Best Imitations Poems
When life parades a fine line
between alienation and rationality,
internal intruders of the soul shroud spotlights.
In my dreams
I'm playing charades with the grim reaper.
surrounded by selfish acts from satanic spirits.
Featherless angels of twilight need tender pearls,
as gifts from the elusive self-centred sun,
when a jealous mercenary moon manipulates murkiness.
Sometimes,
all I have is my shadow and me,
but it abandons me in times of darkness,
leaving me at the mercy of nature's invisible imitations.
Behind forgotten frozen gates of winter,
static stars have shunned black hearted skies,
refusing to flicker in their metallic beams.
I've become a nemesis
to the empathy of the elements,
personifying mimicking,
miming onyx coated raindrops,
sprinkling dust storms
with freckled shades of crimson.
Destiny drifts in wayward winds
towards contrasting crossroads,
hoping for soothing golden arms of dawn to uncloak
defrosting hearts with rainbow rays of gleaming light.
If the universe reversed its selfless role,
would some still be lost chasing clusters
within silhouettes of a waning crescent,
graphically illustrating illusions whilst crystal gazing?
Beyond where our fingers can sketch reality.
ignorance is consumed in our own
bubbles filled with hollowness,
reluctant to see the weariness
of the grey winged nebula.
Symphony of seasons are temporary like emotions.
Harmony harbours in harvesting heirloom roses,
among gossamer meadows of compassionate butterflies.
Colours of Earth's fabric never falter in a cocoon mind
resembling an eclipse's ebony and ivory tones.
Categories:
imitations, analogy, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
I always wanted two slices of ice cube pie
“You only get one”, was the standard reply.
I don’t know why I did
But since I was a kid
It was my favorite treat on the Fourth of July.
The pastry is known by all our relations
Since the recipe’s passed down for generations.
Every bite you’ll savoir
Exceptional flavor
But remember, don’t settle for imitations
Long ago, my great Aunt tried experiments
By leaving out one of the ingredients.
Once Uncle took a bite
He stared out in fright
And barely survived that bad experience.
My oldest son, Johnny became quite wise
He grew up like the others, before our eyes.
His passion for confection
Was a gainful connection
When he opened the first ice cube pie franchise.
Soon after that, we made our first million
And played in the sun with friendly Brazilians.
But to our surprise
We saw ice cube pies
On bamboo platters next to our pavilion
Right away we knew this was an infraction
Without delay our family took action.
We found a private eye
Who loved our ice pie
But his research left him broken in traction.
It was apparent to us that that kind of job
Was endorsed by the brutal ice cube pie mob.
But we didn’t frown
Or give up and back down
We were going to prevail; oh, yes siree, Bob!
With a meeting of minds we gathered resources
And then undersigned the following courses.
To make sure our ices
Sold at cut-rate prices
To knock competition off its high horses.
So back at the shop we assembled platoons
To build enough pies to reach to the moons.
And made plenty dough
That allowed us to mow
Down the cube racket’s, knuckle dragging goons.
We now manage an ice cube pie monopoly
Sales started smooth, but then turned choppily.
So we eased the frustration
With another vacation
But guess what we saw in downtown Mexicali?!
Categories:
imitations, business, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
If languages were instruments,
English, the language of my own America,
Would be something like a piano.
Each word is clear and sharp-
When we sing, the note does not waver.
But I suppose it's more fair to say that
English is something like an electronic keyboard
With two hundred different modes because English
Has so many different versions,
Adaptations of other instruments,
Emulations, or imitations, however you want
To think of it; there is no accent that cannot
Be reconfigured to be
Played on keys in distinct shades
Of black or white.
Arabic though...
Arabic is more like a violin.
