Best Match Poems
Spring is here - scents the air
You've come from somewhere
Moving in next to my home
Your aura blooms bright n' warm
I'm Already thinkin' here's a new friend
I'm Already thinkin' here's a new friend
Nice to meet a looker
Show you all the best spots here
I'll see my world through your eyes
Be free without need for a guise
It feels like I've met my lifetime match
It feels like I've met my lifetime match
We sit under a tree
Your words sing harmoniously
Time flies too quickly
Walking, talking, feeling tipsy
Even from here seems I feel your touch
Even from here seems I feel your touch
Joking, laughing hours spent
Licking ice cream - just content
Folks stare - it doesn't mater
Instant us just add water
You must believe in love at first sight
You must believe in love at first sight
Your image is ingrained in my mind
A daydreaming guy am I
Lost in you and me entwined
I wonder can you read my thoughts
As we lie under the sky
Our hands touch and my face lights up
Then you smile sweeter than syrup
We pick weeds you call them flowers
I am the questions you are the answers
I now know we are meant to be together
It feels like I've met my lifelong match
I am sure I have met my lifelong match
***************************************************************
A Re-Write Of "We're Going To Be Friends"Lyrics
By The White Stripes (Jack White)
The Original Song is about a boy and girl still in school.
Jack White's rhyming scheme seems strange on paper
works beautifully when it is sung to its own tune.
This version has been rewritten and adjusted
so it could apply to any new relationship
Maurice Yvonne
Nov~27~2014
Happy Birthday To Me
(I Think I Look Great For Ninety Years Old
The Photo Of Me Is Very Recent)
I read Darryl Ashton’s poem Called Pinocchio Rex and this brought back
memories of a childhood incident
When I grew up we had a smallholding – the house was called ‘Longacre’ as we
had over an acre of land. Over the years we had chickens, pigs named Pinky
and Porky and a goat called Susie… she had kids called Billy and Nanny – guess
I was no good at names back then… but I digress
Attached to the house was a small village shop but my parents also made a
small income from selling fresh eggs and in the summer home grown
strawberries – I would help pick washing baskets of them and bag them up to
sell.
Every week a little old man would arrive for his dozen eggs and if the shop was
shut he would ring the doorbell. He wore a pointed felt hat, had steely blue
eyes and the most enormous nose you have ever seen. Unbeknownst to him
my parents nicknamed him 'Pinocchio'.
When I was aged about 7 years old the doorbell rang – mum was busy baking
in the kitchen so I answered it. There in front of me stood this old man wanting
his eggs. Mum shouted from the kitchen
‘Who is it Janet?’
I replied ‘Oh its only Pinocchio’
At once mum appeared from the kitchen, her face was the colour of beetroot.
She apologised for the comment from her ‘cheeky daughter’ The man
purchased his eggs and walked away – never to return!
The moral of this true tale is that parents ALWAYS tell the truth and that
children have ears the size of an elephant and a mouth just as big … so if you
don’t want them to repeat something YOU have said keep it zipped!
Jan Allison
11th August 2014
She sat huddled in an alleyway, frozen to the bone
Shivering with the clutch of matches that she sold.
She hadn't sold a match, but so longed to go home
To warm her naked feet from cobblestone so cold.
Shivering, with the clutch of matches that she sold,
She lit a match upon the wall to feel its tiny heat
To warm her naked feet from cobblestone so cold,
But in a moment swiftly, it had spent itself complete.
She lit a match upon the wall to feel its tiny heat.
Faintly she saw her grandmother, beautiful as life,
But in a moment swiftly, it had spent itself complete
Escaping from such misery, biting cold and strife
Faintly she saw her grandmother, beautiful as life
She hadn't sold a match, but so longed to go home.
Escaping from such misery, biting cold and strife
She sat huddled in an alleyway -- frozen to the bone.
Posted: 8/23/2016
Revised: 8/1/2018
as sharp as an axe
wielding words to burn down worlds~
kinship split like wood
***
I stand naked by the mirror
Looking at myself
I look like ummm
Something off a dusty shelf
My ribs stick out
You could play them like a harp
And my eyes bulge out my head
Like a half squeezed Chihuahua pup
My legs they call them lucky
They like two fighting swords
I have the knack of amusing people
With them I even won awards
Now my wife is a total contrast
She’s short, fat and round
It takes me three hours to spread the fake tan
But she still comes out unevenly browned
Just the other day I thought
She threw the duvet over me
But when I opened one eye
I saw it was a crusty bikini
I love to watch her dressing
It makes me shake at the knees
I feel like grabbing a handful of ripples
And give them a gentle squeeze
Driving the car is a challenge
Her ripples stop me changing the gear
And when we walk down the street
We look like a shield with a skinny spear
But to her I’m her half finished pepperoni
To me she’s my fluffy bread bun
We always do things together
I’m telling you, we have so much fun
And now I would like to announce
The arrival of baby number seven
We may seem like the oddest couple
But it’s a match made in heaven.
