Best Give Up The Ghost Poems
I've startled a frog, who leaps in flashes.
He and a grasshopper zig-zag away.
The lawn whispers mildly, in tune with the sun,
Yet something's amiss--the air is unsettled.
Squirrels and I stash away seeds,
salvaged from spent, rain-ravaged beds.
Bees are now torpid and cling to the mums.
Bedraggled zinnias give up the ghost.
What becomes of the Grim Reaper's harvest,
of creatures who cannot withstand the strain?
The mystery hides in an infinite point--
the one in the center of The Great Hub--
the crux of a myriad transformations.
HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY
Her hand’s swan-like dance,
ivory shadow puppets
romance. Hungarian rhapsody.
The musician sans existence
as emotive fingers move
imaginary marionettes
with splendiferous precision.
Drama drops onto piano keys
occasionally taking a gentle stroll
then in sensuous sway, sashaying
like an exotic dancer. The musician
plucks and plinks as if
with chameleonic charm, like an
angel playing a harp.
Her fingers fast walk the keyboard
then resound tremulous keys.
(The audience swoons, spooned
by a rapturous torrent that enters
the heart, strokes and kisses
the yearning flesh, like the taste
and feel of brandy, burning and
tantalizing in breathlessness)
The musician’s slender fingers
now strum along in gaiety, like
paramours on the streets of Paris,
Springtime in the air. Palms nearly
rest upon silent keys as if two lovers
lay back upon a bed with puffs of smoke.
Dawn’s crescendo, with peaks of happiness
reside upon streets of ebony and ivory.
Life’s serendipitous monologue begins
once more with foreboding or adventure
or both. Is there loneliness upon this crest
for what has happenstance brought,
are they star-crossed? Do we see the sun
and the moon racing through their pulse —
days of birth and mourning?
(The blond marionette in concert black
seems to be mesmerized or hypnotized
by the muse of music. She’s like a dream
on a performance stage. Practiced in
illumination of flame. She releases the arrow
and the audience brightens up like a chandelier
with clinking and brilliant crystal pieces)
Happiness once again but with ferocious fervor
sends the keys to a heavenly place - to ears,
to mind, to soul...a cheer of a great parade,
and then the shivering of climatic peak,
followed by a lullaby of dreams - we imagine
a newborn wrapped up in a life well-lived.
The darling gal still doesn’t give up the ghost
but plays and plays...can you hear the needle
stuck at the vinyl’s end...spending all love gives?
Only the Creator Himself can lift the arm and
carry the musician still incubating all her charm.
3/19/2018
Bidding tearful adieu,
I sat on his grave,
And his spirit stood beside me,
Consoling me to return home.
As I opened eyes to my conscious ,
Ghosts encircled me in black attire,
Their orange faces wore a smile,
Greeted with shriek sounds they proffered.
No life to be seen in full moon,
Not even as dark clouds passed by,
Palpitations that anyone could hear,
Chest went airless for a minute,
Eyes were dry and reflexes dampened,
Shiver that followed down the spine.
Scare of dying never before,
Traversed my nerves to a faint,
Darkness all over and silence of a mourn,
I found him standing next to me,
Both breathing into the same air,
That was a farewell to my life !!
New for Contest- Everything Halloween
Written on 22/10/13
Old for contest on theme- gothic and romantic both
Now entered for contest "Your own fav Halloween poem" by Carol Eastman
Awarded 1st place win
ANSWERING AN ABSTRACT
do you trust the world not to fall on you?
