Best Lanyard Poems
Oh hearken the struggle, life's gossamer threads,
The delicate sway of hope ...
Framed by churning white of Lord Neptune's might,
Faith dangles a slender rope.
Wan maiden, her savior, and a scarlet shawl,
Battered by surf and gale ...
Yet our faceless hero and his capable arms,
As sure as the damsel, frail.
Mostly monochromatic, all its tones of gray,
Save for the kerchief, red ...
While turbulent struggles around them rage on,
We center that shawl instead.
We see not the others who attend the line,
But imagine them nonetheless ...
The artist connects them with the lanyard, strong,
And so intimates their distress.
The distinctive edges and leaf-like waves
Are peculiar to Winslow's style ...
As are the rare stories his paintings tell,
That enamor us, and beguile.
While he traveled afar and painted it all,
And was a celebrated roamer ...
He loved my home state of Maine the best,
And so truly was a HOMER.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Celebration of Art Poetry Contest", Kim Rodrigues, Judge & Sponsor.
-Quiet voices with low decibels are taken with offense. Preconceived notions, spoken words without thought, inserting smileys to disclaim. Invertebrate personas can be seen evaporating from the skin, with the naked eye. Forming a resin that keeps building up over time. Labeling you with defects of character. Beating around the bush, hiding from problems; loose ends form. Texts twist the dough sprinkled with good intentions. Life's a *****, it hurts, don't it? Untied shoes are today's special, featuring potential failure. Intentional lack of preparation. Detached from the lanyard of civilization. Eyes disconnect; declining their calls. Reading the texts with disregard. Getting notifications and silencing alarms. Misdirected; free-falling off the imaginary edge of fictional beliefs. Playing a new version of make believe. Pretending with the help of it's big brother assumption, the answers we do not know. Taking offense to the actions committed with good intent. Overthinking the simple things in life. Misinterpretations of the harmless innuendos.
languid doldrums, swaying lanyard, sails hanging loose
dreary small drums reverberate, neurons dumbing down
nerve ends fuse, sunlit shadows depict my numbing frown
feelings grind dull, thoughts stranded in the dangling sluice
sudden intermittent draught, strengthening breeze
mind and body free-falling, spontaneous pressure
sinews stretch, skin on skin, pulsating probing pleasure
senses tingle, tickling laugh, lengthening squeeze
breathe in deep, sniff olfactory aroma drift
gustatory tasting plates licked and tongued
erotic amalgam squished and belly-bunged
nostrils flare, exotic pungent odour whiffed
cavort, canoodle, drooling lips, flavours of the beast
rhythms rise where delirious frenzy can often be
harmonic screaming near the edge of cacophony
weave distorted images, dream-dancing above the feast
fleers, seekers, washed-up innocent sinning on the beach
subdividers and King Canute howling at the wind
viral loads onboard, invisible invaders grinned
collective cowardice casts the truth spinning out of reach
is when he of the Mount of Olives
whom you believe keeps the night watch
catches you by surprise with a wash over your spirit
like Baptism, when he suddenly exists "de facto"
as you are walking, just as you always do, on
blood-red carpet toward a priest who will place
in the palm of your hand bread for which
you are the supplicant, when words you recited
by rote only moments ago become alive
in bas-relief as solid as sentences carved in stone,
and the song you were humming softly
because you have always loved the melody
resurrects a white-robed schoolgirl
in a long ago choir stall. Those words,
the familiar music, tugging at your heart,
"O saving Victim, opening wide the gates of heav'n
to man below," assail you with such a sense
of presence, that you are like the angelic child
in front of you who has fallen fast asleep,
certain of the safety of his mother's arms: Body
to body, warmth to warmth -- trustful of the lanyard.
Then, at home in Sunday calm, the chameleon sky
is an uncomplicated azure, no cloud in sight,
(though marshmallow cumulus delivers
its own delight.) Beyond a lakeside screened-in
porch, three ducklings navigate their outpost,
becoming more and more adventurous,
their every paddle sending a V for Victory,
trailing in their wake toward the Watcher in the Rye,
while a platoon of turtles periscope the surface
with an inquisitive why? And nothing, but
nothing, interrupts the anhinga, drying his wings,
outspread to the sky like Jesus in anguish
on the cross in these moments so
sublime, you gladly, but gladly, would
go under for the third time.
If You Would Be So Kind
It is almost as if I am wearing a long lanyard
Showing that I have set a new standard
As my performance reaches a higher peak
For another new poem will hunt and seek.
Things look promising as I start to compare
My poems with Poetry Soup that are there
With them I continually try to compete
Hoping that I never have to suffer defeat.
Time always moves and goes on as well as I
Possessed and obsessed by poems cannot deny
Writing each poem that may come to my mind
Please pass the salt if you would be so kind.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
River Sea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
The bugles will sound in the distant courtyard
The proud soldier came home from the cause,
Many tears will be shed with noted regard.
A much-decorated warrior in the vanguard,
The dress military uniform he will wear because
The bugles will sound in the distant courtyard.
The family will receive a beautiful mass card
“Our Fathers” will be recited without pause,
Many tears will be shed with noted regard.
He died so young, consciences will be jarred
Candles will be lighted with silent applause,
The bugles will sound in the distant courtyard.
For many understanding his sacrifice is hard
Was he born just to die for this unworthy cause?
Many tears will be shed with noted regard.
His family will receive a flag and his lanyard
His soul is entrusted to the man on the cross,
The bugles will sound in the distant courtyard
Many tears will be shed with noted regard.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
written June 23, 2021
Brian Strand's "All Yours" Poetry Contest
Written: June 25, 2023
______________________________________________________________
We evolved toward the Zenith Ringers.
While no daylight is expected, I am thrilled.
With Banana Cakes, Cheez Whiz, and Zingers.
At Family Dollar's end, our hearts are tilled.
Maybe with Viagra or Valium to help us relax.
Even children suffer from heart attacks.
We sought refuge in modest pleasures.
We spotted willow trees in the ledgers.
Rising from within hexahedron walls.
Within the warmth of the Dollar Tree.
Nature's splendor is revealed, rising tall.
The American syntax is a story to foresee.
This is how the yarn of each firm ends.
Zombies stranded on the planet Zoom.
The new wildlife biology is an odd room.
In the Neptune State, Job's parking trends
We're being taken down to the ocean.
where we plunged into the dim abyss.
Saw the ruins of an ideal ship with emotion.
on a covert task, with mysteries to reminisce.
"Cheap America Lot" went into the search engine.
It brought me odd and creative results, as Chen Yun
There's Outpost Lot, Balaclava America, and Snap Cheap.
Names reflect our place in the world, for eagles must sleep.
Nothing else truly needs to be said.
To drive you on your ascent to the sky.
Has filled us with both hope and dread.
Maybe there will be fewer zebras someday.
existing unrestrainedly in the wild.
Amazon plays ZZ Top's remade tracks.
Happiness in the form of music restyled
But for now, we accept solace in the tax.
In the public squares where we meet and talk.
As well as paparazzi photos of famous people.
In cosmic cruisers and Super-Yachts, such as Hawk.
We practice space travel in our fantasies sheeple.
The lower class, for now, is striving for ease.
Despite devouring pizza in general squeeze,
As no tolerance establishes the standard.
Let the jigsaw fall, which signifies a fresh lanyard.
Peter is joining us for lunch in the cafeteria. I met him on a crowded Saturday morning at a coffee shop. He’s from the flammable, paper-dry, sagebrush hills of Malibu and grew up overlooking the hazy blue Pacific Ocean. He says Mel Gibson’s drunken Nazi rant, when a cop pulled him over for a DUI, put them on the map.
Poor Peter is fashion challenged. He’s 25, too tall, and too thin. Reading glasses hang around his neck. His too loose-fitting clothes are all variations of brown, like tawny, penny and wenge. He’s wearing a battered tweed coat, brown corduroy slacks and tortilla colored mock turtleneck. He’s adorably shabby-fancy. If he fell in the dormant, straw-yellow grass, we probably couldn’t find him.
Peter has a serious aura of experience about him. His cheek bones are sharp, his hair is an explosion of uncombed black, his skin is pale - bleached - by over exposure to library lighting.
He lives in a different world - the prosaic, laissez-faire universe of research - where students are left to their own devices and expected to self-manage.
Right now, he’s being vetted by one of my roommates, Leong. His student lanyard marks him, but she wants specifics if he’s going to hang around. “What’s your major?” she asks, her eyes squinting like the Chinese lie detectors they are. “I’m a doctoral student in applied physics,” he says.
I pat his knee, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I say, reassuringly.
Like a pendulum,
Those navajo beads swinging
Upon clothing rack
On which my robes are hanging,
With an aqua quartz dangling.
Bicycle tires spinning, carefree with no helmet —
The nineteen-sixties, the neighborhood is our space.
In Summertime, the playground’s a haven with friends —
Sunny smiles, weaving potholders and lanyard lace.
We peers are miniatures — unpolished future selves —
Revolving at a mesmerizing merry-go-round pace.
Snowballs swinging at us as we run and laugh —
The boys have taken over the entire space.
We slide from trees, get stung, ride cycles without shoes.
The stars and the moon tap their watch — Mother’s chase.
