Best Meeker Poems
Paul, Peter and the Tweeter
Why not choose,
a billionaire leader?
One who is not
an eloquent speaker.
Trouble rises,
he robs Paul to pay Peter.
The bold rich need tax savings,
forget about the meeker.
From a distance,
we watch the kingdom teeter.
Him smirking on high,
he thinks "What could be sweeter!"
Why oh why,
did so many choose that cheater?
Global temperature rising,
things aren't the same.
Scientific facts need hiding,
isn't that a shame?
There's new logic he's applying,
says coal dust isn't really flying.
Even though the fish are bitter
and you can't see them under the litter,
no one can turn down the heater.
"Fake News" he says,
check out T-Man's Twitter.
The Country is "Great Again",
cause he ain't no quitter!
Yet people are making less than their babysitter.
Good jobs will go with free trade,
might as well become a waiter.
Otherwise you’ll starve sooner or later.
People happy,
he wants to build a wall.
Mexico will pay,
so build it tall.
More immigrants?
You don't need them at all.
But no one left to pick the fruit,
or to be at your beck and call.
Watch it all fall,
for sure the economy will stall.
No one buying nothing at the mall.
Meanwhile
Klu Klux Klan standing tall.
If they ask him,
T-Man will let them guard his wall.
Look for all the signs,
a leader who's a hater.
Mastertweeting, flatulater.
A logic lacking debater,
self-loving,
self-promoting, congratulator!
If he pushes the button,
we might become a large crater.
He'll spin it and tell those left,
"I'm the great emancipator!"
If you don't believe him,
You’re just another disloyal traitor!
Lucretia Mott
The meeker sex, she was not!
At the convention in Seneca Falls
Showed men aren't the only ones with balls!
1/26/19
For Educate Me with Humor contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
I guess I'm obsessed
With keeping my breath
I've small use for obtuse youth
And their smug, shrugging abuse
Blinding meeker minds
By the blither of twitter
Where shameless selfishness
Is seen as glitter
Where 'fake' news and 'reality' TV
Both struck by theft of identity
Our testaments and towns
Are burning to the ground
Those with nothing to lose
Are lighting the fuse
When corruption erupts
And common sense, chucked
When science is declawed
And law is outlawed
When propaganda censors flaws
We've cast the last straw
We are democracy's
One hope ~
If we vote.
9/16/20
N/A in 'Clutching at Straws' contest
Judged 10/08/20
Summers' thunderings gather in brooding, heavy clouds
Soundless masses with shuddering voices
Calling through an untamed sky
Shaking above the meeker Earth,
Pillars of rain, shot through, flashings in their depths,
Electric fires running through the close, wet darkness -
Thunderings assemble to make their pronouncements,
In booms and growlings cast through the winds
To tongue-lash an unruly world with elemental admonishments,
Bearing reminders of old forces that never die,
Waiting and spreading through vast spaces,
Breeding strength, coalescing.
Between the group of walls they live in,
He and she circle 'round,
Eyes seldom meeting,
Casting flashes of hurt when they do.
They hold within their aching hearts
Black shards of anger born of their quarrel,
Acid thoughts brew with the thunder's boil around them
It walks with its giant's tread above the roof,
Growling mindless sentiments
In tones that set the windowpanes ashiver,
Bitterness tends to the feeding of itself,
Savoring the cold fare
Of unforgiven words, thoughts both spoken and silent
While this summer squall of tattered love rises to rage
Ends in their dark unease;
The slow burn of anger between them
Has settled to smoking grey ash gradually piling up in their sombre souls
As the sky above flares through rushing sheets of clouds
Wind tearing by, laughing madly.
Common wisdom states no one must take
Or receive more than can carry
Without pause or delay, a sin to tarry
For under that stay, avarice can overtake
Yet, I have carried more than my weight
Even against advice, even contrary
I forgot the limits, forgot to be wary
Forgot the honor of my namesake
Where falls your footsteps when you stumble
Which choice you choose at divergent trails
What foresight is lost when you fumble
When the burden of perfection fails
In the strength of weakness, Samson is humble
Permit the meeker grace of mortals prevails.
4/13/18
Altarwise-Hum
Nick Rush
When it’s late enough to hear locusts love
East of altarwise, humming.
You can see the somber moon fade away
Sunshines duty coming.
The sun grows ever-meeker now
As night is blending dusk with day
The moon has since been slumping
West of altarwise, hear the bees humming.
As it soaks you in, awry goes the moon
Bidding a lie to sun
Finding contrast drums our gun
North of altarwise, hear the birds hum.
Just as darkness turns to light
Then begin to balance as one
When you feel the tongue
From the altarwise-hum
You finally hear
What love can become
The sun leaves loving faces,
As vibrant hues leak
Outlining the peaks
As it’s dragged underneath; our sight.