i’m standing on the world, i have to trust
myself not to drop. i’m an implosion of doom
enjoying expressions like good grief, my structure
is closer to collapsing because the bolts unloosen,
thinking my thoughts are unique, sounding
like a dead man, the one who invented
the atomic bomb to protect the world from Nazis
and orange mist, didn’t work of course
nobody laughs at my jokes, wife thinks
my ***** is small and wants a threesome
with the neighbor who steals my newspaper,
the sun is dying, learned about it in fifth grade
along with putting a condom on and long division,
a little too late if you ask me, and everybody
dislikes the idea i might want to pray or learn
Korean, my life is a parachute that won’t open
i’m going down and not on my wife
people call me crude, saying my behavior
is for shock value, i like sitting naked
in my living room with the windows open
clothes are itchy, socks have a tendency
to make my feet smell automatically,
cleanliness is next to godliness and i
need all the god i can muster, why i
sing hymns because i hear they like music
up there more than talking, conversations
in chitchat sounds like static in an oyster,
can’t know for sure i recognize the world
have to assume i don’t, ignorant of the cosmos
and my own capacity for greatness, clouds
could be my thoughts, trees could be my limps
sun could be my soul, and even if the world
falls i’d have to go with it, and how’d i know
i was dropping when i would give up the ghost
before we land at the end of time because we are
booming through the millenniums and it takes
a long time to get to a floor so bottomless.
Yellowed moonbeams flooded slantingly through the forest,
Crisscrossingly spearing and slicing the night,
Whilst throwing the foliage alight,
As I work to finish my task, brimming with fright.
Though familiar with the sight I behold
The moon ray-lit woods looked fresh and anew,
Whilst continuing to do as I’m told
And allowing my spade to strike true.
What of this spot, this hollow
If my body tires? Becomes spent?
Wanting to defy and not follow,
Ever knowing of his intent.
No choice but to labor to the bottom, the end
To bare my last, shaky breath.
For his gun will be quick to extend,
Making me give up the ghost and take death.
Nearing the last few spades of cold, forest ground,
Wondering if I’ll ever be found
Under a large soil mound,
Whilst tears trace down my face awaiting his guns resounding sound.
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 25
Followers are made from day one in the womb
Not gods but by men in the full-length skirt
Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb
Do not men in frocks drive terror promise doom
Those who heed not words they stuff into gods first
Followers are made from day one in the womb
Can honourable men raise gods from the tomb
Invite them back to earth slake believers’ thirst
Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb
Who split their gods’ words plunge followers in gloom
Make dissenters fight staunch believers first
Followers are made from day one in the womb
Sexless men tear each other under own dome
Then order robot men to give up the ghost
Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb
Who forbids men from praying under one dome
Don’t middle-men stoked by sybarite Sophist
Followers are made from day one in the womb
Pavlov mice all salivate stunned stark in tomb
- End of Part One –
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Soul Consciousness
As I struggle with the endeavors of my existence, leaving me at times numb, continuing to seek the answers that will set my mind free. It is then that I know my soul is conscious, for I begin to feel it’s soft caresses guiding me through this wind tunnel I call life. At times I can almost feel my soul wanting to defy gravity, fighting to leave its captivity and go to its resting place where it will breathe. And yet it waits to accomplish what it was set out to be. To fill me with hope and remind me of my moral actions. The body beaten and torn wanting to return to its dust will then give up the ghost, the consciousness soul arriving flawlessly in it’s triumphant flight returning into the hands of it’s creator to live forever. Creator, Master Artist, Magister, Author of my Soul, is why He is worthy…
Margaret Franceschini – May 23, 2016
Contest sponsored by Catie Lindsey
Responding to questions:
Is Your Soul Conscious at this time?
Will your soul be conscious after you have left the Earth?
To achieve while in the physical body?
After death?
Lastly, is God still God at the end of the day?
Did you know,
that in the age of stone,
long before
the age of workflow,
decisions were made
alone, where to roam,
no direction known?
The paradox of
that great unknown…
was not so good back then.
Without a grid,
endless wandering,
hand to mouth,
bone to bone.
From nomad to
no longer, this man
began a small herd,
to comfort himself.
The greater good
became his norm
to weather the storm.
Did he know,
where this choice would go,
the tradeoffs,
the power of workflow,
the politics,
the invisible hand?
I don’t think so.
No, no, no,
more like a fool.
He traded his soul
for a nest and tools
that grew and grew and grew,
into a network of cruel,
the new great unknown.
I for one,
have had enough.
I think it is best
to move this great herd,
to shift the burden,
to give up the ghost
and empty the nest.
Spring flowers that never
Give up the ghost;
Perennially in bloom,
Worth fighting
And dying for;
Love and friendship
Like a fine wine
The more aged, the tastier
Going beautifully hand
In hand and can't exist
Without the other;
Love and friendship
Two gifts that keep on giving
And make life worthwhile;
Seeds that need watering
To continue growing
And enduring;
Love and friendship
Two butterflies
Emerging, as if like magic
From their chrysalis.
Soon to grow wings
And take flight;
Love and friendship
STRAND CHOICE X,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
(Winner: Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date written and posted: 10/13/2018
On an azure expanse without prospect or sail
the debris of my ship rent asunder from gale
as I float, the last salt to endeavor my breath
my mates sent to Davey Jone's locker in death
I am lashed to this length of the mizzen, adrift
as swells rock me gently and ship riggings shift
it's too many days now I've been without water
parched to my marrow the sun growing hotter
I've now resigned grace, if I give up the ghost
and I think on the treasures of life I love most
I remember my time in the crow's nest a-sway
puff cheeks of the moon on the tail of the day
the glow of the wake as the drift ever churned
and the dancing of St. Elmo's fire as it burned
oh the heavens - as dark as the deepest abyss
yet alight with a blush from the Milky Way's kiss
a thousand suns setting and not one the same
young lasses in port with bright tresses aflame
the yawp of the sails, e'er the ship came about
a yell from the nest when we'd spotted a spout
the cold slap of spray as a cap broke too soon
or Luna's night dance like ten million doubloon
well ...
the ocean can't hold all the rules that I've bent
but I float off to sleep on these billows content
ever sure that this seafarer's life was well-spent
and my only fit grave, this ol' sea, heaven-sent
aye, my only fit grave, this ol' sea ...
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Rattling Rhyme" Poetry Contest, Nina Parmenter, Judge & Sponsor.
Some like to say “give up the ghost”,
To mean forever abandoning your post.
The rowdy ones prefer to kick the bucket,
Though that would surely make a racket.
Many are said to bite the dust,
When they’re catching the skyward bus.
A gambler would likely cash in his chips,
Hope he’ll change his winnings into tips.
I knew someone who turned up his toes,
When on habaneros he overdosed.
The more vocally inclined tend to croak,
Then become quieter than a dead oak.
My granduncle may soon fall off his perch,
For both food and sex he has lost the urge.
We will soon shuffle off this mortal coil,
Pack it up and immigrate to the soil.
You’re scheduled to go the way of all flesh,
Whether your figure is average or a smash.
It’s no great tragedy to breathe one’s last,
If regrets are few and life’s been a blast.
When I’m ready to sail to heaven’s arch,
Raise a toast and wish me bon voyage!
Sweet dreams I wish to have in a much longer
When the ticking clock of live ticks not any longer
when the fresh and healthy air has no use any longer
And when the wishes and worldy dreams turns into reality
When the light of the world beginhs to deminish slowly
Whe the eyes of women continuous to water prefusely
when the hearts of men gets broken with no remedy
When the world is finaly closed for me certainly
And when the breathe is made its final tune
And it is then the time to give up the ghost
I wish then to have sweet dreasms in a much longer
When the rich and the poor are sent down into body of the ground
Then will I be taken to a place where the time never flows
The heaven is always blue and the rivers always flows
The air never comes to not and the breathe never seiz to count
A place where the eyes comes to see what the ears used to hear
Where the deeds of the righteous and the wicked are made plain and clear
Where men shall be succumb to account for that which they used to do
True families turns to rejoice, dejected families each other they turns to haunt
I wish to have left saddened families behind gladly
Wishing that, worried friends were seeing that which I am seeing
I wish to be laughing in joy and devils weeping prefusely in defeat
With love will the angels welcome me and sang the song of victory
And with peace the gates of the theavens will be showed to me graciously
And sweet dreams I wish to have when I am made to have a good sleep in a much longer
Awaiting the rapture, the final day and the awakening of the dead
Taking them into the land of the living on the day of Judgement.
When the ticking clock of live will never stop ticking any longer
And surely death will never come to seize me any longer
I wish to have sweet dreams in a much longer
MAN;
I was all doom and gloom in the zoom
when the past second died,
A man surely has kicked the bucket
I was told, but I shan't believe
If so, when will I give up the ghost?
Fear;
This one is less romantic, young me
which mob will moan me- then let's all die
If not, its just me - on a beach.
This laudable slayer, I desecrate not
I yearn for your empathy, eh, less pity on me
Time;
your dear friend and his frostiness
I feel more sympathetic, I feel your pain.
Your kin and kindreds, all gone - just the fierce
and yourself to mend the rest.
History is fisty, misery is misty
And Death;
fie upon you amid all good
mirth you haven't given, some you've taken,
When all hope is done, you we shall demand of.
To me, guffaw not, for all you have not
Your soullessness is beleaguered, immortality renders you unhinged
Dribbling
If someone continually gets knocked down
Eventually they will give up the ghost
If around every corner is more negativity
Which of us has lost the most?
Started to believe
More fool me
Be another page
In my sad history
Knock me back
I’m used to it
Should I care
Should I give a
If you had me and lost me
How much did you lose?
I never dreamt this for you
But then,
I never dreamt it for me,
Too
Never got beyond the opening gambits
The if's the that's
The why's and wherefore's
The dangled conversation
The fandangled expression
The ooh's the ah's
The more's the baa's
The ponderous the wonderful
The hip the snakey
The half asleep
The wide awakey
The shakers
The quakers
The jitterers
The poem makers
The right from wrongs
The singers the songs
The left from right
The right from not-so
You never understood
None of you
Never had a clue
Poem as
Cathartic expression
Class dismissed
End of lesson
I’ve told you a thousand times
Don’t exaggerate
And if you’re not early
Don’t be late
Mind your p’s and q’s
Your x y z’s and your w’s
Let it flow
Let it grow
Mind what’s going on
Down below
Every sperm is sacred
Monty Python taught us so
How long’s a rollercoaster
Compared to a sapling
If you think about
Why is money happening
Haven’t had this much fun
In years and years
Still wondering about sweetcorn
WTF? Ears, ears?
Just letting my mind
Cleanse itself
Nothing left
On the shelf
There’s an infinite number
Of poems to be written
If I call this one,
Will it be forgiven?
I’m here and now
Ducking and fighting
A paper bag
Doesn’t come when writing
There was an old poet called Neil
Who wrote something for the thrill
Everyone groaned
Some even moaned
At poor Neil Neil orange peel
Don’t worry
I’ll get me coat
Not wanted here
I won’t get the goat
There’s barely a day goes by
Without me trying to marry
Sigh with my
I wonder why
This butterfly
The poems cry
And if I’m high
Or do or die
I’ll fly
Aye
I’ll fly
Aye
For the end is nigh…
PS
There’s a reason for this coda
Nothing to do with odour
But I’m not going to tell you
Or give you a clue
The best poems are written
To make you think,
I think.
28.4.2022 9:06am
Seven walked the lonely road
Searching for a secret key
To life’s door of humanity
Maybe if they let it out
People will be gentle again
One falls from hateful comments made
The six left fight with vengeance
To give people a conscience
Maybe if they give them that
People will be loving again
Another falls from an iron blade
Five stand tall and push past the fight
Towards the goal of endless light
Maybe if they let it out
People will see what they’ve done
One succumbs to despair
So there are four, so close
They refuse to give up the ghost
Maybe if they don’t give up
People will have hope again
Another falls from unknown cause
And three take the journey alone
Declining to rest, they cut to the bone
Maybe if they cut that deep
People will find the goodness they lost
One fades from disease and leaves the world
Two are left, clinging to possibility
That they have the capability
Maybe if they make it
People will stop being cruel
Two are now one, with sinking heart
Finally one is at the gate
The people are screaming for him to wait
He pushes it open, the light streams out
People will be gentle again
People will be loving again
People will see what they’ve done
People will have hope again
People will find the goodness they lost
People will stop being cruel
And all the people disappeared
Hiding from the burning light
Because people don’t like to see their faults
And the one falls and the gate and dies
And fades to join his brethren
©Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.