Best Lifelike Poems
Slowly the curtains parted a head peeps out
Dressed as a small child so lifelike
Can see the strings working the arms
In a disjointed fashion
But the eyes.....
the eyes looked dead
The puppet danced.
Drummed...played keyboard
So lifelike it was scary
The show had been running about half hour
When the strings slumped
The puppet slid effortlessly to the floor
Legs askew and arms folded
The puppeteer, made some comment
Slid the curtains closed something made me look
To my horror, could see the man
Slapping the puppet shouting loudly
Then the puppets eyes opened
He looked straight at me
Could see the pain in its eyes
The pleading for help.
When the police arrested the puppeteer
They found this dwarf figure of a man
He was the puppet.
Locked away were half a dozen more
Drugged into a deep sleep.
So next time you watch a puppet show
The puppets may look lifelike
Take a closer look, cos it just might be
They are.
A lifeless cloud, aloft invisible air;
Blows Eastward,
a destination fate had prepared.
Renewed,
is a bludgeouned heart,
no longer fueld by loneliness and despair...
The demise of a mountainous boulder,
crashing downward with it's mighty weight;
Crushing ageless fossils,
broken from a lifetime of decay.
Renewed, is a love,
Worthy of replacing, all the years of self hate.
The hardened soil lying beneath,
has now become darkened clouds,
of a roaring, crushing debris;
A lifelike sustanance, as it's path now creates;
A Renewed desire to live,
as it buries a lifetime,
of turmoil and grief...
replacing so much agony ,
with a Renewed,
sense of relief...
A lifeless cloud,
now filled with the goodness of rain;
While the burden of weight from life's Boulders,
are replaced with fields of golden grain...
Rising from the ruins, of the hardened soil of a soul;
There lies a clearer path to travel,
covered in a beautiful crystal sand.
Renewed, is a life;
Now replacing the death,
I had once planned...
Unshakeable groggy state
plagues mein kampf
impossible mission to awaken
this comatose zombie
drugged horror - by potent
self manufactured narcotic -
oppressive tantalizing
nightmares indistinguishable
when supposedly conscious,
eyes cannot differentiate
dusky "reality" from
twilit zoned lifelike slumbers
confused with medication
induced hallucinations ferrying
me to lands unknown
lack proper visa to allow
this migrant citizenship,
cannot escape tangled web
spun since birth
threads tensile strength
beyond realm of destruction
incredibly dynamic force
defies sophisticated
contraption to measure
even against most
powerful dynamometer,
no contest when utmost might,
sans primal scream
regarding non anesthetized excruciating
spinal tap daily visited
on this beastie boy,
no matter summoning every last ounce
of mine (billeted) willpower
foregone conclusion collusion
effectually ranked less
than lame duck effort
defeated, jackknifed, stymied...
every step of the weigh
I loathe forlorn doomed curse,
a worse fate than death,
no life worth living when bereft
of interpersonal, "normal",
relational... trappings,
yet death not available
for this walled in hostage
imprisoned within inescapable Alcatraz
every blinkered instant nsync
with pseudo fictional
realistic psychedelic dreams
mocking (this bird – dodo)
man cave existence, a mere
abysmal charade, facade, jade
did minimalistic functionality,
where suicide an irrevocable
unfair punishment to Shana Punim
precious daughter, whose caterwauling...
would wake grateful dead!
I sat myself upon a hill to get a better view,
Of the valley down below wet with morning dew.
As I pondered my first lines, an artist came around,
With paints and brushes in his bag, an easel on the ground.
I watched him go about his task of setting all just right,
Mixing up his colors to let his brush take flight.
In my mind I sought the words and phrases to convey,
The beauty of the landscape – the wonder of the day.
And so we started working as if within a rage,
He upon his canvas and I upon my page.
His colors leapt from off his brush at seeming lightning speed,
My metaphors were dancing ‘round, happy to be freed.
Broad, his strokes that made the sky and little squiggle lines,
That made the shapes of bushes and tall and slender pines.
And, green, the meadow brought to life with yellow daffodils,
Orange, the leaves of hardwood trees scattered on the hills.
My pen, too, was hard at work describing what was there,
The wildlife and the fauna, the smell upon the air.
