Best Insulated Poems
and I hunger for you, like a moth
longing for one last flicker of flame
nestled deep inside my heart
the memory of my childhood worship sits deep
as an innocent deer panting by the riverside
and I need you now, ... like I need the air I breathe
for I feel lame as a joke I can't retell,
perhaps I am the joke itself;
inside this narrow minded insulated world of reality,
you don't exist anymore for me
at least not in the way you did when I was young
for I have given you so many different gowns and shapes
that I am no longer able to envision you
the way I did before, what do you look like now?
I ask while sitting quietly, beneath a
Bodhi tree.
Born into this earth one day quite unaware,
We grow with time and eventually age.
Pass through stages many and varied,
And in activities manifold, we busily engage.
We do not know what tomorrow unveils,
Or where the road we tread may lead.
But within us is a realm that will never change.
It is something that to vagaries, never shall yield.
Beneath all fluctuations, it stays static.
It is the light of consciousness that in us shines,
That has been slowly built in us through our breeding.
Through values garnered and what God in us aligns.
This screen of awareness is something so palpable,
But can never be seen yet stays securely intact.
It is the consciousness that God has planted in us.
Defeating all deceptions, it helps us choose the right act.
When we experience pain and heaviness of heart
On the screen of awareness may appear a shining star
It will sure pilot us through the dank and dark corridors of life.
Help us stay firm in fluidity, showing who we truly are.
Beliefs and concepts may evolve and change with time,
But as long as we are insulated within the protective screen
Of awareness, it will distinguish the genuine from the sham,
And our life will glitter in all radiance and heavenly sheen!
May.18.2023
~ Placed Fifth~
The Screen of Awareness Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker
In pleasantries, orchestrated on our screens,
We live the lives of many men and women,
As if sex could be! We grow, composed of well-cooked pablum
Eaten between long work hours, digested pleasantly.
In a fetal coil, I rest, my optic eye
Doesn’t blink at the silver reticules of my mind:
My body well knit by well-knit engineers,
This me-model makes real tears, running from my eyes.
Of course I’m human – hammered out in school,
Wearing what Designers Club tells me to;
You and I, we can adjust ourselves with tools,
Look down upon the Primitives -- those old fools.
Insulated from all microbial bio-terrors,
Safe from the brute, the thorn, the flawed flower
Blooming wild; we -- kept safe – know no variant weather,
Pity the Primitive, exposed to flood and laser-tower.
Did you see those messages, scrawled upon a wall,
Comparing us with vipers at Adam’s Fall?
There’s not an original thought in what he thinks:
That purist Primitive! His raw flesh stinks!
Computers say it best, and yet, I see
Something –compelling--- in his graffiti:
“O song, sing forth unto the endless skies--
O hear, created stars! You long have looked
Upon all who weep, who ever made outcry,
And wrote it down, in God’s forgotten book.”
written for those in the future--a protest against genetic engineering
We see them sitting in towers
carved from ‘learned’ ivory,
insulated by their tenure
from the world of reality,
poisoning their students minds,
putting bad ideas in their heads,
the kind that in a century
left one hundred million souls dead.
They know they face no consequence,
they even blacklist all others,
it’s the students who pay the cost,
in the real world they all suffer
for imbibing leftist nonsense
that they learned at academy,
betrayed by malign professors,
by ‘elites’ who are not elite.
We see them strutting in Hollywood,
convinced that their fame is greatness,
they want us to watch ever film,
yet our values they dismiss.
Thinking they’re on the cutting edge,
and the we’re all just inbred proles,
they think that lying well on film
makes them the people in the know.
Yet most of them have more spouses
when most people have fingers,
all their rapes are upsetting,
the pedophilia disturbs.
Once called the city of angels,
now just a Sodom on the sea,
a mess of ruined human souls,
an ‘elite’ who are not elite.
Glance upon the creative scenes,
you’ll find many more of this kind,
like the ‘artist’ who wants thirty grand
for a spray-painted orange rind!
Or maybe the plotless writer
who calls it ‘literary fic,’
bad characters just moaning on
about how they’re damaged and sick.
Don’t forget today’s architect
with his swiss-cheese ‘masterpiece,’
it’s supposed to be a building,
nut I looks like concrete feces.
I wouldn’t take any of this
even if given out for free,
they’re making all art hideous,
these ‘elites’ who are not elite.
Then there are all of the blowhards
who make up the modern news,
thinking that you will only see
the things that they pick and choose.
When any man with internet
can see through their partisan crap,
and lord do they get all annoyed
when you call them out on that.
If they cannot win they censor
and double down on their madness,
the idea that they can’t control us
is one they cannot stomach yet.
Those fools will tell me it’s raining
while I walk down a sunny street,
it is far time we tear them down,
damned ‘elites’ who are not elite.
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
The color of blood unchanged,
flowed in the stream of time evolved,
as ancient singular ancestor etched
footprints of humanity on the globe, explored.
Common lineage thriving insulated,
splintered into diverse lineage of races,
physical traits got typified,
melanin played with color on the skin.
