Best Forgo Poems
He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.
Since Mexico cast off the French
Make sure a Corona to clench
And forgo the Merlot
On Cinco de Mayo
But buy beer which can a thirst quench
I wished to ascend,
so I called a friend,
who knew of such things
and how to grow wings.
‘God’s abode’s within’,
he said, ‘so begin,
by simply choosing,
head and heart, fusing’.
‘Each impulse distil,
aligned with His will’.
So I set out thus,
aboard God’s love bus.
I reached heaven’s gate
and there chose to wait,
for the gate was locked,
so I stood there docked.
A voice then affirmed
that I’d have discerned,
the gate’s my ego,
which I must forgo.
Once there’s no blockage
and no desires rage,
cleansed of every sin,
I may then walk in.
I cowered in fear,
for my life was dear.
What’s left, if I die?
Is heaven, a lie?
Conscience egged me on,
ego shorn, reborn,
the false dropped away;
I saw then God’s play!
I was living light,
shining day and night.
The gate was but thought,
fears, ego begot.
The manifest world,
but intent unfurled,
to know all are one,
each being God’s son.
Life’s a lucid dream,
where thought forms do stream.
To exit this game,
simply take God’s name.
The rot’s sunk in deep.
How long will we sleep?
There’s no gate, dear friend.
Vaporise! Ascend!
23-June-2022
One In Five Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Syllables: HMS
Locked in her tower our heroine sleeps alone
This beautiful flower has been kidnapped from her throne
She stares at the moonlight then drifts off to sleep
To dream of a brave knight scaling the castles keep.
Her flaxen hair frames her delicate ivory skin
Vivid dreams of her hero reveal her beauty within
Steadfast and strong and ready to fight to the death
To rescue this beauty he will forgo his last breath.
Her chivalrous knight enters the abductors domain
Soon she'll taste the sweetness of freedom again.
His shield raised high and broadsword drawn
With every step he takes, for her hope is reborn
Caught off guard with a blow he is swept of his feet
He fights blindly on until his quest is complete
To vanquish the captors is his goal and last wish
Sweep the princess off her feet with a tender kiss
He slashes the ropes that bind her to the bed
Making passionate love for hours now they are happily wed
19th May 2014
Written By Jan Allison & Darren Watson
~submitted to Dave Wood's Imagination Contest~
Awarded 1st place - am so delighted to have won this with Darren he
is my inspiration
For months I’ve partitioned – sectored my strife
Trying to determine – wrong from the right
Clinging to bits – healing the bytes
Moving and changing – formatting new life
My career crashed – with it my dreams
Memory erased – circuits burned clean
Connection to love – garbled and crossed
Power was fading – all color lost
A new system needed – more power and thrill
New creativity – speed and the skill
Designing new backup – restoring my line
Application of will – turn tables on time
Tap my known current – discarding old woes
Erase obsolete system – vanquish all foes
Move to the center – empower self trust
Stun all the comers – lightning fast thrust
No longer lie down – and wait for the call
Stand up and fight – pin them to the wall
Knowing I’m better – than any machine
Time to arise – from a protracted dream
And so I forgo – all advice of claimed best
Listen inside – put myself to the test
It’s hard but I’m winning – getting better by day
Pain is less troubling – I’ll continue this way
Muffins, Doritos and Cheetos, Oh My! (A Bulimic’s Tale)
There is a hole in her core she must sate.
So, she drives to the grocery store before it’s too late.
She steers the cart in search of junk food.
She spots a case of cupcakes that can ease her mood.
Powdered donuts on a shelf she can reach.
Next, she chooses Bottled sodas, she packs up five each.
Muffins, Doritos, Cheetos, Funyuns and Snickers she will par-take.
She must not forget about the Little Debbie snack cakes.
Once the cashier starts scanning her vittles,
She starts to feel a tingly rush form in her middle.
She pays her fee then rushes to her vehicle parked afar
Then unloads the groceries on the passenger seat of the car.
As she sits behind her steering wheel.
She appraises her edible saviors, then makes her appeal
She starts with the Snickers shoving them down her throat,
The empty void inside her fills as she lets out a choke.
The Funyuns and muffins are next on her seat.
She devours them in seconds, puffing up her cheeks.
Doritos, Cheetos and snack cakes are inhaled like oxygen,
She is slightly starting to feel whole again.
The cupcakes are the last morsels of her stock
She washes them down with the soda she bought.
When the food is gone she observes the food wrappers in her space.
She glances in the rear view mirror but fails to recognize her face.
Powdered sugar and Cheeto dust crusting around her lips,
A sob escapes her chest as sanity begins to slip.
There is one more mission she must forgo
Opening her car door, she shoves a finger down her throat.
Vomit is released from her belly’s lair.
Stomach acid and bile sting the night air.
She appraises the regurgitation splattered on the concrete.
Then senses the empty void is gone, her task is complete.
Famished and flagging footsoldiers;
formerly fitters and farmers.
Facing fatigue, fitful fever,
faeces and foul, foetid fungi.
Fostering feelings, frustrated,
for this faraway, foreign field.
Forsaking fissures and furrows,
forced forwards with fleetness of foot.
Firearms flash and fragments fly far,
feigning the firmament aflame.
Fighting so fierce and ferocious,
fratricide set free on this field.
Fuelled by freedom, nay, falsehood;
for their fellows and friends, foremost.
Forays so fraught with fine failure,
fatally fettered from the first.
Forged by such fatuous fawners,
focus firmly fixed on this field.
Forfeiting furtive and fiendish,
fulfilment was falsely forecast.
Fate flexes her fickle fingers,
future’s foretold and foreshadowed.
Faustian favours forthcoming,
for folly to feud for a field.
Families of fine forefathers,
fought fiercely, for fear we’d forget.
Forthright and filial feelings,
forgo fun and frivolity.
Familiar flora forms focus,
for the fallen in Flanders Field.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
8 syallables on every line (www.howmanysyllables.com)
November 2018
(This is my original / extended version)
I wanted to do something special - and a bit different - to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War (11 November 1918). This poem is dedicated to all the brave souls lost defending freedom during that terrible conflict (and all conflicts since).
It is a well-known fact, said Aristotle
and many a priest that threaten the inferno,
‘Give me a child before the age of seven’
Today society taking the old ways to a new height
‘And I’ll give you a programmable mind set.’
life, now a highway, from the earliest age a one-track road
littered along the hard shoulder with broken down expressions,
when to fuel a rapid growing band of experts,
driven along the assemble line of psychoanalyst,
a vital part of the skulduggery?
Striving for intellect is not in everyone’s script
where all are pressurized to achieve, and many children
are having to forgo that precious period of life,
for the sake of another’s ego.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
This heart it knows no boundaries
This simple truth I know
Let not your tender heart be troubled
I would not let you go.
Your charm draws me to your shores
In sunbeams of your fulgent glow
This truth: My heart your love adores
I would not let you go.
As time may fleet and seasons die
These words I'd have you know
If health may bid our lives goodbye
I would not let you go.
Whatever joy may bless these eyes
Whatever dark our lives may blow
I shall but love you in every sunrise
I would not let you go.
And in my life your charms embrace
Like flowers our love would grow
And in earths light your Angels face
I would not let you go.
You have touched my heart so bright
For you my dreams I'd forgo
Thro' tears, thro' joys and blackest night
I would not let you go.
Poetry on trial?
I’m going to indict poetry, for infecting my soul
Does it serve any purpose, or has it lost control
This may seem quiet strange, perhaps unorthodox
Peruse this if you will, whilst it’s head layeth on the block
No need for a foundation, build it in the clouds
But it does require structure, interwoven by shrouds
Mocks me with Humpty Dumpty, as my life falls to bits
Sends me down a path, of bifurcation and twists.
Yes poetry is stealthy, it attacks from every side
Attempting to outflank you, then pounces in surprise
Soon levity returns, it wants to chill you out
Where did this come from, shaketh your head in doubt.
Bow before it in deference, or leap into the sky
Cut to pieces on razor wire, see the birds that flyeth by
Pit Romeo and Lothario, in a competition of charms
Find a new born baby, dead in its mother’s arms.
Send shivers down ones spine, Hairs stand on your neck
Deal out a winning hand, then rearrange the deck
Be a photon of light, amongst trillions on our sun,
Reminisce ole times, when life beheld such fun.
Be scarred by it’s violence, Drawn into the mystique,
Blown away by the punchline, The havoc it can wreak
Drown in melancholy, or bathe in its delight
Overcome tragic heartbreak, awestruck by it’s might.
Empathize with the poor, in their cornucopia of dirt,
Curse the wealthy no better, in their hubris of self-worth,
Surrounded by loved ones, on your terminal breath,
Then Cryo-frozen in a machine, trying to forgo death.
So yes I’ve tried poetry, it was given a fair trial
Now to pass sentence, and do so, with some style
I condemn it to life, with no chance of parole
Simultaneously I grant pardon, for it’s me who lost control.
By
David Kavanagh
The Candles on the Birthday Cake
By Franklin Price
4/23/2019
The Candles on the birthday cake
One for each and every year
We light them just to blow them out
With friends and family near
When young, it makes us happy
Blowing candles not a feat
Can put them out with just one breath
Don't have to watch the cake we eat
Years pass by and candles grow
Takes many matches to be lit
For the birthday celebration,
On the cake, they barely fit
When we get to middle age
And we're forty-five or more
We substitute the birthday candles
For birthday numbers from the store
The numbers also candles
With just one wick on top
When we extinguish only two
They're out and we can stop
Once we're over seventy
Blowing two is still a bit
So we forgo the candles
And have a drink to get us lit
Barb you're in this group with me
Only two years, not a lot
We don't do candles any more
Is here an interest in a shot?
Happy 71st birthday
You're still 23 to me
Love, Frank
He deems the ways and dares to understand,
a measure of a love that went astray,
from libelled forces, which compelled his hand,
to lies, and morals left to slow decay.
No one forgo or risk refute her right,
a stubborn choice is seldom steered by sense.
To cease callow mishaps from leaving blight .
sound case to aid her act of self-defence.
Yet, who can purge despair from a man’s soul,
who boldly baulked against such mortal deed?
His choice dismissed as outside his control,
no matter pleading creed, indeed, his breed.
Such anguish will forever convolute
because abstracts are never absolute.
06.27.21
You are free to choose, but you are not free to alter the consequences of your decision
– Ezra Taft Benson (politician)
PoetrySoup …
I Was Heartily Welcomed… As I Sat At Your Table
By: Carol, Sara, Carolyn, Dane Anne, Moses, and Abel
Tim, Leon, John, Michael, Jim and Yoni
Deborah, Krista, Adeleke and Charlie
… James, The (Two) Ruben(s) and (The Quik-Composer) Raul
… and Many, Many More, I Love to Hear At Dinner-Call !
The PoetrySoup …
… It Has Member – Mushrooms
Chew and Chat Lunchrooms
Delectable Hors d'oeuvre
Every Ear-Full… Heard
Every Mouthful… Taste
Spoonful of Gourmet Grace
Voila’ Words, Don’t Waste
Simmer-Slow and Baste’
In Dug-up, Sweet Potatoes
Ripe Food for Thought Tomatoes
And Onions, That Will Make You Cry
Artichokes and Lemons that Squeeze – ‘til You Die
Garlic and Oregano Are Just Some Suggestions
And Here’s Some Mint… for Your Digestion
Parsley to Parley and Jive-Chives, Just Keep Stirring
But There’s No Clam Chowder, Shrimp, or Herring
A Dash of This… A Dash of That Seasoning
A Pinch of That and Sprinkle This Reasoning…
On The Side with the Mustard and Relish, so Fresh
Are the Cucumber-Contest and Radish Requests
And I Can’t Forgo the Tongue-in-Cheek Puns…
Your Laughter is Passed Around, like Hot-Buttered Buns !
… Poets … Are Proverbial Peas In The Pod
The Harvesters of Herbs-Heard, in The Garden of God
so... Salt and Pepper to Your Superb Style
Did You Say Cheese, Please ?... ( Full Mouth Smile !)
There’s Hot Chicken Broth, When You Are Cold
Everybody Knows… Its Good For The Soul
And All That’s On The Human Menu… It’s In There !
… Even A Mother’s … Tenderized Care
Like Campbell’s Brand… Its Umm… Umm… Good !
The Aspire – Asparagus, I Took… I Understood
So, PoetrySoup’s Cupboard is Never Bare
And There Ain’t No Bones, No Medium, Just Rare
And On The Star-Burner… Is The Savory Meat
So… Grab A Heartbeat-Bowl… and Bona Petit’…
Yes, Thank You, PoetrySoup
(You’re Up There with MoonBee’s FruitLoops !)
It Has Been A Pleasure Getting To Know You All
Thru Your Beautiful Expressions, Coming Straight
From Your Warm and Welcoming Hearts
God Bless You......
MoonBee
In these Days, We prayed series...
The 7enth innatemeditation
REASON
Brethren,
Do we believe that the same God,
Who has endowed us
With sense, intellect and Reason
Has intended us to forgo their use?
Thus,
A wise man who tells another he's wiser
Is indeed wise.
A man who wishes another good fortune
Is blessed with many fortunes,
Go ask a fortune teller.
A good woman once told my forebears
That a belle with a gladden heart
Was called maryglad in the OLD religion.
A preacher man in his thoughts
Is holy and righteous.
So he is therefore clean and spotless
Like the Lamb of God.
Well the few who knows this truth live peacefully
And Let his congregations argue with reason.
Is he not the son of God they know?
An angel (Reason) told me that the judgement
We face is writ
If only we chose to believe it.
He continued '
God loves man too much
To condemn him to eternal damnation'.
I then asked
"Why does the preacher man
keep this part a secret?"
He replied 'cause men have lost their ways,
And their little hearts are full of hatred'
A countryman who condoles mad rulership,
For greed and personal gains is himself mad.
Know that no man is born content
Religion and the constitution gives him
All he can ever ask for.
After all what else could a man ask for.
At the break of dawn
The night worker is again alive.
Last night, he died to self and lived
Sub consciously for his employer.
Don't argue with reason
Go ask a night guard.
Godwin henry osaigbovo pa shakespeare