Best Foregoes Poems
Grandma’s brown knuckles crinkled
As she gently peeled the heirloom
Potatoes, discarding the brown-
Skinned strips into the garbage
Bin. She was at home here, alive
And aloud, tastes and scents mingling
In the air like wispy fairies in Neverland, mingling
With the mauve, sun-kissed raisins lying crinkled
On slices of butter-brown toast. She is alive
Here, sheltered by the pots and pans, heirlooms
from her mother Wilma, who once was the garbage
Lady, the help, for a white family uptown. Wilma's brown
Skin was the softest variety of brown,
Likened to silky mocha-hued beads mingling
With glints of the golden hour. Garbage,
However, was her epithet. She was crinkled
Black plastic to that white family. Her heirloom
was the oppressive garrote of Jimmy Crow — alive
And well in the hearts of many, still alive
Today in the gashes and slashes brown
Men, women, and children still absorb, heirlooms
from a past infected with rankling vehemence mingling
With entitled gall. Wilma's old hands were dry-crinkled,
Just like her daughter, who now throws the skin in the garbage,
Who marched hard to not be viewed as garbage,
Who plans to keep Wilma’s soulful memory alive,
Who cooks until her freckle-speckled hands are crinkled,
Who is loud and proud to be her shade of brown,
Who gets straight to business and foregoes the mingling,
Who works so her progeny can be have the proudest heirloom:
Pride. Pride in those gently-knotted heirloom
locks, pride in the skin that was once garbage,
Pride, pride, pride. Her ever-beating heart mingles
With the cosmos — she is a celestial being, alive
In the splendor of black joy. She also likes her toast brown
And her sun-kissed raisins ever-so-crinkled.
And while her heirloom knuckles stay tightly crinkled,
Her heart will mingle with stars and keep the love alive,
Because she — we — will never be garbage again. We’re just brown.
With moonlight, I pace… a quiet repose
That gazing far across a wind-tossed sea
Ringlets of tides beckon me, quietly.
Where an opportunity lifts my woes
As I in solace view the edge of bends
Until crests turn strong whirpool to downtrends
To appease my soul torn, a pain that grows.
Yet, the drifting wave rinses like a salve
The roll of tears, breaths…salty mist foregoes;
When my whimper exhales through ripples that heal;
And dissolves into mist on fate of zeal.
This burden released, heart of sea bestows
One final chance where new dewdrops spill,
A good luck rising from ocean's goodwill.
Opportunities Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be
Oh dear, what can the matter be!
I will never forcefully go...
in a sink, held down to be washed
and freshening me head to toe!
My furry, fur flatly foregoes
being scoured with water and soap!
In my hell get ready to burn...
This feline sure knows how to cope!
From ferocious, furious cat
to a fitful devil, I'll turn.
bulged eyes, sharp claws open wide...
fierce feline revenge you will learn!
Sandra M. Haight
~6th Place~
Contest: Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be
Sponsor: Barry Stebbings
Judged: 02/16/2018
Oh he's feeling mighty lonesome
can’t seem to sleep a wink,
walking the floor try to fathom
and in between does drink.
Is this kind of love a toxic brew
or a nectar so sweet
when loving words towards you drew
yet left in lonely street?
He just keep talking to shadows
since the blues came to life,
a love so passionate foregoes
normality for strife,
Now a man is born for loving
and some have past regret
an instinct of turtle doving
yet in you an asset.
So this feeling low to the ground
is driving one crazy,
when an Angel he knew he’d found
time spent apart mazy.
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Though discriminatory asper discerning
legitimate information TIME
Magazine considered
a reliable trustworthy,
and valuable source to this rhyme
stir, who perused cover story, sans
January 28th, 2019 issue as prime
material to concoct
more serious than amusing
poem mindful not to spoil mealtime
sharing insightful ruses not so sublime
utilizing underhanded tactics that chime
with markedly innocuous discordant
undertones for longtime
(within realm of information technology)
garnering bajillion zeroes
after face value of dime
(I chose that denomination...
just book haws), suit clime
mate here, plus yours truly
aspired to fuel inquisitiveness,
since text unable to display mime
relayed by this messenger,
who questions gravity of crime
head honcho blithely
involving selling personal data
thus affecting prospects of incipient wartime.
every keystroke action typed by me,
and everybody else linkedin into web
foregoes their life details free
for selling treasured binary binded bits we
bull leave tubby encrypted, yet algorithms
invested with secret electron size key
sophisticated to sniff out valuable trove
within every pixel typed into ever re:
screen of every Internet app pre
pair ring the equivalent
of voluminous dossier lee
ving nary a trace, yet data packets
more precious than fine spun gold,
invisible electronic bursts glee
fully swept up like nobody's business – see
ming to provide a wellspring
of many a cottage industry
similar to a pugilist on par with Muhammad Ali
generating revenue, and
driving profits with accessory
trinkets or gewgaws hyped up as de
facto plum purchases, perhaps purchased online
whereat vendor (unbeknownst to patron) sells
vital transaction information to data broker he
or she obviously for a price - yes our SECURITY!
When the battle is won, 'tis the general who claims the laurel wreath.
Seldom is lavish praise bestowed upon the lowly ranks beneath.
But it's the valiant fellow in the trenches with his bayonet and gun,
Who bears the brutal brunt of battle to see the victory won!
In all the countless conflicts since biblical time began,
'Tis the lieutenants and sergeants who execute the battle plan.
Generals concoct grandiose schemes from the comfort of a bunker,
While the fellow in the trenches from bomb and shell must hunker!
His home is a burrow in the ground, dug to comply with regulations.
There he tries to sleep, keep socks dry and eat his meager rations.
His helmet becomes a lavatory to brush his teeth and shave.
It also serves as a dandy tub for taking and occasional lave!
He foregoes the "comfort" of home now and then to take a stroll,
Trudging thro' mud, sleet and snow on a hazardous night patrol,
Gingerly plodding thro' fields of mines, adding tension to his woe.
Returning to his barren hole, how he pines for a steaming cup o' joe!
There's no relief from the constant din of battle or the cannons' roar.
He knows all too well the horrible gore and agony of war.
It takes cooks, artillerymen, "tankies" and all to see the victory won,
But it's the courageous fellow in the trenches who really "gits 'er done".
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Ten times ten they march to battle each with brethren by there side
rifles raised, and sabres rattle as ten good men were felled and died.
Nine times ten push on for glory through hell of fire with hand on gun
each longs to live to tell there story as another ten good men are done.
Eight times ten will not encumber as shot and lead descend like rain
to fear the bullet with there number another ten good men are slain.
Seven times ten in rank and file fear in heart they forge on ahead
brothers falling across the mile as another ten good men lay dead.
Six times ten begin to waver yet steel their courage apon the wall
prayers to god to be there saviour another ten good men does fall.
Five times ten dig in with valour as inch by inch they press along
strong in heart they will not cower another ten good men are gone.
Four times ten can move no longer yet with heart hold their ground
the sounds of battle rising stronger another ten good men are downed.
Three times ten embrace with honour there fate to stand apon the last
to face the steed with death upon her another ten good men have passed.
Two times ten address each other tears in hearts with courage laid
a final charge beside there brother another ten good men have paid.
One times ten with bayonets flashing a braver heart can do no more
one by one the last come crashing as another dead man hits the floor.
The last man standing hands asunder discarded rifle lays at his side
foregoes the glory death and thunder to live and tell of those who died.
That I would feast upon thy eyes
my love, about me not surmise.
A deity of calm does reach within, applies,
and all that peace can mean fills in, as feeling cries ~
To feast upon your will, beyond advise
and know my own heart's will, not criticize
completion ~ never 'till, and not incise.
In waiting, wait as nil ~ and compromise.
Love's hovering about, not improvise
does hold us fully fast, en route's unsize.
Thus, spiritual bondage heals ~ Godly, complies
and grace foregoes our fate, to emphasize ~
Love's faith does hunger, but to realize,.
its needing is the soul's resolving ~ wise!
GOLDEN REVOLUTION
On THRESHOLD of Revolution,
zeal, vigor follow CONCEPTION
arousing random awareness,
setting up organisation,
consciousness among populace.
Leader comes up to formulate,
plans and programmes to postulate.
DISMAL phase may be PITEOUS.
True leader always at front gate.
BLOOD-STAINED struggle, yet glorious.
Stepping on path, prickly thorny,
Fighter travels distressed journey.
Each foregoes all comforts mundane.
At end glistens ceremony,
When Revolution turns Golden.
10/01/17
Rhyme Time with 5 Contest by Laura Loo.