Little things I brought to life for everyone to see,
Singing birds and butterflies – a single bumblebee.
So lifelike was the artist’s work, I had to give him praise.
He asked to read my poem and, after, seemed amazed.
For we had told the story of this valley and the wood,
The artist and the poet, so much alike we stood.
Flies in the dark black as night
Cloak waving like wings… such a fright
It gives all the people, who are watching close by
Leering face makes children cry.
Always an angel with wings of pure white
Nearby….. waiting to put all things right
To wave a magic wand with a gentle smile
Making people smile again…. for awhile
Life is like that, shades of black and white
Days of depression cannot see the light.
Along comes someone who with a smile
Lightens your load…. Just for a while.
So the pantomimes at Christmas really reflect life
Stories from long ago so very lifelike
Dark followed by light happens in all of our lives
Like a checkerboard of black and white strife
Penned 15/2/2017
I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025
"Times Square was magnet to rejoicing
hearts, as mine was on that day the victors
came. With roses, red, as were perhaps,
my cheeks, I vowed each bloom for
every home-come valiant there I'd see."
"I see her still despite the sixty years,
a taintless angel clutching there a bunch
of roses, red, as were her lips, a pair of
magnets that had drawn me close and
closer yet, and in a flash, the kiss."
"The kiss, a flash of light, and all from
senses blotted out, save for warm, tender
lips on mine, my body backward bent
in sweet surrender held by arms, the scent
of roses crushed between our breasts."
"Our breasts thus pressed, the roses in
between; how long did we remain thus
still in time? For but a span of breath
commingled, held? A moment's measure
of twined heartbeats kept in trance?"
"In swooning trance, then rudely snapped
out from by surging mass, rejoicing river
crowd, there wrenching him away, and me,
still stunned, forgetting there to hand him
but a single, breast-pressed rose."
"A single rose, if but to press to lips, or
in between the pages of a book held dear,
a keepsake from an angel kissed but with
no name to call in sleep-failed nights,
for failing there to even give my name."
"My name, I wish I had the sense there
but to whisper to his ear then yet so close.
Perhaps, it would have been the key
to worlds away from lonely wards and
wakeful nights with just the sick with me."
"With me is but the memory of lips, their
warmth the years have deftly dimmed;
that kiss, a quick-eyed lens man stilled, now
wrought a lifelike replica of vanished time,
one budding love rose crushed by fickle fate."
Round about nineteen 1971-2, yours truly bid adieu
to Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
(situated at crossroads – then beau
colic rural routes of Evansburg Road and Ridge Pike), where nary a clue
prevails today of such pristine farm country due
to undergo radical urbanization during my boyhood edu
cay ting this sensitive kid asper flora and fauna drastically became few,
but primary aim of poem intent to focus
on grievous sobbing from lifelike goo goo
doll (cries and whispers ken still be heard within beef jerky
ladder day grown man body electric) hoo
vividly recollects scathing stabbing, torquing twerking,
survey monkey wrenching “IDO
NOT WANT TO BE ALIVE” reaction from manifold factors,
which exponentially increased goy tar attacks
targeting thine mideastern suffer tick Jew
such baiting (though nary a hint
how mean neighborhood kids gleaned this information),
since not one kewpie doll,
nor telltale Star of David dead giveaway, no one knew
such sacred symbols never adorned, deployed gripped ourselves,
(Unitarians encompassed family of origin), which credo Matthew
best describes as a hodgepodge, pastiche, ragbag, et cetera of pew
pills amassed from a gamut of disparate Parochial spew
wing litany trouncing as heresy
any diametrically opposed sanctified religious treatises
secular regents questioned plants seeds of white lily
germinating, sprouting and teasing out through
logical, oratorical, rational invocations such a heretical view
which synoptic backstory of mine, now allows,
enables and provides an opportunity for you
to read what I intended to be main essence
of this notion communicated
from one to another primate within the human zoo.
Discovery
Discovery. It's a creative act
Exploding from a darting intuition
When put in front of a lifelike fact.
Difficult to be transformed into equation
To demonstrate as valid the averment
Spurted as flash with no explanation.
A logic pattern is a more unsure event
Because is asking conditions more strict
Free thought allowing to a much less extent.
With logics as recipes you can well depict
Any cognition you already know
Seldom new knowledge then you may predict.
La scoperta (original version in Italian language)
È la scoperta un atto creativo
Prodotto dal guizzar d’intuizione
Messa di fronte ad un problema vivo.
Si trasforma a fatica in equazione
Per dimostrare valido l’asserto
Visto in un lampo senza spiegazione.
Il ragionare logico è più incerto
Perché richiede condizioni strette
Che lascian poco ad uno spazio aperto.
Con la ragion puoi scrivere ricette
Per divulgare ciò che ti sia noto.
Di aprirsi al nuovo raramente ammette.
Two renaissance artists . . .
Leonardo Da Vinci created enduring works during his lifetime,
too many to list but perhaps the most well known is the Mona Lisa.
Born April 15, 1452 and died May 2, 1519 at only 67 years old.
Considered the greatest painter of all time. Born out of wedlock.
At 14 he apprenticed with a master and soon was more skillful,
and at the age of 20, he was a master himself.
Michelangelo Buonarroti also created amazing works in his life,
one I love is the Pietra, so lifelike it makes me want to weep.
Born, March 6, 1475 and he died February 18, 1584, an old man.
His skill as a sculptor and painter is famous, and always loved.
The Sistine Chapel, his statues, his frescoes are stunning to view.
At 13, he too apprenticed with a master and soon was skillful,
and went on to be a master artist.
There was a public battle Leonardo vs Michelangelo and their art,
David vs Mona Lisa. There was 2 years of public competition.
A huge man who stands with a grimace vs a sitting woman smiling.
Even before this they were rivals, hated each other, jealous of each.
The loser left crossing the Alps to sulk in France taking his painting,
today she smiles at her fans, like a star to be idolized by the public.
And Michelangelo's works are treasures he left with us forever.
There was such an intense dislike between the two artists always,
but really they were so similar.... perhaps it WAS all jealousy,
because I have read they were both a bit odd.
_______________________________
July 7, 2016
Epic
For the contest, Historical Rivalry, Part 1
Leonardo vs Michelangelo, sponsor, Marugu Mo
Sixth Place
while figuratively hunting
and pecking around me noggin
force hum theme to write about
lo and behold, the solution
stared me right in front
of my little knob nub nose with gentle clout
cuz, as an avid bookworm, the dictionary,
I enjoy expending hours
to drink up etymological history
relating to the origin and
historical development of words
and their meanings.
with no shadow of a doubt
and most times, this animatronic,
the technique of making and operating
lifelike robots, typically for use
in film or other entertainment
dogmatic, enigmatic fugee dooby
brother beastie boy
(actually a mwm) dislikes to flout
his abilities, hobbies, interests,
as aches hike kant imagine being treated for gout
a disease in which defective metabolism
of uric acid causes arthritis, especially
in smaller bones of the feet, deposition
of chalkstones, and episodes of acute pain.
Boot lemme return full circle
to thematic core curriculum aye started to aim
and express gratitude
to the ghost of Noah Webster,
who gets credit yet also blame
if some snide haughty guttersnipe,
some slovenly individual feels snubbed,
and hence, living personage, said descendent(s)
of oblivion, whatever unknown
man or woman to living persons
stake a valid claim
that his/her many generations removed
heir (Harris), and or heiress ancestor (proven
with tangible researched reportage,
then cited with countless
prestigious explorers of English language),
that a daunting scrivener perhaps
even a courtesan or rich dame
rightfully ought to receive the fame,
thus such living relative might
upend the huck cult personality be game
to dare challenge secure historical niche
ambitiously held by Mark Roget (1779–1869),
British physician, natural theologian
and lexicographer. It was released
to the public on 29 April 1852.
The original edition had 15,000 words,
and each new matured edition
of the Thesaurus grew larger.
The other fantastic day,
I met my dear lovely friend,
A King of the Jungle
We hugged each other
Jasmine, the poet of crows was bushing
Her long black nib to write a honk style poem
Gag Gag Harsh Hug
MacBook Air
My powerful MacBook my amazing MacBook it is the best of the best
It can be seen from miles away with the 500 Nits
I love the depth in the lightweight skinny screen
The color in the screen controls my eyes
The round silver edges, feel so good, I rest my palm
The silver metal and sliver trackpad
Satisfying to rest my thumb on
everything in one touch of a button, my amazing MacBook
The light up shiny keyboard that works on a touch of a button
I have the most power in my hands I can control the world
With a single touch my computer turns on the keys glimmer and I AWE with amazement
As it gives the information and connection I desire
The startup sound of the MacBook just delicts your ears
The light texture of the screen
Lifelike and non-pixelated
The round black keys that just feel so good
As my fingers Wizz away typing the coolers are hard at work
Making sure I continue to love the computer
Mist, Mist..
Why not whisper, why not speak?
When upon thy shrouded depths,
Thou knowest truly, what we seek
Darkness, Darkness
Why be quiet, why not be shrill?
When your hoot and squeal and growls,
Shivers our spine, with unbidden thrill
Cat, Cat
Why be fair, why not be black?
Then your hackles and caterwauling,
Sends us scurrying, to home be back.
Hag, Hag
Why be frail, where is your broom?
When your ire and witchy hex,
For wayward kids, spells dreadful doom.
Road, Road
Why be lively, why not be lone?
Your dark stretch once cast shadows,
Dancing wickedly, with the wind’s soft moan.
Moon, Moon
Why be normal, why be so pale?
When it’s your ghostly light and full visage
That sends the night, to howl and wail.
Trees, Trees
Why be silent, why won’t you creak?
The touch of your twisting limbs,
Will send us running, though knees be weak.
Bat, Bat
Why in flight do you shy away?
When your flap and eerie screeches,
Bolts us upright, from where we lay.
Statues, Statues
Why be still, why don’t you blink?
When your lifelike and weird stare,
To morbid fright, makes us sink.
Where has thrill, and childhood fear went?
The dread craved, without any harm meant,
Remembering…
The simple fire lit stories, From whence one conjured,
The demons of the night,
Feeding eerie appetites.
For now this world, has darkened indeed,
With the very evil, that is man’s own deed.
With horrific crimes, atrocious and vile
In contrast makes sweet, the bitterest bile.
Woe for ‘tis sanctified no more, the domain of life,
Taken cold blooded with nary, a conscience’s strife.
Children though chaste, with this horror not spared,
Man’s grimmest side, to dire fullness bared.
The great divide, between men and monster,
In these darkest of times, exists no longer.
That is why…
My mind whispers and hoots and growls,
Caterwauls and moans and howl and wail,
Hexes and shies and stares and blinks and sinks...
Down, down, down.
For I pity this frail humanity,
In its sad, sad, sorry plight,
That ponders why innocence has gone,
From scare’s warm embrace,
To TERROR'S cold arms.
- Originally posted as TERROR TERROR.
Copyright by the Olongapoet,
George Daniel Anos Oct. 12, 2008
Aeolus God and Ruler of the Wind
Summoned Aura and surveying her grinned
Then proceeded to whisper in her ear
Brought shocked expression, a falling tear
"Please do not pursue the Aurai nymphs"
Whose replicas were on all column plinths
Aeolus struck his staff on marble floor
Ordering her acquiescence through the door
Notus the Southern and Zephyrus West Wind
Both held aloft the reasoning gold string
A murmur bubbled up across the room
As Borus held Aura in a swoon
His chilly North Wind and wintry embrace
Soon revived Aura to her lifelike grace
Urged "Go to your nymphs, divine Aura breeze"
"It is useless to argue or make pleas"
Doe-eyed she surveyed all attendants there
No others showed concern she was aware
Except the Winds who were her only friends
Ominous forebodings brought dire portends
For he who sought them to trap and entice
The Aurai nymphs debt was to be paid thrice
Aura took herself away from there
Praying for insight as she plaited her hair
The sad nymphs found her, as they often did
As one tidied her plaits and then redid
They all knew perceptibly the dire news
That Aeolus wished their powers to use
Aura decided without any doubt
His wicked order she would therefore flout
So then with her nymphs she fled the King's Realm
Each with saddened hearts to overwhelm
For sometimes you may feel them touch your cheek
Or in their terror rise to wail and shriek
So with Aura they curled, swirled and whirled
To try seek refuge in the human world
Dated: 12/13/14