Best Gentry Poems
As I entered the garden the scents enticed
rampant rose blossom the arches fenced.
Cascading aromatic blossoms greeting me
amidst the climbers were the sweet pea.
In the centre stood the patio so glamorous
sparkling bubbles of champagne so amorous.
Tickling the throat buds saturated with scent
from the tumbling blossoms as they descent.
Blood stream and breath full of roiling bubbles
and past swish the gentry parading in couples.
Raise your glasses in a toast as friends are wed
laughing, knowing they will all too soon be in bed.
Ah what a perfect day in this romantic garden
bubbles and blossoms tumbling as skies darken
Blossoms and bubbles never somniferous
mixed together they are becoming toxiferous.
written 03/25/2015
contest Blossom and Bubbles
Tower, buzz and scurry
Oh great resilient city
Ahoy!
Alive. Scramble bustle earth's
ethnicities
On lurid quests--
A pendulum of tantric turmoil and
Blessed harmony
Quixotic city--brash,
Sangfroid merotomized and
Chrematistic--metro nonpareil.
See a myriad melange of
Tortured splenetic
Souls and great spirits
Noble and soothfast
Great city, your hecatombs
Of underground trains
Roar scream in
Hodge-podge graffiti attire
Fat fuming brattling buses
Grunt their huffpuffs,
And nervous cars scissorcut
Impatiently betwixt tarred and
Cemented streets
August and capacious
Ferruminated grey glass and steel
Towers--Aeeries in obeisance to the
Heavens, erupt in anabasis at the azure
Pearly welkin,
Humming diapasons of marvelous
Melismatic tunes
A gallimaufry of cacaphony and
Sweet sounds--the
Great Metropolis persistently
Thrives.
Streets adorned with sylph fashion
Models, conute churls, street
recrement--dazed and forgotten men,
Enticing shuck and jive
Blandishing street vendors,
Natty brujo business gentry
With their helotry on a
Ferris wheel of daily
Triumphs and defeats and
Cheeky mendicants
Shuffle along allegro vivace
Howling chorus songs amidst a
Torrent of raining dollars and
Coins floating in the skies over
The brazen metropolis.
Snuffling restaurants like hives
Humbuzz the grandiloquence,
Pithy slang and sententious
Persiflage of the day.
A truly syncratic parley
Of passions sentient
Of crimes basilic
Of arts sacerdotal and gratuitous
Of fashions arabesque and outre
Of plays frivolous and profound
Of music sericeous and truculent
Of money pursuits solonic
Of loves ascendant and descentdant
Of rejections mournful and joyous
An e'er persisting cha-cha-cha and
Boogie-woogie of the fierce
Bustling bubbling bold city,
Pendulumming pandaemoniums and
Resolutions, day
Upon pertinatious day.
David John Hart 2003 USA
why will men fight and suffer to advance the interests of their masters, who fling them aside when they have no further use for them?
Arthur Findlay
The black king and the white king, well they didn't see eye to eye
A war was looming, but not them; it was the pawns that would die
They placed them up to the front, with their cavalry at the rear
No side had any notion of backing down, and no side showed fear.
God is surely with us, the bishops on both sides proclaimed
Anyone saying otherwise would have been publicly shamed
A white pawn was the first to move forward, ready for the fight
But in just a couple of moves was struck down, by a black knight.
Two white knights moved forward in a blazing counter attack
The black pieces managed to hold the line and didn't fall back
Then a white bishop moved forward in a straight diagonal line
Black King told his pawns to move forward; everything will be fine.
The black queen wanted action and urged her pawns to be brave
But it wouldn't be her or the king that would be digging their grave
One by one her pawns were slaughtered, like lambs on the battlefield
A ceasefire was out of the question, because neither side would yield.
But the proud white king was about, to meet an agonising fate
When the black queen with her knights, declared a checkmate
But there were really no winners or losers, in this senseless war
Supporters on both sides wondered, what the hell it was all for.
The two main players in the background escaped without a scratch
And were already preparing to meet on the battlefield, for a rematch
Both sides exchanged their battered pieces of the injured and the slain
And maybe tomorrow or the next day were preparing to do it all again.
