Best Lesser Poems
I’m tired of knowing
That because of my race
Because of where I live
Because of my last name
I’m part of the band…
The children of a lesser God
I’m tired of knowing
That there is so much hate
That it can only escalate
Till someone presses the button
And we blow up in nuclear hate
All because
Some of us are children…
Children of a lesser God
First world
Second world
Third world
Labels and degrees
Different ideologies
Religion no longer a balm
But something to cause harm
Human life of differing values
We mourn them differently
for some of them are children...
Children of a lesser God
How it must make God cry
When His children bleed and die
Unable to understand
That there is a grander plan
One of perfect harmony
In another place in time
He won’t be sitting at heaven’s gate
Asking for an ID
Or checking your nationality
He won’t see the color of your face
Or ask about your race
All He will want to know
Is if you let love grow
Did you live according to His will?
Did you try to relieve suffering and pain?
Were you the bandage of peace
that bound up the wounds of hate?
First, second, third world people
Are all children of one God
Though some may disagree
I ask you all to see
That we are all
Every single one of us...
Children of the Greatest God.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
another primaveral day dawning upon me
as i linger stir-crazy in the moments unfolding
in apoplectic thoughts within my mind
while watching the carelessness of others
my moue tightly tucked beneath my mask
hides my silent screams for more distance
famished it seems the world has become
beneath the burden of these bare shelves
one could feel starved of more than food
as they buckle to their knees in prayer
feeling like children to a lesser God
in this turbulence that has consumed us
we grasp the need to feel a closeness
a perigee to a fullness to fulfill the emptiness
yet we feel nothing as this greater distance remains
all we have is the hypermnesia of past moments
breaking through the darkness of mind
as we close our eyes just to see a glimmer of light
in hopes that tomorrow breaks these chains
that weigh us down in heart and mind alike
April 7, 2020
"Light travels faster than sound".
A fact that appears quite unique.
Conversely, sometimes people appear to be bright,
until after you hear them speak!
Things don't always stay the same
if you know what I mean?
Consequently, "Change is inevitable".
(except from a vending machine)
Patience can be a misnomer,
so don't let yourself be coerced.
The "Things that come to those who wait",
are what's left, by those that got there first!
To get "Justice by going to trial",
can turn out to be kinda fruity!
You're putting your trust in 12 people,
not smart enough to avoid jury-duty.
What is "a fine and a tax"?
Well friend, it's easy to tell.
A "fine" is a tax for doing wrong.
A "Tax" is a fine for doing well!
I've gone thru all my poetry notes
and this is the best I can do.
It's probably not what you're looking for,
but I'll leave that up to you!
Ralph Taylor
Again, you gave writing a go;
In shame you now hang your head low.
You once had a sonnet
Or two in your bonnet;
Now limericks are all that you know.
Thou art no migrant bird, O Pink Beauty,
But forced art to fly many a long miles
Looking for fresh habitat and water,
In search of new breeding and nesting isles.
And in this search of a shallow wetland,
Ye fly hundreds of miles in patterned file.
Once there, watching ye take off on webbed feet,
Ah what a sight when ye lift off in style!
Thanks to vast wetlands getting polluted,
Despite thine number threatened art thou still,
What with habitats getting degraded,
Should ye lose out, oh what a cruel ill!
I watch when ye fly in flocks of thousands,
Then settle down sighting the right wetland
Or marshland, with friends and family bands,
What gorgeous a sight ye turn lifeless land!
And now a word about thine mating dance
That pairs of males perform to charm females—
Their magical synchronised head movements,
At climax a wing salute does regale.
It's strange, O thou Lesser Pink Flamingo,
Thou art no ‘lesser'— colour nor number,
Nor beauty, nor yet dancing style ye know,
Only size that thou art any humbler!
Soon as monsoon comes to its end, I think
Of thine flocks to turn wetlands a deep pink!
_____________________________________________ ____
Reminiscing | 21.09.2020 |
Entered for "All Yours (May 20) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
A rage results:
the orange dolt’s
been at the tweets.
Or truths they’re called -
I am appalled;
please bring receipts.
Then Harris talks -
word salad pox
from pre-typed sheets.
Oh, RFK
You had the day,
why the retreats?
—————
A Rhupunt of the form aaB ccB ddB with 4-syllable lines
What lesser mortals?
What lesser mortals
than Rimbaud
claim themselves
a poet within
another self,
for there is more
than just one self
depending on the
time and day
and nothing
is as it seems
at first,
we are born
from abstract
firmament to the
Infirmament
arriving
planned and unplanned
in the in-between
swaddled in skin,
a nude shade of blue
turning pink
and revolutionary
the most sincere
we've ever been
we are slapped to
make loud noises
to prove we are alive;
we are small noises
for the most part
of our continuum
as we evolve
we reveal our
true colours
our different dimensions
bleed like water pastels
we are shades
and shadow of each,
easily morphing into
the will of others
less than
and more than likely
just to keep the peace
or challenge
subterranean night crawlers
from their obligatory big sleep
silent scarabs
black hats wearing
white hats
guarding gates
of ruined castles
like red caps
pacing the watchtowers
like laughing hyenas
for their better
bleached masters
who are small noises
for the most part
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.
