Best Forgery Poems
Beyond the skills of escorts
and the appeal of other playthings,
smolders the need of the soul
infused to best every man.
Twelve years have taken
the scars out of the memories,
from the last time I was
up and through
just to come down and out
to find every fairy tale
extends it’s hand
to some tragedy.
The odds don’t warrant
the time of practical effort.
Too keen to the liabilities,
always calculating ends.
It is not the demands of over
or having to start something new
rather, better to remain alone
than to be let down again.
But now I see you,
and it makes me pause
so still, with the whisper --
Are you sure?
Falls into a deafening singularity
forbidding even a scream, it’s escape.
I sit and can only see
the touch of Heaven
reaching across the Caribbean
to color your face.
As your smile holds the songs
of every dawn’s temptress,
under the soft disposition
of your eyes
rests a divine spirit’s symmetry,
smoothing features
while lensing each strand
the perfect frame.
That once moved a favored King
to murder a man, only to bring
the sword into his own house.
Enabled an army to take
a strong city with just one horse.
And enslaved the envy of Venus
to sharpen leaden arrows,
but fury slipped her hands
and bled her wrists out.
Blood clotted on the cold muck
of her grave, a suffocating cocoon.
Immersed the viewer becomes,
and timeless the window
of the heart that is God’s craft,
denying the deceiver’s forgery
of any singed carnality.
As if proximity has been given
within the mist of your perfume,
in just this one picture
of your face.
Categories:
forgery, beauty, inspiration, introspection, poetess,
Form:
Narrative
A literacy theft of a line or phrase
the facade, simulacrum of a writer
creating a mirror image, deception . . .
exact replica.
The forgery of blood written heart and soul
penning a likeness of me is plagiarism
and taking credit for another's talent . . .
is simulacrum!
Like a night pirate you come to falsify
to pass a line or a sweet phrase as your own
you make some minor change as a delusion . . .
making it your own.
Your simulacrum of a writer is false
you can cheat and pretend but will never be
for you will never be this girls reflection . . .
just a thief of words !
_______________________________
June 11, 2020
Poetry/Sapphic Stanza/Non Metrical/Simulacrum
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1259-722-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest,
Pick-A-Title, Vol. 19, Sapphic Stanza
sponsor, Edward Ibeh
Third Place
Categories:
forgery, how i feel,
Form:
Sapphic stanza
It’s drawn on the back of a stained notepad ,
On a brown worn, torn paper leaf,
It’s drawn in pencil, that’d broken in half,
Showing the pain, the trouble and grief,
Showing years of tired hurt wounds,
Pushing out from the fear,
This drawing of what she owns inside her mind,
Smudged to vague, makes it clear,
That her smile is a vending machine,
A fabricated forgery, a fake,
Sent to conceal her pain away from the robots,
It hides her dazed blind ache,
And still, she paints her lips to a smile,
She paints to hide the sad,
The sad that can only be seen when it’s drawn,
All over the back of a pad.
Categories:
forgery, confusion, lost love, meaningful,
Form:
Quatrain
my keyboard sometimes sticks and snarls up my story
went to the store and got jiffy lube and what a glory
my fingers slide across the letters typing faster
did a quick hit of the duster called air blaster.
the light on the screen will often blink
I plugged in my generator into the back link
now the screen has 300 watt illumination
and the audio sound has quality combination.
feels like I am sitting in the theater now
there is a lot of keys I haven’t learn what or how
there is a tool box but not like mine in the garage
a menu that has no food listed is a sabotage.
Excel is just another brick in the wall
which has nothing to help me at all
the command prompt has deaf ears
doesn’t follow thru and no changing gears.
Monopoly is easier to learn than a computer
I started too late, I must have a tutor
I’m still trying to figure out about windows
often my sites disappear and fall like dominoes.
I got a security package to protect my skill
but viruses still enter and that’s no thrill
they try to scam me and pretend they’re real
offering me a vacation that is a bogus deal.
they want my personal information to cheat on me
enabling them to use my credit account with forgery
one nice feature about my computer is I can delete
either a message I don’t want or the whole fleet.
So please bear in mind that if you write
I may answer if I can get things just right
this is a keyboard and screen that sits on my lap
but my cat loves to come up and nap.
Often the words have too much space in between
she smacks her tail all over the screen,
I sent the computer back with a note in tack
this is useless with a lap cat
Categories:
forgery, computer,
Form:
Rhyme
Roam alike the devil I on thy land
Quiet silent without perfect ambition grand,
Wherever peep find people proudly proceed
Solely cede sociably at that no heed.
Sober savory what served me macabre trouble
Little thought of revolution posting my fault double,
Tension not towards God who purifies our soul,
Yet enthralled by each His materialistic power whole.
Their glory to seduce innocent is unreliable claim,
Promoted theft, corruption and forgery as if master game.
Cluster of vampires moving freely enjoying regular thrust
New born dies wanting milk in his mother's breast.
Groaning love lying lurking under pressure worldly power
Cunning crazy wiseacre searching wholly practical hour;
Warns nature recurrent leave polemics be providential,
Provide honest support allow living them all dimensional.
Categories:
forgery, conflict, confusion, corruption, culture,
Form:
Elegy
I am corruption
A citizen of all Nations
The UN calls me complex social, cultural and economic phenomenon
Nevertheless, I do not mind
Countries of the world detest me publicly
However, they romance me secretly
So I relocated to Africa
To become a citizen of many African countries
Where I thrive with impunity
I am embezzlement of public fund
I am the looting of public treasury
I am economic crimes
I am bribery and receipt of illegal proceeds
Some call me theft and privatization of public resources
While others shamelessly refer to me as extortion, clientelism and patronage
However, I do not care about that
I manifest myself boldly as illegal appropriation or forgery and falsification
I am also blessed with quadruplets: abuse of state funds, waste, nepotism and favoritism
To maintain my citizenship I employ abuse of power(intimidation) and election falsification
I steal the continent’s wealth and fritter it to foreign countries
I live in slums of Africa
I live in cities of Africa
I am as ubiquitous as I am powerful
I have caused so much pain to Africa
I am the most powerful agent of African impoverishment
As you fight against me
I fight back with venom
Most African leaders love me so much
They cannot do without me
All religions worship me
The military is powerless before me
I hold the Executive to ransom
The Judiciary is my familiar abode
I am the permanent occupant of the Legislature
In me, there is no separation of power
I corrupt independently and collectively
I am a citizen in whom most African leaders are well pleased
As you can see I am well entrenched in my adopted continent
To eliminate me requires efforts
To diminish me is herculean
To tolerate me is dangerous
However I must die so that Africa can live!
Categories:
forgery, africa, anger, corruption, evil,
Form:
Free verse
Good morning mister, of thy kindness to receive,
All groans of yester, thou does seem to reprieve,
With a promise to stir, tinges optimiste do contrive,
Pain’s sphincter lets laughter, it’s another reason to live.
Swaying pyjamas on sling, the autopsy right begins,
Stayed on the bed is a rolling, whom my kitchen concerns,
“Who took that mine bedding, and Ngwaci scantily obtains?
Wanna see me cast the ring, that thine blossom returns?”
The morning prescription taken, I am innocuously abased daily,
To equate with all good men, whose wives possess jealously,
For what woman with a noble token, shirks to lose recklessly?
Taught in the womb that lesson, it break suspicious smiles secretly.
So a frowned fellow I am, and not alone in this generation,
Often silent kicks boom, where behind the driver I myself resign,
Mister, let the news come, you know, cowboys pay to listen,
Devising to forget the theme, but slaughters make to mourn.
A day received with glory, all mine suffer classic deplores,
My stem with a rigorous forgery, in front of the boss affords strange chores,
The cold of June here has a story, then an undeliberate sudden Salsa implores,
My acquittal is my worry, nobody cares to hear the weather course.
Soon ‘t’s time the cycle to restart, wishing a fair friend had that control
remote,
All these woes at will to alleviate, yet as I am, they incur not the respite,
With some spreed daily to hurt, alone I remain, a man of living heart,
I choose to live life when I find it, even if minutes thirty like a concert.
I rise with and as clear as the sun, I return crumbled like muddy earth,
This manner of men taught me none, but the proverbial sways of youth,
What shall I do but a resolve one, tonight, where else to go but Unguth!
Limited of option, I have all mornings mine, even if not couth.
Categories:
forgery, depression, feelings, good morning,
Form:
Burlesque
I drained life of its fullness...
not pricing its worthiness,
leaving nicks in the prime of youth:
deceitful tricks to ignore every truth.
I imitated parody to conceal identity,
thus making it forgery my priority;
and the masked nobleman acted out his
infamous burlesque play, ridiculing Fay...
knowing that her unrhymed lines
were intently borrowed from clowns,
not from gifted writers with clever minds;
did they bray when they were blamed for the delay?
My intent was not a merited Godsent or lofty thought
perceived by a gladiator who held the wilt
of his sword proportioned to his solid built,
but rather ridden by a guilt which had a powerful force to jilt
me when I was reduced to tears by my peers for my peculiar tilt.
Written on 12/12/2016
Categories:
forgery, betrayal, emotions, heartbreak, life,
Form:
Alliteration
I don’t remember happy
It’s been gone awhile
I smile to convince myself
But it’s like lying on cold tiles
I wonder at which point
I lost my giggle and my grin
When did the switch flip
It can’t be gone because of him
I like to pretend
The truth is a wall of armory
But the words are from a book I didn’t read
The story you told must have been a forgery
Familiar is a script on rerun
And your circus is just passing through
Except your tricks are fancy
Got me lost without a clue
How did you get in
My hustle must have stumbled
Soul searching
Chasing after trouble
What happened to my Peter Pan
He wasn’t supposed to leave
Now he’s off hunting
Going back upstream
The treasure that you're after
It’s exactly what it used to be
The map's the same
You think you’ll find something you didn’t see
Hope floats
And wishes wash away
Some gifts just have pretty paper
But mainly they’re a waste
Wrap your expectations up
Stop running to hide
Turn your back and eliminate her
The other is teary-eyed
Now all I have is memories
Alcoholic dreams
Hazy days that rolled away
Summer heat reveries
I watched you sip my secrets
Mix emotions in your drinks
Let me believe empty security
Nothing more than just a glimpse
Categories:
forgery, conflict, desire, emotions, jealousy,
Form:
Couplet
Echo world behind the glass,
I make the same faces I did at twelve.
The grinning Cheshire Cat
with teeth like piano keys,
mendacious and coy
because viewing my portrait with sobriety
forces me to march with familiar frailties.
I’m certain my gravitas is a forgery.
I am sure my laments and torments are
playacted animation.
Their drama is loathsome.
Instead, I turn my left eye toward my nose
while keeping the right straight.
This contortion masks multiple blemishes.
I summon my childhood buffoon, making
self-mockery hide all my impairments.
Concealing them by exposing them,
I become the object of my own joke.
What guise can be greater?
I am Charlie Chaplin getting kicked in the rear.
I am Soupy Sales hit by a sloppy pie.
With this impression, I never need to try.
Flashbacks on the wall.
They all die like Curly Howard.
Laughter is short-lived glee,
after which the spirit secretly craves.
My life is made of printed images
on a carnival tent.
Memory fragments are all I hold,
each enlisting some particle of my journey.
Yet with this, I find another way to fit into
a clown car,
another way to do my pratfalls,
another way to get my pants pulled down.
Accepted for publication: The Opiate, Spring 2024
Categories:
forgery, character, funny, humor, image,
Form:
Free verse
The king is dead! Long live the king!
History of rulers is no different from ordinary mortals,
The crowns and kohinoors travel from one head to another uneasier head.
Emperors, Monarchs, Kings, Pharaohs abdicated
By methods natural and unnatural,
Thrones usurped, kingdoms conquered, succession relinquished,
For the joy of wealth, and its superpowers that comes in accompaniment,
And then leaving it all to turn to ruin with their own sudden deaths.
Greed, fraud, forgery, continues with its undying hunger,
Kith and kin scoffed, rebuffed and disowned from their own rights,
Temporal power is misconceived by these mortal gods,
Ethics and integrity scaled down by their unregretful smirky smiles
And then these Mammons roll on and swim in this new founded wealth,
For they know not Gods do watch them, and with one hack will level it all.
Balveen Cheema
August 20, 2015
Categories:
forgery, death, history, imagery, men,
Form:
Didactic
I sit here upon my rock
along the urban trail,
reflecting on the night just passed.
I'm a teacher, you see, and
a good one, I know.
But I have to think and wonder
just what it is, I know,
and whether it is worth,
passing on.
The night that's just passed,
marked the semester's end,
and as the students processed
out of the final test,
I shook their hands,
and wished them well.
I received their thanks and
compliments,
and gave back,
appreciative thoughts.
I have been through this exercise,
so many times,
that I feel almost,
a forgery.
