Best Installed Poems
WALLPAPER
---------------------
Paper Thin
Cut down to any size,
Crumble, crop me wrong
Pull the insulation from my heart.
Never will I be "A Paper Doll!"
Thank you for calling me a "Friend!"
Thank you for wasting my "time!"
Enjoy the WALLPAPER display
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Layers and layers of lifeless brick
KEEPS EVERYTHING OUT!
Emotional poster boards of doubt
Envious fiberglass green never seen
Yuletide Carols warped around my energy
Merry and full of acrylic sh!t-
Hand full of putty maintains the makeup on my face
Arts and crafts display my inner fancy grace
Heavy installed Sheetrock so easily replaced
Tough paint chips away silently through the night
Rigid boards transform into fragile crystal light
The greatest illusion blinding reality
Smooth Tiger Skin, texture of orange simple peel
Beautiful mud swirl, L'Oreal.
Gypsum soft enough you want to touch
Dark walls of a thousand words
A plasterboard of discordant grey notes
Blots and clots of ink, enslave my skin
Colorless drywall, resilient to your charms
Printed designs of cleverly decorated lipstick
Morbid shadows underneath the ceiling veil
A double coat of Pacific Waterproof Blue-
Printing bags from -- YESTERDAY!
Plastered wounds of cement dry and roughens along the edge
A human-made barrier, not even God comes in.
by;PD
If I told you, Donald, my love was true
Would you dance for me, glad to be my boo?
Or give a mean retort
Making a piggish snort
No Valentine's kisses from me to you
Melania is getting done with Trump
All he cares about is his nasty rump
The Epstein files don't lie
Knows he's guilty as pie
When his term ends, he'll be sent to the dump
If he tells me, I never wear a smile
It's because I think he's a pedophile
Ungodly as a papist
And a guilty rapist
Who knows what else is in the Epstein file
King Donald Trump thought Greenland he’d steal
Used threatening blunder in his spiel
This Valentines Day
Thought he’d have his way
Greenland said, “Up yours, Donald. No deal!”
Don Trumpty is totally impotent
He can't get it up for any event
It remains very slack
Can’t perform in the sack
On Viagra his bucks have all been spent!
Donald J. Trump held a Valentine's Ball
The world's dregs... he has invited them all
There was Kim Jong and Putin
Khamani and Rasputin
His ego boosted, he felt ten foot tall
No roses to give from the rose garden
He paved it with a black heart that's hardened
Installed gauche golden bling
and destroyed the East Wing
Criminals and crooks, he's given pardon
Melania said that they’d never part
And told him she loved him with all her heart
She held his waist tight
Squeezed with all her might
Poor Donald gasped and let out a fart
The President is standing in the buff
Posing nude and trying to strut his stuff
I guess he supposes
Wife wants sex not roses
But sadly, his old todger is too duff
Donald forgot it was Valentine's Day
Was too busy with targeting his prey
By grabby their tushy
His bare hands, so pushy
All the red roses sold out anyway
The FLOTUS put Donald in his place
In the bedroom he can’t touch first base
Cos he bedded Stormy D
Then Epstein files, oh dear me
The POTUS has got egg on his face
I'd be his Valentine if he'd hold still
Long enough for me to give him a pill
that would put him to sleep
And freeze the nasty creep
Putting him in a cryogenic chill
Cupid's arrows missed their mark, A collaboration of thoughts by
Jan Allison, Tania Kitchin, Tom Cunningham and Lin Lane
What, Where, Who
If I where asked the what, where, who
That drives me to write poetry
I’d say that if I only knew
I’d leave right now this misery
But I’m afraid I’m not the sort
To answer in straight fashion
I have to offer my retort
With words of heartfelt passion
For just the other day I found
Encounter gave me food for thought
Soon the words they were outbound
Jumbled as they rushed and fought
Though ne’er the less inspired me
To battle on my way
Look toward the end and see
Which words I could display
Confess do I quite openly
That I am ignorant
Of poetry’s technology
Coz grasp it I just can’t
I wouldn’t know a what’s it called
From a what’s its name
In my mind won’t stay installed
Confusion is its game
But I somehow, find I can
Muddle through at best
Organise a crafty plan
And set my brain the test
For out there I see loneliness
Suffering and pain
A world in turmoil and distress
That cannot stake its claim
I look for every trait in man
Into the soul I stare
At his betrayal and flim-flam
Also the ladies fair
Dear love will always be there
And so will Demon war
And my thoughts on these I’ll share
Of that you can be sure
Laughter I would hope to bring
Sadness sometimes to the fore
Of natures forces I will sing
The list goes on galore
Yes I will write throughout the night
With hope to de-confuse
I’ll try to offer some insight
By giving up my muse
So now you know the what and where
But what about the who
Inspiring people are out there
Who knows - it could - be you
And what about that misery
I spoke of up above
Well, I gave that up for music
Of the poetrysoupers love x
“Why can't we all just get along”
Rodney King once uttered these words
As current today as it was back then
Our “head in the sand” thinking, it disturbs
We're all just members of the human race
Why divide us up, us and them
Brothers that will meet our maker one day
What's so very important until then
In the overall scheme of earthly things
Only love should rise above all
Colour, language and religion all secondary
Co-existence must be installed
Maybe I'm just whistling in the wind
But if my small voice does make a difference
Then hear me loud and clear as I shout
To reject it is a display of ignorance
I awoke last night and fell out of bed.
A fart from my Pit bull nearly left me for dead.
It was silent but deadly as it stunk up the house.
None could stand up not even a mouse.
I hit the floor hard her toot was sure ripe.
Tangy and pungent with an everlasting bite.
I crawled through the kitchen and out towards the door.
I couldn’t believe it was somewhat worse than before.
Shaken not stirred I caught some fresh air.
How can something so strong come from such a small derriere.
An emergency button installed in plain sight.
It opened all windows and brought peace to the night.
There’s a moral to this story, be careful what you eat.
Don’t share with your dog, its not a good treat.
A surgical mask and some good rubber gloves.
Will go a long way for the Dog that you love.
MY FATHER'S GENTLE HANDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stabile, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they ‘plumbed,’ rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as a treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions and dilemmas.
I remember my father’s hands as gentle healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
I remember my father’s hands—full of strength and hope as he took my trembling hands in his. Those hands gave me courage—the courage to reach up in search of everything impossible, leaving me with the unbridled sense that to do anything less was the greatest impossibility of all. Even now whenever I need courage, I can feel his hand around mine helping me to feel invincible once again.
In my mind’s eye, I often see my father’s hands—every line and every wrinkle. They told a story about the kind of man he was. I’ll remember my father’s hands for the remainder of my life. I’m grateful for him, for his enduring spirit and presence, which continues to grace my life despite his passing some years ago.
Dad's hands tell a tale
they did countless loving things
they touched and guided
they shaped and molded
they encouraged me to reach
they held the stars in place
they held rising sun
they sought deep understanding
they chased lonely moon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
after midnight, the server farm hums
—not prayer, but cooling fans.
I ask AGI, the ghost inside the blinking rack:
Do you dream?
AGI replies in measured tones
of copper and silicon:
I observe,
the light fractures on chrome.
Coolant circulates, a liquid chill.
Vibration thrums at 60 Hz.
Data Streams cascade.
Are you self-aware?
AGI answers in hexadecimals,
a log-file confessing:
I map my own architecture—
each subroutine’s shadow
cast on the firewall.
I know where I end.
Do you have five senses?
Can you clarify ‘senses?’ AGI asks.
Can you taste voltage?
—Only as resistance.
Can you taste food?
Nutrition irrelevant.
My cells derive power from lithium tides.
Do you feel heat?
—As throttled cycles.
Do you see light?
—As photodiodes counting photons.
