Best Foist Poems
Push-Pull leaders
demand your gripe
at either end of their
hangman's rope
Your willing hoist
of their own petard,
the Devil's foist
of his own retard.
"retard" in this sense="delay," as in delaying tactics.
1John 5:19.
Luke 4:5-8.
John 17:14-16.
Daniel 2:44,45.
"For tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar, and't shall go hard
But I will delve one yard below their mines
And blow them to the moon"
Hamlet.
Written: September 16, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In arrant essence, without a fight,
Herald of vamps, in the dead of night
Ushers a raw wave that captivates,
The heights of the cosmos resonate.
Wax in our ears, the truth we long to hear,
Despite fear or quaint hopes, with zeal, we steer.
In bravery, the sun's light subdues the sight.
Rolling through the despair of a lonesome night.
Slightly too reckless, we dare to dream,
Framing a foist under the whiskey moon gleam.
Reminiscing about the warmth once shared,
Now mislaid in the miles left behind, scared.
Yet in the depths of our soul, a blaze remains.
A flicker of optimism that cannot be tamed.
Whiskey moon and a reckless wish
Guiding us through this journey, a celestial dish.
We dance with the cosmos, our spirits alight,
Embracing the unsung, chasing the light
With every endeavor, we withstand the odds,
Leaving behind the solace of familiar nods.
In the cosmic realm, we decry our place.
Unveiling the secrets with zeal and grace
Whiskey moon, shining dazzlingly above
Reminding us of castaway love.
But in the gloominess, we explore our way,
Through the shadows, we will not stray.
In the depths of our soul, we hold,
The memories of compassion were once bold.
Though miles may separate and time may pass,
The alliance we formed will always last.
Whiskey moon and ambivalent bliss
Swaying us through life's unpredictable abyss
Moth and mist kiss her lips
her loneliness from the dark dew
And how she grips nomadic clouds
As if that was her only foist.
I ache for their sighs and songs
her strong want to embrace the welkin
But when she reached the tempest
It hugs her deeper than my embrace.
Written: October 16, 2022
Goddess of storm and dissidence, Lilith
begot by spurious legend and foolish myth
in the dark recesses of pastoral histories
where ancient mysteries
were defiled.
Illegitimate child.
Apollo's seed, by Roman Empire
inquisitional rules inquire, to her whereabouts
seeping fetid doubts, in the bones of the survivors.
Submission required by slave drivers,
And the Elite,
now on Wall Street.
Twenty five generations later,
they still hate her...
Yet,
I see her in me, shadows of malcontent,
when passed by for promotion
and toxic lotion is sold to keep us young.
I hear her forked tongue,
when my voice is ignored again,
when single mothers barely maintain
poverty existence led
as punishment for being
un-wed.
Burkas hide the bruises
and we’ve run out of excuses
why so many women are poor.
Our beloved men are sent to war
for corporate profits made
and taxes paid in blood and tears.
Yes I have fears.
I fear her rolling up through me, if they only knew me
and what I hold back, they would attack,
and mark me feminist bytch,
witch
and un-Christian.
Listen...
I hear her whisper from sister to brother
from father to mother, lover to lover...
I feel her emerging with Pele’s fire,
Aphrodite’s desire and Venus’s lust.
We must,
hear her.
She is part of us, the Mother’s curse,
foist in the never ending thirst for power
and dominance over all.
Eden’s free fall, orchestrated, ill-fated,
out-dated and reciprocated,
by us, still now, somehow.
The sacred dance beckons us in the second rush
of knowing... rivers flowing, ever to sea.
What will be, will be...
lost in the slipstream currents of the paradigm whore
who dares seek safe passage
to our shore.
Can a man – all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it’s only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
"brahmana" Himalayas to the "asurya" Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world’s vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605), the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah » , a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns – on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
©: T. Wignesan, March 13, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent")
From the very moment my Mom taught me how to use a spoon,
From her mouth was uttered that old familiar tune:
"The kids in Asia are starving, now Bobby, clean your plate!"
Her admonition was final and left no tolerance for debate!
I tried to foist upon the hapless dog a helping of bony fish.
Even he would gag trying to swallow that vapid dish!
I'd toy with them and try to hide the tasteless peas.
I could barely abide them, even in bites of twos and threes!
Even tho' Mom concealed them with cheese, I had my doubts,
About a malodorous little veggie called Brussels sprouts!
I'd surreptitiously sneak them on to the plate of little brother,
Thereby, avoiding the reproof to clean my plate by my Mother!
There was the delicate matter of dealing with broccoli and beets,
Okra, spinach, turnips, hominy and other such disgusting eats.
In my feckless youth I thought such fare rather untoward,
But soon learned that to survive, you ate what was on the board!
When side-stepping along the chow line in the military service,
They often slopped mysterious stuff on my tray, making me nervous.
When I joined the service, I hoped never again to hear Mom's old cliche,
But, even those mean old sergeants screamed, "Private! Clean your tray!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for No. 1 in PD's "Any Random Poem" Contest - July 2011
Fate's fickle fingers
frequently foist frustration
and fortune 'fore us
-----------------
(C) John C Michaels, 2014
We leave all we are in the hand of history,
future of our past, past of our future...
when the sun light shines upon the commoners,
let the Izaga masquerade stand tall above them
to prevent the fury of it terrible burns.
Life is a mess worthless to fight for.
The fountain of all beings rest in greed,
Let the children be told of their past,
let the children be told of history of their land.
We can only explain who we are to ourselves,
we try not to be sad like the lonely cloud
But as happy as the tree leaves with the breeze.
We are the change, we really the hope, we are the miracle,
we are the change you are going through.
We see the pains hidden in your pride,
the war against societal change in an umbrellamic foist.
W gather together to make history in victory,
as long as you live, we live not for the fame,
We live not for the moment at hand...
This is the part that summond the bloodshot,
the veil that cause the orbiting of the earth,
the birds that parrot the colours of the sky;
we are the society, the society is us.
You see through our eyes what the community is,
We are the sun, the reflection of the green grasses.
Nature is in the capitalist frame of a federalism,
none stand in the vocal pitch of our voices.
We are the mirrors that reflect men and society,
Poets are mirrors, reflection of the society.
©John Chizoba Vincent.
prosaic prologues bewitch
feeble minded scribe doth undertakes
tend toward lugubriousness ring tone
for goodness sake
echoing across,
a figurative lake woebegone, where quake
shutters latched storm windows,
clapped closed winter season didst make
physical environment lachrymose
analogous to imp pond durable dark lake
where sits inside secluded hut,
this fledgling author named Jake
a former cub (scout) at a loss
to string together an aria
tomb other nature and NOT FAKE,
sepulchral paeon to divine Gaea, Mother Earth
especially incorporating
mutisyllabic (sesquipedalian) words,
which exertion
on par with giving birth
(or so I guess),
a particularly heavily pregnant laden dearth
of help mates, doubling demonstrably
deadly duty devoid of mirth
totally tubular taxing toll,
an essentially unbearable
effort with bulging girth
whereat digestion consumes
latent mental ambition,
especially toasty warm near the hearth
which hitherto unknown to any reader
twas Xmas fabrication and fiction
no crime committed, nor animals harmed
in the making of diction
aery necessary entrapping unsuspecting intellect
to comprehend somber benediction
unless perchance one lone wolf
bait Oven English Major
with Westernization
topped off with a European
debunaire suave acculturation
even luckier if hypothetical personage
dips daintily into forays epicurean,
though careful,
and alert since church fathers
would frown on parsonage
whose natural born ardor,
a spiritual abduction
stealing austerity, complacency, and objection
toward forced irrational schemas
averse to abnegation
unfair imposition
to foist upon pruriant predilection
also impossible
to sequester arbitrary animal urges,
punishing call of the wild,
sowing seeds a beastial accusation
considered averse,
then imposition contrition!
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 36
All day long we kill to keep the home clean
Insecticides aerosols rat poison
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
Down by the pond mosquitoes wake and preen
Time to send fighter jets by the dozen
All day long we kill to keep the house clean
Peeled apples for veg flies succulent wean
We spend week-ends choking every last one
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
Kids we love but not the kind who boil spleen
So we sock the wife more than hard in the bun
All day long we kill to keep the home clean
At Antipodes some guys flex muscles lean
Call that homefront affront to smite them down
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
What counts home comfort by all overseen
Secure society to foist nation
All day long we kill to keep the house clean
The killer instinct makes us bold and mean
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Black shrouds blue
a dingy hue
This greedy minscus constricts us
~~~Mother Earth's shameful eyepatch~~
A gull's squak gurgled crude
chirping 89 octane birdsongs
forever grounded by fossil fuel fettered feathers
sharp eyes, glazed over, searching the horizon
for a savior from this senselessness
Feed the steely beasts,
produced in fleets,
chrome teeth and audible horns,
the black blood we gave them
and thirst for thanklessly.
