Best Furiously Poems
Staying near to light my way
now that there is no more day
You're needed to so brightly burn
before to black ashes you return
Flames dance high upon your wick
and fall across the well-worn brick
Like those flames once in the hearth
when you go out there is no rebirth
My mind alight with persistent thought
beaming from an inspiration caught
In ink my quill takes another dip
my eyes watch your melting wax drip
Furiously now my script does flow
to finish the lines before out you go
I can do no more, there is no time
my slowing pen can no longer rhyme
The ink still wet, not even dry
as your glow continues to die
Words on the page begin to fade
while creeping darkness starts to shade
Wax and ink overtaken by night
and devours all your candle's light.
Sarah’s Story - Mental Illness
Sarah, the “Crazy Lady,” was a familiar sight,
roaming the streets any time of day or night.
Her foul body odor announced her presence,
as she paraded around in her filthy, smelly garments.
Walking barefoot regardless of the weather,
in her state of mind, she couldn’t do better.
Children teased and made fun of Sarah,
reciting ridiculing ditties, adding to the drama.
Behind her a lively entourage would follow,
taunting and calling her names creating a sideshow.
They howled with childish laughter,
as Sarah hurled angry profanities after.
An avid collector of all kinds of trash,
she transformed her abode into a garbage stash.
Sarah’s odd behavior made her fair game,
to unkind people who had no mercy or shame.
While many folks turned a blind eye,
young boys threw rocks and other missile,
at the roof and windows of the shack she occupied.
Behind bushes, they would scamper away to hide,
as Sarah furiously dashed outside,
brandishing a machete, cudgel, or broom,
screaming out curses, damnation, and doom.
Like a cancer, her mental illness had devoured her brain,
and before long, she was officially "certified insane."
Most agreed it was for her own benefit,
and for the good of society to be rid of this "misfit."
But even though she was locked away in an institution,
no psychiatric treatment could cure her mental condition.
When Sarah finally died, she was unloved and alone;
her passing was hardly noticed, and she was mourned by none.
Note: This piece was inspired by a true account. While we have made great strides in the study of mental illness and understanding it, unfortunately negative attitudes and beliefs toward people who have mental health conditions are still common. Thus, as a society, we still have a long way to go to improve our attitudes and to show more caring and compassion for those who suffer from various types of mental illness.
08-06-2015
Contest: Mental Illness
Sponsor: Nathan D.
Placement: 7th
In those bleak fields that so quietly lie - stilled as graves,
Between where the thin wind creaks and upwardly heaves,
Unseen feet can sometimes be heard
Shuffling through the old woods discarded leaves.
For i have seen those strange distant lights
That detach themselves from heavens spilling crowds;
When dropping over the blindside of the little ridge
They rise to leap from cloud to cloud.
Impossible angles of inexplicable darting momentum -
Inwardly gyrating wheels now ingeniously turning;
Marvelous these the strange crafts of unknown design...
Yes - I have seen the night skies burning!
For well i remember as a reckless child
How i stole out to ascend that one forbidden hill:
Cast deep plans, set the clock ticking accordingly,
Rose, wrapped myself against Novembers raw chill.
Deep inside the Beech-hanger the Plough was struggling,
And over the despairing holt a devisive breeze...
As, of a sudden, on the edge of swirling darkness -
Showered particles upon vapourous ethers so violently seized!
Oh the hissing bolts of sizzling electrons -
Brilliance of colours like a dying meteors last rites!
Anti-Graviton paradox of mastered equational conundrum
Igniting the latent freeze within winters sharp night.
Radiant orb held aligned by polar-opposites forceful lines,
Spinning upon a singular point with such consummate ease;
Roaring furiously liken fabled dragon of Arthurian legend,
Hot breath licking across lines of illuminated trees.
Momentary seconds that crept alongside an age enraptured
Amidst tumbling thoughts of - "Just another Alien abductee"!
Then, gently tilting starboard, accelerating smoothly away,
Vanishing over the stacks and tiled rooftops of nearby Walton-Lea.