The sound of Arabic
Flies up and down the scale
In deliciously smooth legato,
Stopping to linger on vibrato;
Poignant
Categories:
imitations, arabic, international, language, music,
Form:
Free verse
SIGN OF THE TIMES
Silence is not always precious made in gold
In fact can be base alloy: dull and cold
Gleam gone dim, for the lack of active burnish
Now withheld - the living spoken words that furnish
On the nonce, response that endows communication
For that, in essence, is our spiritual libation
The substance of our lives as social beings
How sad, we eschew this act of spirit freeing
Each one is as in an insulated box
Transformed with a machinery that mocks
In imitations mechanist that don’t embrace
Most live exchange that could be face to face
Ease of access comes with loss for which I’m vexed
Sending isolation messages by text
23 April 2018
Categories:
imitations, life, spoken word,
Form:
Acrostic
A drum with a voice I am
Active, proud and can smile
Made of cow-hide and wood
I can mime and make noise
I am here to be hired to shout
Provoked I make useful noise
Wood is my switch-board
Strike me with wooden sticks
And I dance for you twisty
Cool soothing dance
The dances of your heart
And sing for you reggae
Song of your mind for your joy
I am multi-lingual too
When given cheese, butter
I can cry with the crying
When showered with money, milk
I can laugh with the laughing
A talking drum, I ape my master
At times I am deaf and dump
Feed me not, I raise my hand not
Feed me, I postpone sleep and act
For I talk what you talk,
And hear what you hear for,
Life is a dream full of imitations
Categories:
imitations, africa, allegory, analogy, political,
Form:
Sestina
life is like
a long cartoon movie clip
not as well done as a Disney
and the universe
is peopled by poor imitations
of cartoon characters
not as monstrous sad or distressed
as the real cartoon characters on the screen
except for politicians
Categories:
imitations, culture, fantasy, funny, life,
Form:
Blank verse
Desperate Escapes
By Odin Roark
They see only what they need,
That desire to see beyond
The heat and squalor,
The effrontery to their species' senses,
These sentient beings whose 2nd bedroom
Remains the fire escape.
How haunting
The mangy dog sniffing the gutter below,
Ribs needing something besides vanishing hair
To protect his fragile existence,
His pride long gone
Like the optimistic glow of a downtrodden eye
Slowly closing in the darkness of lost hope.
Yet…
Somehow the animal survives,
Knows no ring-of-battle towel to throw,
Not ropes to hang upon,
No round bell of ending to depend upon.
We contemplate…
High above TV antennae sway precariously,
Moon's glow the spotlight,
This era of cable
Beyond reach,
HD a dream for many,
Rabbit ears struggling to survive
Yet another era of poverty.
For such mutual survivors,
Resting on window sills,
Splayed on cast iron escapes
Atop pillow and laundry,
The square screen offers fantasy survival,
Providing dreams in the bed-of-hope
Even though void of reality,
Their innocence clinging,
They survive greed's harsh weapons,
Enduring further nights of longing,
Endemic to cookie-cutter imitations
A grandiose Manhattan perpetual struggle,
Syria's,
Athens',
Perhaps even tomorrow's utopia.
When does the glad hand of deception disappear
The reach of power's greed meet its end?
To talk,
To negotiate,
To be human,
Some believe
Remains futility's endowment.
Never perhaps an epiphanies’ platform,
But fire escapes, stairwells and rooftops around the world
Will always afford relief for the moment,
Trusting someday
There will be
No need
For such painful dreaming…
Such desperate escapes.
Categories:
imitations, poverty,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Eyes are for seeing.
Ears are for hearing.
Noses are for smelling and breathing
both in and out.
Mouths are for tasting
both bitter hard
and sweet soft truths,
trusts and mistrusts,
cooperations and competitions,
cultures of health and pathology,
climates benign and toxic,
and all sensory flavors between
balance and imbalance.
We reseed universal spirits
in remembered knitting materials of forest,
oceans of becoming
sea son daughters of swimming in and out being.
We reweave omnipotent divinity
within recast integrity of biodiversity.
We feed transcendent wealth of Earth's rich souls
and thereby bleed redemption from subliminal humanity.
