Best Miscellaneous Poems
A ship in a dip is a duplicate of a massive six ton truck echoing at nine miles an hour in a tunnel. Oh traffic rather stoic today. But trafficking is often great fun for gerbils weighing in at over eighty pounds. £ % £ % waffling. Waffles and lots of cream. Iced curves in mazes. Vast tunnels of elephants then. Played with a big shrew in a big field. How great the ears of a geological gelding reading an encyclopedia in reading glasses. The small antique table. Steady hands are hooves. Freezing is the device of a used tabletop tablet score. Wisdom is neither obtained from a scientific sheet or a statistic paper. Lust lusting laughing leering leaning longitudinal leftovers. And a very smiley face of a bin. Bean beaming braking branching. Hahahaha and now a big wave waving. Hahahaha and a minnow. Xxxx jeopardisation. Xxxx palaeontology z
We can't have a child.
It's not a matter of want,
of belief,
of opinion.
We cannot.
Every doctor says, my wife will die.
The child might live, or might not,
but the love of my life will not,
not a guess, not a chance.
Just a death.
You can give your life, for another's.
Your death can stop one more,
if you're a cop, a soldier,
a hero, a nobody.
But we can't make you do it.
There is no law for that.
If a soldier lays down his life,
he is awarded, praised,
if he doesn't, he is not punished.
Not imprisoned for living.
So why would my wife trade, at best,
her life for one she will never meet?
Why would I trade my love's life
for a roll of the dice on another?
Why should we be forced to?
For a heartbeat, a whisper of a breath,
that may never make it out of the womb?
For a bitter, beaten man to live alone
or with the child who reminds him of loss?
Why should anyone else get to say?
Why should anyone else get a choice,
even if such weren't true?
Why should you get to choose
that she bear still heart, again and again?
To satisfy your hope, not hers?
Why should you get to speak,
if a woman has no voice?
If she has no money for a child,
no wish to birth her abuser's spawn?
To please your god, not hers?
Why should you get to decide,
why should you get the last word?
On any life that isn't your own,
any consequence not yours to bear?
To save an unborn life, not hers?
You should not.
It is not your choice, not your life,
not your grief, your sorrow,
your freedom or your death.
It is only, your opinion.
There is no right to such thoughts, only control.
Gather your countdowns to a week,
your milestones and your markers,
your intentions for the lives of strangers.
Burn them, turn such vile filth into ash.
Women owe society no life.
No attempt at a child, no health,
no life wasted, in death or in despair,
just for a chance at someone else's hope.
Someone else's decision.
Why should a fetus be sacred,
when the life, voice and sanctity
of the woman it could become -
so clearly mean nothing to you?
BIRDS
chirping birds
on an oak tree
in the longest day
BUTTERFLY
a common butterfly feasting on a flower
it is the last supper
times up
FATIMA
shepherd children
a vision of an angel
fact or fiction
CAT
a cat
sleeps anywhere and everywhere
not fussy
CRICKETS
silence reigns continuously
except for the crickets
chirping
STORM
thunder clashes
a deluge of rain follows
no birds tweeting
MARCH ON
the bugle’s first post
soldiers on parade
heavy footsteps
CIVIL WAR
guns in abundance
the clock is ticking fast
stalemate
SUSPENSE
atmospheric music
there’s a muffled scream
glass shattering
SNOWSTORM
heavy snow falling
all quiet on the outside
fire crackles
Love...like skylark's song which embraces
a miscellaneous beauty.
like daisy's whisper which hugs
a wingless grove.
Bacon and sausage.
Dogs and music.
Whiskey and a wife's smile.
Sometimes, surely,
it is just that simple.
Lately it has not been.
Not in life, not in fiction,
not in poetry.
One year, maybe three poems.
All about grief.
One imagined, yet real -
a son's song for a father's tale.
Two, too true and too close -
a brother to the scion, a brother to the sire.
Tributes written, loss spoken,
still silent the muse,
on all besides -
stanzas only flowing
when so too the tears.
Yet, my life ended not with theirs;
neither will I let my story.
