Best In Disgrace Poems
On troubled roads of life, when opposing sides collide,
Conflict of emotions clamors, agitating ego and pride,
While empathy warns: let forgiveness be your guide,
As benevolent angels, in missives of compassion chide.
Mired in wins and losses, when humanity strums offbeat,
Adversaries propagate hatred, and blatantly mistreat,
As meaningless conversations puff up, donning conceit,
While expressions of solemn amiability retreat in defeat.
A proffer of calm and goodwill, checks enemy’s reign
When sanctity prevails, calming a perturbed domain,
As atonement and humility heal, soothing angst of pain
And disturbed vibes seeking revenge, begin to wane.
As nobility of repentance tenders offers of mercy, grace,
Malevolent behaviors recede, ashamed in disgrace,
And enlightenment of intellect inspires vacuous space,
When hosting redemption, reformed enemies embrace.
In affluence of cognitive thoughts informed minds elate
Harboring tolerance and sympathy, discarding hate,
Being harmonious with peace, mundane life they liberate,
Achieving balance within, unfazed by travails of fate.
It’s Jubilee tea at my auntie’s care home
Aunt Phyllis’s hair could do with a comb
But she doesn’t mind and puts on her hat
The queen won’t be there’s no need to flap
The table is laden with all sorts of food
Ada burps loudly she’s so blinking rude
The cucumber sandwich crusts are cut off
My hair won’t stay curly I hear Mable scoff!
Gerald’s secreted cream scones on his lap
I’d not touch them now he’s a dirty old chap
There’s a heated debate is it scone or scon
I do not comment as they have all gone!
Old Edgar demands jelly and ice cream
It’s not on the menu he begins to scream
So he gets everyone to bang their tea cups
They’re acting like kids and not like grown ups
Along comes the matron she says ‘Dearie me,
You are spoiling our Platinum jubilee tea’
Edgar gives her some lip - he’s adept at verbals
He shout’s ‘Matron you just remind me of Goebbels’
Matron is livid, she turns puce in the face
Edgar’s sent to his room, as he’s in disgrace
He is reprimanded for causing such a scene
At the jubilee party for our wonderful Queen.
06/02/22
Walking deep into the woods we stumbled on an old abandoned place
A white and blue farm house with a wraparound dilapidated porch
Tall grass was overgrown and with many shade trees of oak and birch
Plant pots of dried up and decayed ferns left on the railings in disgrace
The black roof was missing shingles and caving in on one side
The front door a pale worn yellow with a climbing red rosette
I start to feel more anxious as I see a freshly discarded cigarette
We walk up to a large picture window to peek in, all fears aside
We see some old beautiful antiques covered in dust and cob webs
Below the wooden banister staircase is a beautiful tall clock displayed
I feel a chill up my spine as I hear the clock ticking, now feeling afraid
An old worn oriental rug lay under it in faded patterns of muted reds
We decide to try the knob to see if we can get in to explore
As I touched it I felt a shock and heard faint whispers
I quickly let go as my hand started to feel hot and blistered
I tell my friend we need to leave now I think danger may be in store
We walk towards the back and see an old woman weeding a garden bed
She stops what she's doing and turns around to ask us who is there
and starts slowly floating in the air and says to come in for tea if we dare
We quickly turn and start running toward the woods, screaming as we fled
7/13/2020
Contest: Decayed House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
you see me a monster
an angel in disgrace
for I plucked my wings out
just to honor the human race
inconspicuous yet dark
a disciple with a mark
all they do is lie and swear
they are always unprepared
for free will might be your gift
but their hearts are all adrift
I'm ashamed of what I've done
I can't be like everyone
all these mortal emotions
deny me of your devotion
how can an angel be so void
when human emotions they avoid
they are right, we are wrong
God have mercy on their Souls
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
...adapted from the novel 'Mr Pye' by Mervyn Peake
Balding and sprightly, he's filled with bold dreams
to make us all happy and free.
He selects as his target a small Channel Island,
a sampling of people just like you and me.
All he wants is that folks get along
without all their disputes and fights.
He tries to bring peace to this sheltered enclave,
just by doing good deeds he can sleep nights.
He practises witchcraft to bring them together,
'if it works' are his words for the day.
A sense of humour is paramount these days
to keep those nay-sayers at bay.
