Best Formalities Poems
O’ Jealousy
SORRY FOR THE BROKEN
LINES- EACH SINGLE
LINE ENDS WITH A
COMMA.
O’ Jealousy how
wonderful You are,
You sow the seeds of
hatred,
So deep,
Often even,
In an innocent
heart,
That friendship,
love and sympathy,
Began to seize
slowly,
By the charm of your
tempting arts.
You create doubts,
To watering the
plants of hatred,
Which slowly grows,
On the fertile land
of mind,
But soon,
Its roots began to
find,
Their pores,
In the soft corner
of hearts,
And then one day,
It takes into its
clutches,
Even the most
liberal part of our
hearts.
I salute thee, O’
Jealousy,
As you live in every
heart,
And began to show
your colors,
Irrespective of age,
regions and bars,
In every land of
this Earth,
Even high in the sky
and the heaven,
You live and bloom
in every season,
You move from one
end to another,
So swiftly and so
fast,
Without the
formalities,
Of any permission,
And without the need
of any pass,
No sky can limit
your boundaries,
No heart can torn
you apart.
No one in the entire
universe,
Has the power to
make you stop,
Sooner or later we
all succumbs,
In the traps of your
alluring arts,
How beautiful and
catching,
You weave a story,
To trap the poor
hearts,
How magnificently
you wait,
For the prey to play
in your hands,
And to see its great
fall,
While singing the
same tune and songs,
Which you have
weaved,
Through your master
craftsmanship,
For the poor soul
and hearts.
For this reason,
I salute you,
O’ most beautiful
jealously,
As you are a
beloved,
Of everyone’s heart.
Please be merciful
on me,
And leave me without
your shines,
In my heart,
In lieu of this,
I promise to praise
thee in my arts,
O’ jealousy, how
wonderful you are.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 30th
Aug. 2014
Note: "THE BROKEN
LINES MAY DEFORM THE
POEM
WHICH OFTEN HAPPENS
WHILE PLACING THE
POEM
ON POETRY SOUP" Hope
this technical
problem would
be checked by the
Poetry Soup Team.
Ravindra K Kapoor
31st Aug. 2014
That slow and spectacular gait of a bride
Brimming as she is with nuptial pride
With grace and beauty each regal stride
as invitees whisper, 'here comes the bride'.
She for her big day so perfectly embellished
Her love-match said to be divinely predestined.
On their big day even the plain-faced, homely ones
turn into comely beauties
A magical day as it is, of rituals and formalities.
All the fuss and pomp, she almost feels like a queen
Her glamour thus showcased, with praise dön't be mean.
Attired in any hue, rose-red or even snow-white
She glows with an aura of pure holy sacred light.
Many overawed by the debut of her bridal charm
Yet, watch out O' newly weds for any evil eye's harm.
For the pinnacle of her womanly splendour and beauty
is now upon coveted passion's pedestal and apogee
She on stage now with only love's trophy and token
Just graduating from spinsterhood, to disappear the maiden!
As the center of attention, she turns into an actress
Her emotions under zoom lens, a bit easier to guess
For close-ups she knows she has to impress.
Some coy, some bashful, some hiding joy in the heart of hearts
With cameras clicking, drums beating, her new life starts
I live in North East Florida
That's just a hop, skip, and a jump
From the land known as Georgia
Where "Honey Boo Boo" once held court with her mom
If'n you never knew "Honey Boo Boo"
You're in for a treat or more than one
She was a multi car train wreak
That you couldn't turn your bugged eyes away from
First let me explain the state of Georgia
So this family ya'll will understand
Not long ago they re-dirted both paved roads
Said progress was getting way out of hand
So with that said and done son
With formalities out of the way
Lets turn our attention back to our star attraction
And see what all she had to say
Her fame started out on Toddlers & Tiaras
Reality shows we all seem to love
From The Crazed Housewives to The Kardashion's
America can not get enough
And since it's on T.V. it's gotta be true
Did you ever try her drink sensation
Of Red Bull and Mountain Dew, she liked to call "Go Go Juice"
It'll put hair on your derriere for extra pad in relaxation
And who wouldn't want to see a six year old
With that kind of Hellacious Buzz
What went through my mind when I looked at it was
Ahhh, Redneck Motherly Love
So now do you redneckonize her
Where all I just said is quite true
A dolla used to make her holla!
