Best Gins Poems
(Please read The Park -- Part One first ...
This is a continuation from Part One, due to space limitations)
Yes, kids at play are bold and wise
with flashing smiles and knowing eyes.
Children tire easily of grown-up prattle;
thoughts turn to cakes, to toys that rattle.
They think that Belles and Bills tell lies.
Tme is a birthday gift or a new surprise:
games to play; a windy day for a kite one flies;
coins that shine; toys that squeak;
a trip to the zoo at the end of the week.
Belles and Bills persist in their story.
Some even mention forgotten glory.
Children go home to eat, to sleep,
as Belles and Bills their vigils keep
then wearily drift back to flats
to listen to the rustling rats,
to sip their beers or gins or rums --
to wait until the morning comes.
They stand and stretch, look all around,
surveying the world to which they're bound.
Then they shuffle away with airs of sadness
at being always on the verge of madness.
They'll see once more the sun's first ray,
the birth in the park of another day.
Eyes are glazed and minds are dazed;
the atmosphere grows dim and hazed.
An eerie echo of an unheard bark
reverberates throughout the park
amid falling leaves and a darkening sky
and the nightly proof of the chilren's lie.
Categories:
gins, nostalgia, people, sad, time,
Form:
Rhyme
Quiet Please
I was born and grew up on the relatively quiet side of the planet. Nevertheless, there was a train line right through the heart of town.
And there were also cotton gins, tractors, and lots of farm machinery.
Obviously, we were not exactly 'noise free'; but basically, the noise I heard most were an occasional barking dog, crickets, bull frogs, and rooster crows.
After high school, I relocated to a very large northern city by a great lake. Suddenly, all my familiar noises of crickets, frogs, and roosters were gone.
Without warning, the sounds of combines and crop dusting planes disappeared They were replaced by commuter buses, automobile horns, sirens, and garbage trucks.
In my late 20's, I moved again to a large western city by the Bay and the Pacific. There, for 30 days, my family and I resided in a motel embraced by a street car rail line. Also there, we were annoyed by rap and rock from loud radios, and more sirens. But also there, we slept sweetly by the ocean waves and fog horns; gentler noises.
03082017 PS Contest, The Noises, Shadow Hamilton
Categories:
gins, anxiety, change, family, journey,
Form:
Narrative
Dear dada
add an “ist”
to it all
I reject
in the face
of it all
Aestheticism
true beauty
is found in the
ugliness of it all
peaking out
under coverlets
of mud
throwing
spit balls
of pulchitrude
wrapped up
time bombs
that stick
to the banal
unexpected beauty …
of it all,
ambitious
edges and curves
open and inviting
accompanied by caveats
there will be
splendid over-ripe
gardens of Eden
followed teasingly
in close pursuit, by the
madhatters’ tea parties
and Hugos' balls
rooms too large,
and rooms too small
it’s all
rather
simple
underneath
the dirt
of it all
precious
and most expensive
jewels are found
smudged kisses
mascara stained
cheeks of Cinderellas
holding spaces
for roses are red
and violets are blue
daisy chains
of love me
love me knots
tightly
tied
small victories
virtues held
and lost, conquests
stroking glass slippers
drinking in the gins
and espousing
their 3 wishes
looking for
long lost Kings
failing that,
settling for
paupers, not
princes
their crystal balls
over brave and
missing the mark
shattering
then later
lying unclaimed
under the sun
melting
through the
flaws
Dear dada
add an “ist”
to it all
escapist
artist
tourist
minimalist
extremist
illusionist
fatalist
but never
realist
escape artist
mud wrestling naked
in poetic jello, at the
Cabaret Voltaire
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Dadaist.
Categories:
gins, art, muse, poets, satire,
Form:
Free verse
But I walk along.
Forte to my cause.
A fort of strength…
Militarily built -
Therefore, must be militarily defeated.
Many say I am a buyout -
Too much intelligence to decipher.
No lack of esteem that can be embraced maybe a confrontation to face.
Personification of knowledge is an individual’s acumen ginned.