Meanwhile the arms manufacturers, were making big monetary gain
Whilst the landed gentry ate caviar and sipped on their champagne
Victory parades were held in all the towns, with all the pomp and flair
Hollow platitudes read out to mourn the dead, but do they really care?
Written on 6th June 2022.
Once upon a time...
Once upon a time, in France, a storyteller fella
Wrote of a girl named Cinderella,
Meant as a fairy tale romance.
Her daddy died when she was young, and she was forced to share his riches
With three monumental b****es,
A most unhappy circumstance.
For years her stepmom and stepsibs made her perform a menial's duty,
And as she blossomed into beauty,
They grew more hateful, mean, and cruel.
Each night they dined on fine cuisine and wore lace dresses with silk sashes,
While she wore rags begrimed with ashes,
And got just crusts of bread and gruel.
Then one day a herald from the king demanded entry
To the homes of landed gentry,
They were invited one and all.
It was the prince's eighteenth birthday, and the king and queen were harried
Because their son was not yet married.
Ergo, the reason for the ball.
The stepsisters primped and preened and wild excitement they exuded,
When Cindy asked to be included, they gaped at her as if appalled.
Stepmother sneered, "Look here, I'll show you!"
With self-righteous indignation,
"Your name's not on the invitation.
Just we elite are so installed."
So Cinderella went downstairs to seek some solace in the kitchen,
But 'stead of sittin' there and b****in', she started dancing with a broom.
She whirled and twirled around the floor,
Or else she'd stand there, gently swaying,
As if an orchestra was playing
Pretending they were bride and groom.
And then a flash, a crash of thunder, and to Cindy's stunned amazement,
There gliding through the kitchen casement,
A pudgy lady dressed in blue.
She said, "Hello, my dear, no fear, I'm here to grant your secret wishes,
I'll wave my wand and clear the dishes,
And make a princess out of you!"
She waved and tapped and flicked and zapped,
And what she seemed to make the air do
Was give her make-up, nails, and hair-do,
And then to make the look complete,
Out of those rags so soiled and worn and far too torn to drown a cat in,
A gown of gossamer and satin, and crystal slippers on her feet.
Without this timely intervention, Cindy's tale might have been tragic.
Could she have managed without magic,
And her dilemma be resolved?
But everybody knows what happened with a gourd and six white mice,
And how a smudgy scullery maid was made to clean up really nice,
When a fairy got involved.
To be continued...
I regret not spending more time
with you. I thought...
you were winning the battle
Having To Fight
Cancer
In This Thing Called Life
Is Insane
And So It Begins
The Long Goodbye
Funeral Arrangements
A Gentle Soul, soon to depart
Any Day Now
Gone to...
Heaven
A Good Day To Cry
a Raging Ocean
My Path Of Sorrow
Grief
Weeping
Blue
Days
My Cold Acceptance of...
Death's Cold Hand
20 Titles From 20 Friends Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux (Winner: 4th Place)
Date written and submitted: 07/22/2019
20 Poem Titles Used:
01. Having To Fight (Anoucheka Gangabisson)
02. Cancer (Jan Allison)
03. In This Thing Called Life (Dear Heart)
04. Insane (Vijay Pandit)
05. And So It Begins (Nette Oncloud)
06. The Long Goodbye (Gregory R. Barden)
07. Funeral Arrangements (Line Gauthier)
08. A Gentle Soul (Lu Loo)
09. Any Day Now (John Anderson)
10. Gone (Laura Leiser)
11. Heaven (Connie Marcum Wong)
12. A Good Day To Cry (Emile Pinet)
13. Raging Ocean (Nayda Ivette Negron)
14. Path Of Sorrow (Silent One)
15. Grief (Susan Ashley)
16. Weeping (Richard Lamoureux)
17. Blue (Andrea Dietrich)
18. Days (Susan Gentry)
19. My Cold Acceptance (Frederic Parker)
20. Death's Cold Hand (Sandra Haight)
Born into a life of poverty crime and squalor
where hunger and cold winds bite
and disease is rife
and it was a daily battle to stay alive
and find some food to stay alive.
Uneducated illiterate caught in the poverty trap
drinking polluted water
from the same polluted cholera riddled tap.
An impoverished woman
sells her body for a cheap bottle of Gin
and a lodging for the night
while a pickpocket and mutcher
ever watchful
look for a pocket to alight.
The deafening clunk and clatter
of horses and carts on the cobbled ground
and shouts from the street market traders
echo all around.
Children play and run through the narrow
crowded streets
dressed in rags no shoes upon their feet
The putrid stench from the gutter
and thick choking bellowing
smoke from factories
make one heath and make it hard to breath.
Dilapidated hovels and buildings
covered in black soot
horse manure and raw sewage
under foot.
Beggars with large mournful eyes
reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry
to fill their empty bowls with plenty.
A peeler pins a notice of a forthcoming hanging
at the local Gaol for the few who can read
upon a rusty nail.
A Mother desperate to feed her hungry children
steals a loaf of bread from a market stall
but is soon captured in the sprawl.
The judge sentences her to 10 years
penal servitude far over sea in Botany bay
but she dyes aboard the ship of fever
upon the way.
Her 9 children are sent to the workhouse
for the poor to gain some education
and work hard behind it's hellish door
never to see their Mother or escape poverty
ever more.
Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
Soft, moon light, spill forth the night.
Stream rippling veils of mystery.
Where tucked away, the insatiate act,
unrivaled in thy debauchery.
Whilst Lords and Gentry, by noble birth,
plot to cozen all gentle souls.
Their wives will scamper off to trysts,
showing morals that are beneath low.
Drunken bucks will gamble all,
bring low family coffers and names.
They will ruin many a young lass,
then run, from honor and bring shame.
And all the while, I am here.
A humble quill and my ink well.
Lying in wait to spread the ill.
For tis scandle I love to tell.
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
This ocean so full of constant commotion,
for many it can be the horn of plenty,
if they know how to trudge on with devotion,
else its infinite choices can so portent be.
To swim true and graceful towards what you're made for,
mind not yet its depths while you train your own stroke,
deep torrid allure appears life's most sought out shore,
yet master no stroke and so soon wind up broke.
Just as a hatchling trains it's wings 'fore first flight,
never hatching from egg to jump up with wings spread,
for if this way was true none's thoughts would hold fright,
to practice and learn will allow that fright shed.
Doubtless those greatest in life's endless ocean,
or even the ones which most deem as gentry,
always proceed with true sense and good notion,
else they be sea choked or smashed onto jetty.
Youthful minds might think this way slow or a bore,
but to jump in the depth they sink, gasp and choke,
that path shall alas lead them straight to Death's door,
mind, body and spirit soaked, bloated then broke.
So watch and learn careful from those who've done right,
respect to learn best gain great wisdom, lose dread,
these words if so heeded shall bypass much blight
tides pushing you forward to life's greatest stead.
King 'Enry of The 'Ouse of Tudor ruled merrie olde England, the mighty and the meek.
'E was quite obese in 'is elder years and threw 'is weight around - so to speak!
'E governed from 1509 'til 1549 when 'e expired and began 'is eternal bourne.
Though 'e slept around a lot, nary a male heir for 'is regal throne was born!
With virgin maidens and other guy's wives, 'twas a promiscuous life 'e led,
Though 'e eventually wooed a strange assortment of royal wives to 'is bed!
'E 'ad six of 'em, which would've left even the most virile of men in a daze!
'E soon tired of each and 'e dispensed with them in various and sundry ways!
Both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were destined to lose their 'eads!
Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Parr died of mysterious causes in their beds.
Jane Seymour and Anne of Cleves died from natural causes it is said as well.
'Twas rumored that 'Enry played golf as bells tolled each of their deathly knell!
'Enry got in a spat with the Pope of Rome which resulted in 'is excommunication.
This involved among other things 'is cavalier attitude in matters of domestication!
'E got in a towering snit and formed the Church of England as it is known today.
This 'ad all of not so merrie olde England in an uproar but 'Enry 'ad 'is way!
'Enry ruled with a fist of iron - serfs and gentry as well learned to toe the line!
'E died due to an old jousting wound and 'is fondness for food and wine!
'E was only fifty-five when in Windsor Castle 'e was laid out in repose.