Often have i wistfully pondered in ever hopeful, watchful years:
What was it so witnessed as it hung before me in suspended flight?
And - with many cramming thoughts - groping for answers sought -
Recalling the wondrous moment of such an awe-inspiring sight!
Just An Old Poet, Holding On Until I Die
I write verse, live in the moment and score the past
oft revealing naked truths that set some aghast,
yet with rhyme and reason, I ink stain each white page,
some even tried to knock me off the poet's stage.
Tho' pen, paper and I felt no panicking fear
my course was set, but it was not always so clear,
wrote furiously for a time, to make my mark,
world brutally beat me, prospects were very stark.
As time flowed on by, and with wisdom slowly gained
inking pages, I saw they were not so badly stained,
life had given perspective and a renewed lease
although not Jason, I had found my golden fleece.
Just an old poet, holding on until I die
poetry is my treasure, do not ask me why!
Sonnet: 6-14-2018
I played quietly sometimes
With crayons, books and pictures
Creating crafts that only a child
Could enjoy or imagine with
Images of brilliant hues and hopes
I played silently sometimes
With animals that had taught me
Of the value of friendship
Listening and caring with the heart
Loving like there is only God
I played furiously sometimes
With footballs, skates and jump ropes
Knowing the heavy beat of feet
Skipping, darting, sprinting
Through dense grass and woods
I played joyously sometimes
With hues of passion whispering
Shooting stars surrounding me
Beckoning me to dream and believe
The miracles that embrace the soul
I played along the edge of rivers
With a hunger and thirst for the caress
Of liquid as it purges the flow
Echoes across smooth stones
Invaluable blessings of grace
I played, played and played some more
With delight, pleasure and insight
Knowing the meaning of God’s gift
Caressing me from every side
The sun, rain, clouds, flowers, birds
I play today with the promise of heaven
Awaiting me there in the skies
Like a gift too wonderful to open
It hangs above the sun and I anticipate
The joy that it will hold when I go there
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (27) ,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Brian Strand
August 26, 2020
It was not a dark and stormy night and the
captain was not on the deck of his ship.
He was at the old Spanish Inn at a table
by himself. I asked him what he was eating.
He said, "Tuna on rye, coleslaw and a mug
of beer." He was furiously writing something
on a paper napkin.
"When it's not a dark and stormy night," I
asked, "and you're not on the deck of your
ship, do you often come to this old Spanish
Inn and sit at this table?" 'Though he was
busy eating his tuna on rye, coleslaw and
sipping his mug of beer, he replied that he
liked to sit here and write.
"And, what will you do when you retire?"
I asked.
"If it's not a dark and stormy night, and I'm
not on the deck of my ship, I'll probably
come to this old Spanish Inn and sit at this
table by myself and order tuna on rye, coleslaw
and a mug of beer. Then I'll probably sit and
write for awhile. Here's one I wrote:
It was not a dark and stormy night, and I was
not on the deck of my ship. I had come to the
old Spanish Inn to sit by myself and write at
a little Spanish wooden table. I had just
ordered tuna on rye when the waitress asked
me what I was doing. I told her I was retiring
and had come to this inn to sit and write
poetry, repetends mostly.
Beauty
Beauty is all around me, in a million different things.
The silvery haired, wrinkled face of one that has impenetrable memories
She smiles and longs for someone, anyone to bust her out of her prison of silence.
It is in the wispy, snowy white, silk of a milkweed as it frees itself of its casing
It arrives in the sound of a beautiful well orchestrated piece of music that penetrates my soul.
In the simplicity of a simple clump of wildflowers that grows freely in the ditch.
As my dog Quincy runs freely with his friend Sawyer
the beauty of their comradery and unbridled joy is unparalleled.
It is in the kindness of those who consider the feelings of others and gently encourage.
It emerges from the generosity at Christmas and unselfish acts all around from veritable strangers.
The lake on a late November afternoon with its shades of bluish greys
And a backdrop of thick denseness but a silvery light reflecting on the water
and peeking through to show me one more surprise before covering up with its blanket of dark.