All is black;
and you cry as
darkness
overwhelms you,
cringing all alone
in the dark;
helpless,
confused, and
frightened.
Do not weep,
I'm a friend,
let me strike a match
and set your doubts and fears
free;
as we share its light.
The first flame will always be its own.
None can ever mirror it.
A second flame born of the same candle
may be coaxed to life;
but 'twill ne'er be the first.
Go ahead, grab the matches, grab the candles,
everything you need to start that fire.
Light that first flame.
Revel in its fervor, enjoy it while it lasts;
don't be too sad when it burns itself out.
Try to light that same candle, a second time;
if indeed it can be lit at all,
it won't thrill you the same.
Yes, it's still fire; it still mesmerizes,
still creates that heat, and still burns.
But 'twill ne'er be the first.
Now, take a second candle, and put
flint and tinder to that one instead.
Watch it, live with it, savor it -
and when that one too eventually dies down,
riddle me this one question.
That first flame is oft times the fan favorite,
but which, in the end, is truly more precious -
an attempt and mayhap success, at a second,
imitation flame,
or a fresh first, with a different candle?
Make no mistake, on rare occasion that second flame
of a first candle may even be better than the first.
Yet, even were it more ardent than the last,
every single fire is unique -
and some small part of you will always remember that first flame.
Any others may be
more wonderful and fierce,
may be slovenly mimicry,
or may be raw magic in their own right -
but 'twill ne'er be the first.
A holder for shoes on my door
is hanging almost to the floor.
Different colors each pair
gives me options to wear
the best match for the clothes I adore.
With at least thirty-four pairs of shoes
it should be rather easy to choose
what to put on my feet,
yet I'm met with defeat
when my dress is a solid chartreuse!
Written Aug 27, 2016 for My Shoes Poetry Contest of Lewis Raynes
*I was given the nickname years ago of Ms Match It
for matching up jewelry, shoes and other accessories to my clothing!
Cancer Was the Match,
That Set My Fields on Fire
Written: by Tom Wright
12/2/2014
The path in life that I formerly pursued,
Whether aptly marked or vegetated trail;
Found most days all too frequently skewed,
So I sought God’s face to help me prevail.
For the thing staring at me I had no answer,
Neither peace nor joy was within my heart.
I’d been diagnosed with Parotid Gland Cancer,
And the new direction chosen, had its start.
No longer was life seen on hold, but on restart,
I’d surrendered to Jesus, authority in my life.
God began cultivating in me His work of art,
He began by guiding a Doctor’s surgical knife.
Now I no longer travel some unlighted path,
But the one which God the Father approved.
With time mostly passed I’ll escape his wrath,
Lest from the Book of Life, my name’s, removed;
your moment of concentration
has me mesmerised
I'm no longer a poet ~
just a fool with unuttered longing
this day already drew its close
but I can steady my weary gaze
settle it upon you
all but your beauty ebbs away ~
I look on with tired eyes
"lit by a match"
I'm half dreaming ~
my favoured state
and you
within arm's reach
as I drift aloft
caught between the shadows and smoke
that swirl together
one last time
Inspired by The Sulphur Match by John Singer Sargent
It’s raining all day!
The kids are playing football –
They just love to play!
Life is a cricket match
If you don't do bat in time
You may be out by catch.
During one game
The umpire noisily cried
"Deuce!"
So I politely replied
"Orange please!"
"The Match"
Time falls like a traitor
it smiles at you through mirrors
you see all faces surrounding you
other than your own
each a voice imprinted in your memories
a part of the Word's words,
remonstrations tumbling
through your voiceless throat,
they respond hitting the walls
leaving hollow hieroglyphs
promises that slip,
some self-righteous Umpire
calls the serve landing out of bounds
and doesn’t hesitate to record a fault;
through the backhand grip
your own thoughts
are ghost written volleys
that skim without hesitation
over the net
bouncing towards
the inexperienced experienced
their hearts,
hands, eyes, and lips
the memories are lost in unplugged sockets
still,
they take they’re hit
you smash it back
full hilt;
you think you are electric
time falls like a traitor
and everyone
in their own mind
one way or another
thinks they’re in the game
a winner,
even loser’s think
they’re winners in the end,
they take their hit;
love-all
just the same
and you are lit.
Candide Diderot. ‘25