'E was sent on 'is way with great pomp and ceremony as the olde saying goes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 15 in Deborah Guzzi's "Sista's Bloody Sista's" Contest - October 2010
DIRTY HANDS
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Little boys playing with mud and silty sands
Will return to their houses with dirty hands
Mom will scold them, but knows what to do
A little soap and water, they’ll look like new
Soap and water doesn’t clean off all stains
Especially those amassed from ill-gotten gains
Those boys will grow to men and go on their way
Confronted with selections each and every day
All have the choice, a conscious creed election
Conduct with principle or live with deception
Ethics apply, rules obeyed, as society demands
Tread the line cautiously avoid dirty hands
A quick gain of treasure due to fabricated facts
Will no doubt lead to more disingenuous acts
Wealth will grow, applause and fame may follow
Despite images to the contrary the core is hollow
Conscience is muted a false illusion commands
Its always the same for those with dirty hands
Predation of the ignorant by well connected gentry
Swayed by promises that usually come up empty
Lifelong politicians rise to the top of the heap
Fooling the public with promises they never keep
Attaining the apogee and the attention it commands
Could not have been possible without dirty hands
Wealth and power is the ultimate goal
Dirty hands are the symptoms of a toxic soul
Villanelle: O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could be
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
If only humans were not subject to envy nor jealousy
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
Our primate brother carries on his butt his Wounded Knee
We by contrast drape our tender unders in frills of Paris
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
The garbage man carts away our rotten odours with glee
While we look on in disgust the irrepressible onset of palsy
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
Brothers mount thrones on humped backs in every dynasty
And slice the throats of those they love by gouging gentry
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
The primate flees from human greed into his community
While humans stoke fires to roast their brothers up the tree
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
Birthplace pride makes man a hunted primate un-free
And envy turns the key in livid eyes to seething jealousy
O! What a wonderful world this sordid life could verily be
Worse than that pride of place makes man a chimpanzee
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
My drapes are drawn tight,
in the morning of our afternoon,
after the fall – beyond the light
of a silent evening spent.
Dusk spits a new shine
upon the facets of my mood ring
and sunrise alarms me again.
Fish hooks evenly lure my smile
into place - when bated breaths
are baited by an anticipated gentry -
and the inverted frown I wear
stretches undetected
when performing
index-fingered handstands
for the empty allured.
Such a celebration am I.
A firecracker when we kiss.
"The sun sets in his eyes...
succulent, cabbage-red and resplendent…”
Clichéd stammering; dulled
as you turn your softly curved frame
into a prisoner's unresolved sensitivities.
Nonetheless...the innocent know -
His touch is real. Feathered, soft -
even when the entranced cripple is sobbing.
Roman candles sparkle
within a distant vagabond’s eyes.
Starch him!
Savor the moment!
He'll voluntarily burst forth -
and everything you'd want from
a strayed waif's aorta will be
auctioned back...
and eventually sold.
Like ruby-hued vegetables.
Like drawn drapes.
Like morning…
when biting your pillow case
neatly grinds waking into the laughable...
…and a forgotten sunrise
toasts the unremembered misfit
as an invisible champagne cork - pops!
Hawk-teuchin - spitting up phlegm
Nimmer - dinner
Gundie-guts - fat slobs
Mickle-moud - great big mouth
Sachleasly - Innocently
Muckle herts - big hearts
Rabbie wis hawk-teuchin frae the back o’ his sare throat,
Afore he gave his efter nimmer speech.
He said tae the landed gentry, “ye’re a set o’ gundie-guts,
But far be it frae me tae staund up here an’ preach.
Ye ken ah’ve stacks o’ gumption fur ye widna asked me by
Tae render words o’ prose frae ma mickle-moud:
Sae sachleasly ah’ll spout ma rhyming ware fur ye,
It’ll mak yer muckle herts feel staunch an’ proud.”
The art of being unique means the courage to have different thoughts
than anyone else on the planet,
Being able to spurn "copy-cat" ways and aspiring to one's own clout,
Although mimicking may be a form of flattery,
It is better to promote self originality,
As idiosyncratic as our ways may be,
Our silliness has merits and its own fan based gentry,
Therefore being unique is not a bore as long as we have
the creativity and pioneering spirit to row our boats ashore.