In the midst of these noble endeavours
he feels discomfort that turns out
to be wings that are sprouting quite clearly,
a cause for concern there's no doubt.
It seems that his kindness has made him an angel,
the more good deeds, the bigger they grow
'til they're actually poking right out of his shirt,
my goodness, they're starting to show!
So he counters with bad deeds in hopes that they'll shrink,
indiscretions and plain bald-faced lies.
Sure enough they diminish, in fact they're all gone,
he need not prepare a disguise.
But this scheme that he's started gets odder,
there's a growth on his temples, two horns;
he's been so busy negating the good that he's done
he's turned Devil, good heavens! he's torn
between Good and Evil, just what should he do?
he's conflicted, and lies in disgrace;
he sits down to ponder which way he should turn,
it's as clear as the nose on his face!
On the horns of a moral dilemma,
he simply gives in to pure Good;
he embraces his folk, he just loves them to death,
'til his wings are full-sprouted he'll
take to the air and keep flying
as far as infinity goes,
so he bids his people a tearful farewell,
next stop for our Spirit, who knows?
His home is beneath the theater stage
Disfigured, he remains within his cage
Listening to melodies played onstage
Fills him with loneliness, not rage
Once a fine actor, the Phantom awaits midnight
To sing alone, so fear he won’t incite
For the “garish light of day” he finds too bright
When he hears Christine sing, he bemoans his plight
Hours pass until midnight when the theater’s empty
And he lays his hands on each piano key
Stroking them as he would her face on the marquis
But only at midnight is his soul set free
What would Christine think if she saw his face
He senses the need his feelings to encase
As much as he longs for her tender embrace
He fears she would just leave him in disgrace
Midnight, midnight, he awaits patiently
So he can finally perform shamelessly
This midnight ritual he enacts faithfully
Singing to a woman he’d love undyingly
He croons sadly, wishing for her ovation
Absorbing the power of each note’s vibration
Dreaming one day he’ll submit to temptation
And reveal himself to discover her elation
* Based on the Broadway play “Phantom of the Opera”
and its powerful song, “Music of the Night.” Most
plays end just before midnight. “Garish light of day”
is a line from the song.
* Poem written Jun 6, 2014
~ Prepare my sons, a reckoning portends
in magnitude that quells our force at hand.
Lay low thy heads and pray the lance extends
beyond the sword thine enemies command.
Pray not to fear, for fear is but a chain
that fetters dread and shackles in disgrace.
Pray wounds from battle levy no disdain,
and in His name, let dying be with grace.
When death befalls, let valor lie in state
then gallantly release thy mortal strife,
pray heaven’s arms shall lead us to His gate
to lend our souls to everlasting life.
Behold the fury, face this foe as one,
for glory waits beyond the rising sun.
9-10-2020
Mark Toney
Marathon Contest 5
Hey sugar I’m defriending you
The time has come to say adeiu
A long time pal who undermines
the plans I make to change my life.
Sweetly in my life each day
your crystal heart has caused decay.
Lurking unexpectedly
Any chance to ambush me
You’re hidden there in every bite,
Satisfying, smug delight.
Which I regret everytime
I can’t stop, once I taste:
My heart beats
Eyes dilate
I’ve fallen for your sweetened charm.
But sometimes love is not enough
Your honied calI I must rebuff.
Addicted!
I try so hard to give you up
All my life you’ve been there
Pretend to give, but you don’t care
For the chaos left behind:
Rotten teeth and heart disease
Diabetes, swollen knees
Expanding waist,
Bloated face
Your reputation in disgrace.
You have to go!
Your time is up!
A wholesome friend is what I want.
Take your saccharine caress elsewhere.
Now l stand my ground, I’m being tough
For sometimes love is not enough.
I gaze at your lovely face day by day.
When in disgrace, you are my salvation.
The love my soul has will not fade away,
And for you, I'd conquer all creation.
You send me thoughts endearing and loving:
Thoughts that lift my spirits in misery.
I feel that I live in eternal spring,
And my life is a happy love story.
Your love gleams in my path when I am lost;
You, to my heart, are more precious that wine;
Your love of gold is what I treasure most;
Forever proud I'll be, to call your heart mine.
Yet I yearn for your presence to be clear,
I wish to hold you - beside me, right here.
I wonder at what lesson had been taught
abandoning the gift I treasured most...
in every dream conceived, you held me close.
Yet, now, each tear I cry seems all for naught -
mere remnants, never noticed, shared, nor caught,
nor tasted, but transported creek to coast;
reminding me that Love was just a ghost.
With one small hint of Heaven, hell is fraught.
Fear lies in wait, anticipating dreams;
then, shreds them bit by bit as each ascends.
But, just afore, allows one great embrace,
ensuring well-earned praise for crafty schemes,
as well as doubt, discouraging amends.
Once vital dreams now garnished in disgrace...
*Original ending line: "To its surprise, survives unending Grace!"
**With new last line, title change to "fear's disgrace".
I stopped beneath a big oak tree
and tried to catch my breath
My body it was shaking still,
he scared me half to death
I pulled my notebook to my lap,
my hand it held the pen
And started writing poetry,
my love for her again
When then I looked above my place,
the branches filled with birds
They watched as I was writing this,
they chirped at every word
“Don’t let that old crow bother you”
I heard their voices say
“He wants to be the only one,
that’s why he acts this way”
“Just keep on writing poetry,
your verses are the best
Be yourself, you’re doing fine,
to that we can attest”
“There’ll always be someone like him
that tries to pull you down
But worry not, just wear a smile
in place of that old frown”
So that I did, I wrote and wrote
and didn’t have a care
So I could always send my love
to you I long to share
I penned for you a poem of
affections written deep
Hoping that close to your heart
my words you’d always keep
When then again I heard that voice,
my day then turned to night
“I see you’re writing poetry,
I knew that I was right”
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,
we’ll put it to a test
You write yours and I’ll write mine,
we’ll see who is the best”
I closed my eyes and thought of us,
my mind held such a view
I wrote some lines of perfect prose
to say that I love you
He scratched and clawed upon his pad
and with an evil grin
He tossed the page down on the ground
and said, “Let’s go, begin”
I read the words that he did write
and if I must confess
I didn’t understand a thing,
his poem was a mess
Several lines of gibberish,
hate in every breath
Calling names of everyone,
he even threatened death
And then he read my offering,
a look came on his face
His feathers black had turned to ash,
his head hung in disgrace
For love shall win out every time
in ink of gentle flow
“Go spew your hatred someplace else,
it’s time for you to go”
I watched him as he flew away,
a sulking fading bird
On silent wings he disappeared,
he uttered not a word
I often walk along that path
but now I wear a smile
For I’m still writing poetry
in my romantic style
Though I will not forget that day
as these words come to mind
“Hate will never pass the test,
it’s better to be kind”
Thank you for reading my poem.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
Two giants stare into each other’s eyes
Each out to prove that he is more wise
The battlefield is broken down into squares
The moves are recorded to keep the war fair
The armies line up in parallel lines
Each solider a piece of timeless design
The pawns look across and each of them know
When it comes to sacrifice there the first to go
But that is ok for this is their place
Better to die for their King then live in disgrace
Each pawn is driven or so it would seem
Reach the end of the board and answer your dream
The Castles stand at the corners of it all
For the true defense is found in their walls
The Knights have their own special move
They will pick you apart if they fall in their groove
Next to the Knights the Bishops pray
Asking the Lord to guide their way
The Queen is the most powerful as it’s always been
For she holds the hearts of all of her men
Next to the Queen the King stands with pride
For he has an army and a giant on his side
Two armies collide each seeking the fame
Of placing a W next to their giants name
I picked war to place this under
because I had no idea what to put
it under. open for suggestions.
Coffee drinkers everywhere
Will know just what I mean
When I describe my symptoms
If I don’t get my caffeine.
On those rare times I skip my brew
For reasons I can’t fight,
A headache gathers kindling,
Just waiting to ignite.
With stubbornness and fortitude,
It builds a towering pyre;
And when the pounding’s at its peak,
It sets the pile on fire.
A headache of such magnitude
Just laughs in Advil’s face.
Aleve and Bayer also cave,
Retreating in disgrace.
The only cure that works for sure
Is coffee, hot and strong.
With just one sip, I know those flames
Will not be burning long.
By summoning the caffeine hose
To douse that headache’s rage,
I manage to control the beast
And lock it in its cage.
And there it shall remain unless
I miss my morning fix;
‘Cause headaches like today’s I need
Just like a ton of bricks!