Best Internals Poems
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
A small desire like a spark, I do not know lit from where,
Frenzy of becoming an orator in me did flair;
I watched often, like blackbirds, seldom shutting my eye-lids,
Each speech of great orators, staying solid like lipids...!
It's time to perform - said well-wishers, relatives and friends,
Good-time was what all waited for anxieties to cleanse;
I was then a little boy just reaching adolescence,
Emotions and feelings had invaded my common-sense...!
There came, as though the final judgment, the appointed day,
I was ready, on our school stage, to perform my best way;
All applauded, as I entered the stage very happy,
Why this tremor? Why blankness of mind? Why heart goes flabby...?
Many laughed, howled and hooted; my kith and kin stood perplexed;
I left the dais, like a lunatic, humbled and vexed;
Pain of shame, like bark scorpion, my internals did sting,
Despair and frustration within, like eagles, did spread wing...!
I went dumbstruck and plunged into a cave of silence,
Knowing, my people left me to my inner violence;
That I come out, like a lion, courageous and robust,
Excel in performance, full of self-confidence and trust...!
What clicked, then, exactly, I still verily do not know,
Was it the resolve within that like flood of lava, flow?
My oration out-poured like a cloudburst, thunderously,
In this art, now, I shine like Sirius star, wondrously...!
31 May 2022
The Greatest Performance of My Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: JCB Brul
I'm not going into work today
I'm taking a day off to rest,
I've been feeling under the weather of late
and really not up to my best.
I've taken some of my holiday
I didn't want to go sick,
As sickness can bugger your prospects
when it comes to promotion real quick.
I don't think I've got the man flu
my head is perfectly clear,
It's something to do with internals
and could be quite serious I fear,
I've got a touch of arthritis
damaged liver and kidneys as well
New ailments are not unexpected
but on something I don't want to dwell.
I generally feel better in summer
when the sunshine warm's up my bones,
I can move about a lot freer
which lessens the volume of groans,
My liver and kidneys are working
but not really up to the mark,
I really must look on the bright side
as the future could really be stark.
I'd love to play with my grand kids
and roll about on the floor,
But that would be really stupid
as rising will be such a chore,
The best I can do at the moment
is have them sit on my lap,
So I can read them a story
before I need a long nap.
In summer we go for a walk in the park
so they can smell all the flowers
With stick in each hand I toddle behind
so a five minute walk lasts for hours.
They really make me so happy
all playful and so full of fun,
When flying a kite in the warm summer wind
or lazing about in the sun.
But "Granddad" is not all that mobile
his joints just don't want to play,
He'd rather be young fit and healthy
than acting a statue all day,
Please don't think I spend my time moaning
or whinging to any degree,
I always do look on the bright side
as there are people in worse states than me.
Alcohol can numb the pain
But it's not the best thing for it
So have a drink and have some fun
But please don't over do it.
It's can be so addictive
You may need it everyday
But when you finally sober up
Your problems haven't gone away
Some say it is in your genes
Others say it's just being weak
Either way it is an addiction
It's help, and advice you really seek
Life long abuse will destroy
Everything you ever had
When your health deteriorates
Your family will be sad
I'm not saying don't have a drink
It's safe in moderation
But drinking vodka at breakfast
Won't get you admiration
Liver failure heart conditions
Symptoms you may get
To many people gone before
Some you've never met
Alcoholism is hard to beat
It's a drug that's legalized
If you keep drinking like you do
Your internals will be fried
Family and friends are there for you
To help you beat this sordid addiction
You will then realize, alcohol kills
This is FACT not fiction
It was approaching midnight in the internals of the Eternal Garden of Dissolution
The dying were displaying bland expressions as they cradled the moment
The old were holding on tight to the path of the faith they had picked
The middle aged were picking their religions based on the actions of a few
The young were conducting their lives as if death only existed for you
I was in the cradle of civilization with bated breath wearily dusting flint
I'm a Swedenborgen of sorts doing the job my maker has imprinted on me
Trying to lift a latent fingerprint to the answer on the origins of creativity
When all of the sudden I went forth and found it for which I was sent
Uninfluenced talent hides in the lines of creativity's thumbprint
Let’s dive into our mind
Look around – perhaps nothing is as it seems
There’s a unique perception
An amalgamation - of what we call me
Like rich fertile soil
Brimming with potentialities
Nature verses nurture
So grow the seeds
The roots grow deep
Manifesting in the subconscious mind
Breaking the surface
Revealing the crops – behavior becomes defined
The harvest can be bountiful
We truly reap what we sow
The health of the product
Contingent on the knowledge we know
Thoughts left undiscerned
The weeds spread like wild vines
Effecting the crops
Damaging – the internals in our mind
So let’s dive inside
Look around and take a mental note
Let’s clarify our perspective
Our humanity – our future will grow
If you don’t like the crops
Take action – not poetic hyperbole
It’s all in our mind
An amalgamation of you and me
"If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe," ... Carl Sagan
Subtle crafts soundly, using euphemisms,
yet cluelessness dealt a sheltered abyss.
When one confront internal mechanisms,
whatchamacallit ... orphaned hit-or-miss.
A conundrum conspires an endowed soul,
behooves postmortem liken achievement.
Where'er wits helix baptism, buried hole,
an urchin crawlspace, be I foundling sent.
Newborn bid birthright a pardoned envoy,
of mature absence deemed as uncharted.
Internals blueprint designed, bad employ,
indeed, tunnels end--will be lights outed.
Rare conscientiousness temper unknown,
infiltrate hallmark translates as dethrone.
Nature nurtures blooms and blushes
With redbirds, bluebonnets, and bulrushes
And peacock-curtained cirrus evening skies;
That unveil a Milky seine before our eyes,
Alluring our awed admiration
With magnetic, majestic fascination;
Easily eliciting an emancipation
To unparalleled faux freedom;
Fostering fleet-flying feelings;
Sending stunned senses soaring
Inevitably inducing intoxication
Which connects our inebriated emotions
That persuade our treasured, deeply hidden internals
Into exaltation of the high supernal.
"for contest FINETUNE THIS COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier".
With me, during my high-school-days, studied a little boy,
His father was a doctor. This filled him with immense joy;
At his constant demand, once to his dad's study I went,
Seeing the skeleton, to my feelings, I gave vent;
Inquired my friend; he said, oh, in syllables innocent,
He is, (the entire city knows), my father's first patient...!
Not less than ten you should kill to become a doctor half -
This we say colloquially; But, what's a doctor-graph?
How many servile souls should one kill to become full-fledged?
Shouldn't be their operation-sword and shield double-edged?
They might cut your internals to pieces; who could ask why?
A good physician, all know, has ethics endlessly high...!
My cousin is a renowned physician; we loved her much;
Many babies and women, they said, had felt her soft touch;
I do not know still, why she not treated my sister well,
Her kidneys she did operate; why did things go to hell?
She had no reason for us, when she clipped them together,
One is dead-shrunk now; when will the time come for the other...?
They operate eyes instead-of nose; hand instead-of legs;
Visitor instead-of patient; just anesthetic-pegs;
What if they dare to leave their operation-knife within?
They have other knives; they'll operate; expose their win;
Human body is not more than matters within a sack,
Cut; stitch; if seen weak, dump like train-coaches gone out of track...!
Doctor Harold Frederick's actions, hence, do not scare me,
Psychopath might be! Lacking perhaps, some essential glee;
Realization of sins? Feeling of shame? Gloom-future?
His life seems to me just like his unconnected suture;
In a world, where killing thousands, many blissfully thrive,
(I am not justifying his acts) He could not survive...!
30 August 2022
Dr Harold shipman Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
The screen kept painting the history for the team
In horrific scenery as the chickens came home to roost:
The wars supported in media by ideologies it would seem,
Whereas deeper was the fight for resources needed for economic boost;
The environmental disaster with each new technological advance
Advertised as "CO2-saving", disregarding the manufacturing fall out
As resources were dug out of Earth's internals, not giving life a chance,
Leaving disasters in the wake of "Eco-friendly" mining in the South;
The over-fishing, over-eating, over-mining, over-everything
Requiring the support of a Nature, willing, but drawn
To the limit of breaking without empathy, care, understanding,
Foresight; just over-reaching to pull all put there from Life's dawn,
To the point there was none left, no-one left.
"Remember the Galapagos heads documentary on TV?"
Tsal asked Pezal. "That was History warning of being Nature-deaf,
But nobody listened." And they turned to get back onto their spaceship,
While the screen continued by looping every truly Eco-friendly initiative conceived
To amplify Nature's warnings, to pause the frantic rush
Of capitalistic gain-hunt. But all this as naught was perceived
And even Earth Hour's darkness, though laudable, in the din of Nasdaq was but a hush.
(c) Nyonglema
Locked, the fourth floor’s doored cubical
Inside the ghosts are lined up saying ‘hi’
Never is there goodbye: no living/leavin’
Did fear entrap? Is it power of the mind?
And who is to say, within, is not Nirvana...
Long roads taken, to nothing at all...
Entangled internals that never flee...
Eternity so vast; a door shut, finite.
(9/7/20: '05 Beneteau 373; KKMI)
These circular and endless gyrations
the scaring of those cruel inactions
resulting torrents of frustrations
bland unrelenting dissatisfactions
No softness in my life
only grinding in my head
just the constant march of strife
looking for a feathered bed
Black cloud hovers constant deluge
ice soaked standing all alone
looking for a little refuge
never knowing what is home
Journey now without sweet voice
internals harsh though I beseech
the ringing is of better choice
and though I see I still can't reach
I AM PESTILENCE
I am a deadly plague devouring all goodness.
A cancer spreading through your internals rejoicing in your weaknesses,
With my lips of death, I kiss away all that blossoms and it regresses.
I come dressed in a dark cloak of the apocalypse ready to drag all that shines and doom it into hades.
I bring down acid rain in that fruitful garden in your head.
I reign in the kingdom of darkness and shackle all that is light to heed my call.
The harder the armies of light shoot me down, the more resilient I become.
I draw my powers from the sea of sorrows which harnesses its energy from the rivers of rejection, failure, disappointment and betrayal.
I stand on top of a big mountain rock symbolizing my triumph over your fragile world.
I have deployed a force of wise-men to study your nature, now I just tap my fingers and all that’s left of your weak soldiers, retreats to what it thinks is a safe base, leaving me to plunder all that you ever held dear, shunning your culture, beliefs and dreams.
I have chained your world in my inescapable fortress but have left loopholes for the agents of positivity to come pay you respect and enjoy watching as you effortlessly chase them away because you’re a pathetic weakling.
You’ve watched me hail over your neighbouring worlds with famine, yet you think you stand a chance against thee?
I am pandemic disease with no cure.
I am absolute destruction!
I am depression!
What's cooler and juicier
Than a long-striped rime of green,
Whose internals are fortified with
An explosion of mesmerizing desire?
Or a total circle of green without stripes,
Protectively enclosing the best of eats,
Thoroughly permeated by the color of pure red,
And speckled throughout with seeds of black?
Or if you prefer, no seeds at all to delay your treat.
And what's more tastier my friend, than a softly textured cut
Of mouth-watering goodness bite after bite after watery bite?
An oasis of succulence and sweetness to the taste of healthy Goodness awaits our sense of taste each summer with nothing To prep; nothing to waste. A watermelon sweet and cold is Like A free-wheeling bicycle ride along the countryside.
070422PSCtest, Watermelon contest, Mystic Rose Rose
I know well of a cat's ear, eye, nose, teeth, coat, paws and claws,
Do I know, what's behind its look and mysterious pause?
I know a dog's acute sense of smell; muscles and fingers,
Do I know what's going-on when he quietly lingers?
I see my neighbor-child stand exuberantly leaping,
I stand in awe, when, within seconds, I see him weeping...!
Fair or black or tanned skins - with smiles show human externals,
Soft or hard or kind or cruel - who, knows, their internals?
Streams and lakes seem silent and gentle, surface still and calm,
Within, hurling currents and whirlpools, don't they, sometimes, harm...?
Seas and oceans have treasures abundant; who, knows, how much?
Midst greed to collect these, who has dared their bottom to touch...?
Stars are matters of joy; we count them; do we know the whole?
Puzzles of constellations and galaxies touch each one's soul...!
Is rhythm of universe and cosmos, fully explored?
In their elegant contours what a mystical concord...?
Faith and theologies talk of God, who is he or she?
Hill or vale or human form - how he or she looks to be...?
Death I know; grave and coffin too; there from where will I go?
Does sun glow there? Breeze blows? Snow falls? Rains with squall? What I know...???
18 August 2022
This or That, Vol 13 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh