Best Iii Poems
i narrate me own story in a fake english accent. the bloody typewriter is
broken, it can't capitalize. i'm out of coins for the heater. i can see me own
breath. it must be really bad . it's summer here in london. i'm a tough guy who
carries a gun. don't mean i don't want to look good. i freshen up my lipstick,
light up a cigarette and offer one to my secretary. she is hot really hot.
like i said it's summer. she don't wear lipstick it wouldn't help. in the
encyclopedia under the word butch is her picture.
i put out my cig in an ashtray overflowin. i'd tell her to empty it but she scares me.
she only wears one gold earring. who does that? i'm workin on a case, already
drank half the beers. by the way i'm a dick a private dick. the name is rock,
rock hard. there's a knock at the door. this could be bad she has two fourty fives,
she's also got a gun.
she's holding an airline ticket. no reason. she says she just likes it.
whatever! maybe it has to do with some kind of contest.
she says we're going for a ride. we are driving when she gets a flat.
i pump she pumps then we get out of the car and fix the flat. never liked
cars, horses are more convenient. less breakdowns. she takes us to a
party everyone is jumpin for joy, so joy gets up and leaves. bet you wish
this was going somewhere. it's not. like i said i'm a dick.
11~28~2014
Contest: Chopped III
Sponsor: craig cornish
Before reading this one, please read one and two, it will help you make sense of the tale.
I became startled when the car came to an abrupt stop. Ricky reached into the bag and pulled me out again. I have to admit it was good to feel the light shining through my glass. There was also something comforting about Ricky's little hand wrapped around my neck. I'm sure if I was human that might be an entirely different experience. Ricky hopped out of the car and ran towards the front door of his home. I am not sure how to describe it. The house was more like half a house, they lived on one side and another family lived on the other. The building was not fancy, except two large picture window and several small ones the building was all brick. To the left of their home there was what looked like a vacant lot which was more a hole in the ground with a pathway rocks and trees. I could see other kids playing there and it looked like they had built a fort of sorts. It looked like a whole lot of fun.
I'm not sure when it happened, but who really does when it comes to such things. I began to hear Ricky's thoughts. Some of them were beyond the capacity of a mere Soda Pop like myself to understand. It was almost as clear as how you might see through my glass. I must say that it made my simple existance a whole lot more interesting. As Ricky's mom unlocked the front door I could see a staircase to the left and there was a living room to the right where the picture window was. The wall separating the two homes was made of concrete cinder blocks painted a creamy colour. Ricky ran towards the wall then left past a dining area to the kitchen. He jumped up on a stool to reach the kitchen tap. I don't know why but I really liked the stainless steel sink and the shiney chrome tap with a single lever. Ricky liked it because it felt like a gear shift in a car. He pushed it forward and filled me up with water. What a refreshing feeling although I must admit I missed the feeling of my bubbles and the colour orange.
The adventure of Soda Pop will continue, thanks for reading.
The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
As I climb my family tree, each distinct leaf touches me with life's beauty.
(written 12/7/15 for Silent One's One Liners Three Contest)
Are there robins hopping my frozen ground?
Sound of widowers voices all around.
Chilled to the bone, I make nary a sound.
My suit and tie are not keeping me warm.
Icy northern winds blowing in a storm,
I'm not feeling myself, out of the norm.
I feel my eyelids, the icicles form.
In the distance I hear taps being played.
Silent sobs emitted, my nerves are frayed.
Even in knee deep snow they knelt and prayed.
But there's nobody home, I am afraid.
I am not here, only my thoughts remain.
Taps is finished, such a solemn refrain.
Maybe it's me, am I going insane?
One mirror glance and I'd suffer disdain.
Someone has stolen my salt-pepper locks.
Moths have digested my Christmas wool socks.
Someday I will think outside of this box.
Wake me up if opportunity knocks.
Are there robins hopping my frozen ground?
Written 12/23/2017
Contest: Rhyme Time III
Host: Laura Loo
"give this,
one blood stained
word scrawled
on a stretch of
swine flesh.
call it "soul"
& sacrifice the known
to see it become
whole for one
fainting second
& shown
the surface undone,
completed in its
ever revolving
cycle towards
the center."
& he'll stand
& stretch & close
his briefcase
& he'll turn around
to go & you'll swear
that you saw the
light for just
one second.
Toilet tissue is like the starship
Enterprise in that they both slip
Around Uranus
And zip up heinous
Klingons to ferry on a trip
Act III, final scene, psychodrama script-
the world is ushered off into history's crypt.
All the super heroes lie slaughtered on the floor
while apocalyptic addicts are screaming out for more.
A handful of patriots ride the airwaves into night
broadcasting dire warnings to bring the truth to light.
General population is glued to the TV set
watching situation comedies, smoking cigarettes.
The program's interrupted by a special news update
"World War III declared" more details at eight.
General population pumps his fist hard into the air
grabs himself a six-pack and settles back into his chair.
Less then twenty cases later he is morgue decor
from the radiation resulting from the war.
The tube becomes his headstone, body decomposing on the floor
beneath blue light TV flickering...1984.
Frightened by the darkness of this eerie night
Crystal eyes cracked, by the horror of its sight
A phantom amid the forest of these petrified trees
Of barrened branches, stripped of their leaves....
Taunting eyes filled with fire, flames, as he soon does approach
Souls dripping, from the sickle of this host!
Hansel and Gretal lost, along the trails which encumber the most?
Startled by the sight, of this ghoulish ghost
And now, dashing through the woods as they run for their lives
Yet to no avail has become, the destiny of their plight....
These stories foretold, that could find no passage through
The sinful groves, which had waited upon the two!
Since their longings and their doings, that had led them to this place
Knarled and twisted, blood, soon to be spilling from their fates....
Thorn pierced panes, exploding amid these driving rains
And sliver broken sashes, which shiver within their blues
Afore these vertical visions, of had they only knew!?
This echoing laughter; while the pages do bleed
Hansel and Gretals fairy tale, tainted, amongst their darkened deeds....
No longer searching, for their ginger bread house
As the taste of doom awaits, their wanton, and delicious dates....
Screaming as you now awaken, from this foreboding dream
Christie Moses, its now your turn, to warn....So, let it be!?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Petrified Forest!
A Note: "Thank You, 'Beautiful Charma Charmaine,'
For The Opportunity, To Play!!!" ~
III.
But I had a much higher purpose now,
damned or not, I would serve the True God,
for thirty years I served with my brothers,
upon a humble path I faithfully trod.
Maybe I wasn’t a miracle worker,
though I saved lost pilgrims in my time,
age etched lines in my brothers’ faces,
but it had no effect upon mine.
The abbot swore newcomers to secrecy
about the truth of my vampiric fate,
and I guess I believed I’d just go on
serving an eternity in this way.
But one day as the sun started to set,
I looked out upon a terrible sight:
A small girl running, screaming in fear
as a wolf closed on in for a bite.
I hesitated for just a moment,
the sun was high enough that I would burn,
but the terrified cries of a five-year old
were not something from which I could turn.
I sprinted out with unnatural speed,
instantly my skin erupted in flames,
raced past the girl, thrust my burning hand
to the wolf with jaws of snapping rage.
The fire seared both myself and the beast,
with frantic yelps of pain he then ran off,
I staggered back, my pale skin burned to black,
bits of flesh had flaked off and were lost.
I made it back to the small gatehouse
and I collapsed in the shadows within,
the abbot ran close, with my fading strength
I weakly tried to say goodbye to him.
But he just looked down, said,”We need blood.
Run to the chapel and fetch me the wine!”
A brother raced off, returned with the jug,
made no sense to my greatly pained mind.
He filled a chalice, look to the Heavens,
said,”Lord, I know that I am no priest.
But if he must die, let him drink of Your blood,
let him take part at last in Your mercy.”
I felt this would be a fitting way to die,
burned by the holy blood of my Lord.
But when I drank I did not feel the fire,
in fact I didn’t feel pain anymore!
I didn’t see it myself, but they say
that the charred skin beat a fast retreat,
and through the haze I managed to feel
a deep breath and a steady heart-beat!
When I sat up the sun came through a window
and it fell harmlessly upon my skin,
I felt true hunger, thirty years overdue,
by His power I once more was human!
They said In Him All Things Are Possible,
and I suppose I am the living truth,
strangest of all I still looked a young man,
blessed with the power and passion of youth...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Why do you look to me
with scorn
What right have you
for contempt
How can you blame me
for the evils YOU do
Did you want
to be as the Angels
Who serve and worship
without choice
Or do YOU prefer free will
the independence to choose your own destinies
I know it's hard to understand
but if I interfere
it's no longer your choice
So I left instructions
YOU have chosen to ignore
I hear your complaints
yet You do nothing
Do you not understand
that freedom comes with a price
the price of action
I feel your sufferings as my own
for we are linked in spirit
Like it or not You are my creations
you were my masterpiece
Did you really think
I could forget my love for you
I am waiting for you to return to me
and learn the truth
I will show YOU how to establish peace
love and prosperity
But always remember
YOUR thoughts words and actions
are Your choice not mine
Rhyme Time III - Death (12/2017)
The foe, their ship, it must be found.
The engine stirs, the pistons pound.
The decks vibrate, the tone, that sound.
On the horizon a singular mast
Alter our course n' make us fast.
Prepare the decks, prepare to blast,
And deny the foe an ocean so vast.
Increase our speed, begin the turn.
Spin the propeller, churn n' churn
Our guns will fire, their ship will burn
Our bow moves forward chasing her stern
Now in range, our radars slew
Balanced n' deadly, our guns do too.
We fire our shot; our aim is true.
The dead are many, the living few.
Their bodies now bob in crimson foam.
It is my ocean, not their home.
Now turn n’ steady, more sea to comb.
It is my destiny the waves to roam.
The foe, their ship, it must be found.
I walk away from the bungalow, sand in my toes
I try to forget you, all the hurt and my woes
Life seems unfair at times, it doesn’t make sense
I thought you loved me, it must have been pretense
I walk along the rocky cliff as I start to head back
As I peer over the cliff the water looks so black
Feeling depressed, I want to jump into the water
My life has been so crazy, would it really matter?
I get closer to the edge and I hear someone yelling
I feel large arms pull me away, it is so compelling
A beautiful man has a hold of me and doesn’t let go
He said I could have been killed, as if I didn’t really know
He grabbed my hands and led me down the rocks
He asked if we could sit, try to relax and have a talk
I said no, and started to argue with some heated strife
He smiled, as he said I would since he just saved my life
We walked to our cars, weirdly parked so close
He said his name is Frank and lives here on the coast
He said he lives alone and wants to bring me there
I agreed, not really caring about myself to have any fear
8/11/19
Contest: Writing Challenge 1, August 2019 - Just Write
Sponsor: Dear Heart
I watch feather light snowflakes float down to the ground
they land so delicately; they hardly make any sound
by evening a blanket of wintry white is all around
The weather forecast confirms that winter is finally here
I see children having fun, I hear them whoop and cheer;
they are wrapped up snug and warm in their winter gear
making giant snowmen with the first snow of the year.
Spruce trees have a frosting of wonderful winter white
Nature’s beauty surrounds us it is a glorious sight
a robin lands upon a twig, it brings me such delight
as it roosts for a while then suddenly takes flight.
Deep soft snow has fallen and people must take care
We should visit elderly neighbours and should be aware
that some can’t get to shops so provisions we must share
and we can do their shopping as they rest in their armchair.
The temperature has dropped I can feel its bitter chill
Little children do not mind as they play out on the hill
they whizz on their toboggans it gives them such a thrill
as I observe them having such fun from my windowsill
I watch feather light snowflakes float down to the ground
Rhyme time III contest
Sponsored by Laura Loo
12/25/17
“A Diary of Occupation”
Vakulenko Volodymyr’s last work
(Banned in Ukraine) eastern part 20%
Diary of Volodymyr Vakulenko — painful and true records that the writer kept from the beginning of the full-scale invasion and during the occupation of Izyum and his native village of Kapitolivka in Kharkiv Oblast.
Dangerous to the Russian occupation force
A bright and cheery children’s book writer’s remorse
He said on the tenth day of occupation FSB
“It’s who you remain during all of this”
Then, buried his manuscript underneath a cherry tree
My heart sinks when I think of Vakulenko and Victoria
A Poet, a journalist in this bloody war
This is about a writer who’d know what was in store
His hand-written manuscript's underground in his backyard
Russian troops surround his village put him on guard
His life stolen they would pillage, his books
found and burned and captured him
O Vakulenko, we’ll carry your script in our bosom
Following his death and the liberation of Kharkiv
Victoria the one his journal of the war would retrieve
Her book of Ukrainians who wrote on the war, her mission
Was killed in an air strike
Her books by Russia deemed sedition
Worried he would be tortured or killed,
in the black Ukrainian soil
Her life was also taken in turmoil
Ukrainian man in a war-torn country
Today I honor thee
Your words shall be read
Around the world spread
America like Russia may do the same
Banning such books unconscionable shame