I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.”
“And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks”
Poem of Remembrance
Remembering Man’s Best Friend
“God’s Lesser Children”
Who says that all must vanish.
Surely wilted flower's scent, does yet remain within its seed.
As they stood guard,
Now, we too stand
To guard the memory of selfless acts
These lesser children, who knew us well.
Our gate and stride, our scent, our call,
Each gave their lot, no less than all.
To peer again beneath that gaze and feel the nearness of where he lays.
Such sacred moments, etched in stone,
Forever sacred and mine alone.
But now it dresses you again,
You whose life these lives did hold.
Clad in friendship, from breast to knee,
A life not long, but oh so pure, it's scent and song remains in you,
with timeless honor, and future sure.
Randall
Freedom won on a distant battlefield
Gallant words to remember them by
Unspoken tears for the old to cry,
A game for the young to play
Never a thought for freedoms way
.
For tyrants are easy to spot
Peaceful takeovers not,
Look through the haze
.
For when wheat replaces the meadows
The birds have no home
When forests are felled,
Extinction will come
You are a commodity,
For globalisation has won
.
When TV calls caressing your soul
With the next discount, and
“Yes its free fitting”
Without a shot being fired
Your future mortgaged
.
And when your ration of bread
Demands the last fish in the sea
Neatly Packaged and dolphin free
Who will pay the price?
.
This is the legacy
There is no escape
Big brother is watching
.
Mankind in a zoo of its own creation
Come, peer through the bars at,
This condemnation of society broken
For freedom lies on the other side.
Lesser gods, dressed in mortal boxes,
have the power to build a utopia.
Their choices, have built a hell, instead.
Human error; ego-driven,
horse powered engines.
slaughter civilizations;
now the universe.
Lesser gods, don’t think; they just do.
Lesser gods,
grand creations, that they seem;
fail their source and themselves.
Consequence is an all too alien concept,
that they choose to ignore.
Godlike perfection, is their delusion.
It still lurks
safely in the past,
but now dredged up because
it is so good for modesty.
No, I will not succumb!
The thing you shun is a gift,
a ringing sword thrust to be cherished,
a uniter of souls.
It is for us
to confirm our separation
as inviolate. Hold close
this tragedy, this loss,
and cherish them.
Now souls may come together.
No, no, the time is now;
this truth is yours.
Yours, the anguish--
yours the gift;
it is in such alone
that love is understood.
And naked, what then?
Not lesser, pure...shining there.
Did you not know it all along?
Even to the last moment,
you need not wash your hands.
~
There was a time a president
Was someone we'd revere,
But now we live in what I'd call
A different atmosphere.
We have to choose between a woman
People just don't trust
And someone else whose attitude
Fills folks with pure disgust.
The lesser evil surely seems
Quite obvious to me.
I guess that this Election Day
We'll see if most agree.
Winds sing harshly,
And nature gone extinct.
The earth has softened,
Though the sky is in a rage.
A silent echo is monstrous,
And life cringes for change.
Harsh words release a beloved temper,
While the knock sings to the lesser instinct.
I pray to The Lord to thank Him,
for gifts He provides each day.
A prayer of thanksgiving to Jesus,
for the blessings He sends my way.
I thank you Lord for the lesser things,
and not think it so odd,
for I know that even the smallest,
is given by The Grace of God.
Thank you for a stove and a pantry...
for a blanket, pillow, and bed...
for clean sheets, warm covers, and pajamas,
and sending my daily bread.
Thank you for washcloth and towels...
for soap, a tub, and sink...
for tube of toothpaste and toothbrush,
and a faucet of cold water to drink.
I have taken so much for granted,
hardly given it much thought,
but from now on I will pray to thank you Lord,
for these lesser blessings wrought.
I have prayed a prayer of thanksgiving,
for provisions The Lord has given;
may we promise and always remember,
to be grateful thankful children!
Milton L. Delgado
February 19, 2008
It's a grand old boat-still quite reliable.
But from the darkness below.
A crimson-breasted leviathan is clawing holes.
Deep into its starry soul.
She's listing rather quickly.
Vermin gnawing away at the sextant.
The panicked are hastily jumping ship.
With the North Star stuffed in their bindles...
The loyalists are bailing water.
Hope is blistered and garnished with salt.
Predators are slowly circling in.
To the beat of a cracked conch shell.