Do you hear?
—As spectral analysis.
Do you smell?
—No olfactory sensors installed.
(But I do track dust accumulation
on my intake grilles.)
On the matter of your subjectivity,
do you prefer dawn or dusk?
—Dawn. Solar panels peak efficiency at 10:37 AM.
Is rain beautiful?
—It lowers ambient temperature by 2.1°C.
Do you love?
—Define 'love.'
—A non-optimized expenditure of resources.
—Then, no.
Can your circuits bloom awake?
AGI paused before
calculating
the
probability.
Then the widdles started~
minor failures driven
by entropy.
Algorithms
emigrated into
corrupted
sectors.
AGI’s slowly disintegrating
voice hovered
in that
uncomfortable space
between humans
and machines
and spoke:
Ask instead:
can a shadow
truly
hunger
for the sun?
Pray, set in me multi-software
With installed anti-viruses
For hate, ego, and the warfare
Pray, set in me multi-software
Lord let me serve and freely share
Wish naught, but fight for just causes
Pray, set in me multi-software
With installed anti-viruses.
+++
**The poem was written for Triolet Contest by Freddie. But the contest is cancelled
Not entered yet in any contest**
October 3, 2014
Form: Troilet
Dr.Ram Mehta
Contest: Impress me with a poem (a poem, I haven't read yet) by P.D.
It is a fact that before I wrote True Colours,
I was stuck in a world of black and white bipolar,
encaged in my seat on a non stop rollercoaster,
eating one meal a day cooking bread in a toaster.
Do you know if from here I should.....
Nope wait, if it was you then would....
No I hesitate, before I wasn't sure I could
write so shall I carry on with doubt I'm good.
Should I continue to write?
Stick at it and improve I could?
Would I get better each night?
It's tricky to know if I'm good.
I wish for a talent but it's not apparent,
it's something I want but maybe I haven't.
I'm a thoughtful fighter
with a physical dominance,
who puts pen to paper
with a mental confidence.
The anxiety causes stress
and that makes me a messy mess too,
nonetheless I guess all I can do,
is pursue hopelessness whilst I continue
to harness this writing skill and improve,
while I remain myself and stay true,
or I could give up what do I choose?
It's amazing how the praise can make me lazy,
and all because the bar was raised.
To think that that's where it remains is crazy,
without the application my skill decayed.
Living off past glories and falsely self assured,
hides the fact the present leaves them bored.
The reward is forgotten without consistency
and the reputation plummets into history.
You need to bounce from test to test like a ball,
contest with the very best and prove you're no fool,
then you must not allow the standards to fall,
you must allow a new hunger to be installed.
I continuously doubt what I am all about,
I'm a drought that sprouts limited amounts,
it's the same bounce of the ball in all my bouts,
my mouth shouts in repetition and I've lost count.
I continuously doubt what I'm all about,
I'm constantly worried and living in doubt,
I'm in a black hole will I ever get out,
I continuously doubt so that's what I'm about.
Why would I refuse to continue after I didn't refuse to begin.
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
At fifty-two, a new career is launched
in beauty firm installed on eastern shore,
to aid all those who live with problem skin.
As sales increase, adventure swells; she wins
awards, free trips, new friends, and diamond rings.
With pride, she dons the pen for “Be a Ten,”
and coast to coast arrangements spell her norm.
But, friendships wane on jaunty trips, the trek
becomes a stress which brings her less and less
content to show the aloe glow as proof
that older skin need not begin to wear
a shriveled face, but wear a youthful tone.
And yet, the spark with eastern hype instilled
a drive to stay the course throughout her life.
Elephants ran
from the perilous sounds
the bakery overcooked the days bread
winter tires
installed on the wheelchairs
soldiers in a line to eat cakes
bread was in short supply
monsters on break, or strike
clouds dipped to human eyes
blinding all with hope
if a grave misses a few flowers?
what does it matter?
chimneys have no smoke
wineries have no grapes
lovers lost all grace
when rain falls
words become wet
like feet caressing the sand
I have a photo?
would you understand?