The tedious overnight work of a spider who sits in wait
in the most radiant web with drops of dew sitting carefully on a strand.
In the spirit of one who never gives up
and remains grateful even after unmentionable hardships and grief.
In the words of the poets claiming words as their own
to create the most unique ways of speaking their truth.
In the love of a couple simply holding hands as they walk.
The joy of a child’s face as he sees his favourite grandpa has come to visit.
Of course, there are the generous sunsets
and flowers of every colour that decorate my outside world
The seagulls that stand on one leg,
The geese that fly to unknown destinations at the same time every day
The elaborate sandcastle built lovingly with a dad on the beach
The nest with chirping baby birds begging furiously to fill their emptiness
made lovingly with grasses and twigs and various treasures.
The smell of beautifully roasted coffee permeating my early morning
It is a beautifully crafted piece of art that is fresh from the soul’s expression of the artist’s brush
I have learned to see the beauty all around and build a life of gratefulness
Beauty surprises and comes in simplest form
Which helps to drown the sorrow that inevitably must come to us all.
Grace Daub
December 1, 2021
Blessed with ingenuity, he fought advancing tyranny
That stormed the sea in twenty-three great warships sailing furiously.
That day, October twenty-first, saw Admiral Nelson at his worst,
As cannons roared, while gunners cursed. The times were changed, the tides reversed.
Lord Nelson, as an admiral brave with all his fleet defied the grave,
His native land and king to save:-- his life for freedom's cause he gave.
In but a half a dozen hours he humbled Europe's finest pow'rs,
And toppled Tyranny's highest tow'rs; yet Vict'ry found him crowned with flow'rs,
And not a place the crown to lay, on him, nor all who died that day
In sending Britain's foes away, across the stormy seas of grey.
The sun was setting, as it usually does
The town a ghost town, the main street all but silenced
The wind blowing leaves and dreams to and fro
The tension in the air was palpable
The few souls about all peering out shuttered windows
When in from the west, came a storm
Her name was Serena Storm,
They shivered in her wake, the poetess of dead lovers
Then over to the east side, riding in slow and steady
The grim reaper or so it seemed, hollowed eyes
Dead soul and dark mind, his side arm at the ready
The greatest duel in history, right here
In the town of Nowhere
The setting sun reflected of her dark long coat
The last tear drop, falling to its death in the dust
She stared ahead, face blank
Daring, with a glare, shoot me, shoot me, try
He dismounted his horse, called Heartless Soul
His eyes slits, staring down the curvaceous storm pacing untoward
His hand inside his coat, slowly pulling out a mickey
He belted down a shot or three,
In the town of nowhere
They both paced, hands at their side
Closer and closer, the saloon keeper
Not quite sure his bottle would be paid in full
Then as quickly at the sun set……
Vaso drew first.
The finest long black quill one ever saw
His other hand dropped his bottle
Magically a writing pad appeared
Serena drew second, pen at her side
The color of blood, and for good reason
She too tablet in hand, putting ink to paper
As they both furiously wrote
In the town of Nowhere
Hearts were murdered
The meaning of life was hanged not long after
Love was beheaded
The main street a river of blood
A storm of tears washing away crimson desires
An empty vassal, Vaso’s insides already dead
Dropping his pen, he pulled out his sword of mourning
The duel to end, as he lopped off his own head
She dropped paper and pen to the ground
She faced down the grim reaper, and it’s he who is dead
The only one to know, his name was Arthur
King of the dark, ruler of lost dreams
In the town of Nowhere
The poetic duel of the century
Both won and lost
Long ago
Jaws bulging, saliva drooling
Johhnie stood at the street corner
Digging furiously into his soggy bag
Large fleshy chips swimming in vinegar
Delighting his watering mouth.
Rain drizzling on his tired body
Johhnie momentarily oblivious to all,
His tedious life, his electricity bill,
His sick terrier, his drenched overcoat
And even his foul tempered wife
Who he could hear re-echoing
High cholesterol, high cholesterol, cholesterol..
