Best Focussed Poems
RODIN’S NEW ICON
Should Rodin live today would he be inspired
To sculpt a marble sequel to THE THINKER
Modern ethos means fresh image is required
To become an old to new generation linker
[Perhaps in stone less pale, a little pinker!]
He might witness casts of posture stereotypical
And find there inspiration for his art
With perceptive focussed eye and viewpoint quizzical
An image would develop in his heart
Of a body bowed, head inclined toward hand sinister
While index digit stabs from aspect dexter
Then with his hands he’d clay or stone administer
To create a new iconic symbol; and name it: THE TEXTER
Ears pricked at car door closing in the street,
and focussed on the footsteps through the gate
she stepped into the hall, unsteady feet
they bounded forward, welcome couldn't wait.
Two forty pounds of fur, and sixteen legs,
four eager snouts and tongues shot through the air
her hands held up fruitlessly as she begged,
they brought her down, smothered her face and hair.
A canine/human ball rolled on the floor
propelled by laughter, barks and sudden shrieks
of love and longing, bottled up before
the time has come to leave, and no-one speaks.
Chorus of barking, followed by the whines
the front door closing for the final time.
R.i.P Angela Miles, passed away today but was allowed home
to see her Huskies last week for a couple of hours.
AFFLICTION?
It is said of young physicians when they first set out to learn
All the symptoms and conditions that known illnesses convey
They perceive these indications each one causing more concern
‘Til they make the diagnosis to their shock and their dismay
They arrive at the conviction
They themselves have the affliction
Now when learned academics write a thesis that proclaims
All white people are infected with a racism endemic
Filled with symptom and with signs supporting dogma that defames
Fragile folk are then persuaded by this plausible polemic
And arrive at the conviction
We’re all guilty of affliction
What could be more direful to survival of this blessed sphere
Than wild nature, once benign, by human feckless acts betrayed!
“See the wild fires, melting icebergs and the hurricanes!”- we hear
Computer forecasts yet sole factors we can truly call ‘man made’
Should we therefore have conviction
Of a terminal affliction?
Data now in a profusion never seen before these times
Flood our eyes and ears and minds in ‘monu-mental’ mind-bate range
Those with focussed strong agenda choose a menu that defines
And steers us, if undiscerning and from reason then estranged
To unquestioning conviction
THAT in truth would be affliction
Tethers float & tickle like feathers
I'm aloft unaware of outside weathers
Evening enhanced by colloquial pleasures
Malleable & manipulated
Esoterica like yours specifically stipulated
"Tie me to your tongue" I sing
Oh I utter the strangest things!
Yet I must admit I'm fully focussed
Overjoyed at this conversational hocus pocus
Unusually laid back & vocally gushing
Rampant points of interest gain further pushing
Tantalise & give me traction
Obligated now to end-goal satisfaction
Nerve endings sever in hyperspace
"Great subject matter expert kept perfect pace!"
Unbiased reviews are fully flowing
Eloquence like yours has me all glowing
I suffered,he laughed
I filled up his voids, he created mine.
I looked for roses,he gave cactus
I looked only for his heart,he focussed on my body
I healed all those stitches,he gave me wounds..
I ignored him,he started following
I left him,he cried
I didn't hold any grudges,he holds guilt.
Some conspicuous lice met once or twice
With white follicle mites who came out at night
And an upside down tick who did magic tricks
That entertained maggots who shared roasted haggis
With pole dancing worms who wriggled and squirmed
Under Chinese mosquitos munching burpy burritos
Chasing cobwebby crickets selling counterfeit tickets
To shows where no sensible grubs want to go
Warning churchgoing termites that these shows were a blight
On a class of weevil whose bite could be lethal
For marbleized moths drinking steaming Scotch broth
And sanitized beetles who had pins and needles
From sharing cold baths with nonsensical gnats
Watched by camp caterpillars strung out on painkillers
Sharing smokes with loud locusts who were very much focussed
On prostrate praying mantises with suspicious practices
Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.
You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.
My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.
Such beauty and so full of life,
she's flitting to and fro,
from plant to plant to find best perch
and put herself on show.
Sprawling in the midday sun
she is a splendid sight.
Her slender abdomen dressed in
metallic blue so bright.
Her wings are thin fragile fabric,
fine lace she must protect.
Her huge domed eyes focussed and keen
search around to locate
the fittest males upon the scene.
There's one with flying skill.
He plays the game of hide and seek.
Now, she joins in the thrill.
They fly off to the undergrowth.
In heartwheel there they play.
Now all her eggs become fertile.
A batch of them she lay
and after some minutes of rest
she starts another game,
but this time with different male.
This lady has no shame.
She hugged her shoulders in the morning mist,
the sun struggled to pierce the charcoal shroud,
beside her someone turned, his lover kissed,
she left as he dissolved into the crowd.
The platform full, she stared along the rails,
he said he'd be along on the next train,
last chance for them, or else the marriage fails,
ten years to make it work, but all in vain.
He left for someone else, she could not cope,
another man like him she would not find,
her thoughts now focussed on this one last hope
when someone rushing pushed her from behind.
He heard the guard say 'please remain inside'
and thought 'I hope she's not seen someone's died'...
For contest 'Your finest Sonnet', sponsor Mark Massey
22nd July 2018
I thought the more focussed, the much better
Thoughts can flow easily like a delicate feather
A feather decorated with arrangements of patterns
Bursting from the dull dreary colors of the ground to the beautiful pale yellow of
Saturn
Exploration from Saturn to the deep blues of the mysterious sea
Water creatures curious, lively with the current not knowing where they be
Wandering with no knowledge about the outside of their world, these species are
careless
Following the sounds that the fresh waters possess
Sweet melodic sound of the rushed waves clashing on shore
Bringing the days end in a swift little roar
The quiet wait for the tics to toc
Everything seems vacant as I slip back to thought
Comfortably overlay-ed by the thought of relaxation
Time to wind down from that brisk vacation
I thought the more focussed, the much better
Thoughts can be disrupted easily like a delicate feather
- Rebecca C*
Goodbye, Odie
My little old cat is dying.
His steps are awkward, eyes unfocussed
and he cries when he can’t see me.
I’m not sure I want to be in a world
that doesn’t have my tabby Familiar.
I am feeling widowed, again.
I’m resigned to be grieving, again
outliving another love who is dying.
There’s odd comfort in this ache, the strange familiar.
I gaze at him imploringly, in tears, unfocussed.
He is my greatest love in our small world.
He reaches out a snow- capped paw to tap me.
Here I go again, making it all about me,
fighting to accept death must happen, again.
It seems that these past years, this is my world,
sitting by the bedside of the dying,
as they gaze at unseen figures in the room, unfocussed,
but they hear them, and they smile, voices familiar.
I push my face in soft ginger fur, the scent familiar.
He always smelled like vanilla cookies, to me.
Green eyes stare into mine, they’re focussed.
I watch as death opaques the life from eyes, again.
I hear my husband’s voice as he was dying;
“I am tired. It’s time to leave this world.”
Death has been a constant in my world,
an entity with which I’m too familiar.
Such a selfish act on the part of the dying,
to love me absolutely, then leave me.
I feel the empty chest constriction of grief, again.
I clutch a lifeless body, I am unfocussed.
I can’t see through tears, unfocussed.
Odie leaves a gaping hole in my world.
I’ll struggle with condolences, again.
My grief is in my chest, pain so familiar.
The last time one I loved held on to me
while completing the evolution of dying.
No longer unfocussed, I rise to greet grief, again,
it’s now my world and it enfolds me,
my dark, familiar partner in the dance of dying.
CHARACTERISTICS
a dedicated
focussed
display
appeared
en tempo
side by side
in
situ
a
seductive
vista with
in vogue
contrasting
hues
a
bathetic
flotilla
with
a surreal
oblivion
tender
&idiosyncratic
in
elicit
mellow
moments
Dear Love,
Just a quick note:
You caught me unawares
I thought I lived in circles
You taught me to accept squares
I write to ask for guidance
As straight lines tend to bend
The route we thought before us
Down a different path does send
You have a reputation
That has helped us through the age..
The compassion of a mother
The wisdom of a sage
So as I lean towards you
For some words of hope and care
Perhaps a new direction
Or encouragement you'll share
You released your piercing arrow
Varnished with surprise
Tipped to cut through layers
Under which my lost soul lies
You only took a moment
And before I knew my mind
My heart had led me forward
Out of prison cell, confined
Pah, you know all this already
So a question I must ask..
Are you wholly future focussed?
Is that even in your grasp?
Have you mapped how love unravels
As your arrow breaks these chains
Is destiny the angel
To guide through all this strange
Confusing landscape
Gnarly trees that twist and trip
While my mind is still in turmoil
Though my feet, they want to skip
I'll sign off here and ponder
All the wonders you possess
But thank you in anticipation
Yours truly,
My Heart's Address
Let off a lead,
freedom bounds
as if all joy is held
within a bouncing ball
to be retrieved
and brought back to lay
at a lover's feet. Then
sent off to do again.
Smells wafting
from tree trunks,
fence posts and tufted grass
flood the air with molecules
sending canine bladders
into spasm eager
to mark the moment
as their own.
Focussed on what is firm
beneath their feet,
every nerve they have
is wired to ‘now’
whilst I, looking on,
try and retrieve phantoms
bouncing across what was
and what is yet to come.
A steady blanket of funereal rain fell for days,
From the wintry heaven, onto the ground.
And by about three in the morning I was woken by
A screaming pleading sort of sound.
I had clumsy boots and akubra, and a blood scratched Drizabone
To walk me towards this holler.
And then I found her on her side, in labour,
Rolling with defiant mud amongst the squalor.
This wasn’t good, no time for medical expertise,
Or people who have studied what to do.
She had dystocia, she hadn’t dilated enough,
Her baby was too large to break through.
She’d stopped trying, but on my knees I could see
The feet of her baby were out hanging still.
“She’s lost her baby. She’d given up hope. She mustn’t die.”
I needing all of my skill.
Immediately handy was the wire fence strainer,
That could be used to ease out her beautiful infant.
My hands were cut, my lungs were full,
She wailed but I remained focussed and persistent.
First its head, then its body,
A purge of everything else soon followed all over my feet.
And I leapt to its mouth to try and shock it to life,
And it breathed a breath sounding so sweet.
Within fifteen minutes the cow and the calf were standing,
Drenched in the mud and the rain.
And I returned to the house, cooked a billy of tea,
On my coat just another blood stain.