Best Mete Poems
“we look for that that does not come and go
it cannot be organic form, subject to decay
thoughts and beliefs are fickle, how little we know
yet come what may, our inner child continues to play”
The 'umbilical cord',
hereby symbolic,
its severance
where
initiated,
a soul of three,
and then much more.
Growing up was an
in-depth shared
furtherance,
whereupon,
directives were encountered,
either embraced or tossed aside.
Time and again, instant moments,
encouraging considerations,
imbued ponderance,
whereto,
we tether ourselves
to a sizeable pole of justifications.
Hail to a fitness club, or a cab to a McDonald's,
intermittent intervals, slim down or fatten up,
choice batters about a pole that remains,
until life expectance,
leans awkward,
wherefore
for time indulgence,
slacks a major facet as the pole evolves minor,
for one's immediate concerns, lies elsewhere, a priority.
All the while, the pole was steadfast but never silent
taking a backseat to the urgencies of the moment
significance tallies the hours near,
wherein
one now realizes that time is fleeting,
wonders how one's pole has shaped itself, was it worth their while.
At that instant, open their eyes
and see the poles that are
standing around them
bedside so they can
measure their
worth truly.
Where
we mete
out ourselves
to whom we truly
Blessed Assurance.
"Criticizing others is akin to criticizing God"
"Moment we are critical of our critic we become a critic"
Quote by Author
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Words pierce the soft heart, stay there forever
Mind recollects them oftentimes in life
Spoken words for lifelong give joy or tear
Still criticizing others is in rife
Feeling worthless, many tears often shed
depression often ends in suicide
Painful thoughts, existing as living dead
If they did the same, wouldn't it hurt your pride
You speak out of hatred, bloated ego
He who can't praise is never respected
Only if your habits you will forego,
you will receive love, help, praise and respect
For critical talks you're hated by all
All condemn, in everyone's eyes you fall
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bhagvad Gita 18.61 - The Supreme Lord is situated in everyone's heart, O Arjuna, and is directing the wanderings of all living entities, who are seated as on a machine, made of the material energy.
Matthew 7: 1-3
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
2 For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
3 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
25.06.2021
For Charlotte Puddifoot, Contemporary Sonnet contest
Syllable count checked at HMS
I want to be a poet to write those words which rhyme
But it seems I'm having trouble with tempo, tense and time
How do the poets do it rhyme words so undisputed
They neatly find the perfect word and exactly where to put it
They make it seem so simple words flow in easy verse
While my words go from good to bad and then they just get worse
Oh to have the poets flair for grasping words from out the air
But alas I stare at paper bare and pine for words which are not there
With ease the poets do it pen words so neatly dressed
While I sit here debating and getting more depressed
To them it's not too arduous to mete out rosy prose
While in my mind bewildering a musty cobweb grows
Ornately Poets do it scribe sentiment so clear
That lifts the heart and stirs the soul like music to the ear
As I scan their lines which meld and knit I envy those who conjured it
And when I read their words united tis my id which gets excited
I twitch and get elated when I find two words of whit
But I'll be darned if I can find another two which neatly fit
I thumb through my thesaurus till the moon is fully lit
But my brain is still in neutral and not a rhymes been writ
Each pair I work to sound enhance fails to bring the bards due dance
And the prose I opt for seems to lack the poet's gift of word romance
But I'll persist and see how it goes
And perhaps one day I'll write some prose
Doth thou Parle the night's
Vastidity?
Wouldst be thine haver of thy
Uneyed, thought-sickness strewn umoving
Travels?
Ratherst, it be that, it is thine
trade-fallen quarters; thine debt as
the Militarist is mete by the
Languish bestrewn on thine epochtic mind.
The morrow breaks...
In space, I fail to mete my worth
Whene'er I look back at my Earth
I'd switch the honor of this berth
To breathe the Autumn air ...
A promised air, so crisp and rare!
I think on those I've left behind
The loved and valued of my kind
Now traded for this hope to find
One splendid, pristine land ...
A promised land of teeming sand!
I've spent my life on looking back
The crooked passage of my track
But now I'm brought a newer tack
Across this star-flecked sea ...
A promised sea, fair-winded, free!
This great expanse of boundless suns
Like lassies, though the fairest ones
Oh, watch her as she cuts and runs
The lance right thru your heart ...
A promised heart, one bloody dart!
What daring end will we thus meet
What tender soils will sole our feet
When this, our voyage, is complete
And we have found a home ...
A promised home to reap and roam ...
And tell our wee ones ... of this tome?!?
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Completely Your Choice 11, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Whom Do We Trust
Written: by Miracle Man
7/21/2019
Every now and then, we all lose our bearing,
Facing days that become gloomy, often despairing.
We only check our compass for direction of travel,
When it appears that life is just about to unravel.
We oft seek out others, and with blame anoint,
But no man is a judge nor will God ever appoint.
He said, Cast your burdens upon me, for I care,*
Yet we oft live our lives hamstrung by despair.
We should never treat others as perhaps we’ve been treated,
Because with whatever we mete, we’ll also be meted.**
When we fail in casting burdens upon HIM for He cares,*
We’re eschewing the wheat while gorging on tares.
*1 Peter 5:7
Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.
**Matthew 7:2
King James Version (KJV)
“For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”
Hatred
Written: by Miracle Man
8/6/2019
What lies in man’s heart cannot be dark,
Or in his head, exist thoughts impure.
His hatred for others render his life stark,
And will always overshadow life’s allure.
Dormant things from others hidden,
In dusty corners of his evil mind.
“Dust Bunnies” oft render him guilt ridden,
But as he metes he gets in kind.*
*Matthew 7:2
For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
God isn't neat
He hasn't got it all sewn up
Tidy
Complete
He doesn't have a perfect plan
Preprepared
A place for everything
Colour coordinated
Sussed out, exclusively available
To the spiritual elite.
He doesn't have a bag of surprises
Distributed on a whim
Leukaemia for you
Long life for her
Alzheimer's or dementia or a road traffic accident for him.
He doesn't mete out chance events
Based on our choices
The sound of our voices
The town of our birth
Our place on the earth
The state of our hearts
Our love of the Arts
Our reliance on science
Our sin.
He never has promised that life will be fair
Or tragedies rare
Simply he tells us
Because of his son
All that he is
All he has done
In the light and the dark
In joy and in pain
Perceived or
Ignored
Trusted or
Doubted
He will be there
The Bad, The Ugly and The Good (aka: Bad, Badder, Baddest)
The Bad
I am the gun-toting, God-fearing Ganja Gangsta.
I’ll smoke you, pray for you, then have my daily siesta!
I answer to no one, and fear no man; No Sir!!!
I answer to only One Master. That’s Heaven’s Prime Minister.
I am the player-hating, man-baiting Sister Disaster.
I’ll woo you, thrill you, then …kill you; true that, mister!
I just swagger thru the city with my ‘Ghetto Blaster’,
I don’t mean sounds, fool!!! I mean my ‘piece’ … to blast ya!!!
I am the mean-looking, menacing Monster Mobster.
I’ll cut ya, shred ya, and have me a pasta fiesta.
I do not boil ‘em…! No sah!! I’d eat a live lobster!
I’m so mean ….Hey! ..I’ll even steamroller your hamster!!!
I am the fast-talking, Bible-bashing Pastor Imposter.
I’ll bless you, fleece you, then sex-up Sister Disaster
I’m just a shyster - but please don’t tell the Menacing Mobster!
She’s the God-fearing Gangsta’s wife - and the Mobster’s sister!
The Ugly (Badder)
I am the flesh-eating, life-sapping, Cluster-Sinister.
I am impartial; care not for class, colour, creed or gender.
I am microbe, but not a person-respecter; ask the sex inspector.
I am sorry, but for me to survive, you have to become a spectre.
I am the tear-jerking, game-changing, people-Prankster
I get called ‘*****’, ‘Sod’, …some even call me a ‘Mater-Conjugator’.
I don’t like Gangsters, Mobsters and especially that dodgy Pastor
I may get mad, or even get even; Call me ‘Life’, or call me ‘Karma’.
The Good (Baddest)
I am the Beginning, the Alpha/Omega; Heaven’s only Prime Minister
I wrote the Good Book, but look inside, I have never been a Jester!
I carry fire and brimstone to bolster my holster - you’d better helter-skelter!
I mete out justice, and vengeance administer: you'd better pray faster!!!
(Fg 81.5.8 - January 2016)
The Sussex lad, to title and land born,
An alumni, now he stands proudly tall.
In Oxford students pass at future’s dawn,
For some the inspiration was his call.
Provocative, a mighty pen his sword,
Expelled for godless view from hallowed hall.
The Baronet poet, friend to a Lord,
The Gothic king’s voice did incite them all.
His Mary worshipped at her husband‘s feet,
She held his heart tight from death’s final flame.
Did they engage in black acts, pagan mete?
A dark and often troubled soul laid claim.
Into the storm set sail to the end foretold,
He died before his talent could unfold.
I admit it. I’m a Lexophile. I’m likely on some list!
If there’s a play on words somewhere, I really can’t resist.
A twist of phrase, a brutal pun, or the turn of a sonnet fine,
Will fill my soul with childlike bliss, be it deft or unrefined.
Consonance, or assonance, or dissonance that splatters,
A doggerel mess or the good bard’s best, it really doesn’t matter.
Homonyms and antonyms and synonyms galore,
Give the plot a wicked curve and I’ll come back for more.
It is all about the words my friends and how you make them tumble.
Make them smooth and honey sweet or ghastly in a jumble.
I’ll take them scrambled, fried or raw, whatever you may mete,
Because baby, I’m a Lexophile; a boiled egg’s hard to beat!
The message they mete out is strong
It's cooked at the top but smells wrong
This cursed wurst to eat
Slice of life that looks neat
A baloney treat for the throng
Kiss of Judas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Le Baiser de Judas by T. Wignesan
In our century where one sells father and mother
Husband his wife and wife her husband
And who doesn’t with ease dispose the only brother
Gives up yet two scorched by blade and fire
Of course breath comes hard to him who thus
Horribly heartless sacrifices his friend
But efforts turn to Nought before man comes of age
Who without remorse at first is forced to vomit
Disembowelled in one’s own mummified body
No one’s spared by the multitude
Which draws us into it all like an epidemic
Each is smothered in the crowd as in the prison cell
All become lambs : who’s to be betrayed first
Under constant surveillance yet others to victimise
Each spies within the circle surrounding him
His soul lives stuck to the peephole
And if while in their midst they catch him in the act
To punish him they give him up to the Law
Thus every man in the steps of an apostle
Seeking to be approved worships the Law
The great one-eyed lady
The arrogant goddess
Whoever stands for such justice demeans his spirit
And creates in us a vile and villainous heart
In the name of the men of law and the public force
All functionaries like you and I
In this Darkness where Emptiness reigns supreme
I mete justice out to Judas
What he did he did for me
So that I might in turn do the same
Kissing the forehead in good faith
To such as he all over the earth
Every day umpteen times I vow
The mecanical anger
Of the labourers of the Law
(from Pierre Emmanuel’s Les Jours de la Passion)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 11, 2014
¿A dónde vas?
si te veo en la proa de una barca en mar abierto
El viento intruso se mete en tu pelo
y un malvado pirata vigila tras un enorme techo
Un malestar salobre rompe toda mi alma
y una angustia de pájaro herido y sin alas
¿A dónde vas?
que aun las olas contigo regresan
Nada sé de turbiones ni tormentosos senderos
También me confunden espacios sin estrellas.
Pobre de mí en un vacío de tristeza y
profundo silencio
Atrás tú dejaste mi mundo de sueños
una capa, los libros y un viejo cristal
Bajo un viento de lluvia mojaste el sombrero
y desparramaste la miel en el suelo de acero
Cuando abriste la puerta el vacío saludó
Ya no quedan semillas para un nuevo jardín
A tu impetuoso paso dejaste blancos espumarajos
Aunque gaviotas lloraron tú no las miraste
Tristes las arenas que guardaron las huellas
Pero te espera el azul dibujado en la nada
No solo ignoro el mar con su sal de muerte
también me dejaste un destrozo en mis manos
My muse is an angel dressed in white.
Above my shoulder it now lingers,
Uncertain in the sudden daylight,
Holding a lyre in their five fingers.
The instrument is of classic mete,
With fine wooden frame painted golden,
And seven strings, all sounding so sweet,
Their tune evoking times of olden.
Is the muse girl or a boy you ask?
In truth, I think it undecided,
Inspiration forms to suit the task,
Whenever I need to be guided.
My greatest fear is the deadly day,
I sit down to write a masterpiece,
And my motivation is gone far way,
Recalled to a mount in ancient Greece.
14/04/2017