A mockery, a raving stereotype,
a Mister Chips,"To Sir with Love",
a pompous flackery, who's
just completed a song and dance,
a maya illusion,
with a cursed ability to portray
a past that
never was.
Categories:
forgery, conflict,
Form:
Free verse
A Wandering Boy with a Song in His Pocket
Arabic Poem by: Salman Dawood Mohammed
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================
(5)
Just like the wind
I drive out loneliness of an empty bench for two...
And, like a curfew, I mourn pedestrians’ noise;
And as a shirt hanging on a laundry line,
I drip down, with all my moisture, on the surface of your days
And curse the cloud standing in the queue of ablution.
Then, I hate
Music,
The guards,
The law,
College students’ uniforms,
And astronauts;
And I dislike my life!
That all developed in the centennial commemoration of my wilting,
Amidst an assembly of militias and tambourines
Endorsing the funeral procession of my lamps
In the alleys
Of your absence.
***
(6) deleted
****
(7)
Housewives,
Hawkers,
The Ministry of love,
Tramps,
College youngsters,
Thieves,
Guests of No-Stars hotels,
Songs,
Traffic controllers,
Victims of the national anthem,
Train drivers,
Bin Laden,
Weather report announcers,
Gilgamesh,
Jurists,
Speech writers for the President,
Drunks,
And my mother,
All,
All shouted to my face:
“Don’t do it, O crazy! Or else you will die!”
But
O Glory!
I did it
And...
I fell in love with you!
***
(8)
Rest assured
After you, I wouldn’t be alone
A labyrinth is a home
And footsteps a family.
***
(9)
Your desertion, the deep rooted in wilting,
Is like a nail untouched by hammers;
Here it is, with its only sharp tooth,
Signing the deeds of tears
On the body of waiting.
Your painful desertion
Has pulverized me
Sincerely...
Hence, I saluted the remaining ashes of my burning with you,
Then
I lay on my blood
On
The heart of sunset
And
I ..... Died!
***
(10)
I loved you and went on
Just like a cloud skipping school.
I strewed my shirt buttons on your fields
And let down science class;
So my rain couldn’t be in a bottle anymore
And the road leading to you
Is no more a battle field
Or a bird market;
But
My soul is pouring down on you
And my hand
Stands
..
..
An umbrella.
***
(11)
The teacher said: “Draw a human heart.”
I laid a kiss on your palm,
And locked it in with the softness of your fingers.
The teacher is now in the recovery room
And I am
Accused
Of forgery.
****
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
* Salman Dawood Mohammed. A poet from Iraq
Categories:
forgery,
Form:
Prose Poetry
It came to me as a complete surprise
Like finding out my own signature was a forgery
Or like getting sued for slander of my own name
When I wrote my auto-biography under my alias
Or finding out my own life story
Was considered plagiarisms because I lived in my own world
Concocted from bits and pieces of everything I liked.
As shocking as it was to me
And everyone around me who knew I didn't forge anything
And that Lydia Wyverne was the same as I
And that my life story was nothing but truth,
I continued on with it
Because love isn't supposed to make sense anyway.
Categories:
forgery, love, mysterylife, me,
Form:
Free verse
Freedom asserted, freedom elevated
At the price of abandoning trivia
Jettisoning frills in the context of flights coveted
When whites and nights turn cold and Sylvia
Despite her brown complexion tolerates ebony skin
Rating it high, far above the artificial allure
Derived from immersion in complexion creams locked up in a bin
Sylvia suggests promotes the lure
Freedom denies to plastic surgery
That disfigures natural beauty ensnaring it into a belief
That brown skin defeats dark skin although beauty forgery
Elevates creepy kingship of mischief
Meant to deny dark beauty its place under the sun
Where African men and women turn away from their nature
To adopt and coopt artificial beauty not just for fun
But also for keeps and the contemporary culture
That invades and pervades Africa from rejection of traditional meals
Traditional attire, primacy of the mother tongue
To the adoption of intrusive Western languages and frills
Which rob Africans of their identity and slang
Until Africans know not where they belong
Being neither fully westernized nor fully Africanized
Like when expectant mothers deem it wrong to don oblong
Maternity dresses in favour of balkanized
Fashion whose promotion and commotion don’t augur
Well for the short term, midterm and long term
Plunging Africans into a perennial quandary and conundrum which figure
High among inconsistencies that squirm in an African misculture worm.
Categories:
forgery, poems, , western,
Form:
Free verse