For one ten minute period
He allowed himself the indulgence
That surpasses all on a hungry day
A good feed from the local chipper.
As he licked each finger one by one
Johhnie exuded a great contentment.
Retracing his steps, he shook the wet from his cap
And returned to the shop for a jumbo sausage.
I toss the coin anxiously
For both sides perturb and dazzle me…
The first side, well, it is a beauty to say the least
It is clear, crisp, like fresh pages of a favorite book
Peace offers a stronghold in its rhythmic and quiet composure
It is unassuming in all that it is…it is truth, with open arms
Like droplets of rain against my neck,
It is refreshing to caress its cooling pages,
Best of all, it heals when I choose to feel it and live it…
This side is strong, and often shames my desire for the other…
The other side, I gaze upon it often, its presence so shocking
I often doubt it even exists as much as I sense in my life
Then I remember that it surrounds me,
A universe of glow aching to crawl into my night
Wishing to embrace me, so it may reveal its secrets to me
I am drawn to its perplexity, its grand design…
Its fiery resilience silences my prayers to puddles of pleasure
It is a hard-heated side becrossing all sides… stopping all resistance…
I toss the coin high, mindful of its landing,
Though as it does it spins furiously upon my heart and mind,
Caught in the blurry winds of dissonance and rivalry
How distressing it is to see them collide together in all that they are…
For I want them both to win…I want them both desperately
But only one side will dominate in the end
And only I know who will win,
As I set this silent war of hypocrisy
Free…
Free into the stars, where that unknown wisdom will be revealed in future days
I had to set it free…
For there are still other sides we must struggle to let go of
Touched by so many hands before us…
We must choose the side to say goodbye to
As we fight to focus our fleeting attention
Upon the one and only side that will touch the face of Providence
-For Justin Bordner's "What is Your Hypocrisy?" Contest -
SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
As the door swings from both sides
And the windows unvariably vibrate
exercising, my right to be alone
I furiously type, my muscles ache
Coming in last would be a mistake
exercising my write, “to be alone”
Finding a clock in this place called home
Hiding it in my secret wardrobe closet
exercising my right to be alone
Taking slow sips of coffee, t.v. drama,
A solitary epitome of garden song
exercising the writ of execution
to be alone
sounds like a plea of insanity
i won’t wait for your answer
shh...
7/2/2017
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
differently.
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
A breathless realization—
A piercing pain to the heart,
To the gut—
Low moaning in an
Utterance of disbelief
Infiltrates the body's senses.
Smoke billows, yet there is no fire,
Just an opaque veil that’s slowly lifted
From sorrowful eyes
Where flooding begins.
Deeds made bare
Requires reprehensible restraint.
As anger flushes furiously,
A fire rages out of control—
Searing, scorching, killing trust,
Destroying any semblance of caring.
A glacial numbness replaces fire—
Then—a drowning in the melt.
© Connie Marcum Wong
We are extremely jealous of her sandals, the ones with the glitzy silver rhinestones.
She has worn them twice this week. But who is counting?
We scoff at her apple decorated tennis shoes, who would wear them in public?
I hate those damned ugly fur-lined boots she drags out for snow, my mate says.
I snicker.
We hear footsteps, and get quiet.
Humans get weird when the shoes are talking.
The closet door opens a crack.
Someone yells “Are you ready yet?” The husband, we think.
He never comes in here.
The door opens wide, making me blink due to the bright light.
I feel like I am in a police interrogation room.
Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! My mate begins to chant. I shush him.
I can hear him still thinking it from his corner of the closet where he was thrown
Upside down and backwards last summer.
I am sitting under a garbage bag of clothes, so why am I laughing?
Our woman reaches for my mate. I can feel him smiling. I try to scoot closer, so she can see me.
She pokes around a bit in this hovel from hell, then she drops him. OUCH!
She picks up the glitzy rhinestone sandals, and the door shuts.
“I hate YOU!” my mate yells at me.
We are in the dark again, in the furiously maddening darkness.
I want to kill him, but I cannot move, squashed under this damned garbage bag.