Best Ids Poems
Would you still love me ... perchance I was half a man?
My carnal, physical core torn from me like ragged raiment,
Off to war in courage and heroic sacrifice ...
Returned by God and country, as barely half of what I'd been -
The half that could never again join with you in passion ...
Would you still love me?
Imagine I was a monster ...
Deformed by happenstance or accident,
Still a man in the technical sense,
But with face and sinews that repulsed even himself,
Though the heart and spirit you adore still thrummed inside ...
Would you still love me?
What if the day came - a reality as viable as any,
When I lost everything of earthly value and worth -
All possessions, comforts, conveniences, and financial securities - gone,
The talents and abilities and experience to support even myself,
Blown to the four winds by careless fate or folly ...
Would you still love me?
Consider if I were human, inside-out ...
The abyssal and dark, troubled corners of my being
Worn on hapless bones like sodden skin,
The fearful ids and psyches, thus laid bare by illness or substance -
Free to dance like a demon for the porcelain moon ...
Would you still love me?
And pray, what if I were YOU ...
And you were the reflection of all that your dreams dare weave,
The horror and ecstasy that awakens you in the night -
Shivers and turns to ice on your faultless, barren skin,
Choking the screams from your chest ...
Would you ... could you still love me??
~ 10th Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 25" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Would You Still Love Me?" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
There are a few gentlemen I admire
Whose lovely poems set my heart afire
Though we live far apart
They all captured my heart
Their romantic verses make me perspire.
I dare not expose each poet by name
Cuz I'm afraid that would make them fair game
To the women of soup
Who would make a swift swoop
To put flirty moves on each manly flame.
I'd best keep their IDs close to my vest
And imagine their heads upon my breast
While I pretend their lines
Are for me... valentines
And my breasts only used as a headrest.
Jenna
I dreamt I was lying on her soft breast
As cushions go they were simply the best
Then there was a loud beep
And I woke from my sleep
But I'll never forget her treasure chest...
Tom C.
One's lucky to pass the gravity test
With breasts able to use as a headrest
When they start to swing low
Reaching to your elbow
Those fantasy men will not be impressed.
Belle B.
Some soup poetesses leave me cold
Others make me feel lusty and bold
Then one I met
But to my regret
She just craved my bulging--billfold!
Robert Gorelick
Cookies
Having
Rich
Icing
So
Tempting
Me
Always
Sweetly.
Come
On
Over,
Kids!
Indulge!
Enjoy
Some!
Dec. 9, 2022
For Bobby May's Christmas Poetry Contest
A Devil's ad
How do we tell
If Earth's about
To go to hell?
Two leaders, dim
Twice immature
Consider carnage
Cogent cure
If in the midst
Of dueling ids
Cans get kicked
While blowing lids
That final conflict
Fools will fend
Reaping us ALL
Our dusty ...
END.
Adorable as children can be.
Bounding with such energy.
Cuddles when they see me.
Deciding what to ask Santa for.
Each has so many toys, oh Santa not more.
Fairy dress up clothes for little Eleanor.
Giant dinosaur models for Jon.
Helicopter that flies for Joel and a pony to ride on.
Into the post to Santa we will put their letters.
Just before they came I finished making their sweaters.
Kids having fun are a joy to watch as they play.
Laughter fills the house, how I wish it was every day.
My Grandchildren’s visits fill my heart with pride.
Now it starts to rain they must play inside.
One good game is treasure hunts, now what can I hide?
Perhaps some coins, better than sweets.
Quality time with children, without giving treats.
“Read a story”, the children now plead.
Sitting down I choose a story book to read.
Telling stories is fun, as they all join in.
Using musical instruments I decide on a story and begin.
Violins play a part in the first story I tell.
When instuments play, turn the page when you hear a bell.
Xylophones are part of this story as well.
Yes next time you come we will go out, but where?
Zoo is fun, “as long as we are with you G’ma we don’t care.”
would …
you still love me ...
perchance I was half a man?
my carnal, physical core blasted from
me like ragged raiment
off to war in courage and heroic sacrifice
returned by God and country as
barely half of what I'd been -
the half that could never
again join with you in passion or
appease your bodily desires …
would you still love me?
imagine …
I was a monster -
deformed by happenstance or accident
still a man in the technical sense
but with face and sinews that
repulsed even me
and frightened children away
though the heart and spirit you adored
still thrummed earnestly inside -
still beat with love and desire and
careful intensity ...
would you still love me?
what …
if the day came -
(a stark reality as viable as any)
when I lost all of earthly value and worth -
all possessions and comforts
all conveniences and financial securities - gone
the talents and experience and innate
ability to support even myself
blown to the four winds by
careless fate or folly ...
would you still love me?
consider …
I’m human, but
turned completely inside-out -
the abyssal and dark, troubled corners
of my innermost being
worn on hapless bones like sodden skin
the fearful ids and psyches thus
laid bare by illness, time or substance -
free to dance like a demon for
the porcelain moon ...
would you still love me?
and pray …
what if I were YOU ...
and you were the reflection of all that
your dreams dared to weave
the horror and ecstasy that awakens
you sweaty in the night -
that shivers and turns to ice on your
fair, faultless, barren skin
terror choking the screams from
the tight of your chest
could you ...
would you, still …
love me??