Only together we heal future's climate of universal Promise
by re-sensing Elder landscapes of symbiotic swimming polypaths.
As one GaiaTribe of dancing spiritual health
we reconceive material wealth
reborn singing nations
corporations
religions
capitalizations
plantations
ministrations
individual imitations,
cultures of health and less pathology
and all enspirited flavors between
trust and mistrust,
truth of and for healing competing dualistic truths
resounding We Are One MindBody
Resonant CoArising Wave
Categories:
imitations, beauty, culture, education, health,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Betwixt-Between
I woke up
in a dream.
The smell of
tastes gone before.
Authentic tulips
blended with
plastic imitations.
"Bluie" chirping,
"CiCi" meowing at kitchen's door:
A cloak of weariness
vying for more
attention;
as I drift into a
light of sun...
Thama Logan 5/7/2022
Categories:
imitations, imagery, peace,
Form:
Free verse
We push to imitate nature's
flavors, both sour and sweet;
compare the taste of lemons
to that of a lush, ripe peach,
or the nectar of pure honey
to the tang of a dill pickle.
The fruit-flavored snack-pack
spilled into my hand,
perceived imitations of the real deal:
One shaped blackberry (hardly)
Two round orange slices (scored)
One green apple (Granny Smith?)
A bunch of cherries (close)
Two raspberries (not)
I popped rubbery orbs into my mouth,
closed my eyes and chewed slowly,
seeking the flavor of raspberries
like those growing on vines
just beyond the entrance to Castlewood State Park.
The cherry almost succeeded
in replicating the original;
all others were blatant counterfeits.
I once met a Flavor Chemist.
How many blackberries must he consume
before he can approximate the taste?
He answered my question
with a smile, and a bottle
of imitation vanilla flavoring.
Categories:
imitations, food,
Form:
Free verse
In this plush modern world of convenience
where everything you could want can be sent
to your house with just a single mouse-click,
it’s no wonder men feel depressed and sick.
A sex evolved for hard peril and work,
now just sits around, unchallenged, inert.
More and more I think ol’ Teddy was right,
we have got to choose the strenuous life.
It seems harder to do that now-a-days,
the rough jobs of old have all gone away,
the modern jobs just make your soul scream,
tapping away at keys, staring at screens,
never seeing what comes of your toil
can get a man all anxious and roiled,
what we do for family, and for our wives,
makes it hard to embrace strenuous life.
But in our free time the choice does remain:
Push for you limits, or more of the same.
See this awesome world filtered on the net,
or explore it in person, much better yet.
'Cause no Jpeg made can capture the feel
of a rocky mountain or fast four wheel,
no video made captures country nights,
that’s only found in the strenuous life.
Get out on a weekend to mountain trails,
find a place to rides horses, but watch the tail!
Put a canoe or kayak in a fast stream,
then come back later for some fly fishing
come Fall go out and take part in the hunt,
lay in a garden to soak up the sun,
better still bring along the kids and wife,
give them a taste of the strenuous life.
Try building that deck, don’t hire it out,
harvest your firewood, cut that tree down,
repair you own car, learn it as you go,
read ’till your mind is always in the know,
something impressive once a year do learn,
fill time full of life, you have none to burn,
be something impressive in your kid’s sight,
teach by example the strenuous life.
And though it may seem a challenge at first,
you’ll soon find fulfillment in what you’ve earned,
that you’ve lived a real life, conquered the wilds,
not just spent your time with keyboards and dials,
true achievement fires imagination,
more than mere electronic imitations.
Too much comfort will dull a man’s sharp knife,
give it a keen edge with the strenuous life.