Born free under one seamless sky,
equality pines in veiled deprivation.
Unkind history modulated
the misplaced sense of superiority.
When in bleached sky the black clouds melt
in silent rain of unseen tears of pain,
and the heavy air toxic with hatred suffocates,
I can’t breathe.
June 11, 2020
Contest : All Yours (Jan 29)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
For some reason, I feel especially vindicated
Learning recently that I won’t be syndicated,
I know many of my dear family are titillated
Since they are of my readers most dedicated.
In my writings, over the years, I’ve indicated
That with superb honors I’ve been inundated,
Still, I’ve made every effort to be insulated,
Although lately I’ve been rather stimulated
And, for the most part, yes, entirely pixilated;
That is, when I am not totally inebriated!
written December 20, 2021
I live on the frozen tundra where cold winds blow
I'm never bothered by the amount of ice and snow
The thickness of my feathers are deep at my chest
like a downy insulated coat that's better than a vest.
I'm busy keeping watch over my two mated hens
who sit on the nests we've built on mounded dens.
I've eleven mouths to feed, all screaming for food
at night I'm quite busy searching the neighborhood.
My golden eyes are keen so I can see best in the dark
When I dive for a morsel I never miss my targeted mark.
I hear something scampering beneath the blanket of snow.
It's a scurrying little mouse. Be right back, I have to go.
Another snack for my babies, newly out of their shells.
They think they have to eat when their stomach compels.
Now that it's quiet, I'll perch on a branch up in this tree
and keep a watch out for predators who want to eat me.
Hunting is much easier because my fur coat is purest white.
I blend in just perfectly with the snow by day and at night.
I can turn my head in any direction by swiveling it around
Until my prey approaches, I'm good at not making a sound.
A fox is creeping in from the North, hoping for some action
but my sharp talons will chase him away, to my satisfaction.
Excuse me for a moment, but I see an approaching artic hare,
a hardy meal for the chicks, my mates will chew to prepare.
There are humans living near by, in a log cabin over the hill
they leave meat out for me when they make a fresh kill.
I've no reason to fear them because they never hunt for owl.
I love living in this frigid climate where I'm free to fly and prowl.
__________________________________________________
January 31st, 2016 Owl Personification Contest by Eve Roper
Flight (less)
Flight is a gift from God - The Bald Eagle spreads her wings
The Emperor Penguin is a novel sight,
With an crown of gold around the scruff,
Heavily insulated and robbed of flight,
Icy swims, bitter cold, these conditions are rough,
The emperor survives, despite.
New Zea land's pet bird,
Don’t eat this kind of Kiwi,
They can’t fly and are not safe,
National Symbol,
This little guy likes the night,
Smells dinner from far away.
The Emu looks like its cousin,
The Ostrich and his kin are grounded.
Original Poem written by:
Samual Ronthorpe for the contest:
“four DIFFERENT BIRDS IN FOUR DIFFERENT forms” ¤¤ 4th Place ¤¤
The four forms are:
1) Monoku
2) Sicilian Quintain
3) Choka
4) Crystalline
Composed 4-27-2011 ©.
The Aged Man
Authored by Chuck Keys
There is a sadness inside of him,
Draped by layers of heartaches and disappointments,
Insulated with his long beard, thickly white eye brows,
Unkempt brushy long dense white hair,
Dry peeling cracked lips, slightly ajar,
Showing his smoke stained chipped teeth,
Wearing a dark, soiled, bulky long scruffy ankle length coat,
Two buttons were missing,
With a 2" uneven tear at the bottom of its left side stained pocket,
A dirty powder-blue weathered wool and leather hat, with ear flaps down,
It was a long cold night, in mid-January, the month of his birth.
He moves like a man covered with fear and age, and maybe hunger too.
Mornings and evenings are but doorways
In and out of his leftover forgotten soul,
To the long endless days and nights, forlorn and grey.
He meanders about with a slow cautious gait, head down often times,
Eyes more closed than open, squinting even in the dark unlit night,
Torn gloved hands (with a large irregular frayed hole in the palm of the left),
Each hand fisted tightly for warmth,
Arms tightly at his side, stationary, not swaying,
Protectively wrapping himself inside,
Or just holding himself, maybe for warmth or some unexplained reason.
His life is full, the years buried deep inside.
The pounding aches inside, remembers his early years,
Ages ago, wrapped and protected inside his large family,
But never a part of it, not inside,
Always outside searching, for what can't be found, ever.
His own family that slowly left him was remembered,
Material children today, groundless at best,
That have no memory of what was,
Only what is or what will be.
Grandchildren that lacked life inside his hug.
The pounding aches inside; smirks, sometimes,
Knowing time and space, loving and giving, peace,
Remedy for all that ails.
He knows only what he knows,
He loved, loves and will always love.
Even alone, he is in joy, at peace.
The old man walked into his last mile, a short while ago,
His slow cautious gait, one small step after another, and another,
As the gates opened, he turned and looked behind,
Frowned and smiled,
With nothing left to say.
Leccy Powers in the Air
Nikola Tesla knew the score,
back there, wayback in 1894,
send-em power through the post,
bloody radio antennae, sends the ghost ,
wireless sends the power,
from the insulated tower,
tuned aeriel sucks the most,
fine tuned it is the host,
a quarter wave deflowers,
when electric car un-powers,
recharge from power radio remote,
a constant radio wave, unquote,
or constant flow empowers,
Leccy car you Billy Goat ! :}-
So ac power is in the air,
detected by the car, right there,
powered then the Billy Goat,
tuned aerial , sucks in the voltage, know it!
Leccy car can run 4 sure!
Don't need no petrol, where?
just leccy techs, leccy motors go-at,
says johnson, with a slight unquote,
the new world is to share,
if it catches em by the throat,
the dimwits wouldn't dare,
but some ones got to show it ?
Eg frequency of 27 megacycles cb radio 27,000,000 a second.
So put a 9 foot antennae on you car to receive the signal current?
It works out shorter for much faster frequencies like your mobile phone.
A few inches, a few centimeters etc...
So the sent electricity gets collected at the right length antennae and
runs the leccy motor in your car...sounds cool to me …
id be wearing wellies or gum boots to avoid a shock from the powered antennae 250volts maybe, if I touched it:} kill switches needed hey...
Don Johnson
BEFORE 20,000 YEARS AGO THE ATLANTEAN PEOPLE OF THE RED SKIN TYPE,
HAD SUBMARINES AND AEROPLANES. {VALIXI}. POWERED AND CONTROLLED BY RADIO WAVES TECHNOLOGY REMOTELY..{ARE WE TOO RETARDED TO DO IT???}...INDUS VALLEY PEOPLE HAD VIMANA
FLYING MACXHINES TOO AT THAT TIME....AND WROTE HOW FIX THE MERCURY ENGINE...
Do we have to res-surect ole Tesla?
to get it to work? ac electricity can be
transmitted through the air! as he said...
easily converted to dc voltage by rectifiers...as in power supplys....
like having your own power pole on the car...
A barn southwest of Central Butte
Could be seen for miles around
Upon a hill, and that was how
The Mattus place was found
A big and very well used barn
With lots of stock and feed
Pride of the Prairie West Winds Farms
A sentinel indeed
In the big bad wind of seventy-six
The Mattus place was rocked
Left Jean and Joan without a home
With John and Loretta shocked
And so the plans for their new shop
Became a barn instead
A stately straight white structure
Instead of plain old red
The big new barn soon came to know
The routine of the old
With dances held up on the loft
More shelter from the cold
An insulated calving room
New tack room ‘neath the stairs
With many new adjusting pens
Real forward thinking there
The new barn has served for many years
Just like the old one had
Still in the Mattus family
With Sheldon, Ron’s first lad
While other barns are leaning now
And threaten to fall down
The Mattus barn is straight and tall
The sturdiest around
That barn southwest of Central Butte
Can be seen for miles around
Upon a hill, it still is how
The Mattus place is found
Written by Jan Berger adapted for music by Mike Martin
"Classical Gas" was a family tune
With horns and percussion,drums and bass too
It played through my youth, down the stairs
In a basement set up for a band, in their lair
Trumpets,slingerlands, electric guitar
Bass, tambourine,much music from afar
From Beatles,Ike and Tina, Chicago too
My brothers and friends played upwards till "two"
Al Hirt, Al Green, the theme from "Hawaii-five- O"
Was practiced for hours preparing for a show
A lead singer would arise out of the crew
Singing "Proud Mary" more times than a few
My parents were smart had insulated the home
So upstairs only the bass would reverberate and roam
Allowing their children to experiment in sound
While upstairs classical music was always around
This family grew playing music just so
Their children played piano,viola, clarinet and banjo
Guitar was a staple for many it seems
One carried the brass section,a band of all dreams
At Christmas and holidays after dinner was done
Round the piano we'd sit ,listen and sing for fun
Playing music and singing together in time
Reminders of my youth a time that was fine
Remembering my dad's voice singing many hymns
Show tunes, ballads, anything it seems
'Twas a joyful experience shared over the years
Now just remembering can bring me to tears.
Protected from the past,
insulated in a box
made of star-dust,
closed where it
points to the earth
but open toward the
vacuum of the sky,
why does he
bring the old world back
when he creates his dreams?
A monster that refuses to die
A shame that lingers on
A menace to the society
Impenetrable to bullet
Immune to euthanasia
Insulated against electrocution
The root cause of our underdevelopment
It's sent our economy to ruination
And our saints to damnation
It stings like a bee
Spits venom like a viper
A biased steward that serves those
Who already have a belly full
Of the national cake
At the expense of the have-nots
A demon that possess our leaders
With no hope of exorcism
Now they preach capital influx
But practice capital flight
They preach unity
But finance disunity
They preach security
But mastermind insecurity
An incorrigible thief
That robs us of our integrity
Cart away our conscience
Defraud us of our unity
Loot our treasury
Deny us of our freedom
Pauperise the masses
Rob our leaders of their broad-minds
And replace it with myopic ones