9/28/2018
Silent One’s Lines of Ten
Three times the Master spoke
and three times the capstan broke.
Decks awash with briny spume,
the storm raged in the gathering gloom.
'Pull in that spar or else we're doomed!'
Above the roar the Master boomed.
The crew strained on the halyard taut,
but all their effort came to nought.
The crew cried, 'Turn her into the lee,
we must ride out this cruel sea!'
But the Master would have none of that
and threatened them all with a dose of the 'cat'.
In a last ditch effort for death or glory,
the Master called for John McRory.
Up from the galley the ships cook came,
twenty stones in a six foot six frame.
Grabbing the lanyard he started to pull,
sheet and spar were billowing full.
Muscle and sinew strained to the core,
the cruel Master urged him for more.
A freak gust of wind caught the billowing sail,
and the man mountain's strength began to fail.
He was cast out to sea, like a lure on a line,
and they watched as he sank 'neath the boiling brine.
All eyes on the Master, eyes filled with hate,
they moved forward as one and he foresaw his fate.
They hoisted him up and with one accord,
like unwanted jetsam, threw him overboard.
Some days later they limped into a port,
sought out the authorities and gave their report,
of a hapless ships cook who paid a high price,
and a brave ships Master's bold sacrifice.
And as the crew drank a toast to the Captain and cook,
they smiled a wry smile and gave a knowing look.
The sunflower,
The symbol of hidden disabilities,
To show people that not all disabilities are visible.
The lanyard,
For people with hidden disabilities,
To show they need support.
Don’t ignore it,
Don’t discriminate,
Give support.
Don’t say the wrong thing,
Don’t do the wrong thing,
Let us do what we can do.
The sunflower lanyard,
A very important part
Of our lives.
02/06/22
I was inconveniently waiting
For your interest to show
But that never came
Should have kept my hope low
You were conveniently using
My time to your standards
As if I was a key
Hanging from your key lanyard
You only wanted me around
When you wanted my hands
You only needed me to be
Your convenient man
Conveniently it's not how this works
I'm not just a tool
So what do you take me for
Do I look like a fool
It's a good thing I saw
The ways your wheels worked
So it is very convenient
I saw not to hurt
You messed up thinking
You can conveniently trick me
You almost succeeded
The thought is so sickening
Although conveniently so
I am smarter than you
I saw it coming
And now we are through
Written 2-19-19
He puts it out there, the Schrödinger’s cat of invitations.
Now, I’m irritated. “I TOLD you I don’t have time for.. involvement.”
“But you have to eat - so eat with ME,” he shrugs. “You can build a friendship with someone and still have freedom.” His observation was casual, as though it were unrelated to anything between us. He seemed to have the intuition that I’d balk if pressed.
“You’re subversive.” I said. “Why me? There are prettier girls, more agreeable, fun girls. I feel like I’m on the edge here,” I look around to indicate the room, the environment, the university. “And I can be a complete as-hole.”
He looked a little offended, “You’re interesting, I like what I know about you and, yeah, we can all be as-holes - we’re in a pool of “A” types, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What do you KNOW about me?” I ask.
“I’ve read some of your writings,” he looked thoughtful, “I may know a little about how you think, It’s unusual.. interesting.”
I’m shocked and I squirm, “You looked me up?”
“I looked you up.” he nodded, “to be sure you’re not an axe murderer.”
“How much did you read?” I asked, wheedling, my inner-writer engaging.
“Tell you at dinner - YOU name the date and time,” he smiled.
“My idea of “dinner” is walking to a dining hall, picking up a bag of food, bringing it back here and taking ten minutes to eat it between chapters,” I warned.
“I have a meal card,” he says, jiggling his student lanyard.
“We’ll see.” I said. “Have you talked to anyone else about my writing?”
“No,” he answered, “Why?”
“Please don’t, I have to think about it.” I say. As far as I know, no one I know in RL has read me - it’s an odd feeling - like maybe he got ahold of my diary. I haven’t worried over the fact that someone I’m in physical proximity to could look me up. That all this stuff is actually out there.
“Don’t think my misgivings can be cajoled away,” I say, “no more talking.”
He chucked but we got back to studying.
-What is the failure key?
They imagine!
-What is wrong about that?
They do sleep on the job! That is the general idea!
-What is dream then?
A subconscious urge that yarns for non-aspiring unfulfilled reticent.
-Now what is non-aspiring?
Without mediocrity, some kind of ambition.
-Why is it needed?
They are absolutely needed to egress, as these are toxic like mothball!
-Did you ever try mothball?
Nope! Did you?
-Nope! I did not declare too!
I did! Is it not your problem?
-How so?
And so on.....
The lanyard is a verse: evangelical
"Finish what he started!"