Best Jabs Poems
F l y i n g
a sailing tailwind
in cerulean streams
through creamsicle colored beams -
are wings reflective of turquoise truth
and white purity
of Autumn’s ether -
he aviates
a clear troposphere
riding an unbridled
capricious and combative
boreas
on the cusp
of a new season
with a plumage infusion
of shifting Cape Cod skies
the blue jay mixes hues
with the Northern azure
that fades to shades
of turmoil
to the South and East -
becoming lost
in its milky breadth..
its lilting light..
its dimming depths..
where the edge of rustic rural
meets the sandy ridge of conifers - crooked
twisted and back-bent
from gales
of salt-sprayed sorcery
bold bluster
leading the charge
of a cold sapphire crest
is bedeviled
by the raw
tongue-lashing spin
of a brooding onshore flow
twirling
a brewing brawl -
whirling
in slate pearlescent space -
s w i r l i n g
with the dusky feistiness
of stormy petrels..
mobs of darkening fog
fatten
on summer’s fainty surrender —
leftover tints of tender cornflower
and hints of dainty dove..
there’s a sparkle
in the eye of the storm..
his mischievous black gaze
mirrors
the harsh harbinger
of commotion
clash and change --
his piercing “jay-jay” jabs
the maddening mayhem
of menacing air
with the emerald-needled sharpness
of wind-weary pitch pines
anchoring
the beige of coastal dunes
where his refractive blues
take cover
in colorful contrast
ahead
of the bruising
October nor’easter
Simply unaware....or perhaps I don't care
what others say or do
It's partially true
I'm through
Used to care what they think
of my words, of my ink
not anymore....
So much more is in store
you see...rhymes keep knocking at my door
I write and you explore
I won't be intimidated
slated or hated
my thoughts confiscated
by he said she said judgement calls
and so the mic falls
Applause reverberates
and oh how it sates
this little heart of mine
it sounds almost...divine
approval affixed
on my lines, on the mix
of these thoughts and these scribbles
gone is the dribble
of inconsistent scales
yes, it all pales
for I blossom, yes I strive
here in my poetic tribe
the true and the tried
the ones who remain
the ones who refrain
from unkind jabs
drawing blood, leaving scabs
wounds remain...
sad refrain
Yet, tranquility is my gain
I'm stronger
I've stayed here longer
and I will thrive
"staying alive"
for the select few
people like you
and people like me
who love poetry
Pseudonyms, pseudogames
I've seen them come and go
and this much I know
truth is tenacious
staying power's for the gracious
weathering the storm
an exception, not the norm
this much I can tell you:
rhymes remain resplendid
all the way through time
poetry
will
shine
Eileen Manassian
Often I harken back
to a very wise poet,
how “life is but a stage”
of tender moments
splashed and splattered
by fierce jabs of passionate
heated rage
such opera the workings of
fallible human hearts~ such a
masterful organ still an infant
unwinding with tyrannic-like
stops and starts
Where would poetry be
without feeling words
and colorful flourishes?
Where? Without reckless splashes
on canvas wall and trampled over
floor – saturated flamboyant
brushes ever mixing and dabbing
seeking and grabbing smoothing and
rubbing out fillings satisfying
while definitions left
spatially wanting
for the poet draws as he writes
from wells deeper tributaries distant
less regulated winding streams of uncoagulated self
seeing one's soul somewhere between ignorance
and all knowing ever greater for its never finding
ever seeking ever flowing
Indeed “life is but a stage,”
every breath a potential scripted
unscripted page every exhale a new dissolve
for the air to take hold of and fly with
Never cheat ambient emotion
of heights and potential lows
Never set passion wastefully adrift
let the spirit give full body a heartfelt
push into uncharted always somewhat
perilous yet marvelous revealing lift–
AWAKE ~ IN and OUT ~
Spring arising, before morning light,
I walk under the new epic sun
The aroma of yesterday, gone
Today's the day that will follow tomorrow
I quickly walk a certain walk
Unique is all I can display
Watery eyes staying in the past
While vehicles pass and pass
Crosses lacking faith
I stay awake and mend with my fate
Foggy toys, I want to play
I can't keep up with all your kicks
I look, I stare, at the walls
Bright and early, I step on old dolls
I stay and feel, the way you want
Lifeless, and still so full of energy
Mad words, unconscious forces
My sweet needs, now reside inside of you
Mad, sad, and outside the box
You close every door and keep me away from dark
You only allow me to feel your morning light
Why can't you let me see what's behind the shadows?
Why do you turn on all the lights?
I'm here the way you want me to be
Happy, and merry, for the world to see
This blindness will continue to spot
Unless you wake up first and remove the dot
You gave me the thirst, you once knew
So filthy, so full of -spew
Under this closed freaking door
I'm exposed like the midday sun
You bang my head on the wall,
You killed me in a way that made me feel!
I only answer to your call
In and out a hoop~ like a ball
In me, you can not find any real dreams!
Inside you filled me with a raging scream
Sssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
I'm in wonder around your air castle
Strange and hung on your mantle
Stepping on a one footed slave
Alert, alert Am I!!!
I shake, we kiss, I wake,
You sleep...........................
I zip all things into one zipper.
Pounding my hands against my ears
Crazy, taking a jab upon all jabs
Crazy, you say~ that's me everyday
I'm up and I caress the photo we once had
I lay only staring at you once more
I awake before I sleep
Your promises I keep
In me~ you are also in deep
My stars change everyday
Waiting for you, to pull the trigger
Still wishing to be a sun digger
You can't touch or loosen the knots
Together we will daydream our way to the top
I make your nerve system come alive,
We run into the wind and listen
Quietly in our chamber of thoughts
Near and far, we both nod off
In this daily race, with no face
No space,
I caught myself awake,
The day I fell asleep for you.
by;PD
The mean old housecat has bulgy eyes
when she looks at us in our fish bowl
Oh, how much we've come to despise
that big mouth of hers, the black hole
Poised to pounce with sharpened claws
She's taking jabs with hatred brimming
that ugly feline beast with drooling jaws
for us little fishes, innocently swimming
Our little bowl is cosy, room for only two
bad kitty on the outside, always looking in
If her paw ever grabs us, what are we to do
we’d be much safer in a smelly sardine tin!
If she ever catches us, we’ve got big troubles
perhaps in her dreams she sees us as fat trout
In fear we produced a stream of gassy bubbles
If only our owner would give bad kitty a clout!
All the chaos made us soil ourselves with poop
so we let that mean old cat feast on a tasty treat
When her nasty tongue slurped intestinal goop
the beast screeched in horror! Revenge is sweet!
Our owner came home and cleaned out the bowl
Soon we returned to our safe sweet smelling home
Kitty got banned but can see us through the keyhole
Now we don’t suffer from irritable bowl syndrome!
I will never quite grasp the depth of your love and care,
For those around you, and for the world and its constant suffering
You understand more than you express,
You express more than I can understand…
Your sweet and playful spirit leaves an impact on my life and heart,
Uplifting me when I need it most…how can I thank you?
And your meaningful, romantic side,
Your poetry is priceless!
You care about the deep, sad and unusual,
Admiring the sentiments of darkness and light alike,
Inspired by the world around you, your canvas is infinitely painted in detail
Revealing colors that bring relief to the eyes
Despite the unimaginable hardships you have faced,
And of the trials and tests of the present and unknown future,
You remain resilient, good-natured and strong,
Never letting anything break you,
No matter how many demons swarm your beautiful garden of words,
No matter the careless and unkind words from the ignorant and afflicted,
The conflicted and the constricted…
You are aware of the sensitivity of each opposition,
Easily seeing past the nailing and jabs aiming for your mind and heart,
And you humble me with your meek approach of poetry
You must write when inspiration touches truth
Not to mention, when sick abuse yearns for justice,
You grab the evil source by the throat and shame him!
Even when wounded, when the voice can no longer speak,
When the tongue is bit for the better of all,
When emotions plea for more consistency,
You speak the loudest to me
You are The Silent One
And you mean ever so much to me!
