Best Linkage Poems
The Old Car
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
Remember when we used to say
“I’ve got to trade this car”
it hard to start in the mornings
and it won’t go very far
The linkage to the gears all shot
the timing just don’t time
if I find someone silly enough
I’ll sell it for a dime
Just when you think your minds made up
and tomorrow it’s a trade
it seems as though it reads your thoughts
and steps it up a grade
It started great this morning
and the linkage worked just fine
I’ve driven quite a distance
and the timing seems in time
She seems to know what I’ve been thinking
and is trying to change my mind
and show, even if I go looking
a better car I just won’t find
I know she has done this before
the decision’s been prevented
and I have not shown her the door
like a fool I have relented
but this time she just has to go
she just cannot be trusted
she’ll start it all again I know
but this time, she’s been busted
In an attempt to establish an uncertain linkage between 2 parables,
Ivo Torena resorted to impress his colleagues all night long; hence,
awkward as a cow on a crutch, he was cowed into pilfering bananas,
and when he was caught red-handed by the deputy, his eyes showed
no response even though his arteries were friendly. Thus, a series of
tribulations took place inside his troubled mind for outlandish
reasons, and his whereabouts were commended by one of the top
enemies of the state: The twerp from Antwerp. On a serious note,
a cabal of notorious hotshots devised an agenda to unnerve Ivo
until the cow comes home. Still and all, Torena has a truly unique
composure, unlike the belligerent Belgian, and his mannerisms
can't be reciprocated with ease. Furthermore, the notoriety with
which he prattled and sprattled was momentous! His uneventful
birth can't hold a candle to any cinematographic invention although
his water bottle company is a candle in the wind and the pieces
begin to assemble duly without second thoughts whatsoever.
Ooh a triangular prism made out of eighteen purple sashed curtains. Wow. Movement. Vortex of a synopsis and a synchronised swirling pattern. When a pea jumps into a swimming pool and performs the backflip it is time for the potatoes to go proportionate. For portions are neither potions nor postures. And a pas a doublet is a particle of an easy iron. Jump then. Off and go. It is interesting to note that the sailing of a peel from a left over carrot can travel vast cubic measurements especially in sand storms. Storks staking stalks. And a wide angled visionary swamp singing in the woods. No do not stamp on a leaf from a mushroom or a rhododendron would chase you out of the clearing. And a pretty and capable doe bakes a nice tree sap cake for the herd. Who gather in a very large circle. Not a rectangle. Ok then. It is wiser to accept the pacifying notions from one single fish rather than a shoal. And coals are never the same twice if placed in a radioactive formation near a fireplace. Versions of the tunes created can be heard on the world wide open airwaves. And a singular plural can loop with an antonym at a stellular ball in linkage with the paragraphs. Shrink no ball of paper nor papyrus into a pot. And leap twenty-five times over a dish to create a heartwarming broth. Of stems. Of leaves. Of berries. Belly bouncing bustiers bring booming boogieing breaths. And a waltz with a fish is best performed in a yogurt container measuring exactly forty-two and a half centimetres. One two three tick tock. But no rock. One two three four. And here is a shore. Arriving to speak if truth and wisdom from across watery expanses. Seek no hill in a cave then. Hahahaha funny flimsy frameworks frolicking. Hahaha branches beaked beaming. Hahahaha and now eat 90 eggs, 10 toasts, and a slice of lentil. Yum. Fantastic. Wow. Xxxxx dragline drainage droppings. Xx,x, dele rational beings ***,, choo Choi xxxxx and a code cackling. Xxxxx beastiology q. P y q z.
It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving,
Despite the turkey meal,
If I missed Arlo Guthrie’s song,
My husband at the wheel.
For every year, Thanksgiving Day,
As it approaches noon,
We find the FM station
That’s all set to play that tune.
It’s part of our tradition
As we take our turkey jaunt
To join with Arlo as he sings
About that restaurant.
The words are mostly spoken
And it’s twenty minutes long,
But it’s a way to join my past
And present, with a song.
For flashing to the 60’s
In the way that that song does,
Reminds me of those days gone by
And life the way it was.
If someone said one day I’d sing
With my kids ‘bout the draft,
It would have sounded crazy
And I’m sure I would have laughed.
On Turkey Day, we did just that,
Our voices at full blast;
And I thank Arlo Guthrie
For that linkage to my past.
(for Paula Swanson's "Traditions" contest)
Brilliant attribute absent in the linkage
One is the passage way- a burning sexual drive
Younger and better is the Lad’s nature and affection.
Totally weightless is her relevance on the affair
On this exotic intimacy is a boy and his mama’s mate
Yet all are satisfied as the spoil of pleasure is well shared.
The first invisible hand I saw, was the hand that appeared
in the banquet hall of the Babylonian palace, inscribing
letters on the wall, with its fingertip,
the letters, written by the invisible visible hand, on the wall
may be an astonishing revelation, the inscription on the wall
is not as impressive as the visible invisible hands stretching
desperately on the canvas in ‘Guernica’.
By the time I learned of the existence of an invisible hand,
it’s an embarrassing situation but the invisible hand disappeared
from our surroundings, already; a crow flew away to the place unknown
carrying my poor soul.
Presently, however, every hand has
its own color and goes loose in the marketplace
the clean white hands called holy
dipped and pulled out from holy water;
the bluish hands dyed from bruised people treated cruelly;
the dictator’s red hands stained from the blood of innocent people;
other hands,
messy hands stained from oil spouting from the well;
the bright gold hands of the man who found a vein of gold.
Nonetheless, there still is, the invisible hand, out there,
this hand occasionally fumbles into my breast, pulls my heart out
and tattoos an unsightly tattoo which can’t be removed or cut out
and when becomes bored of tattooing my heart, the hand squeezes
into the brain, connects and disconnects the delicate linkage of my thoughts
and beclouds my judgment
it’s really annoying, but what can I do?
since it’s an invisible hand.
That’s the devil’s hand a dog plays with,
the dog tosses, chases and chews it in his mouth.
time melts down in the death
obsession decays with death
death awakens me in the state of absolute tranquility,
tranquility not even bothered by the buzzing in my ears
I was thinking that death lives only in the heart of
one who wanted to keep cherished memories
but, alas; will diminish one day
like ripples carried by the water
however, on some occasions, death throws its shadow
becoming an uncontrollable passion, it bursts into flame
and flows in the wilderness as a stream of molten rock;
then comes together to become a mound of ashes
and scatters in the air blown by a gust to yield naught
which may be the linkage to never perishing another life
so what do you have to do with meeting death, it’s nothing
but the shadow of the moon that hanged on a limb of a tree;
what about dialogue with death,
it’s only a whisper you made to a star
actually, death is the resignation of self with closing eyes
in the dark that is darker than the darkest hour yonder horizon;
death is time ceased in an abysmal chasm where water
neither moves nor stands still but has petrified
and become gentle waves in the sea
over the edge of a mound of fossils
still and all,
when the dead one’s thoughts are floating on the quiet water
it becomes a raging billow higher than a mountain and swallows the sea
an irresistible yearning for the departed occurs in the heart of the living one,
if death is the four seasons that alive walk stepping on the time of oblivion
as the subsequence to a hatred, no one can torment death; no one can shake open death’s eyes
I wonder who said those clever things on death?
“how wonderful is death, …pale as yonder waning moon
with lips of lurid blue, ….”1
“sleep is lovely, death is better still, ….”2
as long as one is alive one can talk about death
death most beautiful; death would be beautiful forever
1. Shelley: Queen Mab 2. Quote from Heine
~*~
=================
" I LOVE YOU, even if you don't mind ... "
mouth are kept shut
eyes overflowed with myriad driblets of tears
no words came out
no single phoneme is heard
"QUIESCENCE"
~~~
filled the cage of our "LINKAGE"
this feeling of passion and love
this heart overlaid with warmth
this mind crowded with your "NAME"
this being subjugated by your "SMILES"
but until now, I am still in SILENCE
because until now,
"YOU" and "I" can't be together ...
"YOU and I are walking in different trodden paths of LOVE" ...
and still until now, "YOU and I are running in opposites" ...
~~~ how I wish, I can say this HEARTSTRINGS jailed in my deepest "ME"
~*~
=============================================
*-* jun-jun villanueva
by late dusk, I commune with the fresh wonders of nature
inhabiting reverence from a well-designed woodland.
how an avian rhapsody greets me through mellow chants
where comfort of quiet soothes tired soul in this lined woodland.
and potpourri of blossoms, grass, and redstones breathes in me
creating divine linkage... one with a refined woodland.
laying on its tapestry, new stars glint behind pampas
as vault of luster reels unto an unconfined woodland
lo! rustle of twigs through winds’ hum is felt only here
that I step outside myself in bliss of enshrined woodland.
whatever mystery lies in this realm, I’ll never know
still, air imbues dignity upon undefined woodland.
hesitant to leave this sweet home which gifts me inner peace
I grasp varnished rocks… cuddling a part of my kind woodland.
*
Ghazal Poetry Contest of Silent One
9/11/2020
Where I was born -
Gumaca, Quezon
a significant place,
a town suffused with history.
It’s almost at the tail-end
that long stretch of Quezon.
A lot of coconut trees
the source of many creations –
like oil, wine, vinegar, and many others
common in Tagalog region.
Houses in the mainland,
were razed by fire a number of times.
antiquated buildings
with Spanish influence in architecture
they’re already gone, just a vivid mem’ry.
As a child growing –
in a cul-de-sac road
fear hovered and made us stay home
with unconventional crowds
in our neighborhood.
We knew each other
we formed relationship
as friends and caring neighbors.
The church and municipal hall
a rendezvous for sacred celebrations,
cultural shows and other functions;
a linkage to unity and appreciation.
Our schools – both public and Catholic,
made a great contribution,
along with religious devotions
in our educational formation.
My childhood classmates,
friends and acquaintances
reminded me of our good, ole days;
a wealth of experience to cherish.
We used to play, laugh aloud
and hang out at our place,
with my younger sisters,
we would play ‘hide and seek.’
We used to fight too,
scream and yell to one another,
when our game seemed to turn out
like a tight competition –
we’d really shout and yell.
Oh, my childhood days!
those refractions of the past
enable me to seek constantly
God’s presence in my own journey.
As if a child should understand an adult’s muddle,
putrid oil slick puddle,
the dreadful pain we foist on wide-eyed offspring.
Robotic elders crush with rigid slabs of Portland censure whatever spark remains in those tiny rosebud cheeks before their prime.
Those innocents should never have to wrap their nascent minds around the wanton desecration of intertidal lakeland wetness gradients,
the callous douse of velvet purple algerita berries,
blighted by the stark timbre cloud forms
that recklessly pour bile on every genus.
The rug rats at our feet may never know the joys of sap-addicted sugar gliding nocturnal possums, whose acrobatic tree to tree mirror ball exploits mock Isaac Newton,
or the kinkajou of tail grip fame who flaunt their tan glow wooly fur coat in broad daylight,
or the dawn to dusk fennec fox, that doughty eagle owl and jackal dodger whose kissing cousin dens pockmark terracotta forests. But not alone in wider worlds are children being deprived.
A heartless milieu also asks our clutch and clan to dwell in
alloy girder mousetraps, those pale decor rat infested tumble downs gouged out by scrimp and scrape rust bucket caterpillars.
Beyond belief we tolerate the nick and hoist elevator,
that pressure cooker transit flight abduction of the harried wage slave parent,
those cotton garment dress code senseless
dragonfly stand-ins that hover in mid air.
There’s every chance we’ll leave our nursling’s ire to future bands of mutant stem cell rockers who are duty bound to sculpture rimshots meshed in suckling chimes,
when validating rawhide rattle chainsaw fret board anthems
at crowd mosher mud fests,
where rivers of apocalyptic visions burst the bank.
If only grown ups listened to that inner vocal quiver that we
may not yet have cast into plastic resin folly for the generations weaned in toxic smoke rooms,
we’d pollinate a luscious fairground acorn dotted garden with childhood zest its one and only buzzword.
A sweet treat gift with natural flavour pending,
eternal life for baby planet daisy chains of tender petal linkage,
who‘d finally experience pure clutter free environments,
an eco world that values new born thirst for natural realms
If the anchorage of the wayward mind is unsteady
Unbound from the righteous roots of sanctified soul
In the dislodging thrust of the upwelling desires
The untamed instincts rush feral on sordid trail.
The unbridled mind turns into a predator animal
Breaks away from the shackles of virtuous sanity
Chases the prey on the track made by brutal craving
The basic instincts morph into entities base and virile.
Deflected from the course shown by the moral compass
Time plunges the being in the vortex of vicious storm
Breaking it down into discarded debris of wreckage
While the voice of God echoes in conscience unheard.
Life is the embodiment of the unique existence
The construct of divine elements almighty chooses
Manifest magnificently suffused with heavenly essence
Within the trinity of coalescing body, mind and soul.
Beneath the surface of perceptive mortal senses
The mind builds all the dreams it desires to see
Allured by aspirations into the dark unawareness
It suffers wandering in the wilderness of barren life.
Under the convolute layers of the clouded mind
At the sinister inner depth resides the gloomy soul
Until awareness dawns with the light of eternal truth
Builds unbetrayed the holy linkage with the absolute.
Travelling on the enlightened pathway of devout life
An inward journey to the sacred sanctum of spiritualism
Takes the soul to the ultimate destination of liberation
Where consciousness perceives the meaning of existence.
___________________
April 19, 2022
Contest : Soul Betrayal
Sponsored by : Unseeking Seeker
Matrimony
Homage
Linkage
Marriage
Passage
Respecting loves, homage, linkage, grows.
Honor those rings, marriage passage glows.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 16, 2010
Poetic form: Tyburn
Zerah was the twin brother of Perez whose mom and dad were Judah and Tamar. Perez was a direct ancestor of Jesus, but Zerah's name also appears in Jesus' genealogy. Zerah was not a direct ancestor of Jesus, but 'he also mattered'.
Tamar's actions are ill advised and unacceptable by standards even in her day; but she felt that she had been overlooked and forgotten. So pretending to be a prostitute, she did the unthinkable by tricking Judah her father-in-law into conceiving a child with her. In so during, she became a direct ancestor of Jesus. Though ignored and rejected, she asserted herself and convinced others that 'she also mattered'.
Rahab was a citizen of ill repute in Jericho, a city doomed for destruction. Acting upon historical information she had acquired, Rahab brokered a deal with the spies that saved her life and that of her family. She was a prostitute who later married into the Hebrew family and became a direct ancestor of Jesus. 'She also mattered'.
Ruth was a Moabite and an unlikely candidate for the Messianic linkage. She made personal choices that were of the 'outside of the box variety'. She was selfless and never realized where such choices would take her. Her life and name, her submissive and teachable spirit speak volumes. 'She also mattered', and so does every creature on the face of the earth.
12012017 PS *Matthew 1 NIV
She handed the stick to me in silence.
A red plus symbol faded on its end.
“What does this mean?” I said in shock.
“We’re going to have a baby!” She beamed.
The hidden magic of your conception,
washed over me in pride.
You would be the true linkage of unrelated people.
The beginning of the pinnacle of my creation.
I longed to hold you.
On a small screen in a sterile office,
I first saw you in black and white,
Playing in the darkness.
The sound of your heart beating intensely,
Brought us yet closer.
I watched you grow and felt your flutters,
Kicking and twisting within.
I was given the honor of selecting your name.
But I longed to hold you.
Interruption of my sleep,
Came on a warm night in August.
You chose an early exit from your confinement.
A midnight drive I orchestrated to a solemn hospital.
With my reeling body seated in a corner,
After many hours and countless contractions,
You split the morning with a feeble cry.
Through my exhaustion I could not look away.
I oversaw every detail of your first hour .
And I was the first to hold you in Love’s eternal embrace.