I sure miss "Honey Boo Boo" on the Boob Tube
As I'm sure all of you do too...
"Having grown up in an idyllic village, I consider myself as blessed. I was rid of all rigid formalities of urban living. Enjoyed the artless innocence of countryfolks, breathed fresh air, occasionally pranced through wilderness, talking to wildflowers and butterflies" - By Poet
There’s nothing like the lovely rustic charm,
Sent out by far flung lush green country farm.
Where trees in glee sweep heaven with their crown,
And songbirds, the surrounding valley drown.
There the air, fresh and sweet like forest glade,
And Heaven blesses rich, the country wide.
Where the rural folk in their toil and pride,
With their artless and modest life reside.
To such idyllic bliss, I long to go,
Where life like a silent river shall flow.
Whenever I said green light, you said red
Light, fighting back with a smile on your face;
Racing hearts chased each other to keep pace
With the words that had already been said.
Through all of the formalities, I sped,
Dead set on letting my hand reach that space
Between left and right lanes; The only place
A man, just like me, could truly be fed.
As the beginning of your end drew near,
The truth about my true intentions leaked;
"FIRE TRUCKS NEVER STOP FOR RED LIGHTS..DEAR!"
While being left without a word to speak,
I, too, began to whisper in your ear,
"Remember 'INNOCENCE IS FOR THE WEAK'!"
In the eye of the hurricane, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : En el ojo del hurracan
(Ninth in the collection : Metafora del Desafuero, published – according to the editor, Alejandro
Duque Amusco – not in 1988, but in 1989, was awarded the « Premio Nacional de Poésia »
for 1989, on May 28, 1990. Bousono, as in these later free verse compositions, shows how
well he manages the long-breathed line, a clear contrast to the compact and elliptical earlier
verse, say, of the collection : Subida al amor. T. Wignesan)
The creatures of plenitude situated themselves holding their silence, the thrones of
inexplicability, exactly, therefore, in the very centre of the eye of the hurricane :
that doors be blown asunder, that windows be blown away,
that agonizing bodies in makeshift beds be smothered into oblivion,
half-dead widows, postmen who half-way in the act of delivering
the love letter which would definitely render us joyful,
the seat where the poor old grandmother was in the act of sitting
while sewing
the newly-born baby’s pony-tailed bonnet which turned around half-
way in the gusts,
the hurricane which uplifted love and all that was left of love :
letters, papers, leaves
of music,
lovers in coitus at the orgiastic acmé and the light,
when it began to dawn,
when the saxophone cleared its throat and commenced the beat of the
dance,
when everything on the stage in its place awaited the raising of the
curtain,
when the wedding was at the point of being consecrated, and the
priest was ready to offer his benediction : « el ite misa est »,
when within the following few moments the inexorable
ceremonial of the written formalities was about to be concluded
then, as I said,
and only then,
the hurricane unleashed its violence with rage, the incomprehensible
hurricane, and there stood still only the immoveable lucid eye,
separate, eminent, complete in its entire being, that by force of its
profundity had ascended to the exact point where it could
redeem its guilt,
the eye of reconciliation,
the eye of wisdom and suave serenity,
where the intact and silenced world sang
adorable and yet so beautiful without us,
necessary pretexts, notwithstanding, of its musical nature.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
2
Bourne loosely through the chill gusts,
Disordered fragments of summer's life go hurried by,
Harried to their last resting places
Into piles of brittle, browning drifts
Scattered on stiffening ground.
A cold sun, coursing ever more briefly
Across these hard, blue-white skies,
Presides above a sleeping landscape steeped in dying hues,
The last fanfare of the greens of life
Draining now into starkness
As nature sheds her flesh and slows
To pose in cold stillness between her cycles
Of life and death,
Waiting, now Winter's uncertain, barren bride.
In the house where the anger rang against the walls
Red thoughts of their minds have burnt away
To leave behind that sour feeling
That sinks to sorrow
Now pride has stepped in to break the bridges
Of charity they might have built back to one another.
Between them those virtues which bind us all together,
The formalities and incidents
The long parade of small things that make up a shared life,
Go on together as always, in smooth procession day to day
The image of harmony exists,
Though not its substance.
They know from this the weight of awkward silences
Falling between them now and again
Dropping like stones into the deepening pools
Of unspoken discontents forming in their hearts;
Ripples of sadness climbing in widening rings
To skim the surfaces of their speech
As breezes blown down through the sapphire sky
Tear the detritus of summer's corpse from its enfeebled moorings;
Fling the bits of yesterday's blazing beauty
Into pell-mell drifts against foundations, sills,
As spark-scattered frosts gather more thickly
With every lengthening night.
If only we could fly like
those that tweet or hoot
without aid of jet or
parachute
For I sure don't like
wings that roar
just so that they take off
and soar
Ah to fly without diesel
or fuel
Oh to halt that midair
duel
Birds they don't pollute
the air
nor need they any airline
fare
So if only I too could rise
and glide
and let the wind be my
sole guide
I'd be happy to fly all the
way to 'em' stars
if I was assured I'd risk
no charred scars.
Flying without aviation
formalities
I could be sightseeing
many more cities
Ah I so wish to fly just
like a jay or jackdaw
Then I'd fly across all and
every border
For I'd know nor follow
no man-made law!
I’M STILL WALKING TO YOUR HEART - THE REPLY
The faint sound of footsteps lightly plays in the back of my mind,
Like an old song being swallowed by the sound of the rain
I recall your mouth close to my ear sweetly whispering words that left me lightheaded
I felt like a soul drowning in the vibrations of loud music
inebriated by the feel, addicted to the high
Have you told me that I’m beautiful lately?
Do you not see how I hang on to your every syllable?
The way I coil into your tombstone of arms where I have laid my heart to rest.
I used to call you Egypt
How my Nile would flow just from your touch
Letting out a river of melodies only angels can hear,
You never felt like captivity; you my love were the Promised Land
And I...
I was love’s slave to your every command
Have you told me that I’m beautiful lately?
Or have I become the routine you would rather avoid,
A conversation too hollow to be anything more than formalities,
You still call me baby but I have never felt further away from your heart
I never pictured that this is how we would depart out of our wholeness
My heart pushed out with no harness
Just good morning baby(s)
Like a reflex you would rather do without
Have you told me that I’m beautiful lately?
Or you’re waiting for that precise moment when heart ache meets courage and I finally understand what it means to leave
And living my life without you feels like a myth again
Your morning messages become the beat to my heart again,
And once again
I remain, wandering in the murky waters of your heart...
I wrote this as a response to my dear friend's poem titled "I am still walking to your heart"
Quickly
Open suggestively
Thought take accusations
Anomalies
Bench faking
Distorted trees
Open baskets
Caskets
Deeply seed
Close proportionally
Who to be
Watched washed criminally
Minded law orders
Gavel pounding heart beat
Engaging ceremonies streets
Blue red purple stories
Back lash freaks
Bullet scraping
Rimmed concrete
Who to be
Soaked tears adolescence
Skipping detention
Rattle thieves
Bees were is at straight
Con-formalities
Body counting
Recognition
Who that
Be
bags are packed cautiously locked
ready to go
car trip to airport feels cramped
emotions plateau
weigh-in and check-in formalities
extremely slow
final good-byes security scrutiny
passport control
departure clock promising leaving
on time
heavy hand luggage warily tolerate
anticipate crime
boarding claustrophobic cramped space
aisles align
narrowed encumbering burdens as
knees decline
seating accomplished a major feat
companion random
anticipate take off adrenalin rush
stresses abandon
safety procedures inevitably commence
accidents happen
relief as drinks trolley heads my direction
air-travel rescue wagon
© September 2013- Kim van Breda
As I waited on the Constable I wondered why the
gate was open and the front door locked, by whom?
The Constable arrived blowing his horn at the front gate
in an old Dodge pick up, real old Dodge Pick up
It looked as though the whole bed was full of wood,
God I don't need that much, I thought to myself
Howdy Thar Richard, he said in that Maine drawl
I brought your wood for ya, take what ya need
Tell me Richard, you shur ya want to do this?
never too late ta change tour mind ya know
To go home I mean, no one bendin your arm here
No Constable, I'm sure I want to check this place out
Names Arlin, Arlin Danforth, though most folks call
me Zeeke, Thats what you can call me too, if ya like
Neva been a man set on formalities and all
Sounds good...Zeeke, I'm Rick as we shook hands
We finished loading the firewood in my SUV, I took
about half, and told him thanks a lot for the wood
If ya need anything else, give me a call on that portable
phone ya got thar, with that he left, in that old Dodge
When I arrived back at the front door, I went up
the porch fumbling with the key Zeeke just gave me
for the door, and found it not only unlocked, but open
about two inches, The same door I knew was locked.
So it begins, at that point I figured I had best retrieve
my EMF meter and take a look around a bit, before bringing
my things in the house. My EMF ( Electro-magnetic field)
meter was turned on and ready, just in case, well ya know
If there was any paranormal activity going on around
me it would light up in a flash, it had seven lights depending
on the level of activity, with no lectricity as Zeeke would say
any reading it showed would be subject to investigation
To my right was a staircase winding it's way up stairs
with a window (uncovered) about the only one, lighting
up most of the area, and most of the entry way
as I grew near the staircase the meter sounded, four out of seven.
Well now!
To be continued
Sitting on the edge
of a broken relationship
reflecting on the occasional
warmth of togetherness
and plenty of sad, feelings of being let down
jilted and miffed, I struggled to let go.
Faintly saw an invisible force
flickering inside, weakly trying to hold
the corners of my inner self
nudging me to forget the past
and move on bravely
for I had wished or done no harm ever to anyone,
what to talk of near ones.
Instead, it hinted me to be thankful
to the revealing events that
brought the naked truth to fore
that showed in clear light falseness,
pretentions of affection, friendship, love
that required burdensome formalities
to carry on a complex relationship
reaching to nowhere.
It nagged me to stop wasting my precious
time, energy, thoughts and love
hoping against hope that maybe
things would be alright, soon
and chasing the bygone memories
which have pained and hurt
and tended to make me feel weak.
It also implored me to seek
simple, firmer, newer relationship,
where affection flowed freely and openly
to and fro, without causing feeling of guilt
to be confident of the goodness within oneself
and see it blossom and flower
bringing smiles and cheer
in the lives of others and self.
A recognition of self-respect took roots
somewhere down inside
and the faint ray of hope sprouted
freshness in my heart and mind
I madly clung on to the sane inner voice
and shedding the fear of
what others would think of me
I walked back to life
with a spring in my feet, forever.
06.01.2015
I was around fourteen when the charms of girls began to beckon,
And I was about fifteen when I had my first date, I would reckon.
'Way back then there were certain rituals that must be observed,
Some of which left me quite baffled and somewhat unnerved!
The evening must be perfect so I wore a suit and tie.
Shoes were shined and greasy Vitalis to my hair I'd apply!
Peach fuzz was plucked and I fairly reeked of Old Spice.
The car was washed and waxed to further her entice!
This too was her first date and things must be just right.
She'd had a snit with her Ma thinking her hair was a fright!
But she looked divine in her hat, gloves and flowered frock!
Her Pa's parting shot, "You git her home by ten o'clock!"
When I called for her I daren't sit and toot the horn.
That would've heaped upon my brow her folks' eternal scorn!
So, I meekly sidled up and timidly tapped upon the door.
Met by her scowling Pa who said, "Who's this skinny boor?"
My grandkids tell me there's no such formalities nowadays,
And wearing jeans and mutilating body rings is all the craze.
I'm told a great date is to hang out with friends at the local mall.
I guess I was born too soon! I just don't understand that at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Frank H "First Date" Contest
Sometimes I wonder if I use poetry as a crutch
To my emotions broken limbs
As if poetry is an outpatient outlet for my informative formalities
Passive aggressive tendencies
Rhyme disease
My apologies, I seem to forget the apostrophes
Like symbolic catastrophe
Heartache rhinoplasty
Augmentation of my weaknesses
I contain in my vial the audacity
Squirting literary illness on healthy bodies and souls
Because we're all dying,
And just trying to stay beautiful
-Jess