Best Locates Poems
There’s a little girl inside of every woman, you can find her if you try:
It’s not in her figure, and it’s not in her hair…it’s right there in her eye.
She plays with the boys, but not in a tree fort—she’s out on that hardwood floor—
That girlish giggle—but the way she dances, she ain’t a tom-boy no more.
Cinderella fell for a truck-driving fella, but he left on a rainy night.
The morning comes and that damned fairy godmother ain’t anywhere in sight.
Instead of a doll, she’s got a real baby—he cries and he coos and he wets.
Instead of a tea-party, it’s called life, and love’s late-night regrets.
There’s a little girl inside of every woman, you can find her if you try:
It’s not in her file at the welfare office…it’s right there in her eye.
She locates employment in a fried-chicken palace, and she’s working for the minimum wage.
She keeps her eyes open for the next Prince Charming, but she never volunteers her age.
There’s a little girl inside of every woman, you can find her if you try:
It’s not in the date on her birth certificate…it’s right there in her eye.
I arrive at the airport but they can’t find my booking
She’s painting her fingernails and not even looking
At last she locates it, then says I need to pay more
But I can now have a seat and not sit on the floor
I look at the departures, yikes they’ve cancelled my flight
I MUST be on that plane - they do not know my plight
Tomorrow afternoon I should be getting wed
And spending the night in my honeymoon bed
They divert me elsewhere, at least I’m in the air
Shame about my luggage, they can’t find it anywhere
One suitcase is in Milan, the other is in Hong Kong
My dress is in one of them what else can go wrong?
I’m getting quite tearful in fact it's all doom and gloom
Something else is missing – I’ve forgotten the groom!
11th July 2014
Poem edited August 2021 - originally written for Carolyn Devonshire’s vacation Humor Contest
He scorns all these young potheads and their habits.
He vows he’d never do a thing like that.
He pours himself a glass of amber liquid,
Locates his keys and dons his tattered hat.
He drives down the street a little over legal,
He surely doesn’t want to check in late.
The light turns red just as he gets right to it,
He drives on through, he hasn’t time to wait.
He’s just a good old boy and steady worker.
His boss depends on him, he’s told him so.
He is admired by all his fellow workers.
Although he drinks a bit, it doesn’t show.
He carries a big lunch pail and a thermos
And counts the hours as they go slowly by.
It’s not so much he’s hungry, but he’s thirsty,
When a man works hard, he gets a little dry.
The afternoon goes slower than the morning.
It seems the hours grow longer every day.
He’s thinking of the tavern on the corner.
He always stops in there to cash his pay.
His dried out supper doesn’t even tempt him
He tells his wife, “No man can eat this slop.”
Just to be sure she understands the message
He throws it on the floor, “Now get the mop.”
As she bends down to try to mop the juices
Before they run across her nice clean floor,
He gives her a small nudge with his sharp boot tip,
And warns her if she hollers, she’ll get more.
Next morning he awakens with the daybreak,
In good humor and no memory of the night.
His wife shrugs off his hug and keeps on sleeping,
And he feels a bit rejected at the slight.
On the TV, cops arrest a drunken driver
As he’s filling up his thermos at the sink.
He shakes his head and says “It is a pity.
A guy who cannot hold his ‘likker’, shouldn’t drink.”
I consider this my best twisted poem because I was trying to show the twisted thinking of the individual in the poem and how we do not see ourselves as we truly are.
lone buzzard drifting
along steady wind currents
locates fresh roadkill
written August 22, 2021
Impeccant,
of non-textual matters
one’s covered flesh,
and hidden embrasure’
as diffusate primer
slips life’s veil, and
in agitated pontlevis,
cleaves the universe’ reason…
“Egads! What sorcery is this?”
Holy heart failure, Batman!
“Beavis and Butthead”,
on Soteriology!
or merely, this word wizard’
celebrity; slap my knee,
and pass the shinola please
would you then consider the following:
palliate your lesser selves, or else
where silence seethes, your spirit will
bleed asunderp; and in the depths of space
and time you will forget your moment’ cill
so divaricating your soul, until
that whisper of your assibilate voice
remains in memory’s forever
as that sound of death’s last hissing
And now to secularize
your quarters out per se,
a knotted rope and stallions four
two palms, a cup and nothing
more than, one’s perceived illation
with rigorous and self-righteousness’
precipitancy, my will so locates your
remaining sang-froid serendipitously
and in humaneness casts, this lifeline
out to thee for free for you to grasp,
of each person placed above all things
as nature sings concretism’ simplistic rhythmic
wringing “stream of consciousness”,
a-flowing upon thought’s eternal thaw while
Descartes’ “Substance Dualism” does so
battle, against Plato’ “universalia ante res”
supernal then, is an ideal’s whim, or Ids whine
within one’s thought’s stokehold, as axis bold
or love’s bestow, fires the flesh to render
that pondering patch of thinking’s wrath
awaiting that awakening moment’s bewhisker
in essence, life’s xenium given in kind
as is the universe’s night skies splendor
passing that lending thought, behind a silent chador
visualize the context and intent within
a compelling and perplexing write to win
an idea’s kneel before that “mercy seat”
this particular and incomplete entelechy bleeds
of questions asked and left unanswered continuously
of generations after generations in weeping
conscience wistfully fawning in defeat
and admitting, to a lowly ponderings musings.
I'm unsure of an image popping up in my head
A dot locates alongside a crowd, with a space reserve
Until now, of its decay from the fresh dark to pale light
Which has been started the image once begun to alive
It's been never so sure of that the disparity remained
As a balanced attraction and repulsion needed in-between
It's made affluent independence when the heart flies
Also, so much loneliness if solitude surpassed the edge
I now disclose this picture to let it to be identified
How is it genuine or illusionary generated in rubbish time
The Image comic’s antihero Spawn,
born Albert Simmons, devil worshippers' son,
becomes a high-ranking official in the CIA,
and turns into a capable and ruthless assassin.
To burn him to death, conspires Strinson,
who sends him to rot permanently in hell,
where the devil makes him a Hellspawn.
With the brutally burnt body in pain,
he eventually comes back to earth alive again,
as a demonic sentinel, called Violator,
without having knowledge of his previous identity.
He wanders in a state of bewilderment weary
with the remnants of the failed memory,
till the time he locates his lost wife, Wanda.
When he is told his powers may get depleted,
and to hell he will return divested,
in order to perpetuate his strength,
he seeks for his life a new mission,
performs many antihero escapade actions,
fights the criminals of organized crimes,
demolishing the demon’s domination.
In the long run, his abode is bombed,
he survives, and on revival, hears God as dog tell,
Wanda is trapped in hell.
So, he fights the Satan and saves her,
redeems his love for her who goes to heaven later.
In her memory, Spawn persists to protect the people
from the forces of supernatural danger.
_______________
March 30, 2023
Contest : Spawn
Sponsored by : Robert James Liguori
KARMIC PATHS
Rains in
This brittle bridge
Quickening my dead pace,
I am now in a lane where men
Walk in a trance. I am at the soothsayer’s
Predicting sunny days ahead.
I am now a golden bridge
Where a hopeful
Sun walks.
On my
way back to home
A spindly boy of twelve
A vendor of raffle tickets
Screams. ..having lost some money..which he
Locates under his very foot
At once. I win my prize.
A fractured world
Is bridged.
Fish waste
Stinks from dark streets.
If it’s all I sense , what
I vividly see is ‘karma’
at work, ever vengeful, scheming, teasing
not leaving anyone for once
however big or small
rich or poor, young
or old.
It's roots are a foothold
To a mainstay stem
That shoots arms so strong
To hold person and string
Rope and note in his bag
Dire fully, he scrutinizes it
Till he locates a stronger hand
Fit to send him to dead-land
Throngs are amassed, astounded
Officers seek for testaments
His loved ones are richly wailing
Now he's like a drooping ceiling
THE BEAUTY CHASE
When the winds are fair and guts are hot
The artist breathes as deep as he can dare--
Locates the promised trail that sings
Puts on his boots and tosses care--
And when that trail outshines divine
His soul commits to see the end
While praying it will never come
Thoughtless of waiting kin and friends.
Who follows dream-deadly delights
Designed to tear a life to shreds--
To gladly toss all sense behind--
Hunting True Beauty without end?
The Search for Beauty grabs wild wayward souls
Its teeth saw-toothed-- and sure to harm
But heedless-- brilliant victims venture on
Afraid to lose the scent of charm
Victoria Anderson-Throop
2013
Our cat's keep us safe from not only rodents of all particular's , but also from the invisible
strange and terrible things that cannot be allowed to take hold or go unchecked.
These unseen terrors stalk the woods , sleep and breed with spiders and lay upon our pillows and mattress's and await that moment when sleep leaves us unguarded .
Then from the abomination of their unholy union ,nightmares and illness to us are then born.
Our feline allies see Those hiding things,
and without pity dispatch them from this realm back from whence they came .
From ancient times Bastet and her kind have been guardian to our unaware yet vulnerable Sleeping souls .
The Feles purr is not just a sound of contentment ‘no it is so much more it's rhythm and frequency locates any threat from their quarry that may lerk invisible for us,
A resounding that resonates in perfect pitch with our own frequency and manifest as calm within us.
These noble creatures are capable of speech you know
but have really nothing to say because unless prompted humans tend only to talk to their cats and never listen back .
I see that guardianship with which their kind humbly lay around us , I feel comfort that comes from their presence.
I smile with appreciation when my cat sits upon or beside me , purring ,guarding ,keeping me safe from those strange and terrible things .
At our illuminating service,
Whether at home or in the office,
Many preferring to it handle,
For worships reserving their candle…
You lose old torch for new one find cash:
The joy while in a dark space Glorious flash!
For brightness I’d save for battery,
No need in darkness one jittery…
No torch ever sends packing the night,
Only to perimeters give light,
With none ever liked for sights dim:
The chances of user smiling slim…
Not what you find with a younger child,
Rather a lantern like child not wild;
For fishing out people at night thieves,
Whom you’d hailed in the day time “Chief!”
A Paraphernalia of hunters,
In feared forests at night one saunters;
With torch easily locates target,
As some from bright flash escape forget…
The Not-Held by a security
His night shift stripped of sincerity.
THE MEETING PLACE
This is the shadow sweet where memories meet
breaking thru starlight-- sings secret high breeze
All Time does the bidding for passion's retreat
A dream-- in fury’s storm on high spring seas--
So strikes the soul of a sailor's scarred heart
breaking thru starlight --sings secret high breeze
Vicious lightning bolts worlds away impart
Such vigorous yearning life cannot shake
So strikes the soul of a sailor's scarred heart
Like willow her heart refuses to break
Rare persistent loves will not wrench apart
Such vigorous yearning life cannot shake
Intrepid in war, he's captured her heart
Quite stubbornly she lingers to taste his kiss
Rare persistent loves will not wrench apart
She seeks the horizon-- cannot resist….
This is the shadow sweet where memories meet
Quite stubbornly she lingers to taste his kiss
All Time does the bidding for passion's retreat
who locates coves--
where loves battle scars
find peace filled hideaway?
Victoria Anderson-Throop ©2013
Victoria Anderson-Throop 2013
de Kooning locates his scene
The bee knows to find pollens;
the spider, to bridge a gorge—
driven, as in the blood.
Stream follows a slope
and locates the sea
in a rustling meander,
gathering moss, throwing up gloss.
None can stymie the racing sun,
or slow the course
that providence set
till decked with a garland
of purple rose.
It's in the blood;
in a genetic transmutation
wrought by the ageless hand
that sculptured and hungq
floating moon and winking stars.
The sun cuts through dense jungle,
drills a way in pitch darkness;
he sucks honey from rock,
draws the fury of fleas in the lea.
Cry against his blazing rays,
the scotching heat,
but hug the warmth lest
winter whines while summer
flees for lack of spring.
© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi