Best Grandstand Poems
Our sleepy little Island in the middle of the Irish Sea
Opens its eyes slowly for the Isle of Man TT
The Island bursts into life with bikers everywhere
You need to keep alert and take extra care
The Grandstand is buzzing with colour and noise
You have to admire the bravery of the biker boys
Tearing round the course at a million miles an hour
The machines that they ride have an awesome power
They line up on the grid; the adrenalin flows
The starter counts them down and then the rider goes
Tearing around the circuit at a tremendous pace
Trying to be the winner of the TT race
A dangerous sport racing can be
You don’t want to be a casualty
We cheer and shout when they cross the line
Then the Island goes back to sleep until the next TT time
~ This poem is to be featured in a book called 'Bringing it home' ~
You have permission to use these poems of mine on your terrific sight if you wish, from a series of Desert Poems I have written. Joe DiMino, author.
"From Desert Series" by Joe DiMino
Horses have come through here--
no jockeys though--
tracks too free for that;
no grandstand cheering...
but one can tell,
by the long strides,
horses always know:
An eagle steps from the cliff...
struts high above the canyon floor...
shows her young what wings can do.
"From Desert Series" by Joe DiMino
The sun is not too hot, here,
on the lichen side of the mountain--
where the edge is taken off, absorbed
into the oranges and yellows and
greens and blues of my patterns:
There!--I see an Indian woman
breast-feeding her swaddling-child;
and there!--a mystical buffalo,
in marble of color (sort of an
unfinished puzzle): I search for my
missing piece in the shade of a tall
saguaro….
Flippers up
Flippers down
Wave those flippers
All around
Swish your tail
From side to side
Create a wake
A water slide
Take a plunge
Dive down deep
Your body propelled
As up you leap
Hey, Sea Lion
Clap your hands
When you perform
You grandstand*
*To grandstand means to 'ham it up'
Oh, You Brutish Mob.
Ye fool's Ye.
It falls on your watch,
You care not what You see.
While all is being squandered,
you simply will not agree.
Yet you wave a finger,
then claim it's not me.
You Grandstand and Glad hand,
Ad nauseum of these.
And all you care about,
are those clowns on TV.
Reality is not, the Fantasy,
That they force feed.
Division, Derision, and Hate,
You've All sown the seeds.
Go Reap the Whirlwind.
Ye Fools Ye.
Is the bill that you proffer,
A plan of sound action?
Or just to fill the coffers,
of your Political Faction?
Do You stand with your Country?
The Land of the Free.
Oh, You Brutish Mob,
Ye Fool's Ye.
A covert curtain raiser pulls a string and marvels at an epic scene
Though parsimonious in essence the stage appears rather obscene
Black cross and pitch dark raven on bold charcoal sable tapestry
Ragged clairvoyant who twiddles cross bones by Caron's decree
The program had promised naked clarity and seductive treats
But now no bodies couple on the wooden floor in satin sheets
The truth however fresh from history's and other sad cohabitation
Sours moist appetites and threatens voyeuristic contemplation
A simple box white as true innocence depicts death's surrender
Rusty nails large as serrated daggers stick out of wood and tender
For anyone's guess as to who holds the moribund mortal keys
And for what the final will and wish decides to bequeath
Maybe the dramatist shows kindness after the transmission
Once champagne flutes held council in one last rendition
For when audiences in deck chairs recline on the Titanic
But the fool's vessel succumbs even when Satan is manic
Spectators wait on fleshy bums for anything to be told and relieve
The grandstand platform from misery far too mournful to conceive
But while the actors carry on with epilogues and future insanity
There is no second act and no dress rehearsal for humanity
10th April 2020
One by one they fall from grace.
The mightiest mouth, a pathetic case.
Good will win, the bad will fall.
You take your swing and miss the ball.
You’re not a man, more like a mouse.
Another empty room up in your house.
Go back home and leave us be.
You’re not so tough up in that tree.
Squeal and bawl, huff and stuff.
Your words of wit are powderpuff.
You’re lacking class and you’ve got no game.
Your pathetic attempt was pretty lame.
With vulgar words and comments, you disrespect.
Your ivory tower has now been wrecked.
People are tired of your arrogant ways,
rude remarks, and your grandstand plays.
Let's look to the land of Legerdemain
locale with surprises by sleight-of-hand.
Cards, coins, magic wands tax one's eyes and brain;
absorbed, we watch street performers grandstand.
Legerdemain - skullduggery pre-planned,
audience rapt in magic so diverse
assistants can pinch your wallet or purse.
True talent of prestidigitation
would never aid legerdemain’s perverse
misuse of skillful manipulation.
March 22, 2020
entry in Beth Evans' Delightful Dizains
In the cycle of lives, in the wheel of fate,
We tread our paths, our deeds dictate,
For in Hindu belief, karma reigns supreme,
Guiding our souls like a timeless stream.
Incarnate souls, in myriad forms,
From human realms to animal norms,
Each birth a step, a karmic dance,
A chance to learn, to evolve, to advance.
Perhaps I'll be born a cow in India's embrace,
Where reverence and freedom find their place,
To roam the streets, untouchable, revered,
In service to humanity, no shadow feared.
Or maybe a monkey, agile and free,
In lands where trees whisper secrets to me,
To frolic and play, with food in hand,
A life of joy in nature's grandstand.
Yet amidst these choices, a deeper call,
To devote my karma, to stand tall,
To help my fellow beings in need,
To nurture the earth, to plant the seed.
For in this devotion, in this selfless deed,
Lies the path to Nirvana, the soul's true need,
To transcend the cycle, the incarnate plight,
And merge with the divine, in eternal light.
Trump Words and Sounds
All that Trump said were stupid sounds;
Causing emotion and heart that pounds;
Never cared,
He declared;
Straighten up one day hopefully is bound.
Jim Horn
I am amazed that he finally is starting to
admit things. Guess he doesn't have a
choice.
Trump Facing Reckoning
A reckoning, Trump must have to face;
He messed up things all over the place;
To understand,
We do demand;
Have to leave presidency with disgrace.
Jim Horn
Trump and Red Hand
Had caught Trump while waving red hand;
He was entertaining with much grandstand;
Had heard conclusion,
Of disturbing delusion;
Some day in jail with friends he may land.
Jim Horn
Baptized and Realized I Was Revitalized
Remember when I had been baptized,
And that very second I rapidly realized,
Water ran,
Like it can;
My soul and me were instantly revitalized.
Jim Horn
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
-------------------
Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line
She was known as "Miss Knuckle Rapper"—
My old-maid math teacher in sixth grade.
She was well-groomed, but hardly dapper
And unrelentingly strict, stern, and staid.
"You WILL master fractions," she pronounced,
Smacking her desk with a ruler of wood.
The desk wasn't all on which she pounced,
She'd rap our knuckles if she felt she should.
"Lay your hands on your desks, nice and flat,"
She ordered pupils who had somehow erred.
The ruler struck their knuckles with a splat.
It was the discipline she faithfully preferred.
But there was more to the Rapper, I know it.
Leading her students to learn was her passion.
The ruler was a prop to grandstand her grit.
She cared for us all, but only in her fashion.
At making math practical she was a star,
Noting that knowing numbers was a "must."
"I'm sorry to say it but you won't go far,
Unless you learn math from one you trust."
By school year's end I had come to know
My teacher was driven by admirable actions.
She ruled to prep us for what life would bestow,
Including the mastering of fractions.
To tennis
What a cracking sport
To play, to lose all worldly cares.
Returning
To the tennis court –
That small rectangle, out of time;
Win or lose
It doesn’t matter,
I’ll keep my focus on the game,
Satisfy
My ruthless nature
With tuneful thwack of gut on rubber.
One set all,
It’s forty-thirty:
A sizzling ace secures the game.
Up above
In beech tree grandstand,
A crowd of rooks croak their applause.
With topspin,
Drop-shot, forehand smash,
Exhausting rally,……. gasp for breath,
All too soon,
Game, set and match, then
It’s back to work, my lunchtime spent.
Garden Party
Summer breezes gently
Brushes against my face
Sunlight teases my eyes
Wakens me
Its morning
Bouquet of fragrances to my nose
Guides me to my garden
Its there I find my peace
Eagerly stepping onto glistening dewy grass
Placing myself among the copious of blooms
I sit beneath my maple tree upon a rattan chair
I sip my tea, I breathe in my solitaire
They don’t seem to mind
My company spends time
Creating the sounds of summer
My buzzing bees they notice me
And thank me for pink Peonies
Butterflies like swimming high
Above their purple Buddleia
Kissing nectar for their breakfast
As fragrant aromas surrounds me
Infusing my tea while I see
A white blossom tree
Good Morning Dragonfly perching upon his Goldenrod
Shimmering purple through his transparent wings
Dancing to the waterfall like a King
Dawn brings the cooing voice
Of music from the Dove
Hummingbirds flying backwards
Display their iridescent plumage
Drinking sweetness from the trumpets
Blackbirds flying downward
Yellow beaks hunting
Consuming food from falling seeds
Vibrant colors all around
Pleasant sounds resounding
Grandstand of fragrances
I refreshingly embrace
A reception of hospitality
Welcome to my Garden Party
My concrere rose
Stone in single file under the rock;
Scraping purple sea shells under the dock.
The seeds scattered all but one spot,
Blossom bloom, blowing memories.
Fading illusion I had company;
A brother that look out for me,
A sister that look up to me,
A mother might seek the best for me
But I'm shadow torn
Blades mince the dice in me.
Gambling games there's no lucky three.
Losing spree I've already lost the soul in me.
I'm dust; call me soil erosion
I'm living low key grandstand
With these voices in my head I can't translate.
Explain, words I don't understand
Nobody there but the walls speak.
Alone street geared with nothing but
Weak.
Wishing I'll fall asleep;
Enter a very lucid dream,
Victim to a trance unique,
Buried in tunnel so deep,
To sprout from a funnel unusually
Steep.
A concrete rose
With a smell of ease
Sprouting from gravel grapevine.
Untwisting
Death peace.
In the middle of this universe I stand, hoping someone will take my hand
In the middle of this universe I stand, in this beautiful dreamland
In the middle of this universe I stand, looking for faith I demand
In the middle of this universe I stand, it's so hard to understand
In the middle of this universe I stand, not looking for a grandstand
In the middle of this universe I stand, will God take my hand.
2/5/15 T Reams 3rd Place