Categories:
imitations, growth, how i feel,
Form:
Rhyme
We deal in half-the-price knock-offs,
we deal in less-than authenticity
We deal in brand name imitations,
we're a cut-rate company, y'see
We got those faux designer items,
we got those off-seam irregularities
We got those cheap generic products,
we peddle only second-best quality
If you can't afford the real thing,
and you need a substitute instantly
Then get off the couch
and dial these digits
Get on the phone and come talk to me
I'm your intrepid guide
into the world of the half-genuine
Giving you the inside skinny
on the not-original retail grapevine
Three easy payments
is all you're gonna need
to keep your shaky credit clear and free
Once the deal is done,
celebrate with some low priced bubbly
Courtesy of your favorite cut-rate company
Categories:
imitations, culture, humor, humorous, satire,
Form:
Light Verse
Before there were rainbows, I roamed ambidextrously,
I streeled out into predawn air, senseless between Moon and Mars,
Reeling under Calvinistic cinder blocks, I hid from my shadows.
Before there were rainbows, I thought my heart was wooden,
In those days, they had shiny suits of armor awaiting me.
I tried filling them with my syrupy fluid, but it always leaked out.
Before there were rainbows, everyone was Fred or Ginger,
Ozzy or Harriet, Lucy or Ricky, Sonny or Cher, ones, or zeros,
Machine language with a chokehold on the imaginable.
Before there were rainbows, the age of innocence in yearbooks,
In high school pictographs, we were anatomical imitations of expectation,
Like Rockwell paintings, we were predictable, amusing, and safe.
Before there were rainbows, I dare not believe in my spectrum,
No fella sang “I Feel Pretty!” No boy “…could have danced all night!”
It was all covert, something dirty in a bathroom stall
Before there were rainbows.
My muscular lightning belied my vulnerable rain-soaked downpours
Before there were rainbows.
My secret Preludes to the Afternoon of a Fawn went undetected
Before there were rainbows.
I’m a senior now admiring all the hard-won freedom,
All the fluid beauty of the young, recalling the canned laughter
with what we tried to be before there were rainbows.
Published: July 10th, 2022 - Dissident Voice
Categories:
imitations, america, anxiety, freedom, metaphor,
Form:
Didactic
Casting aside the blunt reality
My conscious swims into the realm of all possibilities
The transition is totally automatic
I wonder if they are my subconscious' semantic
Different scenarios demand different imitations
I direct and act these inceptions.
(Scenarios)
Amidst a bus trip
Whirled in theories of evolution
Nature reveals self
Nature calls bowel
Scientist lingers, cures cancer
NOBEL in my hand
Reading morning news
Leader reforms, policies change
World at peace, prosperity
Youtube UFO's
World crisis, battling aliens
Hero saves the day
Inspiring theatre
Cool actor begins career
Wins emmy, smart speech.
A stroll to market
Writing a fictional piece
Booker, money, wife
Countless imaginations about every possible theme
At the end I reign supreme
After the end comes the brute reality
Chaos and confusion dominates my serenity
This is all about my tangential reality.
Categories:
imitations, humorous, imagination, introspection, philosophy,
Form:
“But none of these things move me; nor do I count my life dear
Unto myself, so that I may finish my race with joy....” ~
Panning for gold to gather jewels from the rivers bed flowing
Through the heart of this life aneath its, gravel and mire; murk?!
Not that I may purchase the things of this secular world to possess
Its material mirage yet, to attain the clarity in this centripetal beauty
Arising, from the spirals soot of its offerings amid burnt ashes....
Recycling this montane muse as being strained through its percipients grid
Compelled to be driven through a mazes vague imitations; tombs or treasures
Binding the blind to be cast into a temporals pit of pleasure, at a pawns price!?
Hidden cost within an indecipherable code; torn from pages crafted in deceit....
Running amid a margins marathon that has no finish lines of promise except
Crowns of thorns to wear imbedded in eyes which bleed their nights passing
In black magics blurry visions; from which I arise every morn when I awaken?!
Finding my way unto the crystal waters that I may pan for gold as sifting through
A recycled mythmakers maze of, mystiques strained and muddy mires....
***********************************************************************
....“In Search of, `My Beautiful Father's Treasures.'” *
Categories:
imitations, hope, life, love, life,
Form: