal lets you start again, fix harm, and be free.
Honor the body aches as they reveal our glee.
Rebirth lifts the soul, ruining walls and letting in light.
Hardship lends life and shows God's eternal insight.
While bones and skin plunge, souls remain.
With every harm and grief, refuse to be slain.
The probe fire speaks while the body is feeble.
It lights a bright spark that leads us to a needle.
Saddle old Brownie
A saddle on me old brown horse,
To ride away into the sunset,
Light swag on me old pack of course,
Nother horse called my Regret.
Carry flour for damper or tasty fried scones,
Sugar n tea, few spuds n onions,
Carry a stockwhip to flog off the dogs,
Or galahs with the loony some ones.
Camp every night by blazing fire light,
Out where the Coolabahs sway,
Dip water from the river and boil,
Gumleaf smelling tea today.
Seach for mussels at the waters edge,
Put him on the hook today,
Catch em a cod, good tucker by God,
Spit out the bones I may,
Protein n calcium hey….
Don Johnson 20-july-11
A FISHERMANS TALE
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
Blowering Lake in the Snowy’s is the place to be
To catch a Yellowbelly or Silver Perch
Or if you are lucky a Murry Cod or a trout
They all live beneath the cold waters of the lake
I flog the water with spinning rod and lure
Changing frequently my choice of lure
I try to entice a fish to strike…but no luck
At this rate I would be lucky to catch a cold
Along comes a regular fisherman, introduced himself as Wayne
Having any luck old mate he asks, not me mate I have no luck
No bloody fish here I says to Wayne, He says it’s not luck you need
It’s a worm on a hook and pure skill that will get you a fish
He sets up his rod and baits the hooks with wriggly worms from his garden
He casts the line out into the lake and proceeds to make a cup of tea
No sooner had he poured the tea when he had a strike, he set the hook
I’ve got a nice fish on you grab the net be ready to catch him
You lucky old bugger I says to Wayne, no luck involved just pure skill
A 2kg Yellowbelly as fat as mud he will go down well for tea
Not to be outdone I changed my lure and cast it into the lake
On my third cast I spotted the dark shape of a fish following
A strike I yelled as I set the hook and the fish- well he took off
I played him out till he started to tire, fetch the net old mate
This fish is a whopper; I played him out till he went belly up
Wayne rushed over and gently placed the net under the fish
Wow what a fish Wayne said the bugger is twice as big as mine
You were bloody lucky- I reckon I brought you good luck say’s Wayne
No bloody luck involved I say’s to Wayne, old mate
It’s just my good looks and pure skill
Oh I am a little metaphor
I love to play a word,
today I am a fortress on
Tuesday I’m a bird
On Wednesday I’m a simile
cos I’m like a train, storming
into history,to play this wordy game
On Thursday’s I push the boat out,
ploughing through the waves, then
Fridays I’m like a scimitar, slicing
through the raves
And if you catch me weekend, I
won’t hold a grudge, just take me
as you find me, wink, wink,
nudge, nudge, nudge.
There once was a fellow named Joe
To the Soup, he was comrade and foe
At times he would blog
Then poets would flog
Yet, he always would leave us aglow
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
My heart raged like a black sea over shore;
then anchored he in the depths of an unsure land,
a bleak morrow trickling from the neck of an hour-glass
unto the bottom of a slave - ship.
I breathe in the stench of whipped pride,
at sun set beyond the Atlantic,
as breeze of pines and autumn birches
flog nostril hairs; and stiffened gazes,
trod the white screens day and night
(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.
My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.
The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time,
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.
His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand,
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,
I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil,
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,
He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,
When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death,
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.
I’d watched the ‘Open’ and the 'Masters'
And thought that l’d give golf a try
I hired some clubs and little white balls
From the tee I hoped my ball would sail high
I lined up perfectly and took a swing
But the ball stayed on that little blue tee
I tried again and missed it once more
I was a laughing stock for all to see!
If questioned about my handicap
I’d smile and say I don’t have one at all
The only real problem that I have is
I can’t hit the ruddy golf ball!
A true story!
Sports Shorts contest
Sponsored by Joseph Soper
05 09 17
Admirable Almights all I ask appreciatively allow me to attain,
be beyond bourgeois breeding ballads for the brain.
Create colloquialisms that cast competently into chimeras,
directing dramatists with doubtful determinations to
delightful dactylic discriptions.
Edible expressions that exite eyes and ears,
by freely forming a firm fire you'll flog any frigid forlornness fear.
God glorifies the good, my given gift Godsent thee,
my hardihood's husky, heart hungover with honesty.
I inscribe impenetrable insights, my individuality's
inanimate without improvisation,
other jaws jabber jargon jokingly, my journalistic journey's
like Jesus's justifications.
I know to keep with Christ a close kinship,
lie low then leap to light life is limited.
Maturing moderately I molded motives to mentally
manufacture music,
now naturally notions are necessary, abnormal novelistic natuarlist.
It's obvious this optimist ovulates obscure poetic offsprings,
perception pastel's perfectly personify the pen pusher's
potentcy passionately.
You're quasi qualified like Franz Kafka no question,
respectable written reflection ramble rampant even while resting.
Some scorn and show sentiment towards sonnets I've
scriptured successfully,
the toungue-tied troubadour tallies towering totals of
synchronized terms intentionally.
My untimatum is ultimately unrivaled when using unbreakable
utensils,
my voice vibrates vigorously, visionary with a victorious view.
Why waste what you wrote, wake up, wonder in a writer zone,
poems have vibes like a xylophone.
Heart young, yearn for God 365 times a year,
my zodac is wrong, attitude zealous.
School was another word for hell
A place of torment and fear
That I knew so well.
Every night in my bed felt like
A condemned man to be hung
In a Prison cell
The clock ticking away
The fear mounting
Toward the break of day.
I dread the mornings
Because the nightmare was about to begin
And if I'd lived by a river
I'd have jumped right in
But I couldn't swim.
The churning in my stomach
The fear in my head
I just wanted to stay at home
And hide in my bed.
The school bus or 'Hell in wheels''
Was liken taking a trip to Dracula's castle
And to go to school was such a battle
In a war I couldn't win.
I'd be sick in the toilet
And shaking with fear
As time to catch the fear wagon
Was drawing near.
The bus was full of savages
That made St Trinnian's look very tame
As the school bus shunted
Up the lane.
Eventually we'd arrive at the gates of hell
To the sound of death and doom
From the school bell.
The teachers wore black cloaks
That made them look like bats
Stood their canes to flog us
And their mortar board hats.
The dark ravens gathered
As in to the dark pit of hell we'd go
Into the torture classes
Where the creature called teachers would grab us
And not let go.
But still they say.''School days are the happiest days of our lives''.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. May.
Yesterday, big bites
Time flog the sweat to attempt
Killing lullaby
Today, chased the waves
Sprint lost towards to the sea
Swam and freely dove
Tomorrow, treasures
The time penned another page
Get ready to serve
11th place
Your own favorite haiku.
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
I think I'll be an influencer
I'll be really good at that
I'll buy some bots from Russia
and flog some plastic tat.
I'll pose in skimpy undies
I'll advertise fake tan
and when my fans unfollow me
I'll bring out my old gran.
Of course, the person that you see
behind the camera lens
is photoshopped to b*****y
and wearing all size tens.
I'll nip and tuck I'll cut and crop
'Thank God' I say for photoshop.
I'll probably have a kid or two
or three, or four or five
I've heard that that's the best way
to keep your page alive.
Of course, they won't be ugly kids I'll make sure of that
I'll tan their skin and bleach their hair I'll use a filter everywhere.
And when it comes to freebies ill grab them with both hands
I'll tag the big name companies and all the biggest brands
They'll send me stuff to advertise Oh I'll make a wad
Of course, I will be sneaky I'll not say #gifted #ad
Oh yes I'll make my fortune built on scams and lies
Who cares if people suffer from debt up to their eyes.
Because I am an influencer I do not care one bit
I have no moral compass to that I will admit
As long as I have 'likes' and hearts, kisses and bouquets
I'll carry on accepting all your undeserving praise.
You can paint me white and I will still be black
Turn my ebony black hair, make sure the chemicals
Touch every strand of my hair, erasing all trace of
My pitch black kaffir but I will still be black.
Teach me how to walk, tell me what to wear
You can even show me your version of
Civilisation yet I will still be black .
Teach me your language, let me master
The vocabulary, the pronunciation but remember,
I will still be black
Literature, science, physics,decency...yes yes
Fill that in my head puncture your history in the depths
Of me and feed me with your lies but I will still be black
Tell me I'm wrong for my awareness, threaten me with
Prison and even with my life...yes yes
Persecute me with your words but still I will
Be black no no I will not be a slave nor will
I be less than a human being. My rights
Will be intact and my freedom a shall be won
Because with all you have done, all you think you have
Taught me in your attempt to make me whit..o
During the process of you painting me white!!
I am..I am still black and concious, I am still black
And proud...I am the descendant of that old slave still
That man you would flog all day till there was no more
Flesh left to be torn, the descendant of that wrinkled
Woman you would forcefully penetrate for years on end
I am that young boy, that young girl you stole away from their
Families as though their hearts were just mere illusion
I am black and aware of that man you
Assassinated simply because he cried "freedom"
Steve Biko , Chris Hani, King Albert Luthuli,
MartinLuther King and Malcom X I am
Sure you have heard those names
I am the black daughter of that woman you
Disgraced and twisted.I am black
A black young woman at the peak of her life
Embracing hee struggle felt history
Preparing for the history to be made again
So, even if you paint me white, burn my hair
With your toxins, dress me like a doll
Tell me how to walk, talk, sit and even eat...
I will still be black as I have a free mind.
When ignorance and mediocrity is on display,
fancy title and salaries become proof thereby.
The incompetence to deliver is the destruction,
implementation without visions is a foolish attraction.
What makes it very clear, when too many idiots pulling the plug,
the ship will sink, regardless the excuses by this pathetic flog.
Leadership has to proof itself by sincere integrity,
or democratic politics become anarchistic misery.
The chances are that everybody stops paying the electric bill,
and those self elected wasters running for the hill.
The parliament exchanges all day long so many honors like a sugar wand,
pushing responsibilities further and further to dumbfounded stand.
Legislated arrogance creates a memory tread,
when relativities bouncing of the empty head.
When politicians and its sheep’s hunt the savage dream,
prophecies of failure are the current in the stream.