Best Lookers Poems
In the cemetery I walk, so dark it is this night.
Hoping that the Ghouls won't start to bite.
I feel the tug of the dead, as each grave I pass.
Thankful this nervous tension won't last.
Armed with my Animation supplies,
I stare out at all the green glowing eyes.
A chicken for my blood sacrifice,
Raising the dead, there's always a price.
The salt keeps the dead inside.
Using the machete our magic, we'll ride.
Salt is for everybody's protection.
Cold steal seals out any deception.
To prime the earth so the dead will rise,
cast the blood and create our ties.
Focus my energy and the ground starts to shake.
Winds whip through the area and the on-lookers quake.
I command all that is at least 3 days dead.
Just enough time for the soul to move ahead.
Born with this power as a Necromancer,
When I will my power all the dead have to answer.
I look to Sandra Hudson, who hired me,
to raise the dead and hear their screams.
I call Illyanna De La Keur from her deep, dark grave.
Her words are scary so be very, very brave.
For John Loving III's "Haunted Poets Society"
Well, hi there, striking blue eyed blonde with velvet scarlet lips
twizzling your swizzle stick between your fingertips
I'm pretty sure that you have lured some lookers to your bed
so step outside your comfort zone and have an ugly one instead.
Hows about it?
Where are you going?
No, no, wait.....
For competition 'Flirt', sponsored by Casarah Nance
July 14th 2015
Trends mirrored me
I wrapped fire in my gut
Passed through the cells of light
I cut my anchor rope
Struggled to realize my dreams
I floated above time
All is left to me alone - alone
The suffering - sleeplessness
I swam the opposite of my tragedies
I'm a prisoner despite the distress
I did not give up my sails to the sea
In the memory of my begining
I walked in my derby
Criticism - heart breaks - suffering
I wore them my stories
Walkers hated me
Lookers spited at me ugliness
I held it for years
Crossed it to sleep on
Hugged it - Hugged it
Mortgaged myself
Watered all my seeds
Although revolution is repeated
Yet career has not risen
Planes of enemies
Tasted the scourge of the earth
Civilization denied me
Parties divided me
Earth hunger revolted it
Soul milk satiated it.
It’s so much chaos in the
world and folk are just mad.
When that happens all hell
breaks loose.
Then on lookers say, why
are they so mad and angry?
Is there a reason for such
madness?
In most case, you're Darn
right.
Being mad is not the culprit,
what one “does” in anger is.
Get mad at injustices of the
world and start a revolution.
Don't sit and stew on it and let
it become something vicious.
When that happens it's like
poison in your veins.
We must not let “our” valid
reason to be mad or angry
cause us to do something
foolish.
Let anger influence you to
to do something good for the
betterment of us all.
3-16-19
Alexis Y.
The day was brilliant--Sol spreading diamonds in the sky--
When Kathleen and her father faced the slope,
He with trepidation, she with hope.
They scanned the rise and watched like country rubes
As sliders paused atop the run,
Then hurtled down on sleds and tubes,
Jinking, jerking, shouting, screaming;
It promised so much fun.
“Let’s go,” Dad said, and led the way uphill,
Both eager at the crest to test their skill.
One time, then two, they shot down icy trails
And raced like yachts with open-ocean sails.
And then it happened!
On Father’s third and final try
His sled upended—not down low, but high!
The lookers gasped, their mouths and eyes gaped wide.
Newtonian physics could not be denied,
So Daddy (in slow motion, thus it seemed
To Kathleen, like a nightmare being dreamed)
Oofed softly as he tumbled down the grade
And came to rest a jumble, limbs all splayed.
They left the field soon after, heads held high;
Drove home in silence ‘neath the dark’ning sky;
Ate supper, talked, and do what people do on wintry eves.
Much later in the night as Kathleen slept the sleep of youth,
Dad rose and hobbled to the tub.
And while he soaked he weighed a truth,
The nub:
At 48 it’s all downhill; ‘nough said;
Just don’t complete the journey on your head.
R andom radicals rush rip-roariously on ward
O nerously oggling on-lookers abroad
A nnealing axle-grease atop ankle-high boots
D eliberately dashing dilettante seekers
T raveling tenaciously toward tree-lined detours
R oad rage roars, racers recline, rear-wheels wheelie
I mprobable instances intoxicate incalculable intensity
Probably, they'd get there alive!?
S irens sound
E mptiness emanates extravehicular extemes
N ickle-plated, nonentities now
D eath, death, dangles
I nsanities inane inference
N ickle-plated, nonentities now
G one.
Contest:GROOVE IT ! Free Poetry Contest Details
Style: Heavy Metal
Date:10/9/13 revised
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
I had just left the Fairgrounds Race Track with my dad, where I won $13.00 on a nag whose name I forget and Dad won nothing, which mattered not since his goal was to 'celebrate' the night with his Candy Apple Red....newly bored out 1957 Chevrolet Corvette by timing it, while crossing Lake Pontchartrain's Causeway.
If you're not familiar, it's New Orleans longest bridge over water at 23.83 miles so off we went. At 11:00 PM the only thing in sight was a couple of lone Sea Gulls. Dad held up his stop watch, hit the gas pedal and zoom, we were gone. I remember when the Vette hit the hump where the bridge opens for boats to pass, it literally left the payment and took flight. Amazingly, when the four wheels returned to the cement, they were not felt and continued on smoothly to the end of the bridge, where we finally got off.....AMEN!
Daddy was in awe as he pulled over on a side street raising the stop watch to the street lamp in order to claim his glory. "Baby," he yelled, "Look at this" as he stuck that watch in my face. The watch reflected a 227 mile per hour trip in eleven minutes flat!
'Aw Baby you saw it! You lived it! Who cares if no one believes us! We did it!"
Dad owned New Orleans Ford Service Company but he was always a Chevy man at heart. He'd pull the 283-cid V-8 engine and to him it was the most revered engine in the entire world. The small block was what he was most proud to convey to any on lookers whether interested or not. He'd rave, "it's been bored out to 1/8 inch to 3.875 in stroke remained a short 3.00 in."
That was a long FAST memory ago. One I shall never forget! Did we really go that fast? Yes, according to his stop watch.....
Security at the Hen House
All around the peaceful barn yard
everyone’s sleeping while I’m on graveyard
watching for the shrewd fox dude
Cock-a-doodle-doo! I spew
Time all lazy diehards to punch your card
Old Owl who….oting in the hayloft flew
Rooster, you steer us with no clue
you just want brew some sugars
from the crew of lookers
Yay or Nay ? Then bid them adieu
Oh! Hush! Old Owl with your who.. hoot
Shoo… I’ll mute your hoot with a boot
let that shrewd fox dude
substitute you for stew food
The Old Owl left with a who…ot
3/8/2016
Poetry Contest : Back To The Barnyard -
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
She Was For Him.
She knew no one else
desired no one else
required no one else
She was for him.
Her interest never wandered
cared not who or whom was
also astounded by her beauty
never cared to do more
than look her best - just for him
whomsoever caught a
glimpse by chance
would find her eyes
gazing up at him.
She was oblivious to better
looking on lookers,
that stared and drooled;
Her body was for him
only for him. He knew this
and he gave her the world.
Because he was also
made just for her.
Trochaic Pentameter
Pretty eyes that show such deep affection
make the joy bells chime this day in my heart.
Why should I now be her great selection
most think she's a wondrous piece of fine art.
My head resonates bell loudly ringing
like to tintinnabulary paean.
Eyes that make the chimes to peal with singing
say this male thinks he's a blessed peon.
Lovely eyes that goad both feet to dancing,
they don't mind the lookers' gaze and smiles then.
Toes now take this happy swain to prancing -
I am high above the hoi polloi's ken.
Color me all lucky; Joan is my gift.
Life is great for me, Bill; hey, what a lift!
I've grown tired of feeling dead and of making the wrong choices
so I've decided to choose life and to take heed of the heavenly voices
I've made so many decisions that were spiritually wrong
for I did not take them before the altar of God where they first belonged
God wants us to choose life and to live our lives in the blessing
and desires that we have an existence that is free of anxious stressing
to think right, to eat right and to do what's godly in mind
to love one another, to respect each other and be a reflection of God's kind
to make the right choices in order to determine one's life course
to do what is necessary to continue one's life force
to making the right decisions that will leave a lasting legacy
to making the right choices that will insure man's continuity
to look beyond one's self and towards the future generation
to choose life and not death for all of creation
Jesus said "step forth" to that man with the withered hand
and then He asked the crowd of on-lookers of His actions "did they understand?
He wanted to know if they were accepting of what He was about to do
If it was more godly to choose life and not man's laws in full view
a critical moment awaited, a decision needed to be defined
to choose life over death He wanted to know what was on their mind
God wants us to step forward and choose life in our finances, fitness and faith
God wants us to be healed in every aspect of living that we undertake
to stretch out our hands to Him in faith whenever He does call
to trust that He will lift us up by His grace if we should fall
to step forward with a desire to be more healthy and physically fit
to choose life and have discipline with our bodies and our spirits
to step forward and believe that He will preside over our financial predicaments
and trusting in Him to provide by tithing to Him our ten percent
to step forward and make the right choice by choosing life
to step forward and stretch out our hands to be healed by Jesus the Christ
Navigating the immense void of night
The right ascension to a winter’s sky;
Coincides with the height from which I stood
Stars, interlinking crescendo’s so freely,
Imitate the centuries, as I presumed as much.
At least with one tuned in, to so many stars
The magnitude existence found, far large;
Appearing close to one another as a variable
Heralded each, a legend the Greeks had made.
(The Constellations)
Snoozing with the intention of inanimate usage
The head long bolster pillow, namely, ‘Hydra’,
Chose an encounter with Hercules as foe
Prolong impetuous, to each gradual hemisphere,
As one could sideways look, exclaim its’ breath
Pursuing each as on-lookers, chose that group!
Individually did it taper each ceaseless path.
Warily, with twisting motion, a scathing attack
Searching menageries from whence it came;
To the labyrinths where pulsars engage sense
Trails to adjoining torsos, and ten thousand heads,
Though be them stars or for the sheer hell of it
Combine as one, each with a will of its own;
As per chance, with the combined effort, sway
Euripides, a watercourse, with banks on each.
There, Centaurus takes grip of its south west tip
Uninspiring Sextans, via Alphard’s luminary
The heart to all there is, and everlasting life,
Immortality may be a reality or mere illusion.
Secondments trail to endearments out of view,
To Southern scopes from omnipotent fathers;
Godly endeavours that imaginations flame
Find these dreams for us, the Hydra dead,
To remain in searing portals to then regroup
Bestowed as thoughts to future centuries.
This modern social scene has overhung-
Encompassed by a twirl, one single snake
That twisted and turned where each was caught
By something that as groups could never see,
We as the stars ourselves imposing on each
Imposing one another, avoiding calm.
This meandering replacement deals with hope,
Extremely drawn out as the Hydra is;
To engulf every membrane of tale told so far,
Where mass of spatial existence seems blood
From which taking blame its life’s loss came,
And every impending story told so far,
Was simply a daydream to a night time sky.
What say you when a pig bathe in a muddy muck?
When he rolls merrily like 'tis panacea to his strain?
Don't you gawk at the amazing shuck
Could be to you 'tis a flaunt to his inert brain.
But how honey he embraces the muck-
When the sizzling lust for food slaps!
'Tis where he tanks up the lack
'Tis a divan for his daily naps
He rolls in it with sheer fun and joy,
Swaps spit with inner pathogens
To him's as sweet as the delicacy of soy
And dirt seems excite no antigens
But fools we the lookers
Who hate the act but love the actor
We're the daytime chaplains an' night's hookers
Musing the worthier and fudging the obvious factor
Don't we rear 'em and keep them?
And butcher 'em for pork?
And for sale don't we adulate 'em like gem?
Then why dub 'em berk?
With us is the knowledge and power-
To keep and care for these pigs
We can give 'em genial scour
And see 'em as moral prigs
NB: Exclusively for pig lovers.
Try to understand the natural meaning of this poem
This is meant to be read with a French accent to aid the rhyme scheme:
WikiLeaks has tapes with Assange
Where Donald asks Vlad to arrange
More Russian hookers
Who are the best lookers
To pee and tint Trump’s hair orange
Author's note: His die hard supporters should be required to die their hair orange too. At least that would be funny.
Live as others see,
just what it is we do
Uncomplicated so to speak,
Superficial surface, simple rules
unfolding actions
Genuflecting before the holy altar
Or living the life provided
But there is the backgrounder
The arbiter, arbitrator of who we are
Giving opinions, comments
On every lasting moment
Final liable depending on circumstances
That we don’t necessarily agree to see
Directs us to those actions
might puzzle even on lookers
The final ruler, the master slave
Who lives deep down, lives so far down
No one knows from country which
Only guess at his (hers) presence
Involved in more, much more
Then you would ever guess
Smoke reveals flame, spring needs rain
The presence shapes the flowing current
And talks tales to the tiller,
A stronger voice when seas’ in turmoil
Surprisingly directed seemingly
unthoughtful actions
To those who stand and stare
Surprising mostly to ourselves
Unfamiliar with the master slave
Who lives so far below.