Best Fore Poems
Arm to arm, sinews clutch
One another, makes friend and crutch;
One crimson call, which guidance brought
The feeble, stern: the working lot
To stand much greater, taller, strong
Filled with hope, in lines long,
That stretch from pain, from glum, from slum
To the halls of white where nations clump
In the deadest form of gathered hoards
Of finance and shares, secluded boards
Who array the work, who shackle in loans
Whose empty plots tempt the sleeping droves
In tent and rag, in cough and drag,
From hand to mouth, to work and back.
Yet in contempt that line is struck,
Still the routine is mute, no more this work
That builds the villa, never the mason’s,
Unthanked which blooms the fields all season,
The folks split off by plastic partition
Giving wealth immense, yet maimed cognition
Had kept whom bound to desk and ground
Their eyes have met and their fists now pound
Against steel ribbed doors, but why such fear
Thee lords of land in prim kept highest tiers?
Arisen so, on the claim of wealth,
At the cost of Earth, of hearth and health;
How much more flight, behind guarded holds,
Behind sentries and dictates so cold
Even in scorch of war, where poor kills poor;
So the wealth of nations in tons can pour
Onto odd few hands, to hold all us chained
To the will of profit, for profit’s sake.
But in queues, we’ve come, tools shucked
Your batons brooked, your shots shrugged
By the calloused bossom, by tried spine,
That props all of it up, runs it all in time.
And without us many, your wealth is rust,
Without our trust it’s all a fleeting gust
Of paper slips and accords of force
And we see dawn, from these dues divorced.
And the sun to snatch, the sickle drives,
And the barricades the hammer tries,
While the quill writes, not fearing death,
A push for renewal, for a gasp of breath.
Golf barks
U.S. Open flags
Woods is out
Forsake me my clumsy heart
I have known peace and joy
But held them as a baby held a toy
How foolish a mischief on my part
Daring darling endeavours
Gaming the survival tempest
Stunts begrudge in me a shredded grandeur
I have found the misery I sought
After war is peace
The folklore reminds me a call to action
The steps I braved shape me motionless
I fret on how beyond is history ahead of my time
Glory glory
I enjoy the distant story
But my present flow
Praised me master of pain
Novice to tranquillity
Disintegration so delicate
Angonizing my ardor with great artistry
Destruction going so far with distraction
No allow even the cunning faith of mine to burlglarize its masterpiece
The wicked witches coven
could not control overcast weather,
time for a spell inside.
He waits and listens, for the word ”Fore”
Steals the balls as they land One two three four
Now he can juggle, that’s what he wanted them for
The little four striped grass mouse, what a metaphor!
I have become numb to the idea of praise
Praying that the preys won't catch
themselves in the aisles of pews
handled by the strength of clout
Smuggled out by strange men
I've become jaded by the blues
Fade to purple so I can paint kitchens and
cook surrounded by new hues
I have become scarred by our experience
There is no healing for the bruise
but I often think we can grow new limbs
and the broken will be of no use
I have become hopeful every now and
then
so I pull ink out of pen to write like
Habakkuk the vision plain upon tables
so they can run and ring wedding bells for
the two
I have become suspicious of the
suspended suspense of new days
Always dreaming of bumping into the new
side of you
Becoming feeble for the opening of hearts
You stay in far away parts and have
nothing to do with today
I've become a pleading thing
Covered in blankets, prostrate on cold tiles
A petrified wood waiting to be drenched
by something different
Something like you watching me in pews
dressed in blue
Covering scars with outstretched open
palms
Marked by ink I've used in daydreaming of
new days
So they covered me in blankets
The petrified good
There once was a General who had an investment in the swamp
He had many ways of getting what he wants
Including making things great again when he stomps
While in the marsh land
The General had to make a stand
Feeling pressure from the groups
Most were wearing their pinstripe suits
For many years they dealt the cards
Depending on social pages and stars
Doing business with the entire world
Using positive dialogue as its stir
For the most part this was peaceful action
Warm welcomed after the bitter distrusting combative fraction
Marketed as the evening news featured attraction
During these years of violent behavior
Games were played that the country savored
Goals, Baskets, Runs and Touchdowns galore
Checks being written and money in the bank everyone was sure
These sporting exhibitions found themselves having time on the floor
In every paper results were reported
With space, journalist awarded
Printed information
About the spectacle they were facing
Competition was the civil way
Based on physical activity play
During this fun
When communication was supposed to be done
Keeping things flowing
Like a country’s crew team doing the rowing
The General should be aware
About this unique style of internal affairs
Having the purpose to advert small upheavals
That the enemy could provide as their evil
All this is something to interpret and appreciate
As states get things straight
Sports are not games designed around winning
Instead they bring closure to the living
Unlike cultures who are sore
And do not know how to stop fighting a war
Hopefully the New York/New Jersey General will use this athletic battle fleet
To confront humanity’s flaw, the need to compete.
to you
my life became a foregone conclusion
did you truly believe
that my failure was certain?
a pre-determined path I was meant to follow
Was I nothing more to you than a character
in a sad tale?
Did you truly know me?
that you could predict
what a challenged life
would mean for me
invisible
overlooked
and just as easily tossed away
You seemed to have won
as the light slowly darkened around me
I stumbled, I lost my way
my strength
to fight any longer
did I give up
or maybe
I was just given up on
when I lost my footing
and the limitations imposed
by this world thrust me to change
I heard you laugh
it was subtle, but the sound rang
with a relief of my failure
You thought I was deaf to your words
You thought that my diminishing sight
would blur me from seeing
just who you really were
you said I was damaged
cast me as a burden
It was then that you left me
alone
on my knees
on the ground
you never turned back
you seemed amused
to hear of the reports of my demise
as Twain said,
“They would
be greatly exaggerated”
although surely challenged
by those who were in love
with my relevance
but not with the fall
instead of your support
to hold up my strength
you denied me
and stretched my pain
across a circus stage
But I refuse
to be a footnote
I am the author
the one
who sets this pace
I am the protagonist
the hero
I am showered in divine grace
So think what you will
Just don’t try to judge
I have battled fierce demons
to get here
they now are on notice
to flee
at any mere sighting
of me
what you didn’t see
in my true depth
was resilience to rise
from any fire
and breakthrough any chains
my unshakable spirit
which you failed to see,
is unrelenting and alive,
and always determined to
flourish and survive
Let's foray, let's foray
Let's foresee the success of our nation.
To becoming foremost
The foreman is on the roll
Let's pray to our forefather and foregather
The army is foregoing
Let's forefront the other
And forget rivalry
Let's foray and foregather
To give a foregone conclusion.
By Manthra
silver-gray etchings
fingernail scratched ménage oak
~
the ice cold sun nods
12/30/2016
Heritage options prevail
not written in blood
not set in concrete
dysfunction, violation, unwanted seed
Our foremothers' served us well
they saved us from a living hell
when all is said and done
a womans' love I have succumb
you can judge me all you like
call me fairy, call me dyke
left behind all the abuse,
observed the straight world - called a truce
Our fore mothers revealed choices
they didn't preach fault nor blame
we learned their lessons well
for a womans' love is irrevocable
...a womans love is sinful
...and a womans love is hell
For this poem to work, I need four in the fore, that's what I’m looking for.
For the four in the fore it may become a bit of a bore
Because the four in the fore need to know the score
It’s Debbie not me that wants the four in the fore, who the heck knows what for…?
~GG~ 14/11/2012
Has it really, really come to this Lord?
That you demonstrate your earthly failure
Through the use of a sacrificial sword
Worse through proclamation in a brochure.
We stare down the barrel of a bottle
In darkness we gaze at the pledge maker
Answer the question fore the rising sun
The last thought fore we meet our caretaker.
Thy'est control breathing thus capture must i thee air
It sooths thee as thus melodically time goes on...
Next thus will be sleeping, & thy subconsious will take over for thy every breath until thee again is awake & thus can taste the air again and as the day goes by will thus sustain thee life
As we all head towards the end, lets make every breath count
& thy will enraptures the truth that our immortal soul will go on into the light of love prosper & will temperment becomes'eth, glee to those who get to see until their last breath, thee awe comming & destiny fullfilled, all, in due time
& thus time must go on with or without you
& some must find that when we go alone into that night
It will only have been once in a lifetime
Instead of twice like some Enlightened...
& to those, we know our destiny, we have our identity
& whom shall know'eth us better but those
Whom gave us our air to breathe
Will we all dwell with them in heaven?
Will thy soul wilt to'eth what have'eth thy become'eth?
Shall thou be given life renewed?
What shall become of thee when thou light come
At thee end of the tunnel?
& so thus will is shed thy purpose drawn forth
What must become of us all what is the power of all?
Time goes on until thee end & we have until then...
Until then to write, to make love, to be inspired,
& to inspire others...
Thee blanket of wet silk softly carresses like the wind as i sweat & the breeze moves forth, life will go on, & a-stray sometimes we are, yet strive foreward we must through it all
& get whatever we can muster, to hold true to our word, & have a luster of strength to your tone, & as we give, we shall recieve, Forevermore...
this (right!?) write is based on a bhuddist perspective of the "now" (quote:...
it is the being of an emptiness that enables a reality its manifestation)......
andt, the band 'u2's song "i've still not found what i'm looking for"....is the
fodder.
in the free verse the/a 'looking fore' is as a path ahead, between all common space-time logics (a bhuddist view)....pluses/minuses and all else somehow shift 'to one side' andt, new choices become obvious as if one watches a reality
movie in slow motion.
______________________________________________________________
i've climbed some high mountains...andt...
run....through some fields to be...
with 'a' you...andt only with 'a' you have i....
crawled and scaled these walls to finally...stay with 'a' you...
but my finding was....not a 'looking-fore' because...
what i found was not 'a' path to...seeing what 'a fore' is....
i'd made sweet slips that...felt like healing fire tips...
andt' was only desire for...'a' nice ice pack for the neck...
still hadn't found the 'looking fore'...but knew 'a now' not a (k)not and...
how/what/where/when the 'looking for' is....it appears as on it's own accord...
anywhere everywhere....all becomes as one andt…
the 'looking fore' is before your eyes...as another dimensional world...
reality divides andt...your perspective is on a slow 'reality....movie'...
buddha's perspective presents many commonly...unseen perspectives...
it loosens bonds and chains and lets go the shames...of the looking 'for'...
andt not 'a looking fore' that is everywhere so...stop and let 'it' appear...
stan sand