Best Mags Poems
The fear
In here ..
The chair
"Don't care "..
Sore gum
Lip numb..
" MUST DRILL
THEN FILL " ..
" Less speed
I'll bleed " ..
Preserve
Your nerve ..
"I've bled"
Jaw dead ..
" RINSE PLEASE"
Weak knees ..
The bill
Plus pill ..
Can't eat
No teeth ..
Unchewed
Soft food ..
Can't talk
Slow walk
Perchance
Soiled pants ?..
Mistake
Toothache !!.....
footle-note ..
The author would like to confirm that no deaths occured , during the creation of this piece. All
suffering was kept to a minimum,as the surgery was sound-proofed .Pain and suffering ,
caused to waiting patients , was due to being forced to read 3yr old mags. Seemingly the
news was less dire back then.All enamel&blood stained swabs were dumped in the
appropriate utensils,as per Geneva Convention(section ix, site xxxiv).The cleansing of soiled
underwear took place ,under supervision, with enviroment friendly detrgents & all offending
materials disposed of , in accordance with the KyotoAgreement(section mlx11).
Must dash !! , as I have to visit that other sadist, the vet ,with our cat.He is due for the snips!
( the cat , not the vet ).. Here Tom..Pshhhwshhh ..
Categories:
mags, satire
Form:
Light Verse
Pecking quick, a parting kiss
Pumping legs, a train to miss
Lovers waving, strangers pass
Tears and hugs a whistle blast
Scanning papers on news stands
Pats on backs while shaking hands
Averted eyes and hurried walk
Can’t stop, won’t wait, no time to talk
Pushchairs, wheelchairs, screaming kids
Cardboard coffee cups with lids
Departure times on TV screens
Red light, amber, go is green
Somewhere, nowhere, never speak
Laughing, crying, faces bleak
Turned up collars, downcast heads
Business suits and tardy threads
Briefcase, suitcase, traveling bag
Folded papers ,glossy Mags
Hustle, bustle, teeming by
Oblivious to earth and sky
Don’t stop don’t look and don’t ask why
Ticket punched and journey paid
Click the stopwatch
Now you’re dead
Categories:
mags, introspection, life, people
Form:
Rhyme
Homophobia will
be over, when "coming out"
is not reported.
[Why do Entertainment mags always have stories when a person, especially an actor or athlete, comes out? Because we are still a long way from it not being gist for the news cycle, I suppose.]
Categories:
mags, freedom, humanity,
Form:
Senryu
Building a fire
Had a smirk of sorrowful clarity
Someone dancing on my grave.
And a artist
The night was gathering materials.
Knowing ambition for pleasure
Would never fill the pit.
The night called for a burn
All the grasped boxes of blankets
Nostalgic wood, Rhapsodies of a ratt-packen
Journals, binders, scraps of thoughts
Nick-knack volumes of prophets
Overdosing on written salvation
Hoping for a instance coffee relief
A always, never the fallow-through
More is pilled, the mix of kindling
Dirty-bits, and old yearnings
A stone from a beach, of first love
Scrapbooks of holding mortality
**** mags, and bed follies pics
A secrete place a catholic boy goes
My heap inter-mixed with nature
All of it dead, until the match
Erupts a fire enjoying feeding
Impermanence is really scarred
So is observing the flame
Hypnotic destruction is fire at night
Eyes dance to flares refection
Chaotic colors of visible heat
A calm abiding trance
Warm glowed my garments
In ambers consuming to ash
Categories:
mags, introspectionnight, fire, fire, night,
Form:
Free verse
brothers we be, brother we be free
brothers we be
brother we be free
me and lil bro would have these sword fights
yelling fight to our deaths
yelling to the victor gets Kristina the neighbor's daughter
we were young
about ten
drawing inspiration from each other
and being heroes someday we be
we also put words in Kristina's mouth
she didn't mind, she was like us
this was back in the late 60's
in the land of the midnight sun, Norway
it was also during a time in history
of the viet nam war where these Americans were being protested against
numerous time, i remember,
the house windows being spray painted and broken
brothers we be
brother we be free
we also faced hostility from neighboring kids, much older kids
to the sword fights we go
we fought gallantry
with our little weenie sticks we would fought with so much
gallantry, so gallantry
the kind we would roast weenies and marshmallows on
we were Spartans, fighting passionately
honing our skills for these mean kids
and let me tell you those weenie sticks hurt
it hurt our backside when i sliced off mom's roses
let me tell you
brothers we be
brother we be free
we were also mischief
stealing dads cigs and liquor
sneaking out late at night to our tree forth
one time with Kristina
and let me tell those tree forts hurt our backside
let me tell you, i kid you not
especially when Kristina's dad told ours, ouch
brothers we be
brother we be free
against the neighboring kid we held our own
let me tell, me and lil bro
earning respect on the fjords
fishing, canoeing, swimming
in winter
skiing, especially long jumping and hockey
summer months playing soccer
in time we were ingratiating ourselves with the hood
let me you we did
the best was taking a hike deep into the forest one day
coming upon an inhabited cabin
breaking in, stealing some reindeer horns, girly mags
cookies and sweets
it was passage of life, it forged memories
for two brothers that grew some balls, conviction
experience growing up fast to protect their honor against the hood
but mostly, mostly
brothers we be
brother we be free
connie pachecho
1/21/17
Categories:
mags, adventure, courage, growing up,
Form:
Narrative
(Interview with the mayor)
Dear mayor of Tipheap - I have a few questions
A bunch of complaints - a list of suggestions
You said you would fix things if you were elected
Or were we misguided? Should we be corrected?
The library’s worn down - to obtain you did swear
Some books and some mags and an unbroken chair
-- We'll get help from Fogswamp - we'll not need to plead
-- They're library's not used since they can’t even read
The sewers are blocking - the toilets can't flush
The streets overflowing in brown smelly mush
-- I don't understand - your complaint's a bit vague
-- Besides look at Fogswamp - they all have the plague
Crimes on the increase - where's all our street cops?
Thieves are rampaging - both houses and shops
-- Well Fogswamp is chaos - a lawbreaking hell
-- They've put bars round the town to make one big jail cell
Our schools don't perform - they're not teaching life's skills
Our kids need this knowledge for jobs that pay bills
-- Fogswamp has schools that teach reading and sums
-- They turn out poor vagrants and drifters and bums
So rather than fixing you claim they are worse
Whilst we're a bit ragged, you say they are cursed
And if you view Tipheap with full satisfaction
Then explain why you live in a Fogswamp posh mansion
Categories:
mags, funny, humor, humorous, political,
Form:
Verse
Glad iPad so capable that you just can’t dismiss it,
And it’s your best buddy as it’s always near, around;
Thin lightweight, you have the power of a sys, the kit,
As it can do anything which a computer does hound.
You can buy and download apps to place them too,
On any desktop: third, fourth, fifth or even the sixth,
But you need to remember to move your long queue,
Of iBooks onto your iCloud to make space xenolith.
It’s beautiful to look at as it’s pleasing to the eye,
Full 9.7” display with 2048x1536 resolution clarity,
Which is 3.1 million pixels or 3145728 dots to cry,
Out your every screen call and your vids in lucidity.
6.1mm thin and you can fill at ease a 64 bit memory,
It’s dynamic graphics provide A8X chip performance,
An M8 motion coprocessor for your gaming allegory,
And you can sit on it for 10 hours, no charger glance.
The first desktop, the opening screen gives a space,
Of so many different apps for your fine enjoyment:
Photos, the iBooks, mags, Notes and the clock face,
Calendar, Maps, Games, and the Settings cement.
And lets not forget about the necessities at the base,
Email, Safari and iTunes to give instant access, grab,
And the App Store as well - blue - does deftly encase,
Infinite games, word processors and sports apps fab.
Passcode mandatory, nobody invited or to be let in,
Your close relationships can’t render you violated,
Because your private messages are your own bin,
And your own elevation is by your pith proliferated.
And now the Pro Pencil for budding artists, painters,
Who want to digitally sketch, draft or paint portrait:
You can rest your hand on the screen without errors,
And it draws lines, if you pressure, of any weight.
Categories:
mags, business, computer, internet, people,
Form:
Quatrain
Barry Bonds Witchhunt cons
Sold out tickets make owners fond
Money bags Pennant flags
Baseball's back
On Spots Illustrated mags
Homerun chase
Time to contemplate
Adoring fans now say Your a National Disgrace
Commissioner too
Crying the Public Boo-Hoo
Used the breaking of Aaron's record
To advertise the brew
No more dough Let's dull the glow
On this sordid Major League Baseball
Hypocrites Sideshow
Categories:
mags, satire, sports,
Form:
Tired of the same old scenes around here.
Thought hey im gonna explore space.
Introduce Little space dudes to bad habbits
nudie mags and maybe share a beer.
Yeah it'll take some getting use to
anti gravity bars.
Pack up the whiskey and of course the kids
honey cause were moving to mars.
People kinda look at me like my
mind did slip.
just cause im going round collecting cans.
Hell with what else are ya supposed use to
build a spaceship.
I made a few changes it runs of corn whiskey
instead of rocket fuel.
You might think im crazy.
but when my home made rocket takes off
it'll be cool.
Say goodbye kids to your prick grandfather Bert.
Hey darlin from up here I can see down your shirt.
It's three seconds to lift off people
ya might wanna move your houses as well as cars.
Cause lord knows whats gonna happen.
in my attempt to move to mars.
Its time for lift off crap honey do ya mind lighting
fuse.
Hey kids after this maybe we'll get a reality
show.
I mean if we dont die that would only make the local
news.
The homade rocket ship rattle and shook.
I knew i forgot something I mean it's a minor thing.
Steering wheels are overrated guess I should have got a book.
And as it lifted off into the sky.
I screamed like a little girl.
I forgot I was affraid to fly.
Yes I kinda fell short on my quest to the stars.
cause i crash landed in New Jersy.
Well kids sorry but Atlantic City is probaly
a bit more fun for daddy that is.
So much for moving to Mars.
Categories:
mags, funny
Form:
Rhyme
Syrupy with recipe ran along brasseries
Peiping, Mags and Oasis pricey rotisseries
Sizzling sizzlers the Peter Cat’s clamor
Addled couples fending their pockets out of scarce.
Boogie with deejays rhythm along discos
Tantra, Fusion and Roxy surfaced floorshows
Mass hangout the Some Place Else’s beckon
Mini-fashioned getups makes the other to pay on.
Volumes with fictions traded along bargains
Oxford and Metropolitan are mostly visited
Cohort no bar wide-ranged music stocked at Music World
Passerby’s daily dos’ makes the guard better-known.
Xaverians with hip-hops confined along principles
St. Mary, AG and St. Augustine are teenagers realm
Scandals and hearsays are their daily boasts
Highly noetic minds makes them their daily booze.
Hotfooted with attachés bucked along clock at nine
Pushed subway, the most busiest at times
Hi-fi managers and Board meetings at The Park
Foreigners often ease themselves at the Flurry’s cake bar.
Categories:
mags, people, places, school, urban,
Form:
Blank verse
Who are these bourgeois bees
What makes them better than you and me
Why are their noses in the air
With fake nails and purchased hair
So they wear designer bags
Clothes from fashion mags
Does real beauty come in a price tag
They have attitude for days
Ugly and malicious ways
Expects a man to pay their way
And then wonder why they don’t stay
~ Bourgeois bees ~ Please ~
Stop looking down on the rest
Because you think you have what’s best
Stop driving a Benz with no ends
Always relying on no good men
Stop judging a book by its cover
Turn the page and see what you discover
Stop pretending to live the good life
When you know you’re living trife
Stop being so conceited and vain
It only attracts the fake and lame
~ Bourgeois bees ~ be real ~ Please ~
Lay
Categories:
mags, black african american, life,
Form:
Rhyme
Pistol Pete is Peaceful Peter now,
Married life has altered him, and how.
He used to be a honky tonker
Always spoiling for a fight,
Now he's always home with Mama
And in bed by nine each night.
It was a huge mistake to take that wedding vow.
He had to give up hanging out with all the boys,
And had to throw out all his "girlie" mags and toys.
