Best Insertion Poems
A rose held before the dawn, overwhelmed by benevolent beauty,
its virginity violated by hostel hands,
only then will it reveal its blood-stained thorns,
where infatuated innocence is lost...
Days of sunny summer streams and apricot kisses
were surrounded by chastising clouds,
the night kneeled before us as we walked holding hands, side by side,
our love magnified by the monolithic moon...
Adonis and Aphrodite were the gods before us,
for their nectar poured from the heavens to fill our cups of mirth,
the arousing amorous air was abundant with adulation,
we were upon suspended animation in a Venus vortex...
A righteous rose was the catalyst that held our love together,
but then the skies turned to a horrid hue,
an insidious insertion infiltrates with thrusting and piercing providence
the rose has no chance, for now, the rose bleeds,
our beating breaths and love are torn asunder...
The rose withers away, drowning in its excrement,
our innocence has been lost, for now, the thorns prevail.
Music by...
When angels cry -
DJ Lava-Calling angel
April.21.2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 16 - Free Verse 2
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Placed 1'st...Thank You
No Wait in Vain : Poets Meet
For decades I waited
and you did not come
to listen to my rude insertion
finger a sound at back of my throat
and the vibration of my name
For decades I wanted to meet
a small mountain as I read her
plain words in innocence
a bell in her Heart rang deep
with children running sweet
For decades I longed to touch
a struggling mottled moth
as he ached for new wings
smooth ebony cheeks
passionate with letters of adoration
For decades I watched for
a painter to mirror my songs
uncover a talkative witch who
still trampled from place to place
broken shoes echoing my silent breath
For decades I wanted a smooth ride
where conversation was free of tasks
words on both seats of equal length
with ripe apricots for the scoffing
almond chocolates wrapped in red
So I upped my thumb to a veteran one
who read from his leathered collection
notepads and pencils strewn about
space in warehouse oozed slivered glee
No wait in vain !
.
Imagine i
having fingers
to gently press ’pon your skin
Lips to linger
'mongst yourn lips and torso
Imagine i
with insertion and
your head tilted back
with your maws widely open
and your vocals expressing with
great emotion
Flutter ballerina
make the silence softly break
with your gesticulating pose
Whisper with spin ballerina
as your flattering dress even
glistens in gloam
You see
the casting of the rose did work
for
over my torso your leg
arm and hot breath
And in your breech of sleep
that night
your hands did awake your hips
and my hips did respond
First my lips, my fingers
and out of your desire
My scream
your grip
Despite the climate challenge with traffic congestion on the road,
there’s still a driving urge to go out and celebrate the Eucharist;
it’s a great deal of commitment to God who’s the source of life,
his language connotes an embodiment of love for our salvation.
Braving the difficulties in coping with the details of missionary life,
such as culture, language, climate, food and many others in foreign lands;
our faith gets tested, our humility gets challenged, and our identity revealed
and these comprise the foundation of being a missionary to other people.
In places where we learned to love the people of different cultures,
the need to adopt, acculturate, and realign to the mysteries of being a migrant,
continues to witness the movements and other signs of the times;
a world replete with endless search drawn from different human experiences.
It’s pretty common as a pervading theme across the passages in the bible;
the word migration that has a powerful connotation and rich in literature,
oh, as the holy scriptures say: “you shall not oppress an alien; you well know
how it feels to be an alien, since you were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt.”
The advent of a wide range of issues about the struggles in today’s migration,
with varying reactions characterized by principles, ethnic and religious devotion;
a certain perspective is formed according to Christian beliefs and aspirations
that migrants no matter who they are, deserve respect and societal insertion.
Lured by the promise of work and better opportunities that await somewhere,
people across the globe try their luck and take the risk to cross the land,
it’s viewed with deeper reflections like those of mostly Catholic Irish who came by,
their large influx in this country of America during the height of potato blight.
True to form, this parallels the new waves of Hispanic immigration
along with Asians, Africans, and other migrant groups with their history and cultures
truly, it’s a cycle that brings out the commonality of human quest and ambition;
with assimilation and determination to maintain and improve their life situations.
This Government is us.
The last time we were this divided civil war began.
Each party must make way for the other regardless of color,
Red, blue, black, brown, yellow or white.
The Demublicants and Repoblicrats thrive on our ignorance.
If they can't reverse their cranial rectal insertion, we can replace them
all.
Money feeds this monster; money buys friends where they count.
Money is not free speech; money buys favors, and not for us.
Our votes are not for sale; my vote is not for sale.
We're Americans, we own this Government, and this Government is us.
Let's take it back and make it work.
Vote.
Here I sit inside my box to the assembly line of the Boring Masses
Here I sit inside my box dreaming…
enjoying…
dreams that I can’t explain.
Dreams of color and music
Dreams of wine and dance
Dreams of song and joy
They can’t get me here
I feel warmth and safe inside my box.
They can’t make me feel in this fortress of individuality.
Outside I hear a constant rhythm of moans of pain.
Why would I want to be like them?
So, I sit inside my box waiting, dreaming , wondering and fearing
The rhythm is getting closer
louder.
Louder.
Louder!
So, I sit inside my box fearing, anticipating.
I feel cold and scared inside my box.
Scared of them
Here I sit inside my box fearing my insertion to the assembly line of the Boring Masses
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
To a birthday party I was invited,
as an 11 year old I should have been excited.
I really didn't want to go,
the people there I didn't really know.
The day arrived and mum drove me there,
I exited the car with such little flare.
"Those pants your wearing, now they are brand new,
Not to take care of them would never do".
I stood at the gate as mum drove away,
weighed up my options, should I go or stay.
I could run to the park and play with the gift,
call back later and wait outside for a lift.
Knowing what mum would do if she found me out,
so inside I must go of that there's no doubt.
Once inside I handed over the gift wrapped toy,
It was tossed onto the couch, the ungrateful boy.
Now I must admit, I was a strange little dude.
I had a problem eating other people's food.
So when lunch was due and at the table we all sat,
I wasn't going to eat at all and that was that.
As I lifted my fork and pushed food around my plate,
The lady said, "you better eat something little mate".
Now was that a threat? or was she being kind?
I better do something fast, a plan had formed in my mind.
A light bulb moment, I could pull a ruse.
The new pants I wore, the pocket were loose.
feigning that I was chewing on my spuds,
they were removed from my fork and into my duds.
The sausages went in next, they were a little tricky.
The gravy that covered them made insertion a little sticky.
In went the peas and a couple of chips,
my front pockets were full and felt wet on my hips.
When I left the party with a bag of lollies to take,
my back pockets were filled with the kids birthday cake.
Finally home, mum yelled, "What all over your new pants?"
Wooden spoon in her hand as around the kitchen we danced.
A dignitary, a friend, a father, a king
The only king that was born in a manger
And ended up as a manager
And now sits in the heavens
Making the earth his footstool
As the overall manager
That after now, anyone who still sees him as a stranger
Is already in danger
As a manager, he doesn’t have a P.A
Yet can never make mistakes
He is the only manager who does not need a coach
Before he can feature his mercy in your life’s tournament
In the league of champions or champions league
He is always at the top of the table
He is the only manager whose love for his fans is more concentrated than acid
Do you want to feel high?
Take him like your drink
Smoke him like your grass
Because he is the most high
In fact, that makes me call him my royal highness
I call him the faithful pastor
The first and last prophet
The origin and insertion of creation
The magistrate of our efficiency
Our burden bearer
Some call him the beginning and the end
But I call him
God at the beginning,
God at the end
And God in between
Cause he is the one who began the beginning
Yet did not begin in the beginning
Because the beginning couldn’t have begun
If the beginner just began in the beginning
With him, you can be sure that life is good
Because he is more reliable than LG
With him, you don’t need either Glo or MTN networks
To rule your world everywhere you go
You don’t need a face book page to like him
You don’t need a twitter account to follow him
You don’t need a Google map to search for him
You don’t need a blackberry pin to ping him
All you need to do is to subscribe to heavenly free BIS now
And enjoy free life’s unlimited data
His name is JESUS
Jesus is the key
And if Jesus is the key,
Then any life without him is titled “off key”.
(INSPIRED BY 12YEARS A SLAVE)
LUPITA!!! LUPITA!!! LUPITA!!!!
Has become the new beat!
Red carpet to the streets of London
her name you scream!
Shows still rattles on
on her
about her
Elle
Drum
Tabloids...
Everyone want a piece of her.
The new flavor of the old school!
Centuries later
after decades of bondage
slavery and persecution
Patsey is Midas.
who would have thought?!
Is it celebration or admission of guilt?
Awe or shame?
Complements or commemoration?
Contemplation and realization
of the injustice,pain and inhumane
subjected on the black woman?
The body you tortured with lashes and slashes
you compete to have your fine gowns hang on it.
You loathed that skin
now
you customize products for the mahogany beauty!
The voice you tamed with hurls and slur
you lust after its speech.
Patsey is now A talk show!
No longer an infidel,Kaffir...
Patsey has become a household name
an icon
a tittle to behold.
Good enough for your surname.
"Marry me" you quest.
"Lets make babies that will need no tan..."
you seek the fruit of the same womb
you ruptured with every manner of insertion.
Perhaps they will right your past
Kids that will need no pass or identity.
The heart you scared with scorn and hatred
is the same as the one loving you.
Her 'weird' culture and traditions
inspires your cold ways.
Her God now you call upon Him.
That whom you segregated with contempt
now you eulogize and adore.
Patsey is no longer "THEM"
you realized they are no different from "US".
worth the same opportunities as you
same capabilities as yours
similar blood to that on your veins...
LUPITA! LUPITA!! LUPITA!!!
And so the song goes on.
Is it glory or venture for your redemption?
A con?
Another political racial game?
RUSSIAN ROULETTE
Let’s amuse ourselves
playing a novel
diversion
a contested match
relatively brave
perversion
Rules are a painless
tranquil and soothing
excursion
two weapons of fun
comic tragedy
immersion
Loading of handguns
all blanks except one
insertion
metal to the head
trigger finger tight
explosion
Ingenuous
Oblivion
In
Legitimate
Version
© Kim van Breda—31 October 2014
The mirror’s morphed me SEE
I mimed__ the black- button eyes
sewn on it seems, as if in a dream
A dream of the acid kind__
Belay! That plank _ me pirate peers
A straight-line saunter, your prisoner cannot muster.
Just send me to a new crew-cut, seer
who will remold this immortal blunder.
Neither man nor beast am I_ I’m a chimera
A botanist's flight of fancy....
*Chimera - an organism, or part of one,
with at least two genetically different tissues
resulting from mutation, the grafting of plants,
or the insertion of foreign cells into an embryo
English prides itself on being a well-spring of today’s language
like a magpie that freely picks up foreign words elsewhere
with an attempt to incorporate them into its richness of vocabulary;
a great endeavor that makes sense to be a global lexicon these days.
It’s a continuing effort that knows no barrier with other nations,
to the world of cultures with an attitude of openness and expansion;
widens one’s horizon and enables one to get a habit of insertion,
recognized as an inspiration that becomes a treasure trove of information.
Interesting it may be to find one’s word from a particular culture
that insertion in the dictionary which is a constant guide to everyone;
a close study, a reference to certain thoughts, backgrounds, and origins,
these words provide their meanings and usages in sentence constructions.
Yet their phonetic spellings are great indications to pronounce them well
according to history or origin that supply right definitions and implications,
their etymological meanings, derivations or other shades of meanings;
in their contextual variations or figurative implications thus far.
As they possess the power of meanings or as an identity of every word,
their roles make substance and clarity to what is necessary to understand;
they make a difference; they serve like guardian angels in every way,
whose central tenet and mission explore guidance and comprehension.
Webster’s, Oxford, McQuarie or Thesaurus as dictionaries used these days,
with idiomatic expressions provided in different contexts and origins;
however, profound or different as applied in many human situations,
they convey wisdom; so rich that many times they’re used in today’s parlance.
Words, words, words, as Hamlet famously moaned when Polonius asked him;
what he reads and wrestles with words and meanings generate an answer,
it’s the same thing with one’s attitude to consult or refer to a lexicon,
a dictionary, a thesaurus, or any similar print that provides meanings –
words that draw the link between history and experiences of humanity.
sparks fly when they meet
insertion makes her complete…
igniting her heat
Despite the climate challenge with traffic congestion on the road,
there’s still a driving urge to go out and celebrate the Eucharist;
it’s a great deal of commitment to God who’s the source of life,
his language connotes an embodiment of love for our salvation.
Braving the difficulties in coping with the details of missionary life,
such as culture, language, climate, food and many others in foreign lands;
our faith gets tested, our humility gets challenged, and our identity revealed
and these comprise the foundation of being a missionary to other people.
In places where we learned to love the people of different cultures,
the need to adopt, acculturate, and realign to the mysteries of being a migrant,
continues to witness the movements and other signs of the times;
a world replete with endless search drawn from different human experiences.
It’s pretty common as a pervading theme across the passages in the bible;
the word migration that has a powerful connotation and rich in literature,
oh, as the holy scriptures say: “you shall not oppress an alien; you well know
how it feels to be an alien, since you were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt.”
The advent of a wide range of issues about the struggles in today’s migration,
with varying reactions characterized by principles, ethnic and religious devotion;
a certain perspective is formed according to Christian beliefs and aspirations
that migrants no matter who they are, deserve respect and societal insertion.
Lured by the promise of work and better opportunities that await somewhere,
people across the globe try their luck and take the risk to cross the land,
it’s viewed with deeper reflections like those of mostly Catholic Irish who came by,
their large influx in this country of America during the height of potato blight.
True to form, this parallels the new waves of Hispanic immigration
along with Asians, Africans, and other migrant groups with their history and cultures
truly, it’s a cycle that brings out the commonality of human quest and ambition;
with assimilation and determination to maintain and improve their life situations.
The battle rages on between the
Titans of technicalities backed by the Grammar Nazis and the
free thinking artist of Middle English teamed with the Imps of invention.
Five seven five, stings like a hive. Artists express because they’re alive.
Haikus can’t rhyme? They do for me all the time.
Explosive new ideas cause fear and so Grammar Nazis jeer.
Arsenals of critiques on both sides mount, as we war over the very count.
The boring masses blindly follow. Dictated rules, they suck up and swallow.
As the battle for middle English rages on I cuddle up in my cell awaiting my forced insertion
in the army of the boring masses.
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX