Best In The Main Poems
I had to create two worlds to survive —
one where I simply live,
and one where I am truly me,
kept apart for my own sanity.
In the main world,
I am the prisoner.
I can't express, I can't be me,
controlled and hurt,
I am dead inside.
In the other world,
I am the goddess.
Strength to fight,
I soar above,
I show my true colours —
I am the dragon.
Should the two combine,
they are like oil and water —
the collision would be earth-shaking,
and I'm not sure I would survive.
I am not finished yet, nor am I perfect.
I am a lifetime project.
I am a work in progress.
Each day, I grow a little.
Sometimes bigger … sometimes smaller …
Always older … often wiser …
My days would seem to be all the same.
Rather sluggish … Frankly boring …
And they are, yes … in the main.
Yet each one has a gift for me.
A thought, perhaps a memory.
Something for me to savour.
Another tiny piece that I can fit
Into my personal jigsaw.
The big picture of me …
The picture that I will never see.
The one I will leave for my children.
I hope they’ll like it!
BEYOND THE MILK OF HERA PAST THE HEAVEN'S VERTEBRAE
THE STARS BLINK GLEAMING SAGAS, IN THE DAWN THEY FADE AWAY
MY SHIP MAKES AN INCISION IN EVERY THING THEY SAY
THE SEA WEARS LIKE A SILKY DRESS THE BEAUTY OF THE NIGHT
AND NEVER DOES THE MOON APPEAR SO BEAUTIFUL IN WHITE
MY SAILS, IMPATIENT WITH THE WIND, REFLECT CELESTIAL LIGHT
OLD TRITON'S SHELL IS SOUNDLESS IN POSEIDON'S CALMING DEEP
IF PROTEUS WOULD CHANGE HIS SHAPE, WHAT FORM WOULD HE NOW KEEP
THE COMPASS NEEDLES'S IGNORANT OF FAIR AURORA'S SLEEP
LIKE ORPHEUS I SEEK TO CATCH A GLIMPSE OF MY LOVE THERE
AS IF EURYDICE COULD BE ALIVE IN VIEWLESS AIR
MY MAP OF MAL DU SIECLE IS A CHART OF MAL DE MER
BENEATH THE WINGS OF HALCYON I WAIT CALYPSO'S WHIM
A GENTLE ZYPHYR CAN'T INSURE MY EQUALIBRIUM
MY NAVIGATION LIGHTS GLOW BRIGHT AND THEN THEY SEEM TO DIM
DO HEAVEN'S ANGELS SALT THE SEAS WITH TEARS OF JOY OR PAIN
ARE ALL MY PATHS AIMED AT DEATH OR DO THEY LEAD ME HOME AGAIN
THE AUTOPILOT SQUEAKS AND THERE'S A LUFFING IN THE MAIN.
Good morning ladies and gentlemen and welcome to beautiful Zurich Switzerland and the First Annual Poetry Soup Convention. Welcome poets, linguists, scribes, metrists and rhymers. Welcome poets from Canada, the UK, U.S.A., Australia and many other countries from around the world.
This convention is for all seasoned poets and young dilettantes. Our key speakers this week will be Will Shakespeare to talk about sonnets. Horace will discuss Latin odes. Homer will give a demonstration on epic poetry. Lewis Carroll will explain light poetry. And last but not least Edgar Poe will give a reading of Gothic poetry.
All poets are welcome to enter the First Annual Poetry Soup Convention Poetry Contest. The grand prize will be the title of Poet Laureate and honor on the Poetry Soup webpage. We will also be offering classes on prosody, onomatopoeia, enjambment and Lambic Pentameter. We will have booths set up in the main hall for help with grammar, syllable counting and rhyming tools.
So welcome all, enjoy all things poetic this week, make friends and have fun. One final reminder before we let you go is we are serving lunch promptly at twelve noon and we will be having Alphabet soup with sage, enjoy.
The First Annual Poetry Soup Convention Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
3/7/19
The mystery of words, wisdom of the heart to each
Angelic form, the voice of emotion in verse.
The melody of heart speak in words that feels the
Emotion to express the deepness of feeling in the mind.
Words that connect in the main thoughts.
Thoughts of words flow to the emotion to make meaning,
To the essence that moves, sensitivity inside emotion
Through the words.
The intellectual mind with the knowledge of experience power of
Wisdom transcend to composition to unlock the perfect will of
Words justify hidden truth.
The magnificent power compose words gives roots
Blossom and bring fruits to the heart of humanity.
Love kind words are power to win oneself to transform the
Beauty of inside emotion to one particular individual.
The poetry, words of wisdom comes from inner motives of a
Good heart that gives us privilege to express the hidden
Beauty of thoughts inside mind to put it in words.
The power to dominate inside individual for beauty and
Wonder purpose of life.
© Jocelyn Dunbar
13 May 2006
7:50 AM
I'm a lover not a fighter,
I'm a fighter not a fool.
I won't surrender inalienable rights,
To Washington's Marxist tools.
I'm a lover not a fighter,
I'm a fighter not a fool.
I won't abide the liar's,
In the main stream media pool.
I'm a lover not a fighter,
I'm a fighter not a fool.
I know that God in Heaven,
Will ultimately rule.
THE OLD COVERED BRIDGE
Late fall
Country scene
One birch, close by, already bare
With a taste of frost in the air
And this sturdy, old, covered bridge – this haven -
Strong tiled, tightly sided. A few slats still thrive -
Strips of weathered-green survive.
Late fall,
Looking far, from Terry’s Mount,
At distance she commands the eye -
Her autumn regalia, the peaks, gold-burnished dell
And the mill-side water’s ebb and swell
One’s fancy cannot help but dwell on a few histories
Imagining, within, the seasonal mysteries
Cowbells
The few been herded o’er,
How the boards did rattle,
The frightened, mooing-roar of cattle,
Stomping, desperation. And old herder Jim –
Yelling, shooing, face beat red.
Twas near the end of him.
Blizzard
I’m limping, all wore out,
We’re near a half-mile from home
Old covered bridge looked so good.
Inside, all was safe, and dry the sure-caulked wood.
Outside, the tempest’s blast, high drifts a fright
She saved us did old covered bridge that awful night.
Spring flood
Worst winter folks could remember
Storm after storm beginning early November
Come March, though, those roiling, boiling clouds abated,
Temperature soared, the record heavy fall quickly melted.
Old covered bridge, standing high, was tested, belted,
Floor washed away, but, in the main, saved those dreadful days.
By moonlight
I sit, thinking, 3:00 a.m., can’t sleep.
Pitch black, but the Moon kisses her silver tiles
What phantoms lurk beneath, what secrets does she keep -
All those midnight rendezvous, young men’s loving wiles,
All the rustic yearnings born of mere, solitary charm,
All those fond, romantic plans hatched within her kindling arms.
I looked around the crowded lobby in the Ritz Hotel in Washington, DC. I was a little late in getting there as the plane was late in arriving. Not a problem. I had the itinerary for the next day's meeting and an agenda that provided me all the information I needed to conduct myself in a professional manner before the executives expected to attend.
I checked into my room and immediately showered, slipped into my housecoat and stood before the mirror to practice my presentation. I knew I had it nailed. Feeling quite confident, I went to bed and slept right through until room service called me at 6:30 a.m. The meeting was to start at 8:00 a.m. in the main conference room of the hotel. I showered again, dressed, pee'd and practiced in front of the mirror again.
I stood at the Podium and began my presentation complete with all my Harvard Graphics bells and whistles. As I was facing the charts, with my back to the audience, I heard snickering. It wasn't clear what they were saying exactly, but something about toilet paper and hemline in panties. I was absolutely mortified!!!
LUST IS AS ILL-CONSIDERED A WEED
AS EVER STOLE SCENT
Rejected in the main as superstition -
A gadfly, I’m alone upon the weed:
A hot cinquefoil brooding on position,
Declared intent of being in need of screed -
Now the subject of each idle bee
Gorged already, needing a restful stop
What if his gyrations bring to me
No true syncopation of a honeyed hop?
Beauty – not recognised as such – I wonder
Why man and woman excavate a flower garden
Tear my fertility, so they may squander
Wild possibility, and the earth around me harden.
Can the joy I have before I’m torn asunder
Be worth it when they never ask my pardon?
(C) Rosemarie Rowley
It is easy to forget that in the main we die only seven times more slowly than our dogs.
Jim Harrison (1937 - 2016) - The Road Home
First Bobo, a cocker spaniel,
I remember only from pictures.
He ran way before we moved
to Canada when I was four.
Second Kizzie, a cockapoo, Mom got
when the family moved to Texas.
I only saw her on holidays and such
as I stayed in Canada. She lived
long and was with the folks when they
retired to British Columbia and was
into her teens before they put her down.
Third Sadie, 3/4 Newfie - 1/4 Bernese,
a big black dog, with a big appetite
for apples from a special tree and
the socks our daughter, a toddler
cast off around the house.
I still chuckle remembering
the scattered remnants lining
the farm lane that spring.
She was over ten, and in pain
when we put her down.
Her ashes remain in an urn in the garage.
Fourth Rizzo, a fencejump cross of
Gordon Setter and Belgian Shepherd,
my wife and daughter got him from
a friend, while I was off on a canoe trip.
A headstrong dog who would take off after
a scent or car to return when he pleased.
On leash, he'd almost pull you off your feet.
With age, he grew territorial and
after the third biting incident, I took
him to the vet to be put down.
But she gave him to an older lady
with a fenced yard who put thirty
pounds on him and he lived to
fourteen or fifteen.
Fifth Hailey, who was five when
we got her from the shelter.
A Border Collie - Shepherd cross
and definitely our daughter's dog.
She'd bounce foxlike through the fields
and on evening beach walks, loved
to fetch sticks we'd toss into the waves.
She was over fifteen and failing when
we put her down, days before
our daughter's wedding.
No urn this time.
Sixth Xena, a Shepherd-Collie cross
and beyond doubt a princess
but more sweetheart than warrior.
She has the canine equivalent
of ADD and a bark first policy
when something new appears
and will retrieve sticks or balls
until your arm falls off .
At over eight, she's running strong.
Seventh, Sam, a mostly Shepherd mix,
she's our most 'rescue' rescue dog,
smart, loyal and obedient
a wantobe lap dog with a feral streak.
She responds in kind to aggressive
dogs and we muzzle her on walks.
Now five she'll be with us for a
good while to continue the tally.
In the main, it's a pain in the brain.
Now just try not to buy I could die.
Patiently wait. Think, my fate will be great.
Now I'm face'n the preparation for the operation.
Pray'n for grace. Turn my face. Think 'happy place'.
'A little prick', then a stick. Oh, I'm sick.
Add Pepcid. not to dread. faith instead.
I'm in a huff; all this stuff. Is it enough?
Another add. antibiotic, he said Keep my head.
To the room. be over soon. What a boon.
'Slide on over'. Sure thing Rover. Where's the power?
Then I'm able, with a stable, on the table.
Modesty's rough in the buff. Think happy stuff.
In 'it' goes, head to toes. no more woes.
'Help me quick, I am sick'! Up I sit.
Out like a light. No more fight. All is right.
'Wake up dear', heard so clear, 'home is near'.
I want sleep! Don't make a peep you noisy creep.
'Wake up yes! Home is best. There you'll rest'.
Picking a bone, 'not so soon!', I sleepily moan.
Up and move'n, soon to be groov'n, life to be proven
Have no care. Had my share; fine's frog’s hair.
Only a glitch in m'gittalong hitch. That's a switch.
Home at last. Relax! This gas, it too shall pass.
With the Sun's knock they opened their eyes
"wow azure sky and bright sun in the chilly December."
That was a normal day in school
Nothing was wrong with anything
Students gathered in the main hall
Were taking lessons on First Aid
Suddenly there was bang....
And then not one or two but seven
Heavily armed terrorists entered the hall...
"Say your prayer, for your angels of deaths are here"
They opened fire, shooting in all directions...
Screems, bullets, blood, and bodies everywhere.
It was a mini doomsday... A Qayamh in Peshawar
The devils then moved to the classes
A teacher was trying to protect her pupils,
She was burnt in front of her students
Then commandos arrived and killed the monsters,
But the damage was done..
149 died that day
144 were young students
Youngest was a six gear old named Khola
They left homes smiling, with dreams in the eyes
but were brought back with holes in the bodies
Many mothers lost their minds
Many survivors still in trauma
A boy Waleed Khan received 8 bullets
Six of them in the face. He said,
"My scars are my medals, I wear them with pride,
I am a survivor, No one can scare me"
It's been six years,
Yet the scar on our hearts is fresh
The pain won't go
The smell of innocent blood is still in the air
Again it's 16th December
Their last day in school
The last day that wasn't ment to be
Sshh Listen!
Can you hear them in the air...
December 15th, 2020
A school in Peshawar was attacked six years ago. Terrorists didnt intend to take hostages but to kill only. It ws a terrible day
yea tis history - that end gin shelled a mesh by mit Romney wailin
such below figurative belt mortar attack subterfuge and constant railin
per accusations hurled at barack Obama presidential campaign
lobbed like scud missile grenades from invisible hand no longer m palin
in comparison and hence moot point for republicans to gain
so this joe of a voter re-fused 2 bide time 2 prevent candidate from failin
app laud clinched 2nd term deserved and occupy white house seat a gain
intent i wanna talia 2 acknowledge salient tactics to boost usa now ailin
sasha bravado blasting and gunning futile fusillades
which questionable oppositional stealth indiscriminately fired pell mell
to discredit supreme commander in chief an exemplary persona in the main
such desperate toothless and nail biting tactics
replete with political retaliatory slanderous stockpile bombardment
but rather, he opts to build fracking rainbow coal bridges 2 somewhere
over the rainbow toward future with his omnipotent time tested girders
of righteousness and gravitas quite simple and plain
casting confidence that the democrats rank as the robust strongest train
eclipsing her livid burst of 15 minutes fame that briefly wax than wane!
When I was younger so much younger than today, I used to go to lots of poetry events. There was something called Red Sky that was every week, people were so very serious about it. Then one day I had an epiphany, "My god. I'm at a poetry event," and stopped going.
Later it all became poetry slams. Went to a few of those, too, in awe of the awfulness. People with neither talent for acting, for reciting, for rapping, and certainly not for writing poems, put all these lack of talents together and had total support from audiences that consisted in the main of people only waiting for their turn.
Once when I'd blessedly escaped from a typical slam, there was a homeless drunk across the street from the noisy venue. He was having his own private poetry slam.
He kicked a telephone pole and screamed "Hello telephone pole!" stomped on the concrete and screamed, "Hello sidewalk!" then peered into a garbage can with "Hello garbage!" and shook the hell out of a newspaper vending machine, "Phuck you news!" It was a better poem than any that was being screamed inside at the slam.
This is a circus,
led by strange looking folks,
clowns, freaks all dressed up to entertain us,
This act is a joke,
From consumer engineering to high class clowns with toys
The illusion of having, but having no soul,
Cause you believe in materialistic things,
Disguised as meaningful things,
The deception set by these clowns,
The great joke, as we lose our self in this show,
The star glow,
Its all in the script, the pamphlet
Given in the main entrance,
This is a freak show
The money made by these folks from each joke,
Pick the main theme you believe in
From politics, culture, to religion
Its all designed to wire you
Capture the mind, soul and body,
Its part of the entertainment,
The wide audience base
They set to differentiate us,
So its easy to keep schedule
and entertain the mass
While they take our cash
The permanent penalty of living