Not my life's, not my characters',
not my verses.
Songs and stories yet remain,
so too adventure and poetry.
Amidst vowing not to forget the fallen,
I forgot those things instead.
that.
They will see my pen fly on,
for thoughts large and little,
momentous and mundane.
No peace comes from staying my hand.
So I will write, today,
of bacon and sausage.
Of dogs and music.
Of whiskey and a wife's smile.
Today, if no other,
it is just that simple.
Tonight you step outside.
Out where the fireflies alight
on unseen eddies of air;
out to where the stars lend their light
and a breeze caresses your hair.
You sit on the step and you wonder
how a time so dark ever seems so bright;
you drift in reverie and you ponder
just where our souls go at night.
Not while your dreams take flight
behind eyes closed and blankets warm;
but while your sleep loses the fight
to the muse's ceaseless storm.
Where do our spirits flee to
when the sun is long out of sight;
why does rumination find its cue
after most have said goodnight?
Why does this hour make thoughts unite
and scrutiny of life reach full speed;
why is it so much easier to feel and write
when the moon from its daily chains is freed?
Militate on one another with great passion
the nonperson,
The fusty one.
Nothing fancy, delightful or bonvivant
Having a genteel attitude, but impassible
Vagabond. Loner. Prodigious.
Yet no blandishment.
Complicated as a merman
Porous because of mutilation
The obsequy closed with an
Elegy
Rigmarole. Rigmarole.
Not the booby hatch which
hosts may
The railroad tied on knots.
Big as an intrusive blunt forced
object
The copulation of blood and oxygen
Wins over the slightly manipulated mind.
From inside, out
Hapless haploids creating the uselessness of existence
Making, permanently each place
devoured
Feeling the blades and molar impressions piercing through each layer.
The stars call upon my eyes
and in them I find choice.
They bid me gaze,
they bid me hearken,
and in their diary of days
I espy pages a mind to darken.
A friend taken from afar,
another lost from next door,
each one their own scar
on flesh keeping sorrow's score.
They bid me glance,
they bid me stare,
and in their distant dance
I glimpse a future fair.
A wife by my side,
a drink in our glasses,
on a porch my hands supplied
as a sprightly storm passes.
Do I stumble when the shadows come
and stay down, picking at those scars?
Or do I dream of joy yet unknown
and stand, walking toward that porch?
The stars call upon my choice
and in that I find my eyes.
FEAR
Fear
it's a picture
unfocused...
LOVE
Love,
a picture
alive
colorful...
PASSION
Passion,
it's a weapon
dangerous,
and confused...
HATRED
Hatred,
it's a fire
mortal,
infernal...
DOUBT
No doubt
it's a ticket,
unnoticed landscape...
LUCK
something simple
that easily
doesn't happen...
SONG
Song,
it is a dream
sung or
touched...
Miscellaneous
The escargots attack,
They hide their guns
On their spiral shells,
Be careful, Giants.
You think, you think,
But you do nothing,
It’s like watching
A sailboat, set sail
Heading for the moon.
A felucca on the Nile,
A white and round veil,
The soothing under the sun
Won the whole crew.
Ten.
Ten years, I've been scared,
fearing the phone's ring.
Twenty.
Twenty years, I was,
learning how goodbye really felt.
Thirty.
Thirty years, I reached,
forty-four days ago.
Forty.
Forty, my brother was,
for fifty-seven days.
That's all he got...
and that feels like all for me.
I'm terrified, I'll admit.
Every knock on the door,
every surprise text or call,
every "hey" I wasn't expecting.
Each corner hides a death,
each day a loss on the table,
Russian Roulette be damned.
The calendar is loaded - play.
So don't call me strong.
I'm petrified, and I'll face the grief,
as I always have,
but I won't face you.
I'm running, without shame,
from contact, from laughter,
from making me feel.
My response, proudly, is to hide.
So call me what you will -
save strong.
That just reminds me -
that I have received no choice.
Thirty-three percent.
A third of my life -
looking over my shoulder.
Which do I run out of first -
fortitude, or friends?
The calendar is loaded...
no choice but to play.
Miscellaneous Tidbits
By Tom
Stupidity
A trait for which medical science has found no cure.
Full of Dregs
Ever look at a drop of water under a microscope?
I imagine our lives appear much the same in God’s eye.
A Pancake’s Two Sides
One thing worse than never having enough,
is never having any.
Call It Individuality
Just as there are opposite sides to each coin,
There also are opposing views to your every idea.
Intelligence Bests Speed
Leading the pack isn’t necessarily being faster than the other dogs,
Sometimes it’s knowing where the shortcuts are!
There are two ways of doing every task,
The way you prefer it, and the way you get it.
More people are fleeced through inattention,
than by their lack of knowledge.
You may criticize the results,
But you have to praise my effort.
The source that has grub staked me to life,
will one day declare my note is due.
Then our debt will either be marked “paid in full”
or “weighed in the balance and found wanting”
I fail in getting the desired answer,
because most times I’m asking the wrong question.
Miscellaneous 4
Striking a Balance
Only 5% of the people like their jobs and live to work,
while the other 95% hate their jobs and work to live.
Tom
I consider myself to be a likable person,
otherwise I wouldn't enjoy my own company.
Tom
God, Sees What I Don't
The areas of my life where I have expertise,
God has chosen not to involve me.
Tom
Backsliders are like pigs; no sooner does God clean them up,
until they return to their wallow.
Tom
While all may seek forgiveness,
not all are enthused by the idea of payment in kind.
Tom
An excuse seeks to exonerate by justification,
reason provides an intellectual basis for the action in question.
Tom
As a kid, I thought Hickory trees,
were so named for the hickory switch.
Tom
Child abuse inflicts wounds that sutures cannot close.
Tom
1/8/04
The junk drawer of my mind processes MOMENTO, like golden Ark Dulcimer, Cimbalom that shatters the font of unfinished sound, into pixels of mime, song bound, PUZZLE PIECE orchestrated by the filter of Time
In swirling depths of thoughts refined, sorted, assorted, twine.
The junk drawer of my mind resides, to be found again.
A hope chest realm where memories find their place, in their proper chaotic order digest.
In fragments, scattered from venture, far and wide re deployed.
Like the land of forgotten toys, a painting of unfinished joy.
Junk drawer, lessons from God.
Mind processing synapse, synod.
Poetic lines of insightful mysteries
Unfinished thoughts. "-"
Why a kitten is so endearing.
Why a cat has its own chick as a plushy,
(it's very own rainbow Charizard, to squeeze obnoxiously, then capture the void, bon avengers within junk drawer, purr upon in wave of polar oid.)
Within this hidden, sacred space,
lies an Ark of sorrows and joys,
mysteries.
Dulcimer ABACUS, plucked with fervor
of background noise,
composes, comprises, compromises the melody life employs a place, not a junkyard,
but a station of honor and grace.
Cimbalom strikes, resonant and pure,
opens to unfold precious capture.
Drawer opend, creating ripples, echoes of the past, beckoning you back in naked allure.
Shattering the font of unfinished sound,
of a song of nostalgia cure.
Bardic STRING shows where you've been
and flashes like a CARD to bring you back
within its kingdom, labyrinthine idiom fragmenting
of lessoning vaguery.
A PUZZLE PIECE, intricate and profound.
Each memory a stroke upon life's canvas,
framed in rainbow, tornadic hope, victory,
touchdown.
Orchestrated by the filter of Time,
crafting back, story, poetry wondrously
open to assemble to my need.
As I delve into this harem,
emotions rise and fall like a symphony's tide,
cascade to the sea, mountain sides.
For the junk drawer of my mind possesses
a BAND that TIES.
The power to stir, position, place,
a fall into the hole to leave an imprint inside
upon the whole, preside of unveiling,
behold my wares, MISCELLANEOUS,
extemporaneously-
stare wondrously as it doesn't lie, as it lies there
about the truth of whose
belongings are shuffled nigh.