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
Kept in the fridges of
kitchens of my land, the
King of Condiments is
Known to enhance french fries!
Kids at heart love it, so
Kick off your morning with
Ketchup on scrambled eggs!
March 10, 2017 for Pleiades K Contest of Kim Merryman
There's a point blank
Just south of Soulsville
where common pit desires exude
extreme ego ratios rotating on human gutlike
socioshadow experientials. Slow slug immuno
pain gestures cloud coilshaped reason
with limited intellirespect ids--only
that lonely by product of talking to
the mime chip on your shoulder clasped
hands in a froth frame of zero quotient
personality tolerance. Socioscan the fluid
flawed internoschism and plug yourself
into those autothoughts so socioprevelant
as to walk away and call it a draw day. Never
the tweens shall resolve. Sharp footsteps
with no meaning will evercast jaded overtone half
with tongues that bite their own limplip droppings
wag wash in cumulative deceit doings.
Drag your dill depths with an ether
grappling hook and sociosoothe your
infection---massage your emo entrails
with an existential ease of a
junk jolt to colon ize another
fecal space of cleansed renewal--like ripping
the tape from a well wound
dancing scales up and down
to a new brainbeating--livid at living
fax a look outside your self and erase
your exit embarassment for a beholding
chance at adding a new socioscore to your
puss life tax deduction. What a rectal return on your
individual invest mint-- ass the rich get raunchier
the poor prey prime evil----sign here, please.
No Mickey, Minnie, or Goofy- no Jimmy The Cricket
The spirit of Sodom is Gomorrah...what I see is plain "Wicked"
Neon lit buildings and business bright nights...
A terse description of 8th Ave - I see somethings not right
Jailbait pimps fishing for girlish age bodies
Port of Authority freaks craving school boy young hotties
A bunco, a scam - the cards of "Monte" are three...
White kids from Jersey seeking fake/fresh Ids
Cabbies waiting for fares/get their plates/it's too late
Little courtesy or English and overpriced rates
Electronic stores, you have restaurants; a myriad of stands
that vend snacks
You can have a wad roll of money, yet still looked at if Black
The Homeless Are Human, it's the truth not conjecture
It seems to keep them sans housing gives Midtown its texture
Fleabag hotels are great bargains/I've heard there's four legged pests
You've paid your money - there's danger, but you still can't have guests
Mounted units, Blue grunts to keep the rich ones protected
The last Toe Tag said "No One", why wasn't that crime detected?
A Vagrant says that he's hungry to everyone that he greets
You can't see the flame touch the Pyrex/it's the crack that he eats
On the trains I see animals, sometimes you'd think a new species
Most of those stations need cleaning....in my sight Human Feces
Poetiq visions/my heart troubled/ I had no choice but expound
It goes down daily in the Crab Apple/New York City....Midtown
Georgie Bush has been pilloried relentlessly by the liberal press!
He's been blamed for everything from (A)ids to this nation's (Z)aniness!
Too bad they cannot remove the log from their biased eye,
And see the miserable fix we are in with the current guy!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Alternating sleet and snow
Bounced droplets against windows
Children pressing noses on glass
December 24th, Christmas Eve at last
Excitement palpable all around
Flakes gently accumulating over ground
Gusts of wind creating snowdrifts fast
Holiday memories of Christmas's past
I am home for holidays this year
Jingle Bells sung loudly to all I hold dear
Kids again ask “Is it almost time?”