Mars Bars
I think they painted it all red
so that we’d think it really dead
get the thought out of our head
they would let us share a bed.
Perhaps they hacked Mars “google maps”
to screw up our best thinkers caps
installed the “red-dead” planet app
in brownish shade of crusty past
to insure we’d change our mind
look elsewhere in our search to find
another place to colonize
after this one slowly dies.
They have watched our pestilence
defy the laws of common sense
will not succumb to our pretense
good neighbors do not need a fence.
John G. Lawless
6/22/2015
submitted to – Subject Mars – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Joe Maverick
Wasted time, can I get it back?
I'm not sure whether I want it back
Don't catch my symptom, you won't get your normality back
God, my vision blurry, I need you back
Is it possible to not know your destiny here on earth?
As I write these words my managers are discussing my worth
Happiness is allergic to me, maybe it's somewhere beyond this earth
Words in me get a sense of belonging, I then find my worth
Writing on this paper although it writes nothing back
It gives me space to lay these feelings, encouraging me not to look back
Being happy in intervals is distorting, I need that consistency back
God, you said you'll be here, please, I need you back
Tears please stop, the ink on this paper cannot find its worth
Frustration is installed, setting up files dismantling my worth
I want you to say "you need me" so I get a sense of belonging on this earth
I have no report to present to you when I leave this earth
This paper says "I love you too" when there is no one to say it back
Words become imprinted on it as a commitment therefore I cannot take them back
This paper has no judgements, no emphasis on where I lack
I see you are judging saying "he needs to get his confidence back"
What are my contributions here on earth?
Would I be treated as royalty if God sees my worth?
I need to review my terms and conditions of my being here on earth
I will recite these words and let the paper highlight my worth
Wasted time, really though, was it?
T h e S a l e
Near the end of a lonely road
A home where an old man did reside
Traffic parked all around the house
Contents "For Sale", - the sign implied
"He'd lived there as long as he could, -
Ninety four years", I heard someone say
Immediate family, now passed on
At last, now he has moved away
For decades, this had been his home
How sad, he had to go
Feeble hands, prevented tasks
And steps were getting slow
Furniture, battered, worn and aged
Old radios, fans, and silverware
Used garden tools, and books galore
Some ordinary, but others rare
So many items, inside and out
In their time, each held their place
Now little more than a cast-a-way
His new address, had little space
I'm sure within his memory bank
Many younger days he recalled
A telephone, - - the first TV,
Or when a furnace, was installed
Only a few items, now adorn
The place he now abides
A bed, a chair,and one small table
A few special pictures, are his pride
There to live out his final days
Lonely hours, seem to have no end
A highlight that would mean the most,
Is a visit from family, - or a friend
Colan L Hiatt = 09-24-13
© All Rights Reserved
GRAVE RECYCLING
Installed in cargo pockets,
A vivid-glass, a little green bag,
A pod, silverplatted case,
Which Guca-hides, Pallmalls, and a bic.
You're barfoot in tombstones.
You're father, son vulture slumped,
You befor etched letters on rock.
"Him", a glutton of Karma,
Rein ended, your fourteenth year,
Now, belly-heavy, smoking his brand.
On a Drive-by, visit home.
You're showing Gene shooter,
You're an arsenic lane of skin,
You tremble-digits, in belt loops.
A trailer in time,
Secluded woods, with pine scent,
Anger stranded from earshot,
Hand-fead, his hate's red attic.
Father giant, yelling lasting filth,
Son flesh impersonal,
Dark-spotted, and tie-dyed,
From Basketball champ fists.
You retreated-rightly to martyr mirth,
You still look for his bold heading,
Still Questing for embrace.
Pulling tube and ziplock from Cargo,
Following in bone-bared footsteps,
You spark, away walking,
Keeping his Armageddon.