Best Integrity Poems | Poetry
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New Integrity Poems
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Muse for Integrity
by Dillenbeck, Gerald
by Ibeh, Edward
by Robinson, Michael
Integrity and Mendacity
by Dillenbeck, Gerald
A MAN WITH INTEGRITY
by cooper, jack
Integrity Has Teeth
by Pierre louis, Angelo
by Dillenbeck, Gerald
by Leffanta, Rico
Uphold Moulds and Strongholds of Integrity
by sensele, john
by Brewer, Geoffrey
View all new Integrity Poems
The Best Integrity Poems
A poet enters a private sanctuary,
A sacred place where the imagination
Dwells with a mélange of emotions
Conceived by aesthetic beauty,
Often divine and esoteric in nature;
That comprehensive longing to
Express through common language
That which is so vitally uncommon.
Words that seek to form a bridge
Between intellectual abstract thought
And the world of the inarticulate.
A way to express the depth of sorrow
While having it become a cathartic
Release, thereby relating to others
In commiseration and heartfelt empathy.
Poetry has the ability to help, to heal.
To reach souls enduring that same pain
May be a blessed gift poetry genuinely
Offers in a nonintrusive manner, helping
Lonely souls know they are not alone.
No-one escapes the loving light poetry sheds.
It dwells inside each of us, realized or not.
It teaches with simplicity, expands the mind,
Ingratiates itself without any effort when
Expressed with forethought and integrity.
It may stir emotions from the most stoic.
Speech itself, lives and breathes, and is poetic.
Acquiesce to that silent voice inside which
prevails upon the heart to be released in verse.
Poetry may elevate our spirit with such intensity
To generate a feeling akin to euphoric bliss.
Poets, honored in past glory with the status of Kings,
Now dwell in a world often misunderstood by the
Masses too busy to take the time to regard its worth.
How fortunate for the insightful who appreciate and
Embrace the ageless, immortal soul poetry provides.
They are blessed and will give birth to future poets.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2015
“Home is a Burning Flame”
Align yourself with the belief that HOME will come to you in the end
You can see yourself in her eyes, but you are not there
She must follow her own flame
Barefoot over broken glass and rusty nails
Tender Moorings is your Heart
One day she will understand her revolving door journey
Until that time arise
Keep the burning fire alive
The warmth it emanates
She will carry to be brave.
Is a Burning Flame.
For my Mother 18/9 d. I see you, I hear you.
For my Daughter 18/9 b. Do you see me, do you hear me?
"I am my mother's daughter."
1. Paradise Circus
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
Lurking in dark corners
The swamp stirs in the night
As the deceiver rises
Begging to share his illusions might
Only behind the veil
Does he let his murky words sail
Deceiving the lady of the house
While he runs like a little mouse
He drinks a mans ale
Then double crosses once stale
Armies can’t fight the silent one
He hides in the corners of your mind
Draw blood with your pen
Let him flow towards the hither end
The skeleton can’t do much with his quill
Stabbed of his devious will
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Sir Poet, Hold True To Thy Gifts Long Given
Sir poet, why hast thy broken thy true pen?
Are not thy words intended to help and heal?
Pray thee, returneth to world of gentle men,
Let both thy mind and fevered blood softly spill!
Sir poet, why hast thy burned thy greatest writes?
Are not thy word-gifts bearing much needed fruits?
Pray thee, this sad, dark world sees thy ink-bright lights,
Begs thy kind soul return to poetic roots!
Sir poet, write deep to heal thy wounded heart
Embrace yet again, thy soul's truest call to arms
Find thy calling, begin an earnest restart,
Seek thee to help not this rash act that so harms.
Sir poet, hold true to thy gifts long given
Join again, poet's rewards in true liven'.
Jan. 20th 1990
Syllables Per Line: 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11
Total # Syllables: 154
Total # Words: 122
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017
Integrity is being true to yourself,
And having the courage
To admit when you are wrong.
It is choosing to do what is right,
In a world that's full of deceit and deception,
And stand firm in what you believe in.
It is being humble,
And treating others with respect
No matter who they are.
Integrity is something you're not born with,
It is something that is learned over time,
And is embedded in your heart.
Integrity is not focusing on who you are.
Or what you can gain from the world,
It is what you can give to the world
With truthfulness and faith in God.
Copyright © Don Pettinelli | Year Posted 2017
Will You See Truth Beyond That Dark Stone Fence
Can you feel true heart in early dawn's light
soft grace and gentle winds in Spring's new flight.
Can soul feel Nature's benevolent course
from open mind, mankind's weakness divorce?
Hear morning doves as they sing out soft calls
let kindness escape from imprisoned walls.
Gather knowledge, true strength from mother Earth
seek truth in doing right with all your worth.
See brilliance in every golden sunset
cease striving for all earth's wealth you can get.
See Nature, its great eye-opening gifts
let grace come as your spirit it uplifts.
Will you see truth beyond that dark stone fence
find calm over world's chaotic suspense?
April 14th, 1982
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017
Like an archaic humanoid dinosaur
you plunder through life taking no prisoners,
with your philosophical knuckles dragging on the ground.
You are a dying breed born of privilege and tenacious greed,
tendering little in life other than your selfish need.
What is it you seek in life other than your very personal comfort?
You never give a sideways glance to anyone with no chance of adding to your
circumstance; narrow minded cruelty subsidies the shutdown of any
tenderness, allowing emotional banalities to supersede integrity.
Your karmic debt is too cancerous to be free -
a lover of women among inept men,
but piteous fodder for contempt among strong women.
Neanderthal, you tossed love off the tongue like spit flung and stung my cheek with
runny dung....in disgust I turn away at your insipid attempt at manhood.
So many conquests, so little time.
The pittance you gave is but a trail of unwitting shame,
littered like Gretel's bread crumbs into a wilderness of pain...
How sad you thought such a pittance could buy my soul.
I am no longer a member of your colonial servitude,
and you are an inept fossil long past its prime.
From this moment, Narcissistic Neanderthal,
I am free.
Copyright © Anna Lee Stedman | Year Posted 2012
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or leaning upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
(revive, twist, and switch)
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013
There is not a poem that you fail to read
Or time that I’m away you don’t ask, “Why”?
There is not a time when you don’t plant a seed
Of joy into my heart when tears I cry
You’ve helped me to believe in what I give
Seen beauty in the silly lines I rhyme
You’ve helped me want a better life to live
And shown me Godly love time after time
You will not leave my writes without a thought
Oh what things need to change for smoother flow
A friendship true like yours cannot be bought
You’ve helped my heart to breathe, expand, and grow
A Guardian poet you have been to me
Accept my thanks and loyal constancy
Jade (Eileen to you, Richard Lamoureux)
This is my second poem by this title. Richard Lamoureux has been a constant friend, mentor, and guide. I so appreciate his integrity, honesty, and spirituality. He's encouraged me over the years I've been here.....to keep writing, to enter contests...and to believe in my self-worth, a precious gift. When I'm gone...he'll visit my older writes and leave a note. :) I've gained so much by reading his book- Dummy: Hurtful and Healing words which is so full of precious insights on the power of words to heal or destroy. Well I know this power. Well have I suffered because of it.
People come and go...It's good to know some are there for the long haul. Some are there simply because they care...nothing more...nothing less. Thanks, Richard.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
The strength of a man is not determined
By his muscles or his brawn
It is determined by his strength
To admit when he is wrong
The wisdom of a man
Is not determined by myriad facts
It is determined by the way
That wisdom is seen in his acts
The integrity of a man
Is not determined by his claim
It is determined by the reputation
That follows around his name
The love of a man
Is not determined by mere time
It is determined by each moment
That he makes you feel sublime
The sexual prowess of a man
Is not related to his size
It’s how he satisfies your needs
And what you see there in his eyes
The chivalry of a man
Is not determined by his manhood
It is determined by how he nurtures
You to revel in womanhood
The passion of a man
Is not his need to self-gratify
It is determined by how often
He makes the effort to satisfy
The wealth of a man
Is not seen in monetary things
But by those things that are free
That to your life he brings
The age of a man
Is not seen in the age life deals
But by the strength of his heart
And how young he makes you feel
The sweetness of a man
Is not determined by what he says
But it's determined by the fact
That you want him more each day
The humour of a man
Is not determined by a hurtful tease
It’s determined by how your laugh
When his words your heart please
A man is an awesome creation
That I’m determined to venerate
As Eve’s daughter much in love
This male wonder I celebrate.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
Sitting in a cloak of black conservatism:
I feel my hands,
oily on the desk like shortening in
slate gray cookie pans,
the speedway inside forcing the absence of
And my thoughts,
so flippant to implore
if a man with a chartreuse neck tie
can see the long wet streaks
across the cherry plane.
a sequence of interrogatives
common to the bored walls
of serious conference,
evoking tone inflection
in the pattern of polite.
Darest I mention truth?
I am your whore;
infect me with smug integrity,
smack me with false prophet leadership,
just leave some crisp bills
on the nightstand, sugar.
Yet my voice models his wavelength,
relaying back the catchy tired language
of one hit wonders;
from the man who owns a chartreuse tie.
awards a loaf of Wonder bread,
and a two bedroom lower.
Copyright © Michele Nold-Godleske | Year Posted 2006
heart beat expectancy
to heightened degree
it would come
It MUST come
for the message
"There must be a mistake!
How could he just vanish
disappear into thin air
and not care
No, there must be
Perhaps he was sick
perhaps he was dying
and he didn't want her to know
wanted to spare her the pain
all sorts of crazy thoughts
keep her awake at night
as she waited
for that message
The months passed
the pain grew and didn't subside
it didn't grow dull
nor did it recede
it did bleed...
though her eyes it tore
down her cheeks it bore
it could not be
where was the message???
a second chance
revival of romance
for that message
waited because her faith in him
refused to be shattered
by the calendar mockery
day and month debauchery
Yet...each new morning brought hope
steeped in the belief
of his chivalry
for the one whom she knew
could not be the one untrue
cruel and heartless enough
to have to taken her for a fool
she grew heart old
and soul weary
dead on her feet dreary
as she waited for a message
that never came
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
to be stable,
a mountain holds an echo
like a lover’s kiss. Once holy parts
of me are crumbling away, eroded by betrayal
~ that shifting precipice, integrity ~ that landslide, my honesty.
? How long does it take for a mountain to become a boulder? ?
Geologists know the answer but you don’t care, you have a pickaxe ?
and the desire for security. If a woman asks you to give up your mountain-ness,
no matter what she needs the rocks for, in exchange for her love, refuse indignantly;
it is not a fair trade.
Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2016
Beneath embered brands of burning roof,
The firefighter waits.
His mask is on; he’s donned his gloves,
Ready to enter the fiery state.
Once again to battle beast,
Whose heart burns with flaming hate.
On hands and knees he treads with care
Over blackened brittle floor.
Making way through smoke dark rooms
Fighting fear from door to door.
Outstretched arms reach for muffled screams
Heard above the deafening roar.
Hoping to find before too late,
The source of curdling screams.
A scenario played all too oft
Within the hero’s dreams.
The task at hand his only thought
And the safety of his team.
Crying, scared a young child waits
For rescue from choking heat.
Then through the blackness something tugs
And pulls his trembling feet.
A Vadered voice says “it’s OK”
And hugs him to the street.
The fire alone remains to beat;
And return to fight he goes.
To find the beast alive and well;
Destroying, as it grows.
He aims his weapon at the seat
And from it water flows.
The devil dies as fire gives in
To the water’s cooling spray.
The house is gone; but at least,
No lives were lost today.
So back he jumps on bright red truck,
And into night he rides away.
In quiet contemplation,
The firefighter stares.
Holding back a hundred thoughts
That known might seem him scared.
But he pushes fear aside,
And treads where others do not dare!
Copyright © Joseph Soper | Year Posted 2017
Paul, Peter and the Tweeter
Why not choose,
a billionaire leader?
One who is not
an eloquent speaker.
he robs Paul to pay Peter.
The bold rich need tax savings,
forget about the meeker.
From a distance,
we watch the kingdom teeter.
Him smirking on high,
he thinks "What could be sweeter!"
Why oh why,
did so many choose that cheater?
Global temperature rising,
things aren't the same.
Scientific facts need hiding,
isn't that a shame?
There's new logic he's applying,
says coal dust isn't really flying.
Even though the fish are bitter
and you can't see them under the litter,
no one can turn down the heater.
"Fake News" he says,
check out T-Man's Twitter.
The Country is "Great Again",
cause he ain't no quitter!
Yet people are making less than their babysitter.
Good jobs will go with free trade,
might as well become a waiter.
Otherwise you’ll starve sooner or later.
he wants to build a wall.
Mexico will pay,
so build it tall.
You don't need them at all.
But no one left to pick the fruit,
or to be at your beck and call.
Watch it all fall,
for sure the economy will stall.
No one buying nothing at the mall.
Klu Klux Klan standing tall.
If they ask him,
T-Man will let them guard his wall.
Look for all the signs,
a leader who's a hater.
A logic lacking debater,
If he pushes the button,
we might become a large crater.
He'll spin it and tell those left,
"I'm the great emancipator!"
If you don't believe him,
You’re just another disloyal traitor!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2018
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.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
Near somber guards, units of children heap
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.
Firefighters bow heads in silent paean,
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.
Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.
You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
I see heroes and their lines of fire.
Surreal, the way a contortionist knots
himself as the escape artist breaks free.
Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts,
drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali
at its epicenter, his true element,
and he takes it in: the sword swallower,
blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments,
fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller
on shoulders. This carnival can endear,
turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart
studies the music box dancer, then swears
that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts.
Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage,
He becomes centrum to his own collage.
*For Chan, fully alive in Heaven.
Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema
is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here,
you snort. You, with all your charisma
and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing
boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me,
that we aren't about to wallow through
subtitles, you sigh. Give me clarity,
a story, something that I can relate to.
But the charm catches you by surprise,
a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new
and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes
laugh, then amusement streams from you
for these Global TV spots simply delight
like each snippet that you joyfully write.
There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed
end over end. Then, across the glen, highland
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins
in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful.
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull
heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin to let wee thistles bloom.
* For Francine
Rustling maples break vows of silence,
naturally. As pleased, spears of hyacinth
worship breezes with such soft reverence
that we give pause in this living labyrinth.
Nothing here is still; wood thrush reverb
good news and cicadas buzz testimonials.
Nearby, a creek mumbles, Word-Word
while squirrels glorify their bounty. All
is abuzz with joy, save for the shade
under a weathered cross; it’s emptiness
resurrects veneration. A butterfly wades
the sudden hush, lands on your hand, nests.
My friend, you lift it to wood, sympathizing
on bent knee, speechlessly evangelizing.
ON THE FRINGE
Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge:
art on walls, art brewing over charcoal.
This coffee ceremony is on the fringe,
far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled
at these dear blends, how culture can transcend
barriers and ignorance. We order too much.
Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends
to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch.
Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared.
Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity,
sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air.
Mine, this moment and mine, this memory
but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor,
the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours.
*For my cuz, Scribe
A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River
is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.
Though cozy the spot, the world's at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture.
They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.
WORD ON THE STREET, 2009
Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers,
chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2014
Life & abusive substance
Power too.. 'Misuse' in abundance.
Strength to choose is inside us
The keys to use beside us
Conspiracy is it a truth?
Are lies more feel?
Or 'good' really a factor?
Here’s to morals!
Remnants of character,
The stages of opportunity
unplayed as yet..
And leaders aspiring unto
The integrity of actors.
©Joe Maverick 9/12/2014
Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2014
Dear members of Poetry Soup, here I present my most awesome poem to date.
It is best appreciated while listening to my mate Andy's recital.
So please open-
and read along.
When the sanctuary
Of sunlight sinks
And dark shadows
Lay across your thoughts
Scrape against your reason
In your mind
Out beyond your vision
In the darkness of the hour
Your doubts stir
Foul damning words
That pierce you
Slicing through your certainty
Severing the flow
Of your integrity
Spoken so close
They breeze past your ear
And settle like ice
On your dignity
Sounds of movement so near
That doubts brush
In the gloom
Your every mistake
Real and imagined
Your honest intentions
Lost in the darkness
Surrounded by doubts
From hidden self
Torn from your chest
When the sanctuary
Of sunlight rises
And dark shadows
Are chased from your thoughts
Massage your reason
Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2014
"It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird.
When playing games with rocks or guns, defray,
them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words
of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day"
Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds,
exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare,
spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees,
lining streets, during mad-dog summers.
Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right
in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring
up dust, where resistance incites,
although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved.
Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
yet challenged, the precocious child
making assumptions. Folks would confound her!
Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling
Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring,
people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns
of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed,
with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed.
Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs
and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending
their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned.
We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend
Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams
in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream
In 1930, civil rights were just a dream,
and motherless children were coming of age.
Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean,
would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade.
A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house,
watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed.
The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout!
Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash.
Putting yourself into another man's shoes,
is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem.
They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo",
the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems.
Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch,
advocate for those who won't stand a chance.
Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch
in a depression full blown. Money is scant.
Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck.
What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong.
Someone must stand at the end of the day,
where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger.
Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white
Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins,
if injustice is war, he'll give his lot.
The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end
Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies
when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle
When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle,
false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting
bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries
of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night.
Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff
with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality,
amphibian worms, as if from a trough,
gorging on mania. They covet brutality.
Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing.
Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control.
Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding
the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul.
They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin.
Where white man's word, over a black, always wins.
Where a white man's word, over black, always wins,
was a rule of the thumb, during those years...
The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned,
taken away and waits to die, and endure
With Indian summer, waxing and waning,
Atticus chooses the simplest words.
His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding,
in trying to explain, that most men are good.
He tells them, gently, how someone so crude,
even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil
perhaps in his life, was misunderstood.
The hellish of summers begins to unravel.
But another ill wind, would brew up a storm,
to bring more than a flurry, into their home.
To bring more than a flurry into their home,
burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow.
Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms
in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows
As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail,
a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions
Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell
is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion.
A guardian presence, waiting to rally
has kept a vigil, guarding children who run,
swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley,
appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun
So pure of heart, and a thing so rare
It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
Re-submitted for Skat's Premiere Contest: #4
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
SONNET – VIRTUE
Honesty! True to my heart’s sole desire,
never-ending quest to find love’s design
to fulfill my hearts yearning, burning fire,
with a soft caress; gentleness benign.
Virtue! In excellence and in weakness,
wherefore to keep the gift of innocence,
yet let passion free from it’s tame meekness
and release from the words of reticence.
Goodness! Lest faulty notion lead astray,
noble chivalry to woo fair maidens.
Admirable, yes! But friendships betray,
in bowing to love’s charms in pure cadence.
Integrity of my heart’s possession,
replaced by virtue’s weakness; obsession.
Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2015
Born in the ninth sign of the zodiac, I am
a woman forged from primordial fire, a proud Sagittarian.
With Jupiter, king of the heavens, as my ruling planet,
I embrace the good life and enjoy every scintillating sunset.
Optimistic personality funny, fiery, and bold,
I’ve visited many faraway places around the world.
Adventurer is my second name,
and I’m the one who won’t be tamed.
Vivacious, energetic, defiant, and free,
you can join the hunt but you’ll never cage me.
Beguiling minx - half beast, half woman,
a Sagittarian woman can effortlessly captivate any man,
and just as adeptly slay a fire-spitting dragon.
An amazing archer aiming accurately for distant stars,
she can strut her stuff like an incredible female centaur.
Knowledge, truth, and justice seeker,
she advocates for and defends those who are weaker.
Ever strong, loving, loyal, and very generous,
let’s pay homage to wise women with integrity, whom we can trust -
those born under the fire sign of Sagittarius!
Contest: Women Only #2 (07-14-2015)
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Contest: Poem with a Theme - Zodiac Sign (08-23-2014)
Sponsor: Galeo DS
Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2014
We are the Indians noted for our humanness and calm nature
With no harshness in our Principles and ideals.
We are open minded, emotional and good natured
Our emotions speaks louder than words
We are Rich in culture, traditions, festivals, gold, diamonds and food
Our culture are deeply rooted within our hearts, mind, body and soul
We are the country of generosity, civilization and the quality of excellence in thoughts and manners
We have the 3rd highest armed forces in the world
We are multi-racial, multi-cultural and multi-religious country
Our Land is a land of spirituality, unity, peace, ancient, love, forgiveness and true friends
Our Himalaya Mountain includes the highest peak in the world
We are the fourth largest fastest growing economy in the world
We are the biggest and most successful democracy in the world
We are one with unity and integrity and respectful to everyone
Simple, down to earth by nature, helpful, warm hearted
We have 28 states and 7 union territories
Each states has their own clothing styles and own languages
We co-exist peacefully and have a single nationalistic identity
Our country has created Pentium chip and Hotmail
Our country is the co-founder of Sun Microsystems
We are the world's largest producer of milk, spices in the world
We have the number one best film industry in the world
We Indians are the wealthiest among all ethnic groups in America
Among 3.22 millions of Indians in USA which is1.5% of population
YET,38% of doctors in USA are Indians.
12% scientists in USA are Indians.
36% of NASA scientists are Indians.
34% of Microsoft employees are Indians.
28% of IBM employees are Indians.
17% of INTEL scientists are Indians.
13% of XEROX employees are Indians.
We have the highest number of Doctors, Engineers and Scientists
Zero, Algebra, Trigonometry, Quadratic equations, Calculus, Place Value System and the Decimal System, chess, snake and ladders game, yoga etc originated from us.
We have the unquestionable gifts as grammar and logic, philosophy, fables
We are one of the largest English speaking and talented Country of the world.
We are family oriented people with extended families
With lowest divorce rate in the world.
We have the most beautiful graceful women
Winning the titles of Miss Universe and Miss World.
Our flag depicts great tricolor saying that we all are brothers.
Saffron color stands for renunciation, disinterestedness, courage and sacrifice
White color symbolizes truth, peace and purity
Green color represents prosperity, vibrance and life.
The wheel represents the righteousness, progress and perpetuity.
The 24 spokes of the wheel represents the 24 hours of a day
Nothing can be compared to the beauty of our Land
Mark Twain said 'India is the cradle of the human race,
The birthplace of human speech,
The mother of history, the grandmother of legend,
And the great grand mother of tradition".
lndia is our home where our heart can rest and sleep
No words can explain the beauty of our land.
Every Indian makes INDIA very proud
Be Proud to be Indian! ! !
Copyright © Shaila Touchton | Year Posted 2016
Leadership is an in-born trait? Oh, I'm not so sure of that.
Though many leaders have the genes, when they were pressed fell flat!
Many are the leaders whose mettle during stress was ceded,
And men of lesser rank stepped forward and succeeded!
A successful leader if he is astute and very wise,
Will surround himself with sage folks to counsel and advise.
He will ever be trusted by those with whom he serves,
And in doing so will earn the respect he so well deserves!
He will heed the needs and aspirations of others,
And develop a team spirit among his sisters and brothers.
He will lead with integrity, concern and fortitude,
And for a job well done will always express his gratitude!
He'll be the first on the job at dawn - at night the last to leave.
He will mentor and encourage others to strive their best to achieve!
A leader will ever be loyal to those above and below,
And accept responsibility no matter from whence it flow!
A sense of humor is essential to soothe when tensions rise.
When company policies change he will hasten his people to apprise!
A leader will honestly demure when he is heaped with praise,
Saying, "Sir, these outstanding people of mine deserve the raise!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 10 in Dane Ann Smith-Johnson's "Projects and Credits" Contest- Aug 2010
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
God not only create a man and a woman
but also their duties towards mankind along with that
Men and women meant for one another and
live together in truth and love.
God loves anyone who serve one another in difficult times
We must be honest with our duty with competence and integrity
and fight to end all forms of evil temptations and sins
The problems could arise in every way even you are truthful
towards your duty but it has to be tackle in the same manner
and at the same time the root of problems to be uprooted at once
If we do not perform our duties towards human society then our
faith and love will be end with sad and sorrow
If husband does his duty towards his wife then she will make
their family proud
If father does his duty towards his children then his
children's future will flourish
If a leader does his duty towards his country, then his
countrymen will reap the benefit.
Simply, Your duty is your God and serving to mankind is your blessings
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
All rights are reserved
Copyright © Ravi Sathasivam | Year Posted 2013