True beauty immense, for only a peek
Morphing remnants scream into bleak.
Ah, the voyage of life
Where tears engulf
Like the bright moonlight
Though the dark side outguns some
Following lights anointing south
To dealers joking at the altarwise-hum.
Maelstrom, O thou devil
Slither past last March then unto April
Into the eves and ides of May
Thou cannot hide, but thou wilt try
To disguise thy age old blackness
Forsake what once were brighter skies
Stranglehold; sane extraction
And the spills of night
A new tone deafness
Burning oil; sentiment molasses
Bringing storms that cloud minds human and fragile
Spheres of moonlit halos
Become, no more than serpent spies
Peeking through faultlines of life
Dancing about to the madness limbo
One lost soul...
Shipwrecks against a sea
And there too does the twist of tango
Eyes of the deep; tentacles, touching me
Elsewhere, the raven flies repetition
Into glass windows
Blood stains upon a faceless mask
Drowns out the cries and the conscience
Of feathers blacker that lie strewn
Are the questions I have asked
And the answers I cannot have
Let slip feigned breath of man beneath
A gargle from the cold tunnel brine
What's left surrenders alter to its evil
And nothing is, to evermore survive
And the eves and ides of May
Are Saran gas upon a mass of land
Men of desparation hunger
Eating flesh of man much meeker
And thou wilst not again
Glimpse thy rival sun
Nor when it comes, goes
Or finality, when it finds its done
Inspired by the madness of Poe
That which is locked within us all
One fine day Abraham
Wanted to send a candygram
All the way to Amsterdam
Sweets ad nauseam
Weighed by kilogram
All he could cram
In a huge box stamped with a monogram
This is the price said Ma’am
What’s wrong need a diagram
Abraham was in a jam
Had no cash felt like a ham
Meeker than a lamb
Thought he better scram
Postpone the candygram
Bad credit is debit card’s anagram
AP: 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2020, Honorable Mention 2020
He was a great man, a "prophet".
Known by his real name "Japhet".
Started his ministry whilst in the market
Full of anointing like water filled in a "bucket".
Many words do not fill a "basket".
Preaching the word of God was his "mandate".
At his presence, demons would "vacate".
The word of God is sharper than a "machete".
A good man he was, a public "figure".
He never touched any "liquor".
The more he prayed, the more he became
"meeker".
Knowing that avoiding the word, he would become
"weaker".
Every time he was in a closet like a Muslim
facing "mecca".
With a big heart, he carried peoples "burdens"
like a double decker.
He knew the obligation given by his "maker."
Closets
All around I am confined
from fetal womb, “Soft and connected”
through teenage responsibility
adult stress and conformity.
A drowning wave of fury
I fight to breathe to be “Louder with spark”
A dark closet of pity
A stagnate gloom (to find me) to end me.
Impulse to break the chains of bondage
To unmask the inner fight “building”
Untying normality
for “just out of sight.”
Rejuvenating my soul in the waters of “out of control”
A treacherous journey of emotion
Plighted by the rage of “doubt”
Rationality is a sickness, devouring all thought,
Plagued with social need
A repulsive weakness for commonalty.
Only attained by ignoring the me!
I pushes me down
I wont fight
I gives into parallel thought
I seeks conformity
I is my Social Connection
I is completely taught
I is suffocating me
I wont let up.
Me is lifting my soul
Me is an urgent refusal
Me traffics options
Me is uncontrolled control.
Me trucks through stop signs
Me fights for right
Me is my souls reflection
Me is worth protecting.
The I is getting weaker realizing
The me isn’t meeker
Hugging the-me close tight
forming the Identity Im.
Im is struggle
Im wont leave
Im is (im)pulsive
Im is perceived need.
Im is bland
Im wont take direction
Im is neutral
Im is sad
Im is mad
Im is weak
Im is tired
Im is meek
This relentless feud.
An Im-pulsive identity.
I have walked in the valley of the shadow of death, and I have feared great ill
And stumbled over stony ground, where surer feet have fell.
I’ve known the loss of guiding hand and mourned its steady hold,
and wandered in the desert place, beyond the shepherds fold.
My prayers have bounced from brass clad dome, to echo in the void,
my tears and cries unanswered, my faith and trust destroyed.
The bitter gall of emptiness, of wasted time and chance,
that choked the breath and stabbed the heart, with realizations lance.
The power above, no longer hears, the screams of mankind’s woe,
those omnipresent eyes of care, no longer watch below.
For in that place where heaven was, there sits an empty hall,
resounding every echo, of the cries and pleas of all.
The countless Gods, the Prophet hordes, the Holy men renowned,
lie unmarked in their wooden rooms, awaiting promised crowns.
Their statues bear this testament to all who look and stare.
If one of these knew truly God, why won’t his God declare?
How many thousand million lives, deceived by reverent fraud,
search in everlasting void, abandoned by their God?
What of the countless multitudes, who starve in barren fields,
Or die in futile battles, fought for other people’s greed?
Where is the justice where’s the right, where stand the meeker then?
The trite reply rings hollow from the lips of Holy men;
you cannot understand his ways, nor question God’s great plan.
Suffice to live, and then to die, a hope filled happy man.
Am I alone in asking, or wondering if it’s true,
Where is the God of Abraham and fiery furnace too,
this God that guided Israelites, from Egypt’s brutal hands,
and led the way, with power and fire, into a promised land?
Oh that I’d walked in Canaan’s fields, and spoken face to face,
and asked the burning questions, on behalf of mankind’s race.
Where did you go, why do we wait upon this tortured earth,
and Seeking God of truth and love, discovering only dearth.
Yet still I hope, and still I pray, not knowing if I’m heard,
and read and try to understand, the everlasting word.
A fool am I, apparently, to query mystic things,
to witness Faustian madness, and the pain religion brings.
Yet still the questions hang in space, their letters ten miles high,
For Who, and What, and When, and Where, and most important WHY?
My life now is at rock bottom,
Burning to the ground like Sodom,
My pride alone tore me apart,
Kept me blinded from the start.
I'm a failure and a fraud,
I'm just a poor pathetic sod,
Depression's nearer than ever,
I just have to be meeker.
All my life I thought I had wings
To get me above all pesky things,
But it was all my imagination,
As I have already jumped before realization.
Every singles seeker
becomes weaker and weaker
unless he believes in himself
Meeker and meeker
bleaker and bleaker
'til he puts his lures back on the shelf
When in having or showing a seemingly moderate,
most humble estimate of one's great merits,
and importance, free from ones vanity,
egotism, boastfulness, or grateful pretensions.
When free from ostentation or showing extravagance.
Can you a modest house,
white washed as new cotton picket fences.
When kind when in having,
or showing a proper regard for the decencies
behavior, speech, long fevered press,
and desert is best served:
when a modest neckline is not seen on that dress.
A demure young chorus girl.
Not being prudish could suggest an exaggerated,
self-conscious proper well fitting form of modesty
or propriety in behavior or lacking in conversation
when one whom like I, being thought of, as you wish
to be thought of,
easily shocked and who more often than not
is thinkingly tolerant.
Could a prudish objection to a harmless remark thus provoke.
When I am loving you, but you never me.
Bold, but coarse.
Often is the bread, when seeing the greenest sea.
I am but a small,
humble, low, slower, meeker version of thee.
A candle light woman.
Bright camera woman,
and a dream for he, comes true.
Can you not find,
this being this your modest of modest of styles today.
Can we not be ostentatious or kind of pretentious
without it being unseemingly, not extremely or excessively?
When it is modest and moderate,
decorous and or decent, when coming, I ask this of thee.
Love me and thou be art,
it is most often then, only when found by thee, is modestly.
Keeping due measure of your new found treasure.
It is a concentration of all of your riches,
and often one which is considered lost or forgotten
until being, you it is fire, 'rediscovered.
Of fine ripe women and wine, 'not improper or lewd,
Never once considered, a shrew.
'I will, ' therefore, with only thee...
Being that women adorned in themselves is modesty...
When beechen quickened red buds begin then to swell,
And the woods, far off this woman can see.
Being thus when this is, I have written
on this page.
It seems too me like modesty.
I can’t complain I’m sheltered and fed
But this nagging ambition still builds in my head
Of what was written and what was said
Of a lonely road far from my bed
You don’t venture far tiny bird in the thicket
The home you mind is safe from the wicked
It’s a shame you can’t fly far away
And see all the cultures time built on its way
With the people of both peace and war
And the beauty of things in nature to adore
But your home is well kept and happy it seems
But what of your heart, your wishes and your dreams
I can’t feel shame it would make me weaker
About the wasted moments left to the meeker
The scoundrel in me keeps my heart from fever
But fever is wanted by my soul the dreamer
So tiny bird would you say you much wiser
The time you spend you count like a miser
Or is it that you take simple love in your day
In the little you make from the soil and the clay
Do the storms bother you at all little one?
Do the storms keep you hiding waiting for the sun?
I see the light is there in the weather so destructive
Are clouds to you renewal or counter productive?
I take it we differ in thought and song
Though I can no longer say yours is wrong
But I take from you a lesson - a lovely subtraction
In the happiness to be found in simple satisfaction