Gen by a rite of passage to quest for greater things.
Malachia is her name.
Anyone that desires the sanity of righteousness is a reformer.
A trial and purpose they have formed.
Strong suited to develop structure.
Strong points are shared prolifically.
A talent acquisitionist carries the scrolls.
A role player and leader at the podium.
Mississippi born and a Mississippian raised…
Acumen gins - informed by knowledge nowadays.
But I walk along.
Forte to the cause.
A fort of strength growing stronger!
Military built –
Thus, never militarily defeated.
Only a buyout prevails –
Cipher cannot be unconcealed or revealed.
___________________________________________________________________|
Written April 1, 2016!
Categories:
gins, adventure, america, appreciation, autumn,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
The county seat, a place of humidity and musical beats.
After many years, I decided to revisit my hometown,
Hoping to walk down memory lanes of warm treats, To visit my oldest brother and old friends still around.
Known by many as the birthplace of the blues.
It’s where my folks purchased my first pair of shoes.
Where I first experienced talking from a phone booth.
Where I watched my first movie on the big screen;
Where I experienced my first barbershop;
Where I received my first real job;
Where I ate at my first restaurant.
Thirty years ago, I moved 2,000 miles away.
A popular street corner, fourth & Issaquena.
Cotton gins and cotton bails.
Yes, cotton was crowned king.
There was only room for one king and one throne.
And the ruler ship of queens was virtually unknown.
There were the king and the cash; and if there were queens, they would be beneath the king and his cash, and nowhere in between.
I tell you, everything and everyone bowed to king cotton, even queens.
06262015 cj
Categories:
gins, america, beauty, childhood, family,
Form:
Prose Poetry
There at the market place
Onlookers gathered singing the masquerade’s praise.
A visible ghost about to get loose-
Held by its companion, from fleeing like a wandering goose.
The masquerade yearns to dance
Swaying like a drunkard it needs this one chance.
Bells hung on its cloak
Cane in hand seeking a ferocious stroke.
Gloves strapped to the hand
Gins poured as libation for the gods of the land.
Cane drums banging rhythmically loud
Acrobatic flips to amuse the crowd.
The atmosphere was livid
Revealing steps so staunch and sordid.
Soon whips like rain were loosen
As the masquerade’s companions get crimson.
Hats or caps are being despised,
Whips were used on those chastised.
Ara Orun; a progeny of the heaven
Veiled by its cloak from mortal haven.
Grumbling incantations strange to our hearings,
Offerings first before the masquerade find its bearings.
Songs accompany the wailing drum-
As the air was dozed with burukutu the black man’s rum.
Jolting back and front towards the musing crowd
As the song grows eerie loud.
The masquerade sways like a possessed
Shouting to the crowd; “you are blessed.”
Buttocks gracing the sky,
Hands spread like a bird ready to fly.
Is this man or spirit-
Whose charm had enslaved the street?
Categories:
gins, nostalgia,
Form:
Narrative
It was late in the afternoon
Of the 17th of January 1993
That my whole
Intoxicated universe
Finally exploded
Drink me one day = 10 vodkas
7 1/2 pints 14 wines
1 bottle of wine + 6 gins + 4 pints
Or 2 bottles of wine + halfs then 4 pints
Or bottle of wine + 5 pints +
Cans and shorts
Saw myself as a loonie
Of the Lunatic Underground
It was late in the afternoon
Of the 17th of January 1993
That my whole
Intoxicated universe
Finally exploded
Five + Two = Seven Units By 11.30
12.30 = Six Units 1.30 = 5+2 = Five
Units
6.30 = Four Units 7.30 = 3+2 = Five
Units
8.30 = 4+1 = Five
Units
12.30 = Free
Saw myself as a loonie
Of the Lunatic Underground
It was late in the afternoon
Of the 17th of January 1993
That my whole
Intoxicated universe
Finally exploded
Broken at last
With etiolated face
Tremulous hands
After so many years
Of semi-Icaran hubris
It was late in the afternoon
Of the 17th of January 1993
That my whole
Intoxicated universe
Finally exploded.