Leaving cookies and letter for Santa
Milk put on fireplace mantle
Naughty or nice all children in bed
On alert for Santa's reindeer and sled
Peace on earth whispers to God’s ear
Quiet prayers for those we hold dear
Rejoicing heard all over the world
Songs celebrating the birth of our Lord
True spirit of Christmas in many places
Universally in smiles on children’s faces
Volunteers and helpers know meaning
Wishing all Merry Christmas or singing
Xylophones for ladies and gents
Year-round giving with common sense
Zealous patrons of generousness
Written 12-25-2015
Abecedarian Rhyme
Christmas Abecedarian Contest sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
2nd Place
as turf wars go
here
the weapons concealed
before agendas revealed
and courtyard orders sealed
inside wetzel gooey goodness
grand central its not
maybe from the outside
but inside the buzz is low
the reverb high
lingering as smoke choking
on its own asthma
void of cache
or any semblance
of the character
chiseled into posts,
ceiling festoons
and the ethnic parades
chanting in uniform grunts,
silence and glares
required vitals from
their lost or stolen IDs
it isnt Union Station for nothing
a primal yack, spit and grin
flowing from the cakes of
baked commuters
forsaked souls
and a neighborhood watch
that drools in adoration
point a to point b (or c)
never had an intermission like this
then again
here
every director is the drama
they wish they could
coddle into love.
(10/30/13)
Impeccant,
of non-textual matters
one’s covered flesh,
and hidden embrasure’
as diffusate primer
slips life’s veil, and
in agitated pontlevis,
cleaves the universe’ reason…
“Egads! What sorcery is this?”
Holy heart failure, Batman!
“Beavis and Butthead”,
on Soteriology!
or merely, this word wizard’
celebrity; slap my knee,
and pass the shinola please
would you then consider the following:
palliate your lesser selves, or else
where silence seethes, your spirit will
bleed asunderp; and in the depths of space
and time you will forget your moment’ cill
so divaricating your soul, until
that whisper of your assibilate voice
remains in memory’s forever
as that sound of death’s last hissing
And now to secularize
your quarters out per se,
a knotted rope and stallions four
two palms, a cup and nothing
more than, one’s perceived illation
with rigorous and self-righteousness’
precipitancy, my will so locates your
remaining sang-froid serendipitously
and in humaneness casts, this lifeline
out to thee for free for you to grasp,
of each person placed above all things
as nature sings concretism’ simplistic rhythmic
wringing “stream of consciousness”,
a-flowing upon thought’s eternal thaw while
Descartes’ “Substance Dualism” does so
battle, against Plato’ “universalia ante res”
supernal then, is an ideal’s whim, or Ids whine
within one’s thought’s stokehold, as axis bold
or love’s bestow, fires the flesh to render
that pondering patch of thinking’s wrath
awaiting that awakening moment’s bewhisker
in essence, life’s xenium given in kind
as is the universe’s night skies splendor
passing that lending thought, behind a silent chador
visualize the context and intent within
a compelling and perplexing write to win
an idea’s kneel before that “mercy seat”
this particular and incomplete entelechy bleeds
of questions asked and left unanswered continuously
of generations after generations in weeping
conscience wistfully fawning in defeat
and admitting, to a lowly ponderings musings.
My eyes look for you ...
My heart bleeds the truth,
My spirit enters your soul completely.
Where do I end and you begin?
A mosh pit swirl of emotions and ids,
Each breath a swollen anticipation.
My mouth whispers your being,
Like blossoms pressed to the wind -
Carried to seed in a place of longing.
My courses run as rills in spring-tide,
Awakening marrow and sinews with life,
Wonderment tying us like silken knots.
My tympans tremble with your name,
Its fascination like a blade in my gut ...
Tearing desire with ragged certainty.
How do I tell you - what words?!?
What I see in your eyes is ME ...
NOT my reflection, but my soul.
As if your own, and yet ...
A knowing and a surety, fine,
As diaphanous as winter snow ...
We are separate and one, at once,
I am lost IN you and without ...
And knowing all this, feeling it,
By doing the above,
Reaching up ...
You complete me.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "You Complete Me" Poetry Contest, James Edward Lee Sr, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "'Strand Pick G, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Gathered as a swarm of bees,
He stands poised with swollen knees,
Squinting forcefully towards fleeting
Dreams, beyond the dreadful, scum sucking
Incumbants, bathing in their own excrement.
Eyes opaque like a hard boiled egg;
Squishy, bleeding yoke chased
By morbid impulses and frenzied statements.
He was then approached by a herd of hallowed
Holograms, draped with voided encodements borrowed
From sagacious salamanders, and the like. It's priced
Similarly to what can never be bought.
Open wounds salved with the next bloody
Thought, entangled incessantly with petty
Constructs protruding simultaneously, with
Belligerance graced by drunken discourse.
Fingers dance to the beat of the force
Ash pummels perverted protagonists perched
Precociously, pompously, perpetually a passage
Penetrates related, inflated, deflated Ids and egos.
Happenstance leaks out in porous rivulets linked
Like DNA strands sullied, salty, sacreligious
Particles, still he permeates into tinctures
Possesing glorious stimulations with sphincters.