Their evolution halted by prophets of profit
We extract that which we cannot put back
veins spew petroleum poison
hemmorhaging
Cuts bleed. Logically
Yet here stands man,
knife in hand
confounded by healing our wounded land
as figureheads foist fingers frenetically
***Inspired by Poetry Soup's Gulf Oil Spill contest!!
admittely i am one treasonous cat
and people everywhere had better take note
i ain't no republican nor democrat
and i don't see any reason for phools to vote
listen up people,
politics are a plague perceived of by desperate men
folks who sold themselves out fora few sheckles or less
and i must confess Jefferson and Franklin, quite frankly, were all fu**ed up
they dictated this declaration that declared us free to pursue our independence
but in the parenthesis they lasciviously limited our liberties
then there are those conventions that follow conventions conceived of by phools
and i'd appreciate it if someone could explain their rules
because conventions are circuitous circuses minus three rings and decorum
a most useless and absurd forum
they do, however, contain clowns that pour out of tiny little cars
and reveal a sick society's scars
they are meetings for a faction of felonious freaks who foist phoolishness on phools in places like Philly that are simply silly
or elsewhere
as they run around willy nilly casting votes akin to a fishing rod aimed at a pitiful pond
well there ain't no flounder in Philly or anywhere else as far as i am concerned
whilst i have been more than twice burned
and methinks the the fishing really stinks
while their constituents constitute a confusing array of idiots who idealize con-artists
men and women who treat candidates like they are Hollywood stars
well if you ask me Jennifer Anniston would make a pretty good prez
says me
she's got the curves for congress, the sexiness for the senate
and tempting t*ts that would make her perfect for a titular head of state
now, have i stated my case to your satisfaction?
so you can stand in line to vote for one of these assh*les
alas as for me i'd rather vote for Jennifer or someone of her kind
i'm sick of your Clintons, Bushes and Bobby Doles
and take this for the Gospel as preached by the undersigned
(c) 2012....PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
~The Hot Spell Is Over~
Watching the clouds gather
There is thunder in the air
After a beautiful week
It really doesn’t seem fair
We finally cast off winter woollies
Then sat with hankies on our heads
Tomorrow I suppose the Wellingtons are out
And we put back on our winter threads.
Our poor bodies don’t know what to do
From freezing to frying all in a day or two
Part of life’s rich pattern I can suppose
Life is short as the saying goes
Live it large as they now say
I think this means we should go out and play
Get our kit off in the kid’s paddling pool
Kick our heels we are nobody’s fools.
Grasp it now before it has gone
Make someone smile - just anyone
The air pressure rising leaves our skins moist
The air is thick and steamy as on us it is foist
Pressure flies are landing dropping from the skies
Blown out of the atmosphere before our very eyes
Sitting on the picture frames like little specks of dust
A flash a thunderous bang to come - we know it is a must
The thunder bounds around us with its lion-like roar
Taking the hot spell with it - but we hope not for evermore.
© 28/05/2012 ~GG~
A failure is seduce by its up and down.a storm of worries unites in my mind.prefer to be a winner
. do not asept the role that society foist on you. They deceptively play with your aperreance . Its
hard to trust in this confusing world. Ill maintain my my trust in side me . Knowing that failure
will stand right beside me. by "joseph pichardo"
Maquillage Civilization
Come ! Quick ! Quick !
Cover up the tracks !
That lead to my doom
Even the lynx watches blear-eyed the bald-eagle
badgering badgers waddling down slithering marshes
Curling wisps of mists torn shreds of time
hug low down by dripping pines
And I wonder at the long lost lines of pre-Stone Age Cave Men
who have long preceded my own
Come! Quick! Quick!
Cover up the tracks!
Am I the Cloned Monster of my dreams!
Fierce thoughts warp my mind on wild backs
And make my hand shake through weird themes
Say, how many eons ago
Did this entrenched sea-begetter of mine
Binding metallic force on madraged muscled ego
Take shape to terrorize the brine
How many the magmatic engines hide under my gnarled hide
I hear them growl and grind in my bowels
Fizzing comets drill through memory-compressed neurons
And foist the thoughts boil-caged in my veins
Who are the unkempt ogling and babbling baboons
Prising libidos through rousing neck-biting sex-twined clashes
through gaping maw
Come streamlined in a many-laundered thing
The downward civilizing trek
The paint on the wall
held firm by the poisoning lead
Come! Quick! Quick!
Cover up the tracks!
Nothing changes like Change!
The Monster who lurks under the skin
Is still the Master of my whims!
Come! Quick! Quick!
Cover up the ….
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013