Categories:
gins, addiction, england, january, london,
Form:
Free verse
Immaterial Soul
A sprout abundant of immortal hope,
a search of a pulse of love in his heart,
an empty threat vivid in a man of a dying soul,
as the echoes in his heart race to slay him whole.
Hope arrives within stone’s throw.
A shining star at the groove of absolute all-ness,
a crowning jewel for the kin Vincente’s,
the only appetite tis’ sole aspirer, to be one with all my family,
so shall it be my destiny found.
My greatest fear is death, the unknown timelessness of eternal life,
where confinement and salvation touch shoulders.
Immortality is a remote axiom, an alchemists’ fame of soul remembrance
A mortal’s search of Tipler’s omega point,
the last hope of salvation adjacent to this point,
tis not found but earned long as: the moral laws written on thy heart ensue.
Gilgamesh first state awed his last, the divines’ gift to he, astray,
the fountain of eternal life alludes his last state tis’ only hope is consciousness of thy neural network
Annus Miribalis hath hope for Gilgamesh’s immortal life.
So set him free. Let angles guide thy through the herculean task,
strength and honor hear of Gilgamesh’s survival, his sink in armor of humility indulgence, a chain of association whose lineage is of no close origins.
For gins today “weakness” in armor flourish as strength in fame of tomorrow.
A peerless thought patrols Gilgamesh’s talent, change the world with a breadth of “élan’ vital”
Annus Miribalis hath hope for Gilgamesh’s immortal life.
Through the looking glass of all mortals dogma,
Faith model give rise to sovereign heavenly body in one piece.
Tis thy divine decree. Sole talent forge the apples’ fruit skin,
Gilgamesh’s purpose put to bed past regret.
To unite, to end suffering and shatter all man-kinds intrinsic prisons.
Gilgamesh's journey tips the edge…
Categories:
gins, fear, feelings, god, hope,
Form:
Free verse
I say, let’s hit the road,
when it’s nice and cold.
I’m a single woman,
I scream alone in my room,
with no cat, no kid, no hubby;
I don’t sweep much with my broom.
I say let’s hit the road,
when it’s nice and cold.
I ain’t getting any high,
with men hitting on my supply.
I need no gins and tonics,
as I am my own drink,
baby I am naturally high and it’s chronic.
I say,
let’s hit the road,
when it’s nice and cold.
When the sky was trying out dresses,
in various shades ,
I sat on that road,
under the sky.. thinking ,
What the hell?
And then a big car comes,
they stopped aside to take a dump.
I looked at them , they looked at me
as if I was some kind of a skunk.
They came and asked, hey babe waddap ?
I answered..continue your ****, punks !
I said,
let’s hit the road
before my brains get soar !
.
Categories:
gins, adventure, how i feel,
Form:
Grook
I look straight through the pane,
and see the floating veins of branches, naked and sometimes in full bloom.
Behind this the national flag flaps away, raised by the good vicar's son, he used to be a lawyer, by the way, he likes to preach.
Always a jumbo in the distance,
to remind of the present days,
watches, phones and passports,
knocking back the gins, cruising above my bed.
The upstairs lot, have moved in,
and flush constantly,
the ubiquitous siren wails in the distance.
Time to emerge now, wallet, scarf and keys at the ready.
Categories:
gins, art, beauty, deep, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
/tang led /co coon /hea vy /with in /this shell
/I can /feel the /fall ing /whisp ers /out side
/it calls /and i /list en, /per haps /too well
/the door /is op /ened I /can not /hide
/And she /pulls me /out with /Si rens /song
/the air /hea vy /with her /lur ing /grace
/I know /my qui /et wall /will not /last long
/As she /lays her /lips up /on my /face
/we em /brace, she /soft ly /sur rounds /me
/in her /grasp i /feel more /a live /than ever
/The air /gent ly /sighs /"I'll set /you free"
/I a /gree, though /it wont /last for /ever
/Her touch /be gins to /fade with /the sun
/and my /mo ment /in the /rain is /done
Tangled cocoon heavy within this shell
I can feel the falling whispers outside
it calls and I listen, perhaps too well
the door is opened I can not hide
And she pulls me out with Sirens song
the air heavy with her luring grace
I know my quiet wall will not last long
As she lays her lips up on my face
we embrace, she softly surrounds me
in her grasp I feel more alive than ever
The air gently sighs "I'll set you free"
I agree, though it wont last forever
Her touch begins to fade with the sun
and my moment in the rain is done
Categories:
gins, beautiful, desire, imagery, sensual,
Form:
Sonnet
An hour ago
At the embassy
Fleets of steels sighing
Protracted protocols prying
Exodus of seekers of greener pastures murmuring
Hanging hangars rusting and resting
Busy bees bullying deterioration
Officials posses with officialdom
Cabs crowing
Heads heavy with thoughts
Eyes lacerated with tears
Wives in sack-cloths
Sympathizers gulped down dry gins
As the blue bird landed from the air,
The remnant of his remains
Descended from above
Musa,
Butchered in the street of London
Awoh Awoh
Categories:
gins, death,
Form:
The dance of the dilettantes hasn't many steps.
It isn't meant to be remembered, nor to cause upset;
it's simply meant to get us through, like breakfast spent in bed.
It gives us comfort just to know our words have just been read.
And if a noble Dour-Glower 'gins to shake his head,
that's just fine and dandy, we'll tuck him safe and sound,
and read to him instead ---
Once, I met a Dour-glower walking through an orchard
"How dare they call you apple trees;
you're only whisps of bark!
You haven't many leaves,
and you're little more than seeds!
You think you're special with your flowers,
yet I've never seen you fruit!" screamed the Dour-glower.
What could the saplings do?
All of it was true.
They couldn't drop their leaves,
nor tear apart their petals.
But as the Dour-glower took his leave,
the sun above shone true.
The soil of the field was just as sweet
and craddled every root.
Categories:
gins, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Wandering the cobbled roads of Boston’s misty night
The stars spun like dew in spiders’ web glistening with delight
Low I came to a bridge, stone and fair and white
Over Charles’ river dark it reflected pale and bright
Looking off the bridge of stone, at the river ever changing
The starry night, the bridge of white, fragmented, rearranging
As if under Charles' influence, every molecule trembled in its ebb
Which finally shook a sparkling star from night's illusive web
I watched the falling star dive, it dove with fiery might
When a great shadowed beast sprung across the night
It could not escape the Attercop who fed with great delight
She who spins the starry night with four pair spindly legs
And month by month rolls the moon, her hanging sack of eggs
When the moon 'gins to wain her children descend and brightly sing
Filling the night sky anew, with stars, which hang from silky string
And if her children attempt escape, to dart or flash away
She scoops them in ominous jaws, like crocodile's prey
Fear the Great Attercop in night, for dire is her sting
And on wandering children verdant, she is known to spring
Stay my child in your bed, sleep neat until the dawn
For it is the flesh of infancy she feeds her offspring on
Finishing Line Press. Book FAREWELL TO THE DUST, by C. S. Leaf avalible March 2008
www.FinishingLinePress.com
Categories:
gins, imagination, life, children, night,
Form:
Romanticism
You know who we are.
We're with you everyday,
We're from the ghettos, the project buildings
the neighborhoods with low incomes
You know who we are
We're considered in society as the minority,
yet we're the majority in poverty,
the 16th president constituted abomination
for the sins of those whose skin is pale,
still we're slaves to an American economy,
who blames our new generations
for the contamination of the crack sale,
You know who we are
We're college graduates,
we have High school degrees
we're doctors, lawyers, sergeons and teachers
we're diplomats, philosophers, ordained as preachers
We're American, African
players of Uncle Sam's past time
concieved in the Nile, raised along the Potomac
sold by our own, for collateral and material,
we're the New World's history,
workers of cotton gins, fighters for rights
You know who we are
*******, black,
beautiful as the dawnless night
Categories:
gins, black african american, high
Form:
Verse