My Tribute to the gifted and resilient Silent One
You swallow billions in cash, yet your assault strengthens,
everything with life now stands on one side against you
but your unpredictability is what gives you this audacity.
Your sarcasm and indifference to mankind
may seem to amputate medical science
but even on wheel-chairs,
we will hold hands together, never giving up.
You now pass through numerous gates
to the fat, slim, male and female;
to the adults, kids, rich and poor;
to drunkards, smokers, abstained or perverse;
to the omnivore, vegan, sexually active or not;
to the religious, spiritual, free thinker or non-thinking.
You shoot them all in an unfair rampage
making the task so herculean for you to be controlled.
Your spread plays the gruesome music of death
inviting the straws of extinction to sap life out in slow sips.
The more your covered distance, the more your torment.
Towards the end of the road, your merciless afflictions
are an indication, nature can acquire a bad side.
You come with a red card held by a fatal hand
then go with a white one with the inscription of a soul.
All humanity fight, but our blows seem not to reach you.
For long, we’ve taken your jabs
and being on the receiving end is becoming so protracted.
But we’ll hold steadfast, never giving in to a knock-out;
staying strong, united and hopeful,
that someday, victory will be hope's fashion
for the new dawn to be here permanently.
"...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track." C. G. Jung
"The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal." Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don’t mean what they see
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3, 1997[Revised May 2003] -from longhand notes: a binding of poems. 1997
I heard that there is a group called the mean girls club.
An elite group of poetesses that some like to snub.
A strong group of women who have each other’s backs,
and band together against petty and meaningless attacks.
There must be some jealousy from some not in our group,
as they continue to throw jabs and daggers in the blog soup.
We enjoy writing our poems as we express our rights,
while others continue to only see us in a negative light.
Let us know if you want to join our supportive club,
as we continue to ignore the negativity and rise above.
I am a proud lifetime member of this mean girl’s group,
and will continue to defend my friends, that is the scoop!
(Written for Jim Eslinger )
DEVOTION POEM 5, “Unspoken” ***** (for Jim Eslinger)
Young and new to each other,
There was always too much to say.
Glancing around in restaurants, we’d notice
What so many friends remarked on when seeing
Those older couples staring at their water goblets
Or their fingers and never conversing —
What seemed
Not a breath spent one to the other...
Thus, we swore, we’d never ever be like that.
Until now, we are as the telepathy of time
Often does story — full with unspoken exchanges
And kindnesses, like when I want more coffee
And Jim has signaled a waiter before I signaled him,
Or there are things regarding our surroundings:
The commotion and din; or notes about raindrops;
And the phases of the moon; points of quality;
Jabs of conflict; moments of pain; and expressions
Of known love between us. Thus so,
Our lives joined
Evermore outside of dictionaries and essays,
Even overtopping poems...
We speak in being:
Together.
********. ********. ********
(c) sally Young eslinger 2020
Thanks be to God
Steamed Ferret
Very steamy hot thoughtful stuff
get me hotter sure enough
getting hard to keep it down
feral ferret will swim or drown
would you like to eat a chop
as i'm fumbling at your top
lamb is good but tiddley's better
cannot get the catch unfetter
can we have a cuddle now
moving closer to the chow
tween your thighs I could slip
panties dinna wanna slip
things are damp its getting harder
no way to get between
in a rotten Russian Lada
gear stick jabs me so obscene
finally i'm in the passion pit
plunging driven just to it!
yes i'll make you moan a bit
but i'm only dreaming :)
Don Johnson
Yes Trace :)
My balsa wood float rides ripple and wave
My bait unappealing today
Fingers frostbitten but I shall be brave
As I try to catch something to weigh
The cormorant seems to be doing okay
The seagull is eating his fill
The otters aren’t gonna go hungry today
And the pike is awaiting a kill
The Kingfisher fishes alone and aloof
The heron jabs quick as a spear
This riverside haven, I’ve fished since my youth
I still bring a truck load of gear
But ponder this truth under my canvas roof
There used to be far more fish here
She gazed into their eyes. The people she has loved all her life, blinded by a facade of people that surround everyone.
The girl she danced with to their favorite songs and held as she went through pain. The friends which whom she gossiped with from shitty teachers to teenage boys. The friends she had shown her true face to, beyond her mask.
Behind which remained a fragile girl whose heart ached so painfully she had once wished to end it. Yet once they knew she stilled remained alone. No, are you ok? No warm comforting hugs. No words of comfort given to her.
The things she had given these people when they needed it. When she fell apart they didn't seem to care. Too busy in their own worlds. So she kept talking about boys, they distracted her from herself. She kept singing along to the songs and her nails changed colors. But she was new, quiet, yet no one gave her a second glance.
And she awaited the day she could escape their oblivion. Their jabs she saved in memory. The invisible stabs that lay deep within. The bruises upon her lungs and the scabs upon her mind. The things that people gave to her and she kept. While she gave them the warmth they deserved and she was returned with icy winters and heartless smiles. The flawless facades of people everywhere.
Then she disappears. Without a trace. The people miss her for a while, they lost their warmth. Yet they move on, new facades of people to meet. New masks to try on, and new costumes to wear.
Awhile she bought bandages, stitches, and casts. Fixed herself right up to whom she was truly meant to be. The facade long gone along with bruises, scans, and stabs. Left behind was the naked personality of a girl once broken become anew.
When she return she visited all of them. She blew tornadoes upon them, and cried hurricanes. She stomped earthquakes, and shouted words so icy she caused blizzards. When the people tried to recover they asked her why she had become this way.
She merely said,
"If it weren't for me, you would become I."
Close to election time, we have the chance
to hear the candidates for office speak,
or “stump,” in nearby towns, to give their stance
on issues and improvements that they seek,
to promise they will strengthen all that’s weak.
The term “stump speech” dates back two hundred years,
when it was not used figuratively;
and those of the American Frontier
who ran for office stood, for all to see,
on tree stumps while they campaigned movingly.
All-day affairs complete with food and beer,
these rural fetes were rollicking and loud.
The speakers then (as now) tried hard to steer
the votes their way and captivate the crowd.
By hecklers’ jeers, the brave ones were not cowed.
With jokes and boasts, some livened every speech.
Sharp jabs at rivals filled the country air.
As time progressed, some speakers chose to reach
the crowd, not from a tree stump—but a chair
or barrel. Such scenarios weren’t rare.
Historical accounts of stumping state
the names of stand-out speakers in that day.
Three skilled men who excelled in a debate—
Abe Lincoln, Stephen Douglas, Henry Clay—
were stumpers whose wise words held unique sway.
Today some folks flock to the county fair,
not just for entertainment but to see
the candidates debating with great flair,
expounding on the facts; but they won’t be
atop tree stumps to shout, “Please vote for me!”
February 1, 2022
entered in Emile Pinet's Quintain (English) Contest
'Twas the night before Christmas, and there sat the Grouch,
waiting for Santa and his present filled pouch.
I'm sure that all of you have heard of the Grinch,
but the Grouch is far worse, at least by one inch.
That vile and distasteful sixty-six year old man
had been writing poems which he pitched in a can.
To tell you the truth, I don't think you've met a
man with a more implacable vendetta.
His heart was cold as a hard frozen icicle.
As a kid, Santa never brought him a bicycle.
So, when the fat fella came down through the chute,
the Grouch was there waiting to lodge his dispute.
The grumpy man challenged St. Nick to twelve rounds,
and the two commenced boxing, no holds out of bounds.
The two of them danced, and they bobbed, and they weaved.
If it wasn't true, it could not be believed.
I must say, it was an incredible fight.
There were jabs, upper cuts, a left hook and a right,
but in the twelfth round, to the sound of a crunch,
Santa connected with a strong roundhouse punch.
The Grouch smiled as he looked up from the ground,
and he saw little birds, heard a sweet tweeting sound.
He saw so many things that anyone would like,
and he saw a shining candy-apple red bike.
From that day on, he was happy as a joker.
He even invited Santa Claus to play poker.
I'm happy to say, he's no longer the Grouch,
and the townsfolk, with feeling, say, "he's no slouch."