Nor can he scratch, nor cuss, nor chew,
He had to kiss that life good-bye,
And when he's dragged to church on Sunday,
She even makes him wear a tie.
There's not a thing about wedded bliss that he enjoys.
Six months in and she can't take it anymore,
All she does is wring her hands and pace the floor.
When Pete proposed to her he promised
He'd reform and get a job,
But no one wants to hire a guy
To sleep, drink beer, and be a slob,
And Mama's sick and tired of being poor.
What the last straw was for Mama, who can say,
But the police came and carted her away.
What she claimed as her defense,
That made the judge and jury frown,
Was he forgot too many times
To put the toilet seat back down.
"Justified, perhaps, but guilty, anyway."
To see her tried Pete's old friends flocked from miles around,
Then stayed to see her fried and Pete put in the ground.
As each one heard the eulogy,
This thought was racing through his head,
"If I had followed Pete's example,
That could be me there lying dead!"
And not a dry eye in the parlor could be found.
If there's a moral to my tale, this truth will fit:
If you only "like" someone, do not commit.
Before proposing, think again
'cause it's a fairly well-known fact
That married life can be a pain
When complete opposites attract.
If you don't believe me, just read his obit
Because Pistol Pete's the pitiful proof of it.
Categories:
mags, funeral, husband, marriage, wife,
Form:
Narrative
Collaboration with Marcello Eans
Why are you all bound and determined to destroy me?
What have I done to you that makes you hate me so much?
I’ve given you life and provided for you families.
You’ve done nothing in return but ruin what you’ve touched.
Timber – and my limbs fall, leaves will wither.
Paper bags & adult mags, end result is litter.
Trash & filthy waste, landfill in my face.
Trees, an endangered species you can never replace.
Forever you’re chasing wildlife for game, not need.
Carcasses scattered abroad, they get shot & bleed.
Prodigal sons, generation of wasteful people.
Ungrateful & insecure, you alter your facial features.
I don’t feel the least bit guilty for causing earthquakes,
Or, from the mountaintops, raining down fire and ash.
I watch with a grin as you all try to claim your stake
And find a safe place where you hope to avoid my wrath.
Tsunamis that misplace mommies, families divide.
Airborne sicknesses and death hide in mudslides.
The pains of hurricanes, reminiscent of Genesis
Wipeout the lifestyles of the wicked & innocent.
Just as man is never satisfied, destruction isn’t either.
These disasters consume life to make you believers
In that you reap what you sow in this life of lust.
Return from whence you came, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Categories:
mags, writing,
Form:
Rhyme
let's take a look at the beginning
wen the matters in your heart mattered to u alone
wen like BoB b4 Airplanes u wer unknown
wen the pp u had on speed dial wldn pick up e fone
n u hid the tears that only u knew wer dripping
fast forward to the here n now
to the thunderous applause u hear wen u take a bow
to the microphones that flood u to hear u speak
to how ur opinions r published week after week
who wlda thot that dis was all id take
a lil fame a lil fortune wit only jus ur soul at stake
sometimes wen the champagne wears n its quiet out
those lil flashbulbs tha go on n off its cald doubt
u knw that maybe dis lyf aint so cool
its got u dancn to their whims like okomfo anokye for the golden stool
n honestly hon who u tryna fool
so uv got mags writng down ur salad makn tips
n women lust afta ur collagen fild lips
u knw ur worth more han wat uv become
but u kip lyn to urself tha wats ben dun is dun
but we both know hon..it's only just begun...
Categories:
mags, urban,
Form:
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY : XV & XVI
XV
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Treasury Secretary
I'd outlaw all big-time " companies " who beg for money
Especially those who beg in the name of the Almighty
I'd write virulent circulars on how to cajole Him through litany
To wheedle trillions of dollars euros yuans rupees throughout Eternity
That is, if ever I were the Treasury Secretary
And even if I never ever had no country
XVI
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Finance
I'd make every charitable organization head dance
On a tight rope stretched from here to comeuppance
For wasting nearly all what we give them on bribes penthouse mags and stamps
And take them on a tour of the streets and hovels littered with hungry children and tramps
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Finance
And even if I never ever had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 5, 2018
Categories:
mags, abuse, children, god, poverty,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue